CHAPTER I.
THE WALK.
The old elms by the river were putting out tender
leaves, for the winds of March were past, and
April had touched their heads with her magical
sunshine. The morning was bright and warm, and
thousands of varnished leaf-cases lay upon the ground,
pushed off by impatient unfolding leaflets longing to be
fully born. Upon the river the wind rode, and with
playful hands turned back the ripples, and curved them
curiously, and whipped their edges softly into foam. The
willows by the shore were white with palmthe grass
was greening beneath lately fallen showers. In the air
was a fresh scent of growing vegetation, and in the pale
blue sky were the most delicate cirrous clouds-feathers
dropped from the wings of the great angel of spring.
John Broadbent had this morning walked bare-
headed in his garden, and from under the apple-boughs
had looked upon the swiftly-flowing river and the wide
meadows with a longing eye, desiring to walk still
further, and, like the wind that just now raised the
masses of his dark hair, to move quickly and gladly
over some small portion of the world. He called to his
sister, who was busy within doors talking to her young
   

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maid-servant about the dinner, " Clara, are you aware
that the sun is shining?"
There was no reply, and no sound but a murmur of
voices in the kitchen. Again he raised his voice.
Clara, do you know that the sky is blue, and the
wind soft and fresh ?"
"And you ready for a walk? Is that what you
mean?" asked a pleasant voice inside.
"Yes, indeed! Get your bonnet, and let us see what
dreams the old earth had last night when she shut her
eyes."
In a few minutes the brother and sister had closed
behind them the small garden-gate that opened on the
river bank, and were walking underneath the broad-
spread arms of a long row of mighty elms that skirted
the shore, a living piazza of grooved pillars and inter-
minable boughs. It was a beautiful pictured world the
two gazed upon, and their eyes brightened, and their
steps became more elastic, as they proceeded. They
themselves were not unworthy to have a place in the
picture-John, with his tall well-moulded form and
broad shoulders, his full wide brow, dark deep-set eyes,
and intelligent glance; and Clara, equally tall and well
made, with the difference and added softness becoming
her sex; her pale, somewhat serious face and finely-cut
features, expressive of a mind at once noble and refined,
and her graceful motions, and the calmness of her out-
ward attitude to the world, speaking of a soul well
balanced and serene.
"The dreams have been good ones," said Clara, as
her eye rested with quiet pleasure upon the sun-touched
meadows and the gliding stream.
   
THE WALK.

" You think so? Then, of course, it must be so, for
you are a wise woman. I would put your judgment
against five hundred. Clara, I do not think there is a
woman like
you
in the three counties!"
"I hope not; it would be inconvenient. You would
not know which Clara to call sister."
"Now that is an absurd reply to my compliment.
You ought to have said, 'John, where is there such a
brother?' in a very tender and admiring tone."
Clara smiled. "If I think it, it will be enough. You
know I'm no rapturist."
No, or else you would talk poetry by handfuls, or
mouthfuls rather, to see this lovely April sky. What
clouds those are! And that delicious wind! Every
sweep of it sets my heart dancing."
"As for me," said Clara, stooping to gather a daisy
that with delicate pink-tipped leaves looked up into her
face, "here is sufficient for my delight."
"You could have gathered one like that at home.
Clara, your soul is hard and dead, a walk is nothing to
you! Even when you get into Paradise you will not be
astonished; you will take out your knitting quite
calmly, and will say to the angels, 'Those stars are very
fine, but allow me, I have just dropped a stitch !!"
"Who is talking absurdity now? But tell me seri-
ously, why should a few acres of vapour in the sky,
more or less, make such a wonderful difference to you?
On a cloudy morning you are generally silent and
grave; a rain-storm sends you to Herbert and Thomas
a Kempis; but a lovely bright morning like this brings
light to your eyes, colour to your cheeks, and nonsense
to your tongue. Then away with your books and your
   
BY TIIE TRENT.
meditations! Your hat is put on, and I
your walking-
stick of a sister am summoned out of my corner, my
easy-chair, or my kitchen hearth, or wherever it may be,
to accompany you."
"That is partly true, I cannot deny it. But to your
question, why? I cannot tell why, except by going into
a long speech on the doctrine of correspondences, which
I daresay you would find very tiresome. So let it seize
your unphilosophical mind that I have a philosophical
reason for loving sunshine, and hating, or rather just
enduring, acres of vapour."
"My unphilosophical mind!"
"Yes, certainly. No woman can be philosophical.
That belongs to the other sex. It is one of their
nobler attributes."
"Which I deny."
"Yes, I daresay. But, my sister, do not you see,
poor benighted creature as you are, that being a woman,
and only a woman, you are no judge? A man may say
what he pleases, and judge best what is noblest and
highest; a woman never. Her very sex disables her.".
"In a man's eyes."
"Yes; in whose else's? No other eyes can see clearly.
Man is both judge and jury in this case; what chance
have you poor women?"
"We can appeal."
"From our sentence? But to what court would you
bring it? Now, don't come over me with your
serious
face. Don't I know what you are going to say? You
and your daisy want to turn the tables upon me, but I
won't have it. Man is not only the judge, but the
ruler. To his sentence he brings the terrors of the law
   
THE WALK.

-his law, mind youand it is a strong one.
Aren't
you very sorry you are a woman, Clara ?''
"No, not at all. My time will come. "
"Precisely. That grants my question. You'd like
to have such times as we men have, so you must be
sorry in the meantime that you can't, that you're not a
man, but only one of the poorer sex.
" You don't understand me. I do not wish to be less
a woman than I am, but more."
"That is because of your incapacity. An oyster
would be always an oyster; to him a mollusc is the
finest being in creation;-sea-slush is better to dwell in
than pure air, and walking on two legs is a ridiculous
operation."
"So it is. I am of the oyster's opinion just now.
What say you to a rest on this log? With our faces
to
your
favourite river, and with the trees behind, you
can't desire a better resting-place, even you, great man
as you are."
now.
"No laughter. It is truly provoking to see how
coolly you take it all. But I will grant you have
good taste, and know a soft log when you see one.
You're a very tolerable creature for a woman.'
"That's rather humbler praise than you gave me just
You spoke of my judgment as more excellent
than that of five hundred."
"Women.' And I say it still. But I see I cannot
bring you to an idea of the seriousness of your position,
so I may as well drop the subject. And now, look at
me, and tell me who I saw last night in Trentham."
Mary Plowden, perhaps."
"No; a greater stranger than Mary Plowden. What
should you say to Stephen Morris ?"
   

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"Stephen Morris!" repeated Clara in a surprised tone.
"I assure you it was no other. You may imagine
my astonishment. He is settled here as minister of an
Independent church, and as I have heard since is
very
popular, draws a large congregation, and is very highly
thought of by a number of influential people in the
town. He looked much as usual, rather paler and
thinner I fancied; but accosted me with the old smile.
A very pleasant smile he has, Clara, as you know. We
had a little talk in the street, and then he invited me
to his home; but I told him I was pressed for time, and
so got off with a promise to call upon him before long.
I don't know, however, but he may come here first.
He seemed very glad to find we lived so near."
Clara remained silent, so her brother proceeded.
"He is a very good fellow, and so wondrously clever!
When we were at school together he carried away the
prize in most things, and he and I had at one time
quite a Damon and Pythias friendship of it. And do
you remember going with me to hear his first sermon?
In that queer little Welsh chapel? How he came to be
invited into the pulpit there I don't know, but suppose
it was because he was a Welshman. Do you remember,
too, the old woman that cried, sitting in the corner close
to us, and how she blessed him and pressed his hands
when he came out of the pulpit? I shall never forget
it, I think."
"Yes, I remember."
"That must be a long time ago, now.
Seven years
at least, isn't it? I remember you were just seventeen,
because of those verses he wrote for your birthday, and
sent up to our lodgings, with that odd little note.
How shy he was then! But there's not much of that

   
THE WALK.

to be seen in him now. We met a bevy of fair ladies,
who smiled very graciously upon him, and whose smiles
he returned with the most courtly confidence. There
was such a shaking of hands, or rather of primrose-col-
oured gloves, and such a rustling of silks and satins,
and such a wafting of perfumes! I had to stand aside,
and wonder at religion in her silver slippers."
"John!"
"Well, dear, was it not so? But we'll walk on again
now, if you're sufficiently rested. Hark! was that the
cuckoo ?"
They listened for another shout, and soon it came
from the heights above them, across the trees trembling
in the morning wind, the well-known, ever-welcome
shout. As they listened, they turned to each other
and smiledwith a smile that said, 'Yes, it is really
spring-time !" And John repeated in a clear, ringing
voice,
"Brave cuckoo, call again,
Loud and louder still,
From the hedge-partitioned plain,
And the wood-topped hill;
With thine unmistaken shout
Make the valley ring !"
He waited for response. But the cuckoo, not perhaps
liking to be thus invoked, was silent.
They were at the entrance to the Grove, a piece of
high ground by the river, planted with well-grown
trees, that climbed from the water's edge to high land;
where a broad grassy avenue, originally perhaps a car-
riage drive from the old Hall beyond, gave a beautiful
walk of a mile or more in length beneath the shade of
elms, and near to the river's everlasting flow.
   

BY TIIE TRENT.
With quick steps they addressed themselves to climb
the broad gravelled path leading to this grassy avenue,
and before long were at the top.
"I like this old Grove," said John, as they paused to
take breath. "This broad grassy glade, with these fine
trees on either hand, how beautiful, how quiet it is!
And when the sun glints across those distant elms, as
now it does, and lights up our pathway in advance, it
gladdens me like a prophecy for good. Here, too, the
river is hidden for a while; but, if we wish to see it, we
have but to go to yonder firs, whose dark tops I can
now just discern, and below us we shall see its white
sheeny face clear and smiling. There is no river so
beautiful as this, to my thinking! Every day I stay
near it I gather healthful and loving thoughts."
"I, too, love the Trent," said Clara, "and have a
double joy in being near it, because it is so dear to
you."
"You good sister! And you do not then repent
coming with me?"
"Repent!" repeated Clara, "I rejoice in it every
day! Every day our cottage-home gets dearer to me,
and every day I feel this calm peaceful life by the river
to be the one best suited for me."
"Then we will thank God together. I did not think
this time last year ever to have felt so strong again as
now I do. And, perhaps, this feeling of fresh health
intoxicates me at times, and makes me say, what some
would call, foolish things. Yet there is a wisdom in
such folly." Here a smile curved his lips again. He
was silent a moment, and then said quickly, as touched
by some sudden thought-
   
THE WALK.

"Clara, what shall we say to Steplien when lie
comes?"
"What about, John?"
"About our way of life here. For it will seem
strange to him to find me stranded in this way. With
my prospects, such as he once knew them, come to
nought, my talents rusting, and I, just thrown aside
like that old boat we saw lower down among the
rushes. I am speaking, mind, as it will appear to him.
When he and I were at school I was the rich son of a
rich father, with grand expectations, and certainly with
no little ambition. I was a boaster, and let him know
a hundred times what a happy fellow I was, what a
great man I must perforce be. He, with all his talent,
was a good deal pitied by us in private, for it was well
known he was poor, and quite dependent upon strangers,
with no father living, no rich relative in the wide
world; his mother, it was even whispered in the school,
was only a poor washerwoman; and to talk of his rela-
tions to him brought up the ready blush, poor lad!
And now, see how the world goes! I am just seven
and twenty, and he twenty-six, and our positions are
almost reversed. A hundred a year is all I can call my
own, I live in a small cottage, and am a very small
unimportant individual, quite unfitted for public life.
He is pastor of a large chapel, with no doubt a good
income. Every Sunday hundreds of intelligent, educated
people listen to what he may please to tell them, hang
upon his words, idolize his face and figure no doubt,
and through his teachings may learn the way to the
divine life. The newspapers report his speeches and
praise his sermons. The young ladies of his congrega-
   

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tion are vieing with one another for his preference, he
may choose from the fairest, and richest, and best.
Every year his path promises to become brighter and
brighter, his influence and popularity to increase.
Think what opportunities for usefulness he has, what
untold good his smallest words may produce. Every
pebble he drops in the still waters of social life forms
circles ever increasing, almost boundless. If he looks
but at the outside of things he will see all this, and the
contrast will strike him much as I say, much as it
would the rest of the world; and of course he will be
more than a man if he does not feel a certain pleasure
in the contrast, and less than a friend, if no pain for
me."
"But you will not be grieved at that!"
No, certainly not. A year ago I should have been,
it is true. I should have shrunk from such words as
he may use to express his sorrow, when he comes to
know my position, and proudly scorned to take his
pity, to whom I once gave so liberally to drink out of
the same cuBut now, dear, I have so much other
happiness that I can well afford this to be lost, and I
can smile from as full a heart as he. I believe it is
best for me to be here at the present, quiet and poor.
There is full compensation in all things; and it is not
good to long after honey when God sends chamomile.
Not that my lot is a bitter one. It is only a different
sweet to that wbich I had anticipated.
"But you, Clara, shall you not feel a little the change
of your position? Last time Stephen Morris saw you
you were a sort of high-born lady, far from the reach
of so humble a squire as he-at least, I am sure he
   
THE WALK.

thought so-travelling about  la princesse, with many
attendants and brave attire. And now, what are you,
my poor sister?- the housekeeper of a very poor man,
the sole brewer, and baker, and ginger-bread maker,
and with but one pair of hands between you and the
hard fate of being scrubber and scourer, washer and
wringer, cook and scullery- maid beside? Shall you
not be abashed?"
. merry light that rose up in Clara's eyes was her
only answer.
"I see you are insensible to your degradation, and
that is so much the worse! A modern refined young
lady would be shocked immensely at your position.
But, my dear girl, only think!"
"I do think, and find I am just the same Clara
Broadbent as of old. I have lost nothing in reality."
"And you will be as stately with him as ever, I
have no doubt. Yes, Clara, I know you. He will
infallibly think there is some mine of wealth hidden
somewhere, of which you have the key; and that in
spite of your present apparent low estate, you will come
out some day glistering with diamonds. He will never
believe you poor."
"If poverty and wealth are to him what they are to
the greater part of the world, he will soon believe me
poor enough. But a minister should of all men put
money in its true place."
Should, dear; but how great are the temptations!
However, I have no right to doubt Stephen Morris.
He may be the purest, truest-sighted of men.
looked at the natural result of being courted by, and
popular with, the rich and influential. Even a minister
I only
   

.
may insensibly be drawn in this way into the snare of
thinking much of, and trusting in riches. But am I
bringing you too far? Are you wanted at home? If
so, speak the word, and we will return."
Clara spoke the word, and the two returned home,
this time by the banks of the river the whole way.
A natural water-course formed an uninterrupted
though steep descent. It was dry, and with some
compulsory running and some laughter, the brother
and sister gained a narrow pathway formed among
weeds and tree roots at the foot of the Grovea plea-
sant shelf of land, delightful to active feet from the
excitement of knowing that there was but a step be-
tween it and deep water. At their other side, and
almost drooping on to their shoulders, were ranks of
blue-bells, of the deepest tint and the freshest bloom,
swinging their cool dewy bells over head, with here and
there pink campion glowing among the green spathes
of the arum.
While Clara gathered a large nosegay,
John's gaze was chiefly upon the open face of the
shining river. And when they reached the entrance
of the Grove, and left the shadow of the trees, his step
quickened ; and taking Clara's arm in his, he said,
"Now we are walking with the stream seawards.
Don't you feel the impetus? And to what ocean, dear
one, are we going? Ah, if we could always go as gladly
as does this river! How its ripples leap and dance!
Do you not see? By the shore it reflects the greens
and browns of earth, it cannot forget its present
home, its bed. But in the centre it takes the colour
of the great overhanging sky. What sky do we reflect;
and what breadth of surface does its image cover?
   
STEPHEN MORRIS.

CHAPTER IL
STEPHEN MORRIS.
A FEW days afterwards, in the afternoon, a young
man was making his way across the meadows that lie
between the large manufacturing town of Trentham,
and the river from which it derives its name. In
the days of which we write, no factories or rows of
streets were built on these low-lying meadows, but
when an ancient wooden bridge was crossed, stretching
over the dusky waters of the canal, whose steep ascent
was reached on either side by steps much worn and
slippery, there remained only the green expanse of
the meadows, with a few well-beaten paths across
them, leading to the ferry and the village of St. Wil-
frid's on the other side of the river. Our traveller was
upon the broadest of these paths, a well-beaten level
way, but he did not make rapid progress. Now and
then, while proceeding slowly and thoughtfully, he
raised his eyes from the ground to watch the ascent of
the lark, and to listen to his far-off chant as he hung
quivering beneath a cloud-or to gaze at the glossy
backs of a family of rooks settled upon a near willow,
talking solemn talk of the weather and the crops-or to
address the little children that passed him with hands,
and pinafores, and baskets full of pale blue crocuses,
joyously burdened or bewilderingly overladen with their
spring treasures, not knowing which to keep or which
to throw away, and ever gathering more, till hands,
   

.
and pinafores, and baskets ran over, and the ground
received the superabundance. He spoke in pleasant
accents to some of these, and the wondering children
replied to the kind gentleman in black with bows and
curtsies and shy smiles. One little girl presented him
with a full-blown bouquet of the enchanting blue
flowers, that had been kept in her warm band till he
felt the heat strike through his glove on receiving them;
and a little boy pulled off his cap and politely offered
him the contents, a whole heap of crocuses, whose outer
ones fell about bis shoulders, or lay upon his wind-blown
brown hair, but the traveller declined this last present,
with thanks. As he passed on, treading the flowers
under foot that the children had strewed so prodigally
on the path, the loveliness of the budding April after-
noon struck him suddenly with a great delight; all the
more perhaps that he seldom allowed himself to be
alone with nature. For a town life was his from choice.
He loved wide streets and close-set houses, and congre-
gations of human life, better than all the grandeurs or
sweetnesses of the open sky and the green spread of
fields and woods, and he seldom left the atmosphere of
smoke for the purer breathings of the country. His
pale face and slight figure spoke of the late riser and
the sedentary student, and his slow weak gait of one
who wears out the easy chair rather than the shoe, and
were in striking contrast to the free movements and
ruddy cheek of the man who loves to battle with wind
and storm, and to greet the sun in the east. Still this
calm, mild spring day, this great peace of earth and
sky, filled his soul with joy. He lifted his head, and
his gray eyes spark led with pleasure. Above, he saw
   
STEPHEN MORRIS.

a vast sea of the loveliest blue, broken here and there
by cloud-islands, with rivers and peaked hills glistening
in the sun, and beneath and around him a second sea
of pale blue flowers, the children's crocuses, a reflection
as it seemed of the blue above, while waves of the rich
springing meadow-grass rolled their green glistening
heads between him and the horizon. Before him the
river was yet hidden between its high banks; but the
first cottage at St. Wilfrid's, on its further side, stood
wondrously white in the sunshine, and like the face of
a friend, invited him on. His steps quickened, for he
had still long spaces of grass to pass over, and unused
as he was to much walking, by the time he reached the
river and the broad-bottomed ferry-boat, he was weary
enough to find the bench near the rudder an agreeable
resting-place. There were but few passengers with
him, fine as the day had been, for work was abundant
at Trentham, and to-day was no holiday. Two women,
two young men with cigars, a black dog with which they
amused themselves by throwing it into the water, and
a dark-looking, middle-aged man, with his hat pulled
his
While the red-faced ferryman
pushed the boat leisurely from the shore, and applied his
hook to the iron cable, propelling his freight across the
stream, our traveller had time to pursue a favourite
amusement and observe his companions. One of the
women beside him on the bench had a baby in her arms,
and the other a bundle, which by its size and shape he
imagined to be work she was carrying home, probably
lace. The young men were ordinary specimens enough
-the tailor had done his duty by them, and the jewel-
ler, perhaps rather more than was judicious; they had
over
eyes, were all.
   

.
plenty of whisker, and at first plenty of talk between
themselves, and when that failed they "chaffed" the
boatman. The dark middle-aged man was a more
attractive study. With folded arms he gazed gloomily
upon the face of the water; no one spoke to him or
seemed to notice him, and he did not once lift his eyes
froin their contemplation of the river-or apparent con-
templation of itfor it was more than possible that
what the retina reflected, the mind did not see, till the
ferryman, touching him on the shoulder, demanded his
fare. He dived his hand hastily into his pocket with
a peculiar smile, and as he gave the man the halfpenny,
a gold ring with a large brilliant shone on his finger.
He was dressed in a shabby green surtout, and a white
hat of an unusual, perhaps a foreign shape. A dark
shadow lay upon him, or to speak more truly, came out
from him, and enveloped him so completely, that the
warm spring sunshine seemed to fall impotent near him.
It was not easy to get a glimpse of his face; but for
one moment it was revealed to our wayfarer, and he
discovered upon its sallow features the traces of an ill-
spent and disappointed life. Cruel marks they were,
deep, and not to be concealed, though cross-hatched
with the lines of sarcasm and contempt, and varnished
over with the thick varnish of pride. It was no pleasant
facerepellant, and haughty, and gloomy; it asked for
no sympathy, and utterly scorned pity, though suffer-
ing must have been long its near companion, and any
joy it might be capable of expressing would be the joy
of the avenger and the destroyer. Had it ever known
true sorrow? Could it weep? It seemed not-for the
eye had no latent softness, the mouth no gentle curves.
   
STEPHEN MORRIS.

The only weak feature in the face was the lower lip,
that had once been inclined to fulness, but was now
dried by an inward fever, and bitten out of shape by
teeth that refused to open the doors for the voice of
pain and complaint.
There is a tower, we are told, in the wastes of
Assyria, still to be seen, a landmark amid many deso-
lations. The fire that burned it the sun saw blaze
thousands of years ago. What it once was we can
only conjecture; whether built story above story, a
wondrous whole of terraces and pillars, or one vast
temple, with one vast roof, springing upward like a
mighty palm. Now it is but a huge slag from the
furnace-a shapeless, vitrified, unyielding mass, with-
out symmetry or design-a perpetual enigma, insoluble
by man for evermore.
Not without a likeness to this burned tower stuod this
strange, dark man, the traces of conflict and withering
but too plainly visible. What had he been? Why had
he suffered? Who could tell? And he himself, perhaps,
would be the last to reveal it.
Absorbed in these thoughts, the traveller did not at
first perceive that the ferryman had done his duty, and
that the river was crossed. The rudder was turned, the
clank of the cable and the lap-lapping of the water by
the boat-side had ceased, and one passenger after another
took the few strides necessary over the plank to gain
the dry land. The dark stranger first, the rest follow-
ing his rapid strides as best they could towards the
white house among the elms, now close at hand, or to
the village behind. Asking his way of the women on
reaching the former, our traveller left it to the right,
B
   

.
passed a few cottages and one or two larger houses,
and found himself quickly on the village green, with
its great broad-spreading sycamore in the midst, an
open space of land, half grass, half gravel, that might
have been made very beautiful, and was even then
pleasant in no ordinary degree, its low-roofed cottages
grouped around it like quiet children suddenly resting
from play.
Crossing this green, he approached a small house,
but little higher than its humble neighbours, opened a
low gate, took a few steps up a narrow path bordered
with thyme and lavender, and knocked at a door
arched over by trellised roses. The door opened, and
John Broadbent stood before him, tall and smiling.
After a warm shake of the hand and a cordial greet-
ing, he was led into a small parlour to the right, where
Clara sat at her knitting. She rose at his entrance,
and, putting out her hand, said, "I am glad to see you,
Mr. Morris;" and in a moment after, "Are you not
weary? You will find this sofa pleasant." He took
the offered seat, conscious of a sense of fatigue and a
sudden paleness that had overspread his face, while
John seated himself opposite, and, pushing back his
dark hair with a gesture Stephen remembered as a
familiar one in old school-days, gazed at his friend with
an unmistakable look of pleasure.
You are come sooner than even I expected," he
said; "but you could not be more welcome at any
time. It is, indeed, a great pleasure to see you."
"The pleasure is most of it mine," he answered. "I
could not rest, after I had met you the other day, till
I could talk to you more at leisure. It seemed almost
   
STEPHEN MORRIS.

too good to be true that you should be living so near.
How long have you been here?"
Nearly three months, is it not, Clara ?"
Clara assented, and Stephen remarked, "How quiet
it is in this old-world village!-so near the town, and
yet so far away in its stillness! The river and the
meadows divide you as effectually from the bustle of
Trentham as if you were twenty miles away."
"Have you never been here before, then?"
"Only once in the three years, for I am not like you in
your love for the country. I seldom walk out of town."
"Still the same brick and mortar lover?''
"Yes;" and with a smile, "I fear I am likely to be.
My pastoral duties lead me chiefly among my people,
and but few of them live out of Trentham. But this
is just the place for you. You have chosen a cosy nest,
and I suppose are come from some busy scenes of dissi-
pation, 'tired out and wearied with the riotous world,
and find this contrast pleasant enough."
"We have certainly left the riotous world," responded
John, "but not from choice only; necessity has had
something to do with the matter. Clara and I are
quite poor people now, and are glad to live among our
neighbours, the poor. A small nest is better than none
at all."
The young minister looked puzzled. "It is a nest
I could be very happy in, if only it were nearer, or,
better still, in the town;" and he glanced round at the
piano, the book-shelves, the flowers, and the two oppo-
site windows, through one of which a yellow jasmine
peeped; and last of all his gaze fell upon Clara, who
sat quietly knitting in the sunshine.
   

.
"When we cannot get swan's-down lining, we must
be content with hay and moss. Clara and I have tried
both. I don't know which we preferI almost think
the moss; at least we find it very wholesome and good.
Not that I want you to think us miracles of adapta-
bility, for we are notat least, I am not; it is not fair
to bring Clara in here. But we have had the hay so
softly patted down and moulded for us, that as yet we
hardly know the difference. The truth is, our property
has gone the usual way of riches-taken to itself wings
and flown awayand I suppose we ought to be duly
astonished that we find ourselves after such a loss on
our feet, and that we can walk at all."
"I am sorry indeed to hear it!" said Stephen; "but
it can scarcely be true; it cannot all be gone, surely?
And your prospects?"
"Are nil, of course.
But
you must not give more
sympathy than is needful. We have not absolutely
lost every shilling. We have a hundred a year; we
have food and raiment, as you see, and this old
basket-weaver's cottage; and we really need so little
more! A walk now and then by the river, an
occasional visit to your Trentham hive, to see how
the honey gathers, a few books and flowers, and a
little music. These don't cost much, and we get them
as they're wanted, or as our purse lets us. I am half
afraid to tell you how content we are,
lest
you
should
think us mean-spirited, but so it is."
"You don't look very unhappy, certainly. But,
my dear fellow, you do not mean at your age to shut
yourself up here for life, without a vocation, to bury
talents and strength, and moral influence in a napkin?
   
STEPHEN MORRIS.

Think what you might accomplish, the good you
might do!"
"No man can be without a vocation," replied John,
"who is earnest, and who looks round the worldthere
is always plenty to be done. The difficulty is only what
to do first. I have never felt the want of a vocation;
and I think I never shall feel it. I work at that which
is presented to me each day; that, in fact, which God
sends. And is it not possible to have a true calling
from God that may not be apparent to the outer
world?"
"Of course it is possible! And you must forgive my
plainness of speech;I spoke to you as I would have
done to myself in your place."
"You spoke from true friendship, and I thank you
for your earnest words; all the more that your friend-
ship has managed to survive for seven years without
speech or sign on either side. How astonished I felt
when I saw you the other day! I had noticed bills
about the walls in the town, with the Rev. S. Morris's
name on them, but little thought who his reverence
could be!"
Stephen smiled. "So you did not know I had
entered the ministry?"
"How should I? Though I might have expected it
too; you were studying for that purpose when we were
at school together, and I heard you preach one sermon,
if you remember, in that Welsh chapel among the
mountains. It was your first, a sort of trial sermon,
but I did not think so soon to find you located in a
large town like Trentham, the sole pastor of a chapel
that will hold two thousand people."
   

.
"It does not appear soon to me.
Almost a lifetime
seems to have passed since I saw you last."
"A very momentous lifetime to you, no doubt. If
time were measured by thoughts, instead of moments,
some people would be centenarians in fact, before they
were thirty in ordinary computation. And even I,
who have not, perhaps, had more than the average
number of thoughts, am tempted when I look back,
sometimes, to feel myself ancient, and to wonder why
the gray hairs are delayed."
"I can never imagine you old, John!" exclaimed
Clara,
"Old in heart, I hope I shall never be," he replied
gaily. "I can accept wrinkles and gray hairs, and
wasted muscles, and even imagine myself taking a sort
of satisfaction in them, as being honourable and belong-
ing to advanced wisdom, and to that penultimate state
before the great last that is to unfold the mystery, the
flower of immortality; but old in heart, withered,
affectionless, indifferent, without buoyancy, or love,
that I trust I shall never be! I have seen such too,":
"If I am not mistaken I saw one in that state this
afternoon," interrupted Stephen. "In bodily years he
could not be much more than forty, but in soul, a very
old man indeed, he looked. I fancied it, or it was really
so, that he carried about with him a very perceivable
thick shadow, though no one seemed to notice it but
myself."
Clara and John looked at each other, and Clara asked,
How was he dressed?"
"In a green surtout, the worse for wear, and a hat
that had once been white."

   
STEPHEN MORRIS.

"It is the same. We know him; he haunts our
village, and more especially the Grove; yet no one
here seems to be aware of his name or history; but we
are convinced there is a history attached to him."
"And a strange one too, most likely! Does he live
hereabouts?"
"No; but he is often wandering about very late at
night; he seems to prefer darkness, or at least twilight.
When the owls begin to hoot, and the bats to flit, then
he may be expected. He seldom lets himself be seen
in daylight, and if the children meet him in the street,
they run away frightened. He is a strange melancholy
being, and has known some great trouble."
"His face tells it. I should like to speak to him."
"He would but insult you," said John, "for he can
be very harsh and bitter."
Presently afterwards Clara left the room, to return,
however, quickly with her young servant and the tea-
tray. The meal was a pleasant one, enlivened by
cheerful talk. Reminiscences of the Welsh journey and
their last meeting, and of John's school-days, came up
plentifully. There was no fear of conversation flagging
with three such friends, and seldom had tea and home-
made cakes and fruit tasted so deliciously to Stephen.
His solitary student meals were generally affairs to be
got over as rapidly as possibleuninteresting and
pretty nearly tasteless; and his "company" teas among
the members of his congregation were too often grand
and formal, rather than simple and genial.
usual feeling of home possessed him, the fair calm face
presiding at the table reminded him of long-hidden
but most familiar dreams, where that face hovered, ever
An un-
   

.
near and dear. And it seemed to him the present
happy moments had been lived through before, in a
former Elysium. The tea ended, John proposed a walk
in the garden, "to see the primroses." It was not an
extensive garden he had to display, and at present
there were few flowers; but with a gardener's pride he
showed his double purple violets, his white primroses,
his crocuses of every possible crocus hue, his budding
lilacs, his vegetables, and the bower at the end of the
centre walk, that promised in a while, when the traveller's-
joy should bud and blossom and put out leaves, to be
green and shady, and to be a truly respectable bower.
The young minister saw nothing very wonderful or at-
tractive; a few shelves of old divines in time-stained
musty "calf" would have been much more interesting;
but he smiled to hear his friend talk enthusiastically of
his apple-trees, and the fruit he expected from them this
year. "And now," said John merrily, " I beseech you
to put on a grave face for so grave a subject! The apple
is a truly ancient time-honoured tree. Was it not in
the garden of Eden? It is true, my apples will not be
so fatal as those Eve tasted, but I am trusting that my
Ribstons and Blenheim oranges will be very tempting,
and bring you many times before the year is gone, to
see their beauty, and to taste their juicy ripeness. And
don't think yourself too wise to be tempted by an
apple!"
I do not; for I am fond of apples."
"That is good! For in them is much fresh and
inspiriting wine, pure and unintoxicating, if taken as
nature prepares it. We can be merry over such wine,
with a merriment that brings no headache or repent-
ance."
   
STEPHEN MORRIS.

" Yesand yet you will not find many who would
prefer an apple to a glass of wine."
" Almost all the children in the world, a large part
of our population."
"I was thinking of adults."
"There, unhappily, I cannot contradict you. But
there are some, even in these days, who have good
taste, or good reason, or both, enough, to refuse the
wine and take the appleof whom I am one."
"Is wine distasteful to you?"
"Not at all! I am fond of wine, for I have had the
taste cultivated for it in former years; but I have seen
enough to convince me that it is perfectly unnecessary,
and very injurious. I never take it now, or give it to
my
friends. I am a teetotaller."
" You surprise me; for you are one of the last men I
should have expected to listen to narrow statements,
and to my mind teetotalism is narrow enough, and
carries absurdity upon its very face. There is a proper
use and an abuse of all things. Wine is useful in so
many cases! I myself could not well do without it.
The excitement of the pulpit would often be too much
for me; nay, at times, I believe I could scarcely preach
without a little. And to how many others is not its
administration necessary?"
" There is a medicinal use for wine, I allow; though
it would be far better in every case to use a less dan-
gerous stimulant. But in your case, my dear fellow!
Do you reflect it may become a habit with you, this of
wine-taking, and that a false unnatural thirst may be
created, that will require more and more to satisfy it
till it will be impossible to get free?"
   

.
use.
Now you are using the well-worn temperance
argument that is grounded upon a fallacy. It takes
for granted that every man or woman who occasionally
or regularly takes wine must of necessity become a
drunkard. The facts are quite against it. Thousands
live to a good old age, whose habitual drink has been
of an intoxicating quality, and who have never passed
the bounds of sobriety; and many thousands more
who have found nothing but benefit from occasional
And because some are weak, why should the
strong refrain ?"
"Even to the so-called strong there is a serious
danger. Why play with fire?"
"That is a case in point. Fire is a dangerous thing,
abused. Used rightly it is most useful and indispens-
able. I put fire in my grate, and what an invaluable
servant it is to me! comforting by its warmth, cheering
by its light, cooking my food, and performing many
other good offices But it is a dangerous servant. A
spark from it may set my house on fire. I may go too
near it with
my
clothes and be burned. Every night
there are fires throughout the country more or less
disastrous; houses, factories, churches, and chapels are
destroyed, and many lives sacrificed. But I do not
therefore say I will have no fire.
I will have no fire. I am wiser than that.
I increase the guards against accidents, and to keep
this invaluable servant in its proper place, I surround
it with iron and stone instead of wood and straw, and
I gladly encourage improvements in fire-engines. So
with wine. It is a valuable servant to me and many
others, and none the less valuable and to be prized,
though at times it may become a snare. to weak, ill-
   
*STEPHEN MORRIS.

.
conditioned souls and bodies. Some lives are lost by
its use; many, I will allow, for unhappily it is so. But
the rest of the world must not be without fire, and
starve with cold, because a child plays with fire and
scorches its pinafore, or a lady wears muslin, and gets
burned to death with the dangerous spread of her
dress; and all the world must not become teetotallers,
because some unhappy ones kill themselves, or ruin
their worldly prospects, by drink."
If wine were but half as needful to man as fire,
your argument would be better worth. Show me
that it is so, and I will be content to see it used;
but I know you cannot. Chemists and physiologists
are against you. Liebig, Lees, Carpenter, and hosts of
other men of science, both foreign and English, will
tell you that it is not only not necessary, but really
injurious, and that, according to the amount of alcohol
it may contain."
"And other chemists and physiologists assert the
contrary."
"A rapidly decreasing number. Believe me, science
is clear-headed, and a teetotaller, as she will demonstrate
to your satisfaction some day."
You have all the enthusiasm and one-sidedness of
your party! I wish-you must forgive me for saying
thisthe enthusiasm were better employed."
"It is not without reason that I speak warmly and
decidedly on this subject, for I have, in my own expe-
rience, known the ruinous bewitchment of intoxicating
drinks, and, if you like, I will tell you some little of
this history of mine," replied John.
"I shall be glad to hear it."
   

.
"Soon after I left school, my father sent me abroad
with a tutor. I shall not give you his real name, but
call him Horsley. He was about forty when I first
knew him, and was well qualified for his post, as it
seemed to my father, in every way.
He had gradu-
ated at Cambridge, and came highly recommended for
his acquirements and moral character. He had been
abroad before, and spoke well several continental lan-
guages. So, as I say, I was sent out with him, and a
handsome allowance, and it was expected I should
return back from my tour, as my father expressed it,
'a finished gentleman. He had no desire to make of,
me a profound scholar, and in truth, as you well know,
my talents did not lead that way at all. I was only
too glad to travel and see the world, and accepted the
tutor as one of the necessary means to that end. Hors-
ley soon found out how it was, and did not trouble me
with much study. He was exceedingly amiable and
indulgent, and before long I felt towards him much as
I should have done to a well-loved elder brother, had I
ever possessed one. We travelled through Holland,
Belgium, the Rhine countries, Switzerland, and Austria,
according to the route my father had laid out, like
two merry boys let loose from school. I was to keep
a diary, according to express parental wish. I have
it somewhere in my boxes up-stairs. Such a diary!
Hurried notes about Rotterdam, Brussels, St. Jean
d'Acre, Ehrenbreitstein, Mont Blancall in a flippant,
jocose style, without much thought or care.
When we
reached a large town or city, its theatres and places
of amusement were first sought after, but I must say
quite as much through my companion's wish as my
   
STEPHEN MORRIS.

own, One thing he taught me carefully to study,
however, the flavour of the different wines of the
countries we passed through, and I assure you I was
no unapt scholar. I liked wine, butmind, I had
no taste for drunkenness, and when I saw excess in
others, made severe comments. For hitherto I had
been kept from temptation to this vice by careful
supervision. At home there was strict moderation;
and at Dr. C's, if you remember, no excesses were
allowed. With a feeling of virtuous indignation I in-
veighed against the weakness that could be overcome
by such a trifle, and to hear me you might have thought
me a very strong-minded man indeed, who had met
with and conquered many temptations. How it was
I kept tolerably sober I can scarcely tell, but am now
quite inclined to think it was more through Horsley's
care than my own. In some respects he was a wonder
I had never seen him intoxicated, and yet I
knew he drank much wine. The hotel bills had
enlightened me once or twice. I asked him one day
how it was, but he laughed and turned off the subject.
"We were at Vienna, and I had been at an ambas-
sador's ball. I had met and danced with a very beau-
tiful English girl, who completely fascinated me, and
who ended by stealing my heart. At least, I believed
it was so, and told her as much one evening soon after-
wards, and to my delight, she confessed for me a similar
feeling
"Congratulate me,' I said next morning to Horsley,
'it is only right to tell you, I am engaged. '
"I know it,' he replied, 'you are engaged to walk
with me on the bastions.'
"Nonsense!' I replied, 'I am perfectly serious.'
to me.
   

.
"He turned his laughing face to mine, but seeing me
look as serious as my words, became grave also, and
asked, "Who to?'
To Miss D-
"I hope you do but joke. You would never surely
do so foolish a thing !
""It is quite true.'
"And she has accepted you?'
"Yes, certainly.'
"Poor boy! Don't you know she's the greatest flirt
in Vienna?'
"I will not have you speak a word against her,
Horsley. She is the most beautiful, the noblest of
women.'
"He laughed what I thought a derisive laugh, and I
turned from him with irritation, and refused to speak
to him for hours.
"In the evening he and I were walking in the Belvi-
dere gardens. He became very grave, and talked with
me for some time on the impropriety of engaging
myself in marriage while still so young, and told me
that, standing in the place of a guardian to me, he
thought it his duty to protect me from all foolish
entanglements. In a while he spoke of Miss D-
and said he would convince me, if I liked, that she
was neither sincere in her professed attachment to me,
nor to any one. I dared him to it. I needn't go into
particulars, but he did convince me, in the course of
the next few days, and I was terribly indignant. I
wrote at once to her a bitter letter renouncing the
engagement, telling her of course the reason, and next
time we met we did not know each other.
"After the first excitement and anger were spent. I
   
STEPHEN MORRIS.

felt a corresponding dejection. To flee to wine was a
relief. Here was my danger. I drank it greedily to
drown care, and as I sang and jested when under this
false exhilaration, I imagined I was conquering my
despondency. But it returned again and again, and
again and again I took the dangerous antidote, and
drank to excess. Horsley remonstrated, entreated,
took me away from Vienna, and into other society, but
it was of no use. My melancholy was ever ready to
return, and I sought, of course, for the cheerer, the
drowner of sorrow. My temper suffered, and I was
frequently hard and insolent in my speeches to Horsley.
He resented it, and a gradual estrangement grew up
between us. To his interference I secretly ascribed the
source of my trouble, and he on his part found my be-
haviour all but intolerable. We often passed the day
without speaking.
"One morning I had been even more unhappy than
usual. I had taken a good deal of wine, but it had
failed to exhilarate; every glass I swallowed only made
me more and more sensible of my misery. Horsley
proposed a ride, and we set out on horseback, but, tired
of his slow paces, I left him and took a wild reckless
ride alone, my conscience upbraiding me the whole
way, and when I returned, my nerves were even more
irritable than before. We were at an hotel of course,
and I called for spirits. It was brought; the decanter
was just within grasp of my hand, when Horsley
entered the room. His eyes were bloodshot, but his
face was pale and stern. He advanced towards me, and
in the calmest and most decisive way put the spirits
away, saying,
   

.
"I forbid that.'
"Forbid what you please,' I exclaimed with an affec-
tation of carelessness, I shall have it, nevertheless,' and
I put out my hand towards the bottle.
"His reply was to take it from the table, and put it
on the sideboard. I arose in great anger. "How dare
you?' I asked haughtily. 'I have ordered it, and I
will have it.'
"Not to-day,' was his reply, in a cool voice, and
immediately he rang the bell for the waiter. "Fritz,
he said, 'I will thank you to remove that decanter.'
"Fritz obeyed. It is no matter,' was my sulky
speech when the man was gone, seating myself once
more in the chair. 'I can get more; it is only an affair
of time.' He looked at me for a moment with mingled
anger and sorrow, but with a firm determination also.
"You and I,' he said, in a low deep voice, 'have
at last come to try for the mastery, but I will prove to
you which is the strongest. I will save you against
your will."
"I had never seen so much earnestness, so much of
the man in him before, and I was struck by his tone.
Hitherto he had contented himself with being indulgent
and complyingwith entreating rather than command-
ing; but to-day it was entirely different with him. He
took the role of the master, and I felt obliged to ac-
knowledge that it became him better than the softer
character. My indignation was, however, strong within
me, and I listened to the growl of the thunder much
as a child would who had inherited no nervousness, and
had never been taught to think of danger, with more
curiosity than fear.
   
STEPIIEY MORRIS.

I will save you against your will,' he repeated, 'for
you do not know where you stand; but I see the preci-
pice most clearly. From this day you will abjure both
wine and spirits, for you are no longer your own
master.'
"His decided words gave me no awe.
I listened to
his speech as an absurdity, and he saw, I daresay, the
scornful curl of my lips. He was standing near the
table, with one hand leaning upon it. He had been
pale before, but became still paler, as he continued,
"I have not done my duty by you hitherto. Of that
I am quite aware; but the experience of these last few
weeks has impressed upon me the necessity for a change.
I have loved you as a younger brother, but very blindly,
and have idly suffered you to contract evil habits, per-
haps bave led you into them. I fear indeed that I
have done so. Now I wish, if it be possible, to undo
what I have done, and to draw you away, while there
is yet time, from the fate that pursues me!'
"As he spoke these last words, a slight spasm passed
over his face, and a sudden faintness came upon him.
He leaned heavily on the table, and seemed about to
fall.
"Alarmed, I ran forward to support him.
ill? what is the matter?' I asked, out of breath with
fear. In that moment of anxiety I felt how much I
still loved him.
"'It is over,' he answered, recovering himself, but
allowing me to lead him to a chair. There is no need
for alarm; it is only a faintness that I have been subject
to this last month. And-
And-- however, I had better
tell
you
the whole truth. The doctors here tell me ]
Are you
o
   

.
I am a
have disease of the heart, and one of these attacks may
be fatal before long. Since I have known this, I have
thought more of my responsibilities, especially as they
regard you, and have felt anxious to raise my voice as
I have never yet raised it in warning. To do this
effectually it is necessary you should know more of ine
than you have ever done; and to save you, I will do
what is most painful to me. I will make a confession
that I would fain bave reserved for my death-bed; nay,
have kept to myself for ever, if that might be possible.
You know I am fond of wine; but you do not know
that to obtain it is with me a necessity of life.
secret drunkard!'
" His face became flushed as he said these words. 
saw the pain the confession gave him, but could not
help looking both shocked and surprised.
"I have carefully hidden this from you,' he con-
tinued, 'for I am proud, and could not bear to display
my weakness; and, Broadbent, I have loved you! But
night after night, when you have been sleeping soundly,
I have had wine in my chamber, and enjoyed the fierce
delight of intoxication. A hundred times you have
heen on the verge of discovering my secret, but as
frequently I have managed to evade your suspicions ;
though, had you known more of the vice, you must
have found out the truth long ago. Do you wonder
why, as I am so ashamed to confess this, I do not talk
of releasing myself from the temptation, and that I
have not years ago broken the bad habit? I could not
do so then, and I cannot do so now. It is all over with
The slave bas become the master, and, like Faust,
I have sold myse? to the devil. Well do I remember
me.
   
STEPHEN MORRIS.

the time when, like you, I resorted to intoxicating drink
to stifle pain, or to pass away a weary hour, and found it
a pleasant kill-timethinking, fool that I was, that I
could lay it aside at any time. It was at college that.
I first learned to drink, to give wine-parties, and to
take it ad libitum. It is true, I did not lo as many,
get into debt and difficulty through it. I respected
myself too much for that; but I was fond of it. Then
when darker days came, what so bright and cheery as
its ruddy glow? What so fascinating as 'the beaded
bubbles winking at the brim?' Where could I find so
pleasant a companion as the wine-cup? In it I drowned
care, forgot my home, my country, and sought for a
livelihood, not that I cared to livefor life of itself
was a burdenbut that I cared to drink; and I dared
not think of death.
'And now, what am I? What have I done with
I have had talents, attainments, friends,
opportunities for winning to myself a position and a
noble name, and I have thrown them all away to
gratify one vice. Do you think I feel happy, or look
calmly on the prospect before me?' He smiled a bitter
smile. Do you envy me, Broadbent, or feel anxious
to do as I have done? You have made a beginning.
I have shuddered lately many times to see in you a
reflex of myself as I was fifteen years ago. Will you
go on with the resemblance, and end as I am doing?
for my present disease has been brought on by drink
and irregular hours. I am another victim to add to
the long, long list. He paused to recover breath, and
then continued in an earnest, beseeching voice-
"I have sin enough on my conscience, much to
my life?
   

DY THE TRENT.
answer for. Will you add to it by persisting in the
fatal vice that has brought me so low? Will you not
rather comfort my last days by the thought that you
at least are safe?'
"I was much affected, and assured him many times
that he should not again be troubled by me. I did,
too, as he said I should; I abjured wine from that day,
though not against my will."
"Did he live long?" asked Stephen.
"A month or two. I nursed him for some weeks in
a quiet Pyrenean valley-a place recommended by the
physicians  for his lungs were then considerably
affected; and afterwards, hopeless of further improve-
ment, returned with him by slow stages to England.
He died soon after."
There was silence for a little while, broken at last
by Stephen-
" You could do no other than you did. You were
evidently in danger, and his dying wish was sacred to
you; but your case is a very peculiar one, and can be
only an example to those few similarly circumstanced."
"Of course my experience is in some respects peculiar;
but if you mean that only a few are tempted to excess
in drink, you must almost wilfully have shut your eyes
to what is going on around you in society."
"I have seen perhaps rather more than you give me
credit for," he replied; "and do not imagine that only
few are tempted. But to whom should the tempted
flee for help? There is one Friend ever near, ever ready
to succour; and there is no certain and perfect cure for
intemperance like the gospel cure-Believe on the
Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.'"
   
STEPHEN MORRIS.

" True," said John, "I acknowledge it. But how is
it that with these words ringing in their ears, with
churches and chapels almost innumerable throughout
the land, so many die by inches or by sudden destruc-
tion through drink? The word is preached, it may be,
to them; the spirit and meaning of the word escapes
their dull ears and sensualized intellect. While a man
is enslaved by intemperance, it is in vain you preach:
drink shuts the portals of the soul."
The young minister looked thoughtfully on the
ground. "It may be so with the confirmed drunkard
though even to him God speaks at times in tones
that will be heard; and it seems to me that you
limit
the Holy One of Israel when you speak that word, 'It
is in vain.'"
" Far be it from me to overlook the power and love
of God," said John. "I know that to Him nothing is
impossible. But he uses human instrumentality, and
it is our duty to be found co-workers with him. You
acknowledge it is right and necessary to bring your
hearers to the chapel, that they may hear the words
of salvation. But in vain-I use the word again, you
seewill you bring their bodies, while their souls are
stupified, their consciences deadened, by the habitual
use of intoxicants. There may bethere are excep-
tions, some who are shaken as by an earthquake out of
their sins; but the rule is as I say."
And you would therefore have ministers preach
total abstinence to all their congregations?"
"That is exactly what I would have them do."
"A very illogical conclusion. Because one sins, all
must abstain."

   

.
" There is true logic in it, which I could prove had I
opportunity. But there is more than logic. There is
true love in it; and here you and I cannot be at issue.
For the love of souls we should, if we can, remove the
cause of sin, that the effect
may cease."
"I would remove it from the drunkard. I would
have him abstain. If I were likely to become one, I
would myself abstain. But because one man here and
there is lame, you would have all use crutches."
" If I saw my neighbour hobbling, and I, by walking
by his side with a crutch like his own, could cure his
lameness, I would do it."
How can the abstinence of a temperate man cure
the drunkard ?"
"By example, by helping him to bear the brand, for
it is a brand in the eyes of society to carry 'teetotaller'
on your brow, as I have found."
" You are a true enthusiast!"
"I would you were one also, in the same cause!"
The appearance of Clara put a stop to the conversa-
tion. She led the way into the house, mindful of
the long walk their friend had to take on returning
home.
"And now," said her brother, as they were all seated
once more in the parlour, " I have been speaking quite
a long time. Let us hear your voice a while, dear!
will you sing to us?"
Clara went to the piano with a smile, and chose
an ancient chant, a song by which the men and women
of old times raised their voices in words of praise to the
All-Father, a song that will ever be in divine accord
with grateful and loving hearts. Beneath the beams
   
STEPHEN MORRIS.

of the low room her voice rose and fell, in sweet
and true harmony, while the setting sun sent his last
rays through the jasmine window, gilding the flowers
as they trembled gently between the influence of his
warm touch, and the vibrations of the song. Her
companions listened, outwardly very silent, but in-
wardly vocal; the music bore them upwards also, and
three hearts ascended on the wings of love and prayer.
At eight o'clock Stephen departed, John accompany-
ing him to the ferry. The two young men walked
thoughtfully side by side. This meeting, after a long
separation, was dimly felt by them to have something
momentous in it. Neither said so, but to both the
thought was present, as they shook hands and said adieu.
"You will come again before long?"
"Yes," was Stephen's answer as he entered the boat.
The moon was up, and though daylight lingered
faintly at the west, her cool light filled the greater part
of the sky, and came softly to earth through the thin
misty clouds of which the heavens were full. John
trod over the dewy grass on his return, with a slow
quiet steHe chose the way by the river and the
churchyard. Entering the inclosure of the still "God's-
acre," he paused a moment "listening to silence" and
noting the clear-cut shadows that fell from buttress
and tower and angle of the old church, and that lay
upon each grave from its upright headstone. Passing
the ancient tower silently, a moving shadow among the
still ones, he reached the low stone-wall to the right,
and leaning his arms upon it, stood some time within
sound of the ripple of the stream as it ran over the
pebbly shallows of the ford. While he stood, other
   

.
noises attracted his attention; the shivering of the
night-wind among the elms overhead; the leap of a fish,
sending silvery dashes of light around for a moment;
the rustling of the grass near his feet, as some shy crea-
ture, whom man and daylight seldom sees, took furtive
wanderings; the occasional muffled baying of a deep-
chested hound at the vicarage. Nor was hearing alone
engaged; he watched the noiseless shifting of clouds,
the march of the solemn moon, the slow gliding of
shadows round each head-stone and tomb and buttress,
and to-night he watched them long.
A low shuffling noise, and a sound between a sigh
and a sob, not far from him, made him at length aware
he was not alone. Turning round, he perceived a figure
kneeling by a grave. It was a woman, but, in the
transfigurement of moonlight, he might well have sup-
posed he saw a statue, had she remained perfectly quiet.
Whether she were young or old he could not at first
tell, her face was shrouded by a closely-fitting bonnet
or hood, and some drapery of shawl or cloak lay loosely
from her shoulders, and fell about her in a few heavy
folds to the ground. He thought she looked poor,
sorrowful indeed she was, as her attitude and the sob
he had just heard confessed, and fearing to disturb her,
he remained at first quite still in the shadow of the
trees. Her head was a little bowed, and her folded
bands huddled beneath her chin, as though in a pause
from that writhing and wringing so expressive of the
deepest inward anguish. For some moments she was
quiet, then a low moan escaped from her, and her body
rocked to and fro. Presently her head sank lower,
and giving a deep-drawn breath between a sigh and
   
STEPHEN MORRIS.

a sob, she sank upon the grave, burying her face in the
wet grass.
John approached her slowly, careful to herald his
coming by premonitory sounds, lest he should startle
her, and, when sufficiently near, asked gently, "What
is the matter? Why are you here? Can I do anything
for
you, my poor woman?" She did not reply or raise
her head. It was one of those small, almost round
heaps of earth and grass, that we know at once to be a
baby's grave, on which her face was laid. Fearing she
might have swooned, he approached a step nearer, and
touched her shoulder as he said, "It is not fit for you
to lie here; let me help you home."
He felt that he need not have asked that foolish
question, "What is the matter?" Too truly he divined
her sorrow, but no other words would come at that
moment. And the little grave was very green; the
humble head-stone, a rough unsculptured piece from the
quarry, had been placed there some time. It was no
new sorrow, he thought, as he looked compassionately
down.
She raised her head; she lifted a face still very young
towards him, the moonlight showing distinctly her dry,
hollow eyes, and her thin, pale cheeks. She was not
startled at his presence, and her look seemed to go
through him, as if she saw something beyond. She
was one of those whom sorrow has so saturated and
absorbed that nothing else in the universe is real-
men, women, nature, all are shadows; very distant,
very unsubstantial, very unimportant: nothing more
can harm them, nothing more can give them pleasure.
'Why stay here?" he went on in a still lower, softer
   

BY TIE TRENT.
tone. 'It is of no use, my poor creature. There is
death here,but there is a living, loving God, and there
is a better and happier world."
For a short space her eyes looked intelligent; she
had caught his meaning. In a dry, untuned voice, she
replied, looking round the while, "So he said. But it
bas never come yet. It has never come yet. It will
never come."
She muttered something more; then the
light left her eyes, her head sank. She clasped her
hands upon her breast, and began rocking monotonously
as before.
As he stood absorbed in pitiful contemplation of the
mourner, he did not at first notice a second figure,
another woman, coming swiftly across the churchyard,
dressed in a long cloak, and who now approached
the grave, lifted up the unresisting kneeler, put her
arm within her own, and conveyed her quickly and
silently away with the manner of one accustomed
to command. He watched them both go through the
gate, and down the dark avenue of elms that led to the
village, the black shadow of the trees concealing them,
save where the moon sprinkled their pathway and
their heads with drops of light falling down between
the trembling boughs. Two shadows among the
shadows, they might have been ghosts flitting so
silently and swiftly away.
"They are not spirits," said a voice at his elbow.
He started, turning, and by his side was a man in dark
clothes or they seemed such-whom at first he did
not recognize.
The stranger looked up at him with a smile, half mock-
ing but wholly sad. "They are not spirits," he con-
   
STEPHEN MORRIS.


tinued, "but genuine flesh and blood, of a very ordinary,
every-day kind, though they do haunt churchyards
like you and I. Why are you here? Why am I here?
We all have our secrets; that girl has hers. Why
should you meddle with her? Best leave her alone.
And yet it is a common enough tale she has to tell if
she could tell it, but she can't."
"I do not seek to know her secret," replied Jolin.
"It is enough to me that she is unhappy."
And yet you would like to hear it. I can tell it
you
if you have ears sharp enough. Some secrets are
good to be told, and this is one. To begin at the
beginning, she has managed to lose her inheritance,
though that is nothing new, as you and I know! And
-I may as well confess itshe is a sister of mine."
John had already begun to walk towards home,
recognizing his companion; but the latter did not
intend to lose his company so soon, and followed him
closely. John felt inclined to be angry as he said, "Of
yours? And you can talk thus of her to strangers ?"
"You are disgusted," said the other coolly, " because
I called her my sister. You ought instead to admire
me for owning the relationshiFor it is no such
great honour, and her sisterhood goes back a good
many generations, perhaps to Adam, perhaps before
his time. You should know, for you are related to
her also."
John Broadbent was silent. The stranger laughed
an inward mocking laugh. "You don't like to own
the kinship it seems, either hers or mine. Few do.
And for myself I'm not surprised. Not many shake
me by the hand now-a-days; but I'm used to it, and
   

.
don't mind it at all, especially as most hands have
slime upon them somewhere. Clean hands! Where
will you find them? Mine, I confess, haven't been
clean a long time; but then I can put on gloves, and
thick ones too. I haven't seen the dirt upon your
hands yet, but I dare say it's there. Well, that
poor girl that is your sister and mine had to wear
gloves; they fitted her as comfortably as hot iron could
do. What can you expect? Society makes warm
gloves for such folk. And one day-it was an odd
thing-she put them to her brain by mistake, and
she is as you see." He ceased to speak, bowed
elaborately, turned on his heel, and went back to the
churchyard.
"An odd, miserable being," was John's observation
to Clara, after he had told her about the meeting with
him and the poor woman, "who fancies sarcasm and
contempt of mankind to be both wit and wisdom. His
boat, no doubt, has been shattered by some storm or
accident of his own bringing, and he has nailed painted
rags over the hole, and says to the newest and soundest,
'I am as good as you; but mind, gentlemen, we are
all broken.'"
Clara listened with downcast eyes.
"Who is the woman? Do you know her, dear?"
"Yes, I know her; that is, I have seen her and have
heard something of her history," replied Clara. She
lives not far from us, but never willingly goes out by
day. At night she is restless and unhappy in-doors;
and if she can, escapes from her sister, and goes to the
churchyard as you saw her. There she stays moaning
by one little grave. You may be sure what that con-
   
THE "KINDER GARTEN."

tains-her child; and she is only eighteen, and is not
married!"
Clara's voice lowered towards the end of her speech.
John listened with bent head, close-set lips, and eye
that looked gloomily and steadily into the fire, but he
said nothing
CHAPTER III.
THE "KINDERGARTEN."
Two days in the week Clara kept school for a num-
ber of little children whose parents were too poor
or too indifferent to send them regularly to the vil-
lage school, which was at some distance. They were
chiefly the children of neighbours; and their smiling
faces, as they appeared at the door on the appointed
mornings, told of the popularity of the school. I do
not think they called it "school" at all; they called their
teacher"Miss Clara," or "the lady," and talked to one
another of "when they were going to see the lady," or
"the last time they were with Miss Clara;" and these
morning meetings between teacher and pupils were
joyous gatherings, pleasant visits, where fresh games
of
wonderful interest to those little eyes and hands and
brains were taught each day. Flowers and sweets
were strewed so carefully and abundantly over and
around the steps of knowledgethose toilsome high-
stretched steps to little stumbling feetthat presently
the children were astonished to find themselves mount-
   

.
ing high, while they thought they were but playing.
They had only pulled an enchanting rose from a stalk,
so it seemed to them, and smelt its perfume, and, lo,
they had climbed one stair. They had caught hold of a
lily, and another step was gained. They had danced a
pleasant dance to a song, sung the while by their own
tiny voices, and the mystery of the transformation of
yellow wheat-grains growing in the wide corn-fields,
and not larger than sugar-plums, into great soft loaves
of bread for their eating, had been made known to
them. They had folded a little coloured paper, and
had had the great delight of cutting it with "real scis-
sors" in a way "the lady" showed, and beautiful tri-
angular and octangular and star-like shapes arose, their
first lesson in geometry. They had heaped up a little
white, damp clay, and moulded it by their fingers into
leaves, acorns, berries, flowers, and fruits, even into
faces like their own, and they had obtained their first
instruction in plastic art.
To learn to read was not a mournful poring over
strange black marks in an uninteresting dreary book,
puzzling and confounding, and trying to weak and in-
experienced eyes, but a playful gathering up and laying
side by side of charming wooden blocks, each with its
own inviting hieroglyph upon it, half letter, half picture,
and spelling was taught by the same process. Clara
had been abroad, and in former years had become
acquainted with the system of Friedrich Froebel, in the
education of the young, and gladly now she brought
out her knowledge for the use of these little villagers
in blue print and corduroy.
On these school mornings it was John's custom to pay
   
THE "KINDER GARTEN."

a number of morning calls, if fine; and if wet, to repair
to the quiet of his bedroom, where books and a heap of
manuscript attested his industry, for the parlour was
needed as a school-room.
The particular morning of which we are now writing
was one of these set apart times. It was fine, and as
he stood brushing his hat in the passage, little feet went
pattering by him, and happy faces, with bunches of wild-
flowers, violets, primroses, and crocuses, for the teacher,
or buds of cuckoo-pint from the Grove, and branches of
palm from the osier beds, for the modelling lesson, went
smiling into the parlour. Clara was already there. The
piano was open, and when hats and bonnets were laid
neatly away, and the out-door spoils put in water, and
arranged with the tools and papers upon the table, the
key-note was struck, an air played over, and the dozen
childish voices began their morning's enjoyment with a
song. John stood leaning at the post of the open door,
listening and watching with glad eyes and well-pleased
ears, and now and then, to the children's amaze, put-
ting in a sonorous chime beneath their thin treble, and
thus carrying it victoriously out of the window half
across the green.
As the song ended, he went out, and taking great
strides, leaped over the low garden fence by the river.
He had already arranged his visiting programme, but
first for a few minutes he walked on the shore, for the
river was to him a dear friend not easily passed by. The
day though fine was cold; an uneasy west wind roamed
fitfully across the wide-spread meadows, and like an
unhappy spirit, wherever it touched, left behind some-
thing of its own discomfort. The river sped rapidly
   

.
along beneath it, for both were travelling the same
way; it was a perpetual race, with the wind for victor,
and the rapid current rolling downward toward the sea
had something impatient in its movementit had no
wish to stay, but it asked not to be compelled to hurry
forward, since it must ever be the last in the strife.
A few young lambs bleated beside their mothers;
May, with settled sunshine and genial warmth, was not
yet come, and they seemed to ask why it was delayed.
They stared pitifully towards but not at the stranger as
he passed, for they did not like this ever-returning wind,
cutting cold between their noses and the grass, and the
tall black-clothed apparition of a man brought them no
comfort. In the churchyard elms the rooks were busy
nesting, too absorbed in household matters to care for
a wild wind, that was indeed but a plaything for their
wide-spread wings to ride and manage. With cries and
noises loud and harsh, with occasional deeper and more
musical cawings from some prudent elder who gave
emphasis to his speech by a short wheeling flight around
the contested tree, or the seat of council; with stir and
pother, and if a human listener might venture to under-
stand with no little objurgation and vituperation, de-
risive cheers and ironical speeches, the bird-parliament,
council, or squabble, or whatever it might be, made
difficult progress. John smiled as he listened and
watched, but became more grave as he remembered that
even such ferment and quarrel, such screaming and
noise, over the temporary possession of a particular
bough or nest, was less absurd and foolish than man's
costly war armaments, bloodshed, and rapine, for the
gaining of a few miles of land, or the capturing of a city.
   
THE "KINDER GARTEN."

With a thoughtful eye he stood awhile by the quick-
fleeting waters, and then retraced his steps to the
village.
His first visit was to a small white-faced cottage with
but three windows, one of them in the roof, -and a
door, to break the bareness of the front elevation. It
was however much more picturesque, if not more com-
fortable, than such a dwelling would have been in the
town. The thatched roof, broken by its dormer-
window, stood out from the whitewashed walls with
that pleasant slightly-waved line peculiar to such roofs
when old, and was of twenty hues of green and
gray
and brown; and a mighty houseleek had fixed itself
half-way up, like a royal personage, to be seen but not
approached by the multitude. This houseleek was a
picture in itself; fleshy and pointed and fat, firmly
fixed, of a juicy greenness, each leaf tipped with tlie
tenderest touch of burnt umber, and proving its like-
ness to royalty in another respect than elevation, or at
least to the royalty of the land of the white elephant,
Siam, by having no less than a hundred scions seated
snugly around it, royal princes and princesses all.
Mosses there were on this roof in abundance also,
green prosperous clumps, that fed upon the damps of
the old weather-worn straw, but the houseleek over-
topped them all, and was, as we said, fat and fair and
flourishing I do not know that John Broadbent
noticed this morning either mosses or houseleek; he
was tall, and could easily have seen them without dis-
turbing the horizontality of the line of his hat-brim, but
I believe he was pre-occupied by pictures of Waterloo,
Bunker's-hill, Austerlitz, Badajoz, and a few other such
D
   

BY THE TREXT.
apparitions, and it was not till his hand was upon
the latch of the low door that he dismissed the dreary
visions. He opened the door familiarly, without other
ceremony than one slight rap, and lowering his tall
head, put his foot across the threshold. An old man
with thin white hair sat before a fire of smouldering
sticks, on one knee he held a child of about eight months
old with a hand and arm that occasionally trembled
with the weakness of palsy. He lifted his eyes from
their contemplation of the fire, and his voice ceased a
rough broken song with which he was entertaining the
baby, as he heard the entrance of the visitor.
"Well, Roberts, how are you this morning?" said the
cheery voice of John, as he at once proceeded to lift
the child from its grandfather's knee, and to shake it
and toss it in an undignified, but apparently very agree-
able way to the baby, who laughed and crowed with
pleasure.
"Middlin, thank you, sir! I'd next to no pean last
night; I think the rheumatiz is gone by for a bit!"
"That's right. I'm glad to hear it. Shut the door
upon it, and keep well all the summer! And where's
Nancy ?"
"Her's gone to wash to-day at the parson's, and her
won't be home till eight o'clock."
"And you've Billy to nurse all the time?"
"Aye, sir, I have. But he'll sleep a bit mayhappen,
an' then I can do a bit i' the garden."
John looked at the withered palsied arm, and won-
dered what work it could possibly do in the garden.
This garden was but a small slip of land reclaimed
from the waste of the road, a corner that no man
   
THE "KINDER GARTEN."

owned; but it grew a few pecks of potatoes, and a
dozen or two cabbages, and was therefore an important
estate to Roberts.
"What work do you want doing?"
"Only a bit of diggin, sir. It's time I begun, an' I
should ha' don't before if it hadn't been for the
rheumatiz."
"Don't be in a hurry. I'll come up to-day or to-mor-
row, and see if I can put the spade in a bit for you.
We'll have the potatoes in in famous time this year!"
"God bless you, sir!" said the old man, with some-
thing like a smile on his wintry cheeks; "but I
shouldn't like to see you a diggin i' my garden!"
"You're very ill-natured then," replied John, affect-
ing to be half offended. "Ask my sister, she'll tell you
what a good digger I am! And I won't spoil your
garden!"
"Oh, dear, no sir, bless your life! I didn't mean
that at all! I only meant, as I shouldn't like to see a
gentleman like you a tiring hisself over my taturs."
"Well, I won't tire myself. I'll have a bit of fun
with the spade, that's all! And mind, you're not to do
a bit. I want some exercise, and if I don't have it I
shall be growing lazy, and your garden will just give
it me, so don't disappoint me."
The old man laughed an inward chuckling laugh.
He looked up at John with a half-admiring, half-
revering look. "I can see it!" he said at last.
What can you see? Me or little Mat?
uncommonly fast, and gets heavier every time I lay
hold of him."
"No, no, I didn't mean him. I mean I can see what
He grows
   

.
(
Nancy talks of, she says there's always a sunbeam on
your face, and that it lights up the house when you
come in.
I never see'd it so plain afore, but there it
is, sure enough, sir."
"Indeed!" said John with mock gravity, going to a
piece of cracked looking-glass, hanging by the window,
that did duty as a mirror, the only one in the house,
and looking in it a moment. "Where is it? On my
nose, or across my eyes ? Ah, I see! I must tell Clara
of it when I get home."
"Miss Clara knows all about it, sir, I'm sure. She's
sharper eyes than my Nancy; least ways they're a good
deal brighter. And how is Miss Clara this mornin'?"
"Rarely!" replied John. "Fresh as dew, and busy
as the rooks I saw just now in the churchyard, but not
quite so noisy."
Then he gave the baby another shake up to the ceil-
ing, in which process a little knitted shoe dropped from
one of the tiny feet. He picked it up; it was very
ragged, and as he put it on again, sitting upon the
ricketty table to perform the operation, three small
red toes peeped out from a large hole. He looked at
the torn shoe, and baby looked also, with quite as grave
and knowing a face, transferring his gazes afterwards to
his whiskered nurse, with evident satisfaction and
admiration.
"Nancy's no time to sew much," said the grandfather
in apology. "She's home late at night, an' off i' the
morn early most days; an' the little 'un does wear them
shoes so fast!"
"He's beginning to crawl, I suppose, the rogue! But
never mind! I think I know how to mend them. When
   
TUIE "KINDER GARTEN."

I come again I'll show you. I know how to do it,
don't I, Mat?'.
Mat replied by a vigorous kick of anticipatory
delight. He wanted and expected another toss. And
he obtained it. It was the final one, however; the
strong nurse had other calls to make, and the baby was
put down once more on the knee by the fire.
As John went away, on shaking hands with the old
man, a small piece of silver fell, as if by accident, from
one palm to the other. Roberts put his trembling
hand to his head, and attempted to pull one of the
gray forelocks there, meaning the action for a bow; but,
before he had concluded, the door was shut gently
between him and his visitor, and he and the baby were
once more left to themselves.
Three months ago four people instead of three had
resided in this cottage. The one now missing was the
husband of Nancy, and the father of little Mat. He
was also the old man's son, a strong hearty man of
thirty-five or so, and a day labourer at a farm not far
off.
He was well respected in the village, for he was
industrious, honest, good-natured, and generally sober.
One day he was driving a loaded waggon with a team
of horses to Trentham. An old acquaintance met him
on the London-road, and invited him to a social cup at
the Plough, he went in with him; his friend in the
gladness of his heart standing treat. How large the
cup was that he emptied is not known, but he took
enough to make him glad, for he went away whistling
merrily. The carriage of Lord Ancliffe was passing by
swiftly, with its pair of cream-coloured ponies. He
cracked his whip, but the first horse of the team took
   
+
.
fright, and instead of going from, went towards his
lordship's curricle. Matthew Roberts rushed forwards
to prevent an accident, but his foot slipped, and the
wheel of the waggon went over him. When he was
taken
up he was so much injured that he was unable
to speak, and died in a few hours.
The coroner
returned a verdict of "accidental death." His fellow
servants talked much of his death, for he and his wain
were certainly on the wrong side the road when he fell.
Had he been on the other side the accident most likely
would not have occurred. And what could possess
him to be there, so careful a driver as he was? Shall
we tell you, fellow-servants? It was the cup of drink
at the Plough.
Nancy Roberts was then left a widow, with one
child, a baby in arms, and an old father to support.
Hitherto her husband had dug and planted their little
slip of potato-ground, and this with his wages and her
own occasional work made them comfortable. Now
she was the sole bread-winner, and very long laborious
hours of work were her lot. Not a barder lot on the
whole than many thousands of women have to endure,
and not so hard as that of many other thousands; but
it was not a joyful life, not a comfortable one, and on
Sundays, when she used formerly to go in decent shawl
and gown beside her husband to church or chapel, sbe
now rested, with such rest as she could get, with a baby
to look after, and a house to clean, and an old father to
talk to; for all these things would frequently fall upon
the Sunday to be done.
John Broadbent had no more calls in the village to
make this morning. His steps now went towards the
   
THE "KINDER GARTEN."

town, first across the ferry, and then by a series of
quick strides over the well-beaten meadow-path. The
town did not look inviting as he neared it, for clouds
had arisen and threw over its face their dark shadows.
Leftward, upon its rocky cone, stood the dismantled
castle, appearing less a ruin than might be supposed;
and still high above all the clustering shapes of factories,
and churches, and houses, that rose gradually from the
level plain of the meadows upon stony terraces towards
its crowning summit, St. Mary's ancient and bulky
tower stood out dark and heavy under the cloud-
canopy.
He glanced back a moment. Through a
parted cloud, a ragged chasm of an opening, miles
away, sunshine fell, and lay in a broad quivering beam
upon the westward Trent, and made clear and golden
a strip of the Grove, and lit up the heights of the Brand.
While he gazed the cloudy chasm shut slowly, and
covered in again by gradual inches the sunny sky,
and again the landscape was gray and cold. He turned
round and entered the smoke of the town.
Upon the wooden bridge, as he crossed it, were lying
faded crocuses, the gatherings of former days, stamped
out of shape, or already half turned to clay, and in
the corners, a few that had been blown out of the
way
of passing 'feet and still kept something of the old
bloom; but the wind, unwilling that even these should
be preserved a few hours longer, whirled dust and
wandering ashes upon their heads, and lifted up their
flabby petals with rough fingers. As he proceeded he
wondered, with a sigh, how many of the children who
had plucked these dying flowers from their green bed
would resemble them in their untimely fate. How
   

.
many would be lifted out of their sphere for a moment's
pleasure, and then be thrown away as useless and
inconvenient? How many the wind would capriciously
toss into corners to die only more slowly? And how
many the careless iron-bound soles of society would
crush ruthlessly into clay?
There are many resemblances between children
and flowers, and these are some of the sad ones; he
could not augur the numbers, but he could predict
the fact.
About this entrance to the town lay narrow un-
healthy streets, badly paved, and dark, abounding in
close courts and small houses, many below the level
of the drainage. Public-houses were frequent, so were
pigstyes, open cess-pools, manure-tanks, productive all
of plagues and poverty. Here sanitary commissioners
had never trod, for they were yet unknown. Fevers,
of course, kept carnival here, and attacked almost
whom they would. We sow in our gardens annuals,
seeds of bright flowers, and we get each year lark-
spurs, mignonette, convolvuli, sweet-peas, marigolds,
and sun-flowers as the seed so the flower; and each
year the town of Trentham sowed here a never-failing
crop of cholera, every variety of fever, and many other
diseases effective for children. Lest more bodies than
souls should be destroyed, the public-houses came, and
brought their strong allies to the army of evil passions,
and in this way the garden was filled. Fever-flowers
for the body, passion-flowers for the soul.
It was not a beautiful garden, but it was a very in-
structive one, and many lessons John had already
carried home to St. Wilfrid's from his various wander-
   
TIIE


KINDER GARTEN."
ings through it. Here and there he had tried to pull
up a baneful plant, but all were so fast rooted it seemed
almost impossible. Frequently he only sighed and
passed on; to-day he was in search of a soul that had
grown up in this land of henbane and aconite till it
scarcely knew that there were other flowers in the
world than poison-flowers.
It was not in the worst and lowest of these streets
that he took his way; there were several of tolerably
clean aspect, whose houses had more glass and fresher
paint than the rest, while here and there amongst them
a taller dwelling of two or three stories, with neat
window-blinds and white door-step, showed the abode
of a man raised above a hand-to-mouth poverty. De-
scending some steps that led out of one of these streets
into a sort of paved court, he reached a low house,
No. , built exactly like the twenty others about it,
and knocked at the door. An elderly woman, with a
ineagre yellow face, well wrinliled, and with her hair
arranged in a few cork-screw curls on each side of her
narrow brow, opened the door; she smiled when she
saw him, and admitted him without a word. John
entered a small low room, clean and tolerably furnished:
on a table at the farther end, seated cross-legged by
the window, was a bald-headed man at work, sewing
buttons on a coat. He was a tailor, and did not rise,
for it would have been inconvenient and a waste of
time, but nodding his head, and putting out his hand,
he greeted John respectfully.
As he seated himself on an old-fashioned print-covered
sofa, the visitor said, "You are busy as usual, I see,
Miller!"
   

.
"Yes sir, pretty well. Though it's poor work too,
not much pay."
"You've helped to clothe a good many people in your
day. Did you ever count the number of coats you've
made?"
"Not I! I've had something else to do than that,
Mr. Broadbent. A poor man hasn't much time to give
to counting what he isn't obliged to."
"Well, I suppose, you seldom have too much time, and
I must not stay long to interrupt you this morning."
"It's no interruption, sir," said the wife, who was
again seated and busy at the same kind of work as her
husband. "I'm sure we're very glad to see you, both
of us, and I hope you won't hurry yourself."
"Thank you," replied John, "I'm not sorry to rest
a few minutes by your warm fire, for I've had a rather
cold walk this morning.'
"From St. Wilfrid's, sir?"
"Yes. The wind blows keen across the meadows,
and your room looks comfortable and cosy."
"It's well enough, sometimes," said the tailor,
"though there's wind enough to turn a mill round if
you sit against that door, when the wind's i' the north."
"Couldn't you get a screen?" suggested John.
"A screen costs money, and money's a scarce article
with folks like me that has to work at tailoring by the
day."
"But you might make one for next to nothing if
you'd a little contrivance."
" That's a thing I hav'n't got, is contrivance."
Simon Miller was evidently not in a good temper,
but this was nothing uncommon. John was not
   
THE

"KINDER GARTEN."
He ven-
daunted, and yet the question he was about to ask he
was quite aware would not improve matters.
tured upon it, however.
"And where's James? What's he about?"
The wife's face became full of trouble at this ques-
tion, and the tailor replied with an appearance of in-
difference, bending his head lower over his work-
"I neither know nor care! He and I's parted, and
'good shutness,' say I."
"Then you're much to blame," said John quietly.
"Who will care for him if his father does not?"
The tailor lifted up his head. He was not often
spoken to so plainly, for his temper was known to be
crusty by his neighbours, and few liked to contradict
him.
He laid down his work, pushed his spectacles up to
his brow, and looked rather sternly at his visitor as he
replied, in a louder voice, "Look you here, Mr. Broad-
bent, it's easy to say, You're to blame, but you don't
know how we've been off and on with that lad! He's
nearly werritted his mother and me to death with
thinking of him and caring for him. We've told him
what's right, we've given him a good trade, we've
fended for him all these years, and it's all of no use !
He lived here till I couldn't abide his ways no longer,
and then I told him to start. I hav'n't seen him since,
and I don't want to."
John was silent a moment, then he turned to the
mother and said, " But you don't mean to say, Mrs.
Miller, that you know nothing of him? The poor fel-
low will be ruined downright!"
The mother looked at him with an anxious expres-
   

.
sion, and her voice shook a little as she replied, "I've
done what I could, sir, but he takes no notice of me.
And I know no more where he is now than
you
do."
John mused a few moments while stroking the cat,
who had jumped upon his knee. Then he shook puss
off, saying, "My time is short this morning, Miller, but
if
you like I'll read to you a few words while you
work."
" Thank you, sir," said James Miller, and his wife
rose at once, took a great Bible from the side-table,
dusted it with her apron, more from habit than neces-
sity, and laying it on a round table covered with oil-
cloth, placed both book and table close to him. John
opened at the fifteenth chapter of Luke, and read the
parable of the lost sheep that the shepherd rejoiced to
find, " carrying it on his shoulders rejoicing;" and as
in an impressive voice he uttered the words, "I say
unto you that likewise joy shall be in heaven over one
sinner that repenteth more than over ninety and nine
just persons which need no repentance," the mother
listened with a half-concealed tear, but the father's face
was still stern and unyielding. He was a man loving
method and law: his own habits were regular, almost
severe, and his way and wishes had been the rule of
the house for more than twenty years, that is to say,
ever since he had been married. His broad bald brow,
with the one wrinkle in the centre cut deeply in a per-
pendicular line from the root of the nose upwards; his
stern eye, long upper jaw, with its thin close-shut lip,
and his large depth of chin-all spoke him to be a man
who would not give much room to other wills than his
His will must be law-must be strictly obeyed;
Owu.
   
THE "KINDER GARTEN."

not because it was good and right, but because it was
his. His son, his only child, had broken through what
the father held most dear-his laws respecting regular
hours, steady industry, and sobriety. They were good
excellent laws, but enforced tyrannically as they were,
invited opposition and rebellion, and when the son
disobeyed, the father was less offended at the im-
morality than at the want of obedience to him. The
mother grieved, the maternal instinct was wounded,
love spoke in her, law only in the father. But her
intellect and courage were small; she longed to speak
words of reconciliation and kind advice, but her hus-
band forbade it; and so long had she been accustomed
to obey without a scruple, that she scarcely dared to
acknowledge even to herself her own wishes.
John's visit was a relief to her, and she inwardly re-
solved to let him know something of her feelings and
longings.
As his voice proceeded in its earnest reading, and the
story of the prodigal son became unfolded-no new
story to her ears, only seeming new now, and in a
wonderfully fresh bright light, she mentally and almost
involuntarily drew the comparison between the father
who saw his son "yet a great way off, and ran and fell
on his neck and kissed him," with the father sitting so
stern and unmoved near her. Reproaching herself the
next moment with the disparaging comparison, she
thought, "My James has not yet said, 'I will arise and
go to my father;' he is too high-spirited for that, and,
thank God, as yet he is not so bad as the prodigal!"
The reading done, the book put by, John took up
his hat, and standing erect, till he seemed almost to
   

.
touch the low ceiling, he approached the old tailor with
outstretched hand and a smile. "Good bye, Miller;
I'm glad you're so well and busy, for I know you're
never happy without plenty to do. But you mustn't
be too hard on James! Keep a soft corner in your
heart for him, poor lad! he's perhaps more sinned
against than sinning. If God were as hard with us as
we are with one another, where should we be?"
The tailor made no reply, and the visitor, turning
away, lowered his head once more as he went out-
the mother following him outside the door with a brush
in her hand, to brush some lint off his coat, "if he would
please to allow her." He did allow her, for he knew
she wanted to speak to him, and that the brush was an
innocent subterfuge.
"Then you haven't seen him at all lately, sir?" she
asked anxiously, as she brushed slowly at his sleeve.
"Not at all; I thought I should have heard of him
here."
"I wish I could tell you, sir. But he keeps away
quite obstinate ever since he and his father had those
words, and I daren't go out to look after him, he'd be
so angry if I did!" The "he" meant her husband, as
John well understood.
"Well," said he, "I shall employ this morning in
trying to find him; we must not let slip without a
rudder so likely a young fellow, and though your hus-
band is so stern, Mrs. Miller, he would be sorry enough
that any harm should happen to him."
Sorry, sir? I don't know! He's so hard, though I
don't ought to say it of him, I don't think he'd be sorry
at anything. Jim used to tell me sometimes, when he
   
THE "KINDER GARTEN."

was vexed, that he should enlist to get out of the way,
and I've told his father, but he didn't care no more than
this brush, at least he didn't seem to."
"Has he regular work, do you think?"
"I think not-for you see his father told them at
the shop where he worked how it was with him, and
they've given him nothing since. He gets work some-
times, I daresay, for he's clever; and so long as he can
get a bit of bread and the ale, he doesn't care.
He's
pawned his best clothes and his shirts. That was the
last thing I heard of him-six good calico shirts as ever
were made, I made 'em myself; and now he buttons
up his waistcoat, or his coat, if his waistcoat's gone, as
perhaps it is, so that folks can't see. But surely he
won't be so always! surely he'll alter!"
Her face became even more wrinkled and sallow
than was its wont, as she said these last words. John
looked upon her compassionately, and then as cheerfully
as he could, said, "Good-bye; I'll let you know any
good news," and was gone.
He did not expect to hear good news. A young man
who had gone the wrong way so perversely and deter-
minedly, and had made such rapid strides already,
was not likely to afford much good news for the aching
ears of a mother or a friend. But he thought it his
duty to find him if possible, and to let him know that
at least one pair of friendly eyes was fixed upon him,
   

.
CHAPTER IV.
"THE LOST SHEEP."
On emerging from the court where the tailor lived,
John Broadbent at once left the comparatively re-
spectable streets to the right, and took his course
among some of the narrowest and noisiest. Here
were houses cut in the rock, merely faced with brick-
close, dirty dwellings, abounding in bad drainage and
bad smells; narrow alleys, with abominations of all
kinds reeking in front of the houses; beer-shops in
plenty, and public-houses with grand titles and brilliant
signboards placed aloft. He inquired at several of
these for James Miller, the shoemaker, but was for some
time unsuccessful in his search. No one knew such a
person, and it was probable he might have a nickname
by which he was better known; but how to learn it
was the difficulty.
He was coming out of one of these places, with a
disappointed air; he had inquired at the bar of a young
woman, with red hair, a dirty cap and pink ribbons,
and her ready answer had been, "There's no such a
inan comes here," when a carter, who was propping up
the door-post with crossed legs, hands in his pockets,
and a short pipe in his mouth, looked at him rather
drily, and taking his pipe out, and giving a lazy spit
upon the pavement, said, "There's no James's here;
we're all Jacks, and Toms, and Jims; that's what we
are, mester."
   
"THE LOST SHEEP."

"But I see you
"Hah!" said John, "I daresay. Do you know Jim
Miller, my man?"
"I can't say as I don'. Is he a little chap?"
"No; rather tall."
" Has red whiskers ?"
"None at all," replied John.
don't
know him. Good morning."
" Don't be in sich a hurry. A tall chap with no
whiskers? Hem!" Another spit. "Does he get lushy
pretty often?"
"What do you mean?"
"Ha! ha! He doesn't know what I mean! Takes
a drop too much now and then? Does your young
fellow drink hardish? Because, if he does, I think
you'll hear of him yon'." And he pointed with his
thumb to a baker's shop in the vicinity.
John went to the shop, and asked once more after
James or Jim Miller, the shoemaker.
"Who told you he lived here, sir?" asked the white-
capped baker.
"I don't know that he lives here, but I am told you
know something of him."
"Well, I do know him. He did live at my daughter's,
two doors off; but he was such an unregular chap, she
couldn't do with him, and he went away last week. He
was no credit to anybody; he was a deal too fond of
the Prince of Wales."
The baker did not intend any reflection upon the
heir-apparent, but meant to say that some public-house
of that name was a favourite haunt of his.
" And where is the Prince of Wales?"
"In the next street, round the corner, sir."
E
   

BY TIE TRENT.
He gave
The Prince of Wales was a low pot-house, and its
customers seemed equally low. In the bar several dirty-
looking men were seated at "refreshment" at a deal
table, before a great fire; and at the other side of the
room, at another table, two or three were busy with a
pack of cards, with more "refreshment" beside them.
The atmosphere of this room was stifling and odious-
a mixture of evil scents, rank tobacco and stale ale;
boiled garbage for the landlord's pigs, which he was
just now busy compounding and heating; and bad
drainage, quite indescribable and almost insufferable.
The air he had lately breathed had not been of the
purest; but this was so bad that the new-comer who
now entered had some difficulty in refraining from
raising his handkerchief to protect his nose.
a hasty glance round. All within seemed in perfect
ignorance of the evil odour. One or two of the first-
named refreshment-takers were talking with a satisfied
accent, and, to judge from the expression of their faces,
were as happy as perhaps their natures admitted. Their
unwashed, unshorn faces were greasy in the morning
light, as seen through spirals of smoke; their clothes
were dirty and worn; their homes, if they had any,
bare and miserable places, no doubt; their lives without
dignity, nobleness, respect, or religion; in some degree
without humanity; and yet they were happy! A little
ale and smoke, and a companion like themselvesthat
is, reckless, improvident, sensuouswith nothing but
slavery to vice, ill-health, and misery between them
and the work house or the grave, this was all that an
immortal soul demanded to make it content and happy!
The atmosphere the bodily lungs inhaled with satis-
   
"TIIE LOST SHEEP."

faction, corresponded most truly to that which the soul,
depraved and sensualized, loved best to breathe. To
these bodies and souls fresh air was undesirable, sweet
odours indifferent, wholesome food insipid, fresh healing
water hateful; they called good evil, and evil good;
and heaven itself would have been to them a place of
torment.
The card-players were quieter and intent on their
gamean old man and two young ones. They were
much too absorbed to hear or notice anything or any-
one but themselves and the pieces of coloured paste-
board. One of these had his back to John Broadbent
when he entered; but John went up to him at once,
put his hand on his shoulder, and said in a low but dis-
tinct voice, "Miller, you're wanted outside."
The young man started, and a sudden flush came on
his pale cheeks, as he saw who stood beside him. The
cards fell from his hands, and with a confused face he
rose from the table, to the surprise of his companions.
"Get your hat," said John; and James Miller took
it from under a chair in the corner, and followed him
out of doors.
Who wants me?" he asked.
"I do," replied John. "I want you to walk out with
me. I have been seeking for you a long time. You've
no work, I suppose, and a walk will do you good."
The young shoemaker looked bewildered, and hesi-
tated for a moment, but he did not like to refuse.
Where do you want me to go to, sir?"
"I want you to go across the meadows to my house,
and take dinner with me, if you will."
James glanced nervously at his dusty coat, buttoned
   

DY TIIE TRENT.
close to the chin, shabby trowsers, and rusty boots; but
his companion only smiled assuringly. "Never mind
your dress. There's only my sister and myself, and
Clara will excuse your appearance this time. You look
as if you wanted fresh air. You sit in those close
houses till all the colour leaves your cheeks. But I
want also to have a little talk with you. Why don't
you go sometimes to see your mother? I have seen
her this morning, and she's very anxious about you."
James Miller looked foolish, but made some answer
about "nobody being glad to see him."
They used to be glad to see you, James. I remember
when I was living in Trentham, years ago, what a
rejoicing there was when you came home from school
at night if you brought with you a mark for good
conduct. Your father sent you to a good school, I
think?'
"Pretty well, sir. As good a one as he could pay
for, I suppose."
"Yes, so I understood. It seems only the other night
that I saw you standing in that room at No. 
repeating some piece of poetry you'd learned during
the day to your father. He used to get you to show
me your copy-books, he was so proud of you and your
progress. I believe he thought no one had a son so
clever as his."
James was silent.
"And your mother, too. How often has she laboured,
and been in pain for you, and worked for you, and
kept you tidy and comfortable, and, if you were ill,
nursed and tended you. You've had a good father and
mother, James."
   
"THE LOST SHEEP."

Still James was silent, as he walked on by his com-
panion's side.
What's the cause, then, of all this trouble between
you? What have you been doing? How have you
offended them? An only son like you should live with
his father and mother till he's married, and be a
comfort to them, instead of being tossed about from
pillar to post as you seem to be. How is it?"
James had too much respect for his questioner not
to reply with an appearance of good humour, though
he would fain have answered in some wild, ill tempered
fashion, about " folk minding their own business." His
conscience appealed to him with as earnest a voice as
did that of his companion, and he was secretly irritated
that he could reply to neither well. All he said was,
"He didn't know.'
John looked more grave than before. "I had a very
pleasant memory of you when I went away as an
intelligent, obedient boy; and I used to fancy I saw
you the help and comfort of your parents, assisting
them out of trouble and sorrow if they had any. You
may, therefore, think how grieved I was, when I
returned, to find you almost strangers to each other;
and this morning, when I asked for James, the name
brought a frown upon your father's face and a tear on
your mother's. What has led you wrong, James?"
"I can't rightly tell, sir; I wish I could.It's one
thing at the top of another. Father was all
Father was all very well
wben I was a boy, 'cause he could make me do s he
liked then; but when I got a man, and wouldn't stand
to be tied down, it was all different."
"Stand to be tied down! What do you mcan?"
   

BY TIE TREST.
<<
Why, to be lectured, and snubbed, and pushed in
a corner, if I didn't do everything as he did."
What did you do different, James?"
"Well, sir, I liked a bit of pleasure, as all young
folks do. I think if father and mother had had a few
more children, they wouldn't ha' been so particular
with me; but they watched me about like a cat watches
a mouse, and I couldn't stand it."
" And where did you go to when they watched you?"
"Oh! I went a cricketing first. Father grumbled
at that; but mother said she didn't mind it, because it
would do me good, but I must come home exact to the
minute. Well, I did that for a bit, till the lads all
laughed at me for running off as if I were shot. And
there was a rule we had, when the game was up, to go
to the public-house and get a glass together, just to
revive us and help us home; and when I left so early
I missed that. So one night I stayed an hour later,
and father was in an awful rage when I got home, and
tried to larrup me; but I fought with him, and took
the stick out of his hand, and broke it in two. He
never tried to beat me after, but he never forgave me,
I believe; he allers looked dark at me, and nothing I
did was right. Well, in a bit we'd a regular cricket
match between our fellows and another club, and our
The stakes was a supper; and hadn't we a
jolly one at the 'Two Anglers?' There was a good bit
of drinking among the men; and as our side had nothing
to pay, we sucked in all we could. I stood it a good
while; but at last I was as fuddled as the rest, and
when they got me home father wouldn't take me in.
He'd locked the door and gone to bel, and he said he
side won.
   
"THE LOST SHEEP."
ri
wouldn't come down to let such a bad 'un as me in.
So I was took back to the "Two Anglers,' and there I
stayed the night; and the next morning I was too ill
to do anything. But I wouldn't go back to father's.
Was I likely? He'd turned me out once, I said, and he
shouldn't do it again. I lodged at the 'Anglers' for
better than a week, and then I turned soft, for mother
persuaded me to go home. But I never took kindly
to home after. Father and me never spoke about that
night's job, but we soon did about some more, for I
wasn't likely to stay at home allers. Work, work,
work, from Monday morning till Saturday night, with-
out a stop at all except for meals and sleepingthat
was father's rule. I didn't see the fun of sitting to
work till ten at night, so I went out now and then;
and as I could dance and sing a bit, I was soon asked
to a good many places, and got acquainted with a girl
at a public-house-Sally Mayoa nice-looking lass with
ringlets down to her shoulders. Well, that was just
what finished me. Father met us in the street one
day; he said she was no good, I said she was; and
we'd a grand blow-uHe pushed me out of the
house that night, and-here I am."
He turned with almost a triumphant look to John,
as much as to say, "I'm not a man to be trifled with;
I'm an independent bold fellow, who doesn't care for
anything!" and John asked,
"Then you are quite happy now?"
This simple question rather puzzled him. "Well,
Mr. Broadbent, I can't quite say that! It takes such a
deal to make a fellow happy."
I a
am glad of that," thought John, "glad at least
   

BY THE TREST.
that you are not content with mere ale, and liberty to
prowl about public-houses."
What would it take to make you happy, quite
happy, mind?" he asked aloud..
"Plenty of money, and plenty of luck."
At the cards?"
Yes, and at everything. I would have everything
and everybody just what I wanted them to be."
"What do you want them to be? Good and true?"
"No; I wasn't thinking of that! But, first and
foremost, I must have plenty of money."
"What would you do with it?"
"I think I'd take a public-house. I would have
good clothes, and a gold chain, and a watch, and a
carriage, and I would just ride over to my father some
fine morning, to show him how well I was off."
"And you think you would be quite happy then?
Suppose your health was gone, as it most likely would
be if you had plenty of money and a public-house-it
is going now, JamesI can see it by your dull eye and
unsteady handand suppose you had lost a good
consciencewhat would the money do for you? No,
my poor fellow, you don't know what you are saying,
you don't know what happiness is."
"How can a fellow be happy that hasn't plenty of
money in his pocket? I never had that, I wish I had.
Poor people, like me, are obliged to do as they can, and go
without so many things they want; when you found me,
I was trying to get a few halfpence to make all square."
"By gambling ?"
Well, where's the harm? Rich folk gamble as well
as me, only it's for pounds instead of pence.
"

   
"THE LOST SHEEP."

"But why need you gamble? why not work? Is it
not better to earn an honest penny, than win one by a
game at cards?"
"I know which is the easiest."
"But suppose you lose?"
"Ah, there's the rub! If I could always win, I
wouldn't ask for a better trade." Here he laughed.
And
you
don't care for the losers ?"
Why should I? That's their look-out."
"But suppose a man were starving, and had lost his
last penny to you, would you let him starve? would
you take his penny?"
Well, I don't think I should be quite as bad as that.
If it really were so, you know."
Thank God!"
"What for, sir ?"
"That you are not quite lost in selfishness. But I
think better of you than you seem to do of yourself. I
do think you would care for the losers, even if it were
not their last penny. I do not think, when you tried
it, you would like to live by the trade,' as you call it,
of gambling. It is a wicked trade, a trade in which
both sides lose, one so much money, the other so much
soul. Which
Which would you like to lose best, your money
or your soul ?"
"Neither, sir.
"Then you will never do for a gambler, for you must
lose one or the other, and most likely both, if you
gamble. And is it possible that you should for a
moment prefer that sort of life to one of honest, noble
work? Is it for the sake of a little present ease only?
For the sake of tasting a little beer, of sitting idle in a
   
+
.
tap-room, of lounging about? You have many times
read the history of Esau and Jacob, and have no doubt
thought as many times what a foolish young man Esau
was to sell his birthright, his inheritance, for a few
spoonfuls of soup; but you are now like Esau, nay, you
are worse than he, you are selling youth and health
and strength, your intellect, your soul, your whole in-
heritance from God, for a few cans of ale, for a few idle
hours. Think what you are doing before it is too late!
Stop while you can. Let me beg of you, my dear
fellow, to begin a new life from this day."
"I don't know how. I wish I could-but-"
"But what? Let me know your difficulties."
"Ah, difficulties! that's just the word. There's a many
difficulties; you've no notion, sir, what a young chap
like me has to fight against."
"Then you really do fight? That's good! You've
only to go in in thorough earnest, and you will con-
quer."
James looked abashed. He had some little honesty
in him, and did not like to take credit where it was
not due.
"I can't say I've tried very much yet; everything's
been contrary, mother and father, and even Sally."
"Has Sally forsaken you?"
"She says I'm not one of her sort, and her and me's
parted."
Perhaps she has lost confidence in you?"
"When I first knew Sally," continued James, "I
thought I'd found what I wanted, somebody to love
me, who wouldn't always be snapping and snarling.
She was a merry laughing lass, fond of a joke and a
   
"THE LOST SIIEEP."

bit of fun as much as anybody, and she was very pretty
too. Well, she and I made it up, she knew what I was,
and what I liked, and she said she was fond of me;
and she was quite a respectable girl too, though father
did abuse her! She went out to service, and then in
a while she sent me word I wasn't good enough, and
that's what I call behaving shabby to a fellow, and so
I told her. Since that I haven't cared how things took."
"Perhaps Sally has been doing what I want you to
do, James, she has been thinking;she sees life cannot
all be joke and idleness; that there is something serious
in it; that it has many sorrows for the lazy and self-
indulgent, and there is no hope for a happy future for
her or for you, if drinking and idleness are to be the
rule. She is industrious and sober, I suppose ; and I
cannot imagine you would like her to be otherwise, and
she no doubt wants to see you doing your part. Has
she ever asked you to give up the drink?"
"Well, I can't deny as she hasn't. But it's alto-
gether unreasonable. I'll do what's fair, and I always
meant to work for her."
"Yes, as you are doing now. A day or two at the
end of the week. All the rest spent at the Prince of
Wales over beer and cards. That would not be the
way to support her, or scarcely yourself. I daresay
you are in debt now?"
"Only a shilling or two. And I could work all round
in a month or so, and be as well off as anybody, but she
wouldn't believe it."
" Because she didn't see you make the attempt in
real earnest. Sally is quite right. But here we are at
the ferry. Now for it."
>>
   

.
They ran down the bank and leaped into the boat,
just as the ferryman was pushing off. He had waited
for the two passengers, and was impatient to be gone.
Clara had not expected any visitor. School had been
over half an hour, and the cloth was laid for two, but
another knife and fork and spoon were quickly placed,
and she gave the unexpected guest a thorough welcome.
James noticed, with some admiration, the cleanliness
and order of the room, the fair white cloth, shining
silver, glittering glasses, and the geometrically arranged
dinner-table. A warm fire glowed upon the hearth,
and though the day was cold and windy and cloudy
without, here was quiet and comfort and joy. John
put on his slippers, and then conducted his visitor to a
room where he could wash and brush his hair. As the
young shoemaker looked round the neatly appointed
chamber, he inwardly drew a comparison between this
house and the noisy untidy lodgings in which he had
lately been content to live. "But then," he thought,
"Mr. Broadbent has plenty of money, and I have next
to none; that makes all the difference." "Did it make
all the difference?" asked another thought. "Might
not peace and order and cleanliness be insured in a
two-roomed, or even a one-roomed house, as in four or
six-with fourteen shillings a week as with forty?
But in neither, where was no industry, or sobriety, or
self-denial."
He descended the stairs slowly, half afraid to tread
with his unbrushed boots upon the flowered carpet; and
as he opened the room-door timidly, the dinner was
steaming upon the table. A chair was ready for him;
he placed himself upon it, awkwardly enough, but as
   
"THE LOST SHEEP."


no one appeared to notice his rude attempts at good
manners, he was soon more at ease.
Make a good dinner," said John, as he put upon his
plate a second heap, "the walk ought to have given you
a famous appetite."
But James's appetite was not up to the healthy
mark; he had lately lounged and drank and smoked it
away, and he was compelled to say, "Enough," before
John had nearly finished his ample meal. Water to
drink--there was nothing else! It was untouched by
him, and it gave him a species of shudder to see his host
pour from the decanter a second glassful, and drink it
with evident pleasure. Miss Broadbent also took water,
and for a woman James thought it not so bad, but for
a man! Even his father took beer for dinner regularly,
and for supper, half a pint each timehe never exceeded;
and beer was always given to him at his father's table,
as soon as his childish years were gone.
It was a
necessary of life. He began to fear Mr. Broadbent was
a teetotaller; if so, half his respect for him would be
gone.
He had heard teetotallers so laughed at, so
spoken against, so despised! And where was a man's
liberty if he might not drink ale?
But though the young shoemaker noticed much, he
spoke little. His answers were chiefly in monosyllables,
soon ended. This was safest for him he felt, and then
he was not in good spirits, for notwithstanding his
friend's endeavours to make him comfortable, he did not
find himself in congenial society. He was dimly con-
scious that his present way of life was not right or good,
but he was not willing entirely to forsake it. Forsake
tobacco and ale and idleness? Dear Saint Monday,
   

.
lounging card-playing Tuesday, sleepy Wednesday ?
All his pleasant companions at the Prince of Wales-
"Tom and Dick and Harry"and go on the jog-trot
ways of soberness and wisdom? His heart rebelled
from the thought of such a life as his father'swork,
work, work, "from early morn till dark," and no rest,
nothing that he called pleasure. Such a home as that
at No. ? No; most certainly not. He could never
live and work merely to keep such a home as that.
about him!
But such a home as, we will say, this. With plenty
of nice furniture, of light, of musicfor he had noticed
the pianoand of leisure-time, with a garden. He
liked prize flowers, though his father thought them
nonsense, and their culture waste of time; and with a
companion, a sister like Miss Clara, so tall and fair, and
-no, she was by far too stately for himwith a wife,
perhaps, like Sally, with her ringlets and laughing
face; yes, he might be induced to give up ale and
tobacco for this!
But where was the money for all this? And he
sighed as he reflected how poor he was.
This sight
that he was having just now was like a peep into
Paradise; and he felt himself at the bottom of an abyss,
from which it was all but impossible he should emerge.
He was poor and in debt, and he was half inclined to
feel morose and angry with the two pleasant faces near
him, for they had so muchhe so little. Why had
he been brought here to look at their happiness?
"Do you read?" asked John, as, after dinner, they
were seated by themselves at the fire.
"Not much," said James faintly. And he was afraid
   
"THE LOST SHEEP."

John would ask him next what sort of books he read,
for they were chiefly the lowest novels, of violently
sensational tendencies, in which intrigues, murders, and
the wildest improbabilities were mingled together in a
distracting manner, and which he read as he took his
early pipe in bed, before coming down to a late break-
fast.
"Because I was thinking if you did read, or wished
to read, I could lend you some books. Here are some."
And he laid before him on the table a few illustrated
works that he thought might prove interesting. James
opened them and looked into them mechanically, but
his eyes did not rest long on the pages, and John, who
noticed, without appearing to do so, saw that he had
not yet obtained what he wanted, the knowledge of a
motive. However, 'not so fast!' thought he, as an ex-
pression of interest dawned on the young man's face,
on opening one of the last books, a work on gardening,
with large gaily-coloured plates of florists' prize flowers.
A gigantic pansy, with a yellow ground, seemed especi-
ally to meet his approbation. It was a royal flower, or
at least had a royal namePrince Williamand he
read the pages descriptive of it and its triumphs at
various horticultural shows with a good deal of interest.
Then he seemed to recollect something, and puu down
the book with a sigh.
"Can I help you?" asked John.
"No; thank you." But opening the book again,
"That's a fine pansy," and he pointed to the picture.
"Very; and you are fond of flowers? I am glad of
that, for I have some pansies in my garden-only one
or two, very poor things compared with that one it is
   

DY TIIE TREXT.
true; but if you will come with me I will show you
them, and perhaps you can tell me their names."
They went out together, and looked at the pansies,
placed in pots in a sheltered corner, and in full flower,
but James did not know them. Still he admired them
greatly.
"You shall have them, and take them home with
you, if you like."
The young shoemaker's eyes brightened. He took up
two of the pots, but directly afterwards put them down
again, as if they had burned him.
"I have no room in which they could grow," he said
sorrowfully.
" "Not a bedroom? Give them light and water and a
little fresh air, and they will do very well for a time."
"No. I'm leaving where I am to-morrow. I can't
take them.'
"That's a pity. But why shouldn't you go where
you can keep plants? And why shouldn't you have a
garden? It is not a dear pleasure, and might be made to
pay its own expenses,
if
you were very attentive to it."
"A garden?" asked James in a sort of astonishment.
He had never thought of such a thing. "How could I
pay the rent?"
"It would not cost so much as the ale. How much
can you earn a week if you are industrious?"
"I lave earned a pound; but say fifteen shillings."
"And how many hours must you work to earn fifteen
shillings?"
"From nine to six; about"-
"Well, suppose you pay for lodgings and food eight
shillings a-week. I don't suppose you pay so much as
   
"THE LOST SHEEP."

that now.
You would then have seven left for
clothes and other expenses and your garden-five or
four for clothes and two or three for the garden. Two
shillings a week are five pounds four shillings a year.
You might have a splendid garden for that if
you
worked in it entirely yourself; and you ought to bo
strong enough to dig and do everything it needs. Only
you must give up the ale."
"I should get as weak as water without the ale."
"So
you
would. And water is not so weak after all.
Think of the number of mills it turns, the corn it
grinds, the cloth it weaves, the silk it winds; and if you
change it into steam, you know how immensely strong
and powerful it is! I need not remind you of steam-
engines and steam-vessels that do the world's work and
perform the world's journeys with so much ease, be-
cause with so much strength. Water is very strong;
and if you are only as weak as water you will have no
reason to complain. But I see it is the water-drinkers
whom you fancy to be so weak. Look at me.
Do I
look so very weak?"
And John laughingly displayed his well-formed
muscular arm up to the elbow, and invited James's
fingers to touch the ball of his thumb, and tell him if
it felt like wash-leather.
"I've been a water-drinker, I am glad to say, for
nine years or more, and I am wasted away as you see!
But I am by no means the only strong man who drinks
nothing more intoxicating than water. Do not go
away and think me a wonder. Many friends whom I
have known and still know have told me that they
were stronger and healthier after they had given up the
F
   

.
the same.
use of ale and wine than before; and I feel quite sure
if you were to give abstinence a fair trial you would
be able to
say
"I should like to see you with a garden! You would
have plenty of time to attend to it in summer, when
it wants most attention. From six to nine are three
good hours, in which you might dig and plant at your
pleasure. A bed of prize pansies would look beautiful
in it. Cannot you fancy you see it? And how proud
you would be to take a prize! Then you might have
pleasant lodgings out in the country; why shouldn't
you? for you work at home, I suppose, and could see
your garden growing beneath your eyes. With fifteen
shillings or a pound a week, good health and sobriety,
you might be more happy than I can tell you."
Clara came out at this moment. She had on her
shawl and her garden-hat, and a very pleasant smile,
like sunshine, about her eyes. James felt half dazzled
to look at her.
"Have you seen my violets, Mr. Miller?" she asked;
and as she spoke the wind blew about the strings of her
hat, and brought a faint pink into her cheeks. "It is
quite a mistake that you have not shown my violets,
John!" There was a little pretended indignation in
her tone. "Here they are, just at your feet, and no
notice taken of my darlings! See how double they
are; and so deliciously sweet. Will you have one?"
And she presented some to James, who accepted them
timidly; half afraid to bring his own dark-grained
fingers near her delicate white ones.
"Have you a garden?" she continued.
have, I shall give you a root of these violets as a great
"If you
   
"THE LOST SHEEP."


some
favour." James thought her smile very enchanting;
he longed for a root of her violets; but he was obliged
to say, "No! he had no garden."
No garden! That is a pity. But why not have
one? I can see you are fond of flowers. Why shouldn't
you have a garden?"
" Thank you," he said; for he had forgotten till now
to thank her for her gift. "I think I will have a
garden."
"Now, that's sensible of you! for you will have so
much enjoyment in it. And John and I will find you
of every kind of flower we have to stock it. I
know John will give you some of his double primroses,
and a few tulips and hyacinths, and a shoot from his
yellow rose; and I will give my violets and some ger-
aniums. I have some fine ones in the house. And
when your garden is in order we'll come and look at
it, and congratulate you."
John stood, admiring Clara's new-found animation.
It was not often she showed so much to a stranger, and
he inwardly thanked her for its display just now. She
understood the case; and as she told him afterwards,
"seeing the flour before her required more yeast to
raise it than usual, she employed her barm liberally"-
a true housekeeper's simile. The garden decided on, it
was found on looking round that other floral treasures
might be dispensed, and quite a list was promised.
James was half bewildered by the prospect. And
where was the garden to be? About Trentham were
certainly many gardens within the reach of a poor man
-perhaps few towns had so many; but by this time,
even if one were to be let, they would all be stocked
   

BY TIIE TREXT.
and would require money beforchand to obtain them;
and while James was earning the money, the spring
would be advancing into summer.
Jolin was thoughtful a few moments. Then be
looked up--and his bright earnest eye fixed itself with
some little anxiety upon the young man. James felt
himself growing very serious under this gaze.
"Are you in great earnest about this garden? Have
you reflected that if you are to have it, you must give
up the drink entirely?. If you have not, think well
before
you answer me."
"I will try."
"Don't deceive yourself. You will find it very hard
at first. You will have to be very resolute. You will
have to be self-denying and industrious. But you will
have great pleasures too. The pleasure of finding
yourself doing right-of living a more noble life--the
pleasure of pleasing all your true friendsand Clara
and myself will honour you for your trial, and help you
as well as we can. The pleasure of your garden, and
perhaps, in time, of a home of your own-comfortable
and happy."
"But you must forsake your old habits, your old
friends-never enter a public-house, never taste ale,
never touch cards to gamble, never idle away Saint
Monday."
A lingering regretful look was in James's eye; a look
of indecision, almost of fear. The garden was a glorious
prospectthe approbation of these new-found friends
very pleasant; but, how could be pass the Prince of
Wales, and not go in? how could he sit steadily at
work for hours? The dreary monotony of work at
   
"THE LOST SHEEP."

No.  returned to his remembrance; his face became
gloomy and dissatisfied in expression. John Broadbent
noticed the change, and understood its cause.
" You can't make up your mind to work as your
father does, day after day, in a dreary dark house? and
you are not quite sure that you could give up the
Prince of Wales? Is that it?"
"What should you say to living here at St. Wilfrid's,
near me, with a garden close to you, and a room all
your own? You would go to the town once or twice a
week with your work, and the rest of the time be in
the country. I should often see you then; for I am
loping and expecting that you and I shall be good
friends for many long years. I would, as I told you
before, assist you in every way I could, to begin a new
life, and continue in it earnestly and manfully. You
would have many pleasures that you know nothing of
now; for the way of duty is not only the way of safety,
but the way of happiness. What do you say?"
A cloud passed away from the young shoemaker's face
as these last words were spoken. "It is just what I
should like, sir," was his reply.
"Then it is settled," said John; "that is, as soon as
I can find the lodgings, and I think I know where to
look for them."
Not long afterwards James went away. His heart
had been opened by the kindness of his friends, for he
had not had much experience of love. He was like
plant growing in the shade, that had longed for light
and warmth, and knew not where to obtain it; and
suddenly a wall had been broken down, or a tree
removed, and at once around it lay open vistas of fields
a
   

.
and greenest meadowsa revelation of a new world;
while upon its head fell the sweet life-bringing sunshine.
A sort of intoxication took possession of him as he
returned slowly homewards; not the dull sensuous
intoxication of alcohol, but that fine ethereal mental
inebriation produced by rich unusual draughts of hope
and joy. His bright eyes and springing step were a
great contrast to the morning's glance and motions.
He felt that there was something more within bim
than a sot or a drudgethe two points of the compass
between which his life had hitherto oscillated; and that
for him there was a future, bright, but attainable and
inspiring. Many more words had been spoken to him
than I have here recorded, wise, thoughtful words,
dictated by a loving care, and he had to some degree
appreciated their importance and meaning. An open-
ing had been made, through many thick folds of ignor-
ance, to the soul so long shrouded beneath them; a
small opening at present, that might so soon be reclosed;
but there was for the present freer breathing, and a
sight of the great sky, and the long-hidden soul rejoiced.
James had been permitted a few hours' association with
friends in a much higher sphere than his own, and by
the touch of love had been made to see something of the
excellence of this sphere;-at first he had envied, before
he left it he ceased to envy, and began to love. They
were happy, these kind friends of his, but they wished
to raise him to happiness; they showed him something
of their joy, that they might induce him to seek for
the same--and themselves pointed out the way. How
could he envy or be indifferent? Again and again he
made the promise to himself, as he proceeded on liis
   
"THE LOST SHEEP."

way, that he would begin a new life-flee from his great
temptation, drink; give up idleness, and make himself
worthy of their friendship.
" After all," said John, as he was seated once more
with his sister by the fire, "it was you that won the
battle. What an amount of forces you brought to
bear! Your charge was irresistible. I did not know
you had so large a reserve, Clara."
Clara laughed, and replied, "I hope the battle will
prove won; but I fear there will be some skirmishing
yet, and perhaps a forinidable rally."
" Most likely; but forewarned is forearmed, and we
must be prepared. I think if we can get him here, and
he has a real love for the country, and for gardening,
with you to take an interest in him, and myself, and
Mary Plowden, for friends for I mean to bring in
Mary to the rescue--we may get him in time to forget
the public-house. Poor fellow! he will need many
flowers laid in his path besides garden ones, if he is
to make progress. Prince William'must help to eclipse
the 'Prince of Wales,' and all other princes and poten-
tates whatever, that rule their subjects by drink, and
we shall have to look after him for some time to come,
lest the sheep we have brought back on our shoulders
rejoicing, should again go astray."
   

.
CHAPTER V.
THE PAINTING DRESSMAKER.
MINDFUL of his promise about the lodgings, John called
the next morning upon Mary Plowden, the basket-
weaver's daughterthe most likely person, as he
imagined, to help him in the business. Mary lived at
St. Wilfrid's with her father and mother. She was
little and stout, and sang with a voice clear as the
lark's. She was not at all pretty, but she was musical
and intelligent, and her great forte or failingwhich
shall we call it?was, that she fancied she could paint.
Not little paltry pictures merely, in washy water-
colours, but real, large, oil paintings on mill-board or
canvas, portraits the size of life, and landscapes certainly
a little smaller than life, for field and sky and water-
nature is so large! but good-sized bouncing landscapes
too. Mary was almost a universal genius, besides be-
ing a dressmaker by profession, turning out a print
or merino dress very creditably, though in St. Wilfrid's
she had not much of this work to do. On Saturdays
she generally accompanied her father to Trentham in
the light-cart, and waited upon basket-customers at his
stall; and on other days she helped her mother in the
house, or her father in the workshop,she could make
the lighter kinds of baskets at a pinch, or sew band
and skirt and body, and when these were not needed
she painted
A very enthusiastic energetic little body she was,
   
THE PAINTING DRESSMAKER.

with no lack of dignity either. The clergyman called
her "Miss Plowden," something put out perhaps from his
usual appellative rules by her talents and attainments.
As the daughter of a basket-weaver she could not have
been called "Miss" with propriety, he would have
acknowledged, but as a painter in oils, of much energy
and with some natural aptitude as an artist, he could not
well refuse her the title. She was his lusus naturce,
his pet village phenomenon, and many a stranger did
he bring to Ebenezer Plowden's cottage, to look at
Mary's room-full of paintings, murmuring in their ear
as they passed out, amused or interested, "Quite self-
taught, you understand, quite self-taught!" Mary was
not perfectly easy under his well-meant patronage, but
how could she frown away the clergyman? She had
not many frowns in her composition, and those she had,
she reserved for more fitting occasions. He had been
very kind to her in many ways also, had lent her several
paintings to copy, from his drawing and dining room
walls, and had procured her the sight of more in the
houses of his friends.
Copying was not Mary's specialty, however. She loved
to create, and though some of those creations of hers
were ghastly, with too many cold grays, or were alarm-
ingly "foxy," with too liberal dashes of burnt sienna, still
no one could say they were not original, and totally
unlike received models. Some of her portraits were
certainly like the originals, but all were more or less
what artists call "out of drawing," and all wanted that
almost infinite series of graduated tints that nature
gives in every human face, and that is to an untaught
amateur so difficult and almost impossible to imitate.
   

.
John and Clara had very soon become acquainted
with Mary. Some of her neighbours called her "the
painting dressmaker," a title which aroused curiosity;
and as the brother and sister were not above so humble
a vice or virtue as curiosity, their eyes often had been
attracted towards the basket-weaver's dwelling, as they
passed it on their walks to reach the churchyard.
One windy day in February John's hat was lifted by
a venturesome blast, carried away from him triumph-
antly, and rolled across the green, and so through
Ebenezer Plowden's open door into the kitchen. With
a laughing face, and hair blown roughly over his fore-
head, John entered the house with an apologetic knock
in search of his wandering "chimney-pot." Mary was
standing in the parlour doorway at the time, a few words
were spoken, John explaining how it was he had taken
the liberty to enter, and these few words were the
beginning of what was now become a true friendship.
Clara and Mary were frequently together, and lately
Mary had been taking gratuitous lessons on the piano
from her friend ; she had a great reverence for both
brother and sister, had painted their portraits in her
best style, begging with so much earnestness the favour
to do it, that they could not well refuse, and had, we
are obliged to confess, considerably belied them on the
Clara's clear-cut profile especially charmed
her, and she was at odd moments frequently engaged
in sketching it from memory, on slips of paper, or waste
ends of millboard. "It possessed her," she said with a
smile, if friends noticed the perpetually recurring "nez
celeste," high forehead, and waved hair falling in natural
and heavy curls beside either cheek.
canvas.
   
TIIE PAINTING DRESSMAKER.

Ebenezer Plowden was short and stout, Mary resem-
bling him in these particulars; he was a man of some
importance among his poor neighbours; the house he
lived in was his own, he rented several osier-beds and
two or three islands in the river, the Poet's Island
among them, of which we shall hereafter speak; and
the excellence of his baskets was acknowledged far
and wide. He was reckoned a man of substance. A
twinkle in the corner of his eye suggested a smile, it
was in fact the "at home card" of that article, the smile
always being ready to appear when called upon. Yet
he was a shrewd man, sturdy, and brown-skinned,
energetic, and capable of almost mythical feats of sus-
tained labour; and idolizing his daughter, to whom he
allowed many privileges seldom granted to her sex and
station. Her "works," as he called them, were perfect
in his eyes, the parlour where they were displayed he
spoke of as the "stud-dio," though a little garret in the
roof, with one dormer-window, and with worm-eaten
floor and massive picturesque beams, sloped and crossed
like the letter A, did duty for that place. Here hung
what Mary called her "failures," safely hidden among the
black shadows of the beams, and here was her easel and
box of paints and models. The parlour was in fact but
the picture-gallery, the exposition of Mary's industry;
here guests were received, here strangers came to admire
or criticize; here the Sundays and gala-days were spent
by the family; and here Mary always sat or stood or
walked, with simple unpretending homeliness, unmoved
by sneers or praises, but with a hidden enthusiastic
light in her eyes, ready to shine forth, when with a
friend who understood or loved her and her art. It
   

BY TIIE TRENT.
was this balance of hers that had attracted John, and
when he saw her with unflushed quiet face receiving
the praises of gaping admirers at her untaught genius,
or the covert sneers and haughty indifference of some
of the good clergyman's lady friends, replying to all
with the same calm unconscious look, he recognized in
her something worthy and extraordinary. Before, she
was simply an oddity, a freak of nature; now, she was
an interesting woman.
But we began this last paragraph intending to
describe Ebenezer himself, not his daughter, and we
have been carried away, as was John's hat, though not
certainly against our will, to Mary's feet, by a toss of
the prankish wind. We feel bound to confess that
Ebenezer was by no means a perfect specimen of
humanity. Shrewd as he was, he had yet one con-
spicuous weakness. He was a smoker, the pipe and he
were firmly wedded. Morning, noon, and night it was
in his hand or mouth, or close beside him, ready for
service. Not a short pipe, black and dirty, but a long
clean piece of baked clay, properly waxed at the end,
and fed with fragrant tobacco. No doubt this habit of
smoking accounted in some measure for his brown skin,
and for certain decayed black-looking teeth, that spoiled
the pleasantness of his smile; but he would not have
believed it had you told him so, and if he had believed,
he would still have smoked. This morning when John
called, Ebenezer was standing before his door smoking.
His coat was off, he was in working costume, in a well-
worn waistcoat, corduroy breeches, blue knitted stock-
ings and shoes, and was taking his preparatory whiff
before the morning's weaving He called this, "getting
   
TIE PAINTING DRESSMAKER.

idle man,
a breath of fresh air," and it was indeed getting one
breath of fresh air to a dozen or so of smoke.
Between the puffs of smoke he looked contemplatively
along the road that stretched from his cottage corner
to the elm-covered walk by the river. A few gables
and chimneys, and a few doorsteps and lines of front
wall retreating in perspective, were all he could see of
his neighbours' domiciles; but he liked to look at
these, with an eye that missed no single foot put out
of the doorway, and that noticed every cat and bird
hovering near. There was not much news in the
village that did not find its way to Ebenezer, and he
knew how to weave any one circumstance that came
under his notice into another, as deftly and swiftly as
he wove osiers into baskets; not more so, for he was no
and his baskets were renowned far and near,
as we have said before.
While he was thus looking, the tall figure of
John Broadbent came in sight.
Ebenezer's eyes
brightened, and he took quick anticipatory puffs, the
twinkle of his eyes also spoke its "at home
clearly than ever, and he moved one foot a little fur-
ther forward.
"Good morning, Plowden. A fine day! How are
you all?" were John's first words of greeting.
Ebenezer took out his pipe and shook its contents on
the grass near the door-step, as he replied, "Pretty well,
sir; how's yourself ?"
Rarely.- Making more smoke I see? Still at the
old trade?"
Yes, sir; clearing my head for the day's work."
"And spoiling this sweet morning air. How is it
more

   
+
.
possible you can prefer the scent of tobacco to that of
fresh-springing grass and violets ?"
Ebenezer smiled. "That is one of your poetic
speeches, sir; nobody but a poet ever smelled the grass
growing."
"I have, when it has just begun to grow: a real,
fresh, truly delicious scent. But you lose that, and
many more sweet scents, for the sake of your pipe."
"Tobacco's a sweeter smell than violets, let alone the
grass, to my thinking, Mr. Broadbent."
John shook his head with a laugh. It was an old
quarrel between him and the basket-weaver.
"Can I see Mary? Is she at home?'
Mary is at home," said Ebenezer sententiously.
"Will you walk this way, sir? I think she's in the
stud-dio."
He led the way into the parlour, and as John entered,
a half-completed picture stared him in the face, as it
stood upon the table, propped up by books and boxes.
Mary was not there, however, so while Ebenezer went
in search, John had time to examine the new work. It
was a " Raising of Lazarus" that she was attempting
this time, a great undertaking, though not the first of
the kind the daring artist had endeavoured to depict.
The principal figures were drawn in, and one or two
were partly painted, but Mary and Martha still knelt
before the tomb in outline. There was nothing very
striking in the arrangement of the figures, and the
painter had neither knowledge of drawing nor of colour-
ing sufficient to make a pleasing picture. In several
artistic respects it was an enormity, but John admired
the enthusiasm and pluck of the young dressmaker.
   
THE PAINTING DRESSMAKER.

He lifted his head and found Mary standing beside
him.
"What do you think of it?" she asked.
"It is a daring thing for you to attempt."
Then
you mean it's a failure, even for me?"
No, not a failure for you. It is a success in some
respects. This figure of Christ is drawn more correctly
than you generally get full-length figures. The right
arm is too long, and the feet are too large; but as a
whole, it is tolerably true. Why don't you set yourself
to study the figure systematically before you begin such
ambitious pictures? And your notions of perspective
are not at all true and clear. Those distant trees we
see through the opening of the cave are much too large."
"I wish I could study! Sometimes I think I will, ,
and I earnestly copy for a short while those anatomical
plates you lent me, but I am so soon weary, and in
truth have so little time for real hard study. Then
an idea seizes me which I must draw out, and it is such
a pleasure to see it grow up that I cannot tear myself
away from it. Besides, why need I study so much?
By practice and observation I shall improve, and my
pictures after all are only to please myself and my
father."
"There are several good reasons why you should
study more than you do, and I hope some day you will
see the necessity for it, though it is true you have not
much time, and good instruction is expensive."
Very expensive," replied Mary emphatically. "And
those drawing masters only teach you to copy after all;
I should throw away my palette and brushes in disgust
if I must do nothing but copy. But can you tell me
   

BY THE TREXT.
what colour is worn for mourning in the East? I know
I have read somewhere it is not black, but can't re-
member what it is."
"It is yellow, I believe. But I will look for you
when I get home, and let you know."
" Thank you, you are very kind."
"Am I? Well now, I wish you to be very kind, for
I have a favour to beg of you, Mary, I want you to
find me or tell me of some lodgings for a friend of mine
in St. Wilfrid's. He is poor, a journeyman shoemaker,
and will want a room to himself, that must serve for
workroom and bedroom for the present, I fear, till he
is richer."
"A friend of yours?" and Mary reflected."I do not
knowthough perhaps Mrs. Jones might have a room
to spare just now."
"Is that your next-door neighbour?
"Yes; she has just lost her son, and is now quite
alone. Poor thing! she has fretted so about him, though
he has been ill two years, and was a constant burden.
To comfort her a little, I took his portrait the other
day from memory, and she keeps it in her bedroom,
and I believe kisses it every night before she goes to
sleeIt does her good, she says. Will you go in
with me to see her? I think we might arrange it at
She has odd ways; but she's a kind-hearted
woman, when
you
know her."
"Certainly I will. But there is another thing my
friend wants--a garden, or part of one, where he could
cultivate prize flowers."
"Mrs. Jones's garden will be the very thing. She
was asking me the other day what she must do with it,
once.
i
   
THE PAINTING DRESSMAKER.

for the doctor and the funeral have made her very poor,
and she can't afford a gardener. It is quite a wilder-
ness, indeed, for last year it was entirely neglected,
though she kept it on, thinking and hoping poor Will
might get better."
"Lead on then; we will hear what she
says
at once."
Mrs. Jones's door was quite close to Ebenezer's, so
there was no need for Mary to put on bonnet or shawl.
When she tapped at it, a rather hoarse voice within
said, "Come in, Mary." The widow was seated close
to the fire, a round deal table was near her, on which
was laid a pile of clothesa man's coat, waistcoat, and
trousers, several shirts, handkerchiefs, and stockings,
and on her arm was drawn one of these last that she
had just been darning. When she caught sight of the
stranger, she hastily pulled off the stocking and laid it
with a trembling hand upon the table. Then she rose
up, smoothed her apron, a blue checked one, in a nerv-
ous way, and waited till her visitors should explain
their coming
"Don't put yourself about," began Mary. "This is
Mr. Broadbent, he has been to our house this morning
looking out for lodgings for a young man who is a friend
of his, and I ventured to tell him that I thought you
might want to let one of your rooms."
Mrs. Jones kept a bewildered silence, and still stood
smoothing her apron.
"Do sit down again," Mary proceeded, "and we will
sit too for a minute or two, if you will let us.
Mr.
Broadbent, will you take this chair? There now, we
shall be more comfortable! You told me how lonely
you were in the house now, and I'm quite sure you
G
   

.
must be; a lodger would be company for you sometimes.
If you only heard him stirring about in his room, it
would be something. Have you ever thought of such a
thing as taking one?"
"I can't say as I have."
"But it would be a good thing for you; don't you
think it would? He would pay you something for the
room, and he would like to rent the garden too."
"The garding?" she passed her hand over her eyes
in a weary way. "The garding is worth seven shillin',
so Job Simpson tou'd me, an' I wouldn't let it for no
less."
"Well, and I should think it's quite worth it, too,"
replied Mary; "it's a nice piece, but it's sadly out of
order. And about the room? couldn't you let that too?"
"Is the young man steady?" asked the widow.
"He is Mr. Broadbent's friend," replied Mary; but
John now interrupted.
"Let me explain," he said, "he is a journeyman
shoemaker, quite a young man, about nineteen. But
he has not been so sober as he ought to have been, and
it is on account of his bad habits I am bringing him
away from the town. He promises he will be steady,
and go to no more public-houses, and I hope he will
keep his promise.
The widow reflected. "You need not decide just
now," said John; "I will bring him here for you to see,
and then if you think well, you and he can arrange
about money." And in this way it was left.
As Mary was following John out Mrs. Jones seized
her by the arm, and pointing to the heap of clothes on
the table, said hysterically, "Them's his clothes! Did

.
   
THE PAINTING DRESSMAKER.

you know 'em?
I was mendin' his stockings. I'd
like to put 'em by all tidy!" and she put her apron to
her eyes and began to sob. "Don't fret," said Mary
sympathizingly, "I'll come in again presently, and
help you to put them to rights," and she gave the poor
forlorn mother a compassionate kiss.
In a day or two all was settled. James Miller came
over, saw the room and the garden, and was much pleased
with both. The room was low, with a plaster floor,
but was clean and tolerably light, with a pleasant view
of the river seen between the boughs of drooping trees.
Mrs. Jones at once took a fancy to James's looks. He
was so like "her poor lad" she said. Mary could not
see the likeness, but that was no matter. The price she
asked for the room and for attendance upon him was
very small, but she would not hear of him carrying up
his shoemaker's tools into his bedroom. "He's welcome
to work i' the kitchen, an' I don't like my poor lad's
room to be stinkin' wi' leather," was her speech. No-
body of course objected to this arrangement. It was
healthier and better in every way, so James's tools and
bench were put in a light corner of the down-stairs
room, and his leather apron hung up behind the door
that very day, and James began his new life in the
country. John supplied him with a few shillings to
pay the debts he owed at Trentham, that he migh
have no further need to approach old friends or haunts,
and this was to be paid back in instalments.
   

.
CHAPTER VI.
THE SERMON.
Ar Trentham, upon the walls, had been seen for the
last week, large blue and yellow and white posters,
announcing that on Sunday, April th, anniversary
sermons would be preached, by the Rev. Stephen Morris,
in the chapel, High Street, for the benefit of the said
chapel; and upon the day named a great number of
people were gathered together in this place of worship
to listen to what the Rev. S. Morris had to say.
Amongst the rest were Clara and John Broadbent.
John had not seen Stephen since the visit we have
related; though he had twice called upon him, he was
not at home both times.
The brother and sister found themselves seated this
morning, with hundreds of other well-dressed people,
in a large and well-built chapel, lighted by tall Gothic
windows, and resembling in many details of its archi-
tecture a modern church. There was at first a subdued
rustling, and sort of universal settling down of these
many gaily-dressed atoms into their fit places, occa-
sional coughing and scraping of feet, varied by the
march of new comers up the well-matted aisles, and
the opening and shutting of pew doors. But when a
side door opened and the minister appeared, with black
gown and bowed head, and ascended the pulpit stairs, a
hush came upon all these breathing atoms, and woman,
and man, and child prepared themselves by silence for
H
   
THE SERMON.

the introductory words of prayer about to be spoken.
The young minister looked more than usually pale as
he raised his head in the pulpit, and for a moment sur-
veyed the congregation. Then he lifted up his hands,
and all bowed themselves, while in a few solemn words
he prayed for a blessing upon the morning's services.
He ceased. A hymn was given out, the organ first
took up the song and went through the air, sweetly
and softly, with its inimitable voice, and then the
whole congregation rose up and sang with it. Another
prayer, a chapter of the Bible read, another hymn
sing, and all settled themselves finally to the sermon.
In some respects John found it a wonderful sight,
this large congregation composed of various grades of
society of both sexes, and of almost all ages, from the
tiny child who can just be induced to sit sufficiently still
by the aid of papa's grave look, and mamma's occasional
half smile, through an hour's discourse, without too
much disturbing those near, to the man and woman of
mature life, and the white-haired grandfather or mother,
all looking up to, and listening with more or less fixed
attention, and not without much reverence, to the words
of a man still very young, placed before them in the
prorninence of the pulpit, and allowing him to lead their
minds through the intricacies of a discourse founded
upon the inscrutable depths of divine providence.
With a slow, solemn, deep-reaching tone the young
pastor delivered the words of his text: "Verily thou
art a God that hidest thyself, O God of Israel the
Saviour!" and as he looked round upon his congrega-
tion, after their utterance, with the air of a man deep
in thought, and about to launch forth upon some vast
   

.
sea of revealed truth, his audience felt their expecta-
tions raised in no ordinary degree, and breathlessly
awaited what he should next declare.
The subject he had selectedfull of mysterious mean-
ings, and needing, in truth, an angel rather than a man to
seek into it and to give it expression-was yet one that
suited his peculiar powers of mind, and drew forth some
of the highest, deepest thinkings of which he was capable.
Mystery is dear to the poetic faculty; for in its heights
and depths, illimitable and endless, the grandest aspira-
tions of the soul may be called out. Within it, what
wondrous worlds of splendour and beauty may not be
hiddenwhat paradises, what vast oceans of knowledge,
of life, of love! It is eminently dear to the strong-
winged and aspiring, for it is a perpetual excitement,
and has a voice that ever calls to explore its mazes, and
a hand that is always beckoning onward. As the
hammer is made for the nail, the spade for the soil, the
axe for the tree, so is the mind of the poet and the in-
tellectual aspirant made for the unravelling of mystery.
The one comes to it with the awe of a worshipper, the
other with the joy of a treasure-finder. The true poet
and divine pierces the veil and ever sees God behind,
trembling as he sees, not with fear, but with ecstasy
that is akin to the joy that flutters the wings of the
angels. Ever to him behind the mystery is that which
is more mysteriousthe "God that. hideth" himself.
Stephen Morris came to his subject with the gladness
of the poet and the minister. The mystery he had chosen
to talk about that morning to the child, the youth, the
man, the woman, the aged-impossible to be more than
hinted at, infinitely high, infinitely deep as it was, and

   
THE SERMON.

therefore unreachable by a finite mind, and utterly
untellable by the poor speech of a man, yet invited him
forth, dared his utmost strength of wing, and, like a
yoang racer that would emulate the lightning, though
content to be left far behind, he exulted in the impotent
trial, and cut the air in all but impossible periods.
His hearers followed his quick, daring flight as best
they could, and admired, as they panted for breath
after him.
None but a young man, perhaps, would have treated
the subject as he attempted it. He was not, however,
the less applauded, though, of course, the applause was
silently bestowed. But he soon left the rare ether, and
came down to more breathable atmospheres, and, in the
aspect of the Divine One as the God of Israel, the
Saviour, was more at home, and nearer human sym-
pathies and human wants. Here he drew after him all
hearts, and carried them with his own, in adoration
and love, to the feet of the great Lover of humanity;
and, by a wonderful gift of eloquence, and a subtle
sympathy of soul, entered all other human souls in that
large assembly, and, using them as instruments, played
upon each stop to perfection. They smiled or wept,
adored or shuddered, rejoiced or trembled, and gazed
into hell or heaven, as he bade them. When at length
the sermon was ended, and his deep voice ceased to
sound, men and women, released from the spell, took
deep breaths, looked into each other's faces, and asked
silently, with eyes glistening with mingled tears and
rapture, "Where have we been? What are we? Is it
really we ourselves? or, like him we have heard, are we
changed, and do we shine transfigured ?"
   
+
BY TIE TREXT.
John and Clara felt the strange entrancing influence
with the rest. They walked home thoughtfully. Un-
known as they were, not one of all the crowd had
ventured to address them, nor did they wish to be
addressed. Greetings even from well-loved faces would
have been undesirable, so much had they been stirred
out of the spheres of wonted life and thought.
"What a wonderful power is this!" exclaimed John
at last, when they had walked some distance out of the
town, under the wide-spread sky of the open Trent-
valley, and found themselves again on earth, pulled
down by invisible strings from their elevation, nature
treating the soul as a tied Montgolfier, that she never
allows to rise very far or for very long. "What a wonder-
ful power is this which one human being has over
others by the aid of eloquent words, of out-breathed
soul! A preacher like Stephen touches all who hear
him on the divine side, and straightway they are aware
of new faculties, are raised for a time above their
ordinary selves, and feel themselves winged. What a
joy for him must be the possession of this gift!"
" The gift has something awful in it, too," was Clara's
low reply.
"Responsibilities are always awful, and great gifts
bring great responsibilities. Great trials also come
with them, but we cannot deny the joys. What a
glorious course is apparently before him! What souls
he may be the means of saving from the beggarly
elements!' What purity and greatness of life he may
teach! What grand truths hold forth, and what num.
bers of lost and weary ones he may show the way to
the Giver of rest-the Saviour!"
   
THE SERMON.

John and Clara were not the only ones who made
the young minister and his sermon the topics of con-
versation as they proceeded home this morning.
A truly magnificent discourse," said Mr. Gresham, the
mayor, as he rode away to his country villa, four miles
out of town, with his wife and family beside him in the
barouche.
"Yes; it ought to be printed," added Edward, the
only son. The bishop's sermon we heard last Sunday
was nothing to be compared to it."
"I hope it may do good," was Mrs. Gresham's obser-
vation, a little bashful woman, as she wiped away the
tears, not yet dry, from her face.
"It must do good!" exclaimed Charlotte, with the
decision of manner belonging to her father, whom she
in many things resembled.
Jane, the youngest daughter, had not yet spoken.
She was in truth looking earnestly in the direction of
the dispersing congregation, as if in search of some one
she knew, and bad scarcely heard what was said.
When she at length turned her head, and brought her
face and her little pink satin bonnet into proper digni-
fied, lady-like position, her father surveyed her with a
smile upon his broad face. "Well, Jane?"
There was nothing very formidable or alarming in
the words; but Jane, nevertheless, coloured a deep
blushing red, paling her pink bonnet by contrast, and
still kept silence.
"And did you like the sermon, Jane?"
"Yes, papa. It was almost too beautiful!"
"You need not have asked her, papa," was Char-
lotte's observation, "Everything Mr. Morris says is
   

BY THE THENT.
grand to Jane. I do not think she took her eyes from
his face the whole sermon."
"And where were your eyes, Charlotte?" asked the
father. "They would have been better fixed on Mr.
Morris than employed in watching your sister. I am
afraid, my dear, you forget the purpose for which you
go to chapel.It was certainly a fine sermona won-
derful sermon! I shall get Morris to give me the
manuscript, and I will have it printed at my own
expense. Such a sermon as that deserves to live."
"I knew we should have one of his hest," said
Edward, "he looked so pale when he began. He'll
study himself into a consumption if he doesn't mind.
Mrs. Grant says he buries himself in his books more
than half the day, and he's often up till midnight,
writing."
"A bad habita very bad habit. It is lighting the
candle at both ends. We must have him with us rather
oftener, my dear, and try to get him to be more
reasonable. You must talk to him about the danger to
his health, for we could not afford to lose him. I think
he does look thinner and paler than he did."
"I could cure him," interrupted Edward. "A few
hours' boating a day on the river with our club, and
a little of your best Madeira, father, would soon give
him a colour."
Boating!" repeated the mother in surprise. "You
forget it is not proper for a minister to spend his time
in boating, my dear!"
"And why not?" asked Edward. "I'm sure it's a
very healthy amusement. But ministers now-a-days
are kept up like a cat in mittens. There's nothing
   
THE SERMON.

manly or liealthy about them when once they're out of
the pulpit. I'm sure Morris would preach even finer
sermons than he does if he took to boating now and
then, and he'd live a great deal longer."
"I will bring him home with me to dine to-morrow,"
said the mayor; "and if you can persuade him to take
healthy walks with you, Edwardbut no boating with
your club, remember, it would not be proper, your
mother is rightyou will be doing him a service, and
be a more useful member of society than you have
been of late."
Edward was silent. He knew what his father's
rebuke meant, and his conscience told him he deserved
it. The many idle, profitless hours he spent in company
with the dissipated and the gay fools of fashion, male
and female, often returned to his memory like a cloud,
dimming the day; for he was not quite ignoble and had
aspirations for higher things, but, like many others,
he put aside his better thoughts, and it was ever
to-morrow that the new life was to be begun. It w
a real misfortune for him that he had no profession or
calling, his father's wealth making this appear needless;
for with no serious employment to engage his time, he
was at the call of every idle companion, and the play-
thing of every whim belonging to himself or others.
He was not vicious, but so often near vice's mantle as
to be lost in its shadow; and though of a really ener-
getic temperament, made himself subject to the punish-
ment of idleness through the aimlessness and littleness
of his pursuits.
As to Stephen Morris himself, he returned home by
the least-frequented streets. It was understood by all
   

.
that on Sundays no hand-shaking or conversation, either
before or after service, must disturb their minister.
Quietly, thoughtfully, he walked through the crowd,
some turning to look after him with admiring gaze,
some almost reverently making way for him. He had
preached what was called a great sermon; but he was
not vain at his outward success. He was even humi-
liated. He had heard one speech not meant for him,
said all unaware of his presence, by an old woman,
whose withered, wrinkled face he had often seen just
beneath the pulpit, in what were called the "free seats :"
"It wer all very fine, all very fine; but I couldn't
reach it." Her tone was sorrowful as she said these
words, her head shaking between palsy and emphasis,
to a young Sunday-school teacher who stood with her
at the chapel door. Stephen had made his way past
with bent-down head; but the words and tone of his
aged hearer followed him. There was one of his
"flock"soonest perhaps to leave him, and to be
gathered into another fold into which he knew not,
the fold of the Good Shepherd or the fold of the Evil
One)--whose time was so short on earth that, if she
still needed teaching or comforting, it should be done
at oncethere was no time to spare; and he had let
her come hungering and thirstinghe had invited her
to come, and had sent her empty away. "I couldn't
reach it" was all her sorrowful experience. To display
his own riches, he had brought out dishes of gold and
silver and high-spiced dainties; but no nourishing food
to support the soul about to set out on so long, so
wearisome a journeythe journey of death.
He reached home, and before he dined laid aside the
   
THE SERMON.

was.
sermon he had elaborately prepared the last week for
the evening-a deep and argumentative one--and chose
one of the simplest and clearest he could find, with the
determination that, for the future, he would speak with
words for the child and the aged, rather than for the
deep thinker and the highly educated. He sighed as
he put by the splendid oration; but it was a sigh of
relief. His conscience was now in some measure quieted,
and he could eat his dinner in peace, such as the dinner
On Sunday this meal was an anchorite's feast
with him-little beside bread and water, we were about
to say; but it was in truth bread and wine. Wine
revived him after the exhaustion of preaching; it cleared
his brain, and aroused it gently to the work before it
in the afternoon and evening; and bread was all the
solid food he allowed himself at that period of the day.
On the following morning, Mr. Gresham called upon
him while he was still in his study.
I've promised my wife to bring you to dine with
us to-day, Mr. Morris, and I hope you'll oblige me so
far. It is a splendid morning, and the ride will do
you good."
Thank you," replied Stephen quietly.
" That is right. I shall call for you about threo
o'clock. I've a little business to attend to meanwhile;
but I'll be up with the brougham about that time."
. Thank you," again said Stephen; "I'll be ready."
He was not a man who had much facility in conven-
tional phrases; but it was not expected of him, and he
knew it.
At three o'clock, true to the momentfor punctuality
was one of the mayor's cardinal virtuesthe brougham
   

.
drew up at Mrs. Grant's door, where were the minister's
lodgings, and the two were soon on their way to Swans-
ford House.
"I have another favour to beg of you, Mr. Morris,"
said the mayor, when he had placed himself in a per-
fectly comfortable attitude in the carriage, "which is,
that you will lend me the manuscript of your Sunday
morning's sermon. I wish to print it."
A slight, very slight flush rose to the young minister's
cheek as he made answer, "I have it only in the merest
skeleton, which would be of no use to you, I fear."
"You don't mean to say that that sermon was
delivered with only a few notes? You astonish me!
It is the most wonderful sermon I have heard for
years.
I was so delighted that I brought Grantley to hear you
at night. He's a churchman, you know, high church,
and believes no one can preach well out of the Establish-
ment; and I wanted him for once to hear what we
dissenters listen to. But you disappointed me, I must
confess. You had lost your wings at night."
"I felt it necessary to preach more simply. There
are poor and aged in the church, and little ones, and
these must have their bread."
"True, true." The mayor mused."But still you
could write that sermon out, I hope. I want particu-
larly to send a copy of it to Grantley, and I shall make
a present of a handsomely got up one to each of the
aldermen and the town council."
"I can write a sermon, certainly, from the notes I
have, though it will not be exactly like the one you
beard; and I will do so if you really wish it very much."
"Thank you. I do wish it. I thought you would
   
THE SERMON.

oblige me." And the mayor's usual smile hung radiant
upon his face.
The four miles' drive was a pleasant one, enlivened
by talk chiefly from Mr. Gresham on politics both of
church and state. The dinner was thoroughly good,
and the wine of the best vintages, for the host prided
himself on his cellar. After dinner over the walnuts
and the wine, conversation was abundant. Mr. Gresham
had been attending that morning with the other magis-
trates, as was his duty, at the police office, hearing
various cases of robberies and of disorderly conduct,
that were brought under the notice of the bench, and
he now detailed some of them. He complained much
of a certain Joseph Gutteridge, who had been before
the bench no less than thirty-six times, for disorderly
conduct, and who was again present this morning, for
using insulting language and assaulting the police while
drunk. "We committed him to prison for one month
with hard labour, and he would have had more, had I
not, with some other of the magistrates, been sorry for
his wife and six small children, who will have to starve
or go to the workhouse, while he's away. I can't
forget," continued Mr. Gresham, putting down his glass
and turning to his wife, "that that poor woman was ser-
vant with us when we were first married. A good girl
she was, better than many we have had, though we
have had some good ones too, my dear! Poor Fanny !
she should have been content in service, and not married
a sot like Gutteridge. I told her so, when she came
crying to me a month ago to ask me to let her husband
off that once; and all the poor silly woman said, was,
that her husband would be good enough, if it wasn't
   

.
for the public-houses and the drink!
Some women
will go through fire and water to defend their husbands,
and the worse they are, the more they cling to them."
"But wasn't it the drink, papa, that made him so
disorderly?" asked Jane.
"What! you mean to defend Fanny, do you, my
dear? Well, I have no objection. Only mind, miss,
that you do not marry a drunkard, and have to come
to me, to defend your husband some day!
Respectable people don't get drunk," said Charlotte,
with a slight toss of the head.
"And yet I had a young man that called himself
respectable, and would have been quite offended if he
had believed you had thought him otherwise, before the
bench this morning, who had been in the lock-up since
Saturday night, for disorderly conduct, while drunk.
He had a torn coat, a crushed hat, a black eye, and a
damaged character to bring into court, but I am sorry
to say he didn't look at all ashamed. He called it a
'lark,' and paid his fine with the air of a so-called
gentleman; that is, of one who didn't care how the
money went. It is astonishing the number of drunk
and disorderly cases that take up our time on the
magistrates' bench, more than one half of all the rest.
I might safely put it at two-thirds.
account for it, Mr. Morris?"
And the mayor, as he asked this question, put out
his hand for the decanter, and filled his glass with
some fine old Madeira.
" The lamentable ignorance and spiritual destitution
of the people I consider to be the great cause," replied
Stephen.
How do you
   
THE SERMON.

" That may be so in many cases, perhaps in most,
but the young man I spoke of just now was what is
called well-educated. He went to school with my
Edward, and had a hundred a year paid down for his
instruction, as I happen to know."
"Who was it?" asked Edward surprised; "not James
Hope?"
"It was some one of that name," replied the father
drily. "Won't you take another glass, Mr. Morris?"
"Thank you. Perhaps the young man you name
may have had evil influences about him at home."
" His father was a steady honourable man, and I
believe he had a good home, and every Lord's-day, too,
he was taught to attend a place of worshiBut every-
thing seems thrown away-good ancestry, good home,
good name, and religion itselfwhen drink gets pos-
session of a man. It is a most pitiable and awful
besetment."
"What a shame!" exclaimed Charlotte; "so well
taught and brought up as he has been."
"Oh! there are many such shames as that," laughed
Edward. "Only look round a certain chapel I could
There's Mrs. Sharp"-
"Don't be censorious, Edward," interrupted Mrs.
Gresham, mildly. You don't know-you've only
heard, and you've no right to speak."
"But I do know some cases, mother dear. Don't
you think I've eyes? Ah! I could tell some queer
tales if I might."
But the mayor now interposed with a frown. "I
will have no scandal at my table. Your mother has
spoken. Let that be sufficient."
name.
A
   

.
Edward said no more, but employed himself diligently
in peeling a walnut, and soaking it in his wine.
The mayor went on:-"I do not know whether
drunkenness is more prevalent than it used to be, but
certainly it comes before the public oftener, in one way
or another; and if drunkards are silent, temperance
people will not let you rest. I was called upon this
morning at my warehouse by a man who styled himself a
temperance lecturer, and who wanted me to subscribe, as
mayor of the town, to the temperance cause. He and I
had a little conversation. I asked him what he meant
by temperance, and I soon found out it was teetotalism,
which is anything but temperance, in my view of the
case, whereupon I told him I could not conscientiously
subscribe to what I thought a piece of fanaticism. Of
temperance, strict temperance, I approved, as what
right-thinking man, or Christian, does not? but teetotal-
ism was quite another affair. And, also, I told him
that the wild utopian talk of himself and his brother-
teetotallers did more harm than good to the cause of
temperance, and aroused opposition in many minds
that would have gladly assisted in more reasonable
schemes. What think you, Mr. Morris?"
"Exactly with yourself. I consider wine to be one
of the good creatures of God, allowed for our benefit
That there is abuse, and great abuse, we all
know; but what good thing is not abused? And it
seems to me, the greater possible good a thing may be
to us by its right use, the greater is the harm it may
inflict by its abuse. To ask me to refuse wine entirely,
because some have injured themselves through excess,
is like asking me to close the sl:utters and refuse day-
and use.
   
THE SERMON.

light, because some have employed it in deeds of mur-
der and wrong.
* Exactly; and I should much like you and this Mr.
Bolt to meet on this question. He is going about the
country lecturing, and wants the use of any chapel he
can get, to speak in, on week evenings. I told him
candidly that I could not give my consent to our chapel
being lent for such a purpose; conscientiously I could
not, and I think you and the deacons will think with
me."
"There is no doubt of it. You know my sentiments,
and I believe the deacons have the same, with the ex-
ception perhaps of Mr. Green."
"I had forgotten Green. Well, perhaps he may
think differently. I know he has teetotal tendencies;
and I fully excuse him (pity as it is that so sensible a
man should have a weak point!), because he has himself
suffered so much in his own family. A burned child
dreads the fire, you know."
There was no further allusion to Mr. Green, but all
at table knew that the mayor referred to a death that
had occurred in the deacon's family not long before
through the excess Mr. Morris so much deplored.
His brother, who had for some time been a secret
tippler, committed suicide when afflicted with delirium
tremens.
"The grace of God is sufficient to restrain all evil
passions," said the young minister solemnly; "this of
drink included. Let us pray for more of this grace for
ourselves and our fellowmen."
There was a silence for a moment. Then the mayor's
deep voice uttered " Amen!" in a fervent tone. Mrs.
   

BY TIIE TRENT.
Gresliam's eyes looked towards Edward with some
solicitude; she had not counted the number of glasses
he had taken, but she knew he had had more than
strict temperance would have allowed.
The mayor glanced round the table. Most of the
glasses were empty.
Another glass, Mr. Morris?"
"No more at present, thank you.'
Edward put out his hand for the decanter, but his
father quietly removed it-saying,
"I think you have had wine enough to-day, my
boy. Shall we withdraw?"
There was a cheerful fire in the drawing-room, and
a ruddy glow on the varnished sides of Indian jars,
and screens, and polished couches, and easy chairs.
Everything was luxurious and comfortable, and through-
out the room were many tokens of the ease of wealth
that carelessly exchanges gold for the products of art,
no matter their price. Tables and cabinets were
covered and filled with toys from every country in
Europe, collected by the family in their many summer
wanderings; carved wood from Switzerland, china from
Svres and Dresden, vases from Florence, and amber
pipes and jewelled slippers from Constantinople. The
walls were covered with paintings of value, and the
windows made stately with curtains of flowered damask
and gold lace. Through these windows, opening on to
an ancient lawn, velvety with moss, might be seen
clusters of lovely spring flowers, arranged on beds laid
out with line and compass, with the clearness and pre-
cision of a geometric drawing or an architect's plan;
and around, but not too near, depths of shrubbery
   
THE SERMON.

and woodland, just tinting with the tender green of
early spring
Charlotte and Jane repaired to the windows, to talk
each to her pet canary, that hung in a gilded cage,
beneath the shade of heavy bullion fringe, in sight of
two pleasant worldsthe outer, white and green; the
inner, white and gold. The birds' eyes were perhaps
never weary of the former, for the green of trees and
grass must be inestimably lovely to a bird, and
amongst it, could they attain it, was the wide world of
liberty, constant change, and the delight of motion, so
dear and bewitching to wings; but from the latter
came many agreeable gifts, warmth and food, and caress-
ing words, though, alas! tainted with slavery.
"Papa," said Charlotte, with one hand lifted up to
her bird, as she held a grape for his eating, "Burton
says we shall have no cherries this year; the frost took
the bloom last night."
"I hope not, my dear. Perhaps Burton may be
mistaken."
"It will be very provoking if it is so. For I am so
fond of cherries. And so is Bob. Aren't you, my pet?"
Bob replied with a gurgling chirrup.
"Bob's tipsy," said Edward. "He's been eating
grapes till he doesn't know what he's about."
"How absurd!" was Charlotte's reply. "I'm quite
tired of your talk about tipsy people; I hoped we were
going to hear something better. You'll talk about
them so long till you think all the world's going drunk
together. Do change the subject."
Willingly; I shall be only too glad. What do
you
girls say to a walk in the shrubbery before it gets dark ?''
   

.
Mrs. Gresham hcard the invitation, and mindful of
her husband's request about attending to the health of
their guest, proposed that all should go out for half an
hour, before the chill of evening came on, if agreeable
to Mr. Morris. The mayor had just subsided into his
large easy chair for a lounge and a fireside conversation,
but acquiesced at once with a good grace, and Stephen
agreed that a walk would be pleasant. Hats, and
bonnets, and shawls were obtained. Edward and his
sisters were soon in advance of the rest, and while the
elder ones loitered by the aviary, admiring the plumage
of the gold and silver pheasants, these made their way
to the lake, and fed the swans with biscuits from
Edward's pocket, amused to watch the birds soak and
macerate the hard pieces in the water before they at-
tempted to swallow them. When the biscuits were
exhausted, they stood some time admiring the graceful
motions of the male swan as he glided about with
thrown-back head and swelled chest, ever and anon
striking out impetuously, till the water, pushed into
rebellion, rose around him in tiny waves and ruffled his
snowy feathers. "What a prow the fellow has," said
Edward. There's a model for a boat! I'll have one
made some day after his fashion, and we three will sail
in it up the Trent and astonish the folks."
That would be beautiful! that would be delightful!"
said Jane and Charlotte; "to sail in a swan; only
think! You would paint it white, of course.
What a
beautiful boat for a bridal !"
"Yes; that would have been a good idea, if I had
only thought of it a little sooner. By the by, have
your dresses come home yet, girls?"
   
THE SERMON.

They came quite early this morning," replied Char-
lotte; "and we've had such a time of trying on before
dinner! But they are all a beautiful fit, and the bon-
nets are real loves."
" Pale blue and silver, aren't the dresses? The lace
will look splendid over the blue silk. There isn't any
more of the same pattern in all Trentham, and I'm glad
you asked me to help you to choose it. I saw cousin
Emmy's things this morning when I called. Her veil
will almost touch the ground, and has cost forty pounds.
They're in a pretty bustle, I can tell you; and aunt
said cook was in an awful temper, because some of the
ices were quite spoiled, and she'd fresh to make."
"Did Emmy look well?" asked Jane.
"O yes; gay as a lark! We'd a talk about the
breakfast, and I had to tell them how the table was set
out at the Star and Garter at Richmond when John
Oakes was married. But come, shall we walk on?"
He gave each of the girls an arm, and then proceeded
with his talk, as they roamed among the rhododen-
drons and laurels. "Emmy told me that at first uncle
had objected to champagne, but she coaxed him to
getting it. She said that Sarah Hooker had champagne
at her wedding breakfast, and that she wasn't going to
be behind Sarah Hooker. Emmy's rather spirity and
dashing in her notions. She asked me what I thought,
and whether she had done right to insist on it. Of
course I said, yes, champagne was the thing."
"How old-fashioned uncle is," remarked Charlotte;
"I believe he'll grudge the expense of the wedding
awfully. He wanted to have had just such a hum-
drum wedding as he and aunt had thirty years ago,
   

..
with one cab and one bridemaid. Only think how
strange! But aunt said she wouldn't hear of such a
thing, and that she was determined people should know
when one of her girls got married."
"And yet Grayson's only a banker's clerk. I wonder
Emmy didn't look a little higher. But that's no busi-
ness of ours; is it, girls? All we've got to do to-morrow
is to be as jolly as possible. And stayI've something
for you to look at, in my pocket. Here it is, or rather
here they are." And he brought out two small mor-
occo cases, and opening one, disclosed a beautiful pearl
bracelet, laid luxuriously upon its crimson velvet bed.
"Will this thing fit either of you?" He put the box
into Charlotte's outstretched hand, and opening the
other, revealed a similar one, which he himself took out
and clasped upon Jane's arm.
"How lovely! how beautiful! Thank you! thank.
you, you dear good brother!" said they both in a breath,,
and Jane threw her arms round his neck and kissed.
him repeatedly. "When did you buy them? and how
kind of you to think of us!"
* That will do; don't smother me!" said he laughing
and gently shaking her off. "I'm glad you like them.
I was passing by Hart's window this morning, and
saw Charlotte's just as the shopman was laying it out.
It looked pretty; and it struck me it would just do for
the wedding, so I went in and asked if they'd another
like it, for I couldn't forget my little Jane; and that's all
about it. And now put them by again, and say nothing
about them till to-morrow, and then we'll surprise
mamma."
By the time the bracelets were safely put hy, Mr.
   
THE SERMON.

and Mrs. Gresham and their guest came in sight. They
appeared to be deep in grave conversation, but began
other talk on the approach of the younger people. A
walk to the greenhouses and gardens was proposed. In
the first the camellias, azaleas, and cinerarias made a
splendid show, and Mrs. Gresham gathered with her
own hand flowers for the minister to carry home, when
the walk was ended. Then the drawing-room once
more received the party. Charlotte at the request of
her father played on the piano, and with dexterity and
ease performed several brilliant pieces of music, and
afterwards accompanied her sister as she sang with a low
but pleasant voice several simple melodies. Afterwards
came tea, and lights, and more conversation; and alto-
gether a cheerful bright evening, that the young min-
ister thought upon with pleasure as he rode home by
starlight in the mayor's carriage. Mrs. Gresham had
been almost motherly in her inquiries after his health,
and in her advice to take more open-air exercise and to
give up late studies; and at parting, as she stood well-
dressed and handsome in the light of the drawing-room
chandelier, she had pressed him to pay Swansford a
visit very frequently, assuring him of a thorough wel-
come at any time. " John shall always drive you
home," she said, "" and fetch you whenever you will let
us know you are coming, if you prefer riding to walk-
ing." And then when about to shake hands, "I will
tell you something of a secret, which will however be
none in the morning. We are to have a gala-day to-
morrow; or at least the young people expect one.
Their cousin Emily is to be married; and if you happen
sto be near St. Mary's Church at eleven o'clock or so,
   

.
you will see a gay procession. Edward especially in-
tends to enjoy himself. It is well you have come
to-day to see the greenhouses, for to-morrow they will
be stripped; he has ordered Burton to make up more
bouquets than I can tell."
"Now, mother dear, what fables are you telling
about me to Mr. Morris?" asked Edward with a smile,
as he came forward and put his hand affectionately on
her shoulder.
"No fables at all, dear, only"
"I trust they are," interrupted the father's voice from
behind. "Edward must buy some of his bouquets if
he wants so many; I cannot have the greenhouses left
quite bare."
There, mamma," in a lower voice; "you see what
you've brought upon me. I shall have to go off to-
morrow with shorn beams; and I had intended to have
not only been crowned, but buried in flowers, as I rode
to uncle's. You won't let me bury myself that way,
and yet you oughtit might save you some trouble
some day; and a coffin would cost you a good deal
more than the flowers after all."
The words were very lightly said, and very lightly
taken; but to Stephen they returned with a solemn
meaning on that lonely drive homewards. For, thought
he, was not death far too solemn a subject to be jested
about? and ought he not perhaps to have spoken some
fitting word at that moment?

   
THE CHAMPAGNE BREAKFAST.

CHAPTER VI.
THE CHAMPAGNE BREAKFAST; OR, FIRST WINE, THEN
WATER.
STEPHEN MORRIS did not see the gay procession Mrs.
Gresham named; he remained at home, absorbed, as
was his custom at that hour of the day, in ministerial
studies.
There were, however, many of the inhabitants of
Trentham who on that Tuesday morning, bright and
sunny as it was, were glad to run out and watch the
young bride and bridegroom enter and leave the church;
who counted the number of carriages, noted the size of
the postilions' white rosettes, the length of the bride's
veil, the richness and colour of her dress, the number
and splendour of the bridemaids and their attire, and
the grandeur of the groom's waistcoat; and these
declared it was a "fine enough wedding for a lord.'
The bride's mother, who was present in rich brocade
and lace trimmings, would have been gratified had she
heard this and other remarks made by the outstanding
crowd; and her pride was sensibly gladdened when
she saw among the spectators within the church the
mother and sister of the Sarah Hooker, whose wedding,
gay as it had been, was now fairly outrivalled and
outdone. Not in vain, then, had been her shaping and
trimming, and managing of her husband's temper, her
secret struggles, her cares, her contrivances, the month's
bustle, the last week's hurry, the year's forethought, to
   

.
this end, since Sarah Hooker's and all similar weddings
must now hide their diminished heads! She was a
proud and happy mother.
The old church-gray, as it had a right to be, with the
shadow of its five hundred years about it, with its monu-
ments of the dead upon its walls and the graves of its
dead about its feet, its water-worn, time-eaten buttresses
and porch, and its crumbling font, telling of the gene-
rations who had been born and baptized, and were now
passed away, since first its massive stones had been cut
from the quarry, and jointed and fitted, and carved
with grotesque adornment-was once more made glad
with the step of the bride and bridegroom over its
pavements, and echoed softly, as it had done so many
thousand times before, the whisper of the bride's "I
will." Hidden-amongst its pillars and monuments there
might be perhaps a grim smilethe smile of the past,
of endurance, of stone, over the present, the quickly
perishing; over those human lilies and roses, so soft, and
fleshy, and fading, and those still more swiftly to change,
and die, and pass away, than the bride herself-the
flowers she held in her hand. And between spandrel
and arch and pillar a silent laughter might take its
way, as satins and silks and laces rustled by, and
flowers and perfumes for the moment overpowered the
scent of the charnel-house close by; but whatever smile
or laughter the old church had this morning, it kept
the secret well, as it had so often done before, as it will
ever know how to do.
It was a gay wedding, not only for its dresses and
decorations, but for the youth and merriment it had-
the last scarcely kept in check by the solemnity of the
   
THE CHAMPAGNE BREAKFAST.

was over.
marriage service, and breaking out afresh directly this
The first to kiss the new-made wife was
Edward, and he did not forget to claim the pair of
gloves due to him for that pleasant feat. Charlotte and
Jane, as two of the bridemaids, were perfectly well-
dressed, and did not shame their trappings, as some-
times bridemaids are apt to do, by too great a contrast
between the freshness and youth of the dress and their
own faded faces. And the whole party were pronounced,
by those who eagerly scanned them over as they
re-entered the carriages, to be a "thoroughly handsome
Tot."
The breakfast at the bride's home passed off much
as such breakfasts are accustomed to do. The table
was covered with delicate, rare food of all allowable
kindsfruits, and creams, and ices, and cakes, and
luxurious provisions, with the bridecake in the midst,
arge, and grand, and snow-white, and adorned with
in pyramid of figures and flowers clothed in frosted
silver. There was talk, and merriment, and jokes, and
smiles, and the daintiest of eating and drinking, as we
have said. There was youth, and health, and beauty,
the sparkle of jewels, of gold, of bright eyes, of happi-
ness-that finest sparkle of all
and there was cham-
pagne. How it danced, and foamed, and sparkled in
the glass! what an exuberance of joy seemed to lie in
its clear brightness! what an inviting taste in its deli-
cious freshness! All drank, in honour of the bride, in
sonour of the bridegroom, in honour of the bride's
father and mother, in honour of themselves. Speeches
were made, compliments and congratulations passed,
bottles were emptied, glasses filled, and tossed off, and
   

.
re-filled. The gentlemen's talk became louder, the
ladies' cheeks redder, and in the midst of all the jollity
the bride went away with her companion, with the
kisses of her father and mother upon her cheeks.
Then when all was over, and the feast was ended-
for a marriage breakfast, like the marriage itself, must
come to an end some time--and the ladies were enjoy-
ing themselves in the drawing-room with their women's
chat about "Emmy and Mr. Grayson," and the appoint-
ments and furniture of the new home, the young men
proposed a walk.
"What say you to a row up the river?" asked
Edward of his cousin William, Emily's brother, when
in a while they were left to themselves walking arm
in arm across the park. Below themfor the park
lies upon part of the high rocky terrace on which and
out of which the town is built and dugstretched the
level of the meadows, and long miles of the lovely Trent-
valley lay full in sight; the shining river running
through it its now rapid waters, and suggesting, no
doubt, to Edward, the amusement he proposed.
"The very thing. It will be a glorious pull up
to-day; and I'll get a lad from the warehouse to take
care of the boat while we have a stroll
up
the Grove."
With rapid strides and bounding hearts the two
proceeded through the streets, calling for the boy as
proposeda thoughtful-looking, large-headed boy, de-
signated a "warehouse lad," who was glad enough to
leave the perpetual folding-up of hose, and the monoto-
nous life of the warehouse, for an afternoon's pleasure
with his young master.
"Now, Ike, you young dog, run on before and get
   
THE CHAMPAGNE BREAKFAST.

the boat ready for us, will you?" was William's speech,
in a half-patronizing, half-authoritative tone; and the
"young dog," in dark, seedy cloth jacket and cap and
gray checked trowsers, ran gladly off in the direction
of the Trent bridge with a cheerful "Yes, sir."
Then the two young men walked more slowly, and
presently Edward said, "I came off from home without
my cigar-case, Will. It wouldn't have been the thing,
you know, to bring out cigars at a wedding. Suppose
we go in to Shelton's and buy a couple?"
"All right," replied William, to whom a cigar was
also a desideratum, and who perhaps considered it a
necessary of life, in his benighted, fashionable young-
man condition.
A couple, therefore, were bought at the tobacconist's,
and a couple or two more "in case of need;" and both,
lighting a cigar a-piece in the shop, joked the while
with the young woman that waited upon them, who
was both pretty and bold.
"That girl's a stunner," said William admiringly, as
they went out. "What a pair of eyes she has! and
what eye-lashes!"
"Mind she doesn't catch you with them," laughed Ed-
ward. "Tom Green laid a wager the other day with Sam
Wright that those eye-lashes of hers were an inch long."
"And lost, of course ?"
"Of course, my boy. If he hadn't been half-seas
over he wouldn't have been so soft."
" Did she let him measure them?"
"Yes, and professed to cry because Tom lost. She's
made one or two awful attempts to catch Tom; but I
don't think she'll get him; he's not so soft as that."
   

.
This was not exactly the sort of language the two
young men had lately been using at the wedding, nor
was it the language they allowed their home friends
to hear. Slang is always ugly, it belongs to the jail
and the ale-house, and gives fitting expression to the
evil passions drink stimulates, whether it be "that poor
creature," small beer, or that drink of the more refined,
champagne.
There were some afterwards who remembered, or
fancied they did so, that Edward did not walk quite
"serenely balanced" on his way to the river; but of
this fact we are not quite certain. Only one thing we
know, that amongst the curious gray matter of his
brain was some degree of fermentthat vein and nerve
called to one another excitedly--and that along their
conduits and wires ran a subtle poison, a stimulator
of riots and insurrections. The red flag was up, the
cool judgment down; and combativeness, destructive-
ness, and obstinacy, with others of their followers, rode
uppermost, and were heard and listened to alone.
When the river steps were reached no boat was ready
launched, and they were indignant. Ike alone stood
waiting, with a look of mingled fear and vexation.
To the questions of his master he replied, "Bowlby
won't let me have the key, sir, and I can't get it out."
Why not? What's the matter now?"
"He say's the river's too high, and the boat's sure
to be swamped if you try to go up, sir."
"What confounded nonsense!" growled Edward.
William turned to the boy with an eye flaming with
anger. "You go and fetch that key, or I'll swamp both
you and Bowlby when you come back!" The boy

   
THE CHAMPAGNE BREAKFAST.

went away quickly, and returned presently with Bowlby,
a short bandy-legged man, with muscular brown arms
bare to the elbows, and short bristly hair surmounted
by an oilskin cap.
"How's this, Bowlby? Why can't you send the key
without all this bother?"
"Why, Mr. Gresham, beggin' your pardon, sir, it's
not safe to go on this here water to-day. Ike said you
meant to go up'ards through the bridge, and I toud
him it couldn't be done; that's all. But if you must,
you must; here's the key, sir. Only I say still, don't
blame me if you get a ducking."
The river washed muddy and restless by their feet,
and rushed by the boat-house and dashed against the
wall that bounded one of its sides; its current running
impetuously and swiftly onwards, like a strong untired
racer that sees the goal; and as the eye
looked across
the yellow rolling waters, its impetus and strength
might be guessed by the flakes of foam that rose and
sank, and were tossed and drifted hither and thither in
the centre of the whirling mass. Bowlby glanced at
the whole with a cool knowing gaze; but the young
men knew no fear. Why should they? They were
members of the Trentham Rowing Clubwell accus-
tomed to the river; they were young, and felt untold
strength in their limbs, their warm blood running
almost as quickly and fiercely as the river's cooler cur-
rent; they had put to sleep by that magic brew, the
sparkling champagne, the watcher by the telegraph
wires, and he put out no signal of danger. Why
should they fear?
Ike unlocked the boat, placed the oars in order, and

   

,

the two jumped in, laughing at Bowlby, and bidding
him
go home and "get his old woman to make some
gruel to put his nerves in order." Bowlby shook bis
head as he turned on his heel to go away, muttering
to himself, "Them young chaps has had a drop or two
too much, or they wouldn't be after that game to-day.
But let 'em go and feel the stream, they'll soon tire
theirselves, an' if they get a souse, it'll cool 'em and do
'em good."
Bowlby's organ of benevolence was not large. He
had quieted what conscience a rough unthinking life
had left him, by refusing the key to the lad, and he
now went indoors, to smoke his pipe and grumble at
the world and the river collectively. To tell the truth,
however, he did not anticipate the young men would
really attempt to push through any one of the arches
he imagined they would come back when fairly their
strength had been tried against the current; and he
was too well accustomed in his situation of boat-keeper
to the vagaries and hair-breadth escapes of young men
on the water, to feel at all nervous or anticipative of
danger.
When the boat was turned with its head against the
current, then came "the tug of war," as Edward laugh-
ingly observed; but it was a tug they liked; and their
muscles asked for labour to relieve the excitement of the
brain. Moreover, they felt some amount of exultation
in having opposed and "shut up" that old fellow Bowlby.
"He might think we didn't know what rowing up
stream was," said Edward boastfully; "but you and I,
Will, have been here times enough to know it, I should
think. Pull away, old fellow!"
   
THE CHAMPAGNE BREAKFAST.

But they made slow progress with all their exertions.
The muddy waters gurgled round the boat; the current
was rapid and strong, and for every two feet forwards
they took at least one backwards. Still they were by
no means daunted. "Once through the bridge and we
shall get on," said William, and he began to sing-
"Bonnie lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye go,
Bonnie lassie, will ye go,
To the birks of Aberfeldy?
"The braes ascend like lofty wa's;
The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's;
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws,
The birks of Aberfeldy."
Edward joined him in the chorus, and their voices
sounded pleasantly as it reached the shore, while their
bars beat time to the music. But now the "pour" of
the impetuous stream under the arches could be seen
quite near; all thoughts of music and singing must be
abandoned, and they were aware they must apply all
their energies to the work before them. As they neared
the bridge, the current was still stronger, and they saw
how the waters whirled and tossed, and pushed about
and against the abutments, and ran madly through the
outlets, or dashed backward from the opposing stones
with foam and fury, and rush and roar.
So far the
boat had been managed well. It had been a hard pull;
but their muscles were vigorous, and their nerves ex-
cited to the struggle. Now they hesitated a moment.
Through which of the arches should they attempt to
force the boat? which of all those foaming onpouring
torrents should they attack and resist with their feeble
oars? William inclined to try one at the left side-
   

.
Edward proposed the centre arch. "I have been
through it before," he said confidently, "with as great
a swell as this.'
"It will be dangerous; better try the other."
"Nonsense! this is the best, I tell you."
William gave a hasty glance. For a moment he was
sobered, as he saw through every arch the strong waters
running, overflowing the piers, and chafing at the
abutments, swirling, rushing, tumbling, racing, surging,
swelling.-In truth, all seemed equally fearful and im-
possible.
Stay, Edward; let us go backit can't be done."
"What? and not see the birks of Aberfeldy? What
a coward you are, man! Pull hard. Here we go for
the middle arch."
William obeyed; he let the stronger will lead.
Ike sat at the end of the boat, with a pale face, but
an unfearing heart. Boys are not often timorousand
his nerves were of iron. And then he was with his
young master, who was so strong, so clever, so knowing
The waters were stubborn and noisy, but
in imagination he had already passed through the
arches, and this afternoon's strain and turmoil was but
another tale to tell to the listening "stay at homes,"
who would applaud his quiet courage.
A mighty strong pull with all their strength; with
close-shut teeth and lips; swollen veins on forehead
and arm, and perspiration starting from every pore.
Ike held his breath. The oars were rapidly lifted for
another pull, and already these touched the water, when
the boat turned rapidly, struck the abutment, and
received a blow that threw the boy out, and nearly
an oarsinan.
   
THE CHAMPAGNE BREAKFAST.

upset the rowers. All was confusion in a moment-
the current carried the boat back; the cousins grasped
their oars tightly, but their eyes sought the boy. He
rose close to them, and seized the oar held by William.
"Let me save him!" cried Edward, and leaned over the
boat-side to lift him in, in spite of William's entreaties
to sit still. The boat overbalanced, and they were all
in the water, and the two young men thoroughly
sobered in a moment.
Helplessly the overturned boat was tossed about, and
drifted down with the current as a half-submerged cork,
scarcely noticeable, to be caught perhaps in some bend
of the river, miles away; and still more the playthings
of the mad waters, the oars floated madly seawards.
The living prey of the river did not yield to their fate
so passively. With eyes straining towards the shore,
and arms and feet thrown with the impulse of self-
preservation into the attitude of the swimmer, the
cousins battled long with the cold, heavy, mercilessly
powerful water. But the boy had in his lifetime laid
aside more hose than waves; he could not swim, and
his efforts had no experience or judgment to second
themhe fought and paddled in the water like some
frightened animal, and sank repeatedly. Before he
sank the last time, he passed close by William, and
with a never-to-be-forgotten look, shrieked to him to
save him; but William let the lad pass by, his own life
was in jeopardy, and turning his eyes from him, scanned
the shore with an anxious, terribly anxious look, to see
if help were coming, for as yet the land seemed far
away from him, almost as far as ever, in spite of his
exertions. His clothes were heavy, thoroughly satu-
   

.
rated, and impeded his movements; he was getting
exhausted; his efforts relaxed; the river, the sky, the
shore mingled, became one vast blue; the sound of
rushing water filled his ears, he uttered a wild cry, and
sank beneath the foaming waters.
Bowlby heard the cry in his cabinthrew down his
pipe, overturned his chair, and ran down the steps to
look out. No boat was in sight above or below the
bridge; but a long way down the river, was that small
black speck a human head? It must have been, though
now it was invisible; and that was a living hand that
his practised eye discerned, raised a moment above the
tumbling stream; and that was, good God! the over-
turned boat, drifting towards the sedges.
He understood it all in a momentunlocked a boat,
took the oars in hand, and was quickly flying over the
water to the rescue. He had no need to row, he had but
to guide the boat; the current bore him very swiftly
downwards, and he kept a sharp look-out as he pro-
ceeded for a sight of any of the unhappy party, though
long, as it seemed to him, he looked in vain. But what
does he at last see? A good way further down a head
again rises above the waves, and at the same moment a
tall figure, hidden by the trees till now, bounded from
the shore and plunged in. The stranger swam boldly
out, and with powerful arms made way across the stream,
reached the still visible head, and seized the rapidly
sinking body, held it up bravely with one arm, and
slowly bore it to the side. Bowlby gladly and swiftly
turned his boat to the help of the brave man; but he
shouted, "There is another lower down," and again the
boat swept on with the current. No second head
   
DEATH AND HIS DOINGS.

emerged, however; and the boatman's keen eyes gazed
in vain. "It is of no use," he murmured; "they are
at the bottom, sure enough, by this time, if they haven't
got to shore!"
CHAPTER VII.
DEATH AND HIS DOINGS.
DEATH has many costumes-quiet and sombre, often
sad and repulsive, almost always solemn, and but rarely
gay. Gaiety and death seem so opposite that we should
think them impossible to be joined did we not know
that all extremes are to be found in our little earth,
since man, the microcosm, is there. From the deepest,
blackest shadow to the palest ash-grayto the thinnest,
tenderest, etherous white, death's garments are of
various tints and colours; and the whole rainbow is
exhausted in them, though the graver, colder tints pre-
dominate. Infinitely varied as are his costumes and
their colours, so are his exits and his entrances; and in
no two homes does he
appear
the same.
Invisible and soundless he draws near to some. His
tread is soft and gliding, his shoes are of velvet, his
drapery has no rustle. He enters the house, mounts
the stairs; none hear or see sound or form as he slides
past, through passage or corridor, to the chamber of
the doomed one. Not till perhaps the last moment is
he revealed. Not till the last sigh is ready to be
drawn do we perceive the attendant shadow, thin and
pale, and own the sad vision.
   

.
With a grave smile he puts his hand upon the pen-
dulum of the heart, and arrests its feverish motion;
breathes upon the brain, dulling both sense and feeling
till they are lost in the stupor and catalepsy of the
grave; and, breaking gently the case that has for a
longer or shorter time shut in the mystery, lets out
the imprisoned soul. When, in our agony, we turn to
chide the destroyer, he is gone-he is no longer there.
Or if we see him, he has the face of an angel, and we
chide no more.
In other homes he has long been seen and recog-
nized. He has visited at morning, noon, and night;
appeared to the dull eyes of the waking sick; hovered
near their pillows as they sank to sleep; sung to them
lugubrious or blessed lullabies; shown them pictures
from his wonderful primer, that has the alphabet of
the next world within its pages; talked to them of
unutterable things. And this he has done for weeks,
and months, and years, till his step is no longer feared,
his form has lost its harshness, his face its gloom; he
is one of the household, necessary, almost unregarded.
When his last visit is paid, his office performed, his
mystery revealed, there are tears, or sighs, or sad looks;
but the long-expected blow has lost half its power.
The cutting through of bone, and muscle, and tendon,
has been done long ago; all the blood has been shed;
the wound has grown over; there is but a thin coating
of the cuticle to sever. It is cut, and is scarcely felt;
and we ask, Is this death, this gentle parting?
But quite otherwise is it in other homes. Here,
when he comes, his aspect and manner are terrible. His
clothing is of the storm, dark and double dark; his walk
   
DEATH AND HIS DOINGS.

of the whirlwind, his motions harsh and rude. He rings
and shakes at both bell and knocker; and while the
alarum sounds and vibrates, he marches on with the
tread of thunder. Perhaps he has already done his chief
work,, and comes but to terrify the living. Undis-
guised, no feature softened, no bone draped, no terrible
grimace absent, he looks into boudoir, and drawing-
room, and library, and chamber, and makes himself
known roughly and without introduction for what he
is. And then before him are stretched stricken forms,
anguished blood-weeping hearts; and he beholds wrung
hands, tearless eyes, hysterics, and delirium, or the
silent despair of those who, alas! see only
"An ever-breaking shore,
That 'tumbles' in the godless deep."
Yet even here a consolation may become apparent-a
great and lasting one to those who truly love. This
harsh appearance of that which we call sudden death
is most frequently more frightful to the survivors than
to the victims. To these last the short pang, the sharp
mortal agony, unstaying, irresistible, can be but for a
few moments; and we have yet to learn that the pain
of dying is even so great as it appears. To how many
souls has the lightning-stroke of sudden death been the
chariot of Elijah-built of fire, but mounting to heaven!
to how many, the quick shutting of the mortal book,
in which were inscribed only tear-stained words, best
to be closed! to how many the soft, glad voice of an
angel telling of the immortality that has so long been
thought upon with the trembling heart of Much-afraid!
But the survivorsthose who had built their hopes
upon the future of the beloved one; those who loved
   

.
with the passionate fondness of individual love; those
who, consciously or unconsciously, had let the dear ones
grow too near the heart-stringsto these the sudden
wrench is fearful; the heart seems torn out with the
removed object, and lies bleeding and cooling with it
on the earth. What can be said to these?
A dark shadow had fallen upon Swansford. When
first the news came of Edward's death, it seemed too
terrible to be true; and a dumb, stubborn unbelief at
once rose up, refusing to accept such a catastrophe.
"He may yet be saved, as is his cousin William; possibly
some other friendly arm interposed for his life, and
drew him to land, and we shall hear of it before
long." This was their hidden thought. And this
unbelief held sway till early the next morning, when
his body was found some miles below the bridge,
caught in the roots of an old willow. The mayor
covered his face with his hands when he recognized
the pale, rigid facewith its open, eager eyes seeming
still to strain in death for a sight of the longed-for,
unattainable shore-as the face of his son. He covered
his face with his hands and wept, and all the spectators
in the inn-room kept silence, reverencing and pitying
a father's tears. "My boy! my Edward !" were the
words that alone burst from his agonized bosom; and
as he did not soon regain self-command and calmness,
he was gently led away, and persuaded to leave the
body to the care of other friends
Can we speak of the mourning of the sisters in the
darkened home? Their abundance of tears, till no
more tears would rise; their low voices; their pale,
haggard faces; their slow steps? Better to leave all
   
DEATH AND HIS DOINGS.

these to be imagined. Of the mother we must speak
presently. Death had visited this house with his
fiercest step, and the rooms yet trembled echoing his
tread. The inquest disclosed little more than we have
related. The friendly stranger who had saved William's
life at the risk of his own was said to be a Mr. Broad-
bent, residing at St. Wilfrid's, who happened to be
passing at the time. The boy Ike was yet unfound;
and for some weary nights living people lay awake in
the long dark hours, seeing with shuddering distinct-
ness a large-eyed, large-headed boy, with fair hair,
half-buried in sand, and mud, and weeds, with many
feet of heavy rolling waters above him, or carried
slowly, head foremost, by the current, to a burial in
the wide German Ocean.
But the body was spared that fate. In a week it
too was discovered, and buried in the churchyard of
St. Mary's, one mourner only following-a young girl
dressed in rather forlorn black, whose large blue eyes
bore a certain resemblance to those of him she had
lately called brother. Stephen Morris visited the
mayor's family the day after their bereavement. He
went to endeavour to comfort, in the only possible way
left, by speaking of the great Comforter. He prayed
with them; he read to them words of Scripture best
suited, as he thought, to their state of mind; he incul-
cated submission to the will of God.
But Mrs. Gresham was in an excited state; the numb-
ness that first follows a heavy blow was gone, and the
smart was excessive; she refused to be comforted. A
mother's heart clings, we are told, most to a son; and
hers had loved with increasing fervour all these years-
   

.
one who loved deeply in return, one who was the pride
of her eyes, the joy of her soul. She quarrelled with
his death in all aspectsits modeits time of occur-
rence-its cause.
"It is God's will," solemnly and tenderly repeated
the minister.
God's will to take him now, in his thoughtlessness,
and on that day of all others! No, never! God could
not will that! And you will tell me," she said, looking
almost fiercely round, she who usually was so timid and
gentle, "you will tell me next that it was His will he
should drink that wine till he did not know what he
did. But I will not believe it. I will not be resigned!
I cannot be resigned! Oh, my Edward! my Edward!"
"My dear," said the mayor, who had gained an out-
ward appearance of calm, and whose pale face and
sunken cheek turned towards hers, with an unusual
meekness, "these are wild words. Calm yourself;
remember, you are not the first mother who has lost a
God is good and kind even now."
Her red tearless eyes looked upon him with scorn.
She was so changed from her old self that he feared her
as he gazed upon her. "She is deranged," he said in a
low voice, while his lips blanched.
"If I remember right, sir, it was you that taught
him to drink wine; was it not? Look at your work!"
She pointed towards the next room, where lay the
dead body, and then fell into convulsions.
And on this scene Stephen Morris thought sadly as
he returned home.
For a time no doubt Mrs. Gresham had been deranged,
and had used words such as in her normal state could
son.
   
DEATH AND HIS DOINGS.

never have passed her mouth; words of bitterness, and
rebellion, and upbraiding; they were the ravings of an
almost broken-hearted mother; but they pursued him
like a nightmare.
On his next visit, a few days afterwards, she was
quiet and subdued, and had no relapse of what was
called her delirium. If his words of consolation did
not reach her wounded heart with healing power, at
least she did not oppose or refuse them, and her tears
had their way without hindrance, mingling with those
of her daughters.
A new vault was made for the only son of the mayor,
in the churchyard at Swansforda quieter and less
crowded churchyard than those of the town. The
finest flannel, and oak, and broadcloth, were laid round
his remains; a silver-mounted plate recorded his name
and age, and the year of his death; and he was lowered
into the dark brick dwelling prepared for him with
holy words, and prayers, and tears, in the presence of a
multitude of people, attracted to the funeral by his sad
death, and his father's position.
In a fortnight people ceased to talk about him, and
in a few months even the terrible wounds in the
parents' hearts that his untimely death had made, were
slowly cicatrizing.
Cousin Emmy (Mrs. Grayson) shed many tears over
Edward's fate. She had loved him much in a cousinly
way; she deplored his "want of self-command about
the champagne that morning;" she called him "poor
dear Edward," and kept a miniature of him in a drawer
that she sometimes affectionately sighed over; and a
little of his hair in a rich gold mourning-ring adornea
   

BY TIIE TRENT.
her finger for a twelvemonth; but at all convenient or
"proper" occasions the wine was on her table, for her
guests or herself, to try their self-command over; and
she did not cease to order champagne whenever Mr.
Grayson would allow it.
CHAPTER VIII.
COMUS.
SPRING went by, and summer came. May had left her
moist buds for June to open, with warm electric fingers.
The river had long forgotten its time of flood, and
where sand and gravel, and mud, and wreck of weeds,
had lain on its banks, now grew herbs and
grasses, and
beds of flowering rushes, tall and grand. With low
midsummer current the stream fled along, singing and
rippling over the stones of the shallows, that it had
rounded and polished industriously in the winter, and
the willows and alders drooped their full-leaved faces
admiringly over its clear mirror. The blue of the
forget-me-not, mingled with the gold of the trailing
money-wort and the green sedges by the shore, and
the rich crimson of the spired loose-strife shone above
tufts of foamy meadow-sweet.
The brother and sister at St. Wilfrid's still enjoyed
the freshness and charm of their by-river life-and a
great peace was with them. Mary Plowden painted
early and late, views of the river, and the river-islands,
and was quite happy. James Miller, in the widow's
   
COMUS.

kitchen, made women's shoes, and enlivened her lonely
moments by his presence. He worked with tolerable
industry, and pleasant to relate, as yet, with tolerable
sobriety. He had only fallen once, and was so much
ashamed of his fall as to remain in-doors for a whole
week afterwards, lest he should see the grave rebuke
of John Broadbent's kindly eyes. His garden was not
quite a success; but who ever learnt gardening in a
day? It is true his prize pansies, of which he had now
at least twenty, did well; proper food, and air, and
water, were allowedand brilliant clothes were spun
for them by invisible fairies, worthy of a monarch.
But the general effect of the garden was not beautiful.
The walks were weedy and irregular, and worse still,
the beds were weedy, and badly raked and dugthe
whole appearance was weedy. James however tried,
and was every day getting more strength, and patience,
and knowledge about horticultural mattersand John
did all he could to encourage him in his efforts.-Old
Roberts and the baby basked in the sunshine every
fine day, for the baby had comfortable shoes, and the
potatoes were thriving; and many a cheerful greeting
passed between them and the strong gardener, who had
one morning before breakfast completed the digging of
the small plot of ground. Clara's school progressed;
the children sang with sweeter voices, and looked into
the world that was still so new and fresh to them, with
more and more of wonder, appreciation, and delight.
Stephen Morris paid frequent visits to his friends at
St. Wilfrid's during these two months. His close-
sitting student habits seemed leaving him, and he was
more willing to put aside the teaching of books for the
   

.
teaching of nature, and to get into a broader region of
thought through the wide ever-changing symbols of the
sky and outspread earth, with all their multitudes and
varieties of life. The "Fathers" for awhile were laid
aside for the contemplation of older manifestations of
God than theythe sun, and moon, and stars; and
modern divines slept peaceably on their shelves, while
their late companion and scholar wandered among
fields, and listened to the speech of birds and flowers.
His sermons did not lose by this change in his mental
diet, but rather gained in vigour, truth, and felicity of
speech and thought; and the silent communion he
frequently held with God among the more beautiful of
His works, nourished both the body and the soul.
As warm days came on, and "midsummer heats"
were frequent, the cool enchantment of the river grew
upon our friends. A boat was obtained, and John
many times rowed Clara upwards to the Grove, past
the long rank of elms, by the Grove, and the gray old
Hall half-hidden in its thick-boughed ancestral trees,
underneath the Brand, where the old Bel-fires were
lighted, and so on to the weir beyond. Then return-
ing, they would float gently down the stream, and
enjoy the mingled earth, and sky, and water-prospect,
singing sometimes as they proceeded an old-world chant,
or song of later days, in praise of summer and the
river; or lingering beside the "Poet's Island," a narrow
green pleasaunce, bounded by river-rooted trees, and
surrounded by alders, and willows, and osier-beds, they
talked of the poet to whom it owed its name, whose
memory still haunts the neighbourhood; and of other
poets who have here passed pleasant days, as their books
   
COMUS.

testify. Now and then, Mary Plowden would sail with
them to some favourite scene or other, with her paints
and brushesand they would deposit her where she
wished, and call again for her on their return; and
once or twice James Miller had tried the oars with
John, and helped them to boil their kettle in the woods.
Stephen Morris especially enjoyed these water-parties,
and whenever he neared the cottage, looked with some
solicitude towards the river to see if the boat were
lying close at hand by the shore-a signal that that
day there would be a sail. A book was always taken
on these excursions, selected alternately by John or
Clara, and Stephen also would produce one from his
pocket-Herbert, or Philip Quarles, or Jeremy Taylor,
or Sir Thomas Browne-to give theirs what he called
"due seasoning;" and the Poet's Island, or the wooded
flats beneath the cliff, being favourite resting-places,
were generally chosen for the readings. Stephen read
well, and his voice, at once deep and melodious, har-
monized with the soft liquid noises of the near river
and the rustling trees. His two friends, leaning each
by his or her tree, listened to him with thoughts near
or far away, as the subject or the sound of his voice led
them.
One evening they had been thus engaged; the boat
was moored among the alders, and the three friends
were seated upon the island. Stephen had brought with
him Milton, and had been reading Comus to quiet and
attentive hearers. With hat drawn over his brows,
and arms folded across his breast, John listened, his lips
curved to a half smile, and Clara near him, with her
head propped by one hand, looked dreamily upon the
K
   

.
river, her long curls lying, darkened by the contrast,
upon the whiteness of her neck. As the reader pro-
nounced the invocation to the goddess of the Severn-
"Sabrina fair,
Listen where thou art sitting;
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of lilies knitting,
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;
Listen for dear honour's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save;" 
he lifted his head towards his hearers, and his eyes
rested upon Clara a moment with an almost startled
expression, as, quite unconscious of his glance, she con-
tinued looking through green boughs upon the surface
of the restless water. The next moment he had with-
drawn his eyes, but his pulses beat more quickly, and
with deepened colour and richer voice he proceeded with
the poem-while for him Sabrina was turned into
Clara, and Clara into Sabrina, in strange confusion,
and new meanings found their way into the poet's
words not originally contemplated.
With the slightest perceptible tremble in the intona-
tion, Sabrina's song was concluding-
"O'er the cowslip's velvet head,
That bends not as I tread;
Gentle Swain, at thy request
I am here;"-
when John rose up with a half-troubled, half-comic
look. "If Sabrina were here, indeed, I would employ
her just now!-It is a shame to think of it, but I would
send her after my pocket-book. Do you remember my
pulling it out when we were sitting by the mullein a
   
COMUS.

mile higher up? I must have forgotten to take it up
when we came away, for I haven't it now."And as
he spoke he put his hands first into one pocket then
into another, and brought out various " belongings,"
but no pocket-book.
"There is no help for it; I must go at once! Don't
read any more till I return, for I wish to hear all."
And he untied the boat, swung himself into it, and was
gone before the others had thoroughly comprehended
the cause of his departure.
A silence fell upon Stephen and Clara for a few
moments, and their ears caught the gradually decreas-
ing sound of John's more and more distant oars, till
the river's song was again all that was audible. The
book was still in Stephen's hands, but as he was for-
bidden to read aloud at present, he laid it on the grass
beside him, and thought with a perplexing mixture of
joy and trepidation, "I am alone with her at last."
"It is very beautiful!" said Clara at last, thinking of
the poem.
Very. Of course you know it almost by heart;
but I thought this place so appropriate to it that I
could not resist the temptation of bringing it."
"It is years since I last looked into it, and it has
come upon me quite as a new delight. With what dif-
ferent ears we may hear a poem, or indeed any book;
-not half the beauty of Comus was understood by me
when I read it with Madame Schwartz at Heidelberg.
The mind seems to me like a cup at the potter's wheel,
that gradually rises as the lathe turns, and so is capable
of holding more and more; and perhaps for every turn
we may allow a year of life, but that varies. I have
   

.
had many turns since I read Comus,"this was said
with a smile,"and can now therefore hold much
more of its meaning."
" And may we not say also that the heart expands
with years?" asked Stephen with sudden fervour. "To
me it seems that it must be so; nay, I am conscious
that mine has done so." He paused a moment. "When
it was smaller than
now, it was full; and now the
is enlarged, it is again full. Clara," and his voice
trembled with emotion, "do you not understand me?
Seven years ago I asked you a question-a very im-
portant, vital one to meand you said, 'No.' Our
hearts have both grown since then, and mine overflows,
and I must ask you again-Can you love me?"
Clara was startled. She had not expected such
words, for she had long since ceased to think upon the
young minister as a lover. To her imagination the
lover had entirely been extinguished in the friend.
Deep hidden within her own breast had been the know-
ledge that he had ever spoken to her of love; the
very recollection of it seemed buried; and now it was
all painfully renewed and revived, and her heart
shrank with great sorrow from again inflicting pain.
Yet it must be done.
She rose from the grass with a look of surprise and
sorrow in her dark eyes, and said firmly and gently,
I have but the same answerthe 'No.' And believe
me, I am grieved at heart that I must again pain you!"
Quick tears sprang into her eyes as she uttered these
words; but she turned slowly away to hide them.
For a short time Stephen remained alone, inexpres-
sibly dejected. A very dear and beautiful dream bad
   
COMUS.

"For-
suddenly faded away. The river, and the woods, and
the green of the island, became sensibly darker. A
great cloud passed over his vision, the symbol of the
thick one that enveloped his heart in its damp, cold
folds.
Then he rose slowly and approached Clara.
give me," he exclaimed; "I have done wrong to trouble
you! I know I am not worthy of you, and I can only
promise never to so annoy you again. But let me be
your friend still, if it be possible. Let me know I am
forgiven!"
He put out his hand to clasp hers in token of amity
and forgiveness. She gave it him frankly. "It is
best so, believe me," she said; ' we will be friends."
The hands met and parted; but the warm midsummer
wind fell cold on Stephen's cheek as from an iceberg.
"How grave you both look," was John's smiling
remark, as he brought the boat to shore soon after-
wards. "Did
"Did you think I had vanished, and had left
you to wade ashore as you best could?"
Clara asked after his pocket-book.
"It was just where I thought, close to the mullein.
Very fortunate I remembered it in time! And now,
Morris, let us have the conclusion, if you please, of
Sabrina Fair."
He placed himself cheerfully and expectantly upon
the
green mound he had so lately left, and Clara and
the young minister seated themselves near him. Stephen,
with pale, serious face, finished the " Mask of Comus."
"We can never say there has been no grand poem
written upon temperance while this is before us," John
exclaimed enthusiastically. "I honour you, Morris,
   

.
for selecting it. You must in some way have come
round to the right way of thinking. Confess; you are
become a teetotaller!"
"I cannot claim that title at present," said Stephen.
"You will do some day, I trust. But have you
marked throughout the poem how finely is handled the
subject of total abstinence, and not of temperance
merely? Milton had thought deeply and truly on the
matter. How he speaks of the pleasing poison,' as
Comus's
Orient liquor in a crystal glass,
To quench the drought of Phbus, which as they taste
(For most do taste through fond intemperate thirst),
Soon as the potion works, their human countenance,
The express resemblance of the gods, is changed
Into some brutish form of wolf, or bear,
Or ounce, or tiger, hog, or bearded goat-
All other parts remaining as they were;
And they, so perfect is their misery,
Not once perceive their foul disfigurement,
But boast themselves more comely than before.'
"Believe me, there are many like Comus now-a-days,
sons of Bacchus and Circe, whom we meet in the wild
wood of this world, who attract, and delude, and
ensnare their victims by that 'orient liquor in a crystal
glass.' And when these have partaken, how truly does
it change them internally into brutish form of wolf,
or bear, or ounce, or tiger, hog, or bearded goat!'
"The crisis of the poem hangs upon the lady tast-
ing only once the 'orient liquor.' She refuses; she is a
true teetotaller, unpoetical as the word sounds (when
shall we get a better?), and she preserves her purity
and human shape. Her release is effected by the river
goddess, Sabrina. Pure, fresh, water dissolves the spell.
   
COMUS.

*
*
*
*
*
"Thus I sprinkle on thy breast,
Drops that from
my fountain
pure,
I have kept of precious cure.'
"Did you note Comus's argument, too? How like it
is to a very usual one now:-
"Wherefore did nature pour her bounties forth,
With such a full and unwithdrawing hand-
But all to please, and sate the curious taste ?'
" And again
"If all the world
Should in a pet of temperance feed on pulse,
Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze,
The All-giver would be unthanked, would be unpraised,
Not half his riches known.'-
"A very specious argument, but, after all, a very low
one, that regards only the employment of the bodily
senses, and of taste especially, as a means of praise to
the All-giver, and disregards that which truly completes
the man, the intellect and the soul. We must take of
all that God sends, says this sensuous argument, in the
way of food and drink (though the drink here meant is
intoxicating, and does not come from God's brew-house,
but man's), even to repletion, so that God's gifts be not
despised and he not unthanked. How, then, about his
other gifts, his higher onesthose belonging to the
mind and soul?
When the wine is in, the wit is out,' is so true a
saying that nobody contradicts it. And with intoxica-
tion comes demoralization. When the body is surfeited,
the soul is starved.
""That which is not good, is not delicious
To a well-governed and wise appetite,'
   

.
said the lady; and her appetite refused to taste the
drink of enchantment."
John paused, and Stephen could not forbear an an-
swer.
"I expected something of this speech," he said, "as
I was reading. And I could go with you entirely, i
you would put the word temperance, instead of total
abstinence. To enjoy the gifts of God to the body
temperately, does not hinder our enjoyment of his gifts
to the soul, but the contrary. A wise appetite would
not take too much."
"I am speaking now," said John, "of Milton's view
of the case.
The lady's wise appetite, as I said before,
did not wish for that which was not good: she would
not taste at all."
"Because in her case the cup held enchanted liquor."
* Precisely. And that is why I will not taste at all!
With Milton I see that intoxicating drink is deeply
enchanted. You may not see it, but to me it is appar-
ent that every man and woman who habitually drinks,
even what is called temperately, loses so much soul; and
the divine image is surely, however slowly, imbruted."
" You exaggerate for the sake of your argument,
which is not fair."
"I think not. To me it seems as I say.But,is
that the moon between the trees? It is time we set
sail, or we shall have the evening mists about us; and
they are like cold-hearted friends, sometimes dan-
gerous, and always depressing and chilling. Now
Clara, like the goddess of the Severn, you may say.-
"By the rushy-fringed bank,
Where grows the willow and the osier dank,
My sliding chariot stays!'
   
COMUS.

green about it.
"It is true it has no agate, or turkis blue, or emerald
about it. It is but a poor brown thing; but it
will take you safely home, I hope."
The boat glided eastwards, obedient to John's oars.
The sun was setting, and threw up, on broad-spread
clouds towards the zenith, golden lights. Over the now
silent party these clouds hovered with wide orange-
tinted wings, deepening into pale red. A clear, trans-
parent sea of gold lay at the horizon, and from this
sea rose up small rocky clouds of pale gray and purple
-clouds which grew slowly till they were topped
with castles and towers, from one of which floated a
banner, distinct and sharp against the paler atmosphere.
These mounting towers seemed to overlook silently a
silent dream-world. Clara gazed at them long with
her deep earnest eyes, and watched them as they
changed or renewed, while glowed or faded the en-
vironing sea; and noted how the dark skyward trees
of the distant Grove stood looking over the verge of
the horizon, awe-struck, like mortals to whom is opened
a strange spiritual world.
In the river the reflection of all this variety of colour
and form appeared in waving, moving bands of gold,
and crimson, and purple. The whole sky scene, a
thousand times repeated, flowed and mingled with the
flowing ripples in lovely, formless confusiona palette
of mingled colours, a prism in motion-and carried the
glory and beauty to the feet of our voyagers. At each
stroke, John dipped his oars into a rainbow. Laugh-
ingly he tossed some drops of the painted water upon
Clara
" It is a present," he said, " from the goddess of the
   

BY THE TREXT.
Trent. She no doubt heard my lament about the ab-
sence of precious gems in your boat. And she sends
you rubies and pearls, emeralds, and diamonds, and
gold, that you may know she is no less rich than
Sabrina. Do you not see how she has sown your path
with jewels?"
Clara smiled. "I have been looking at her trea-
sures some time. But she is a thief: she has taken
them from the sky."
"Taken or accepted, which? For my part, I will
believe no evil of my river. The sky has poured them
upon her, has made her rich, and she gives you gener-
ously some of her wealth. Why don't you thank her
with a song?"
But Clara could not sing while Stephen's serious face
was beside her; which was, however, no longer pale.
The jewels of the Trent glittered among his hair,
and
reflected themselves in his cheeks. Like the rest of the
party he was tinted with rose and amethyst.
CHAPTER IX.
THE BLIND FATHER.
of
"VERONICA, put on your bonnet. We will take a walk.'
"Yes, father." And the speaker, a young girl about
thirteen years age, rose from a low chair near the
window, where she had been mending lace. The lace
was black, and the light had been rapidly decreasing;
and as she lifted her large blue eyes from the work,

   
THE BLIND FATHER.

they looked weary and dim. Her face was pale and
thin, and her light unbrushed hair hung in some con-
fusion about her cheeks. She had been working dili-
gently for hours, anxious to finish her piece of net;
but there was still a good breadth to be done; and she
remembered with a sigh that it must be finished by
candle-light-a trying light for black work. Taking
her shawl from a peg, she pinned it quickly on; and
pushing her rough locks behind her ears, slipped over
them a worn black bonnet, tied it securely, gave a
doubtful glance at her slippers that were wearing down
at the sides, put into her father's right hand an old
white hat, with a band of crape round it; and taking
hold of his left, led him to the door.
Led him; for he was blind, though the fact could
scarcely have been guessed by the appearance of his
eyes. A stranger would have supposed them to be good
as his own, since their clearness and lustre were scarcely,
if at all, diminished. Still large, and of a deep gray,
they were but little dimmed by years. The world was
in them mirrored as distinctly as ever; but the picture
on the retina no longer reached the shut-up, darkened
brain; the optic nerves were paralyzed; the wires of
the visual telegraph were useless.
We have heard it said that the blind are habitually
serene, and that their privation is less productive of
unhappiness than that of total deafness. But we have
seen some very sorrowful blind faces, and the loss of
sight seems to be an immeasurably greater privation
than that of hearing. Mark Lee's face was one of these
sorrowful ones. As he stood, while waiting for his
daughter's hand, pale and somewhat sallow-faced from
   

.
long confinement within doors, with that slightly one-
sided bearing of the head peculiar to the blind, pro-
duced half from a feeling of uncertainty, and half from
the habit of listening attentively to what is passing
around, he seemed to be about fifty-five or six years
old, though he might be, and probably was, younger,
for it was not difficult to see that grief and illness
had marred and withered whatever might have been
left of manly freshness, or comparative youth of out-
line. A dejection that was seldom absent was apparent
in his air, his motions, his spiritless walk, and in the
melancholy sound of his voice.
He clasped his daughter's hand with limp, cold
touch. "It must be sunset," he said as if to himself.
"It is time to be gone."
"We are going, father! Mind the steThere, now
we are on the landing, and now the stone steps begin,
twelve of them, remember. And now, we have reached
the bottom."
It was not by any means necessary for Veronica to
tell her father all these particulars, he knew these steps
well; they were his only means of reaching the street.
The six-roomed house under whose roof he dwelt had
been divided into three habitations, two of which were
reached by this open-air staircase, and he could have
found his way down it, and across the boulder-paved
yard at its foot without a guide, but Veronica was
proud of her office of leader, and he liked to feel her
warm fingers in his. The street in which they lived,
though in the heart of Trentham, was a quiet one,
having no thoroughfare. The chancel window of the
ancient church of St. Mary's overlooked it, however, and
   
TIIE BLIND FATHER.

the music of its bells occasionally filled it with pleasant
sounds. On reaching the street, Veronica did not hesi-
tate, but at once turned towards the churchyard.
Every day for the last month her father had visited it;
he was restless till he had been, and he was often
more restless on his return, but he said it did him good
to see it, and she had no wish to prevent him: in her
eyes the walk was the very best that could be taken. .
Here was her brother Ike's grave, and here was a
green open space. To her it looked green, though in
truth there were more grave-stones than grassfor
she seldom had the opportunity of seeing open
fields
and gardens.
ns. Houses and pavements, and the ding
brownness of her home, black and white lace, and her
father's pale cheeks, with occasional peeps at a dim
sky, supplied the sober tints that most frequently met
her eyes--a very meagre palette did destiny lay out
for her.
So to her the greenness of the churchyard, thin as it
was, was refreshing, and the graves charming, with their
variety of upright, and leaning, and flat, carved and
plain, small and massive stones, with here one grown
up wonderfully since yesterday, like a new fungus, the
growth of a night, and there one removed, to make way
for the sexton's spade and another sleeper. She had
wandered in this churchyard more years than she
could remember, and every corner of it was familiar.
It was her play-ground, her arboretum, her gymnasium,
her promenade, her school-roomto spell out the
epitaphs had been an old delight and it was also her
garden. A wandering daisy, a tuft of green moss, a
spike of flowering grass, a circle of plantain leaves, and,
   

.
greatest treasure of all, a bunch of crimson yarrow,
were plants to be cared for and protected, wonderful
apparitions, pearls of price. It was not always she
could obtain admittance, but this only made the enjoy-
ment the more when with the grave-digger she entered
its inclosure. He was good-natured, and did not
frighten away the large-eyed little girl who was so
quiet in his presence, and whose reverence for him
was so great. For he was the lord of this soil, the
planter of this delightful garden, and his spade revealed
sometimes strange antiquities. She did not quite like
to touch them, but those curious necklace-bones, that
might be threaded at oncethe long bones of the arm
or thigh-and, most interesting and awful of all, the
round eyeless skull, with its naked teeth, were irresist-
ibly attractive to look at. The last year or two she
had not had so much play-time here, for she had had
to work, to earn money, to mend lace, it was true;
but the place was as dear as ever. A great sorrow bad
been laid in it, within the last two months her brother
had been buried hereher only brother. She had
seen him placed below its soil, had wept many tears
over the grave, but nowthe first rush of grief passed,
this grave was but an additional attraction, sorrowful,
but not painful. And, too, there seemed so little con-
nection between that mound of coming grass, and the
bright cheerful brother Isaac who had walked out with
her on Sundays, and read to her at nights from Robin-
son Crusoe and Paul and Virginia, and had kissed her
each morning when he went away to work, that she
had almost ceased to mourn for him there. That he
should lie beneath all that heap of light-brown loam
   
THE BLIND FATHER.

was, after all, an unrealizable fact, too strange to be
believed even now, except at intervals.
The iron gates were reached, and the two, with slow
steps, walked for a little distance up the flagged pathway,
and then crossed the grass, over half-a-dozen mounds,
and by a dozen or two more, till they came to the grave.
Mark let fall his daughter's hand, and stood quite still,
as was his wont, when he reached this place. Veronica
seated herself upon the grave, and looked up at her
father. She had never known him other than blind;
but it had for several days been a wonder to her, why,
when he came here, he should so steadfastly fix his
eyes upon one point in the sky. Now and then a tear
would roll down his cheeks, and fall on her hand, or be
lost in the grass--but he never moved his head from its
first position, unless she spoke to him, which she was
careful not to do. His eyes to-night looked so bright,
reflecting the warm tints in the western sky, that she
felt almost sure he must see something, and what was
it that he saw? Why did he always appear to be
looking at that patch of sky between the two tall
chimneys?
Veronica turned her head that she might see this
patch of sky better. There was a crimson flush across
it, and floating above, in the palest green sky con-
ceivable, was a small rose-coloured cloud hovering, with
delicatest purple edges. It was a very beautiful cloud
- not only for its colour, but for its form, resembling
a dove with outspread wings. But she decided that
it was most like one of the stone cherubim, carved
on a very old grave-stone near the gate. She was
not childish enough to think it had flown from
   

.
this stone, as she might have done seven or eight
years ago; but she watched it so long and so intently
that her strained sight at length gave it motionthe
wings trembled, if they did not flutter, and the head
stirred very gently. No doubt some rising vapour, or
thin smoke-cloud, between her eyes and it, helped the
delusion, but this she did not stay to consider: The
lovely rose-tinted cherub, for a moment or two, was in
her imagination a real living creature, flying alone in
the wide, pale heavens. But like other creatures of the
imagination, it was thin, and without stability, and
while she looked it broke, and changed, and fell away
piecemealone wing drooped-partedsailed off; the
other vanished feather by feather, while the round
perfectly formed angel-head became a shapeless blur,
that also broke up into nothing. It was a grievous
disappointment, and the young girl uttered a deep
sigh.
"What is the matter, Veronica?" asked her father,
suddenly lowering his head towards her. His quick
hearing was sensitive to the slightest differences of
sound, and the sigh he heard was a peculiar one.
"I thought it was a cherubim," said Veronica, simply
and sorrowfully, "and it was only a cloud."
He listened intently a moment, as if to catch all the
meaning of her words. Then a shudder passed through
him, and with an indescribably mournful voice he
exclaimed"Ah yes; it was only a cloud, only a
cloud!" He was still a momentthen he said abruptly,
" Let us go."
The summons to go came much earlier than usual,
and the young girl was puzzled. "Why was he tired so
   
THE BLIND FATHER.

soon? And had be really seen the cloud? But what
else could he mean?"
More silently than usual she led bim home. His
step was even more spiritless than before. Veronica
unlocked the door, and he entered the room with a
heavy sigh. She led him to his great arm-chair; he
sank into it, and the deepest dejection was expressed
on his face.
Tea was prepared at once. It was well to employ
the last half-hour of twilight in this meal, and thus
save the expense of burning a candle, and Veronica
saw that her father needed refreshment. Since that
sad day on which Ike was drowned, he had had a
month's illness, and was still very weak, and easily
exhausted. With the quick hands of love, tea-cups and
saucers were soon set upon the tray, tea made from the
kettle that had been singing by the hob, bread and
butter cut, and sugar and milk brought from a closet
by the door, and the table placed close to her father's
chair.
Now, father dear, all is ready. You look so tired,
but tea will do you good."
A cupful was poured out, and set before him. He
took it with a trembling hand. "You are a good
child," he said, but in a mournful depressed tone that
made her feel more sorrowful than glad. And then the
meal was taken almost in unbroken silence. Once she
spoke to him, but he answered absently; his thoughts
were so far away, she did not like to call them back.
After tea he folded his hands upon his knees, and
seemed to gaze upon the ground, the firelight playing
about his thin hair, and among the many wrinkles on
   

.
his high forehead. In a while, Veronica lit the candle,
and seated herself by the table to her work. Generally,
he liked her to talk after tea; the sound of her voice
broke the loneliness of his dark life. So she began her
talk with a question, her mind still dwelling on the
illusive cloudlet.
"Did you really see the cloud, father?" '
"What do you mean? What cloud, child ?"
"The cloud above the chimneys, over the church-
yard, that I thought looked like a cherubim."
"I saw nothing, not even your face. Why do you ask?"
"But you said you did, at least I thought so! I
said I thought the cloud had been an angel, and you
said 'so did you,' or something of that sort."
" You did not understand me. I have not seen one
of your clouds for ten years or more, though I have
seen many
of
my own.
Very dark, heavy clouds, too,
and he sighed.
'You mean inside clouds.
Oh yes; I understand
now! But how could you mistake one of your inside
clouds for an angel?"
Very easily. Though I can't make you quite
understand it now. You will be doing it yourself
some day, perhaps; and then you will know, with me, ,
that there are no angels, no real angels; but in their
stead cold, wet clouds."
Veronica's blue eyes opened widely. She gazed
upon her father with an eager expression; her soul
seemed struggling to find suitable words with which to
reply to him; but she shook her head the moment-
after, as if she felt the impossibility of being able to
do so.
   
THE BLIND FATHER.

Her father did not seem inclined to let the subject
droHe sat upright in his chair. "So it was a very
beautiful cloud you saw?"
"Very. With rose-coloured wings and a smiling face,
and once I really did think I saw the wings moving!"
"Very likely! You should have imagined a little
further, and it would no doubt have come flying
towards you. Nay, it might even have placed itself
beside you."
The young girl gave her piece of lace a slight twitch
of impatience; she did not like her father to be sar-
castic.
"I am not quite so foolish as that, father. You
might think I was  baby yet;" and her lips took a
decided pout.
"Not so; I know you for a very wise little woman.
But in truth, Veronica, it would not have been wonder-
ful at all if you, a young girl of thirteen, had been so
deceived, since your blind old father has been so often
the same.
A year ago there was something very like
one of your cherubim in this house, and I believed I
saw a real living angel. Well, only two months ago
the angel lost its rose-colour and its wings, and changed
to a cloud, a nothing."His voice faltered, and he could
say no more.
Veronica rose and put her arms round his neck, "But
you have me, dear father! You love me a little, don't
you? I am no cloud!"
He allowed her to embrace him passively. Even
her tenderness could not at this moment cheer him.
"You will be in a while, or I shall be, which is the
same thing," he said bitterly.
   

.
"Never!" was Veronica's reply, standing up, while a
strange brightness lit up her eyes. "God did not make
me a cloud. O! father, I wish you could feel as I do."
"And have all the disappointment to encounter again?
No, my child; I would rather know myself to be what
I am, a little piece of thin chilly vapour, that will soon
be dissolved into the nothing from which it came."
"And I will never believe myself that!" exclaimed
the girl, shutting her lips close, with a look of deter-
mination.
The father laughed an inward mocking laugh"And
you think, my poor child, that your will, will decide it?
But even you must bow to the great inevitable fate."
Veronica had contracted a hatred of the word fate;
for whenever her father used it, he became gloomy and
austere. She looked defiant therefore, and it was well
perhaps he could not see her.
A wind had arisen since sunset, and was blowing
wildly down the quiet street, roaring in the chimney,
and rattling the panes in the casement. To the girl it
sounded very mournful, and voices seemed borne on it
from the churchyard-voices that uttered sad words by
the window behind her. Her father listened to it also,
and presently he arose and began walking a few paces
backward and forward in the room, a customary habit
with him when restless. He called it his "hyna
walk."
The weird wailing of the wind at evening brings up
to sad hearts dead memories, and the dead themselves
rise, as to the sound of bells at midnight.To the blind
man's inner sight the graves opened, and the roaring of
the atmospheric billows called up many a buried grief.
   
THE BLIND FATHER.

Hastily and shudderingly he tasted again of the cup of
his past life, that had at first contained such sweet
liquor, but afterwards so much aloes and wormwood.
He had not been born to poverty, but had known by
experience in early life the advantages of a good edu-
cation, indulgent relatives, and a wealthy home. He
had possessed good talents, and had been praised, and
flattered, and sought after, as was to be expected. Too
early he had been left his own master, and like many
other human flowers, exposed to too much sun, had
withered early. Flattering friends and idle acquaint-
ance enticed him into evil company, where first he lost
a good part of his wealth, and afterwards his health,
by dissipation. At length, willing to begin a new life,
he married a rich woman, cold, and stern, and proud.
He expected a companion and a friend; he found a
critic and an enemy. Dissension arose between them
early; she was disappointed, and let him know it with
bitter words; and he, conscious of his faults, but proud
also, and unwilling to amend, retorted, and used the
power the law puts into the hands of every husband, to
revenge himself. Their home was soon a hell, where
disdain and bitterness and outrage were served up with
every meala perpetual dish of evil mixtures, unsav-
oury and poisonous. In a while they parted by mutual
consent, the separation being the only thing they had
mutually agreed to for a long time.
Then Mark Lee's old habits returned upon him with
double power-he drank and gambled in all ways and
at all seasons. He lost his remaining property, and
sickness overtook him in very humble lodgings, where
he had been compelled latterly through poverty to reside.
   

.
A young woman, poor and homely-looking, but rich in
patience, and love, and gentleness, nursed him, the daugh-
ter of the widow who let him his rooms. She knew
well his poverty, asking for and expecting no reward.
When he recovered they were already attached to each
other, and were soon after married. His first wife was
still alive and undivorced, but this he never told to the
mother of Isaac and Veronica. It was a secret of his
own, a guilty secret that clung to him, and persecuted
him more than the remembrance of all his former sins.
The children he had by Jessy Lee were very dear to
him, dear as the mother; but when Veronica was three
years old, Jessy sickened and died. The loss was sud-
den and unexpected; he was lightning-struck; he shed
no tears, uttered no complaints, but when he had seen
her laid in the grave, was carried home insensible, and
awoke from a dangerous illness,blind.
In the early days of his last marriage he had learned
to bind books, inferior ones, for he was too young iri
the art to get the skill requisite for the best work, but
it had brought him and his family a bare maintenance.
When, however, he could no longer see, his binding
craft was useless, or nearly so. By the aid of a kind
friend he now learned to make the finer kinds of bas-
kets, and this work, with the manufacture of fishing-
floats and flies, procured him his daily bread. With
great exertion he had managed to put Ike into a ware-
house, working often far into the night, that the boy
might be clothed well enough for his place. Ike was
growing up, was sixteen last birth-day, and was already
earning his own livelihood. Soon the father thought
be would be able to help his sister, for himself he
   
THE BLIND FATHER.

scarcely cared. But that fatal day upon the river had
destroyed all his hopes, and now all seemed dark again.
Yes, for more than five-and-twenty years he had had
a series of troubles.Would that wailing wind never
be still? It brought up recollections that harrowed his
heart. Why was it when he was beginning to feel
the blessedness of love, of living for anotherthat that
patient, loving face was taken from him? Why did
bis blindness come? And why did this last, and as it
seemed to him this greatest misery of all, fall upon
him, the loss of his only son? though, indeed, there was
another, a constant running sore, that could never be
healed.But he should go mad if he thought long upon
that.He must hide ithe must leave it. Wearily he
exclaimed, "I am fated to be unhappy; I must suffer;
I must endure as I can." And thus the wretched man
folded round him the thickest, wettest cloud that
adversity has to givethe most sorrowful companion
a man can take to his breast-an unbelief in good, in
God. He beheld himself alternately as the plaything
of chance, or the victim of an unbending, uncaring,
pitiless law.
Veronica heard his last words; they were spoken
louder than he was aware. She dimly comprehended
his trouble. This fatewhich he believed in so tena-
ciously, which his head acknowledged as lord of all,
and which his bleeding heart refused to harbour,
and so perpetually rose against in rebellionwas a
bugbear to her, chiefly because she saw it was a source
of disquiet to him. The word "fate was a trouble-
some visitor, whom it was her duty to drive away,
whom it was her instinct to push out. She could not
   

.
reason upon or understand it; but she rejected it utterly.
She had a strong will, and those blue eyes of hers
could flash with intense energy, and those small hands
could clench with sovereign determination when she
had to oppose. The milder plan, the persuasive, was,
however, more accordant with her nature. She did
not "stoop to conquer," since there is nothing lowering
in tenderness. Love is a more regal weapon than
force; and when she took it up she rejected the iron
for the gold, and ruled from the higher sphere; not
knowingly, for she was an undeveloped child, but
instinctively and from inmost nature.
So, when her voice took one of its sweetest tones,
and her hand let fall its work, and clasped that of her
father as he passed close by on his restless hyna walk,
she cheered as does the sun that shines and warms,
obedient to internal law.
"Father, we won't have fate; we will have love!
Let me love you!" And she kissed his hand and
stroked it tenderly.
This second appeal softened him. "My darling," he
murmured, laying his other hand affectionately on her
head. Then with a smile, the innocent smile of the
conqueror, she drew down his head to hers, and kissed
his lips.
He let her lead him to his chair after this; and when
he was seated, with a happier look and something like
a smile upon his face, he turned his eyes towards her,
and waited for her voice to sound again.
   
VERONICA'S ADVENTURES.

CHAPTER X.
VERONICA'S ADVENTURES.
A KNOCK at the door startled them both. Veronica
rose and admitted a young man, who asked to see
Mr. Lee. It was William Gresham. He had been
several times before on the same errand-an endeavour
to benefit in a pecuniary sense the father of the poor
boy Ike, whose death he felt in some degree answer-
able for
"Good evening, Mr. Lee; I hope you are better
to-night," was his greeting, in as kind a voice as he
could command.
" Thank you, Mr. Gresham," was Mark's reply.
"Won't you be seated, sir?"
William threw himself into a chair. He always felt
very awkward when he paid these fortnightly visits.
It was something of a "bore" to come, and yet his con-
science told him that he ought to come, and it was his
father's particular wish that he should do so also. The
"old blind fellow," as he called him, kept him at arm's
length and treated him with distant respect. A certain
aggrieved accent was perceptible in the sound of his
voice, and William felt conscious that he was no wel-
come visitor.
"I've come on the same errand as usual," was his
rather blunt beginning of a negotiation his father
intended and expected should be very delicately con-
ducted. "My father has sent you a present as a token
   
)
,
of his good-will and sympathy, and I hope you'll let
me leave it this time." And as he spoke, he laid upon
the table from his purse five sovereigns, which he took
good care to jingle a little ere he put them down.
Mark's face flushed, and his hand moved nervously
with a gesture of refusal, and as though he were push-
ing something away.
"I can't take it, Mr. William,
and so I've told you before. It seems to me like
blood-money! My poor boy was all I had." (Oh,
Veronica, had he then forgotten you?)"And you've
lost him for me, that's all. But no money can make
it goodnot all your father has in the world."
"I know that;I know that, my good man; and
sorry I am to know it. Haven't I told you so twenty
times? And you are quite mistaken in thinking this
little bit of gold is meant to pay you for his loss. It's
no such thing. It's only a little conscience-money my
father and I would like to give you to help you out of
your distress. You must be badly off enough here."
And William looked round at the dingy room, his eye
resting a moment upon Veronica, who sat busy again
with her lace. "And," he added, as he thought of
another plea, "your daughter needn't bore her eyes out
ver that black work any more, if you'd only be rea-
sonable and let us provide for youat all events for a
little time till something better turns up."
"Nothing better will ever turn up for me in this
world," replied Mark dejectedly; "but, if I go to the
workhouse, Mr. Gresham, I couldn't take a shilling of
your money. I've never received alms yet, though I've
been sore pressed; but if I ever must take them for
even that fate may be in store for me; who knows???
   
VERONICA'S ADVENTURES.

his voice here had a bitter tone"I can never receive
them from my son's murderer."
William rose up suddenly. "If those are your feel-
ings, it's of no use my staying any longer. And, sorry
as I am for you, let me tell you, Lee, that I think you
have used words for which you have no warrant.
Neither I or my father are murderers. Didn't I run
the same risk of losing my life as Ike did? And if it
hadn't been for the bravery and humanity of a stranger,
a man I shall ever respect and be grateful to, I shouldn't
have been here now to say bad or good words to you.
But your mind's soured, and you can't see things in
their true light."
Perhaps I see them in a truer light than you do,"
retorted Mark, the veins swelling on his forehead with
anger. "If you'd lost the boy in a common accident,
such as happens without any forethought of ours being
of avail, I shouldn't have blamed you, much as I should
have grieved at my own bereavement. But what
business had you young men to take a boat up the
river, and my son in it, when the flood was raging as
it did that day?--when it was almost certain death for
him to go? You could swim, you were full of strength
and ability; but he, poor lad, never swam a stroke in
his life! It was clear murder; as clear as ever murder
was."
"I assure you, Mr. Lee," replied William, in an
apologetic manner, we shouldn't have taken him, or
ourselves either, if we'd known what we were about.
We'd had a drop too much; everybody knows that,
and I thought you knew it."
"I do know it, Mr. Gresham, and to my mind it
   

.

makes no better of it. What business had
you
with a
drop too much? You were your own masters, I sup-
pose? Nobody poured it down your throat against
your will. But, however"and he sank back exhausted
in his chair"it's of no use talking to you in this way."
No, indeed; there you're right! And I don't think
you're such a simpleton as not to know that when good
wine comes in the way of a young man, he hasn't the
heart to measure how much he can carry away. You
were young yourself once, I'll be bound."
Mark was dumb. Yes, he had been young himself
in the way William meant, and bitter knowledge he
had gained from his wild youth. What could he say?
"So you really won't have the money?" asked
William, taking it up.
"No; I cannot take it."
Very well, then." And he replaced the gold in his
purse, dropping it in deliberately and with an indifferent
air. "I've done my duty in offering it to you; and I
intend never to trouble you again on the matter. I'm
very sorry, but so it seems it must be.
Good evening,
Lee;" and he went out.
When he was gone and his footsteps had died away
in the distance, Mark became calmer again. He called
Veronica to him. "Are you sorry I have sent the
money away, Veronica?"
"I wish you could have kept it," said Veronica,
truthfully.
"But I couldn't, dear! Don't regret it. That money
would only have choked us both with the bread it
brought. They buried the boy, and that was enough-
too much; but I couldn't help it then. To-morrow I




   
VERONICA'S ADVENTURES.

will work, and we will have money of our own earning
-not theirs."
Veronica sighed. Her father had said so many times,
" To-morrow I will work," and when the morrow came
he was unable as ever to do it. It was now a month
since he declared himself well from the illness that
came upon hiin at her brother's death; but a weakness
still remained both of mind and body, and his nerves
seemed unable to master the shock. Some osiers and
an unfinished basket lay in the corner, where they had
been for the last two months, the dust collecting about
them; and his trembling hands still wanted strength
to weave them into shape.
"And now, father, I must go with my work. I've
finished it; and Mrs. Bartlett said she must have it
home to-night, as she's got to take it to the warehouse
the first thing in the morning."
To-night? Must you go to-night?"
Yes, I must.But I shall soon be back.
very quick all the waythat is, if I can;" for she
remembered that the lace was bulky, and the night
windy. "And I might as well bring your beer back
I shall have the money, you know."
"Make haste, then; and never mind the beer to-
night."
"Oh, I'd better bring it! You know you never sleep
well if you don't have it, and it won't take me two
minutes longer."
The old bonnet and shawl were put on quickly; the
lace tied up in a square cloth; and giving her father a
kiss, Veronica set out on her travels. Mrs. Bartlett
lived some distance off. Half a dozen streets and the
I'll go
with me.
   

.
long market-place had to be traversed before her door
was in sight. But Veronica was used to the walk, and
did not generally mind it, even at night. Now, how-
ever, it was not a very pleasant journey. The wind
was abroad, and, besides persecuting her and her bundle
in a wholesale way along the streets, met her at every
corner and crossing with a fresh and riotous gust, and
made her pant, and strain, and stagger, and clutch her
lace with all her strength. She carried too much sail
for the relentless blusterer; and very hard did he try
to overturn her weak bark, but fortunately did not
quite succeed.
Out of breath, but victorious, she
ascended the steps at Mrs. Bartlett's green door; and
after a preliminary knock, entered the house. A busy
sight met her dazzled gaze. About twenty young
women and girls, seated in groups and in various atti-
tudes round three or four candles, were employed with
large bundles of black and white net; some "drawing "
or pulling out the threads that united in one large piece
many breadths of narrow lace for bordering and inser-
tion, and some mending holes and imperfections that
might have been left by the machine, in other large
bundles of lace. Mrs. Bartlett, a dark-complexioned,
pock-marked woman of about fifty, in a black-lace cap,
black gown, and almost universally black dress in other
respects, sat in the midst, superintending and "drawing"
also. She was Veronica's mistress, who had taught
her the mystery of lace-mending; and allowed her, as a
great favour, and in consideration of her blind father,
to take her work home, instead of doing it at her house
with the rest. She was a sort of middlewoman, em-
ploying a number of apprentices or hands, and paying
   
VERONICA'S ADVENTURES.

them at reduced rates; making herself responsible for
the lace, and receiving it at first-hand from the ware-
houses; thus gaining a tolerable income out of her
responsibility and supervision.
"I've brought the lace, ma'am," said Veronica, shut-
ting the door, and taking her bundle to the mistress.
Mrs. Bartlett received it silently, looked it over very
carefully, and gave the girl eighteen-penceher reward
for two days' close work, telling her to come for more
to-morrow, and wished her Good-night. She was a
hard-working, methodical woman, who had no time to
spare for gossip, and but little inclination; reckoned
rather hard in her bargains with her work-people, but
keeping her word honourably as regarded the payment.
Veronica was quickly on her way home again. It
was much easier to return now she had no bundle to
carry; and, according to promise, she walked as fast as
possible. And yet there was much to tempt her to
stay  brilliantly lighted shops, full of gay-looking
shawls, and dresses, and ribbons, and bonnets, which
she would much bave liked to have surveyed at leisure;
curious toys, pictures in the booksellers' windows, and
heaps of tempting provisions. Every little apple and
walnut stall in the market-place had also charms for
her eyes; but resolutely, like Christian and Hopeful in
Vanity Fair, she kept on her way, and refused to linger.
There were sights not so pleasant-flaunting, ill-dressed
women laughing loudly, of whom Veronica felt afraid,
she scarcely knew why;-tipsy men shouting and swear-
ing;and poor miserable-looking old men and women
tottering in and out of gin-shops. One drunken man
trundling a wheelbarrow beside the causeway, full of
   

.
fishmongers' refuse and other offal that he was trying
to sell for cat's-meat, or even for human beings, if they
so pleased, at a very low price indeed, had a crowd of
boys and youths after him laughing and jeering at his
attempts to trundle straightly. One of these had just
treated him to another pint of ale, seeing he was not
quite ripe enough for the practical joke he intended; and
was now encouraging him on with ironical speeches of
"That's a good 'un! Wheel straight, old fellar. At
it again! You know what's what, don't yer? Sell 'em
yer
fresh fish." The boys laughed as they saw the
poor wretch plunge about and stagger, while he still
went on, since to stop abruptly would be fatal to his
further progress, by upsetting him altogether. Some
shouted " Puss, puss!" and mewed in imitation of the
animal his barrow-load was destined for; and the noise
and the hubbub attracted still more persecutors, press-
ing round him like flies around carrion. At length a
wild yell of exultation arose from the crowd, as the
wheelbarrow was brought to a dead stop by a large
stone placed purposely in the way; and the man, un-
able to resist the shock, fell heavily forward on to his
load; crushing the whole into a mass of putrid jelly.
This was the grand crisis the ale friend had purposed;
and I suppose he thought his threepence well laid out,
to produce so delightful a spectacle. The poor drunk-
ard might have been suffocatedfor he was quite
unable to raise himselfhad not a humane passer-by
interfered, and raised him out of the defilement into
which he had been so basely thrown by the aid of that
potent ally of all evildrink. As he stood up, blinded,
and gasping, and bewildered, a spectacle of horror and
   
VERONICA'S ADVENTURES.

abomination, another great laugh greeted him. " Are
not you ashamed of yourselves," asked the one who
had acted the part of good Samaritan," to laugh at a
fellow-creature in such a state as this? I'm disgusted
at you! I'm ashamed for you! And I suppose if I
were to give you money enough, you'd all go
and make
yourselves just as drunk as he is!"
Veronica heard the last words of this speech; slie
was passing quickly at the time, and looked for a
moment with amaze at it all. " Could it be true that
all those men and boys would really like to drink them-
selves drunk? and to make themselves liable to fall
into just such a state as that poor half-senseless dirty
wretch?" She could scarcely believe it, though the
gentleman, and he looked like one, said it so earnestly;
he knew much better than she did, no doubt about it,
and she ought to believe it. And how was it they
could like drink so much ?she had tasted her father's
beer, and did not like it at all. It was a strange thing
to believe! Full of such thoughts as these, she made
her way along several streets, The wind still blew
wildly, and pulled and tugged at her raiment. Down
every alley and cross street it poured out upon her.
It seemed so very senseless and foolish and wild in its
motions, that the thought was forced upon her that the
wind also must have taken what Mr. Gresham had
called a drop too much, and be tipsy. Laughing to
herself the next moment at the fancy, she turned the
corner of the street abruptly, and fell, oh horror! into
the arms of something far worse than the tipsy wind-
a tipsy man. He seized hold of her at once, and at-
tempted to kiss her. His breath gave out a noxious
M
   

.
disgusting odour; he called her "my dear," and alarmed
her very much. She struggled and tried to escape, but
his grasp only became the firmer. In the struggle her
bonnet was crushed, pulled off her head, and thrown
upon the ground, and her wrists were hurt by the
pressure of his hard hands. "Let me go ! let me go!"
she cried out, and looked round to see if no one were
near to belA woman was coming slowly along not
far off, " Help me! let me go!" she shrieked again.
The man only laughed. "Don't sh-truggle so, my
dear, but give me a kiss, like a woman!" In another
moment, the woman whom she had seen coming was at
her side; she gave the man a dexterous push, that
sent him reeling to the other side the street, and pick-
ing up Veronica's bonnet, straitened it, and put it on
her head. "Thank you! thank you!" gasped the girl,
and looked up at her deliverer gratefully. The flicker-
ing lamp light showed a dark tall figure of a woman-
a face still young, with large dark eyes, though somewhat
hollow, whose strange brightness lit up the whole coun-
tenance, an abundance of dark ringlets, and cheeks of a
vivid red. Her attire was smart and fashionable-a
flounced silk dress, a satin spenser, a richly-embroidered
collar, and a gaily-trimmed bonnet, while her well-
gloved hands were small and lady-like. Veronica gazed
at first with some awe at the well-dressed stranger, but
immediately afterwards retreated a step from her, say-
ing, "O, it's you, Letitia!"
You needn't go away if it is Letitia," replied the
other sharply; "I shan't bite you!"
No; I know," said Veronica hurriedly; "but I can't
stop; I've got to get father's beer." She paused sud-


   
VERONICA'S ADVENTURES.

denly, remembering her money. Where was it? It
had been in her hand a few minutes ago, just before she
had met the drunkard, who was now staggering along
and swearing loudly in the distance; but it was not
there now.
How had she lost it? It must have
dropped in the struggle. Bewildered and distressed,
she exclaimed, "I've lost my money! what shall I do?
I've lost my money!" " How? where?" asked Letitia.
Veronica explained, and the finely-dressed lady helped
her to seek for the missing silver. Veronica wept and
sobbed, for she was only a child, and knelt down upon
the stones to see better the small coins. What should
she do if they were really gone? How get her father's
beer? How buy the loaf for breakfast, the cheese for
dinner, and to-morrow's tea and butter? where was it
to come from? But it was in vain she looked; after a
quarter of an hour's fruitless search she was obliged to
come reluctantly to the conclusion that she must go
home without it, that it was lost.
" Don't cry, dear," said the sympathizing lady; "I'd
give it you myself, but I haven't got it by me. You
shall have it though before the morning, if I've any
luck. Don't cry."
But Veronica did not look the less sorrowful. "No,
no; I mustn't take your money; I can't have your
money! I must go to father, he'll want me, and I pro-
mised to be so quick. O that horrid drunken man!"
And she was turning away, when Letitia took hold of
her arm, "One moment," she said hurriedly; "tell me,
,
how is father?" "He is very poorly yet, Letitia; but,
leave go,-I must be gone." Letitia took her hand
away, " You needn't be so frightened at my touch; I
   

.
shan't hurt you." "No; but I must go-good-night;"
and Veronica ran off.
Letitia looked after her a moment and gave a deep
sigh? What was it for? or whom? For Veronica or
for herself? Who can tell? A few minutes afterwards
she might be seen in the next street, laughing and
talking loudly with a companion dressed very much
like herself, and with the gayest of smiles on her pink
cheeks.
Veronica reached home breathless, with but half-
wiped tears lying round her eyes. With a palpitating
heart she opened the door; what was she to say to her
father? As she entered he lifted his head and turned
it towards her with a smile.
"So you're back, my bird? That's right. Come
here and look what good fortune has come to us."
He held out his hand and opened it; in the palm
were lying four half-crowns. Veronica gazed aston-
ished. He continued, "You may well be surprised;
but while you have been gone I have had a visitor, a
Mr. Broadbent, who has spoken very kindly indeed,
and who asked for you; he had heard of you, my child. .
He has lent me this money till I can pay him back; so
you shall have a holiday to-morrow from that terrible
black net that tries your eyes so, and I will work. I
really think I could almost work to-night. Bring me
the twigs and let me try."
"No, father; indeed I will not. You are to rest
to-night. But how glad I am! how very glad I am!
For what do
you
think? A drunken man met me and
frightened me so that I lost the eighteenpence Mrs.
Bartlett gave me for the workI did, indeed!" and a
   
VERONICA'S ADVENTURES.

little sob escaped against her will as she recalled her
trouble.
"Don't fret! Come to me and let me kiss you.
Never mind the money, we are rich for the present.
And you must not go out again at night; - no, never
again at night."
"Indeed I must, though, and I must go to-night;
but I shan't meet any more drunken men, I daresay.
I must fetch your beer, father."
Mark hung down his head. Yes, it was true, he let
her go every night to fetch his beer, for he had no one
else to send. This beer was but half-a-pint, but he felt
so lost without it, and had such wretched nights, that
he had not the courage to give it uIt was a babit
remaining from his former indulgences, and he did not
know how to break it. A very poor pitiful habit, but
persisted in so many years, that he could not overcome
it, or fancied he could not.
"Be quick then, and go to the 'George." The
"George" was the nearest public-house. Veronica took
a small jug and one of the half-crowns, and was soon at
the "George."
There was a great fire roaring in the bar chimney,
and there was plenty of company, and a jingle of
glasses and cups, and there was tobacco smoke curling
in and out of the rooms, and merry songs and talk, and
laughter and oaths; plenty of light and warmth and
bustle, and the landlord and landlady were in the best
of tempers accordingly. It was a gay scene, Veronica
thought, while she stood waiting for her jug to be filled,
and getting occasional glimpses of the interior of the
drinking-room, as the door opened every now and then
   

.
to admit a fresh visitor. But then for those men to sit
there and drink till they were as silly, and helpless,
and horrible, and tyrannizing as those two tipplers she
had seen just now! Child as she was, the folly and
enormity were tolerably clear to her of the drink-selling,
drink-imbibing world around her; but no wonder, since
she had just now so feelingly experienced it.
A young man with a cigar in his mouth was standing
in the passage speaking soft words to the pretty bar-
maid who simpered and tossed her blue-ribboned cap
behind the counter. "Now, my girl, half-a-pint for
you?" asked the pretty barmaid, taking the jug without
waiting for an answershe knew Veronica and her
usual evening's errand.
The young man looked superciliously down at the
pale face and large blue eyes; a stray curl had escaped
from under her bonnet, and lay across her cheek. He
took out his cigar, holding it in the air between two
fingers. "Where did you get those big eyes from, my
lass?" he asked, rudely. "My! you'll be killing some
fellow's heart with 'em some day!" Veronica felt her
cheeks flushing, and turned her head away, a little
offended, from the bold questioner. "You won't speak,
little 'un? Not up to snuff yet? Let's look at those
peepers again!" But Veronica kept her face steadfastly
away. He laughed. "Give me a kiss, then," he said,
in a tone of mock entreaty. "Come now, do." He
stooped his head as if he were about to suit the action
to the word; but the girl only drew back. "Here's
your half-pint," said the barmaid, returning with the
jug. To get at it Veronica would have to go nearer
the
young man, a thing she dreaded. But she advanced
   
VERONICA'S ADVENTURES.

one step, and put out her band. "Not till I've had
my kiss," said the tormenter, putting himself between
her and the counter. " Do let me have my beer,
please!" And a look of real distress was on her face.
"No; not without the kiss." He saw his importunity
teazed her, and it pleased him to teaze her. He had
been drinking and smoking till he was ready for
a "lark," to use his own expression.
"Don't be so soft," said the barmaid, not over-
pleased to find anybody sharing his notice with herself.
"You be hanged !" was his polite reply.
"Thank you," said the barmaid, tossing her head.
Veronica was much troubled. How was she ever to
get the beer? She gave a sudden dart for it, hoping to
reach it before he could see, and get away; but he was
too quick for her, and caught hold of her hand just as
she had seized the jug, and with the shock the beer
was spilt, partly into her bosom, and partly on the
groundwhile the young man burst into a loud horse-
laugh. Veronica looked at the empty jug with
dismaythe colour mounted to her cheeks. She stood
still a moment, indignant and angry. Then, in a
sudden spirt of passion, she lifted her small hand, and
seized hold firmly of one of her tormenter's cigar-
scented curly whiskers, and gave it a tug that must
have brought blood. He roared out with the pain,
and the noise brought the landlord from the bar to see
what was the matter.
"A little vixen her!" exclaimed the barmaid.
"A confounded scratching monkey!" shrieked the
young man, getting out bis handkerchief to wipe the
cheek.
   

BY TIE TRENT.
"What's the game now?" asked the landlord.
Veronica attempted to explain; but her voice was
drowned in the swearing and objurgations of the young
man, and the sbriller notes of the barmaid.
"What! scratch a young gentleman's face, you hussy ?"
asked the landlord, looking severely at the poor girl.
"He spilt my beer; he wouldn't let me have it,"
responded Veronica, almost crying.
"Nonsense. Tell none of your lies here. Be off with
you! Cut!be quick!"
"But I want my beer; he ought to give me my
beer."
"Be off, I say. You and your jug, be off."
But the landlady now appeared. She had been
listening to the whole in the adjacent room. "Don't
be a fool, Jones," was her lofty speech, as she swept
past him with her portly form; "the girl comes here
reg'lar; I know who she is. Give her the 'alf-pint,
Mary," and she herself put the empty jug into Mary's
hands. Rather sulkily Mary refilled it, and Veronica,
taking it, and thanking Mrs. Jones, withdrew, only too
glad to get away. "You'd soon lose all your customers
if it wasn't for me," said Mrs. Jones to her husband,
with a scornful glance, and then retreated to her private
room again, majestically. Twice in one night Veronica
had been alarmed and annoyed by drunken men. She
had come off without bodily injury- kappier therein
than so many thousands of her fellow-creatures who
daily and nightly suffer from the blows and tortures
inflicted by husbands, and fathers, and mothers, when
full of maddening intoxicating liquor, by whatever
name called. But she had been aggrieved and insulted;
   
VERONICA'S ADVENTURES.

her modesty had been offended, and an injury had been
done to her soul. The public-house is not a school of
virtue for young girls any more than for grown-up
people; like the fabulous upas-tree, it blasts whom it
shades, and the fruit it produces is wholesome food for
neither man or beast. But our statesmen and rulers,
however, are fond of this public-house upas; they do
not cut down the deadly tree, root and branch, but
regulate its planting, and sell its baneful shadow at so
much the square-yard satisfied to get enormous
revenue from the mildew and destruction of the people.
Revenue they must have for expensive wars, and costly
vice-producing armaments in times of peace, and if not
from the food, they will get it from the poison of the
nation, and they shut their eyes very willingly to the fact
that two-thirds of the poverty, and misery, and crime
of the country may be traced to this one cause, the free
diffusion and enticement of intoxicating drink. Or is
it unwillingly that they shut their eyes?
With, we fear, rather revengeful feelings towards
drinking mankind, and with also a dim sense of humi-
liation and sorrow at her own want of temper, Veronica
returned to her father.
She did not tell him of this last trouble, for she did
not like to distress him, but at night tears were on her
pillow, and her sleep was restless. A miserable dream
visited her in the early morning; the distorted shadow
of the night's experience-a dream of a drunken man,
who with fiery eyes, and hot scorching breath, and long
clasping arms, pursued her in a dark place, while she,
fixed by terror, could not lift one foot to escape. A
scream of hers awoke her father in the room below.
   

.

"What is the matter, Veronica ?" he shouted.
Nothing, nothing," replied she, when fully awake,
"it was only a bad dream." Satisfied, he went to sleep
again.
Would that such bad dreams were not sometimes bad
realities!
CHAPTER XI.
LETITIA.
VERONICA did not so soon compose herself to sleep.
She lay wakeful for an hour or more: hy that time the
wind had nearly ceased its raving, and sounds from the
street below became audible. Once or twice she thought
she heard footsteps on the pavement, and once her
name was called quite distinctly. But when she rose
and went to the window, there was no one to be seen.
The stars were very bright, and the lamps were still
alight, but it was too dusk to distinguish objects
clearly, and the cold warned her back to bed: shivering
she drew the blankets round her, and endeavoured
to sleep once more.
In a while her weary eyes closed,
and the early dawning found her lying in quiet rest.
Later than usual she awoke, and hastily dressing pre-
pared to go down-stairs. As she lifted
As she lifted up the window-
sash to admit the fresh morning air, a small brown
paper parcel met her eyes lying on the window-ledge.
It was tied round with string, and seemed to have been
thrown up from the street: "Veronica Lee" was written
in large letters upon it. On opening it, she found a
   
LETITIA.


note from which two or three shillings dropped to the
ground. The note ran thusit was a very short one
I have sent you some money as I promised, and if
you want it you shall have more. Don't say who sent
it, and it will be all right. You'll find me in the same
street every night.
LETITIA."
Veronica looked troubled: she gathered up the shil-
lings, there were five of them in all, folded them again
in paper, and put away the note and parcel in a box
very carefully, as if she feared prying eyes, a very
needless precaution, and murmured to herself as she
did so, "I wish she hadn't sent it! What shall I
do with it? I must give it back to her again some
way! Father would be so angry!"-For a week she
had no opportunity to do so. But one evening at night-
fall found her in the street Letitia indicated, and before
long the same smartly flounced gown, and lace-trimmed
bonnet made their
appearance
round the corner.
"So you're here at last! I thought you'd never
come again," said Letitia eagerly as she looked into
her sister's pale face. "Do you want some more money?
If you do, I've got it for you."
No, Letitia, I've come this once, but I must never
do so again! Here's your five shillings. You're very
kind, but father wouldn't let me keep the money if he
knew, and so I've brought it back as soon as I could."
She held out the money-parcel, but Letitia did not
offer to take it. "Throw it on the ground if you like!"
she said angrily. "I'm not going to take it. What!
my money's dirt, I suppose, and will spoil your fine
hands to take?"
   

BY THE TREXT.

No, it isn't, Letitia! You know that," and Vero-
nica still held out the parcel with her gloveless hand.
" It was very kind of you, and I'm so sorry to say
so, but I can't have it!"
". Throw it in the kennel then!"
"Do take it! We're not poor, and father's begun to
work again; not so poor as to want your money.
In-
deed we don't need it."
My money; yes, my money you despise, you little
proud thing! It isn't as good as other people's money,
I suppose ?"
"It isn't honest money, is it, Letitia?" asked Veronica,
driven to say clearly the reason.
"And who told you that, pray?"
Father told me.
I don't know what he means, I
don't want to know, and I'll never ask him, if you
don't like. I only told you what he said himself once.
Why are you so cross with me? Do take it, that I
may go, for I know I oughtn't to be with you now,
father would be so angry, if he knew!"
Letitia's eyes had flamed with anger, but they sud-
denly softened, not so much perhaps at Veronica's
words, as at some inward thought. She spoke now in
a soft and entreating tone. "Oh Veronica, I nursed
you when you were a baby, and you used to throw
your arms round my neck then, and kiss me. I think
you loved me in those old days; won't you love me
ever so little now? I know I'm not good enough to
touch the soles of your shoes ; I know I am very wicked,
but I can't help it! Would you give me just one kiss,
and say you love me? I shan't live long, I know I
shan't," and a tear appeared in each eye; "but it
   
LETITIA.

would make me better, for everybody else despises me,
and that's why my heart feels so hard sometimes. Only
one kiss, dear? I'll never ask you again, for when you
know what I am, I shall blush to ask you, and you--
you'll hate me!"
Veronica
gave
her the kiss as if half afraid. It was
a very innocent kiss, and yet she felt as if she had done
some guilty thing. Letitia took the money with a
sigh. "And now, good bye, Letitia !"
Good bye! Won't you ever let me talk to you
again? But no,-no! What am I asking? Good bye!"
And the wearer of the silk dress and satin spenser
parted from the poorly clad and almost shoeless Vero-
nica with a pang, and a wild regret that she was not as
poor, and as innocent.
And how was it she had so fallen? How is it that
so many of our sisters fall? From innocence and purity
and respect of friends and the world, and the prospect
of perhaps a long and honoured life, to degradation and
vice, and contempt alas! when most frequently there
should only be pity-pity, angel-eyed and hearted,
that strives to raise and nourish, the latent good,
where scorn only withers and blights, and utterly
destroys what faint budding green there might be on
the cankered tree.Letitia was left motherless early.
She had a blind father. She was good-looking and
headstrong and vain, fond of dressing above her station.
Those bright eyes, and long ringlets, and delicately-
flushed oval cheeks, were surely meant only for silk
bonnets and rich lace to environ, and those white arms
and taper fingers for bracelets and kid-gloves. So one
or two young men whispered to her, and so she be-
   

.
lieved, too willing to believe. But she had a more dan-
gerous enemy to her virtue than even this of vanity,
and consequent love for expensive dress.
Old nurses and mothers of families, wise in their
generation, will shake their heads and talk knowingly
of Mary Jane's or Thomas's weakness of body, and
paleness, and want of stamina generally, coming from
the delicacy of the mother's health previous to marriage.
" The first child takes it," we have heard them say,
and
they will give many examples to prove the truth of
their words. And physiologists and physicians are of
a similar opinion, expressed in a different way, and
refer peculiarities of constitution generally to parental
antecedents of both sexes. Mental and moral charac-
teristics are as liable to be transmitted from parent to
offspring as physical ones. And is it not true that
"the first child," and in some cases not a few of the
others in a large family, inherit the father's or mother's
physical tastes, and moral or immoral propensities?
the propensity to excesses of all kinds, and the love
for intoxicating drinks?a certain moral weakness
that succumbs before the power of the passions, and a
longing for forbidden food, both physical and mental?
Mark Lee's propensities in early life we have noticed
briefly. He was now what would be called a reformed
character; he was neither drunkard or profligate, and
bore his own punishment for former misdeedsinjured
health, melancholy, and blindnessas quietly as he
could, and, as he would have said, "he submitted to
the inevitable;" though his submission, we fear, was
too much akin to that of the slave, fearful and fretful.
But his eldest born, his daughter Letitia, with her
   
LETITIA.

beauty and high spirits, carried off like the scape-goat
of old, heavy sins into the wilderness. An indisposition
for honest labour, a desire for unlawful amusements,
and a real, innate longing and craving for intoxicating
drinks, these were some of her besetmentsthe last one
much the most dangerous of the three. These beset-
ments were her inheritance, and she received them from
her father as directly and clearly as she did her fine
eyes, and straight, lissom form, and arched forehead.
Truly an awful inheritance to give! Did her father
ever think of his own share in the iniquity, as he de-
plored her faults and follies, and fall? Do parents ever
think of the future sin and misery they may thus bring
upon their offspring when indulging in evil habits,
when yielding to temptation, and when committing
known sins?
A dancing-room was kept at a public-house not far
from Letitia's home. The powder was dry and ready
prepared, and it needed only the spark to set it on fire.
To the dancing parties here assembled she insisted upon
going, and became acquainted with wild, ill-taught
companions, of her own age and of the other sex,
who flattered her beauty and gave her maxims of
disobedience and plenty of immoral advice. They
treated her to spirits and wine-a piece of gallantry
thought becoming and necessary to dancing partners
at these public-house reunions. Of course at such
parties, in such a place, there was more than a
sprinkling of the dissipated and depravedyoung
women who had lost modesty and virtueand young
men seeking for fresh victims to their evil lusts,
and she soon became a prey to one of the latterthe
   

.
way made easy by the excitement of drink-an excite-
ment he knew how to use effectually to attain his pur-
pose. Repentance and terror seized upon her in the
morning when perfectly sober; but it came too late.
Her seducer threatened to expose her if she would not
conform to his wishes for the future; and partly by his
threats, partly by flattery and cajolery, but mostly by
the aid of drink, from thenceforth her life became a
series of sorrowful downfalls. Cast out from home
with indignation and scorn by a father who saw re-
peated in her the sins of his youth, she had no home to
flee to but one too dreadful to name (shame that they
should be permitted in our land!), no means of liveli-
hood but the streets; and here, accordingly, we find
her, not yet the lowest of the low in outward appear-
ance, since she has still fine clothing, and some remains
of beauty, to attract and ensnare to ruin, as she has
been ensnared and ruined herself; one victim thus
dragging after her numberless othersa species of re-
tributive justice, befitting the pandemonium into which
she has fallen. As drink led to her ruin, and was the
chief instrument before which her virtue fell, so drink
keeps up the game of loss. In the day, drink and sleep;
in the night, drink and prostitution; so runs the round
of her rapidly shortening life.
The moth caught in the blaze of the candle is an old
simile, but an "over-true" one, representing her condi-
tion. The lightthe evil, baneful light of drink-
attracts; she must near it; it is death, ruin, and agony,
to one like her, if she touches it; but no matter; touch it
she thinks she must, again and again! How the wings
scorch and blister and shrivel up! how the nerves leap
   
LETITIA.

and twist, and throb with excess of pain! How the
whole body suffers with them! Useless wings now,
that might have carried her away from the destroyers;
worse than useless, since they agonize and struggle in
the melted grease, and fix there like anchors, grounded
and buried, and hold her to roast and frizzle slowly in
that heated, burning atmosphere. And thus the moth
consumes, away, till a tiny black speck, till not even
that, is left to tell of what was once a creature of grace
and beauty, fitted for quiet flittings to and fro at sum-
mer's twilight, among cool shrubs and sleeping flowers;
--of a woman endowed with capacities for virtue, and
happiness and love.
The red light of a gin-shop lamp standing out of the
darkness of the street at night; the ruddy blaze of
the publican's fire; the bright twinkle of the smart
barmaid's eyes; the cheery glitter of the publican's
welcoming smile -- are not these so many moth-
candles, set alight, and placed to attract and burn?
And there is much moth-nature in humanityso much,
that we fear to think of the numbers that lie every
year scorched and wingless in the scalding tallow-grave.
Letitia has been in the blaze again and again. Her
wings are scorched, her beauty rapidly fading away
and vanishing. The moth-candle set for her has been a
large one with two flames. Between them both she lies
helpless and consuming, and no one seeks to save her.
"Correct" society ignores the fallen woman. It is too
usual to look upon her as utterly virtueless and worth-
less-since her one peculiar virtue, chastity, is gone-
and to place her almost out of the pale of humanity;
to consider her as lost, utterly lost, and utterly un-
N
   

.
worthy of a name and a place on this vast motherly
earth of ours. But not so thought the great Moralist,
the divine Lover of the race, who said to the adulteress,
pityingly"Neither do I condemn thee; go and sin
no more;" and of the Magdalene, "Her sins, which
are many, are forgiven, for she loved much."
But society is not yet brave enough, not holy enough,
to do this. It starts back prudishly afraid. lest pity
should be construed into sanction, and loving forgive-
ness should lead to laxity and increase of crime. It is
afraid to follow the Saviour's example.
Shall we say Christ set a dangerous precedent, when
he led the way to the ready reception of the repentant
--the free forgiveness and reinstatement of the fallen
ones? that he did wrong to teach us the prayer, "For-
give us our sins, as we forgive those that sin against
us;" since these are some of the sinners that sin against
us, when they sin, as we all confess they do, against
society?
What rejoicing will there not be in heaven over
some of these poor scattered, fleeced, and worried wil-
derness sheep, when they have been brought back by
the good Shepherd! More, I say unto you, "than over
ninety-and-nine just men that need no repentance !"
And when we shut our hearts and doors
upon
these
lost ones, and refuse to help them to return, refuse to
induce them to return to the foldwe refuse to partake
of the joy of heaven, we shut out the hallelujahs of the
angels with a shrug of the shoulders.
Letitia was what was called a lost woman; but she
was not virtueless. The locusts brought by the east
wind had not yet eaten all the verdure away. A few
   
LETITIA.

green ears stood still erect in her blackened cornfield,
and the sun and the rain did not refuse to do their
work of blessing and refreshment upon them. A linger-
ing love for her younger sister, and a wish to benefit
her; a desire to be loved again by some pure innocent
soul; perhaps a faint tremulous desire to leave the
ignominy and impurity of her life for a better; perhaps
a passionate, longing desire. Who knows? Many in
her position have this; but despair and human apathy
come gradually like deadly frost upon them, and burst
the life-vessels, and they rot only a little the sooner
for it.
Her case is no uncommon one, as we all know well.
Many thousands like her, walk our streets and lanes
every night, and live more or less openly by the wages
of shame. And intoxicating liquors help fearfully to
produce this social gangrene. They are the chief cause
of it, if we may give credence to prison inspectors,
ministers, physicians, and moralists who have made it
their special study, anxious to meliorate and cure. It
is drink that first smooths the path to ruin, and that
helps the ruin on to its fulfilment. Drink is the fruit-
ful mother of this vice, as of so many, many others!
   

.
CHAPTER XII.
THE MINISTER AND THE WINE-CUP.
TIME flew on. The Trent flowed on its way, with
alternations of flood and fall, very much as it had done
for some thousands of years, with a wise admixture of
work and play-ever the same river, yet ever renewed
from cloud and fountain, lake and stream; carrying on
its beneficent mission of draining, and cleansing, and
purifying, and, like the life of a good man, softening,
and harmonizing, and blessing all around. The great
temperance missionary, as John Broadbent called the
river, preached its perpetual sermon, and lay bright
and clear among the low lands and green meadow-
swathes, reflecting both heaven and earth, but chiefly
heaven, as a good man or woman ought to do. The
sun brightened it; the moon put silver touches on its
sable waves; trees and flowers, beasts and birds, drank
and dipped in its shallows; and man waded, and
forded, and swam, and fished, and boated in and over
its incessantly moving waters, and sometimes drowned
in them, his unwilling body carried seawards with the
rest of things that the river pushed thither; while the
great placid stream sang the same requiem for him as
for the grass and pebbles, and gave him the same
burial.
During this time, Stephen Morris's visits to St. Wil-
frid's had not been frequent. After his last recorded
visit he went twice or thrice, and had other walks and
sails up and by the Trent; but the zest of the whole
   
THE MINISTER AND TIIE WINE-CUP.

was over for him, and gradually he sank back into his
old student quiet, his long prings over books, his mid-
night studies. His church, too, required more of his
attention-so he told his friendshis sick, and his
poor. He had never been a haunter of the houses of
the richer part of his congregation, and he was in
reality but ill fitted in some respects for social life. It
had been much lamented that the young pastor was so
seldom seen out of the pulpit by most of his admirers,
and a few had even been offended at his shyness; but
time softened the peculiarity to some of them, and they
remembered charitably that such sermons as he gave
needed quiet of body and mind for preparation and
that all desirable qualifications could not meet in one
individual. The last pastor had been an adept in the
art of"shepherding his flock," visiting, as some thought,
"in season and out of season." Visiting was his gift;
he delighted in it, he shone in the warm parlour and
drawing-room; but in the pulpit his words were common-
place, his thoughts tedious, and he had none of that
earnestness of zeal that more than makes amends for
want of eloquence. Stephen was the reverse of this; ;
but he did not neglect the poor and dying, and hundreds
of sad, trembling hearts were cheered by the prayers
and teachings of their young minister, and acknow-
ledged him, if not in words, in thoughts, to be a true
bishop of souls.
If we say he was idolized by the greater part of his
people, shall we say wrong? We think not, for there
are many unconscious idolatries; and not a few pious
hearts, who would start back in terror from the word
"idolatry" as applied to themselves, nevertheless do
   

.
commit the sin sometimes in a dim, unthinking way.
By some, his every feature and motion, as seen in the
pulpit, were inwardly reverenced; and a very high
pedestal indeed did they accord him in their hearts'
adytum. The very retiredness of his nature helped
to keep up this reverential feeling. His soul was to
them a strange secret sanctuary, lighted only by rays
from the heavenly world. "He was too good for this
world" was often said by the poorer and older mem-
bers; and they shook their heads sorrowfully when
they talked of his pale, worn face, and his thin and
already slightly stooping form. It was but the student's
stoop; but they fancied they saw in it a proof that
their beloved young pastor would soon leave them.
His growing popularity had attracted so many
strangers to his chapel, and finally so many pew-
holders and new members, that a larger place of worship
was needed. A site was selected in the most fashion-
able quarter of the town, and a large, handsome chapel
erected by subscriptions that flowed in as from a foun-
tain, needing only the labour of gathering. An un-
common enthusiasm influenced all; the chapel was the
largest and finest dissenting place of worship in the
town, the minister the most popular and beloved.
Almost all the pews were at once taken, leaving the
deacons still in the pleasing difficulty entailed by a
straitened place. They smiled and shook their heads
at the same time. Magistrates and dignitaries forsook
their accustomed Sunday pews in church or chapel, and
flocked to hear the sermons of the Rev. Stephen Morris,
the new attractive light of the ministry. Even the
neighbouring villages caught the contagion, and car-
   
THE MINISTER AND THE WINE-CUP.

riages, gigs, omnibuses, and light carts frequently filled
the stables of the town on the day of rest.
Yet a deep religious humility did not forsake the
young man; he was not made vain by his popularity,
he remembered that he was only clay in the hands of
the great Potter, and that to him no laudation was due
in that he had been made a vessel of honour. "Of
him to whom much is given, much shall be required,"
was a saying he never forgot; and at times he was
almost overwhelmed, instead of being elated, by his
increasing popularity.
Was there no deterioration, then? Was his path
indeed that of the just, that shines brighter and
brighter unto the perfect day?
It is painful to the sight to search for spots in so
brilliant a sun; very painful and revolting to seek for
and find stains upon the otherwise pure, white gar-
ments of a saint; very sad and humiliating to discover
any fungus growth of vice in the set-apart holy land
of a Christian minister's heart. But already the evil
spore had been sown there, and, though hidden deep,
was growing, not with usual fungus rapidity, but
slowly, as meeting with but imperfect food in that
quiet heart-garden for its sustenance and development.
What was this fungus? It was not vanity of mental
gifts and attainments, as we have seen; it was not love
of sway, or of money, or of impure society. What
love was it that was beginning to oppose itself to the
pure love of God? The love of that which comes in the
guise of an angel, a helper to the satisfactory perform-
ance of pulpit duties, a reviver from its exhaustion, a
cheerer in moments of depression;comes in the dress
   

.
of food, and is but poisona carnal, sensuous love, that
seemed at first so innocent, so lawful, so necessary.
We need scarcely name it; our readers must have seen
it exhibited so many times, at the rich man's feast and
the poor man's dinner, at the fireside, and the table,
and the shop, and abroad in the streets most of all;
happy if he or she has not seen it in the chamber of
the sick and the dying. This demon with the angel's
face has practised his delusions upon man almost ever
since his creation. The "preacher of righteousness,"
Noah, fell before him, and hundreds of thousands, nay
millions, have fallen since; rich have been his harvests,
overflowing his garners.A consumptive patient is
frequently not aware of his danger, and thinks lightly
of symptoms that make the physician hopeless. A
bright eye, a clear transparent complexion, a brilliant
colour, do not seem to the ignorant, fatal prognostica-
tions, but the reverse. So much added beauty and
bealth of appearance cannot be harmful, he thinks; all
must be well with such pleasant outward manifesta-
tions. The insidious love for drink attacks its victim
much in the same way, and deludes equally. The flow
of spirits, the agreeable excitement, temporary improve-
ment of health it may be, and the intellectual activity
induced by the first mild use of alcohol, cannot be
injurious, must be good. The labourer does more
ploughing and digging, the mechanic gets through
more work, the artist paints more easily, the author's
thoughts flow more genially and brilliantly, the minis-
ter's sermon has an added force and glow about it.
Dangerous and unholy, when the minister seeks other
force and glow than that which he may gain by com-
   
THE MINISTER AND THE WINE-CUP.

munion with God, or wants other strength to deliver
his message than that which the obeying of God's
physical laws gives him! It is putting false fire upon
the altar.
But the wise physician sees this temporary benefit,
and gives it its right nameunnatural excitement.
He asserts, "This is not health, but disease. Check it
in the first stages, or you are lost. Do not laugh at me
because I look serious; or, if you will laugh, do it at
your perill I have seen your symptoms too frequently
not to know them and their danger."
Stephen Morris had no such physician close at hand.
He lived much alone, and his landladya kind-hearted,
but in many respects an ignorant woman, respectably
connected, and what was called "educated," but follow-
ing old custom and routine, and thoroughly conven-
tional. By her grandfather, grandmother, father and
mother, uncles and aunts, sisters and brothers, wine or
alcoholic drink had always been considered a necessary
of life; and the whole of her respectable acquaintance
took it daily, as she did herself whenever she could
afford ittherefore it must be good. This was the
sole argument which she understoodthe argument of
precedence and usage. She was called a good motherly
woman by her friends; and many of the church, who
felt solicitous about the welfare of their much respected,
much loved young minister, congratulated themselves
and one another that he would be well cared for with
so kind and careful a person as Mrs. Sollory, It was
with true motherly solicitude that she looked after
Mr. Morris's wardrobe, attended to the comfort of his
rooms, and saw his food prepared in a wholesome,
   

.
cleanly manner, and regulated her buyings-in to his
appetite and state of health.
The same solicitude of hers placed the wine regularly
upon the table; "sherry was a good digester," and port
also, highly medicinal and useful, " her poor dear Mr.
Sollory had always been fond of port;" and such a thin
spare habit of body as the minister tolerated required
wine to nourish and strengthen it. The small glass of
sherry after dinner in a while became two, but Mrs.
Sollory only rejoiced. Then supper must be heralded
by wine, and what so comforting as a tumbler of hot
negus, or better still, rum and water, for a nightcap?
Stephen had an attack of illness, and restless wakeful
nights succeeded; he had refused the rum and water
till then, but induced to try it once, found it bring
sleep and quiet rest, like a charm, and he took it again
and again. Once or twice a gleam of dissatisfaction
with the habit crossed his mind, and he refused for
some nights the pleasant draught; but Mrs. Sollory
became so solicitous for his health, had such a persuasive
smile as she poured out the mixture, and foretold so
much good from its use, that what could he do but take
it, and set her anxious mind at rest? Still he was per-
fectly temperate; he was but using the good things a
kind providence sends for our benefit, and he certainly
was becoming a little stouter, and a trifle less pale,
under the regimen. Mrs. Sollory was beginning to
think he did her credit, and smiled when any allusion
was made in her hearing to the minister's improved
looks.
This gradual advance from bread and wine for the
Sunday's dinner, and an occasional glass or two in the
   
THE MINISTER AND THE WINE-CUP.

week, to wine as the rule after every dinner, and wine
or spirits at night, had come on slowly, so slowly,
so almost imperceptibly, that Stephen himself was
scarcely aware when the change had commenced.
He was aware, however, of a very pleasing fact, that
after the glass of wine that was now considerately
provided for him in the vestry, his sermons had more
vigour, his intellect for the time seemed clearer, his
imagination took higher flights. Who would dare to
tell him wine was injurious when such results followed
its use?
He was still unmarried, as we see, and this one cir-
cumstance gave rise to immense talk and speculation
among his congregation. Some thought he would
never marry, he was nearly thirty it was said, and
never had he been noticed to "pay attentions" to any
young lady whatever. But others boldly asserted that
from thirty to forty was the golden age for a minister
as regarded matrimony. He had studied, had attained
a position, obtained a good income, and was therefore
then, and then only, prepared for so solemn an under-
taking as marriage. Before that period of life it would
not have been proper or discreet to take to himself a
wife; now, no doubt, he would think of doing so. Let
ladies beware!
For he was an acknowledged prize in the matrimo-
nial lottery. Chapel-going mothers and fathers thought
with a longing sigh how much they should delight to
see Sarah or Matilda hanging on that slender student-
like arm, as the wife of the minister who had gained so
notable and honoured a position in the town, or sitting
with meek pride, if there be such a paradoxical state of
the young
   

.
mind, and we believe there is, in the green-curtained
ministerial pew, listening to her husband's deep voice
as he delivered his soul-entrancing sermons; and young
women, with hearts newly touched and glowing, re-
sponsive to the Saviour's love, let at times their affec-
tions wander in a lower channel, and imagined the
-happiness that would fall to the lot of the one who
should be chosen as bride to this holy messenger of
God. Even those in a very humble station dared to
raise their eyes to the phoenix, and sensible of their
own outward or inward attractions, or remembering
the caprices of love, revelled occasionally in the heart-
beating thought or supposition, "If he should choose
me?"
But common-sense people, and those who had no
eligible daughters or nieces, had long given him to one
of the Miss Greshams. The eldest from her age, and
because she was the eldest, and of course ought first to
find a husband, was generally awarded to him. Some
said timidly, "Perhaps Miss Jane;" but this was scouted
by most. She was too girlish, too unformeda min-
ister's wife should be a woman of some force of char-
acter, with considerable womanly dignity, worthy of
being in a while, if God permit, a true mother in Israel.
The ex-mayor was a deacon of the church, a man of
wealth and influence, and was, it was well known,
most kindly affected towards the minister; Mr. Morris
had only to ask, and have, should he fortunately fix
his eyes upon Miss Gresham. And why did he not?
This question remained unanswered a long time.
Mrs. Sollory was privately interrogated on the subject.
Did she know? Had she ever seen or heard? What
   
THE MINISTER AND THE WINE-CUP.

>
correspondence did Mr. Morris keep? Were there ever
notes addressed to him in a lady's handwriting?
To all of which questions Mrs. Sollory said, "No, she
knew nothing."
So this delightful mystery remained one still, and
every young lady in the chapel might yet indulge
her day-dreams, and whisper to herself, with her
humbler neighbours, "If he should choose me? who
knows?" At length, however, since all suspense, espe-
cially on such a subject, must have an end some time,
more definite light arose. Was it, or was it not true,
that Mr. Morris had of late visited Swansford at least
twice a week? and, suspicious fact, had he not been
seen by some very prying eyes indeed, walking by the
river banks with Miss Gresham, and with no other
friend, male or female, near? A very strong and de-
cided "yes" was given as answer to these questions, by
some who "had reason to know," who had had it "from
good authority," &c.; and very softly and timidly at
first it began to be generally talked of among the
chapel-frequenters that there certainly was an engage-
ment between Mr. Morris and Miss Gresham. Mrs.
Sollory was again called upon; this time she did not say
"no," but she was mysterious, and evidently inclined
to put the delicate inquirers on a false trail. "Miss
Gresham! not at all likely; a young girl of nineteen!
What did people think of? What should they say to
Miss Angus? Mind, she didn't mean to compromise
herself or Mr. Morris; she only told them to have their
eyes open,
that was all."
Now Miss Angus was an old maid, highly respect-
able, with an independent fortune, who made herself
   

.
very active and useful at Dorcas-meetings, Bible-col-
lectings, and missionary and other tea-parties; but
there was no denying she was old, past forty, rather
plain-looking, and though a very good woman (her
non-admirers could not refuse her that praise), was inad-
missible as the wife of, in their eyes, their still young
and interesting pastor. The gossips retreated, inclined
to be offended with Mrs. Sollory.
Triumphantly they returned to the scent; for was it
not a perfect truth, a thing that could not be gainsaid,
that last Friday, unattended by sister or footman,
father or mother, Miss Gresham and Mr. Morris had
driven out in the pony carriage, through the village of
Raven's-nest, and by Sheepland Park, in sight of Mr.
Stevenson, the deacon, and his wife, who met them
twice on their route?
And for once gossip was right. The minister was
really engaged, and to one of the Miss Greshams; but
not to the one that had been given him so certainly.
His choice had fallen upon Jane the youngest sister,
young as she was barely eighteen, and Jane, who, to
tell the truth, had given her girlish heart away to him
some time before, made no opposition to his choice.
With a trembling joy she accepted, what she felt to be
the great gift of the love of a noble and intelligent man,
of one whose life was dedicated to that which, in her
eyes, was the highest mission that can be bestowed on
a human being
   
THE WEDDING CARDS.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE WEDDING CARDS.
CLARA BROADBENT was picking gooseberries in the
kitchen. It was a warm July morning, the windows
were open, and the bees' hum among the flowers could
be heard very plainly, for she was silently engaged
about her work, seated placidly in her print morning-
dress and white apron near the dresser. Rather further
away than the hum of the bees another hum was dis-
tinguishable. It was John's voice singing low, as he
propped dahlias, or transplanted annuals. His thoughts
were otherwhere than among his flowers, she knew, by
the sound of his undersong, and she wondered whether
Mary Plowden's last picture, or James Miller's brobdig.
nagian strawberries were the subject of his thoughts,
or whether it was something less agreeable than these,
which she half feared from the tone.
A knock at the door startled her, and a letter. The
postman was late this morning, and the rather dainty-
looking letter he left behind was addressed to Mr. J.
Broadbent. It lay on the table therefore, till John
entered, which he was not long in doing. "A letter?
Ah, I thought I saw the postman go by!" and he pro-
ceeded to open it, but not very quickly. No closely
written sheet of paper was within, but in its stead
another envelope and two enamelled cards.
On one
was engraved a well-known name, the "Rev. Stephen
Morris" On the other and larger one, an entirely un-
   

.
known one, "Mrs. Morris." They were tied together,
after the fashion of those days, with a bow of white
satin ribbon. "Wedding cards! do you see, Clara ?"
he asked, as he held them towards his sister. Clara
lifted her eyes from her gooseberries. "A wedding!"
she exclaimed with some surprise. "Whose cards are
they?" "Read." She read slowly and quietly.
"I am very glad!" was her remark, with bright
cheerful smile. "I suppose it is to Miss Gresham."
"I suppose so. Morris has been very sly too! How
quietly he has kept it all!"
"People don't generally talk very loudly of their own
marriage before the event."
"No; but in this case! However, I have no right
to complain. Only I had fancied he would have
brought us his intended bride, and made us acquainted
with her a little. Now, I suppose, we shall just be
expected to call when they return from the wedding
journey, as any other strangers would. It is very
strange!"
To Clara it was not quite so strange as to John.
Ever since that day on the island Stephen had been
reserved to her. He had asked for friendship, and she
had gladly granted his wish; and yet a gradual coolness
had arisen between them. She thought it his fault,
for she had tried to be in all things the same as before;
perhaps she had not succeeded well in her attempts;
perhaps he had not properly understood her and them;
perhaps-perhaps, she could not tell how it was! If
it were indeed her fault she was exceedingly sorry!
During the last year or so John and she had been fre-
quently away from St. Wilfrid's, at London on business,
   
THE WEDDING CARDS.

and elsewhere, and consequently they had not seen so
much of Trentham friends. They had only recently
returned from one of these journeys; but Stephen Morris
was quite aware they had returned, John having called
upon him more than once, but not a word had been
said about an intended marriage.
John seated himself near Clara, and looked thought-
fully out of the window for a minute or two. Then he
said, "I knew of this last night when I was in the town,
I heard of it quite by accident in a shop, but did not tell
you, dear, just at first. I thought with me you would
feel the coolness a little, and, somehow or other, I didn't
like to talk about it. There was an unfriendliness in
it, to leave us in the dark so entirely. Don't you
think
so?"
"Perhaps so," replied Clara. "But on the other hand
you must remember how shy Mr. Morris is on personal
matters, and I do not believe he meant it unfriendlily."
"Well, dear, you shall hold your belief, and I will
try to have the same. But, I saw him only last
Thursday, and he said not a word! In his place I
could not have kept such a secret from a friend."
"It might be the lady's wish.'
John laughed. "You're quite a pleader for him, and
he doesn't deserve it. I thought once, Clara, he loved
you."
"Did you?" And Clara went on diligently with her
gooseberries.
"He had not sufficient good sense, however, for that!
That was a long time ago, however, so long that I had
almost forgotten it, till this brought it to my memory.
"Miss Gresham is a very lovely amiable girl, I sup-
O
   

.
pose, and very well connected. Indeed, John, I think
you ought to be rejoicing for his sake! What could he
have done better?"
"Nothing, I daresay; for, Clara, I should not have
thought it better if he had carried you away, or so well!
I am too selfish a brother for that. It is most fortunate
he has not thought of it! I will rejoice therefore, and
put away my grumbling. And it is high time I left
you to your puddings and pies, and finished my dahlias.
Adieu, then, fair lady!" And he strode out of the
kitchen.
Once more out among his flowers the slight ruffle in
his temper was soon smoothed down, and the accus-
tomed cheery light returned to his eyes. Clouds never
stayed long in his sun-loving sky, and once again he
sang among the bees, outrivalling their "breezy bass;"
himself the most industrious, jolliest bee among them
all, as he was so decidedly the largest.
When he had finished his gardening he put on his
bat, and walked to Ebenezer Plowden's, to see Mary.
As he passed Mrs. Jones's door the widow stood before
it. There was a care-worn look in her eyes, which
cleared away a little on seeing John. "Mr. Broadbent,
sir, would you mind stepping in a minute?"
"Certainly not, Mrs. Jones." And John entered her
low room, where he generally at this time of day saw
James Miller at his bench, busy at work. But he was
not there now.
"Where's Miller ?" he asked.
"That's just what it is, Mr. Broadbent, sir! I called
you in to tell you he's not been here since yesterday
morning."
   
THE WEDDING CARDS.

"Did he tell you he was going to stay away?"
"No sir, or I shouldn't ha' minded so much. He
just started off after breakfast yester morn without a
word, as he does sometimes when he goes to fetch work,
an' I thought sure he'd be home by dinner. An' I'd
his bit o bacon just ready to frizzle, an' his 'taturs
boiled at about the usil time, but he never came. I
got quite wonderin' by night, an' sat up till after
midnight, but he ne'er came."
"Has he ever been away all night before."
"Well, sir"and here Mrs. Jones hesitated, and
lowered her voice, as if afraid of listeners"I don't
like to tell tales of nobody. But the truth's the truth,
an' perhaps you ought to be knowin'. He hasn't been
ne'er so reglar lately, as he'd used."
"I was afraid not, from several things I have noticed
about him. Poor lad! He's tried hard sometimes, but
he can't forget old habits. I wish I could get him to
sign the pledge."
"There's where it is, sir! He's so conceited like, he
thinks he's no need to sign, an' that he can allers do as
he wants to do when he's at home. No ale nor bacca
never comes across my doorstep, I wouldn't fetch it him
on no account whatsumever, an' to give him his due,
he never asks me to. He's very good at home. I've
no fault to find with him, but now, when he gets out
i' the town, he can't stand again it, as he'd used. If he
would but sign the pledge, he'd surely never be tempted
no more."
"I can't say he would never be tempted, Mrs. Jones!
But it would be a great help to him to remember a
solemn promise he had made in black and white. Even
   

.
then he might fall, but I hope he would not, I trust
he would not! But have you no idea where he is?
"He's i' Trentham, I expect, somewhere, but where
I dunnot know, an' I can't be certain of that. Perhaps
you could find him, sir!"
"Does he never talk to you of who he sees in Trent-
ham?"
"Not he! He's close enough about his company.
Won't you sit down a bit, sir?"
"No, thank you. And he works as much as usual ?"
"I can't say as he does, sir. He's be'n, as I say,
unregular for some time. He hasn't paid me his last
half year for the garding; but then, I'm not complainin'
of him, I can wait a bit."
John left the cottage with some anxious forebodings:
James Miller was evidently going the downward way.
What could he do for him? How arouse him to a sense
of his danger? He had been tolerably steady for the
last three years, though he had passed through one serious
time of trial. The young woman he had been attached
to had married from her place of service, and the hope
which poor James had always clung to, that he should
one day persuade her to look favourably upon him, was
therefore quite gone. Depressed and wretched, he had
at one time threatened to commit suicide; then to go
back and live at Trentham, which his friend combated,
knowing it would result in his ruin; and he had been
intoxicated one whole day, but by a mixture of kind-
ness and entreaty and commandfor John Broadbent
could at times exert over the young man the power of
a strong character over a weak one, and enforce a com-
mand without appearing to do so-he had passed
   
THE WEDDING CARDS.

through the danger, and forgetting or burying his un-
fortunate love, had taken furiously to the culture of
strawberries.
Every encouragement was given him. Mary Plow-
den took a sisterly interest in him, and brought him
her pictures to criticize or admire; and even painted
for him a group of his prize strawberries, arranged on
a green plate of their own leaves, though fruit-painting
she secretly despised; Mary's ambitious painter-soul
listening willingly only to the claims of "high art" and
landscape. And John Broadbent had endeavoured to
interest him in the proceedings of a kind of "labourer's
institute" he had established at St. Wilfrid's, where of
evenings in a hired room could be had books and news-
papers to read, a cup of coffee, and a seat by a good fire,
for the small sum of a penny; lectures also being occa-
sionally given by John and other gentlemen, and musical
performances by amateurs in the village, for the instruc-
tion and amusement of the poor, both men and women.
James had at first been tolerably earnest in his attend-
ance, and had even undertaken one of the reading
classes for adults that were held in John's kitchen on
winter evenings; but in a while he had cooled. One
of his pupils had offended him in some way; and he
voted the whole affair "slow and seedy," and retired
to his garden again in his leisure hours. He seemed
to be one of those weak-minded individuals who require
every help and encouragement for themselves, but will
grant little or none to other people, and the seeds of
true philanthropy were not yet sown in his bosom. He
was in truth a discouraging pupil, and his master's
patience had been frequently tried not a little by him.
   

.
Mary Plowden was not at home.
"She's gone up
the Grove a-painting," said her mother with a curtsey,
which she always persisted in bestowing on Mr. Broad-
bent. So John turned his steps towards the river and
the town; intending, as he had an hour or two to
spare, once more to go in search of the strayed sheep.
He found him sooner than he expected, coming across
the meadows with a bundle of leather on one arm; but
his step was slow and unwilling, and he did not meet
John with his usual smile. He looked confused and
ashamed, bis eyes were bloodshot, and he appeared as
if he had been drinking.
"Well, James, you've chosen a fine day to be out!
I was just looking for you, and I'm glad to find you so
soon."
James murmured something about "not knowing
he was wanted," and said he'd just been to Trentham.
"So I see.
Your leather proclaims the fact. I hope
you have brought a good order with you. Have you
been to see your
father?"
James's reply was in the negative, and an angry
flush came to his brow. "Why was he asked that
question?" he demanded.
"I did not ask it to offend you, my dear fellow!
But last time I was at No.  your mother told me
he had not been well for some days. I was hoping you
had been to see him, for you perhaps may not have him
long. I thought him a good deal altered when I saw
him last. But you visit him every now and then, don't
you?"
"No, I don't. And I tell you what it is, Mr. Broad-
bent"and James lifted up his head, and raised his
   
THE WEDDING CARDS.

- Do
voice"I'm a man now, and I won't be questioned
and dogged about as if I was a child. What business
have
you to come after me in this way?"
John knew that if James had been perfectly sober
he would not have used such language to him, or have
so misunderstood his motives. He knew also that
though he boasted to be a man, he was in many respects
but a child, and failed decidedly in one manly attribute
-self-government. He replied in a gentle tone-
you
ask me what business? The business of a
friend who sees you going wrongof one who sincerely
loves you, and would do much to prove it. I can't let
my sheep wander away into the wilderness. I must
seek after
you.
If you were in the fire, and I came to
pluck you out, would you ask me my business? And
if not in the fire now, you are very near it-much too
near it for safety; and I am bold enough to say to you,
Keep out of the reach of the flames. I know your
danger; for, as I have told you before, I have been in
it myself; and was only rescued from it by the hand of
a friend and by God's good providence. Don't you
think I should be very wicked if, seeing your peril, I
did not endeavour to save you?
James made no answer to this appeal. He pulled his
hat over his eyes, hugged his leather more closely, and
walked on in sullen silence.
When John had seen him safely over the ferry, he
said, "I'll trouble you no more, Miller. Good bye! I
see you're not exactly able to hear me to-day. To-
morrow you
and I will talk." And he left him, taking
the river-ward way, while James proceeded through
the village.
   

.
sorrow.
James's thoughts were not very pleasant ones, as he
walked on alone, his best friend having left him in
At first, it is true, he felt glad to be relieved
of his presence; but in a minute or two, when a little
of his anger was gone, he was ashamed and troubled.
He had been drinking hard the previous day and
night; but was now tolerably sober, quite sober enough
to understand what was said to him, and to know
what he was about. But his nerves were irritable and
his temper morosethe consequences of his debauch-
and he muttered to himself, "What right had he to
bother me? I hate such prying and spying. Can't a
fellow do as he likes?" and other similar expressions
indicative of his state of mind. He made up his mind
he was a
very
ill-used
person,
and he half determined
to leave St. Wilfrid's altogether, and go to live in the
town, where he could do more as he liked.
Conscience interposed once or twice, asking him
where he would have been by this time, most probably,
if this same troublesome friend of his had let him alone.
Perhaps in the workhouse, perhaps in a prison for debt,
or in a lunatic asylum, or perhaps underneath the damp
gray soil. For a drunkard so many places of punish-
ment are open, so many unhappy compulsory homes
prepared; and he needs them all at times!
When he reached his lodgings, he did not deign to
reply to Mrs. Jones's kind inquiries whether he would
have dinner, but went at once up-stairs carrying the
bundle of leather with him, at which the good widow
was surprised, for he usually left it on his bench.
"He's not quite hisself!" she said to herself with a
shake of the head, "or he wouldn't be after taking
   
THE WEDDING CARDS.

that litther with him. She listened awhile anxiously
at the foot of the stairs for any sound that should en-
lighten her as to his proceedings; but he was still, quite
still, and at last she seated herself in the old arm-
chair by the fire, and went on with her sewing.
When James reached his room, he first carefully
closed the door, and fastened it with the wooden button
that did duty for a bolt. Then he looked cautiously
around, as though he feared some lookers-on might be
seated on its one chair, or reclining on its bed, or hidden
in one of its whitewashed corners-rather an unlikely
thing in broad daylight, and in a room so bare of
drapery or curtains as this. He next put the bundle
of leather on the top of the box that contained his
clothes, and began to untie and unroll it. From its centre
he drew out a something wrapped carefully in paper,
and placed it also on the box. Then with his hand
upon this last parcel, he once more glanced around
and listened. There seemed to be perfect solitude and
silence, except that a fly noisily buzzed about the little
room, and hit his head insanely against the window-
panes. But the fly was not to be feared, he told no
tales but in his own occult language, and his small
wings, while they perpetually said, "Listen, listen !" could
make no further progress towards a speech in English.
Not quite at ease, however, he remembered that the
door was old, and that there were cracks in it of various
sizes. If any prying eye should now be at one of these
cracks? Mrs. Jones's for instance, she was suspiciously
silent just now: a direful supposition! He rose up from
his kneeling posture beside the box, and taking the
counterpane from the bed, covered the inside of the
   

.
door entirely with it, fastening it to the wall by large
pins. The cracks were not large, he found on looking,
but it was best to be secure.
Again he went to his box, this time with a feeling
of thorough safety. He lifted the paper parcel cau-
tiously, and unrolled the paper slowly; but suddenly a
shock went through hima terrible shock; the parcel
almost dropped out of his hand, for a voice called him close
to his ear, and a touch, soft but frightfully startling, came
upon his shoulder. With wide starting eyes, and trem-
bling hands, he turned his head. Psha! The voice he
heard so alarmingly close was only the plaintive "mew"
of the cat, who had perhaps been hidden under the
bed, and now came to let him know of her presence,
climbing on the chair close beside him to get upon his
shoulder. How could he think her harmless cry to be the
voice of a human being? Why did he not recognize it
at once? He almost smiled at his own foolishness.
The cat is no tell-tale any more than the fly, so he may
proceed with his business. He unwrapped the parcel
resolutely that had caused him so much trouble. What
could it be? Had he discovered in some field or lane
a bag of sovereigns that he was now afraid to lose?
Had he gained by some mysterious means a wonderful
treasure of art, the knowledge of which he was wish-
ful to keep entirely to himself? Was it some love-
token? Some gift from a beloved one? Or more likely,
some gerfection of a shoe, that he was allowed to bring
home for careful reverent study; a shoe equal to any
St. Crispin could manufacture? No, it was certainly
not a shoe, for he had laid away the noisy rustling
paper, and lifted the inclosure in his hand, holding it
   
THE WEDDING CARDS.

between his eyes and the light. Not a work of art
even, not of fine art at least; and surely that ugly glass
cylinder was no love-token, no gift a loving woman would
bestow on one she cared for! An eager greedy light
was in his eyes as he gazed, his lips parted with some-
thing like a smile, his bands trembled, but not with
fear now, with excitement; he drew a long breath.
And could that ominous-looking bottle with its liquid
contentssomething stronger than Trent water we fear
-touch him with a greater joy than the sight of his
friend? Were there no stirrings of remorse within him?
Remorse at the deception he was practisingthe
hopes he was intending to blastthe friend he was
ready to grieve and alienatethe soul within him he
was about to ruin? For he stood now on ground where
life or death, fair fame or infamy, happiness or misery,
oscillated in the balance fearfully for him. He was
possibly at the most momentous turning-point of his
life. Perhaps at this very moment an angel with ten-
der pleading looks and words of celestial entreaty might
be uttering her last warnings in his ear, and another
of dark aspect be whispering seductive speeches, that
could lead to but one result for him, if he listened
and obeyeddestruction. Which will he attend to?
He put the bottle once more on the box; he remem-
bered he had better not uncork it at present, but he
could not persuade himself to leave it just yet. He
stroked puss, who had climbed on his knee, for he was
now in a good temper with her and all the world.
Had he not brought a treasure home with him? Was he
not now a man who could do as he pleased? That bright
sheeny liquor-he shook the bottle to see it sparkle in
   

BY TIE TRENT.
the sunlight-contained joy, contained comfort, con-
tained blessed oblivion of all trouble for him! When
he should take it, adieu to thoughts of work, to mono-
tonous shoe-stitching and hammering, to thread-wax-
ing, and awl-boring, to long dull hours of labour; for
awhile he should be in a bright jubilant state that
would refuse to listen to care, he should be too happy
to envy the king on his throne! ! With a sigh, and a
trembling hand, he put the bottle in the box, closed
the lid, and heard the lock click above it. For the pre-
sent he must leave it.
At tea-time he went down into the kitchen. The
widow spoke to him mildly behind her tea-cups. She
had patience with the faults and shortcomings of young
men, for her heart was tender to them, remembering
her poor William; and, moreover, she had often proved
that a "soft answer turneth away wrath," and James's
face had been cross-looking enough when he went
up-stairs. His ill-temper was gone now, however; his
eyes shone brightly, and he laughed more than once
or twice over the tea-table. Still he was restless, and
complained of headache when he came to sit down to
work after tea, and before long retreated to his room,
saying he should go soon to bed, as he intended to be
at work in his garden very early in the morning.
   
FIRE! FIRE!

CHAPTER XIV.
FIRE! FIRE!
At St. Wilfrid's, night was generally a very quiet
time. The only public-house was on the outskirts, the
same white cottage we have named before that over-
looked the ferry; and the " Labourers' Institute" had
done much to check the evil habit of evening-tippling,
so common among the farning-men and work-people
at almost all towns and villages. During the midnight
hours the villagers slept quietly, undisturbed by sounds
of drunken merriment or brawling, and to the healthy
and good came dreams of peace, while the river, that
had no time to sleep, slipped softly past, as time did.
John and Clara generally retired early to rest, and on
the night of the th of July, were fast asleep long
before midnight.
An hour later, a bright red light shot up into the
sky from the midst of the quiet houses; and soon after,
that cry that is so alarming in the dead of the night to
the newly awakened, the cry of "Fire! fire!" was
heard by all the inhabitants with uncontrollable terror
or excitement, and all, who could, arose in haste, and
prepared to go out. Hurrying feet were soon on their
way to the burning dwelling, and noise and bustle and
terror reigned where half an hour before was the most
profound silence.
John Broadbent was one of the first out, and was
quickly at the scene of destruction, which he found to
   

.
be, to his great concern, Mrs. Jones's cottage. Flames
were coming out of one of the upper windows, and the
thatch had already caught the blaze. It was thoroughly
dry, after the late hot weather, and blazed furiously.
Already a crowd was collected in front of the burning
building, and confused shouts and contradictory orders
were given, the alarmed humans not seeming at first
much more sensible or methodical in their way of acting
in the emergency, than did the crows, that, wakened by
the glare and the noise, cawed and flip-flapped about
the elms and the old church tower, seen now so plainly
and ruddily in the glow of the red, high-reaching blaze.
" It's of no use," one shouted. "Nothing'll stop that!
It's gone too far; the thatch burns like tinder." "Water!
water! Buckets! buckets!" cried others; while others,
more helpful and wise, went to fetch the necessary
articles. John appeared among them; his tall form,
head higher than the rest, conspicuous and well known.
Under his direction a chain of living links was formed
between the cottage and the river (beneficent river!
always willing to give of its cooling, quenching waters !)
and buckets were passed from hand to hand quickly
with their precious burden to stay the devouring
flames. But what had become of the inmates of the
burning cottage? Mrs. Jones's sleeping room was at
the back of the house. Had any one seen her? John
inquired. No one replied. "She couldn't get out this
way, mester, the flames is too bad," said a labouring
man at length. "True; most true," thought John; and
giving up his bucket to one of the standers-by, ran at
full speed round the block of buildings, and made his
way to the back of the cottage. Here he met Ebenezer
   
FIRE! FIRE!

Plowden and Mary, with the poor widow's half-fainting
form between them. They had dragged her out with
some difficulty. "Where is James?" asked John,
breathless with haste. "He's inside!" said Mary, with
horror-stricken face; "we couldn't persuade him to
come out; he seemed quite stupid and bewildered."
John endeavoured to enter at the back-door; but
volumes of smoke, mingled with flames, came out now
so fast, that it was impossible to get in that way. The
stairs were on fire also. "A ladder!" he shouted; and
almost as he said the words, a ladder was brought. He
placed it at the bedroom window, mounted, and entered
the cottage, the lookers-on watching in silent terror his
disappearance in the blazing building. One pair of
lips, especially, were blanched with fear, and one pair
of straining eyes gazed horror-struck at the blank
window that had swallowed up his beloved form.
When would he return? Would he ever? Ah! if the
building should fall upon him!if that blazing roof
should drop down!if those walls should give way and
bury him!--a living man amongst all that destroying
fire and smoke! If he should be suffocated, or burned
to death before he could reach the window once more!
Ifbut now, thank God! oh thank God !--that is his face
at the window once more he is black and smoky-his
hair is on fire-but in his arms he has the senseless
form of James Miller, which he drags through the
window, and with difficulty brings down the ladder!
The men below helped as they could, but it was at the
peril of their lives and limbs, for sticks and blazing
thatch fell down thick amongst them. And now a pair
of white hands at the foot of the ladder, the only white
   

.
hands in that dangerous neighbourhoodfor no other
female dared venture near-threw over John's head a
thick shawl, taken from the shoulders of the same form
to which the hands belonged, and put out the blaze on
his head and arm by this means. It was Clara's hands
that did this; she had followed him out of doors, and
had watched his exploit with a beating heart. Two of
the neighbours at once carried off James to a place
of safety, and Clara at the same moment seized her
brother's arm with an exclamation of terror, and dragged
him
away. It was but just in time, for now came
crashing down, with volumes of smoke and sparks and
burning splinters, thrown far and wide, the blazing
roof, and with it part of the cottage wall, and on the
spot where John had stood the moment before was a
heap of bricks and beams and smouldering thatch higher
than himself.
" Thank God!" exclaimed Clara, gratefully, once
more, as they walked away from so dangerous a place.
"Are you hurt much?"
"Not at all, dear! I should have been but for you!
You have saved my life," and he looked down into her
face with inexpressible affection, as he replaced the
shawl upon her shoulders. "But it is time you went
home. There is no danger for me now."
"Not yet; not at present," she said firmly. They
returned to the front of the cottage, where an ominous
cry was being raised. "Plowden's thatch has caught;
all hands to the buckets!"Which cry was unhappily
too true.
Ebenezer Plowden's cottage and that inhabited by
Mrs. Jones adjoined; the older part of it was unfor-
   
FIRE! FIRE!

tunately thatched, and had caught fire at a corner that
was not at first observed. Great exertions were made
to subdue the flames, for by this time the whole village
was astir, and every man and boy, and not a few
women, worked to the uttermost. Ebenezer was inuch
respected, and all were doubly inclined to help him,
and to save his dwelling, if that were possible. Even
the clergyman did not disdain to use the buckets with
the resta fire-engine was not at this time attainable
--and the squire was present with every able servant
on his establishment. The fire was at last quenched, ,
but not before more than one-half of Ebenezer's house
was a heap of smouldering ruins, and the rest much
injured. The workshop, with its store of osiers and
baskets was burned down, and the "studdio" with
Mary's paintings was utterly destroyed.
Clara returned home early to prepare beds for those
who might need them; and soon Mary Plowden, with
her mother and Mrs. Jones, were located in the cottage,
Ebenezer remaining on his own premises, with some
friends, to guard what remained. John Broadbent
came home soon afterwards, and the villagers returned
to their different places of abode, all but a few, who
kept watch, lest any fresh outbreak of fire should
occur, so that when the sun rose, all was again tolerably
quiet. It was found that James Miller was not much
burned, though he was suffering from the effects of the
smoke he had inhaled; and the doctor said he must not
be moved at present from the house of the neighbour
where he had been at first taken.
A severe pain in his right hand and arm reminded
John, when the excitement was over, that, he had not
   

.
escaped without hurt; and his hair presented a sad
appearancehis thick rich locks being burned away
almost entirely. For two months afterwards he felt the
effects of the fire, and the scars remained upon his arm
through life; but they were honourable scars of which
he had no reason to feel ashamed-more honourable
than those gained in the heat and smoke of battle, that
the world so much delights to laud.
But how had it all occurred? How was it that the
cottage had been set on fire? Rumours varied for a
while. It was accident; it had been set on fire by
malicious persons; it was done by a mouse carrying a
lucifer match into a hole too near the thatch; Mrs.
Jones herself had done it, by setting clothes to dry too
near the fire; James Miller had done it by smoking in
bed. The real truth of the case was for some time
unknown. Circumstantial evidence revealed it at first,
and confession made all clear. James Miller had retired
to his room early, as we said, and to a dangerous com-
panion. The bottle he had shut up, and locked so
carefully in his box, was a bottle of gin, and when he
had gone to rest, as it was supposed, he indulged
himself with drinking part of its contents.
It was a
great enjoyment, one for which he had been longing
some time, and he made the most of it. When almost
senseless, he threw himself, dressed as he was, upon the
bed, leaving a lighted candle close to his open box of
clothes. Some spark from the candle, it was supposed,
must have fallen upon the linen. It smouldered, no
doubt, for a while, and then burst into a blaze; but James
was too heavily asleep to know anything about it, and
even after the bed and roof had caught fire, was insensible
   
FIRE! FIRE!

to his danger. When Ebenezer awoke him with great
difficulty, his senses were still too much obscured to be
of real service to him; he refused to follow him down-
stairs, and in the meantime, while those below were
calling for him, the stairs caught fire. At length he
was awake to his danger, but it was too latethe
smoke overpowered him, and he sank down upon
the landing to perish, had not John Broadbent, at
the risk of his own life, entered by the window and
rescued him.
John visited him the next day. His own arm was
in a sling, and a black mark upon his temple showed
traces of the fire. James was dressed, and sitting below
stairs, his elbows on the table, resting his head in his
hands when his friend entered. He lifted his head as
he heard some one approaching; his face was very pale,
and he became so ghastly, and trembled so much, that
John, in a few minutes, finding him quite unable to
talk, retired, nor did he attempt to see him again.
In a few days, however, James was better, and
himself called upon John. By this time it was known
how the fire had occurred, and the village was loud and
deep in its condemnation of the "gin-drinking, good-
for-nothing shoemaker," and those who took many a
sly drop themselves were loud and condemnatory as
the restperhaps a little more so.
John Broadbent was lying on the sofa. A slow fever
had attacked him, the result of his burns; his face was
pale, and it was apparent that he was suffering. James
threw himself on his knees before him. Oh! Mr.
Broadbent, I'm not fit you should ever speak to me
again, but I cannot help coming, to ask you to forgive
   

.
methen I will go away, and you shall never be
troubled with me any more."
"No, Miller, that will never do. I cannot spare you.
Rise up, my man, why do you kneel to me? Kneel to
God, and thank him for sparing your life."
"I do; I do; though I don't deserve to have it
spared. And it was you that saved me, too. I should
have been a dead man if it hadn't been for you." He
rose up slowly, and took John's left hand, the other
was bound up "Tell me how I can serve you; how I
can prove my gratitude; how I can repay you in any
way for what you have suffered, for what you still
suffer, then I can consent to live."
"I will tell you," said John, solemnly. " There is
only one way by which you can repay me. Promise
me faithfully, before God, that while you live, you will
never again taste intoxicating drinksand keep your
promise. Then I shall be abundantly repaid."
The tears rose in James's eyes, as he said, fervently
and slowly, "I promise before God!"
"Amen!" added John, with a full heart. "Now sit
down and tell me how it all occurred."
James made a full confession-he did not strive to
hide his guilt in the least, he even seemed, in the excess
of his contrition, to wish to throw every possible blame
upon himself.
But he was terribly agitated and dejected, as indeed
he might well be. How could he ever make good again
the damage and loss he had caused? One thing seemed
clear to him, and he repeated it frequently, that he
must leave St. Wilfrid's, for how could he bear to meet
those he had so deeply injured ?
   
FIRE! FIRE!

"Will that make the injury less? It seems to me
that it will increase it. Besides, it is cowardly to run
away from the punishment that is so much your due:
bear it and make the best of it. If you cannot rebuild
your friends' houses, or refurnish them, you can surely
do something, if ever so little, to assist. You can sell
the produce of your garden for their benefit, and though
Mrs. Jones may most likely hesitate to live with you
again, you owe her at least all you can spare from
your
own maintenance, and every kind attention you can
bestow. By going away you make much of this im-
possible. Show yourself a man at last! You have
never yet had any one dependent on you. Begin a
fresh life from to-day, and live not only for yourself
but for others. You owe a serious debt, more than you
can ever fully repay, but be determined to pay what
you can and redeem your character."
This was the advice his friend gave him. He lis-
tened humbly, he promised to do his best, and he left
the house with a less heavy step than when he entered
it. Sad as life was become, there was still much left to
live for, and the necessity for exertion was strong upon
him; his tools, his clothes, all his worldly possessions,
had been destroyed; he must work to regain them, to
get his daily bread, to help those he had so seriously
injured.
Money was collected for the benefit of the widow,
and in a short time she was placed in a small cottage
that had long stood empty, but was now repaired for
her use, with a new stock of goods about her, and
James once more went to reside with her. When she
knew he had taken the pledge she was afraid of him
   

.
no more, and two years' companionship in the same
house had given to her lonely heart a sort of motherly
affection for him. "Somehow she didn't like to part
wi' him," was her speech to Clara, and Clara gladly
encouraged the kindly feeling
Ebenezer Plowden's house was soon rebuilt. With
his usual vigour the basket-maker set about clearing
away the rubbish, and with John and Mary's help
drew out on paper a plan for a new and better build-
ing. He had been wise enough to insure, so that he
bad but little loss, and indeed the loss in the end
brought a positive enjoyment to him. To watch the
progress of the new house, pipe in mouth, in the ripe
autumn evenings, to contemplate the satisfactory ap-
pearance of the "front elevation," and reckon the num-
ber of days that would elapse before it could be roofed
in, was a great delight. He was something of a trouble
to the workmen-he would allow no Saint Mondays or
idle hours, and no surreptitious cans of ale to be brought
in while they should be at work. " It should be raised
by teetotalism," he said, "as the last was burned down
by yin;" for he had been sensible enough to see the
advantages of strict temperance for many years, and
now more than ever was he earnest in publishing his
opinion of the folly and wrong entailed by drink.
One morning as John passed, he found him busy
dealing out steaming coffee at eleven o'clock to the men,
and preaching the while to them in rather a loud voice
on the disadvantages of intemperance. His pipe lay in
a corner ready at hand, when it should next be wanted.
It was seldom far away from Ebenezer.
"If you men had half sense, you'd never drink again
   
FIRE! FIRE!

for your own sakes, let alone your wives and children.
It is a nasty, dirty, degrading habit, that of swilling
down ale; makes you fools one-half your time, and
knaves the other half; for when you should be at work,
instead of doing the best you can for your master, which
is your bounden duty, you're only thinking how much
drink you can crib from them at home out of your
wages! Aye, drink that coffee now, and tell me if it
isn't as good as ale! Which of you says it isn't?" "I
do, mester," replied Sandy Peach, a long red-nosed
bricklayer, who was reckoned very quick and clever
at work, but a great drunkard. " You do, do you?"
Sandy laughed; he rather enjoyed what he called
"setting the old fellow's monkey up," for there was
ever a feud going on between Sandy and "the mester."
"Good morning, Mr. Broadbent; a fine morning, sir,"
and Ebenezer touched his hat;returning then to the
fight with Sandy, "You do, do you?" and there was
some contempt in the tone of his voice; "well, I'm not
surprised at you, for you've lost the good wholesome
nateral taste your Maker gave you long ago, and you're
no judge therefore; but any man in his right senses
would say different-would say that coffee's a better
drink than ale-better for the head, and the stomach,
and the purse.
Do you think if I'd gone tippling in
your public-houses in my young days, and now, that I
should ever have possessed a house of my own, or had
the good sense to insure it, so that when the fire came
I'd no need to pipe my eye, but only to send for a lot
of chaps like you to put it up again for me? Don't you
think I'm a good deal happier this day than I should
have been if I'd done like you fellows, and spent most
   

.
of my earnings at the public? I was but a poor basket-
weaver when I was a young man, with not a ba'penny
to bless myself with but what I earned, and with less
wages than many of you get; but I've taken better care
of them than to throw them all down my throat, and
that puts me in mind that the Scripture says, ' Cast
thy bread upon the waters, and it shall be seen after
many days; but it never says, 'Cast thy bread, that's
thy money, you understand, upon the ale,' for then
you'd never see it again at all!"
John, who still stood by, could not help smiling at
this new and perhaps not very allowable use of the
text; and Sandy Pearce, who rightly judged that the
greater part of this exordium was intended for him,
and who was reckoned rather "'cute" by some of his
compeers, replied drily to the latter end of the speech,
"And it doesn't say, either, 'Cast thy bread into the
baccy-pipe,' does it, mester?"
Ebenezer was nonplussed for the moment at the
question. He glanced uneasily down towards the well-
beloved "clay idol." But he returned manfully to his
argument. "Baccur doesn't make a man tipsy till he
doesn't know the gutter from his bed nor the lamp-post
from his friend; it doesn't make a man abuse his wife
and little ones, nor half-murder them; it doesn't bring
up bad passions as you know ale does; and it doesn't
call the blue devils about you. No, my boys. If it
had done any of these things, I should never stand up
for it nor use it."
Sandy finished his cup of coffee as Ebenezer con-
cluded, and, giving his mouth a wipe with the back of
his hand, stood looking at the burly basket-maker with
   
FIRE!

FIRE!
an air of comic defiance. He was bullet-proof against
all arguments opposed to the use of his well-beloved
alcohol; he rather enjoyed the battle, indeed. It set
flowing the quicksilver in his brain, of which quick-
silver he had decidedly too much for his own well-
being; and it brought the ready, saucy words to his
lips, " Baccy's done me quite as much harm as ale ever
did, Mester Plowden."
"Prove it, Sandy, and I'll make you a present of my
pipe, and you shall break it into as many pieces as you
like."
"Thank you! One piece will do for me, mester. I
wouldn't break it into more on no account whatsom-
ever." The rest of the labourers laughed. "Well," he
continued, "I shan't have fur to go to prove it, for it
was smoking as first made me fond of the ale. Smok-
ing's thirsty work, and water didn't taste right wi' it,
so the more baccy I had the more ale I took, that's all
about it."
" I'm not obliged to drink ale because I smoke,"
retorted Ebenezer.
No, mester, may be not. But you're an exception,
an'exceptions only prove the rule, as fur's I've ever
heard. You ask all these chaps if they don't say as I
say, that them as smokes has to drink. Here,-Phil,
Joe, Jim, what do you say?"
All the men upheld Sandy's theory of smoking.
Ebenezer looked thoughtful.
"What do you say,
Mr. Broadbent?"
"That Sandy's very much in the right. To you it
may be no temptation; but to the greater number of
men, I believe, it is a serious one. Smoking induces
   

.
drinking. The two are not quite like Siamese twins,
indivisible; but they are often twins, and go very much
together. Aren't they, my men?"
"Aye, aye, sir, sure enough."
Ebenezer went slowly to the corner, where his pipe
lay in modest security. He lifted it up tenderly. He
looked at it wistfully. If he had been a man given to
sighing, he would have sighed. But he held it out
firmly, and presented it to John, and resolve was in
his eye as he said, "There, sir, take it and break it to
atoms! And bear witness for me, that I say I will
never smoke tobacco again while I live. Or, -stop,-
I promised Sandy he sbould break it."
But Sandy, who saw there was no hope of saving
the victim for himself, signified his wish that Mr. Broad-
bent should be the officiating priest, and offer the
sacrifice.
With a smile, John took the offending piece of clay,
and broke it, not to atoms as he was requested, but
into sufficiently small pieces, and threw them on the
ground. "I am witness," he said in a loud voice.
The men stood staring in some surprise at what
must have appeared to them a very strange act.
Which of you will do the same by your mugs and
glasses?" asked Ebenezer, wishful to improve the occa-
sion. "You'll never repent it! Lay by drink, as I've
laid by smoking, from this hour. Come, my good
fellows; you won't let me be alone, will you?"
After a little hesitation one man came forward, and
said he didn't mind promising; he'd long thought it
would be best to give it u"I've no glass to break,"
he continued, "but one in my mind's eye, an' it's been
   
CHANGES AND SECRETS.

a very deep, big 'un, an' 'll take some breaking. But
here it goes!" And he lifted his hands in the attitude
of throwing away.
Ebenezer shouted, "That's right, that's right!" and
enthusiastic, mercurial Sandy patted him on the back.
" Brayvo! old fellow! Brayvo! Phil!" Phil took him
by the hand, and said in a beseeching tone, "Join me,
Sandy. You'll always be glad of it." "Not I," replied
the incorrigible Sandy. "What's the use? I couldn't
keep to it if I did."A momentary solemnity came
over his mobile features. "I only wish I could, old
fellow; it 'ud be the better for me." And then the old
careless smile resumed its place.
ace. No more proselytes
followed Phil's example, and all were soon again at
workperhaps, however, to think seriously on the
advisability of eschewing ale for coffee. At all events,
let us hope so.
CHAPTER XV.
CHANGES AND SECRETS.
With the bride and bridegroom at Trentham, all settled
down very much as is usual with such interesting per-
sonages for the time being. The new minister's home
was still necessarily in the town, for Stephen must be
near his people, ready to be consulted, to be seen and
called for in emergency. A minister's work is generally
of more importance out of the pulpit than in, and in
the week-day he has many engagements. Meetings of
   

.
the church, Bible-meetings, prayer-meetings, classes for
young men and women, and one week-evening service,
at least, take up much of his time. It is only astonish-
ing that he can visit at all, when he has so many calls
upon his exertions, and yet, as we have seen before,
visiting was considered one of the minister's duties.
Stephen had hitherto done as little of this as was pos-
sible, restricting it, wherever he could, to visits to the
sick and poor. Now he was married, however, the
supposed duty could no longer be avoided, at least not
for a time, and visits to one house after another, be-
longing to his numerous and wealthy congregation,
were considered perfectly indispensable. The bride
bore her part in it womanfully, if we may use the term,
and for awhile, when the first shyness belonging to her
position was overcome, she enjoyed the excitement.
She was loving wife enough to be proud of her husband,
and of the praises overt or implied that were so liberally
given him.
But Jane, though so young and inexperienced, and
well pleased at first with the outside enjoyments of her
lot, was not satisfied to remain absorbed in them. She
had upon her a strong sense of the importance of the
sphere into which her husband had introduced her, and
though entering it with some trembling, remembering
her own deficiencies and liability to errors, she accepted
her place in it with satisfaction. Was it not an honour-
able, holy calling? She thanked God for it daily, with
a tender thankful heart, and long and ardently did she
pray that she might be no stumbling-block in the way
of so good, so exalted, so all-perfect a character, as her
husband appeared to her in their first married days.
   
CHANGES AND SECRETS.

They were indeed smiling, hopeful days, perhaps almost
more so than fall to the lot of most young brides, for
two worlds seemed to her to smile upon their union-
the earthly and the heavenly. Her parents, thoroughly
satisfied and content, looked upon their youngest
daughter's settlement in life as all that could be desired,
and no misgivings or dull doubt-clouds of any kind
came across them as to the happiness of her future.
The "church" accepted her cordially and lovingly at
once, as the wife of their honoured pastor, and the
daughter of their wealthiest and most influential, if not
most respected deacon; and were ready to look favour-
ably upon all that she said or did. And the conscious-
ness of God's protecting loving guidance, the perfect
confidence she felt in her husband, made her new duties
appear no burden.
John and Clara visited the new-married couple.
They found them located in a well-furnished, handsome
house in the Park, the "west-end" of Trentham, with
an abundance of this life's good about them. Their
abode seemed one of "music and light," and the view
from the lofty windows was one of the finest that
Trentham could produce; the broad extent of the Park,
a plateau of undulating green, overlooking the Trent-
valley far below, with its winding river and trees and
villages, and its blue-gray distance softening into the
horizon tints of the sky. Stephen showed his friends
the view with some pleasure.
"Our home!" said Clara with a smile, and a tender
light in her eyes, as she looked down at St. Wilfrid's,
seated among the shadow of its trees on the banks of
the shining Trent, and more beautiful to her than even
   

.
the butomus then so richly in flower on the rushy
borders of the river.
"Is that your home?" asked Jane interested, endea-
vouring to distinguish the dark mass of the church
tower. "I shall like to look at it for your sake.
sake. But
are you not damp by the river?"
'Not at all, though we look so low to eyes up
here," replied John, anxious for the honour of his
favourite St. Wilfrid's. "You overlook us entirely, but
I do not think you are much nearer heaven." This last
speech was addressed to Stephen, who made answer by
a smile, and a roguish "Possibly not, though we shall
be obliged to call you our low-lived friends!"
Clara was much pleased with Jane. A sisterly feeling
sprang up in her heart for her, and Jane on her part
admired the calm grace of her visitor, and felt inclined
to love the pleasant, affectionate glance of her eyes.
"We must know more of each other," she said, as she
clasped Clara's hand at parting, "for you will come
again? And I shall be sure to visit you!"
And thus a new link united the two houses speedily,
and across the ferry friends came and went from either
side, and the golden autumn days became still richer
from their mutual enjoyment. The joy was the more
perfect, because for these friends three worlds met and
embracedthe religious, the intellectual, and the
physical. Winter, however, brought a temporary cessa-
tion of these pleasures, and in the spring new duties
commenced. Jane promised to become a mother, and
her father suffered from an attack resembling apoplexy.
The doctors feared it might presage it indeed, and re-
commended spare diet and less wine.
   
CHANGES AND SECRETS.

John and Clara too had other duties. Books that
John had written began to attract attention in other
countries, and a call to Germany came for him. Clara
accompanied him, with the hope and expectation that
in a year or less they should be able to return to their
quiet nest. But the year became two, and in the
meantime changes had taken place, that they could note
and appreciate among the friends they had left behind.
Clara had received letters from Jane during her stay
abroad, acquainting her with some of these changes.
Her letters had not been so cheerful of late; but Clara
did not wonder at this. Her father had died very
suddenly. The "less wine" order was not effectual to .
restore health. It came much too late, and his plethoric
habit of body could not be reduced quickly enough.
"No wine at all" might possibly have saved him-with
consistent diet; but the family surgeon and the two
physicians who attended him, did not dare to give so
stringent a command, or did not know its necessity.
Mrs. Gresham was still residing at Swansford; but was
lonely amid all her riches, her eldest daughter Char-
lotte having married a retired merchant, whose home
was some miles away. Jane was therefore frequently
required at Swansford to relieve the tedium of her
mother's solitude, and went over to spend every spare
evening she could command from more pressing duties.
These were not small or slight; for she had now a baby,
a boy of some eighteen months, whose delicate health
called forth her motherly solicitude; and the needful
attention she had to bestow upon him, sadly interfered
with the time she wished to give to her husband indi-
vidually
   

.
At the first meeting of the long-parted friends, Jane's
eyes looked sweet and good as ever, though there was
a shade of care came across them at intervals, even in
that short morning call. She looked almost as young
and well as before, however, apart from the paleness
that mourning confers upon fair complexions. Stephen
was more altered in outward appearance. He had
grown stouter, and the hair that used to be so abundant
grew thinly upon the top of his headindeed there
was a bald spot that no dexterous brushing or combing
ould quite conceal. There was a restless glance in his
eyes, and an increased fulness of the lower lip; but his
manner was friendly and courteous; and if he did not
shake John's hand with the old cordiality, still there
was no real or apparent coldness to complain of.
He inquired after Germany and German friends, of
whom he had several that were mutual acquaintances;
and then said, with a sigb, how much he should like
to rest a while from his numerous duties and engage-
ments. "I find," he said, "my pulpit duties press upon
me as they never did before," and he put his hand to
his head in a weary way.
" The constant strain for
the fresh sermon every Sabbath is very trying; for I
need not tell you that ordinary fare does not suit my
congregation," and a faint smile came to his pale
feverish-looking lips.
"It must indeed be a great strain," answered John,
sympathetically. "But why not give them something
simpler? Nothing that you could say would be trite
and meaningless, and the plain brown bread might
occasionally taste sweeter than spiced cake."
"So they tell me sometimes. But if the wheat is
   
CHANGES AND SECRETS,

failing, how am I to give them either cake or brown
bread? I sometimes fear"and he passed his hand
over his brow again, while Jane regarded him anxiously
-"that my brain will fail me."
John and Clara looked shocked and alarmed. Why
not send for advice at once?-Or if you think that is
what you require, why not take a year's holiday, and
travel abroad?" asked John.
'No," he replied in a hopeless manner. "I have
had advice; but the doctors do me no good. And I do
not know really that it is a holiday I want."
" It might be just the thing for you," said Clara,
earnestly "You are depressed now, and cannot ima-
gine anything will do you good; but once get away,
and breathe the fresh clear air of the Continent, and
your hypochondriacal fancies will fly away."
"I wish you could persuade him! I am sure he
needs rest and an entire change," was the young wife's
remark.
But he still said, "No," and changed the subject.
The baby was brought in, and duly nursed and
kissed, and presently highly delighted with some Swiss
toys "aunt Clara" brought him in her pocket and reti-
cule. John and Stephen walked round the garden, that
was laid out in terraces and slopes in front of the house,
while the two ladies had their own talk in the
green-
curtained drawing-room. There was much to say on
both sides. The death of Mr. Gresham and the lonely
life of Jane's mother came first; and then more cheer-
ful subjectsmotherly cares and pleasures, the good a
minister's wife might do amongst the poor, Jane's
evening school for young girls, her Bible-class, her
Q
   

.
Sunday-school class--all of which Clara heard about
with great interest. Her turn came next, to relate
some of her more striking travelling experiences, the
success of John's last book, and their future prospects.
"We shall live, I expect, at St. Wilfrid's for some time
again. The dear old cottage is to let once more; so
that we shall have the pleasure of being near you, and
hearing all about you at once, without the necessity
for those tedious but delightful letters," was her con-
cluding speech.
Jane's eyes glistened with pleasure at the thought.
But quickly a dim cloud found its way beneath her
long eyelashes. We shall need you, dear, oh, so
much! I know we shall, and God has sent you back
for that!"
"You do not anticipate any misfortune?" asked
Clara, concerned at her manner.
"I ought not; but sometimes a very sad thought
And yet I cannot tell it you at pre-
sent. However"and she lifted her head from its
mournful gaze at the baby on her knee-"I may be
mistaken. Brighter days will come. Isn't it that you
wish me to say? And God knows how it all is."
Clara could ask no more questions; but she was glad
to see her look more cheerful again. Presently, as she
took her over the house, to show her the alterations
that had been made in several roomsthe
nursery
and
its pretty little swing-cot, "a present from poor dear
papa;" and her collection of baby's hoods and dresses;
detailing which amongst the magnificent store had been
embroidered, and made up, and presented to her, by the
ladies of the congregation, and which she had worked
comes over me.
   
CHANGES AND SECRETS.

herself, &c. A collector amongst his gems and curio-
sities could not have displayed his favourites with more
zest. And baby, as he looked down upon them also,
snatching at first one and then another with his fat
tiny hands, evidently thought with mamma and her
guest that they were all very beautiful. .
On their return to the drawing-room, Jane opened
the piano, and solicited a song, or at least a little music.
Clara sat down and played a symphony of Beethoven's
an old friend of hers, that had cheered many a lonely
moment in the foreign land, and played it with pathos
and sweetness; her touch was like her voice, both sweet
and strong, and she had too much feeling for the music
to obtrude its execution. It was not the instrument
that spoke so much as the soul. When she had finished,
she found the number of her auditory increasedJohn
and Stephen had entered unperceived by her. Upon
John's face she saw still shining that which the music
had awoke within hima something inexpressibly
grand and solemn and sweet; but over Stephen's
brow a cloud still rested. Even Beethoven could not
lift it.
Mary Plowden was delighted to regain her friends.
Ebenezer's new house they found lightsome and cheer-
ful-looking, with its taller windows and improved
elevation. It was now, and had been some time,
thoroughly finished and refurnished. Still it was only
a cottage, and had no higher pretensions, for Ebenezer
hated what he called finery. A "studdio" had not
been forgotten-a real one, and not a parlour, or yet
an attic with an imperfect light, but a room entirely
dedicated to the works finished and unfinished of the
   
+
.
artist for whom it was built. It had a window facing
the north, "the right studdio light, you see, sir," said
Ebenezer, as he accompanied John and Clara and Mary
up-stairs to see it. Mary drew back a little as the
others entered. To their amaze the walls were already
nearly covered; works of art of alarming size and colour
once more decorated the basket-weaver's home. A
survey was taken pretty leisurely. "And now," said
John with a smile, addressing Mary, "you must have a
phnis painted over your door, with a proper motto,
for certainly from the ashes of the old these new ones
have arisen. I only wish they had been less like the
originalswe want a fresh inspiration here;but I
remembered you when we were away, and have brought
one with me." He produced a large parcel he had
hitherto held under one arm, and revealed a beautiful
painting, which he placed upon Mary's easel. It was a
skilful copy of Ary Scheffer's "St. Augustine and his
Mother." Mary uttered a cry of joy. "O my dream!" she
exclaimed, and then a moment after, drawing a long
breath, "How beautiful! and this is for me?" "For
you,-on one condition, that you study it, and endeavour
to find out the difference, the essential difference, be-
tween this painting and yours. I don't mean as regards
colour and drawing merely, for of course you see at
once how superior this is in both respects to yours.
When you have studied it really, perhaps you will be
ready to make a new beginning, and put some of these
away."
"I will put them all away at once!"
'No; not till you really feel they should be hidden.
Better let them stay till you have found out the differ-
   
CHANGES AND SECRETS.

ence, the whole difference, between this and them,
though that is too much to expect, perhaps."
Ebenezer Plowden's brow cleared up a little. We have
said he hated finery, but we find we must make one reser-
vation. Mary's pictures he admired from his heart, and
they were fine enough. He had stared disrespectfully at
the small painting just introduced, small in comparison
with the gigantic labours around, and he now sniffed a
dissatisfied opinion. To his eyes it was far inferior to
any of Mary's, so colourless and insignificant, and want-
ing in effect. Bold untamed. reds and blues, in violent
contrast, and in considerable masses, were alone worthy
to be called colour. It was absurd to suppose that
Mary's clever eyes and hands needed to be taught any.
thing more, and from such a poor bit of a thing as that!
Mr. Broadbent, we fear, sank in Ebenezer's estimation
"Hadn't the rector said that Mary's pic-
tures were very clever? and didn't almost every
visitor
who came to see them say the same? Mr. Broadbent
had been so long among them furreners, poor ignorant
creatures, till he didn't know a good thing when he
saw it!" This was his final conclusion; and he looked
with a feeling of pity upon the bold critic. " And that
they should be taken away? these great beauties for
that poor pale-faced thing?"Mary continued looking
at the pale rapt face of St. Monica, with those deep
heavenly meanings in her tender eyes that you feel
have wept many tears, but never impatient ones, till
her own were full of blinding mist. Then she turned
to her father, "Is it not very beautiful, father?"
Ebenezer could not understand her emotion. "It
may be all very grand, my dear,"he conceded this to
very much.
   

.
his daughter's weakness, "but to my eyes yours are
much better. There's no colour about it, and I can't tell
what the man and woman are looking at, for my part!"
Mary turned disappointed away. She and her father
had hitherto thought alike on matters of art; now she
had leapt suddenly out of his sphere, and must go on
her way alone. With a sigh she accepted the lonely
gift, and with a great rejoicing also. When a new
sense is opened we cannot but be glad, though all
around us may be mocking and incredulous at what to
them is an unknown or unvalued possession.
James Miller was waiting for them at the lodgings
they had taken till the old cottage could be ready for
them. They were much struck with his altered appear-
ance. He looked much olderbut this was an improve-
ment rather than otherwise, as formerly a certain want
of decision and thought was apparent in the expression
of his face. Now both were to be seen, and they con-
ferred upon him an air of manliness and resolution.
He was, too, more refined in his manners, and his dress
was improved. There was a very warm hand-shaking.
"This is a happy day, indeed! How glad I am you
are returned."
"And I am very glad to find you here still, and in
so honourable a position. Let me congratulate you!"
said John heartily.
Let not my readers suppose that any sudden wind-
fall of wealth or what are called honours had fallen
upon the village shoemaker by this observation of
John's. To be honest, and industrious, and sober, are
honourable attributes, and to these I think we shall
find he referred.
   
CHANGES AND SECRETS.


The colour mounted into James's dark brow. "It
is all owing to you, sir! But I am so attached to
St. Wilfrid's now that I don't think I could ever
leave it."
"And you are quite a large gardener now, I under-
stand?"
. "Yes, I have this week given up shoemaking entirely.
I have nearly an acre laid down in strawberries, and
have just taken the nursery gardens close by."
Capital! I wish you every success.
What does
your father say to it?"
James smiled. "He was here the other day, sir,
looking over the grounds with me. He is very well
satisfied, I believe."
"And you work very hard now, I hear.-Indeed,
you must, or you could not have got on so well in this
short time."
"I am always up before six, frequently at four and
five, and on Saturdays I attend market."
"Early to bed and early to rise. Yes, yes, you
deserve your good fortune. You will let me see your
new home, James?"
"If you please, sir. AndI have brought you these,
if you will please to accept them." He opened a basket
that stood beside him, and showed some splendid peaches
and grapes, the first-fruits of the season. John lifted
them out admiringly. "Accept them? Yes, indeed!
How could I refuse? Did you ever see finer, Clara?
They are splendid-much too good to be said 'no'to.
Thank you, my dear fellow. You could not have
brought me a better present."
James stayed a short time longer, talking of the
   
+
.
widow Jones, who was now his lodger, or rather house-
keeper, keeping house for him in the larger cottage he
had taken, and of the three men he employed in his
gardens and strawberry ground. May we tell a little
secret here, which is, that James could not have got on
so rapidlynot even with teetotalism, and early rising,
and industry combinedif a little money, by the help
of which he was enabled to make the first advantageous
start in the world, had not been lent him by a kind
friend, who was so like John Broadbent that we might
almost
say it was himself, did we not fear our secret
would be made known and might reach his ears? But
if he had not been a teetotaller this
money
most
tainly would not have been forthcoming, for who could
trust a drunkard, or one who might become so any
day? Another secret remains. Must we unfold it at
present? We think not; we will be silent about this
secret for the present, for neither John or Clara Broad-
bent are as yet acquainted with it.
cer-
CHAPTER XVI,
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD.
[t is three years since we left Veronica and her father
an important three years for both. Veronica had
unfolded from a girl to a woman, tall and slight, with
the same large blue eyes that had first, when a baby,
led her father to give her the name she bore; but they
were now much more beautiful than then, as it is right
   
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD.

the perfected flower should be than the bud, however
lovely. Poverty still clung round the blind man and
his daughter, though honest labour had always hitherto
been sufficient for their wants. Basket-weaving and
lace-mendingthese were the arts that supplied the
daily bread and the necessaries of life; and they had
been diligently pursued. Veronica had lately obtained
work direct from the warehouses, and this had been a
great help, for she now gained much more remunera-
tion for her labour than before; and the young girl was
able to make some little improvement in her scanty
wardrobe, and "to seem more like the rest of the
world," to use her own expression. With the hopeful-
ness belonging to her time of life she had just begun
to anticipate a somewhat easier life. Ebenezer Plow-
den, who now bought her father's baskets, paid him
better than his late employer, and the little room in
which they lived had a more cheerful and better fur-
nished look than of old. She almost felt they were
getting rich, as she looked round on her father's newly-
covered chair, on a small square of carpet at the hearth,
on a new shiny tea-tray, and on the pots of flowering
geraniums in the windows; and her voice was heard
singing about the small room, in rivalry with that of the
pet canary that had been given her, which hung in a cage
near the window. Dicky had neither a splendid prospect
outside or inside-very differently situated in that
respect from the aristocratic birds we saw at Swansford.
A narrow dingy street, and a small, poorly-furnished
apartment, were all the glimpses into paradise he ever
obtained; but he evidently made paradise of them, and
sang, and carolled, and flirted his wings as merrily as
   

.
did those in gilded cages and varnished drawing-rooms.
A few seeds, a little water, a bunch of groundsel or
plantain, or a tuft of grassthese were his necessaries
and luxuries, his lawns, his groves, his fountains, or
rather were in place of these delights, and he was
satisfied. Like Veronica, he had never known other
and more exciting joys than were to be found in this
confined town-world of his; and his song was full of
joy as hers.
But for the last week the song had been mute on
Veronica's lips, and Dicky had been fain to follow suit;
he took his moods very much from his young mistress.
Mark Lee had been taken seriously ill; suddenly the
powers of life were failing him. A stroke of paralysis
had seized him one night on getting into bed, and he
was now, the doctor said, without hope of recovery.
Mournful news, indeed, for poor Veronica. A foretaste
of the loneliness, the bitterness of this great seething
world was already stealing to her lips. When her
father should be gone, what was there left for her?
What friend, what lover, male or female, on this wide
earth? An orphan indeed, she would be left to wander
through long, weary years, with no one left to guide,
and console, and shield. As she sat by the side of the
dying father's bed while he slept, these thoughts came
across her at intervals, filling up the mournful moments
sadly enough. He, too, seemed to be remembering
this; for, when awake and conscious, he would lie with
his face turned towards hers with an anxious expression
not to be described, and the tears would roll down his
cheeks slowly. Then he would say, " Veronica, come
closer; let me feel your hand, dear;" and she would clasp
   
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD.

his hand, that looked so pale and thin on the sheet and
was so all but powerless, and sit thus for half-an-hour or
an hour at a time. "It is hard, very hard," he would
murmur; "but what can I do?" And then suddenly,
"You have that paper, Veronica? Promise me again
you will go." And she would say, "It is quite safe,
dear father, and I will go." The paper was a letter
written by him, and the promise Veronica had made
was, that when her father was dead, she would take it
and deliver it with her own hands to the lady it was
addressed to, and wait for an answer.
"She will surely
do something; yes, she will surely do something when
I am gone," he would say. He had written the letter
some time ago anticipatory of this illness, when brood-
ing over the unprotected, friendless condition in which
he should leave his daughter; and he trusted it might
reach her heart as well as her hand, and that she might
stretch out a kindly, fostering arm over the young
destitute girl He had written it himself, blind as he
was, for he could not bear to reveal to Veronica the
wrong he had done to her and her mother. When I
am gone," he thought, "she will then discover it; but
she will then forgive me, and I shall not have to blush
before her." And this poor letter was the sole worldly
provision Mark Lee could now make for his only child
- he who had once possessed broad estates and thou-
sands of pounds, and who might still have so.possessed
them but for the enticement of the wine-cup, that had
led the way to his ruin.
The days he had lain upon what he felt to be his
death-bed had brought still more vividly than ever to
his mind the scenes of his past ill-spent life. A book
   

.
out of which he was always reading, more or less, was
this book of his past life, and very ugly were its pages
become to him. But gradually was dawning upon
his
dark mind a sense of something more than chance, or
mere order in the arrangements of this world, both
physical and moral, and a faint hope and expectation
that in the vast universe was somewhere a creating,
controlling God, before whose clear vision all the con-
tradictions and seeming accidents of this life, stand out
in order and brightness, and are only as He wills them.
And with this idea or sense dawned also a sense of his
own weaknesses and sins, and of the purity and holiness
of this great controlling God. He saw imperfectly
men as trees walking," as yet; but it was the com-
mencement, let us hope, of a truer, purer
vision.
"I have had a dream, Veronica," he said one morn-
ing, as she came as usual after breakfast, to sit by his
side, and to put her hand in his. "A dream of your mother
and your brother. You remember the rose-coloured
cloud you once saw over Ike's grave, when you and I
were there, that you thought looked like an angel?"
Veronica pressed his hand in token of assent.
in my dream last night two such clouds in the sky,
that were very beautiful, and that came nearer and
nearer as I gazed. Larger and larger, too, they grew;
and in a while, one was your mother, and one was Ike.
They looked solemnly at me, very solemnly, and a
voice seemed to come from them; they didn't speak it,
but I heard it.  Blessed are they who have not seen,
and yet have believed!' I was down-hearted at the
words, for I had not believed, because I had not seen,
and there was no blessing for me. It seemed to over-
. I saw
   
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD.

whelm me at last, the thought that there was no
blessing for me. I sank down before those two, and
dared not look at them. In a while, when I lifted up
my eyes, they were gone, and I awoke. But it is all as
clear before me as ever, and the words still sound in
my ears.
'Blessed are they that have not seen, and
yet have believed.' Those words are in the Testament,
find them for me, Veronica, and read them."
Veronica found them, and read of Thomas, who could
not believe in the risen Saviour, and was convinced,
and forgiven, though forgiven with those words of
gentle reproof Mark had heard in his dream.
When she had finished, he lay for some time as in
thought. He lay so still at last that she supposed
he was asleeBut he was only exhausted after his
long talk-long for him in his weak stateand was
recovering, by perfect rest, a little strength before the
final exhaustion, from which there is no rally.
A gentle tap came to the door as he lay thus.
Veronica said "Come in," thinking it was Mrs. Christy,
the neighbour who helped her to nurse and attend to
her father, but there entered an elderly white-haired
man instead, of middle height, with fair complexion,
and deep gray eyes, whose expression was peculiarly
benevolent and penetrating, and attired in black coat,
cut square, and collarless, white neckerchief, and broad-
brimmed hat, which he pulled off at once, as his foot
crossed the threshold, saying, in a deep peculiar voice,
" Peace be to this house."
Veronica was awed by the entrance of a stranger
with such words upon his lips, and looked at him
wonderingly with her large eyes, a gaze which he
   

.
returned with a pleasant glance, and words explanatory
of his appearance.
"I have come to speak a few words to your father,
and to pray beside him, if he will allow me, or is able
to attend to me, for I have heard of his state from your
neighbour below. I am Jonas White, my dear, the
Methodist preacher.-Can he understand me?" and he
drew gently near the bed, and looked upon the sick
man.
"Thank you!" said Mark Lee, feebly. "Thank you,
Mr. White; God has sent you."
"Of that I am assured," answered the white-haired
stranger, reverently. He has laid your case on my
mind all the night, and obedient to Him I am come to
give you his divine message Believe, and thou shalt
be saved.''
Heralding his teaching and prayers by these words,
the preacher sat by the dying man for half-an-hour, and
spoke to him as he was at the time impressed to do.
He saw he was exhausted, so praying fervently a short
solemn prayer, and commending him to God, he left
him early, promising to call again on the morrow.
But before the morrow came, a light had shone on
the spirit-eyes of the blind man, that was not of this
world, and over his body the partial paralysis of disease
had been succeeded by the total one of death. He had
now neither hand or ear left for Veronica.
It was a very small, pauper-like funeral. It is true,
it might have been otherwise. Young Gresham again
made his appearance, with offer of aid to Veronica in
the burial; but after thanking him, she refused his
money, believing her father would not have wished her
   
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD.

to accept it. Sorrowfully she made a sale of his bed,
and arm-chair, and whatever else she could spare, to
defray the expense of the coffin and grave, and of a
very humble suit of mourning for herself; and then,
when all was over, and he was put in the ground with
her mother and brother, she took the letter in her hand,
read once more its address, and prepared herself for a
journey to the place it spoke of. It was to "Mrs. Lee,
Brunswick House, Aldborough." Who Mrs. Lee was,
she did not know; some relative of her father's, no
doubt; perhaps an aunt of hers; a rich lady, she fancied,
from the way in which he had spoken of her. But
whoever it was, it was her duty to go to her, letter in
hand, and she felt no hesitation about it. Aldborough
she found was twelve miles away. How was she to
get there? It was winter time, and the snow was on
the ground; but the morning after the funeral was fine,
and she was young and tolerably strong. She had
never walked so far as twelve miles in her life before;
but she thought she might accomplish it. She would
walk, therefore; and by starting early in the morning,
she hoped to reach the place before dinner. An hour,
she calculated, would be long enough to wait for an
answer, then she might return home; perhaps some one
would give her a lift in a cart; she had heard of such
things; and with two shillings in her pocket, all her
present wealth, she could buy food at dinner-time; and
the lady might do something for her-make her a pre-
sent, or ask her to stay with her a few days; who could
tell? Her father had evidently expected some benefit
would accrue to her from the visit, and it might be so.
At the worst, however, it would only be a long walk!
   

BY TIIE TRENT.
These were her thoughts as she put on her new mourn-
ing, and arranged her clothes as neatly as possible. It
was necessary she should look tidy and respectable; and
though the tears would come while dressing, and made
her eyes red, she remembered the fresh morning air
would soon blow the redness away. Locking the door
of her rooms; alas! they were desolate now; no father
was there within to think of or care for! and taking
Dick's cage in her hand, she left him and the key with
Mrs. Christy.
"I shall be home to-night, perhaps, Mrs. Christy, or
perhaps I may stay a day or two, I don't know; but
at all events you will hear from me or see me in less
than a week." Mrs. Christy knew of the letter, and
whither she was bound, and wished her success on her
errand.
Wipe thy tears away, lass," she said kindly, " before
thou goes in to the lady; great folk don't like to
see 'em."
"That's if I can, Mrs. Christy," replied Veronica.
And the tears poured down afresh at the thought.
Why did she look lingeringly at the well-known
window ere she turned the corner of the street that
would hide it from her? She could surely leave it for
a few days without regret. A few days, did we say?
Perhaps it would only be one. "Most likely, only one,"
said Veronica to herself, as she went on, with a sigh.
And yet there was at her heart a strange feeling, as if
now, for the first time in her life, the anchor-cable had
been cut, and the pathless ocean was alone before her.
Brunswick House, Aldborough-how shall we de-
scribe it?-was a tall, grand house, among taller trees.
   
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD.

It was grand; but it had been grander years ago-when,
in George I.'s time-newly built of brick and stone-it
had its first maidenly complexion upon it-pure, clear,
white and red. Now, the sun and the wind had faded
and dulled it, and had left behind them visible marks,
as the sun and wind of many summers and winters will
fade and muddy all other clear complexions. Moss had
grown between its stones, and among the carved gar-
lands on the flanking urns above the pillars of the
entrance gates, and on the scallop-shells and other
devices that adorned its front, and moss lay in round
little cushions at the widening joints of the great stone
steps that led to its wide hall doorways. Ancient yews
stood on each side of the long sloping lawn in front, and
immense elms shielded it with their high broad shoulders
from the cold north and east.
It was an interesting old place. We wish it had had
more interesting and a better inhabitant than was
now its mistress. She was elderly and stately and
proud; and duly she aired it and herself with guests,
and made it as lively as her austere nature permitted
it should be; but it was not a gay, merry house, and
the "eld" of age and weariness and dulness were all
upon it, and were perceptible even from the road, that
wound at a respectful distance among the rising ground
at its side.
Little did its mistress think-as she sat on the parti-
cular morning of which we write, at work, upon a piece
of embroidery, representing a doll-like shepherdess
amongst her lambs, with a vividly green distance be-
hind her and a very deep blue sky above herof the
visitor who was now on her way, painfully toiling along
R
   

.
the icy roads, where every third step was a retrogres-
sion, instead of an advance, and of a certain letter this
coming visitor carried in her bosom, from a husband
she had tried so much to forget, and wished never again
to see, though she was at present quite as ignorant of
his death, as she had been for years of his place of abode.
It was a cold day, and the lady was dressed in the
warmest and softest of woollens and silks, and had her
embroidery-stand placed quite close to the high-piled
fire, that filled the wide antique fire-grate, with its
comforting blaze. She had no guests in the house at
present; but not far from her was a parlour-maid, busy
"filling in" a similar piece of embroidery to that upon
which she was engaged. The parlour-maid looked
timid and unhappy; and as her dexterous fingers carried
the worsted or silk out and in, she stole an occasional
furtive glance at her mistress, who was now with grim
determination planting her needle through and through
the eye and cheeks of the rosy-faced sheep maiden.
Breakfast had been over about an hour only, for the
lady always rose late at this time of the year, when a
footman appeared at the door, with the announcement
that a young woman wished to see her.
"Who is she?" tartly demanded the lady.
"I don't know, mum. She says she must not give
her name till she sees you; she has a letter to deliver,
very partikler, she says, mum."
"Has Mrs. Thompson seen her? Mrs. Thompson
was the housekeeper.
Yes, mum; and can't make nothing out about her
at all."
"Send the woman here," said Mrs. Lee, crossly, while
   
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD.

she pushed her embroidery-frame impatiently away,
and arranged her spectacles.
In a minute afterwards, Veronica entered the room.
She glanced timidly round at the lofty apartment, and
at what seemed to her its gorgeous furniture; but she
did not curtsey on her entrance, as Mrs. Lee was accus-
tomed to expect all mere "young women" to do. She
was tired, and her boots were sodden with the snow;
but a deep colour was in her cheeks from her exertion
in the fresh air, and her large blue eyes shone brightly,
with a subdued radiance however, half timid, half
expectant. Mrs. Lee might possibly have been mollified
had she taken time to examine her sweet countenance,
and note its expression; but she only saw before her a
young girl in scanty raiment, "poor, flimsy, housemaid-
sort of mourning," she would have called it, who had
not curtseyed to her; and she asked, angrily, "What's
your will, young woman ?"
"May I speak to you alone, ma'am?" asked Veronica,
with a slight tremble in her voice, she could not quite
control.
"What do you mean?" said the lady haughtily; and
then, bethinking herself, "Gardner, you may go to the
next room!" Gardner, the parlour-maid, was glad
enough to get away from her mistress's presence gene-
rally, but she was just now rather curious to see a little
more of the pretty girl who had come with so mysterious
a communication; however, she dared do no other than
obey at once, and vanished behind a side-door opening
into a closet, called her work-room.
When the maid was gone, Veronica came a few steps
forward with the letter in her hand,
   

.
My father is dead, ma'am," was her not very lumi-
nous introduction to her mission," but he made me
promise to deliver this letter to you, yourself
, and to let
no one else see it but you."
"Some begging letter," thought the lady, and did
not deign to inquire who the "father" was. She took
the letter from Veronica with an air of scorn. "Really,
young woman," was her observation, "your forward-
ness is beyond conception! Why could you not have
delivered this to Thompson in the proper way?". And
she handled it as if she thought some plague might be
hidden in its folds. "Where do you come from, pray?"
"From Trentham, ma'am! My father was Mark
Lee, who said you knew him well, and would read
that letter at once.
I should not have brought it you
but for his wish." Veronica regained confidence under
the lady's scornful words.
"Mark Lee! Mark Lee!" repeated the lady.
" What
Mark Lee?" And then added severely, " I'll have you
taken up for an impostor, if you don't mind what
you're saying."
"I am no impostor, ma'am! I am his daughter, his
only child living; he was blind, and a basket-weaver,
and was buried only yesterday! Surely, ma'am, you
know who he is !"
The lady opened the letter with an air of disgust.
"Why did such low people trouble her?" It was writ-
ten very indistinctly, words here and there only half
formed and the lines sadly interfering with one another.
She had to read again and again to make sense of the
words. Still, as she read, she understood so far that it
was indeed from her husband, and was asking for
   
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD.

com-
pardon for himself, and for protection and assistance
for his daughter, "his dear Veronica." It prayed for
forgiveness, humbly, and especially forgiveness for the
last sin committed against her, his marriage with an-
other, but "trusting to her womanly nature, to her
charity, to her memory of the days when she had loved
him, he had faith to think, to hope, to believe she
would take his only child to her bosom, and provide
for her." It was a forlorn hope truly, and perhaps
only a man like Mark Lee, cut off for
years
from
munication with his fellows, blind and poor and sick,
would have dreamt for a moment that such a letter would
reach the hard heart of the woman he had so wronged,
or that if it did, the result would have been desirable
for Veronica. In finding her a home, he might only
have provided her with a prison, and with a tyrant for a
jailer.
Veronica, as we see, did not know the contents of
the letter, or what it asked for her. She remained
standing near the bilious-looking, repulsive face of the
so-called lady before her, whose "charity" had not yet led
her to provide her with a seat. She saw there was no
gracious look or word to be expected from that face,
and now, weary as she felt, all she desired was that
she might go away at once to some poor cottage,
where she could buy bread and get an hour's rest before
she must return to Trentham.
The lady was shocked by the letter. It came upon
her at last as a thundercla"When you receive this,
I shall be under the mould," it began. "Was then that
hated husband dead? The man she had vowed never
to forgive gone at last? Was she really free?" Her
   

.
heart did give a throb at this thought, a throb of re-
joicing, such as she could feel.But this daughter!
That he should have dared to give her name to another
woman! (Strange, though she had no love, she could
feel jealousy, and of the sharpest, bitterest sort!) Some
low creature, no doubt! Out of the streets, most likely!
and to beget children, chits like this before her, who
perhaps had the presumption to take the name of Lee
also. No, this was an only child.There were no more.
So much the better then. But what was this one to
her? It was profound, unmitigated impudence in that
man, impudence that she had not expected even he
possessed, to send to her house such a child of shame.
"Take her to her bosom,"indeed! A low, bitter laugh
escaped her lips as she read this again. Presently she
looked uVeronica had laid her hand upon the back
of a chair, to give her a moment's change of posture.
Tall for her years, and graceful, with those deep beau-
tiful eyes, and that abundant waved hair flowing in
and out in golden curves underneath and from out the
crape, her beauty of form the more conspicuous from
the fewness of the folds of her scanty drapery, the pro-
duct of so slender a purse, she might have called forth
a momentary admiration and pity even in the selfish
woman before her, had she been less proud and less
irritated. But to admire a poor girl was inadmissible
to her pride, to pity the daughter of "that man," impos-
sible.
She remembered, however, it would be well not to
demean herself by angry words. Cold sarcasm was
more befitting from one in her station to one so low, and
so utterly mean.
   
A LETTER FROM THE DEAD.

such ex-
" Your father," and she laid stress on the words,
imagined I should forgive and forget all his sins im-
mediately I saw your pink checks. He asks me to
take you to my house and home, which no doubt you
are aware of. If, however, you have had
any
pectations, I advise you to give them up at once. Your
disreputable origin is enough for me. I will have no
bastards in my house." She paused a moment to note
the effect of her words, and then waving her hand
loftily, added, "Now, you may go!"
Veronica was stunned by such strange words. What
did this proud, insulting lady mean? Bastards ?-did
she talk of bastards to her who was none? Her eyes
flashed with sudden fire, and lifting her head proudly
(ah, poor Veronica !), replied"You are no lady, or
you would not speak so! I am not the name you say,
but as honourable and well-born as yourself, though so
poor, ma'am; and you do me wrong to say so, and my
father wrong too. I do not know who you are, or why
you use such cruel words, but I know you have no
right to use them! I am Veronica Lee, and not all the
water in the Trent can wash my name away. My
mother-"
The lady put up one hand to her ear, with a gesture
she would hear no more, and with the other
rang
the
bell. The parlour-maid came back in a trice.
"Show this young woman the hall-door, Gardner,
immediately."
"You shall hear me to the end, ma'am!" said Veronica,
passionately. "I am here, and will speak my mind.
You have insulted me without a cause; you have been
proud and haughty, and insulted my father's name also,
   
+
.
and let me tell you once more, that my mother, Jessy
Lee, was as good and honest a wife and mother as ever
you may have been, and perhaps a good deal more so!'
She had fired her ineffectual gun, and at once retired,
following the maid with quick excited steps, and flushed
cheeks, to the hall-door. It opened, and let in upon
her the cold raw air of January. Snow was beginning
to fall in small infrequent flakes at present, but the
sky was gray and lowering; the fine morning had been
deceitful, as are so many other fine mornings, both of
nature and life.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE SNOW-STORM.
ence.
The parlour-maid bid her good morning with indiffer-
She had sorrows and troubles of her own, and of
course knew little or nothing of those of Veronica, who
was in her eyes merely a good-looking young woman,
with uppish airs, who had managed in five minutes to
make her mistress "awful savage;" a thing, by the
way, not uncommon for the parlour-maid herself to do
in less time. But then, some people's tempers are like
bottled ginger-beeryou have but to touch the cork,
and out they fly at once.
The door was closed behind her, the great heavy
oaken door, that had let out and in generations of happy
and unhappy ones, of young and old, of living and
dead-of those who could move gracefully and joyously
   
THE SNOW-STORM.

by its massive hinges, full of life and vigour, and of those
who went by, oh so passively! on the shoulders of
others, heavy and lumpish as clay.
But Veronica was too much absorbed in her own
thoughts to notice the young woman's indifference, or
to think of the gay or silent ones who might have
passed, as she did now, from out the portals of the great
old house. She walked on dreamily through the
stately avenue leading to the outer gates, her feet leav-
ing tracks on the new-fallen snow, and neither heard
the great elms shivering their bare shoulders in the
blast above her head, or saw the half-frozen robin who
hopped some paces before her, as if to solicit charity.
His pitiful look was disregarded; she had no crumbs
to bestow, and she was too much herself like the robin
at this moment, without food or shelter. But the
village was near at hand, and one cottage that had
taken her attention in coming, she determined should
be the one to apply to, to procure some bread, and half-
an-hour's rest.
Aldborough was a very smallinsignificant place; twenty
cottages or so, straggled hither and thither among little
plots of garden ground, and a few farmers' houses, con-
tained all its inhabitants. In very old times it had
been an important town, but it was now dwindled
down to what we see. Every year its inhabitants
decreasedthe young people going to more flourishing
localities for work, and settling there, and the old
dying away. The owners of the large estates near did
not encourage new buildings, or repair the old that
belonged to them; their object was to drive away the
whole population in time, for the place was an eyesore
   

BY TIIE TRENT.
to them, and its pauper population came inconveniently
upon the rates.
But small and poor as it was, there
was a public-house in the village; nay, Veronica even
noticed two, as she passed on. She shrank from
entering either of these placesfor full well she knew
they would be no fit resting-places for a wayfarer like
herself, alone and friendless. Rude observation, staring,
and perhaps insult, from some of the rough men who
haunt such places, was what she must expect. As a
child, we have seen, she could go for her father on the
nightly errand for beer, but still smarted in her memory
the rough encounters she had endured, and the scenes
of riot she had witnessed on these compulsory visits. A
public-house was to her anything but a refuge or a place
of entertainment. So, as we have said, she passed them
by, with almost a shudder, and made her way to the cot-
tage that stood alone, by the road-side, with a half-open
door, and two ruddy children playing in the snow in front
A woman clothed in blue bedgown and linsey petti-
coat was at the wash-tub just within, the white suds
rising above her red rough elbows, and the steam of the
hot water enveloping her face and neck. She lifted up
her head at Veronica's approach with surprise. "Who
could this strange body be? Some new servant may-
hap coming to th' Ha'," as Brunswick House was called
by the villagers.
"Could you let me sit down a bit by your fire?"
asked Veronica, timidly.
O aye! miss, sure. Come in!" and she scraped the
suds from her dark-skinned arms, and wiped her
sodden hands on her apron, to place a chair for the
stranger near the chimney-corner.
   
THE SNOW-STORM.

she was.
Veronica thanked her, and sat down, and then, and
not till then, did she find how wearied and exhausted
She had come away from home with but a
slender breakfast, and a sudden faintness and sickness
overpowered her for a few moments. The good woman
looked at her increasingly pale face with some concern.
"Why, sure; bless my life! Art ter ill ?"
"No, no," gasped Veronica; "I shall be better
directly, but I believe I'm very tired" and hungry,
she would like to have said, but the words someway
would not come.
"Maybe you'd like a bit of summat?" said the woman
considerately. "It 'ud do you good, and cheer you up
a bit."
And at once she fetched out a loaf and a piece of
cheese, and with a knife and plate laid them on the
round table near her.
"A cup of water, please," murmured Veronica; and
the cup of water was brought, with some apologies that
she'd no milk. But the water was more grateful and
reviving to the wearied stranger than milk could have
been. When the cordial (more worthy of the name
than many so called) was drunk, she was better, and
could look up and thank her kind entertainer, and
begin to eat with good will. The woman looked better
satisfied now, and went on with her washing, every
now and then asking a question of her guest, to feed a
curiosity she saw no harm in gratifying.
"An'how fur may you have walked, miss?" was her
first query.
"From Trentham;-twelve miles I think it is," re-
plied Veronica
   

.
"Twelve mile! A longish step for such as you. I
reckon you don't often walk twelve mile?"
No; I never walked so far before."
"H'm! it's a baddish day too for walkin'. An' are
you a goin' any furder?"
'No; I'm going back again as soon as I can."
"Back again! to-neet? Nay, that you shanna! an'
the snow a fallin' down as it does !"
"O yes, I must though. I shall get on quicker going
back; it'll be more downhill."
"But it'll be dark afore you get to Trentham. I
reckon you've bin to the Ha' for a place, an' she woudna'
give it you?"
No," replied Veronica; "I didn't look out for a
place there. I mean," she added, "I didn't ask for
service."
"O aye!" doubtfully. "Well, her's a glum 'un, an'
no mistake. Her wouldn't give much if her hadn't a
mind. An' let me tell you, miss, you wouldn't ha' done
for her at all. You're a sight too good-lookin'; she'll
ha' none but frouzy things about her; her doesn't like
to be outdone, you see;" and the washerwoman laughed
merrily. Mrs. Lee was evidently no favourite of hers.
When Veronica had finished her bread and cheese,
and felt tolerably rested, she took a shilling and would
fain have paid the poor woman for her meal. But she
wouldn't hear of it. "Not she; she niver took nout o'
that sort. Her husband wor a temperance man, he
wor, an' niver went into a public-house from wick's
end to wick's end. He wasna so poor as them poor
creeturs who stay all the neets a drinkin' an' a fuddlin'
at th' 'Unicorn;' an' she'd a bit an'a sup for them as
   
THE SNOW-STORM.

needed it, and wor none the poorer. You're none too
rich, miss," she added, in a gentler voice; "keep your
money for summat else;" and she pushed Veronica's
hand back towards her pocket, with a smile.
"But dunna go to-neet. You shall have a bit of a
shake-down somewhere, if you can put up wi' it, an'
to-morrow you'll be fresh-like. It's not fit to go to-
neet."
Veronica however would go. She was unwilling to
be any further trouble and expense to the good-natured
cottager, and she felt so much revived that the walk
did not seem to her too formidable. Besides, she longed
once more to be at homethe day's excitement and
disappointment (for now it was all over, she found she
had counted a little on the good offices of her father's
friend-friend? she recalled the word in a moment,
and had been disappointed) seemed too much for her,
and a quiet rest in her own little room-her father's
room-appeared doubly to be desired.
So she bid good-bye, with many thanks, and started
outthe woman looking after her down the road till
she was out of sight. "I should like to be a knowin'
what that poor young miss is about," she said to her-
self, "her's a look in her eye as if her'd cry every
minnit, that her has. Ah, well! I hope there'll be no
It doesn't come much yet, an' maybe it
wunna; but her's a stout 'un to think o'walkin' home
to-neet."
The snow did not behave well, and agree with her
hope. It came steadily down, and presently faster and
thicker, and by the time Veronica was on the high-road,
two iniles from Aldborough, the fall of snow might be
more snow.
   

.
ness.
called a storm. The wind, however, was just now at
her back, and helped her on, and the road was for the
present a little downhill. It was not quite three o'clock
yet, and she was getting on fast, and even after the sun
should be set it would not be dark, for there was a
young moon, and the snow would make it light. These
were the thoughts with which she cheered herself.
But in another hour her steps were slower, and she
found herself fighting with the wind that was now in
her facefor the road had turned, and with an
increase of snow, and a greater increase of weari-
The snow was most troublesome of all, for it
came in her eyes, and prevented her seeing clearly
the way she took. She was now, too, on that por-
tion of the road that was carried over the great un-
inclosed lands of an ancient forest, a wide dreary-look-
ing space of uniform appearance, excepting where here
and there a drift had accumulated by some hollow, or
by a group of tree stumps, and the road was covered and
hidden by the falling snow.
Not a track was now
visible; the further she went on the less did she seem
to know her right way, and the more bewildered she
became. There was no cottage or farmhouse in sight,
no human being, no living creature. What must she
do? She stood still a moment to consider, and with a
forlorn, half-despairing gaze, surveyed the vast white
wilderness. Before, behind, and around her on all
sides was one undistinguishable blank of snow-no
road, no track, no sun or moon visible to guide, but a
gray, uniform, perpetually-moving shower of fast-falling
flakes, that above seemed black, and below white.
Dazed, confounded, weary, almost hopeless, half-blinded
   
THE SNOW-STORM.

and utterly bewildered, she again went on, not know
ing whither, but with the fast-fading hope that she
might happen to be right, or might get in sight of some
house or human being. And now she bitterly repented
she had not stayed at Aldborough, and thought with
dismay, what would become of her if she must pass the
night on so bleak a bed. It was getting rapidly darker,
there became less and less probability of any one pass-
ing, and with the light gradually faded her hope. It
would be better, said her wearied limbs at length, to
stay and rest at once, to give all up and die, if so it
must be, among the snow. And, after a little more
weary tramping and struggling, she did so. Sinking
beside a drift-heap with a moan of mingled pain and
despair, she lay down for the blinding snow to bury
her-to die alone. Many thoughts were with her
before she became insensible, chiefly of her father-Did
he know where she was now? Could he see her situa-
tion? or was he in that dim, mysterious, far-away region
of the dead, that has no cognizance of earthly weal or
woe, no remembrance of the loved and left behind ?
She thought not, she hoped not, and yet how dark and
blank all seemed now that related to him. If he were
happy, his happiness took no note of her misery; if he
were notbut of this she dared not think.
There was one living Friend who alone could help
her, and to him she prayed a few trembling wordsto
him she lifted up her heart. Then as she lay still a
moment, a voice seemed suddenly to sound in her ears,
and with distinctness she heard repeated the saluta-
tion of the Methodist preacher, "Peace be to this
house." Was it a delusiona memory merely that
   

.
was haunting her on this open waste? Or did some
voice really utter those words, "Peace be to this house?"
Again !-How clear it sounded this time! She lifted
her head, expecting to see the face of a deliverer near
her; but all was blank and dark, and there was a great
silence. It was a delusion, then! She shuddered; a
horror fell upon her; God himself seemed absent. For
a moment a few whirling thoughts snatched her hither
and thither, and then she remembered no more.
But close at hand was deliverance, though she knew
it not. A horse and gig were coming slowly along,
covered with snow. In the gig an upright form, a sort
of snow-mountain of a man, held the reins, and cheered
on the horse. Had there been more daylight, and had
there been less snow, we should have seen that this
man was dark and sinister-looking, while before him and
around him sat and clung a distinct shadow. We should
perhaps, too, have seen a diamond ring on his finger.
Suddenly the horse to whom he had for sometime trusted
to discover the way, stopped, stood quite still, and
refused all solicitations from the driver to move a step
further. The whip and the oath were unavailing to
make him proceed, and equally futile were soft and
coaxing words. Swearing loudly the traveller dis-
mounted to see what could be amiss, and found what
appeared a wreath of snow lying before the horse's
feet. Indignant and angry, he kicked the snow away
with one foot, but encountered something solid and
soft. "Hi! what have we here?" Another and gentler
kick revealed a woman's black bonnet, part of a face,
and a hand. The mystery was made known: the in-
telligent horse had refused to step over a human body,
   
THE SNOW-STORM.

though hidden in the snow, and had thus been the
means of discovering the wayfarer. For we need
scarcely say it was Veronica, who had lain down here, as
she supposed to die, and who was in this strange manner
discovered. A few vigorous pulls released her from the
snow. The dark stranger felt if her heart still beat;
and finding it did, lifted her in his arms, rolled round
her as well as he was able for she was still senseless
-his cloak and plaid, and placed her in the gig beside
him.
Then "Hi! ho!" crack went the whip, and the obe-
dient animal now moved willingly forward. He had
a double burden up the hills; but his cheerful snort
told only of satisfaction at having done his duty.
At a large house on the outskirts of Trentham, the
traveller stopped, dismounted, and brought out his
burden. Veronica was carried indoors immediately,
undressed, and placed carefully in bed by female hands.
When she awoke from her stupor, she found herself
lying in a lofty bed with handsome curtains, placed in
the centre of a large apartment lighted by the blaze of
a ruddy fire, and a lady bending over her with a doubt-
ful smile. As Veronica opened her eyes in wonder, the
lady said musingly: "She is coming round. We shall
see! we shall see!"
S
   

.
CHAPTER XVIII.
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER.
TRENTHAM possessed many chapels besides the some-
what aristocratic one at which Stephen Morris was
minister. Independents, Baptists, and Methodists,
with several of the smaller sects, had their distinct
places of Worship, larger or smaller; and the inhabi-
tants had full opportunity from these numerous streams,
to taste and discover that one which best suited their
palates, or which best agreed with their ideas of reli-
gious truth or church government. Almost from the
locality of these various chapels, you could determine
the character of the congregation as regarded their
position in society; for great is the distinction of rank
even among tradespeople and workmen; and though
caste has no irreversible laws amongst such constantly
fluctuating members, distinctions are drawn and recog-
nized, and maintained, just as jealously as amongst what
are called the higher classes.
The several sects of Methodists had each its separate
chapel. One of these, standing in what might be
called the back of the town, in the thickest of the
smoke, and among poor, unevenly paved, overpopulated
streets, had the Hebrew name "Bethesda" affixed to it.
It was a square gaunt erection, with many windows,
and a closely-pared roof,-a roof that gives the same
kind of character to a building that a shabby, narrow-
brimmed hat does to its wearer. A house at its
   
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER.

side, a sort of diminutive wing, was the "preacher's
house," whose unadorned exterior, short white muslin
blinds, thoroughly clean but badly painted windows
and door, and gardenless front looking on to the
street over a few flagstones and iron railings, had
an equally cheerless look with the chapel. Within,
the chapel was as bare and unadorned as its exterior.
A swallow's-nest pulpit, singing gallery immediately
below, and a series of high-backed square pews, chiefly
without lining or cushions, were the principal furniture
of the place. A gallery on three sides, supported by
meagre-looking pillars, increased the space for the con-
gregation; and a clock conspicuously placed in front of
this gallery, and immediately opposite the preacher,
gave him silent notice of the progress of timea re-
minder frequently needed, when, warmed up and carried
away by the vehemence of his feelings and the import-
ance of that which he was enunciating, he was tempted
to exceed the limited hour. For the men who spoke
in this place were thoroughly in earnest, "sons of
thunder" chiefly, who wielded the spiritual hammer,
and smote with the spiritual sword with all their
strength, till from the hard hearts about them sparks
flew and blood flowed, and sleepy, sense-lost souls woke
up in terror. No wonder, if at times, time and all else
was forgotten, except the excitement of their mission
-the salvation of souls. No wonder if even that clock,
large-figured and prominently placed, did not suffice
frequently to check the flow of tongues, whose owners,
set on fire by the love of God and the love for souls,
poured out from the volcano of the heart words of per-
suasion and melting tenderness-words burning from
   

.
the intensity of the passionate heat within.-Still the
clock was there and did its duty, telling the hour by
its warning hand, and let him who exceeded be satisfied
in his own conscience why he did so!
The community who worshipped here were chiefly from
the poorer classes-mechanics of the lower grade, and
small shopkeepers, with a sprinkling of some who had
risen from the same low station, by industry, sobriety,
and native talent, to a position of what is styled respect-
ability. Their preachers were men of the same class;
the circuit or itinerant preachers who were set apart for
the ministry being those who, possessing the requisite
talent and a moderate education, generally gained by
their own unaided exertions, were wishful to devote
themselves to the work, forsaking all other means of
livelihood, and therefore supported entirely by their
people; and the "local brethren," who, pursuing their
various trades and avocations during the week, with a
Bible in their pocket and a small sheet of notes, or
sometimes without either, walked every Sunday hither
and thither into villages far or near, to preach such
sermon as they could, or to hold camp-meetings on moor-
land and common and road-side. These last formed the
unpaid class of preachers, and from their ranks most
frequently the circuit preachers were drafted.
It was not certainly with the wisdom of this world, or
of the schools, that these men couid speak, not with the
refinement of the gentleman,or the aptness of the scholar,
or the precision of the logician. Their only books of
study very frequently had been the Bible and Wesley's
Sermons, Bunyan's Pilgrim, or Doddridge's Rise and
Progress, and a few similar works; but they were
   
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACIER.

admirably fitted to speak to the classes who came in
Sunday-best to hear them. In fishing for souls, as for
fishes, different baits and flies are needed. So these
men, full of untaught, uncurbed zeal, praying and
preaching with loud stentorian voices, in rough unhewn
speech and imperfect grammar, were suited to thei!
hearers far better than if they had come from Oxford
or Cambridge, fresh from Greek and Hebrew studies,
with the Fathers and fine manners to back them.
They were not steel penknives, and smooth-edged
razors, for their work was not to cut quills or hairs; but
mallets and pick-axes and hammers, strong hardy iron
and oak, having to deal with quartz, and limestone, and
grit, fresh from the wild mountains. Amongst them,
however, now and then, came spirits of greater gentle-
ness, men who, while, touched with the same "hallowed
fire," sought to win souls by persuasion and love, by
the sweetness and fitness of the gospel, rather than the
terrors of the law. Amongst this number was the pre-
sent inhabitant of the chapel-house, the Rev.Jonas White,
or Mr. White, as he was generally called by his people.
He was, as we have seen, an elderly man, with white
grandfatherly hair lying in thin locks upon his Metho-
dist collarless coat, with a gray keen eye, and a fair
wholesome complexion. Elderly as he was, he was still
very active, and was to be seen in all parts of Trent-
ham on the week-day, walking along somewhat quickly,
in a broad-brimmed Quaker hat, with most generally an
umbrella or stick under one arm, and his rather promi-
nent nose lifted up, as though pointing out the way.
If met or accosted by any of the "friends," there was a
warm grasp of the hand, and a smiling eye turned to
   

.
the greeter, at once penetrative and kindly. He had
the utmost simplicity of manners, the refinement and
gentleness that was in him being genuine and arising
from the law of love, and in no way from the law of
etiquette. Of conventional societary laws he knew
little and cared less. The laws of Christ, as he under-
stood them, were with him paramount and final.
He had only been two years in Trentham, but was
already well-known, not only by his own community,
but by all others. His congregation knew him for his
simple effective sermons, short and racy and sweet,
and for the purity and activity of his life: the book-
sellers knew him, and the printers, for he was constantly
having printed and on sale, books and pamphlets of
his own writing on various subjects, chiefly sermons
however, which he carried about with him in his large
coat-pockets, and sold after service-time to his hearers;
announcing to them ere they dispersed that he had now
by him a number of discourses to young persons, or a
memoir of some pious young man or woman, lately
deceased, or a book of hymns for revivals, for a small
sum of money, and that "Brothers" Saunders, or Smith,
or Jones, could also supply them.
The other town-ministers knew him, for at this time
were established by some liberal unity-loving Christians,
meetings for the various ministers of the evangelical
denominations, held each week in their own houses by
rotation, at which they could converse on the best means
for promoting the spread of religion in the town, and
Jonas White was soon an important member at these
meetings; he was thoroughly in earnest, and he could
work, and no plans were put forward, or schemes pro-
C
   
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER.

posed, but he was ready if he approved and his appro-
val was by no means hard to gain, to help in the same
with heart and soul.
The poor knew him; for he visited their houses daily
and nightly, he prayed and exhorted and read with
them and to them; he had not much money to give,
for a Methodist preacher in those days had but a
bare maintenance, but he gave sympathy, good ad-
vice, and his prayers, freely and liberally, and frequently
parted among them his raiment and his last loaf.
But there was still another class that knew him
wellthe drunkards, and with these we may also
place the drink-sellers and publicans. Only a year or
two before the time of which we are writing he had
been in Ireland, and had stood near Father Mathew at
Limerick, on that memorable occasion when so many
thousands took the pledge of total abstinence. The
scenes he saw at that time were not forgotten by him,
and from that date the subject of temperance was dear
to him. A poor maudlin drunkard tottering along the
street, or shouting in wild insanity to passers-by, at once
attracted the sympathy of Jonas White, and if it were
possible, he would accompany the man home, or discover
that home's whereabouts, that he might at a more
fitting season visit the man, and endeavour to bring
about a reform, by persuasion, by prayer, by entreaties,
by any and every means that he had at command, or
that he thought right to use.
He himself was a rigid
abstainer, and had signed the pledge of abstinence, and
to these poor men he could say, while he offered them
the same teetotal promise, "I also have signed it! Do
not be afraid." For at this time considerable ridicule
   

DY THE TRENT.
attached to those who were bold enough, or wise enough,
or were possessed of sufficient love to their neighbours,
to affix their names to such a document.
His white reverend hairs,the glow of love from a
higher sphere, that love to God which embraces neces-
sarily, and leads to, the love to the neighbour, shining
through his face from the soul within;the earnest
pious words, all had their effect, and many a man and
woman were induced to leave the delusive pleasures
of the tap-room, and the lowering love of drink, to
hear Jonas White preach, and not a few to sign the
pledge ultimately, or to become regular attendants at
his place of worship, "clothed and in their right mind."
Temperance lecturers and missionaries, of course, found
a welcome at the house of the Methodist preacher, and
to them his chapel was always open on week evenings.
Most of his "brethren in the ministry" smiled at the
enthusiasm of the old man on this subject of temper-
ance, which was only partially recognized among them,
for ministers like other people were fond of wine, and
talked largely of moderation, and but little, if at all,
in praise of total abstinence. The teetotal movement
was at present but young, and though the great apostle
of temperance, Father Mathew, had brought it into
public notice in an unmistakable manner, it was by
many looked upon with a degree of jealousy and
dislike, as affecting to remove evils religion only could
radically cure. They did not see, or would not see,
that a powerful handmaid to religion had arisen in this
movement, and the chapels and churches in the town
were almost universally refused to advocates of its
cause.
   
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER.

So in Silver Street, in the plain brick building we
have named, was the only place almost in which tem-
perance could lift its head and proclaim its mission to
the drink-lost thousands of Trentham, and men in
plain garb, and often in plainer speech, rose up and
held out the despised ark of safety to the drowning
drunkard, and on a square deal table placed beneath the
singing seat, many a struggling soul was saved from
the flood of destruction by signing his name or cross,
with trembling hand, beneath the teetotal pledge.
"These are my jewels," said Jonas White, as he added
the names to his own private list, thinking perhaps of
the parson's case of jewels he had read of, that lay in the
churchyard, awaiting the resurrection. His were living
jewels, however, and he did not forget to examine
them, and see if any flaw or dimness was spoiling
their brightness; and if he could put them in a gold
setting as members of his church, so much the better,
that was an added security, and they might thus
become, he trusted, jewels belonging to a richer owner
than he was.
For ourselves, we will not say whether
we think him right or wrong in giving them the name.
All human souls must be, indeed, inestimable jewels in
God's sight, and the souls of drunkards, reformed or
otherwise, are no doubt dear to Him; though like
Cleopatra, they may have thrown their pearls into the
corroding acid of drink, He never loses sight of them,
who alone fully knows their value.
But to our thinking, this loving appreciation of
the worth of his fellowman, whether drunkard or re-
formed, this tender sympathy with him amid his beset-
ments and temptations, is a far higher and more
   

.
Christian trait than the indifference that passes the
helpless drink-slave by with a shrug of the shoulders,
and an implied, if not a spoken, "I am holier than
thou;" or with, perhaps, the futile question, "Why
cannot you do as I do? Take wine or spirits or what-
ever it may be, in moderation, and put away the third
glass, or the fourth, or whichever number makes you
to offend?" Not that we would for a moment assert
that his fellow-ministers had such indifference. Their
avowed mission was the salvation of souls, and if some
were not so successful in this mission as others, it could
be surely from no want of willingness on their part, no
want of sympathy with the spiritually dying and desti-
tute. It was rather, we will hope, from a want of light
than of love, that they were led to disregard the drunkard.
He was an outcast, bis very condition made him blind
and deaf to gospel light and sounds as proclaimed by
these ministers; he was lying far away on the verge
of a precipice, they all acknowledged with a sigh. But
why, since their own pastoral staff was too short, did
they scout the use of the longer wand that temperance
supplied, which might drag the poor wretch further
from the abyss and nearer the sheepfold?
Jonas White had no conscientious objection to teeto-
talism, With the pledge in one hand and the Bible in
the other, he could go abroad "into the highways and
hedges and compel them to come in." He was no
physiologist, and had not studied how much alcohol
the human frame could bear without decided injury, or
whether it was nutritive or a mere stimulant; such
studies had not been in his way; but he recognized its
baneful influence upon the morals of its victims, and
   
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER.

the thorough degradation it brought to both soul and
body when taken freely. He saw in it an enemy to
the soul, and he combated it with all the weapons God
gave him.
Amongst his own people he had the subject often
brought under his notice. Now and again, a member
whose conduct had for a long period been blameless,
and whose deportment showed that he was sincerely
endeavouring to live a new life, according to the pure
precepts of the Saviour, fell away from his vocation and
became a backslider. On inquiry it was most frequently
found that the temptation of drink had been the first
cause of this backsliding; his daily business had led
him into the company of the ungodly, who spread this
snare for his feet as for their own, and induced him
to transgress. Sometimes the shame of the first fall
was known at once, and sufficed to expel him from
the society; sometimes he practised the indulgence
secretly for a long time, till it could no longer be con-
cealed, or till it led him into other vices and open profli-
gacy, and then the scandal went through the community
like a sharp sword, wounding each person in it.
A recent case of this kind made our preacher pensive
and sad, when at the weekly ministers' meeting, held
this time at the house of Stephen Morris. His usual
benevolent smile was wanting at the feast, and he
replied to many of the observations of his brethren
absently. Drunkenness was sad enough when among
the world's outcasts, and the unbelievers; but when it
entered the house of God, it was an agony to this man.
He felt, too, that the world, always so ready to find a
stain upon the garments of professors, would this time
   

BY THE TREVT.
have a more flagrant case than usual for its sneer to
feed upon, and he shrank from the speech he antici-
pated, and which he already seemed to hear, "See how
these Christians drink!"
"Are you not well, Mr. White?" asked Stephen of
the silent old man, as after tea all were seated at their
ease on the luxurious chairs and couches of the large
apartment-a very different room to Jonas White's
own foursquare, barely-carpeted sitting-room.
Very well, I thank you," was his reply, in a mourn-
ful tone.
"Nothing amiss, I hope, at home, brother?" inquired
the Rev. James Aldershaw, the Baptist minister, sym-
pathizingly.
"No.My complaint is not of the body, brother, but
the mind," he said, as he gave a slight and only half-
audible groan.
No more questions were asked. It was understood
that he did not wish to speak just then of his trouble,
and the conversation and business of the meeting
proceeded.
Two or three were talking upon the subject of singers.
There were but few organs in those days in dissenting
places of worship; and the singers, as leaders of the
voices of the congregation, and almost indispensable
adjuncts, as it was thought, to the due performance of
public worship, were apt to imagine themselves of too
much importance, and to take airs in consequence. In
some chapels a perpetual change was occurring in the
members of the singing gallery, especially if the leader
were a man of insufficient energy and tact; and occa-
sionally the whole of the singers would migrate in a
a
   
JONAS WHITE, TJIE METIIODIST PREACHER.

an
body, and place themselves in front of the gallery over-
looking their accustomed seat, leaving their leader alone
to get through the service as he could. This was but
rarely the case, however; but when it did occur,
unseemly staring and whispering was the consequence
among the younger part of the congregation, to the
annoyance of the minister, and the mortification of the
deacons. Such an outbreak had lately happenedthe
result of a quarreland there was some consultation
now upon the subject. To have none but church
members in the singing-pew-to do without singers at
all, or with only one leading voice to set the tunes-
were schemes proposed as fit cures. But opinions were
divided as to the possibility of such schemes. The
Rev. John Jones openly complained of the singing-
leader at his chapel. "We have never had a good
leader since Evans went away," was his concluding
remark.
"Ah! what has become of Evans?" asked Mr. Grant,
the Wesleyan minister.
He is now in the workhouse, and dying, I fear,
replied Mr. Jones. "I visited him yesterday, for he
has been ill some time, and sent for me to pray with

him."
"No relation, I suppose, of Evans the composer?"
asked one of the younger ministers.
He is the same manan uncommonly clever fellow!
He led our choir admirably for twenty years, and had
really a fine musical talent. What pieces he composed !
And some of his Christinas anthems are universal
favourites yet. Poor Evans! how little I thought I
should ever visit him as a pauper, at one time. But
   

.
never man looked more changed. I should not have
known him, had I not been told."
"How did he get into the workhouse?" Mr. Grant
inquired.
"In the way so many others get there. He had
been a fearful drunkard for the last four or five years,
and had literally spent in drink every penny he could
lay his hands upon. He pawned everything of any
value about his home and person; and before he was
taken to the workhouse, was lying upon the bare floor,
and subsisting upon bread and gin, chiefly the latter,
if there is any subsistence in it, and was looking more
like a wild beast, they tell me, than a man. When I
saw him he seemed very repentant, but said he feared he
should go to the gin again if he were to get well. His
is a lamentable case indeed ! He told me he obtained
his first love for drink when he became a member of
a glee club. He had a fine voice, and a fine knowledge
of music, as we all know, and was enticed by promise
of pay and hope of gain to join the club, which met
at a public-house. Then, his way was all downward;
drink became his master, and he found that 'the wages
of sin is death,' to use his own words to me yesterday."
"Yes, death; eternal death!" said a solemn voice
"And he is not the first singer that has found
drink to bring death."
The speaker rose up and faced the assembly. It was
Jonas White. All looked at him, wonderingly.
"My dear brethren," he continued, "I can no longer
keep silence on this subject. It is one that presses on
my mind very much at this present time. I mean, as
you must all know, the subject of drunkenness And
near.
   
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER.

I feel it the more important for me to speak now,
because I have long been guilty in the matter. I have
not raised my voice as I ought to have done in these
our weekly meetings. I have refrained from a weak
fear of offending man, when I ought only to have con-
sidered what was well-pleasing to God. Circumstances,
almost too painful for me to name, have this week
impressed it on my mind, that I must speak out as I
have never yet done; for 'if the trumpet gives an uncer-
tain sound, who shall prepare himself for the battle??"
He paused a moment; while all regarded him question-
ingly; what could he mean by being guilty?he, who
had always done so much for the cause of temperance,
and who carried his precepts of abstinence out so faith-
fully in his life?
"I have considered this matter well, and I find that
drink fills our workhouses, our asylums, our houses of
correction and jails, and helps largely to fill our graves.
It takes away members from our churches, and it
plenishes hell. It brings scandal upon the house of
God, it brings misery to the house of man, strife to the
fireside, want to the mother and the child, despair to
the wife, destruction to the husband. It brings the
young man's name to be a reproach, the young woman's
to be a scorn and a hissing. Shall the souls for whom
Christ died be so lost? Shall the wolf in sheep's cloth-
ing, the publican with his accursed drink, be allowed
on every hand to tempt and ensnare and destroy his
victims, to tear and rend the sheep, and we, shepherds
of the flock, under Christ the great and good Shepherd,
utter no protest against him, or strive to remove one
tooth from his bloody jaws?
   

.
"I speak strongly, my brethren, but I have strong
cause! We as ministers are verily guilty in this matter.
We do not as we ought, set our faces like a flint against
this traffic in souls; for drink, as we are well aware,
destroys the soul with the body, and the drink-seller,
for the sake of gain, trades away the souls of his cus-
tomers. Why do we not publicly protest against this
open sale of demoralizing, soul-killing poison sale
conducted even on the Lord's day?" Jonas here looked
round upon his brethren with eyes of searching inquiry;
he waited for an answer, but none came; most of his
hearers, with averted eyes or downcast heads, were
listening with some impatience to his earnest words,
while
upon the lips of one or two was a smile of pity,
coupled with the thought perhaps that second childish-
ness was coming upon the old man.
He continued, "Why do we not, I say? and here,
when I give the answer, I will class myself with you,
for, as I said before, I also am to blame in this matter,
and have not been thoroughly true to my convictions.
It is because we ourselves are helping at the same un-
holy work, not by selling, it is true, but by accepting
the drink-sellers as members of our churchesby allow-
ing them to put into the Lord's treasury their unholy
offerings. Truly, when I think of it, I am reminded of
Christ's words when he drove out the changers of
money from the temple, "My house shall be called a
house of prayer, but ye have made it a den of thieves.'
But by God's help this shall no longer be so at Beth-
esda!
"Do we not also offer the unclean thing to our
people? Do we not, some of us, even partake of the
   
JOSAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER.. 
same in our houses, and share it among our friends and
children, thereby setting an evil example, and giving
encouragement to evil-doers? But, my dear friends, I
will confess my own sins. Last Sunday evening I pre-
sented to my people, more than sixty of them, old and
young, male and female, some of this same strong drink,
the sacramental wine, and I have so presented it hun-
dreds of times before; but never more can I so give it,
except in an unintoxicating form; my conscience will
no longer permit me. I have also, and you must for-
give me here if I seem to speak hardly of you, sat here
in silence night after night, in these weekly meetings,
while you, my dear brethren, have been passing round
the cup, not of life, but of death, I mean the wine-glass,
and have not warned you as I ought to have done,
or told you of the evil you were committing, and the
awful danger you might be the occasion of bringing
other souls into by so doing. But I now do it, and tell
you in the name of the Lord I can no longer sit by and
see it!"
Here one of the ministers interrupted by saying, "I
think, brother White, you are going much too far, and
had better say no more. You seem to forget that we
also are capable of looking into this subject, as well as
yourself, and that the interests of the Lord's kingdom
are as dear to us as to you. We have long known
that your opinions on this temperance question are
excessive, but we have had respect to you, if not to
them, and have let you alone; and now we only ask
that
you
should do the same. Give us equal liberty of
conscience with yourself, and do not condemn what you
do not seem able to understand-our moderation."
T
   
.
BY TUE TRENT.
" Hear, hear!" was said approvingly by one or two,
with confirmatory raps on the table.
But Jonas White did not yet sit down.
"Allow me a few words further," he said in a firm
and gentle tone; "I will not trouble you long. If the
interests of our Lord's kingdom are dear to you, as ye
say, I ask you to look with me at a picture or two I
shall show you. In my chapel in Silver Street, about
two years ago, and when I first came to this town, I
saw every Sunday, sitting in her father's pew, a
young girl, a young woman I may call her, seventeen
years of age, comely of features, nay, beautiful; but
that which made her interesting in my eyes was that I
hoped and trusted she was, like Solomon's spouse, 'all
glorious within.' And it seemed so, truly it seemed so!
She was a member with us, and young as she was,
adorned her profession by many works of faith and
labours of love, and by the purity of her life. She was
poor-all her friends were poorbut she had gained a.
better education than falls to the lot of many in her
station, by the kindness of a friend; and she was very
active amongst us as Sunday-school teacher and visitor
to the sick, and in other ways in which women can be
useful in the church. Many much older than herself
took example from her, and were not ashamed to follow
after her. In our prayer-meetings, and class-meetings,
and band-meetings, her voice arose like a song of praise,
and by the side of the dying I have heard her pray as
few could, with so much freedom and power, and yet
with so much humbleness. Truly many times, when I
have thus seen and heard her, I have said inwardly,
*This is a tree of the Lord's right-hand planting,' and
   
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER.

ance.
have thanked God. Do you see her, my
dear brethren?
Can you picture her sitting before me in her pew every
Sunday, with a face almost like an angel's?
"And now I ask you to leave my chapel, and go
down with me into another part of the town-into an
alley near our greatest thoroughfare. There are plenty
of wretched houses in this alley-tumble-down, decayed-
looking placesand there are some of smarter appear-
If you walk down this place in the day-time,
and have no female with you, most likely you will be
shocked and insulted; but if you go at night, you will
be sure to be so. But there is a poor creature in one
of these houses who is very ill; and as our commission
is to preach the gospel to every creature, and especially
to the outcasts, we will enter this house and ask to see
her. We are shown up some narrow dirty stairs to the
first story, but we have another and narrower flight
still to ascend; and we at last enter a three-cornered,
plaster-floored bed-room just under the roof, with a
stump bed in it, a worn rush-bottomed chair or two,
and some bits of dirty finery hanging about. There is
no carpet but dust and dirt, and that is pretty thick;
and the whole room looks wretched, and is full of an
evil scent. But we forget all that, at least for a time,
when we look at a heap of skin and bones, with roll-
ing eyes and wasted cheek, that lies tossing beneath
a ragged blanket or two; and that we find to be the
sick oman we are in search of. There is not much of
what has been called the human face divine' left about
her, except perhaps that pair of bright sunken eyes
that look sometimes with awful earnestness into our
eyes, or rather into mine, for she has seen me and
   

.
known me before. She has been very ill, has had a
fever that, together with distress of mind, has reduced
her to this state; but she doesn't ask me what I think
of her body; she asks about her soul. "I am dying, I
know it,' she says; but where will my soul go to? I
have been a sinner above every other; oh! what will
become of my soul? I have put Christ to open shame,
I have trodden on the blood of the covenant, and I am
lost; I cannot, dare not ask for mercy. I speak to
her as Christ commands me. I tell her there is mercy
and forgiveness for even her; I tell her of the words of
our blessed Saviour, 'Him that cometh unto me I will
in nowise cast out.' I remind her of the Magdalen
who found grace in our Lord's eyes. I speak to her of
the infinite love and mercy of God to the repentant
sinner; but while I am speaking, a change passes over
her face. She gazes at me a moment in unspeakable
terror, she shudders, she tries to utter the word 'Pray;'
and while I am kneeling down, and am offering up peti-
tions for her at the throne of mercy, the body collapses,
the death-rattle is in her throat, and she dies !--Death
is no new acquaintance to us, dear friends; we have
necessarily seen it in many guises; but this death-bed
has some peculiar horrors. The sunken face before us,
with the terror-stricken eyes, out of which the light has
departed, while the horror remains; the poor corpse of
skin and bone, underneath the dingy woollen, is only
nineteen years old, and last year was full of beauty,
and youth, and health; and the poor soul that has just
now fled to its account, its awful account, in despair
and fright, was a few months ago rejoicing in the light
of God's countenance. It is the same body and soul
   
JONAS WHITE, THE METHODIST PREACHER.

that I saw so lately sitting before me in chapel, full of
radiant life and lovelinessthe same who was a member
of my church, active and blessed in her work, an
example to all about her. Now her body lies there
before you, blasted, disfigured, a loathsome heap of
corruption, in a brothel; and her soul-ah! who can
tell what has become of her soul?
"Do you ask what has brought the change? What it
is that produced this terrible falling awaythis miser-
able life and miserable death? Do you ask what fatal
bridge conducted from the home of peace, of purity, of
love to God and man, to this abyss? I replyand
note my reply-it is the bridge of strong drink: that
bridge that has led so many thousands to ruin from
our chapels and churches; that bridge, my dear brethren,
upon which you walk whenever you put the glass of
wine to your lips, and thereby encourage the young
and weak to do the same to their destruction. Oh,
think what you are doing! Remember the frightful
risk there to some from its use; and refrain for
their sakes, if not for your own. Put it awaythis
accursed strong drink--from your homes, your wives,
your children, your servants; from your communion-
table, your members, your flock, young and old,
and walk before God with clean hands and a pure
heart."
He ceased, wiped his brow, and then sat down, with
his face buried in his hands, praying silently.
All were affected by his earnest, solemn words, and
silence reigned for some time; till Jonas White rose up,
and in a meek and hurried manner, bade them good
evening. There were tears in his eyes as he spoke;
   

.
and they shook hands with him without a word, but
with much silent respect of manner.
Still it was a relief when he was gone, as was evinced
by the gradual clearing up of faces, and the less re-
strained conversation that speedily ensued. Stephen
Morris alone of the company remained silent, and the
cloud did not once remove from his brow that had
settled upon it during Jonas White's speech. When
the servant at the usual hour brought wine, as was
customary, he left the room, and did not press his
visitors to partake; and it was observable that no one
had the hardihood to fill his glass with the rich-col-
oured liquids in the decanters, One of the party rang
for water, to the silent amazement of the young woman,
who had never heard that order given before, except
by Jonas White.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS.
MR. WILBRAHAM the doctor was on his morning round.
A gray horse and a species of hooded chaise conducted
him every day to the homes of his patients, far or near,
and he was now seated beside the servant-man who
was driving, with a heap of books and papers in the
ample recesses of the hooded seat; for he liked occa-
sionally to read on his longer journeys, and he had that
morning called at the library and news-office. He was
not a physician, though styled Doctor Wilbraham by
   
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS.

the poor; but he had a large practice as surgeon
and
family medical attendant, and had been settled many
years in Trentham.
He was therefore well known, and his carriage and
gray horse were well known likewise. As he proceeded
through the principal streets and the wide market-
place, he encountered bows and greetings from persons
of both sexes, from friends and ex-patients not a few.
Bowing benignantly over his spectacles, the doctor
drove on: he had no time to spare of course.
Several
important cases were just now under treatment at his
hands; and he must, if possible, have visited and at-
tended to all before two o'clock, his usual dinner hour.
It was now ten, and he had this morning a good many
miles to travel. If we take wings and fly beside him,
we also must hasten, but we sball not enter all the sick
chambers that are on his day's list to be visitedone
or two will be sufficient for our purpose.Occasionally
as the doctor proceeded on his way, a look of care came
across his ample brow. He had just now special cause
to look full of care, and to consider what would be the
consequence if he continued to do as he had done the
last three monthsto deny alcoholic stimulants of all
kinds to his patients, and what would be its effect upon
his popularity and practice.
More and more he had become convinced that these
stimulants were needless,' and every day's experience
convinced him also that they were harmful. He had
been an abstainer himself for some time, and now was
beginning to introduce abstinence into his practice-
not partial, but total abstinence; a perilous experiment,
as he was well aware, for he should gain no new patients
   

BY TIIE TREST.
by it, and might lose many old ones. He would be
looked upon as that very objectionable person to lovers
of routine and precedent, "the man with the bee in his
bonnet;" and he would be despised and avoided by
lovers of self-indulgenceso large a majority in every
medical man's number of patientsas a rigid, and,
awfullest of all awful words to self-indulgent lovers of
the table, as a teetotal doctor.
Yet his conscience-and our doctor had a large supply
of that article, an inconveniently large supply, as he
was beginning to findwould not allow him to do
otherwise; let his practice rise or fall, he must still do
his duty, and refuse poison when he knew it to be so,
though all the rest of the medical world should see no
harm in it, and administer it almost ad libitum.
His first visit this morning was to a lady possessed
of ample means, and in the decline of life. She was
nervous, and had several imaginary ailments, and one
or two real ones. He bad attended her in his capacity
of medical man for more than twenty years; she had
always hitherto professed the greatest confidence in
his skill and judgment, but now, that he forbade her
her daily stimulant, and endeavoured to convince her
that it was not only unnecessary, but really injurious,
she looked coldly upon him, and complained of his pre
scriptions. "They did not suit her; he did not under-
stand her constitution," &c.
As he entered her thickly-carpeted chamber, fresh
from the open air, he perceived a distinct odour of
spirits, and the nearer he approached the patient, the
stronger became the scent. She was seated near the
fire, having just risen and dressed, and looked smil-
   
THE DOCTOR AND IIIS PATIENTS.

ingly into his face, as she pointed to a rich velvet-
covered easy chair, and begged him to be seated, with
the fascinating grace of manner she knew how to com.
mand, when she pleased.
To his question about her health, her answer was,
"I am much better this morning, doctor. Wonder-
fully relieved! I do not feel like the same being I did
yesterday."
"I am glad to bear it," was his grave reply. "Do
you attribute it to the medicine I sent you?"
"Well, no-not exactly. The fact is, your medicine
has not done me much good lately. I told you so, if
you remember, last visit."
"You did, ma'am. And I changed the medicine,
hoping to be more successful."
"It had no more effect than the former. It might
have been so much clear water."
"That is strange indeed! May I see the medicine,
to know if my dispenser prepared it rightly?"
Certainly! Charlotte, bring Mr. Wilbraham the
last medicine."
Charlotte, the dark-haired, primly-dressed maid-in-
waiting, brought a bottle in her hand for the doctor's
inspection.
He took it from her, and regarded it curiously. Then
he opened it, and strong was the perfume that met his
nose.
He tasted it, he made a wry face. " This is not
medicine," he said."This is not my medicine, my
dear lady! this is gin!"
The lady coloured to her temples, and gave
Charlotte
a glance of wrath--such a concentration of anger and
   

.
The
mortification as is not often seen on a fine lady's face.
Her husband had, at the doctor's special request,
denied all strong drinks to the sick-room, and some
had therefore been put in a medicine bottle to avoid
detection; but Charlotte bad unwittingly betrayed her
mistress.
However, the lady quickly recovered herself.
fact is, doctor, I could not do without a little, and I
came to the conclusion to take it, as you see. Now, do
not be such a hard-hearted man as to say 'No' to it,
for I assure you
I shall die without it."
She smiled, she looked beseeching; she had deigned
to entreat, but the doctor was unmoved, and invulner-
able to her smiles.
My dear madam," he replied, "it cannot be. Gin
is neither good for food or medicine, and in your com-
plaint I should be a fool if I allowed you it. It is a
rank poison, and I should be cruel indeed if I prescribed
it for you. You must therefore allow me to take this
bottle away with me, or to let me see its contents
thrown away. Which shall it be?"
" Whichever you please," said the lady, with some
hauteur, throwing herself back in her chair with an
indifference real or affected, which made the doctor
suspect other bottles of gin might be concealed in the
convenient closet. The doctor quietly emptied the
bottle into the toilet-basin, taking care to mix a large
proportion of water with it, and the contents of a small
paper packet from his pocket, that contained a nause-
ous medicinal powder, giving it to Charlotte to remove
from the room.
"Now," said he, "I can understand why my medicine
   
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS.

had not due effect. But I trust you will allow it fair
play for the future, or my visits here are really useless
-worse than useless." He spoke firmly, but gently,
and with as much kindness in his tone as possible; but
he saw very clearly the lady was offended.
When the pulse had been felt, and the customary
and necessary medical questions asked, during which
she turned her face in cold dislike a little away from
the obnoxious doctor, he ventured to say,
"My dear madam! I am truly sorry to disoblige you
in this matter; but my conscience so clearly opposes the
admission of alcohol in any form as a medicine, that I
cannot do otherwise than refuse it. I have had, as you
know, an extensive practice for many years, and ought
therefore to be capable of judging. I have found it in
every case injurious, and in yours especially, as I said
before, it is inadmissible."
" Yet you used to order me wine, doctor!"
I did. But that was in my days of ignorance. I
intend never to order it to any patient of mine again."
"There is no other medical man in the town but
allows wine or brandy occasionally, as a strengthener
and a tonic; and one or two of those medical men are
exceedingly clever. I am sure I require a tonic-my
digestion is so awfully bad-andthe fact isI must
have one."
"You shall; but there are plenty of tonics without
having recourse to wine or spiritstonics infinitely
less dangerous. You ask me for poison, because it is
pleasant to your taste, but should I be worthy of my
profession if I gave it you?
"I, at least, will absolve you from any harm that
   

.
may happen in my case," said the lady lightly, "if you
will allow it."
"But I should still be answerable to my conscience,
and to Him who gave it me," he replied. "No, no;
my dear lady; I again repeat-it cannot, must not be."
Soon afterwards he departed, with a foreboding on
his mind that he should be discarded, for some more
flexible medical rivala foreboding that proved too
true; the lady the next day sending for Dr. C-, who
allowed alcohol in his pharmacopia, and did not
quarrel with patients taking a little "innocent" gin or
brandy.
His next place of call was where a little patient was
recovering from scarlet-fever. She was a thin delicate
child, and her recovery was slow. A smile came upon
her pale face when she saw her friendfor the doctor
was a great favourite with most of his little ones.
"And how are you, my dear, this morning? You
have not yet been to buy those roses for your cheeks, I
see! but we must get them before long!"
The mamma looked anxious. "Emma does not gain
strength as she should do, doctor. She wants more
nourishment; but she has no appetite. I can get her
to eat so little, so very little."
"Does she get her half-hour's walk in the sunshine?"
"Not always; it has been such weather! and she is
so soon tired."
"Yes, the weather has been unfortunate for usit
has kept her back no doubt. But we shall be having
finer days in a while; in the meantime she must be
encouraged to play about in-doors, and to go out
whenever the day will permit. It is not my medicine
   
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS.

sle requires now, but good kitchen physic, and exer-
cise."
"But, -doctor,-papa and I have both been thinking
a little wine would strengthen her. She really needs
good nourishment."
"All the good nourishment you can give her, let her
have. But no wine; there is no food to be obtained
out of wine. It is quite a fallacy to suppose
otherwise."
"You are prejudiced, doctor! Excuse me for saying
it; but I know wine to be really strengthening. I
have tried it myself; it once saved my life."
" Wine, madam?"
"Yes; port wine. I am ashamed to tell you how
much I was ordered to drink each day; eight or nine
glasses, I think, by a very clever physician at Dundee,
and I firmly believe if it had not been for that wine
I should not now be alive." The lady closed her lips
and looked very decided indeed. She seemed to wish
to impress it on him that she was a very wise woman,
and was not easily to be put down.
"Whether you recovered by the aid of the wine, or
in spite of the wine, though I rather suppose the latter,
is not for me to say. But you are quite mistaken if
you imagine it was in consequence of any nutritive
qualities the port wine might possess. It might act, it
no doubt did act, upon you as a stimulant. But there
are other stimulants to be had, far better and safer
than port wine or any alcoholic mixture whatever.
Alcohol, ma'am, is poison; pleasant tasted most fre-
quently, and there is its danger, for people like it, and
because they like it, will take it. But beware how
you give it to your daughter; I give you my word
   

.
it is not needed, that it would be injurious.-In fact, I
forbid it entirely." The lady could say no more after
so decided a refusal, but in her heart she thought the
doctor a sort of monomaniac, and scarcely to be trusted.
"It is astonishing," thought the doctor, as he once
more seated himself in his carriage, and took up a
pamphlet that had just been published on the subject
of intoxicants, by a medical man of his acquaintance, to
read as he went along.-"It is astonishing what a hold
alcoholic drinks have on the affections of the respec-
table portion of society! We talk of the poor man
being infatuated with his glass of ale and his public-
house, but there is equal infatuation if we look higher.
Well, well! this pamphlet I hope will do good," and he
read with satisfaction from its pages. "Alcohol is a
most dangerous luxury; it is neither adapted for food
or medicine.
The ancients called it 'a delightsome
poison. I have been long convinced that I should be
criminal, were I to give it or prescribe it, either in
health or disease. Alcohol is given to gratify an
unnatural and depraved appetite, not having anatomy,
physiology, philosophy, science, or common sense, to
sanction its use; in fact, as a medicine, it is the most
dangerous quackery of the present day."
The next visit was to the house of the Rev. Stephen
Morris. One of the maid-servants was ill. She was
feverish and sick, and moaned pitifully as the doctor,
with Mrs. Morris, entered her room. A young girl
about seventeen, who had only lately been engaged as
under-housemaid, was standing over her, and said some-
thing about "Martha having taken poison." "True
enough, she is poisoned," said the doctor, after a few
   
TIIE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS.

moments' examination and a few questions. The
minister's wife turned pale, as did also the young
housemaid "And I suspect," he continued, "she has
poisoned herself. She has had too much drink. Young
woman," he added sternly, addressing the patient, "how
dare you disgrace yourself in this manner in a respect-
able family? Were it not for your mistress, I would take
no further notice of you, but leave you to get well as
you could, and remember what drink does; this is not
the first time, I believe, that you have taken too
much." He wrote a prescription quickly, sent it to his
surgery to be made up, and then went with Mrs. Morris
a moment into the breakfast-room.
He asked if she knew how Martha had obtained the
drink? Jane said she could not tell, unless it was,
that she had made too free with the barrel of beer in
the cellar.
"Will you take the advice of a doctor, and an older
housekeeper than yourself, my dear lady?" he asked
kindly. "I know it is very difficult to make a stand
with servants on this subject; but you will save your-
self much trouble, and do them an immense service, if
you give up the beer-barrel entirely, and allow of no
drink in the kitchen that can intoxicate. Who knows
the temptation that beer-barrel has been to Martha, or
the evils it may bring upon her? Many a girl has
been ruined for life in places where the beer or porter-
barrel, or perhaps the gin and brandy bottle, have
been close at hand."
Jane looked thoughtful. She thanked the doctor for
bis kind and well-meant advice, but did not seem
hopeful. For the question came "How could she deny
   

.
drink to the kitchen, when it was taken in the pavlour?
How could she tell her servants it was wrong and
unwise to drink beer, when the master, and that
master a minister, who should be an example in all
self-denial, and sobriety of life, to his household, took
wine and spirits so freely?" It was a perplexing
question. Mr. Wilbraham saw her hesitation and her
despondent look, and perhaps guessed the cause; but
he could not speak openly unless she gave him the cue.
It was a delicate subject. When the doctor's carriage
had rolled away, Jane still remained in the breakfast-
room, deep in thought, her head resting on her hand.
The doctor's advice was very good, and suggested the
right thing to do, but how could it be done? She was
not, in such a matter, afraid of her servants, for Jane
was courageous, and in a cause she felt to be entirely
right, could be heroic. Heroism may seem too lofty a
virtue to bring to the help of a mistress who differs
from her dependants in so apparently trifling a matter,
and yet it may be needed, for it is far from a trifling
matter in the eyes of most servants, as many hve
proved, and, we may say, is also far from trifling in
the eyes of a philanthropist. It is a serious matter,
a servant thinks, to be debarred from beer and ale
and porter; a very serious matter to have to live in
a teetotal family, and never to have the chance of
finishing a glass of wine, or drinking the dregs of a
bottle from upstairs, or wishing the master's or mis-
tress's good health, in sherry or home-made, on festive
occasions. Seryants have appetites, and often unruly
ones, quite as unruly as those possessed by master or
mistress, or more so, and they have not had the superior
   
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS.

education that should teach them to repress them. And
Jane knew this well, and that, most probably, she
would have to lose her well-trained servants, and
endure the annoyance, many times repeated, of young,
ignorant, and perhaps turbulent domestics, who would
waste and destroy her substance, and jar on all the
refined ears of the household. For servants who had
learned their business had also learned to consider strong
drink of some kind an indispensable perquisite, nay, a
necessary of life. She knew, too, that she would be
called stingy, a title a kind, open-hearted mistress does
not like any the better because she knows she has not
deserved it; and that, though higher wages might be
given to recompense for the lost indulgence, they would
not be considered sufficient compensation. All this,
however, she could and would bravely face, glad to do
so, for the minister's young wife had, for some time,
thoughtfully considered the question. Butand what
a powerful but this was ;-how could she take away
the beer from the kitchen, and retain the wine, and
gin, and brandy, for the parlour?
If her husband only would help her in this, gladly
would she herself give up all such indulgences; but he,
she feared greatly, never would. For, ah! was it not
true? and the thought that now arose made the blood
rise up over neck and brow, into a burning shame-
blush, "he was already too fond of these things, he
liked them only too well." She sighed heavily.A
kiss upon her forehead from behind, made her start.
"So thoughtful, dear?" It was Stephen who spoke
and he looked tenderly into her eyes.
" What is the
matter?"
U
   

.
in some way
"I have been thinking about Martha," answered
Jane, confusedly. She felt, in some way, as if she had
wronged him by her last thought.
"Well; isn't sbe better? Mr. Wilbraham has been
here, I see."
"Yes;, he saysWhat do you think he says, Ste-
phen ?-that she has been drinking, and that that is
the sole cause of her illness."
Drinking ?You must get rid of her at once, my
love. It will never do to have a drunken servant in
the house."
"I would,and I fear I shall have to do ;-but what
would become of her? AndI have been thinking that
it
may
be
my
fault."
"Your fault? That is an absurd thought. You
would never encourage her to drink, I am sure. Of
course you only allow her a daily pint."
"No. I only allow a pint. But that is enough to give
her the desire for more, and the barrel is always at hand."
"You must keep the key of it, then; though you
ought to have a servant you can trust to take charge of
such things."
" Wouldn't it be better to have no barrel at all?"
"Why better, my dear? I cannot see it. If you do
not give the maids beer in the house, they will only be
tempted to go out for it. But do as you please. If you
think it better, try the experiment."
And he walked to the window, as if he thought the
whole matter was settled.
"I would do so at once," proceeded Jane boldly;
"but I cannot see how I can ask them to give up beer,
while we take wine."
   
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS.

Well, then," replied Stephen, facing her again, and
looking the least in the world annoyed, "I suppose you
must leave the matter just as it is. And I believe that
is the only sensible way."
"Couldn't we, for their sakes and our own, give up
the wine? Don't you think it is our duty ?You know,
Stephen, Martha is not the only servant I have had to
dismiss for drinking. Hannah Green said she had first
learned to drink here, and you remember what became
of her. I would send Martha away to-morrow, and
must, indeed, unless she will promise to amend, or
unless I can send away the beer; but my heart won't
let me turn her on the streets. And you know it might,
and most probably would, come to that. It is shocking
for any servants, and especially for your servants, to
leave this house for the gin-shop and the jail, or per-
haps worse."
And Jane's face expressed the utmost distress as she
said this.
" But there is no need that Martha should
go
to
either. Calm yourself, my love, and do not let imagin-
ary fears trouble you! Martha will learn by the things
she suffers. She will lose a good place through over-
indulgence, and will take care for the future not to do
so again."
" But I cannot give her a sober character, Stephen."
"Of course not. But she will get a very fair place
nevertheless, and have another opportunity of redeem-
ing her character. Do not fall into John Broadbent's
error; he's a fine fellow, and much do I respect him,
but he is rabid on the subject of temperance, and has,
I fear, bitten you-he or Clara. Over every one who
   

BY THE TREST.
tastes a drop of wine or beer he puts a turpentine gar-
ment, and applies his torch, and forthwith they are in
flames, while he cries, See what drink does !' Martha
will get on very well."
"I will give her another trial, for she is a good ser-
vant in other respects, and I have not been sufficiently
careful with her. How I wish intoxicating drinks had
never been made!"
So has wished many another mistress of a household,
when troubled by intemperate servants or children, or
a drink-loving husband; and yet too often she has been
the first to recommend its use in any sudden illness,
forgetting how "delightsome" was the poison, and how
subtle its tempting influence, and that she was probably
laying the foundation for, or building up the very
troubles she so much deplored.
Did Stephen feel the confidence he had expressed to
his wife about Martha's future well-being and doing?
or was it that he would not see her danger? For it
would have been inconsistent indeed to have allowed
conscience to cry out in her case, and to have pursued
the same path himself. He was certainly not willing
to give up his own self-indulgent habits; therefore, per-
haps, he shut his eyes to their consequences, and there-
fore he said, " Peace, peace, when there was no peace."
A few years ago he would have started with dismay
if
you
had told him he would ever show such apathy
with regard to the bodily and spiritual welfare of any
human being, and more especially of one of his own
household. A Christian's conscience should be
"Quick as the apple of the eye,
The first approach of sin to feel."
   
THE DOCTOR AND HIS PATIENTS.

But so long now had his conscience lain under the
effects of the stupefying draught of expediency and
self-indulgence, that it rarely opened its eyes to the
light, and pulsated feebly under what would once have
startled every nerve, and sent the blood in quick
courses through furthermost vein and artery.
He retired, however, to his study that morning with
an uncomfortable feeling. Conscience still lived, though
enfeebled, and reminded him dully, and as it were from
afar off, that somewhere across her filmed eyes a pin
had pricked for a moment. As he sat down to think
out and prepare his next Sunday's discourse, he found
himself inconveniently recurring to his wife's words,
"Couldn't we, for their sakes and our own, give up the
wine?" and though he could not assent to her proposi-
tion, it gave him a secret displeasure that he could not.
His text had been chosen the day before for the
sermon he was about to write; but the heads of his
discourse did not come kindly to the birth, and their
coming at all was long delayed. A perplexity, not
unusual of late, had settled on his brain, and placed
impediments there with wild entangling fingers. He
put the sermon aside with a sigh, and opened a book.
But reading did not suit him, and in a little while he
found himself seated before the study table, with his head
resting upon his hand, in the same attitude in which
he had recently found his wife. Thus he remained for
half-an-hour or more, a dull melancholy oppressing him.
Was it because it was a cloudy morning, or that he
was clouded within? Life was often now a drag and
a weariness; this morning, almost more so than usual.
What should he do? He looked listlessly round the
   

.
room, lined with well-filled book-shelves, with books
written by men upon the highest subjects that can
employ the human mind. These seemed to reproach
his idleness. "Up, sluggard, to thy work! Life is
short, time is fleeting, death is near! Work while it is
called to-day, for the night cometh when no man can
work." These voices had often called to him before,
and he had obeyed; but the capacity for work appeared
departing from him now, unlessand he glanced
instinctively towards a small cupboard in a dark corner.
He rose, felt in his pocket for a key-a very familiar,
often-wanted keyand, grasping it between thumb
and finger with a nervous grasp, was about to apply it
to the lock of this dark corner cupboard. Did no
humiliating and confounding reflections seize him-no
remembrance of the great divine souls who had left for
him as for others the record of their Godward thoughts,
of those who "had all gone into a world of light,"and
that these had needed no fire but that from heaven to
illume their intellects and warm their hearts when
writing on the theme of God's salvation? By prayer
and fasting, by watchings and tears, they had gained
their insight into the spiritual worldby self-denial
and supplication, the gifts of the Spirit. Did no breath,
no vibrating chord sounding from them to him touch
his heart?
Apparently not. Between his soul and theirs he had
suffered to fall a thick cloudy curtain, and his weak
eyes no longer thought of piercing the veil; his heart
no longer desired communion with theirs; and no
electrical touches stirred him now from their pure
sphere.
   
THE DOCTOR AND IIIS PATIENTS.

He
gave the key a vigorous turn, the bolt withdrew,
the door flew open. Before him on the shelf stood an
inviting bottle and a wine-glass. He laid them both
upon the table, and seated himself once more. .
strange content was in his eye; the expression of weari-
ness had left his face. Near him, within his grasp,
was the false magician's rod, with which he was about
to do such wonders; the rod of Moses--prayer, and
fasting, and self-denial-was neglected. A few taps at
the window-pane made him turn round suddenly. Who
was it about to intrude? Could it be Jane? Not likely!
for the window of this room looked on to a piece of
garden-ground seldom trodden, a plot of grass and shrubs
shut in by a high brick wall from the road. As he
looked, he saw that at the middle pane a little bird was
fluttering, anxious perhaps to get in on this cold day,
attracted by the shut-in, quiet, warm room. "Tap, tap,
tap," went its small beak at the window-pane, and
the bird's wings fluttered with impatience and desire.
By God's smallest creatures, if we will open our souls
to listen, may divinest truths be taught. No "sparrow
is forgotten before God;" and this little, gray, God-
remembered sparrow might have had a mission to the
ministerone more warning intrusted to it for him-
which it endeavoured to make known, by the efforts of
its feeble beak to penetrate the hard, mysterious crystal
of the window. "Pray, beseech! do as I do!" and at
the window of God's mercy and love he has said you
shall not pray in vain. For to you a promise is given
"Knock, and it shall be opened; ask, and it shall be
given you; seek, and ye shall find;" and "If ye shall
ask anything in my name, I will do it."
   

.
Did he understand the sparrow's mystic speech? did
he go at once upon his knees, bending low before the
throne of God's love? or did he lift one earnest prayer,
seated beside the table, for help from on high to resist
temptation? No; the sparrow flew away unheeded-
its message delivered in vain. Prayer's fountain was
sealed; a hard, dry frost was upon his heart. It was
but half-a-minute's more delay, and then the glass was
filled and drained, again and again; and as each glass
emptied, his eye became brighter, his lip ruddier, his
heart lighter, his brain clearer. Then the paper was
once more brought out and placed before the willing
hand; for, touched by the unholy wand of drink, the
dead men in the brain-city rose to galvanic semblance
of life, and ideas and words came at command, almost
faster than he could write them. With a look of
triumph he at length put the finished sermon away;
his task was accomplished once more.
He threw himself back in his easy chair, and was
sensible of a slight headache, a slight confusion, now
all was over. Reaction began, and with it came speedily
renewed languor and depression. Again more wine
was necessary. Before evening he was sunk in deep
lethargic slumber upon the couch in the drawing-room,
and Jane sorrowfully threw over his flushed, swollen
countenance her delicate embroidered handkerchief as
a veil.
Was it not become a hopeless matter to think of
preaching sobriety and self-denial to the kitchen, with
such an example from the sacred study of the minister
before its eyes?
   
THE RESCUE.

CHAPTER XX.
THE RESCUE.
THE week went by, and Mrs. Christy heard nothing of
Veronica, at which she began to wonder. At first,
however, she was inclined to suppose the girl had
forgotten her promise about writing, or was so pleased
with her new situation as not to notice how quickly
the days sped by. For Mrs. Christy made no doubt
from the little she had gathered about the letter, that
it was to some rich relative, who would amply provide
for and perhaps adopt Veronica.
About the middle of the second week, however, a
little alarm came upon her. What if Veronica had
lost her way, or been ill treated, or had perished in the
snow that first winterly stormy night of her absence?
But she was a woman not given to anticipations of evil
and to forebodings, and she speedily put such fears t
flight: it was not wise to fret and trouble; and, be-
sides, what good could it do? Infirm as she
she was, and
ignorant of Veronica's whereabouts, she could not seek
her up; she must wait patiently for time to reveal the
secret. Still, however, she had her moments of won-
derment. "The girl surely would send," she thought to
herself, as she went about her work; "for there was the
rent going on, and who was to pay it? And the bir
-poor Dick, Veronica's pethad already cost her two-
pence in seeds; though she didn't mean to say she
grudged it; and Dick she always would keep, no matter
   

.
up
what happened, unless Veronica came back to claim
him."
Mrs. Christy lived in the lower house. It bad a
window facing the street, with a shutter that each
night had to be closed from without. At this closing
time the old woman generally took the opportunity to
look the street, and down the street, the shutter in
her hand, in hopes of catching a glimpse of the well-
known form of the young lace-mender. One night that
she stood thus she remembered it was now ten days since
she had seen her. She had opened the rooms up-stairs
once, and looked round at everything, and could find
no clue there to the mystery of the young girl's absence.
Everything was just where it should be: Veronica's faded
work-a-day bonnet and shawl hanging up in the old
place behind the door; her dress, though only a washed-
out cotton, put away carefully in the box; the fireplace
neatly arranged, and the coal laid in the grate ready
to light. The geraniums in the window wanted water,
and she watered them; but all else was as if the tidy
mistress had only just left it, except perhaps that a
little dust had collected in the window-seat.
The old woman shook her head somewhat despond-
ingly, as she stood with the shutter in her hand,
slowly closing it, thinking of these things. "I'd give
summat to know where that poor lass is!" was her ejacu-
lation, or rather speech. Before she had done speaking
some one touched her familiarly on the shoulder. She
"a'most screeted," as she said afterwards, relating the
occurrence to Mrs. Scrubbins, her neighbour and gossip,
"for I thought it were the lass herself; but it was some
one taller than Veronica, and darker." It was nearly
   
THE RESCUE.

dusk, and Mrs. Christy's eyes were not very good, so
she curtsied low to the gentility of the apparition that
met her clouded gaze, a lady in fashionable dress, and
waited respectfully for her to speak first.
"Is Veronica at home, Mrs. Christy?" Mrs. Christy's
complaisance and humility were gone in a moment; she
recognized the voice, and raised her stooping back as
much towards the perpendicular as was possible to her
ere she replied. "Don't Mrs. Christy me, you baggage!
I won't be spoken to by none on you; I won't! An'
keep away for shame from this house!"
The fine lady did not resent this rough speech, or look
in the least surprised, but only moved a little forwards,
so as to stand in the way between the old woman and
her door-step, and thus holding her, as it were, at bay,
continued
"Now, don't be so hard, Mrs. Christy! I've heard
father's dead, and I want to know if it's true or not.
Do tell me it's not! and let me speak to Veronica a
moment, I won't keep her longer!"
"Your father's dead, sure enough," replied the old
woman impatiently, holding her hand to the side of her
head, as if to shield it from the cold wind, for she had
come out without a bonnet; "if that's any comfort for
such as you to know. Like it is! Go to the church-
yard, and speak to him there; there's nobody here to
talk to."
"Then it is true!" murmured Letitia, in a deep hollow
voice, as if talking to herself. "O my father! I didn't
think it would be so soon! I hoped I should have gone
first."Then louder"But Veronica! where's she? I
must know. I will know!"
   

BY TIIE TRENT.
"You shan't know from me!" said Mrs. Christy
angrily. "Such as you's no business wi' such as her."
"I will know, I tell you!" And Letitia seized the
old woman by the arm. "You shan't go into your
house again till you tell me, not if you stay here all
night."
Mrs. Christy lived alone, she had no one to shout to
for help, and she began to reflect what she must do
with so obstinate and determined an assailant. She
was, too, half inclined to be frightened at the glare of
Letitia's eyes; they looked fierce and determined; and
what if she should really keep her standing here, a poor
old rheumatic body like her, in the cold January night
air!And so bring on another illness like the one she
endured last winter? It was not to be thought of! With
a shudder she at once signed a capitulation. Besides,
under the circumstances, there could be no great harm
in telling. Veronica, poor girl, was far enough away
no doubt.
"She's not here, I tell you; she's gone away."
"Gone away? Where to?"
"I don't know, not I! How should I know?"
Letitia's eyes flashed. She thought the old woman
was deceiving her. Her grasp became tighter, as she
hissed into her ear, threateningly, "If you don't tell me
true, old woman, I'll half murder you! Where is she?
Where is Veronica ?"
Poor Mrs. Christy was completely frightened now.
She looked round helplessly, no living being was in
sight in that quiet no-thoroughfare. The gas-lamps
only revealed their own blurred shadows. Tremblingly
she told her imperious jailer that Veronica had gone

   
THE RESCUE.

away ten days ago with a letter to an aunt, and
had not since been seen or heard of. That she didn't
know what had come to the lass, she only wished she
did; some harm, she was afraid!
"An aunt?" asked Letitia. "We've no aunt or uncle,
that I know of, in the world. What's her name, and
where does she live?''
"Her name's Lee. Mrs. Lee, that I'm sure of! And
she lives at Aldborough; yes, Aldborough, that's the
name. I remember it, 'cause my husband toud me he
lived at Aldborough, afore he knowed me; but what
house it is, I've clean forgotten. It had a grandish
sound with it."
"Mrs. Lee, Aldborough," repeated Letitia slowly; "and
how far's Aldborough from here."
"Twelve mile, if it's a step."
"And she walked there, you say?"
"Aye, sure she did! Do you think she'd a coach an'
four to ride in?"
"Twelve miles on a snowy day! Ten days agothat
wasah, that was just before that great snow! She's
lost, she's lost! Mrs. Christy, lost in the snow!" And
Letitia wrung her hands.
"God preserve us!" said the old woman.
not!"
But Letitia went away murmuring, "She's lost! she's
lost!"
Two nights afterwards a low knock was heard at
the door of John Broadbent's cottage at St. Wilfrid's.
It was a dark windy night, about nine o'clock, and the
rain came in gusts driven by the wind. The young
servant, as she opened the door in answer to the knock,
"I hope
   

.
felt the rain-drops pelting through the bare rose and
woodbine boughs at the trellised porch upon her head
and smart cap, and somewhat impatiently asked, "Who's
there?" is Can I see Mr. Broadbent?" demanded a female
whose voice she did not recognize. "Yes, ma'am; come
in, please." To her surprise, a young woman, without
umbrella or shawl or cloak, but dressed in silk and
satin and lace, whose faded grandeur the rain had helped
to spoil and the mud to defile, entered. She had very
bright, dark eyes, and, as the unsophisticated girl
thought, fine blooming pink cheeks, though her hair
was tossed about and disordered by the wind, and gave
her a forlorn look. Standing now in the kitchen, with
the fire-light full upon her, she looked, spite of her wet
shabby garments, so much a lady, that the girl, curtsey-
ing, asked what name she should give, and prepared to
open the parlour door to admit her.
" Your master will not know my name. Ask him if
he will see me here for a moment," said the bright-eyed
lady. The girl felt someway uncomfortable under the
glow of those large eyes.
"You'd better walk in the parlour, ma'am, I'm sure."
"No, no; I will stay here." And the wondering girl
went forthwith to acquaint her master with the advent
of the new-comer.
John came out with some curiosity depicted on his
face. "A strange lady, wet through," the girl had said
hurriedly. Who could she be? It was Letitia, but
John Broadbent did not know her; he had never seen
her; and bowing reservedlyhis wonder increasing each
moment at the aspect of the strange lady, he asked her
business.
   
THE RESCUE.

"May I speak to you alone? or," she added, "with
only your sister?"
"Certainly. Come in to the parlour, my sister is
there."
"Alone?"
"Yes." She no longer hesitated, but followed him
into the small but well-lighted and warm apartment,
where Clara was tranquilly engaged with her sewing.
John had been reading to her aloud, no doubt, as an
open book lay beside his arm-chair on the table. Clara
looked at the stranger with equal surprise to that which
her brother had felt; for a moment only, however; then
she moved her head with her customary gentle and
graceful acknowledgment of a visitor, but the stranger,
not heeding the chair John placed courteously for her
near the fire, and still standing in the middle of the
room, exclaimed abruptly, "Don't bow to me, madam!
I'm not worth a bow from any one.
I belong to the
dirt of the streets, that you would not like to touch
with the hem of your dress. And forgive me for com-
ing here; I would rather have been put in your outhouse
than your parlour, but I couldn't help it, indeed I
couldn't. But I have a sister, Mr. Broadbent." Here
she turned the glance of her large dark eyes upon John
there was witchery in them stilland John's sank
from their gaze, with a troubled, pained expression.
"You know her, I think-Veronica Lee, the daughter
of the blind basket-maker, a good, pure girl-innocent
and good, as I am guilty and desperateand I want
you to save her! You only, perhaps, can do it. I have
heard of you, sir, and of the good and noble things you
have done for the poor. You know her, for I have seen
   

.
you walking by her side in the streets, and you knew
her father. He's dead, they say, and she, she's lost if
you won't save her." She uttered these words in a
beseeching plaintive voice, much in the way some
wounded wild animal would make known its trouble
could it speak.
It was true what she had said. John had once or
twice met Veronica in the streets, and had spoken to
her there. He had seen her at home several times on
his visits to her father, though lately he had, of course,
lost sight of her, through his absence abroad. It pained
him to hear of Mark Lee's death, but almost more to
know that his daughter was in trouble. "What was
the matter? how was it that she was lost? and how
could he help her?" he inquired.
Letitia related all that she had extracted from Mrs.
Christy first, and then that she had herself been to
Aldborough in search of her sister; that she had heard
of her there, but had lost trace of her on her return,
and that for some time she had feared she must have
perished in the snow.
But to-day a new discovery had been made. A friend
of hers had heard of her being at a certain house in the
outskirts of Trentham very ill, and, as it was supposed,
in a fever, a house whose character Letitia knew only
too well.
"How she got there, Mr. Broadbent, I can't tell! I
only know one thing, it hasn't been by her own will.
She's been carried there by force, or by guile, and if she
is not soon brought away, she's lost. Ah!" said Letitia
bitterly, "I don't want any more to be in my place,
least of all my sister! She's beautiful and good and
   
THE RESCUE.

pure. But you'll save her, will you not?I'll take
you there. Don't be afraid of me, I'll do you no harm.
You believe me, do you not?" she asked as John kept
silence, her hands clasped, and in an agonizing voice.
"But I have no authority, no right," said John,
"Your sister must have other friends, who should in-
terfere."
"None in the world; none but you. Oh, Mr. Broad-
bent, will you refuse?"
"Give me the address of the house, and if it be as you
say,
if
your sister is really detained there against her
will, I will get the aid of the magistrates. I will see
to it: she shall be saved. But you must stay here; let
your clothes be dried. My sister will care for you."
"No," replied Letitia, "I cannot stay. Do you think
I mind a little rain? What do I care to preserve my
body? It is best to go, and I will, and must, go with
you. But I will not trouble you; no one shall see me
near you."
"But how do you know it is your sister that is
there?--Suppose you are mistaken, or have been mis-
led? We cannot enter the house on a supposition
merely."
"It is no supposition! See here. This was written
eight days ago, and has only reached me this morning."
She showed a slip of paper on which was written a
few words in pencil. It was dirty, and had evidently
been in the mud, but still could be read with some
difficulty.
"I am a prisoner here, in this house; I don't know its
Oh, some one save me, will you?-VERONICA
LEE."
name.
Y
   

BY TIIE TRENT.
"This was picked up by a friend of mine, who gave
it me this morning, and told me where she found it.
I've been searching this day all about the neighbour-
hood, and have got to know that she is certainly there,
and very ill."
"And this is really her writing?"
"Yes, yes; I know it well."
John reflected a few moments. Then, after consult-
ing with Clara, he decided to go at once to the help of
Veronica. He dressed for the storm, and insisted that
Letitia should do the same, and, with Clara's help,
succeeded in persuading her to do so. Throwing over
her a large cloak, and providing her with thick boots
and an umbrella, all the change of dress she would
allow, they both set out, Letitia leading the way with
nervous haste.
"Why do you turn towards the ferry?" John asked,
"the ferryman will be long since gone away. We must
walk the long way by the road, there is no help for it."
"It is not quite ten o'clock," replied Letitia, "and
the man promised to wait till then; I paid him to wait."
Inwardly admiring her forethought-for by it their
way was shortened by at least one-thirdJohn followed
quickly, and soon reached the river. The man was
inside the boat-house waiting. He proceeded at once
to the boat, looking at his watch by the aid of a lan-
tern. "You're but just in time," he remarked; "in
another five minutes I should have gone away."
Silently they passed over the water, and as silently
went on their way across the long flat of the wet plashy
meadows. It was eleven o'clock when the town was
gained. John at once proceeded to the office of the
   
TIIE RESCUE.

chief-constable, and stated to him the cause of his visit.
A search-warrant and a constable were obtained, and
with these he and Letitia quickly gained the house of
Veronica's detention. It was a lonely house, surrounded
by a high wall, and Letitia said was the resort of
gamblers and of persons of bad character.
Here, however, they were not long detained.
Veronica was found, changed indeed, and ill, but not so
ill now as to be incapable of being removed. With a
joyful cry she recognized John Broadbent and her sister.
"Take me away" was all she could utter at first; and
when fairly placed in the cab, and they were driving
away, she fainted, overcome by her emotions of joy.
By early dawn St. Wilfrid's was gained. Clara was still
up, waiting for her brother. She received the released
prisoner tenderly, and preparing her a bed in her own
room, at once undertook the office of nurse. Letitia
stole away unseen, it was believed, as soon as Veronica
was removed from the cab, leaving behind her, however,
the cloak and boots and umbrella.
Veronica's account of her imprisonment was soon
told. When she was able to sit up, she related the
whole to Clara, as it had occurred-her journey to
Aldborough, her bewilderment in the snow on her
return, her despair of help, and her lying down to die,
and then her awakening with the strange smiling
woman bending over her, in the large well-furnished
room. Her own words perhaps will tell the tale best, a
tale we should not tell but for its bearing on the subject
of drink. Shortly as we can we will relate her words.
"I was fascinated with that strange smile, though it
was not a pleasant fascination. I can't describe it
   

.
But she was kind, or at least seemed so; brought me
tea and bread and butter to revive me, and sat down by
me gently, asking me of my adventures. I told her I
had been lost in the snow, that I had been walking
from Aldborough to Trentham, that my name was
Veronica Lee, and that I lived at Trentham, and gained
my living by mending lace, and that my father was
just dead. I don't think I told her these things all at
once; she got them out of me, you understand, by a
smile and a question, one by one, before I was well
aware.
" Then I asked her in return where I was? She
answered, with kind friends who would take care of
me. But I could not get from her either their names
or the name of the house at which I was staying. 'Am
I at Aldborough, at Mrs. Lee's?' I inquired, for I fan-
cied, I don't know why, once or twice, that I might
have been found by some of Mrs. Lee's people, and
taken back, and that she might have had pity on me
after all. But the lady would not say; she only smiled,
with a 'Never mind, my dear; you're in a good home,
so be content.'
" Content I was not, but what could I do? I think
she must have put something stupifying in my tea, for
soon after taking it I slept very heavily indeed, and did
not wake till next morning long after daylight. The
room did not look so grand by daylight. I got up and
dressed, and looked out of the window, anxious to see
where I was, but to my great disappointment there was
nothing visible but a great high brick wall, some heaps
of dirty snow, and a piece of gray sky. I tried to open
the bedroom door, but found it locked. Then I became
   
THE RESCUE.

alarmed, and looked round for any other door or con-
cealed closet, but could not see any; and yet I know
there must have been one somewhere, for afterwards
people would come in and go out of the room-strange
horrible men and womenwithout opening the other
door, and talk over me and laugh. That was when I
was ill (Clara judged this to be the fancy of a sick and
delirious person only).But, however, in a while the
lady came again. I was sitting crying beside the bed;
I felt ill, my head ached, and I fancied it might have
been caused by the medicine in the tea, so I was angry
with her, and would not speak to her at first."
"But how do you know there was medicine in the
tea?''
"I don't know. I only fancied it must have been so.
She asked me why I cried. I said I wanted to go
home. She replied smoothly, 'Presently, presently, my
dear;' but I could see by the look of her eyes that she
did not mean what she said. I distrusted her as I
watched her about, sliving here and there like a cat,
without making any noise. In a while she dusted the
looking-glass-it was a very large oneand asked me
to come and look at myself, telling me I was very
pretty, and didn't I know it? And she assured me she
had some very handsome clothes that I should look
well in. She brought out some pearl bracelets, and a
grand necklace, and wanted me to put them on, but I
tossed them away; I didn't want any of her finery I
told her. Then she asked me whether I liked to mend
lace, and wouldn't it be well if I could give up all that
tiresome work, and live like a lady, in fine clothes, and
ride in my carriage? She knew some one, she said,
   

.
ask me.
who would make a lady of mea real grand lady, if I
would but say  Yes,' and be his daughter, for he had
lately lost a daughter, just as I had lately lost my
father. That it was he who had saved my life in the
snow; and because I looked so much like his dear
Herminia, and reminded him so strongly of her, he
had got the idea of adopting me. Would I let him
come to speak to me for half-an-hour about it? I said
no; I didn't want to speak to any one, and she needn't
All I wanted was to get home; and then the
gentleman, if it was really true what she said, could
tell me himself what he wanted, there.
She replied
that wouldn't do; that he was by far too great a gentle-
man to consent to be seen in my poor lodgings. But
why should I tell you all her lies? I knew they were
lies at the time, for her eyes and her mouth went dif-
ferent ways when she spoke.
"I was sick and ill, too, and began to be really
frightened. Where was I? Where could I be? I
shuddered to imagine where.
"She went away in a while, and then I knelt down
and prayed for deliverance from that house, whatever
it might be.
"I tried the window, and opened it a little, but it
was too far from the ground; then I wrote that little
note on a scrap of paper with a pencil I had in my
pocket, and managed to make it float away clear of
the window, and great was my relief to see the wind
carry it over the wall. The door I had heard her lock
as she went out.
"At dinner she came again, and at tea, bringing me
food, but I would only take a little bread and water.
   
THE RESCUE.

Once she brought me a glass of spirits and water, and
begged me to take it, that it would do my cold and
headache good; but if I had been inclined I would not
have drunk it, for I remembered what your brother once
said to father about the danger of drink. I told her I
never drank such things, and that it was poison; but
she didn't understand me, and asked how could I think
of such a thing; no one would poison me in that house,
that I was much too beautiful to be poisoned.-, I
cannot tell you all the vile flatteries she tried to make
me believe! And again she wanted me to see my deli-
verer, as she called him, and said I was ungrateful not
to wish to thank him, when I still refused. She still
smiled, with her false, smooth smile, and called me
obstinate, with the same air with which she would have
chid a kitten; and therefore, she assured me, I should
be sent home without delay, but that it was necessary
he should come to release me, and take me away.
"I can't tell you more," added Veronica, laying her
head on her friend's neck, "only that I still wouldn't
see him; and at night I was taken ill, so ill that they
put me to bed, and sent for a doctor. I think, perhaps,
the strange woman became frightened, and thought my
fever infectious, for I saw no more of her. But I didn't
like the doctor at all; he was so dark, so frightfully
dark, and had a black shadow round him; and there
were more black shadows, a little old woman amongst
them, who was my nurse I suppose, with a hump-back,
and one tooth hanging from her jaw in front, very
ugly. And yet she was kind to me, and really good, I
think; at least, she never told me any lies.And I was
delirious some days, they said; but a day or two before
   

BY TIIE TRENT.
was all
your brother came was better, though my
bair
gone, and my face as pale as a sheet. Ah, how much I
owe you both! and poor, poor Letitia, too!" she added
thoughtfully, "I wonder where she is!"
"One thing I am thankful for," she exclaimed ener-
getically, a day or so afterwards, " that I did not take
that drink, that spirits; who knows what would have
become of me if I had?" She shuddered, and clung to
Clara, while Clara thought, "Who knows, indeed?" and
thanked God with her, that she had escaped that snare.
Veronica recovered her health and good looks, and as
soon as possible went to assure Mrs. Christy of her
welfare, and to give up possession of the rooms.
Her
heart ached as she did so, for the memory of her father
clung about them, but she could not resist the entrea-
ties of Clara and John, to take up her abode with them
for the present, at St. Wilfrid's. They proposed for
her, that she should have a year's earnest study in
various branches of knowledge, and so prepare herself
for a teacher; to tell the truth, she did not need much
persuasion to induce her to accede to this scheme, lace-
mending had very few charms, as may be imagined, and
most thankfully she accepted the kindness of her friends.
Her ambition stretched no further than to be able to
teach the very young, and we may picture her there-
fore, for the present, cutting stars, and folding papers,
modelling lilies and king-cups; mastering pentagon and
hexagon and octagon, and going through numerous
preparatory exercises on the piano, while the little ones
about her look lovingly into her deep sweet blue eyes,
or talk admiringly of the little curls that are just be-
ginning to replace those heavy tresses lost in the fever.
   
TIIE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.
man.
TIME like a good horse speeds along with its rider,
Now galloping swiftly over the level, breezy
uplands; now trotting complacently along the valleys,
or walking occasionally by the side of
"Shallow rivers by whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals,"
that the traveller may listen both to the rivers and
the birds, and some little also to the pleasure-beatings
of his own heart; and now, breathing deeply up the
steep ascent, or gently descending from the craggy
edge, to the sleeping town at the base.
An untiring horse is the time-horse; he asks for no
"hostel, barn, or grange," at which to rest his tired
limbs; night and day, sunlight or moonlight, or pitch
darkness, are alike to him; rain or fair, snow or sun-
shine, wild wind, or the sleep of the summer's noon.
His rider may burden him as he will; he goes but the
faster, the more he has to carry; he may put nothing
upon his back, he only trots the harder. But he never
stays or rests, and his feet are like Lear's horses, shod
with felt, instead of ringing iron. Chaucer's wondrous
horse of brass, that could
" Bearen your body into every place
To which your hearte willeth for to pace,"
was less wonderful, by far, than he is. How little do
we know, sitting by 'our quiet firesides, it may be at
   

.
this present, where, in a few months, or years, or even
days, he will carry us, or what strange, or sad expe-
riences he will give us, before we have done with him!
Jane did not dream when she married Stephen
Morris the much-admired and popular minister, of the
thorny path that lay before her. Few brides, we
suppose, anticipate sorrow. Could the future be re-
vealed and opened to the gaze of some, when at the
marriage altar, there would be sorrowing and silence
instead of blushes and smiles, and the momentous, "I
will." Jane had a brave heart, and she loved deeply,
but I do not know that she would have sealed her
betrothal kiss, with the ring and the marriage vow,
had she seen her future husband, as we saw him a
while ago, and as we shall see him presently, trans-
formed by the potent Circean liquor in the cup of
Comus, from the figure of a man, of almost an angel,
as he seemed once to her, to the near likeness of a
grovelling animal. Perhaps, indeed, she might have
thought, with the elastic hope of a young and loving
woman, that her arms would be strong enough to save
him from such a fate, and that her mission was to be
his deliverer and earthly stay, and she might thus have
accepted it with a mixture of joy and trembling.
But she had entered on her path in complete ignor-
ance of the gloomy turn its course so soon would take,
and she found herself now in a wilderness of sorrow.
Where did it terminate? From which brier could she
gather fruit? Many a hero, in the garb of a woman,
walks on the shady side of the path that is generally
allotted to the sex. And many a female "Great Heart"
pursues her way through "the valley of the shadow of
   
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

death," God-sustained and strong, on whom no lan-
terns of this world's fame are ever turned. And thus
she pursued her way, drawing her strength, not from
man, but God, and in the midst of deep sorrow and
humiliation, found comfort and peace in Him. .
Stephen's frequent fits of despondency she strove to
cheer and remove, if it were possible, by the utmost
kindness and love. His increasing desire for stimu-
lants, though not fully known to her, alarmed her, and
she endeavoured by direct and indirect means to check
it. Jonas White's solemn appeal came to her know-
ledge, and she hoped and prayed it might produce
blessed fruit in her husband's mind, and lead him to
reconsider his ways and be wise. It had a temporary
good effect;the study cupboard was not looked into
for a week, and the decanters were left unopened on
the dinner-table for about the same period of time.
But he was gloomy and abstracted during this interval,
and complained that his brain was dull, and his mental
powers were leaving him.
The constant pulpit gla-
diatorship, to which he seemed condemned, was a great
strain upon his powers; he must always come off victo-
rious, or he must die; his popularity would be gone, his
church decline, his best friends go about mourning, if
he ceased to be the bright, particular star of Trentham,
-if he became content to deliver stale bread and plati-
tudes to his congregation. So he thought. He must
therefore work, and keep thews and sinews in order,
-and to do this he must drink.
We shall not stay here to show the false ground
upon which he now stood, and how this gangrene of
self-indulgence had eaten into his marrow.
When
   

.
man leaves God, the rock of strength, the giver of all
power and wisdom, and takes to rushes and feeble
staves of his own contriving, to support him, and to
his own wisdom for enlightenment, then he must needs
sink and fall prone. When he leaves the Fountain of
living water, the sand of the desert soon absorbs the
little he has with him, and he is left athirst and perish-
ing; he must die if he find not again the spring.
Though, let us thank God! prayer and repentance can
always discover it.
But Stephen was not aware he had lost it. Sur-
rounded by the arid wilderness of his own lust, a per-,
petual mirage led him onwards, he saw wells and pools
of water ever near, and his cheated eye mistook them
for the pure waters of life. He talked of the living
waters to his people, but he himself was far from them,
and though at present they did not know it,  faint
wonder was beginning to dawn upon them, and a loss
of something in their minister, they knew not how to
describe, was perceptible to them. His discourses
became unequalalternately lethargic and of luxuriant
energy, and from his countenance had passed away a
beautiful something that had once both awed and
charmed. When the human has been face to face with
the divine, even for a short time, there remains a
glimmer of that sweet and awful light that in old times
shone from Moses' countenance, and more or less it
perceptibly illumes the man, as he walks again among
his fellows. It beams from his eyes, and they behold
it, though they know not what name to give it,-it lies
tremblingly upon his every feature, and when he speaks
they find his "hallowed lips have been touched with
   
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

fire," and they are conscious of its nearness in the
electrical, soul-touching accents with which he greets
them. The aura round the head of a saint is no myth,
no pictorial exaggeration put in for effect, but very
faintly is it to be seen in the dull ordinary atmosphere
of this world, and not at all by eyes profane.
He still had eloquent words, and glowing imagery,
logical sequences and deductions, clear illustrations and
expositions, he still charmed and surprised, but could
his hearers have seen within, they would have found
the true glory had departedthe shrine vacant, the
ark stolen. He had been able as yet to hide the
emptiness, but a terror seized him at times, lest some
penetrating eye should pierce the veil, or lest he
himself in a moment of madness should tear it asunder,
and expose the nakedness of the sanctuary.
And he did not fear without a cause. Premonitions
were not wanting that the balance of the brain was
being disturbed; that the constant and unnatural
stimulus of wine was wearing and fretting its deli-
cate fibres and cells, that a slow disease was progres-
sing and sapping its soundness. A decreased
A decreased power of
attention, a loss of concentrative energy was beginning
to be painfully felt, and at times, the unsolicited and
pertinacious recurrence of one train of ideas.
Terrible dreams made the night hideous and the
day languid. But when his wife pleaded for change of
air and scene, he refused to listen to her,when she
hinted gently, and at length openly accused the
delightsome poison " as the cause of his decreasing
health, be called her prejudiced and childish; and when
she proposed a doctor, he shook his head with a decided
   

.
"No." He knew he was ill; ill in body, and ill in
mind, ill at heart, and ill at ease, but he still loved the
disease that preyed upon him, and he could not resolve
to be divorced from it.
His week-evening duties were now sometimes entirely
neglected, and sometimes only half performed; the
young men's class for increase of biblical learning,
about which he had once been so enthusiastic, was
frequently left without his presence, and a zealous, but
not too wise, deacon filled his place, to the disappoint-
ment of the young students, whose decreasing numbers
soon testified to their dissatisfaction at the change, and
want of interest; the Thursday night's sermon was
often languidly given; but the prayer-meetings perhaps
suffered most of all, and they were at last allowed to
die away.
Want of health was pleaded as the cause of this
decline in energy, and his people indulgently listened
to the plea, and fearful lest they should lose his valued
services altogether, wished to release him from some of
his pulpit labour, or even to grant him a lengthened
holiday. Urged from without and within, he at last
took the holiday for six months, and visited some of
the loveliest and healthiest places and scenes on the
Continent. He came back stronger, and his health was
for a time recruited, and those who saw his brighter
eye and firmer step, said he was recovered, and con-
gratulated him on his permanent improvement. Jane
did not feel very hopeful, however. The black cloud was
not removed, though a break of sunshine had occurred
for a while, and while that cloud was in the heavens, how
could she do other than expect rain, sooner or later?
   
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

The wine-merchant's bill was not reduced on his
return, and frequently more potent liquors than port
or Madeira were now needed. The servants began to
remark the frequent importation of strong drinks into
"master's" house, and of course had much more than a
guess as to who required them.
" Master
himself
became less circumspect-and once or twice the servants'
parlour had its ominous whisper about his "queer
laughs," and "red eyes," and rolling walk. The
sword of Damocles hung over the head of the minister
and his wife, and any inadvertent broom, or mouse, or
infinitesimally increased force of gravity, might at any
moment break the hair that held it. With terror
Jane saw it, and her white face almost betrayed the
expected doom to ignorant friends; but Stephen
became more and more lethargic and indifferent to con-
sequences, and professed not to see the sword when it
was pointed out to him.
Not always, however, was he thus apathetic. There
were moments of keenest vision, of torturous excite-
ment, of intense horror at what was so surely coming,
and then so acute were his sufferings, so helplessly did
he feel himself bound down to them, that his wife almost
preferred for him the state of somnolency.
Do my readers think she ought to have exerted her-
self more freely and wisely to avert or remove the evil?
It may be so; I do not claim for her the greatest wisdom
in the world. But her path was no easy one.
A hus-
band whom she loved intensely, and at one time
reverenced so much, had contracted an evil, dangerous
habit; a habit which, indulged in to a certain extent,
was one the world and the church approved of, but
   

.
which led to fatal consequences, if persevered in beyond
that dim, ever-shifting circle of so-called temperance.
His first wanderings beyond this circle were viewed by
her with wonder and concern, but not with actual
alarm. So far angelic was he in her eyes, so superior
to the ordinary, every-day humanity, that she unfear-
ingly saw his footsteps tread where others would be sure
to sliHis feet were shod for ice, it was almost im-
possible he should fall; and when at last she did see him
too visibly slip and stumble, she was half inclined to
believe it was her eyes that were at fault, not his feet.
And now, that it was become her duty to uphold him,
and shield him from all possible danger, his passion for
stimulants was much too strong for her weak arm to
withstand; she warned and entreated and forbade, to
little or no effect. When he was opposed he obtained
by cunning what he was determined to have, and this
cut her to the heart even more than the open
refusal to
attend to her entreaties.
On different characters and constitutions the mania
for intoxicants has different phases and different rates
of progress. On some it comes gently, and gains power
and breadth only in the course of many years, like a
stream that has had no rocky oppositions, and no impetu-
ous freshets and numerous feeders to widen its banks
and deepen its waters; but by a constant flow and slow
increase has wound lazily through meadows and swamps.
On some its progress is rapid and alarming from the
first outset. But frequently this deceitful passion
accumulates power and strength, in secresy and silence,
like a hidden reservoir, long held up and kept in bounds
by the rock and clay and sand of conscience, or societary
   
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

proprieties and decorums. At last,-it is only a child
perhaps, who perceives it,-a tiny hole through the em-
bankment lets out a small driblet of water; then a jet,
and then a runnel finds its way from the enlarging
orifice. The child laughs and claps its bands, and
throws upon the small streamlet boats of paper or
walnut-shells, and in a while, tired of play, and lulled by
the sound of its flow over the stones, goes to sleep by
its side. But suddenly the embankment above gives
way, a wild rush of waters leaps across the plain, deso-
lating the valleys, carrying before it men and cattle,
rocks and debris, hay-stacks and human habitations, as
so many pebbles; and the next day where the child
played and slept, is a wide lake, spread above corpses
and destruction, engendering miasma and disease.
A few vague rumours began to float about the con-
gregation at the chapel, that peculiarities had appeared
in the conduct of the Rev. Mr. Morris-very gentle
rumours at first. By and by, a tale came that he had
been seen one night without a hat, and with his hair
and dress in some disorder, walking backward and for-
ward before his house with an unsteady steIn the
pulpit it was remembered he had once burst into tears,
and had been unable to proceed in his discourse, though
there seemed no special call for the tears; and it was
noticed that while preaching he frequently appeared
bewildered, and put his hand to his brow, with an air
of perplexity and distraction. Was it possible that his
mind was giving way? Genius and madness, some say,
so nearly allied, that it only requires a little
more phosphorus in the brain to conduct from one to
the other, and it did really seem as if in his case the
are
Y
   

.
excess of chemical substance had been given. There
was certainly something unusual and occasionally
startling in his manner in public, and a wild roll of the
eye had not passed without observation.
He had hitherto been so far fortunate, that his fits of
abstraction, to use a very mild term, had been unseen,
except in the one case previously named, by any but
those of his own household. Jane deprived herself of
necessary rest and out-of-door exercise, to perform the
office of dragon and motherly guardian in one, for him.
And when he was unfit to be seen or heard, she closed
the door jealously upon all visitors. The last two
years' strain of mind and body had worn her more than
ten years of quiet could have done, and her eyes were
getting hollow and dim with frequent tears and watch-
ing, while amongst her bands of bright hair not a few
gray ones showed their tell-tale whiteness. Her mother
became alarmed for her health, and attributed her ill-
looks to town air, wishing her to spend more of her
time at Swansford; but that was impossible now, and
she managed on all possible occasions to smile away her
mother's fears. Clara, too, looked anxiously at the
worn face of the young wife, but though she might
sadly surmise the reason, she could not name it to her.
One afternoon John called upon his friend.--He was
in the study the servant said, "Would Mr. Broadbent
see him there?" Jane was out, and John replied,
Yes," and followed the young woman to the door of
the room.
A knock admitted him. Stephen was
seated before a heap of books and papers. He looked
at his visitor with a troubled expression; lately indeed
he had avoided John, and no wonder, for he dreaded the
   
THE SWORD OF DIMCCLES.


keen encounter of the eyes of such a friend. He shook
him by the hand, and they conversed on the usual topics
of the hour or day, but the minister could not look his
visitor fully in the face, and averted his eyes whenever
it was possible. His seat had its back to the light, and
his face was therefore in shadow, but John noticed his
efforts at concealment, and felt pained to think of the
estrangement that made them appear necessary. Why
was it his friend was now so uneasy in his pre-
sence? Why did he of late avoid him? Why did he
seem depressed and at times perplexed?
I was preparing my sermon when you came," he
said after a short pause in the talk.
"I have interrupted you," replied John, "and per-
haps had better take my departure. Your time is of
great value, no doubt."
No, no, nothing of the kind. I wish it were! The
fact is, I was going to tell you of how little use it was
to me this morning, I can't get along at all with my
writing."
"Take a walk then. Go with me, this fine day with
its fresh invigorating air will do you good. You will
come back fresh and vigorous."
No, thank you. I walked yesterday, and it did me
no good. The air does not seem to reach me now as it
used to do. I seem cased in hot plates."
"You are feverish and require medicine. Let me send
Wilbraham to you."
"How fond you are of doctors, Broadbent! No, I
want no doctor. It is no new thing; I am always
feverish now, but I shouldn't mind that at all if it
weren't for one thing," and he paused.
   

.
" Well?" inquired John, expectantly-
"You won't name it to any one, of course! But
the fact is, when I sit down to write, I can't put down
what I want, some other word comes uppermost. Are
you ever plagued in that way?" John averred he was
not, but advised his friend again to give up writing, and
to take a walk with him. " You have been overwork-
ing yourself, perhaps ?"
"I don't know. I can't tell! I wonder whether
other ministers are teazed in the same way. One word
has been particularly troublesome. And it is not
only when I write.--I see it everywhere, on the ceil-
ing, the floor, the table, the desk.And if I take a
walk it is on the sky and the grass just the same. I
cannot get away from it. Look here!" he exclaimed
with a sort of desperate energy, as he seized one of the
sheets of manuscript lying on the table, and held it
before John, shudderingly pointing out the obnoxious
word.
It was not a pleasant word to find mixed up fre-
quently in a sermon, yet it was written not only freely
in passages not admitting such a word with propriety,
but impertinently introduced, at random, in almost
every line. The word was "devil," and was often brought
out with a flourish and in larger letters than the rest.
Stephen gazed with feverish eye at his friend to watch
the effect the strange word might have upon him, but
John kept his countenance unmoved, and after look-
ing quietly at the paper a minute, laid it upon the
table again with an indifferent air. Then he put his
hand affectionately on Stephen's shoulder. "My dear
fellow, you need rest, and rest you must have! Will
   
THE SWORD OF DIMOCLES.

you let me advise you?" Stephen had been trembling
with feverish excitement just before, he had quite ex-
pected an alarmed speech or a frightened look from
his friend, but the coolness and calmness of this latter
had a sedative effect upon him. He put his hands in
his pockets, leaned back in his chair, and said lan-
guidly, "Yes, certainly."
"Will you first answer me a question truly?"
There was an earnestness apparent in John's voice
now that commanded attention, and the minister's
heart beat audibly as he replied more faintly than
before"Yes."
"Have you not been exciting your brain lately by
strong drink?" And as John asked this direct question
he looked directly at him.
Stephen's pale lips, from which all colour fled in a
moment, uttered "I have," in almost indistinct tones;
and then putting his hands before his face, he burst
into tears.
For some moments there was an almost perfect
silence in the room, the sobs of the nerve-shaken man
only audible at intervals. In a while he lifted up his
head, and said in humble, almost abject tones, "I have
sinned deeply, I know it! but have a little charity!
Ah, if you knew my wretchedness!"
"I am not here to condemn you," replied John sor-
rowfully; "but no doubt God has sent me here to
advise
you. I have no heart to condemn you, and I
could not do it if I would, for I have been in the same
gall of bitterness and bond of iniquity with you, though
my feet have been mercifully kept from falling quite so
far. But, Stephen, my friend, my dear brother, let me
   

.
advise you once more, for your soul and body's good!
Look at yourself, and see what you are! Think of
yourself, and see what you were, a few years ago-only
a few years ago! What has brought about the differ-
ence? What has shorn you of your strength? The
Delilah of alcohol, the snare of the evil one. You
thought it an innocent, weak thing, that could do no
harm; you almost braved it to try its worst. You
dandled it upon your knees, and called it your heart's
delight, your bosom's comforter; and it has played you
the same trick it has done before to so many others, so
many thousand times. But put it away from you, now
and for ever, and you shall still be saved. Let no drop
ever again cross your lips, and banish it entirely from
your house. I have no better advice to give you. And
let me tell you, my dear friend, that this is the only
way of redemption left for youthe only one. What-
ever it costs you, in God's name and strength, take it!"
He was silent again; but he laid his hand once more
beseechingly upon his friend's arm, and his eyes beamed
with love and entreaty. Stephen looked at him with
a touching expression of longing and despair. Such a
look a shipwrecked man might cast at the rope thrown
out for his deliverance, which his benumbed fingers
have no power to hold.
I cannot, I cannot !" was all he could
say.
" You think so now, for the way seems difficult and
impossible, while you are so weak and unnerved. But
try only once, and you will get strength for another
trial. Do not throw away this, it may be, your last
chance. I know not what will become of you
if
you
do! Will you let me make a beginning for you? Will

   
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

you let me tell your wife to put away all the drink?
Will you"
"No; I could not do that.It is impossible!" and a
burning blush arose upon his cheeks.
"Resolve then yourself, my dear fellow. Possibly
your life depends upon the resolution you make to-day."
"I know it; I believe it! I feel that my brain is
affected; all is very strange here sometimes !" and he
put his hand to his forehead, " and you cannot think
how that horrible word pursues me."
"A nervous fancy which must be got rid of as
speedily as possible. Will you come and stay a week
or two with me at St. Wilfrid's? It would be a good
place to make a good beginning. We will do all we
can to amuse, and interest, and comfort you, and I am
a capital doctor, I assure you! Clara, also, is a most
excellent nurse."
At the mention of Clara, Stephen's face lengthened.
He had nearly come to the conclusion that a week at
St. Wilfrid's would do him good; but how could he
bear to be humiliated before Clara?
"No; I am indeed grateful for your kindness, but I
cannot come."
"What can I do for you?" asked John with a look
of distress. "Stephen, I would give my life to save
you!"
"I believe it!" and Stephen pressed his hand con-
vulsively. "But you are too good. I am not worthy.
My life is not worth saving!"
"Let me rate its value, Morris. I should put it at a
very high figure. Your talents, which are so great,
and might do such immense benefit to the world; your
   

.
youth, your influence; O, Stephen, what a glorious
worthy future is before you if you do your duty! Is it
possible you can forget this? Will you throw it all
away and become a reproach, a castaway, an apostate,
for the sake of one low passion? Have you indeed no
love left for souls-for God?" A burning blush again
rose to Stephen's cheek. He tried to speak, but his
lips refused utterance to the words.
"Think of the ruin that must come upon you and
your beloved ones-your wife, your child, if you do
not from this hour resolve to forsake, and begin a new
life. Think of the souls that may through your apos
tasy be lost; of the terrible havoc that will come among
your people; of the reproach that you will bring upon
the name of Christian!"
Spare me, spare me! I am not worthy you should
talk to me any more.
I would alter if I could; but I
know my own weakness. What will you say to me
when I tell you that I know I cannot refrain, not
though all the woe and misery should come upon me
you mention ?"
"Then let others lead you, let others constrain. you
for a while to be perfectly sober and truly temperate-
truly abstinent, I mean, and strength will come. Ask,
too, for strength where it is never denied, and you will
get it."
Yes; I am well aware. But do you suppose I have
never prayed?thousands of times? I used to quote
that text, The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous
man availeth much'-only of a righteous man, you
seewhen I spoke to my people. Now it upsets me.
Of what use are my prayers?"
   
THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.

your
"There is another prayer, 'God be merciful to me a
sinner.'"
Stephen rose up agitated, and walked quickly about
the room.
He then approached John, took hold of his
hand, and grasped it with a force that would have
pained any less robust member, "Leave me; I will
think upon what you have said; but leave me!"
"I would rather have stayed with you, and had
promise of abstinence before I went. Then you and I
would have made a bonfire of that manuscript, and
gone out a walk together. But I leave you in God's
keeping. May He guide and preserve you!"
He met Jane upon the stairs. Her face was flushed,
as if she had been hurrying. A look of content bow-
ever came over it when she saw John. " You have
been with Stephen? I am so glad!"
"Yes; I have been talking to him, and now I want
to talk to you."
She led the way into the drawing-room, and John
told her his fears about Stephen's health. " He must
not be left alone for the present, and I strongly advise
that you send for the advice of Mr. Wilbraham."
"But Stephen is not willing to see a doctor. I have
wished to send for one some time, but he will not hear
of it."
"It must be done, however. If I have your permis-
sion I will call upon the doctor this morning, and get
him to come up in the course of the day."
"Thank you, Mr. Broadbent! You are a true, kind
friend."
"And I may send him?"
"O yes; it will be a great relief to me if you will."
   

.
Fervently hoping Mr. Wilbraham might be at home,
John rang the bell of the surgery. An old servant
quickly answered it, and telling him the doctor was
within, led him into a sombre, but well-furnished
reception-room. In a few minutes the doctor appeared,
and looked grave indeed, after John had as lucidly as
he could explained his errand. "Serious symptoms!
Must be taken in time.Some derangement of the
nervous system generally," he said, as if to himself;
and then louder, "You did well to come, Mr. Broad-
bent-quite right; and I will go as soon as possible."
But," added John, "I have yet another thing to
tell you; that he does not know you are sent for, and
has, moreover, a great objection to any medical attend-
ance."
"Mrs. Morris is at home, I presume?"
Yes; and it is at her wish that I came here for
you."
"Then we can manage it. I must make an after-
noon call, and be invited to tea."
And so it was agreed.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE MINISTER'S MARTYRDOM.
THE vigorous measures the doctor thought fit to take
averted for this time any more serious symptoms. He
saw well, however, that Stephen Morris was on the
verge of an abyss, into which any sudden fright, or excess
   
THE MINISTER S MARTYRDOM.

in diet, or mental strain of any kind, might precipitate
him. With double stress, if that were possible, he
forbade the use of alcoholic stimulants; and gladly Jane
obeyed him, and banished from the house, at this period
of strict regimen, everything that might tempt either
herself, or her husband, or the servants, to break the
good rule of the doctor, and which in truth he imagined
would only be observed by his patient.
Of course, all attempts at preaching were forbidden;
the utmost quiet of the brain, or at least of those powers
that had been of late so much overtaxed, was prescribed;
and a temporary arrangement was made with another
minister in the neighbourhood to undertake his pulpit
duties.
Mrs. Gresham offered Swansford, and all the comforts
and luxuries of her house, for the recreation and reco-
very of her son-in-law; and in a while he was removed
thither. But in the meantime many other pleasant
and beautiful country mansions were offered to him for
places of temporary abode, whose inhabitants would
have deemed it an honour to wait upon him in every
possible way and provide for his comfort. The poorer
members gave their prayers for the recovery of their
pastor, and their affectionate thoughts; the richer,
delicacies from green-house and farm-house, and all
procurable luxuries for an invalid. Supplies of various
kinds poured into the house, almost as if a siege had
been expected; even wine was sent in abundance-
wine of the delicatest and rarest-to recover the lost
strength of the overwrought preacher. Jane dared not
refuse this last present, lest remarks should arise from
its rejection; but she privately had it removed to
   

BY THE TREXT.
Swansford, where the old gardener, a rigid teetotaller,
took a grim delight in pouring it out upon the ground
-at a safe distance, however, from the roots of his
favourite plants.
General nervous debility and a threatened attack of
brain fever were stated to be the causes of the minister's
illness. Few, if any, suspected the real truth. The
servants in the house were faithful, and kept the secret
well; and, though a rumour now and then found its
way, and oozed out among some of the scandal-lovers
in the town, of want of sobriety, &c., it was almost
universally rejected as soon as heard, with indignation,
and with a warm protest against backbiters and the
well-known spite of unbelievers.
At present, therefore, the sword of Damocles had not
fallen, though that it really hung in such nearness to
the minister's head was become plain to his most inti-
mate friends and his doctor.
It was still there, and not once had it been re-
moved, as was only too apparent to the sickening gaze
of Jane. The drink had been taken out of Stephen's
way, but the love for it was unbroken; and by some
strange means he obtained it, notwithstanding the
vigilance of his wife. On their removal to Swans-
ford, she thought with almost exultation that there it
would be impossible to bribe servants, since they
would not be his servants, and he would not dare to
make known his weakness to such comparative
strangers. The gardener was grimly virtuous, as we
bave shown before, and would not consent to be made
a link of communication with the outer-world bottles
and barrels. Mrs. Gresham herself had never tasted
   
THE MINISTER'S MARTYRDOM.

own.
wine since her son's death; and now that she was
sole mistress of Swansford, enforced the same rule
of total abstinence upon her servants. There seemed
to be no opening for the enemy in such a castleevery
window was barred; and with so vigilant a sentinel as
herself, she expected, not unreasonably, to hold her
But she was deceived. Gin and wine certainly
must have wings, and come by aerial passages, for they
found their way even into Swansford House; and their
private sitting-room and bed-room were its favourite
places of resort, and port wine, to ber dismay, left its
stain upon her husband's handkerchiefs.
Still his health gradually improved, for these indul-
gences were of necessity much more rare than formerly,
and the regular out-of-door exercise told upon him also.
His hypochondriac fancies and torments left him, and
he was able to laugh at what a few months back would
have filled him with a hundred fears. In two months
he was at home again and at work.
But he was not the same man as before.
powers are leaving him," said his people, sorrowfully,
as they sat listening for an hour on Sunday to a dis-
course delivered in a vapid, monotonous strain, evidently
without pleasure or interest to himself, and as evidently
without pleasure to them. His dull and frequently
blood-shot eyes never lightened up now under the
influence of holy aspiration or contemplation of the
highest love; he seemed to have no heart-beatings for
humanity, no enthusiasm. With a sort of mill-wheel
round he went through his duties, and praise or blame
appeared to him indifferent. A settled, stolid stare
became habitual to his face; and when he conversed
" His
   

.
with his people or his deacons he could seldom be stirred
to a smile.
Gradually he lost his admirers; his sermons were now
often careless in their composition, and commonplace
in thought. "Poor Morris" was the title he most fre-
quently got from the outer court and the world, who
began also to understand he was a falling star, while
his people deplored aloud the illness that had brought
about all this change. Mr. Wilbraham looked unusually
thoughtful whenever he met him, or heard him spoken
of, and over John Broadbent's brow a shadow came at
the mention of his name.
One morning, as this last was correcting the proofs of
a work of his shortly to appear in print, he received a
note from Jane.
"You are Stephen's only real true friend," it began,
"whom I can ask, and I do ask that you will come
over here and see him as soon as possible. I dare not
leave him. Yours,
JANE MORRIS."
A hurried little note, with but little in it, and yet it
said much to John. He showed it to Clara. "Don't
expect me at home again at present," he said, as he put
on his coat and hat. "If I need you I shall send for
you, dear!" and he was gone.
Clara and Veronica watched him out of sight, from
the porch, now full of the pale green leaves of spring,
while purple lilac blossoms filled the air about them
with sweet scents. But the beauty of the day had no
pleasure for Clara, and she sighed as she thought upon
the trouble of her friends.
When John arrived at the well-known door, and was
   
TIIE MINISTER'S MARTYRDOM.

admitted, he found Jane in the hall waiting for him.
She was in a state of nervous agitation, and her eyes
were red and heavy with weeping. Silently she con-
ducted him into the breakfast-room. "I knew I might
depend upon you," she exclaimed. "You are always
kind and thoughtful. How glad I am to see you, I can
scarcely say!"
"Where is Stephen ?" asked John.
"That is what I want to tell you. He is in the study;
has been there for hours, ever since last night in fact,
and I cannot persuade him to come out and get break-
fast, or to let me go in. He has locked the door, and I
know he is drinking, or has been. I have tried to keep
calm and quiet lest the servants should talk about it,
but you cannot imagine the dreadful fears I have had;
I can hear him moving about at times, and lately he
has been talking a good deal to himself, that is all I
know, but what can he be doing? Do you think, Mr.
Broadbent, he would admit you?"
"I will try, but I fear it very much, since he has
refused your presence."He went to the study door,
and rapped.
Stephen seemed to discover it was not his wife's rap,
and asked after a moment, "Who's there?"
"John Broadbent."
There was a pause, and a shuffling. And then
Stephen said, "I'm busy, I can't admit you."
"But I wish much to speak to you."
There was no answer for a minute. Then a low and
quite a different voice said, "It can't be done, old
boy!"
"Was that bis voice ?" asked John, in surprise, of Jane.
   

.
"I think so; he talks in that way sometimes, now."
"Is there any other entrance?"
"None, but by the window."
"Then I must try the window." All this was in a
whisper.
She led the way out of the house to the little back
garden, with its shrubs and grass. Pushing through a
laurustinus, John found himself just beneath the win-
dow. Fortunately it was open. It was not unusual for
Stephen to sit with it open in fine weather, and he had
done so this morning. Bidding Jane return to the
house, he at once clambered up, and was soon upon the
window-sill and in the room. Here a strange sight
greeted him. The table was littered over with manu-
scripts and books; books were removed from the shelves
by the dozen, and were piled up near the fire, their
covers starting and blistering and cracking with the
heat, while in the chimney a heap of papers were
smouldering, and within the fender lay quantities more,
half or wholly burned. Stephen was standing without
his coat in the middle of the room, his face turned
towards the door, and did not therefore at first observe
John, the crackling of the paper on the fire, no doubt,
having diverted his attention from any other noise.
But he soon became aware of the presence of another,
and turned round, quick as lightning, facing the intruder.
His
eyes
flashed, his nostrils dilated, his mouth foamed,
and John saw at once that he had to deal with a mad-
He stood at once firm and erect, however, and
after giving one cool glance around, fixed his eye
steadily upon Stephen, as he said with a half smile,
"Your window was open and invited me in, you see!
man.
   
THE MINISTER'S MARTYRDOM.

It was not good manners, but I know you'll excuse it.
You're very busy here, what are you about?"
Stephen's face expressed bewilderment, but he still
looked fiercely at John, and exclaimed, "Be off! You're
not wanted here!"
"Yes, I'll go in a minute or so. I don't want to
bother you. But you'll let me sit down a little first,
won't you?" And he took hold of a chair.
Stephen gravely brought out a watch. "In a minute,"
he said, looking down at the minute hand, "in a
minute you go!"
John seemed not to notice this. He sat down, with
his face, however, to his companion, and said, "What
a bonfire you're making! I suppose you thought it
cold."
"Very cold!" replied Stephen more mildly, and his
teeth chattered as if he really felt chilled. "But you
see those papers are rubbish, and won't make a good
blaze."
"Perhaps they're damp," suggested John.
"No; I know how it is. They've a queer name on
them, all of them. So have all these," and he brushed
a number on to the floor as he spoke. "They must all
burn, burn, burn! How long will they burn, do you
think? How long shall I burn? We must all burn
together! That will purify us." And he fixed his eyes
upon the fire.
True," replied John, "but we won't burn just at
present. It would be better to wait till night, for in-
stance, the blaze would be seen better then."
Stephen had put back his watch. He had forgotten
about John's minute. He came and seated himself by
Z
   
+
.
his friend, and fixed upon him his eager restless eyes.
"You really think it would?'
"Decidedly. Isn't all fire seen best at night? And
if I were you I'd make a great heap now, in prepara-
tion, in the middle of the floor. Let me show you how
to begin, shall I ?"
Stephen made no opposition. He seemed pleased
with the thought of a grand bonfire at night, and John
arose and went towards the chimney-piece, for the
apparent purpose of collecting the books, but really to
take possession of an open clasp-knife he saw there.
He grasped and concealed it dexterously. Then he
stooped for the books, and brought a heap to Stephen's
feet.
"More, more!" exclaimed Stephen, and John fetched
more, the madman helping, till a great heap was piled,
John contriving his movements so as to pass and repass
the door, and at one opportune moment to unlock it.
Then he pleaded they had enough, and might well wait
till night.
Meantime Jane, who had been listening painfully at
the door, had heard it unlock, and thinking she might
now enter, opened it, and came in. Her husband, who
had been kneeling before the pile, sprang to his feet,
and rushing towards her in a sudden access of fury,
seized her by the throat, exclaiming, "Begone, Satan!"
and would no doubt soon have strangled her, had not
John come to the rescue. There was a violent struggle,
the madman releasing his wife to attack John. He
was strong, as are all the insane in their paroxysms,
and with grinding teeth and flashing eyes and wonder-
ful dexterity of movement, making himself now slippery
   
THE MINISTER'S MARTYRDOM.

to hold az a fish, and now strong to attack as a tiger,
he proved for some time more than a match for his
op-
ponent.
We called it a violent struggle, but it was a succes-
sion of struggles, Stephen alternately suffering himself
to be held fast, both arms bound down, and then
suddenly, with an almost superhuman effort, getting
loose and renewing the attack.
John's strength began to fail. His right arm had
received a powerful wrench, and was rapidly becoming
useless. The female servants, collected about the door,
were attending to their mistress, who was still gasping
and all but insensible, but the coachman, whom they
had called in to help, stood apart, irresolute and afraid.
Will no one help?" shouted John, giving a hasty glance
at the crowd. No one stirred, all were too paralyzed
by fear to come forward; but at that moment a tall
figure advanced from behind, and pushing the women
gently away right and left, entered the room, and with
powerful hand collared the maniac.
It was Dr. Wilbraham, who had been passing in his
carriage, on his way to a patient, and was "impressed,"
as he said afterwards, to call. He found the front door
open, and came in unobserved, just in time to effect the
capture.
Resisting violently, Stephen was hurried away up
stairs to his chamber and there secured, his cries and
screams being heard through the house with terrible
distinctness for a long time.
What a night was the one succeeding! John did not
once leave his friend, though other help was procured,
to be available in case of need. It was an attack of
   

.
delirium tremens, the doctor said, and might have very
lamentable consequences. Alternations of frenzy and
cowering fright, that imagined devils in every corner of
the room, and one especially frightful one upon his bed,
that would crawl about him, and that kept him in con-
stant fear,with stupor and partial sensibility, passed
over several days.
Clara came from St. Wilfrid's, at Jane's wish, and
helped her to pass over these sad days. Jane was much
shaken by her fright, and quite unable to leave her
room for a week, but Clara's presence was like moon-
light penetrating through clouds.
John was untiring in his attentions to his friend-
his hand gave the medicine, and his ear listened patiently
to the maunderings and delirium of the goaded, over-
wearied brain, and his firm one-handed graspfor his
right arm was still weak-held down the sufferer in his
ravings, or rang for help if it were required.
When the distemper had been conquered, and reason
sat once more on her throne, though mourning and
disconsolate at the wreck around her, and when the
body had a little recruited its exhausted forces, when,
pale and weary, Stephen lay upon the couch in his bed-
room, his soul sank within him humiliated, he could
scarcely bear to meet the friendly eyes that had watched
over him so many hours. He had long fits of silence,
during which John left him to his own sorrowful mu-
sings, but he had also some periods when talking seemed
a relief.
At one of these timesit was twilight, and the fire
burned languidly, throwing an occasional dull gleam
across the roomhe said, "If it were but possible to
   
THE MINISTER'S MARTYRDOM.

begin again one's life! How different all should be with
me!"
"It is possible," John replied. "A new era may be-
gin for you, if you will. You have only to will it. To
let your will be one with the divine will, which calls
upon all men to love holiness and purity of life.To
die to sin, to be born again to new life and holiness;
how blessed that would be for you! And it may be."
Tears came in Stephen's eyes. "I am the chief of
sinners, John."
"There is a Friend of sinners, do not forget that."
"I cannot, or I should die at once of shame and grief.
But I ain utterly unworthy to have a friend of any
kind, and especially such a friend."
There was a silence of some minutes, then Stephen
partially raised himself from the couch. "I have de-
termined," he said, as he looked at John.
"What have you determined?"
"To give up my church; to leave the ministry; I
have long contemplated it, now I am determined."
"It will be right to do so," said Jolin. "And indeed,
I do not suppose you could have kept it."
" All is known then?" asked Stephen, feverishly.
"I fear so, though everything has been done that
could be done to conceal it."
Stephen hid his face in his hands. John leard him
breathing deeply as in pain. The sword' had fallen at
length.
" Tell me all!" he said at last, in a suffocated voice.
"I do not know all. But I will tell you what I
know, if you think you can bear it."
Stephen moved his land in token of assent.
   

.
"Yesterday one of the deacons called here, Mr.
Strange, I think, and asked to see me. He said there
had been a church meeting about your illness, and that
several resolutions had been passed, one especially, it
would be well for you to know as soon as you were
able."
"I understand,they have dismissed me, or asked
me to resign, the same thing!"
" They have." John did not tell him that he had
heard further that the whole town was full of the
scandal, and that it had spread far and wide that Mr
Morris was a drunkard.
" Does Jane know ?"
"Not at present; it is not necessary. Clara will tell
her before long, when she can bear it."
"Ah, Jane had better never have married such a
castaway as myself. What harm I have done her,
poor girl!"
"Yet you may still be happy, and make her SO,
if
In some other place you may begin life
All is not lost yet! Only determine to give up
that which has caused all this mischief."
Stephen turned his head away, and listened wearily
to the rain, which splashed upon the window-pane.
Then he said in an inexpressibly despondent tone, "I
had better die; I think I had better die!"
His friend said no more on the subject, he waited for
a better opportunity. "Strange!" he thought, "that he
should be so remorseful, so apparently repentant, and
yet not be able to determine to give up the fatal indul-
gence. Alas! of what good is such remorse?" He
sighed. Stephen heard the sigh. "I have grieved
you will.
anew.
   
THE MINISTER'S MARTYRDOM.

you again," he said, "and I know it, but you cannot
tell how weak I feel, how little able to promise any-
thing. If I thought I could keep my promise, then
there would be less difficulty; but the fact is, I am
utterly lost.Oh John, leave me, give me up! I am
not worth your care and love; I shall shame your
friendship againI shall dishonour you-leave me!"
"I cannot; I will not leave you a prey to the temp-
ter, while I can hold out a hand to save you. But
what am I saying? It is God only that can deliver
you. My hand is impotent, unless He gives it strength.
I will pray for you, but I will not give you up."
A grateful look passed over Stephen's face, then he
shut his eyes, and lay for some time perfectly quiet.
Presently he passed into an uneasy slumber. He seemed
to dream and to struggle for something. "Only a
taste!" he muttered, "just one glass, and I shall be
satisfied-only one glass!" He awoke uttering the
last words.
John beheld him with concern, Then, as he shook
off the evil dream with a deep sigh of deliverance, he
said,
"It pursues me even in my dreams. How do you
think I am ever to be free?"
"You are not yet well, In a while all this will
pass
away, never fear."
"In the meantime I am wretched, and believe I
shall ever be so. You do not know how I long after
the drink. You cannot tell the horrible feelings I have
to endure."
* Take courage! They will soon pass away, and
then you will have conquered. This is part of your
   

.
punishment, your martyrdom; you must endure it. In
awhile it will be gone."
"Martyrdom," Stephen repeated with bitterness of
tone. "How I once used to long to be a martyr;
what
a dream it was! A Christian martyr! And now, I am
martyrized in this way. Truly the devil has martyrs
as well as God. What a martyrdom I have chosen !-
Oh John, is there need of any other hell than this?"
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE CHILDREN'S PARTY.
IF again we let loose the reins of our Time-horse, and
suffer him to march on with us, past brake and brier,
and dreary wildernesses of sorrow and shame, of which
our moral earth is, alas! so full; being in this respect
perhaps, ages behind the physical earth, abounding still
in saurians, and sea and land monsters not yet extinct,
and in chasms, and arid volcano-lands, that are to be in
the happier future closed, and fertilized,we must ask
pardon of the reader. Not willingly do we stay beside
the bed of what may appear to our defective vision,
almost hopeless anguish, for we confess scenes of horror
are to us as repugnant to record as they would prove
to some to witness.
With a deep, deep sigh of relief we turn our gaze
from man in torment, to man in hope and joy; from
the Inferno to the Paradiso, or at least to that which
   
THE CHILDREN'S PARTY.

most nearly approaches it in this world. Not to the
city shall we go for our Paradiso, nor to any of the
dusty, humming hives of men, those builders of combs
which are not always stored with honey; nor yet shall
we take our course to the hills, though upon their heads
rainbows repose, or arch them in gloriously, a grand
frame to a grand picture, and though upon their thymy
sides our feet love to linger, among the purples and the
gold of broom and heather, the last the "ling" that per-
haps suggested the word linger to some poetic heath-
lover of old times, whose ankles loved the rustling touch
of its purple bells, and lengthened out the parting with
"sweet, reluctant, amorous delay."
By the river is our present paradise. There were
four such round Eden, a quaternion of delights, but
to find one lovely stream at once, is all we can now
expect in these latter days of dimness, in any of our
far-away western Edensall we desire, it may be.
The brother and sister at St. Wilfrid's, at least, asked
for no more. To them its pure flowing waters were
endlessly suggestive of deep peace and progress com-
bined, a combination at once symbolic of, and springing
alone from, the union of the human soul with the divine.
Its morning changes of tint from deepest gray to clearest,
softest white and blue, and its evening splendours of
gold and crimson, preached ever to them what man's
life should be, a gradual putting on of light and beauty,
and the richnesses of love; and when night absorbed
the colour for another morning to reveal, and hid the
flow of the current with the shadow of her hand, they
saw in this shadow an emblem of death, that hides, but
does not take away or destroy.
   

.
Veronica grew increasingly lovely by the river.
That last storm that had swept across her sky, and
had threatened to wash her away by its violence, left
the heavens bare for the sun to shine out without
stint. Her whole life till now had been gray as an
overcast morning; all the more did she now enjoy the
free unclouded brightness; she unfolded like a flower
after rain. Clara's face, sometimes too thoughtful
in its womanliness, became younger and gayer near
hers, and when John was absent on some of his many
engagements, with Jonas White, or some other friend
of temperance, seeing to his school for drunkards'
children, or arranging the classes and library for his
Labourers' Institute, or preparing, it may be, a lecture
for the same, the two friends at times wandered, without
his welcome company, it is true, but very happily, up
the Grove, and among the cornfields beyond.
They were walking out one summer's evening in this
way. Gathering, as they proceeded slowly, handfuls
of forget-me-nots and way-side grasses, with wild roses
and meadow-sweet, money-wort, and convolvuli, to
adorn the room at the cottage on the coming children's
festival, and Veronica had laughingly placed in Clara's
hat a grand trail of bryony, and in her own a single
wild rose, fragrant and white, when a fallen tree
irresistibly suggested their need of a rest, and they sat
a while upon its rough but convenient trunk to talk
and overlook their flower treasures.
"It is a shame," said Veronica, as she gazed upon her
group of beauties."I have said many times I would
never gather this again, and yet I have broken my
word to-day.My poor veronica! why will you always
   
THE CHILDREN'S PARTY.

fade so?"and as she spoke she drew out a withered
branch of her namesake, the lovely germander speed-
well, whose delicate blue flowers had dropped away in
dying. "You are only good for the open meadow or
bank, and no water now will revive you!--Clara, it is
like what I should soon have been in the town, a poor
withered good-for-nothing.  How much, how very
much, I owe to you and John! Where should I have
been now but for you? Working in that gloomy room
at black lace.How happy I ought to be! how very
bappy I am! And yet," here she paused, her eye rest-
ing on the tree-shadowed stream at her feet, "I some-
times feel I have no right to my happiness while I do
nothing for Letitia. How could I save her, Clara ?
What can I do for
poor
Letitia? I am so uselessnot
able yet to earn my own living; if it were not for your
goodness I should perhaps have no bread to eat, so it
seems absurd to talk of it; and yet to get her away
from that horrid life is the one great wish of my heart?
I would do anything to save her!",
"John has thought of it," replied Clara, " though I
am telling you a secret. He has taken her
He has taken her away from
that house."
Veronica clasped Clara's hand.
-"A month ago," continued Clara, "though he did
not mean to tell you just yet; and-she is now abroad."
Abroad?"
"With old friends of ours in Germany, a benevolent
old doctor and his wife, who are devoting their lives
to the reformation of people like her. John meant to
tell you in a day or two, for he has had a letter from
the Hermanns, that is their name,-and I am a very
   

.
naughty sister indeed to have spoiled the surprise be
intended for you. I begin to feel quite repentant
already!" Happy tears were in Veronica's eyes, and it
might be that on this account she did not see at first
the approach of a man, who, with downcast head, as
immersed in thought, was nearing them. He, however,
lifted his head before he quite approached, and seeing
her, stood still.
It was the dark stranger, whom some years ago
Stephen Morris met at the ferry, but looking much
older and thinner; and where once dark hair lay about
his temples, were now locks of iron gray. His eyes
were sunk, and his whole aspect dejected.
When Veronica saw him he was leaning half-hidden
by the trunk of an elm, but with his eyes fixed steadily
and sorrowfully upon her. She changed colour suddenly,
and with difficulty suppressed a scream. Gathering
her flowers from the tree beside her, with trembling
hands, she said to Clara in a scarcely audible voice,
"Let us go, Clara, at once! The man of
my
dreams is
there!"
Clara turned round amazed, but the tree hid the
stranger from her sight, and she hesitated, "What is
the matter, dear? what man?"
Pulling her by the sleeve, Veronica whispered hur-
riedly, "He is there, by that elm!--Come away!Don't
you see him?"
Clara obeyed, and with her change of position gained
a sight of the dark stranger. But he had by this time
left the side of the elm, and was advancing towards
them. He was so near that it was of no use to attempt
to flee. They must face him now.
   
THE CHILDREN'S PARTY.

Veronica clung to her friend, but Clara stood up
erect and fearless, with that calm sweet dignity that
became her so well, and as her eyes met those of the in-
truder, his fell with a look of abasement and humiliation.
"Forgive me!" he murmured. "I am not here to
alarm.I have no wish to annoy.I have but come to
ask forgiveness of one I have wronged, and to whom I
wish to speak a few words of explanation. You will
surely allow me to do this? Then I will go away and
never trouble you again."
"Speak," said Clara's clear ringing voice. "What do
you wish to say?"
"It is to your friend I wish to speak. I have no right
indeed to claim a hearing from her. I saved her life,
perhaps, from the snow-storm, but I conducted her to
that which she would, no doubt, rather have died than
met. And though she was saved not entirely against
my will, I cannot rest till I have told her how much I
have suffered for, how bitterly I repent, the alarm and
anguish I caused her!"
He paused, and seemed to await Veronica's reply, but
she was unable to speak. She still trembled so much
that the words died soundless upon her tongue.
"Call me the vilest names you will," continued he,
"they will not be too vile for me! My life has been a
series of crimes, one vast crime, I ought to call it.-From
boyhood I have been a profligate and a companion of
the wicked. I ought not to expect you to forgive such
as I am, I am not worthy to approach you, and no
doubt you think I ask too much. I acknowledge
it. And yet, remember, even an angel can pity and
forgive!"
   

.

"I do pity and forgive you," murmured Veronica.
But her eyes were still unable to look upon him.
"It is enough!" he said. "Thanks for your pity also!
And now I must go my way amongst my fellows;" he
uttered these last words bitterly, "and from them I have
no favour to ask; wolves and sharks can only bite and
rend!"
"But," said Clara, impelled to speak to this forlorn
soul by some supreme sentiment of compassion. "Why
return to the company of the wicked? You were born
for higher things, higher society. You have better
desires, why not follow them?"
He listened to the music of her voice attentively, as
to words from a higher sphere; but he shook his head.
"No, madam; the die was cast many years ago! Had
I
power to begin a new life, your presence and encour-
aging words would be sufficient to induce me to try it,
but it is too late! I must go again to my captivity, the
life I have chosen. And yet, I have seen lately its
odiousness,the depth to which I have fallen has been
revealed to me. I once had a mother;" here his voice
trembled a little. " But this is weakness! I have been
ill, and, as I thought, near death; and at that solemn
time my whole life has passed before me. It is that
illness which has caused the change in me, for I feel I
am not as I was. Formerly I existed for the sake of
revenge on those whom I thought had wronged me; I
worried, because I had been preyed upon myself, and I
thought I had a right to do so. But now I see that it
is myself alone who has been to blame. I live for
remorse and punishment, that is all that is left to me
now. I must drink the dregs of the cup I have mixed
   
THE CHILDREN'S PARTY.

for myself.It is bitter enough, but bitters, they say,
are wholesome!"
"At least let my brother speak to you," pleaded
Clara. "He is good and noble, and would, I am sure,
help you."
"I want no help from man! I say again, it is too
late!"
"There is help in God! Go to him, and sin no more!"
He made no reply, but lingered a moment, regarding
her with a strange despairing expression, bowed, and
withdrew. They heard his feet crack the dry twigs
that a late wind-storm had brought down, and then
gradually the sound of his footsteps ceased. A minute
afterwards they were standing once more by themselves.
Veronica raised her head. "I am glad he has been,"
she said with a sigh of relief, "though I was so terribly
frightened. Clara, do you think we shall ever meet
him again?"
"I think not," answered Clara thoughtfully; "he said
not, if you remember."
"That is right. I hope he will never come near me
any more. I could never walk up this Grove again with
any comfort if I thought he would meet me here again.
He brings back all that fearful time to my memory;
and yet how sad he seems! I feel half-wicked that I
cannot pity him more than I do."
Thoughtfully they returned home. As they reached
the village, however, happy little faces, that peeped
from window and doorway, and smiled upon the flower-
bearers, lightened up theirs with answering smiles.
"To-morrow, to-morrow!" shouted the children, and
clapped their hands, anticipative of delight. And "to-
   

.
morrow, to-morrow!" remembered the two friends, and
hastened home to prepare. They threw off hats and
shawls in haste, for there were wreaths to make of
forget-me-nots and grasses, of bryony and convolvuli,
bouquets of roses, and other flowers, both from the
garden and the field-garlands for the little ones, and
garlands for the pictures alsoVeronica's quick fingers
weaving, and Clara's placing and arranging.
They were busy in this way when John arrived from
the town, laden with picture-books, puzzles, boxes of
toys, and a magic lantern. "Some oats for the pack-
horse, ladies!" he said laughingly, as he laid upon the
kitchen-table his load. "He's fearfully hungry, for he
has been working very hard."
"He shall have oats and hay both if he will come
here," replied Clara from within the parlour, and as he
entered obediently, she met him at the door, and threw
over the masses of his brown hair a garland of her
choicest wild flowers. "Now you are ready for the
feast! Sit down; tea shall be here in one minute."
The table was spread out, everything was ready but
the tea-pot, and John seated himself at once before a
pile of bread and butter, bidding Veronica do the same.
He was still adorned with the garland.
a magnificent pack-horse," exclaimed
Veronica admiringly when they were half through the
meal, and when the "noble rage of hunger" was some-
what appeased.
"Indeed I am! I don't know what you would do
without me. Three weary miles I travelled with those
gimcracks in the heat and dust, and if I hadn't remem-
bered the oats at the end of my journey, should perhaps
" You are
   
THE CHILDREN'S PARTY.

have fainted. I hope to-morrow you will teach your
little ones to sing my praises. But, however, I must
not take more than is my due; I had better tell you the
whole truth. I met Plowden's cart, with Mary and
Ebenezer, and they gave me a lift. Ebenezer was
singing his song of 'Old Grumbo,' with his nose in the
air, quite unaware of my presence, but Mary's eyes were
brighter. She seized the reins and stopped the horse,
to take in me and
my
load."
"Good creature!" exclaimed Clara.
"Very good! I thought so I can assure you. There
are not many like Mary. I learned a little secret too, but
as they say ladies cannot keep secrets, I had better not
tell it you at present, I think. If, however, you think
you are good secret-keepers, I will confide it to you."-
Clara and Veronica looked at each other with a
peculiar smile: Clara perhaps let her guilt appear in her
face. John noticed the glance. "You don't say Yes,
and therefore," with comic gravity, "I will not tell it
you to-night. It shall be what the boys call 'a jolly
cracker' to startle you to-morrow."
After tea, Mary Plowden came in, with perhaps a
tinge of colour more than usual in her cheeks.
"I am come to see if I can help you," she said to
Clara, "I understood how busy you were likely to be,
and you know how clever I am at flowers. But,"-in
a tone of disappointment, "I am too late, I see! You
will not need me this year."
"Thank you," said Clara, "but Veronica has been so
industrious and clever that we have nearly done all
that is wanted in this room. What do you think of
John's garland ?"
 A
   

.
"It is splendid, it is magnificent! May I take a
sketch, just a little one? you look so well, Mr. Broad-
bent!"
" That is not fair of you, Mary! You are trying to
wheedle me into compliance,but as a man I am not
to be wheedled! To support my dignity it is necessary
I should say "No." "
As however he did not remove the garland but sat
still, looking at her with very laughing eyes, Mary's
ever-present sketch-book came from her pocket, and
she began to work at once with the utmost self-
possession.
Meantime Clara retreated into the kitchen to superin-
tend the unpacking of various baskets of fruit, cherries,
and strawberries, and sweet June-eating apples, and to
place them upon plates and dishes, while Veronica
hovered near, and assisted as far as was possible, carry-
ing them afterwards into the cool pantry, where they
were to remain over night in company with cakes and
confectionary of various kinds,, of Clara's making.
Long after the children who were to enjoy the feast
were in bed and asleep, dreaming perhaps of the happy
"to-morrow," these preparations and others were going
forward.
Ebenezer Plowden had lent one of his fields, just
cleared of the hay, for the children's games; but after
tea all were to be gathered in the well-known cottage
school-room to see the wonderful entertainment that
had been provided there for them.
We will not describe this children's party, because
we have another and more important one to speak of
presently, and we might weary our readers with so
   
THE CHILDREN'S PARTY.

much dissipation. Strawberries and cream even, will
pall upon the taste if too often repeated. Also, two
parties occurring so near together are quite too much
for our humble pen to describe. It will be sufficient to
say, that no lambs in a sunny May-meadow skipped
and played and exercised their limbs better, or to
greater hearts'-content, than did the little ones of
Clara's school, on this holiday; and no lambs cropped
the grass or nibbled the hedge to more purpose than did
these innocents, the cakes and fruits, the tea and bread
and butter, that were so liberally put in the afternoon's
pasture for them, disappeared swiftly. The magic lantern
charmed all eyes, and its "Tom Toddy's" and grotesquery
lived long, in the little boys' memories especially, while
the magician who showed it was an universally plea-
sant personage; the toys were accepted with shouts
of delight, they were the crowning pleasure of the
evening, and as the little voices joined in a circle of
song at the close, the piano ought to have felt, if it did
not, that it had never accompanied happier trillings
from young throats.
The news that was to resemble a "cracker" for its
startling power, and that John announced with due
emphasis to Clara and Veronica, was not told till all
the little ones were gone away, and the three were
left sitting together in the parlour, wearied but well
content. We who can travel about whither we will,
need not wait for his communication, but may see and
hear for ourselves, and at once be transported to an
orchard near the house of Ebenezer Plowden, the
basket-weaver. It is an old orchard, with mossy-
rooted, crooked-trunked apple-trees, but the old trees
   

BY TIIE TRENT.
have not yet lost the knack of bearing good fruit, and
Ebenezer will not have them cut down to make way
for younger growths, as James Miller has advised. He
has pleasant remembrances about all the trees. One
grandmotherly "ribston" used to solace his boyish
appetite, how many years ago, he is almost afraid to
think, with its delicious crimson russets, the very
queens and moss-roses of apples; and under another,
he once sat a whole summer's afternoon, when Sarah
Hawthorn had rejected himsat in dudgeon dire, and
with not the most amiable feeling towards the thorn
he had touched only to prick himself. Now he laughs
as he shows the very spot where his jacket rubbed the
trunk of the old tree-old now, young and vigorous
thentill his back was green from the moss, and his
mother suspecting, perhaps, his ailment, dusted it off
with a joke, a very bad one he thought it at the time,
about his "greenness.
"
He has more memories, in fact, than we have time
to record. Evening is closing in, though there are long
days now, and St. John's day has not long slipped by,
and even our eyes will not be able to see presently two
figures walking in this old apple-garden if we do not
make hastea man and a woman, walking and convers-
ing as once in very old times two walked and talked
and adnired in the garden of Eden. They look per-
haps quite as affectionate as these last, though not so
noble or beautiful, and though both just now are near
a dangerous tree, an apple bowing down with its early
fruit, and thus the resemblance is more complete, it is
not Eve but Adam, who plucks the fruit and hands it
to his companion. For Adam is the taller, and can
   
THE CIIILDREN'S PARTY.


inore readily grasp the tempting apple. He is speaking,
and we will listen.
"That is the finest 'June-eating' in the neighbour-
hood, Mary! I shall get your father to let me have
some grafts next year."
What trees will you graft?" asks Mary.
"I
thought all yours were in full bearing."
"Yes, but I must have constantly young trees ready
to sell. You shall read some gardening books that I
have, that you may learn all about it, for you will have
to be very clever in that way! By next spring your
education must be finished." Mary does not reply, so
his arm winds round her waist, and he leads her on
under the trees, over the soft green grass."In March,
what do you think of March?"
We can hear no more, for they are now the distance
of at least six trees from us, but two things we notice
before they are out of sight. One, that March must
be a very delightful month in Mary's eyes, if we may
judge by the expression now in her face,very different
to the blustering, bellowing wintry month we often
find it, neither winter or spring, but with some of the
least amiable features of both in it; and the other,
that the Adam who has just given an apple to his Eve,
and talks so wisely about her horticultural education,
looks exceedingly like our old acquaintance, James
Miller,
   

BY THE TREST.
CHAPTER XXIV.
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE
The next morning John and Clara and Veronica were
seated at breakfast, when by post came a letter for
Veronica, to her great surprise, and almost dismay, as
she knew of no correspondents. Opening it with some
trepidation, and no little curiosity, she read-
" ALDBOROUGH, June , ---
"DEAR MADAM, -I am instructed by Mrs. Lee, of
Brunswick House, to request your attendance upon her.
She has business of importance to communicate, and as
she is at this present time extremely ill, she will be
glad if you will make arrangements to visit Aldborough
the same morning you receive this. Mrs. Lee will send
her carriage for your use. - I am, Madam, yours respect-
fully,
RICHARD GALE."
"How strange, how very strange!" exclaimed Ver-
onica, as she passed the letter to John for his perusal.
"Strange, indeed!" he replied, after reading it twice
"But I suppose you will be obliged to go."
Shall I? I wish though Mrs. Lee had not sent."
"You shall not go alone, Clara or myself will ac-
company you; do not fear. But it seems of importance
you should go.Richard Gale?Richard Gale? who
can he be? Is he a solicitor? There is one of that
name, I think, in the town."
" Most probably," said Clara; "but we shall perhaps
hear when the carriage comes."
over.
   
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE.

In the course of an hour a close carriage and pair
drove up to the cottage, and out of it came a short,
middle-aged gentleman, who asked for Miss Lee, and
was shown at once into the parlour.
" Miss Lee, I presume?" and he bowed elaborately to
Clara; but Veronica came forward and announced her-
self as Miss Lee.
"My name is Gale," he continued, introducing him-
self, " of the firm of John and Richard Gale, solicitors,
King Street, Trentham. You may possibly have heard
the name. I am come this morning, by the express
desire of Mrs. Lee, of Brunswick House, Aldborough-
a lady you are acquainted withand I may say, a
relative of yours, and who I regret to say is in a dying
condition, to ask you to accompany me to her house.
You have received a letter, I believe, informing you of
this."
"I have," replied Veronica. " But first let me in-
troduce my friends to you-Miss and Mr. Broadbent."
"Most happy to make your acquaintance, madam!
Glad to see you, Mr. Broadbent!" and the little lawyer
bowed with some grimace.
"Miss Lee is for the present under my guardianship,"
said John; "and of course I shall not object to her
visiting Aldborough, as the business is of the import-
ance you say, but you must allow me also to accompany
her. The last time she was at Brunswick House she
was not well treated by Mrs. Lee, and, moreover, nearly
lost her life on her return, alone."
"I am sorry to hear itvery sorry to hear it," re-
plied Mr. Gale; "but, let me assure you, Mrs. Lee is
much alteredthe young lady need fear no abuse now.
   

.
Of course, far from having any objection, I shall only
be too happy to bear you company on the journey also."
In a short time all were ready to depart, and with
loving adieus to Clara, Veronica and John started in
company with Mr. Gale.
It was summer, and the
weather was warm, and even close, and Veronica soon
persuaded Mr. Gale to have the carriage-top let down
for air. Memory was busy; and she looked out at the
highroad, and noticed how beautiful all things appeared
on this midsummer morning, how the birds fluttered
and hovered joyfully over fields rich with grass and
clover, and with corn in the ear, and how the hedgerows
were filled with leaf and bud and flower, of thousand
hues and shapes, and she drew the comparison between
this pleasant morning's journey and the one she had six
months agoonly six months agotaken, when toiling
friendless and desolate over the snow, all things around
her had appeared so bleak and barren and inhospitable.
With eyes wet with thankful tears, and with awe-
stricken face, she looked across the uninclosed forest-land
through which the road wound, teeming now with life
and beauty, a lovely wild of heather and broom and
gorse, on whose million flowers the sun looked down
with brilliant effect--for every tree had been shorn away
years ago from its wide expanse--and pointed out to
John the spot she imagined must be the one where she
had lain down so despairingly to die.
"You do not mean to say, my dear young lady,"
interrupted Mr. Gale, who had heard the conversation
between the friends on this subject with undisguised
astonishment, "that you lay there, on that piece of
road, lost and dying, last winter!"
   
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK IOUSE.

"I do, indeed !" replied Veronica; "and if it had not
been for a stranger who was passing in his gig I must
have died."
He looked wonderingly at her blooming countenance,
so lovely with health and beauty, and at the golden
ripples of her hair, falling from beneath her bonnet
upon her rounded shoulders, and muttered, "Impos-
sible!" But she shook her head at him, and said it had
been too possible, as she had experienced to her sorrow.
"But God preserved me," she added reverently;
" and here I am!"
It was a great contrast, certainly, that despairing
forlorn time, and this, with its harvest of content and
happiness. It is true, she was on her way to see one
who was ill, perhaps dying, but no slightest tie of affec-
tion united them, and though there might be pity, there
could be no grief.
"And Mrs. Lee?" she asked at length of Mr. Gale,
l'emembering the cause of this sudden journey.
"She is much altered, as I said," replied le. "You
will scarcely know her; she is not the same woman
either outwardly or inwardly. There is a most amaz-
ing change, to be sure." He paused a moment, and
then he added, "I have heard lately, quite lately, the
particulars of your last visit to her."
"My last and first," interrupted Veronica.
Last and first, of course.--And I find from her ac-
count that
you
have never been absent from her mind
since. You made a strange impression on her. Though
if you were half as beautiful then as now, my dear
young lady, I can quite understand it," he said, with a
little bow, while Veronica coloured under the ill-timed
   

.
compliment, to her vexation."But it seems she re-
membered you with uneasiness and dread. Or was it
her conduct to you on that visit that gave
her concern?
for I understand she was haughty enough, to say the
least of it.Ah, well! I can scarcely tell.She is a
proud woman, odd and reserved too, at times, though
none can be more agreeable when she chooses. You
brought her a letter from your father, and her husband,
I think?
" Was Mrs. Lee my father's wife? How could that
be?" inquired the amazed girl.
Yes, certainly; did you not know it? She was
your father's lawful wife, Your father married her at
Stukely, December , , and he also married your
mother, at St. Mary's, Trentham, in April, , or
thereabouts. I have the dates all perfect among my
papers."
Veronica was silent, not from stupor, however, but
from abundance of painful thoughts.
"That letter, I need scarcely tell you, was a great
shock to her; you cannot wonder it should be! Her
first intention was to burn it, but she thought better of
that. She sent for me, showed it me, and asked my
opinion of it. Of course I sent immediately to ascertain
how far the facts it stated were true or false. I found
your father was really dead, and that you, Veronica Lee,
were the offspring of a marriage he had contracted with
one Jessy Hammond."
" An unlawful marriage then?"
"Yes, I grieve to say it, it was illegal. But facts
are facts! The law does not recognize a second marriage
when the first wife or husband is still living."
   
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE.

man.
"And my father knew that?" She asked the question
with a pain-drawn, half-suppressed breath.
"Your father, Miss Veronica, was a well-educated
He must have known it, as well as I did. There
were also two other children, a boy and a girl?-Your
brother Isaac's death I found recorded, not your sister's.
Where is she? She is living, I presume?"
"Yes, she is living, and she is" And Veronica
hesitated.
" Abroad," answered John, in a firm, assuring voice.
"Letitia, yes, I think her name was Letitia. Abroad,
you say? Well, it is not with her I have to deal,
fortunately." He said the last word thoughtfully,
Veronica imagined emphatically, and she shrunk within
herself with shame and abasement, as she wondered
how much he knew of Letitia's history,
"Ah, if he should know all?" And the colour mounted
over face and brow, and to the tips of her fingers.
But he did not seem to notice her, and continued
with business nonchalance, as if what he was saying
was of the most commonplace import. "There were
no more, I think ?"
"None," answered Veronica in a low voice.
"Well, these things I made out, and acquainted
Mrs. Lee, to order. For some days she raved and raged
about the house, very much, I am bound to say, like a
caged lioness. She was so outrageous at last, and forgot
herself so much, that I was forced to quarrel with her
in self-defence. Then she came to. And presently I
found to my astonishment that the cause of all this
uproar, or at least the greater part of it was, that in
spite of herself she had a soft corner in her heart for
   

.
you; aye, and even for your father, now that he was
really gone. I don't believe in magic, that you may be
sure, but if I did, I should be thinking that that piece
of paper you left with her, just six months ago, had
been magically prepared, and had wrought all this other-
wise unaccountable change. She has no children of her
own, no near relatives that she will own; there is one,
it is true, but he has been long disowned, very much as
your father was, and it has been a great question
with her how she was to dispose of her property, for
the greater part of it is at her own disposal absolutely.
The knowledge of your existence has brought about a
revolution in this respect. I may venture to tell you
so far. But do not anticipate too much. "There's
many a slip'--you know the proverb? and to my mind
there's no proverb truer. And though she has sent me
on purpose to acquaint you with all this, she may
recover, and revoke what she has done. I don't think
she will! She seems to be dying, I must confess."
And in this way the little lawyer talked on, varying
his sentences with an occasional pinch of snuff, while
John and Veronica listened in silence.
They reached Brunswick House early: twelve miles
are soon accomplished by the aid of two good horses on
a good road, when there is not too heavy a burden,
which there was not in this instance.
The old place looked pleasant, with its leafy, broad-
stretching elm-avenue and its wide sloping lawn, and the
sunshine picked out clearly every cut of the chisel upon
the stone work of the front, and threw a shadow, well
defined, as a lady's train, over the laurels and rhododen-
drons at the side. A couple of peacocks strutted with
   
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE.

sweeping feathers on the gravel, and surveyed the new
comers with stately indifference; and the lake in the
front distance shone brilliant as a metal disc, between
the yews that guarded, but did not shade.
As the carriage drove up to the front, the great hall-
door swung open, and a footman made his appearance
to usher in the expected visitors. Gardner the parlour-
maid, stood obsequious at the foot of the stairs, and
curtsied low to Veronica, as she asked, "Would you
please to come up at once, ma'am? Mrs. Lee is asking
you every minute." Mr. Gale and John Broadbent
remained below in the dining-room.
Veronica ascended the softly carpeted stairs with a
beating heart, and had not recovered herself when she
entered the sick-room. A voice came from the gloom of
the apartment, the blinds were drawn down, and thick
curtains obscured the light of day, as the door opened
to admit her.
"Where is she? Is she come?"A voice that sounded
almost as from the grave, so hollow and dim and strange
it was.
"She is here, ma'am," said the nurse in a very audible
whisper.
Here? Where? I don't see her!" And the sick
woman raised her head feebly, and turned her eyes
towards the door, seeking for the longed-for face.
Veronica advanced, and stood beside the bed silently.
Looking down, she saw that Mr. Gale had spoken
the truth. Mrs. Lee was certainly much altered,
her face lessened, her eyes sunk, her nose pinched,
and a sickly yellow hue spread over her whole
countenance. She looked sharply and searchingly at
   

.
Veronica. "Take off your bonnet," she uttered in her
low hollow voice; and then turning to the nurse,
'Graves, draw up that blind." Veronica took off her
bonnet obediently, and the sunlight, now admitted
through the window, fell upon her hair, and lit up her .
sweet face and glistened in her large blue eyes. The
dying woman gazed long without a word. At length
she muttered, "His eyes! and yet they say he was
blind. Didn't they say he was blind, Graves?" she
asked querulously.
"Yes, ma'am, sure!" And then Graves whispered to
Veronica, "Speak to her, miss."
"What can I do for you?" asked Veronica gently.
" You? do for me, indeed!" replied Mrs. Lee, sharply,
some of the old fierceness returning to her eyes.
"I mean,"--and Veronica hesitated. What was she
to say? How talk to this strange dying relative of hers?
"Do you know me, ma'am? Do you really want me?"
"Yes, I want you. Your name's Veronica Ham-
mond, isn't it?' though I daresay you call yourself
Veronica Lee. Well, you're his daughter certainly,
though I little thought to live to see the day. But what
was I going to say? Oh, Graves, Graves!"
And the sick woman clutched the nurse's arm, while
her face became convulsed and pale as death, and her
head sunk back.
Veronica was much alarmed, thinking she was dying;
but the nurse reached out a restorative and gave it her,
saying coolly, "She's only in a faint. She's often these
fits. Don't be frighted, miss."
In a few minutes she revived. But she was some
time before she remembered who was with her, and
   
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE.

what she had wished to say. When she did, Veronica was
still standing near her, her head bowed down, while pity
and concern at her sufferings were expressed visibly in
her eyes. In a softer accent Mrs. Lee now murmured,
"Sit down, sit down, Veronica! I want to speak to you
before I go. There"and she gasped for breath as she
spoke on. "I've no relations but you.--I want to let you
know that I thought of you; didn't despise you after
all. I'm going to my account, and don't want that sin
on my conscience. Take hold of my hand, child! There,
-you're like your father about the eyes. He was a
wicked man to me, though I loved him once. I really
did, and of course he didn't believe it.-Well, all I have
is yours. When I'm gone you'll find it so.-Gale has the
will, and knows it. Your father spent his money on
drink and gambling. I spent it on pride and vanity-
vanity all! Do you spend it better. Do some good
with it. And God bless you!" Her voice became weaker
as she proceeded, and the pauses for breath more fre-
quent.She glanced round the room anxiously. Soon
a spasm seized her, and her mouth became convulsed.
"Send for Gale!" she gasped, "send for Med" She
could not finish the word; she meant Medhurst, the
doctor, who had visited her that morning, and thinking
her no worse than usual, had gone to other patients.
He was sent for immediately, but when he arrived his
presence was needlessshe was dead.
Mr. Gale was with her a few moments, but she had
not strength to speak to him. She pointed to Veronica,
as if to call his attention to her, then she closed her
eyes on all earthly things.
And thus her death at last was sudden, for though
   

.
supposed to be on her death-bed, the end was not thought
quite so near
Veronica remained in the house, the virtual mistress
of it, and John Broadbent returned to St. Wilfrid's, to
bring back with him the next day Clara, as companion
and support for the new-made heiress.
With all due pomp Mrs. Lee was buried at Aldborough,
according to her wish, and Miss Lee (Hammond, in law)
remained in Brunswick House for awhile, till Mr. Gale
should settle all legal matters. She was not of age, and
he was therefore left in trust for her till that time, but
the house and a settled income were entirely at her own
disposal at once. Afterwards,but perhaps we shall tell
best of what was proposed for afterwards, by recording
a conversation that took place one evening in the lofty,
well-arranged drawing-room, with its great pictures of
Mrs. Lee's relatives, the old members of the Symington
family, surrounding them.
"Yes, it is a fine old house," responded Veronica, to
something Clara had been sayingClara wbosat with her
delicate fancy knitting as calmly here as in the St. Wil-
frid's cottage. "But it is not so cheerful here as by the
river, and I miss my little scholars so much! Those
gloomy yews on the lawn oppress me, and these great
high rooms are half ghostly of evenings, with the old
occupants still hovering about them, as I verily believe."
"That will never do, Veronica," remarked John, as
he lifted his eyes from a curious antique manuscript he
had discovered in the library, a Latin diary of an old
monk of the twelfth century. "You must not have
such fanciful notions, or how will you be able to live
here when we are gone?"
   
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE.

"And you are really going? Yes; I knew you would
be saying so! I dreamt it the other night. But why
should you go?"
John smiled. "Do you forget my Trentham engage-
mentsmy schools, my lecture-nights, my drunkards' '
home? and Clara too has her duties. Then, too, we
have to prepare for the fte of the Labourers' Institute.
We must be back to our cottage before many days are
gone."
"The carriage could take you every day to Trentham
and back, and Clara the same, only not quite so often.
I could not spare Clara! I know I must not keep you
from your duties, but do oblige me, dear, dear friends,
and come to live with me, share home and
purse
and all
I have, for it is owing to you I have it at all, at least so
it seems to me. Be still my guides, my best loving
friends!"
"Your loving friends we shall ever be," responded
Clara, "but we cannot live with you entirely. Our
home is at St. Wilfrid's."
"And why cannot you live with me? Did you not
share your house with me when I was poor and friend-
less? You are not just or generous; you will not allow
me to have the same pleasure with yourselves."
" Not so, dear. If we were poor and friendless you
should help us, but,"
"And then," continued Veronica eagerly, "how am
I to dispose of all this wealth? You will not even stay
with me to help me to bestow it properly. I am under
promise to use it well, and it is a matter of great con-
cern with me how to get rid of it rightly. For I will
be a poor woman with
you
since
you
will not let me be
 B
   

.
a rich one; and the bulk of the money I want your
advice about. I thought we should all have lived to-
gether, and together distributed it as we saw best.
But now since you won't join me, I must do it alone,
and how am I to do it well?''
"And what have been your thoughts, Veronica, about
its disposition?" asked John seriously.
"There are three things I wish to do especially. To
provide for women like poor Letitia-I mean, for those
who would leave that horrid life if they could. To give
work and proper instruction to young destitute girls,
so that they should not be so tempted to go wrong.
And to do something to put down the ale-houses."
"Three noble works, on which you might spend
twenty fortunes such as yours, and yet do very little
good."
"That is just it. I want advice, help, assistance-and
you are leaving me."
"No, we are not leaving you, Veronica. We are but
going back to the place and home God has given us,
and where he has sent us so much to do. Advice and
assistance you shall have, as far as we can give it. But
have you first well considered that you may possibly
repent in after years so disposing of your fortune? A
suitor may come whom you may love, and to whom
this money would be a great gift. You may get covet-
ous as you grow older. You may have ambitious
desires, and grieve that you have cut the rope that might
have pulled you to the top of the tree. You may-"
Enough! You only make me more desirous to put
it out of my power to repent. To be the prize of a
fortune-hunter, to get old and covetous, to want outside
   
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE.

my own
pomp and splendourthese are all hateful things! You
have taught me how much better things there are than
these. No, I will do good with this money if I can. -
Besides, have I not promised that I will? How can I
withdraw?"
No more opposition was given to her. John remem-
bered that there were four years of reflection before her,
during which she could not touch the principal; this lay
safe in the hands of Mr. Gale, as we said, for the pre-
sent. How the amount of her income in the meantime
was to be disposed of was the only question remaining.
"I shall leave this place, of course, and Mr. Gale may
let it for me, and if you will not give me back
little room at the cottage, I must take another, as near
you as possible. But it seems to me strange that you
should turn me out of your home now, as if I were
grown too big, or too wicked to get into it!"
"Not at all. Miss Lee, the owner of, let me see, how
much a yeara thousand or twelve hundred, which is
it? or perhaps more-can scarcely sleep under so humble
a roof as ours."
Clara, give your brother the most severe chastise-
ment, you know how! He is abominable! Perfectly
hateful! But, however, I will soon be even with him,
when I have endowed a few alms-houses, and have but
a single hundred left, I will come upon you with a
vengeance."
John laughed. "Try us," he said.
"I will! Mark my words; and you know I have a
hot temper when provoked."
"As for instance, when you pulled that poor young
man's whiskers at the ale-house."
   

DY TIIE TRENT.
"Yes, certainly. I advise you to take care of yours !"
John moved his chair a yard further off, as if afraid
of her propinquity, and put his hand to his cheek
doubtingly.
"I really think, Clara, we should take care what we
do!We must make her take rooms, or,I beg her
pardon, a mansion of her own."
"But in the meantime, the Reformatory," asked
Clara seriously, "and the drunkard's, or rather the
sober man's 'Rest,' what about them?"
"I have a plan drawn out for the last," said Jolin,
"that I have had by me for some time, but have failed
to carry out for want of funds, though I have been
hoping when my next book comes out-however,
Veronica shall have the benefit of it if she likes."
"Thank you!" And Veronica's eyes glistened with
satisfaction, "I knew you were the right person to
apply to."
"The ground-plan of the scheme I can give you now;
the ground-plan of the houses you can see at St. Wil-
frid's."
"Let me hear, then, your scheme, if you please. For
though I cannot till I am of age build much, as you
know, I can lay out each year a thousand pounds or
so in this way, or in some better way, if there be a
better."
"Try one scheme first, Veronica. What do you say
to what Clara calls the 'Sober Man's Rest' to begin
with? For when you provide sober temperate places of
entertainment for the poor, you cut at the root of many
terrible evils. One gin-palace or public-house less, and
one good, cheerful, cleanly, tempting 'Rest' more, and
   
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE.

you sow good seed that shall bring a hundred-fold
harvest. Show that it is possible for such a thing to be,
as a public-house, or whatever other name you like to
give it, without intoxicating drink, where poor men
shall
go
of their own free will, sure of a good fire, a
clean house, plenty of light, and music if they wish it,
books, newspapers, and good wholesome provisions; not
cold sloppy coffee, half dregs, with stale buns, on a dirty
plate, such as I saw the other day presented to a
traveller in a so-called temperance house, with miser-
able accommodation otherwise for him who can only
afford to lay out a few pence,-but with all the advan-
tages and cleanliness and cheerfulness of a good public-
house, and none of its drawbacks. Show that this is
possible, I say, and others of the same class will gradu-
ally spring up, and replace the abominations now to be
found in every street of a large town, where the publican
leagues with the worst of society to get more unholy
gains, and panders to all the bad passions of his victims
at once.
Money spent in this way will bring more
than cent. per cent., for it will bring the blessings of
the widow and orphan, and of him that was ready to
perish, through the besetment of intemperancethe
blessings of the wife and the child, and of the parents
and relatives of young girls who are now enticed to sin
and brought to ruin by strong drink more than by any
other cause.-But to my plan."
The announcement and entrance of Mr. Gale, how-
ever, interrupted for the present the bringing out of
this plan.
Happy to see you, ladies! Happy to see you,
Mr. Broadbent! I have ventured to intrude.upon you,
   

.
as I have some rather important news to communicate
to Miss Lee."
Veronica bowed, and put herself in the attitude of
attention. He seated himself opposite to her, beside
John Broadbent.
"You may remember," he began, after a little pre-
liminary and rather fussy arrangement of his person,
"the first morning I had the pleasure of your acquaint-
ance, that I named to you there was one relative of
the late Mrs. Lee's left in the worldrather a near one,
did I not say? I think I did. Well, no matter!But in
short, this relative was her brother, Mr. Hart Symington.
He is living still, and is, of course, much astonished to
find how matters are left here. Astonished is scarcely
the wordangry, I suppose, is nearer the mark. He has
been out of the way, but is now returned; and, finding
his sister dead, claims her property as heir-at-law,
wishing to make out that the will by which you claim
has been executed at a time when his sister was incap-
ablementally, you understandof seeing to her own
affairs, and is, therefore, null and void. Now, my dear
young lady, there is no need to be alarmed at all this
none at allwe can make good our own; but what I
wish to say is this, that he is an unpleasant man to
deal with, and will put us to all the expense possible,
and all the worry also. His men of business, Grinders
and Grubb, have written me to-day, and I have come
on to acquaint you with the case. But be assured that
I shall do all that is necessary at once." And Mr. Gale
took a pinch of snuff, and looked remarkably com-
fortable.
Veronica's heart sank within her as she remembered
   
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE.

her "girls' school" and the "Sober Man's Rest," now,
perhaps, only to be dreams, never to be realized by her;
but she replied as quietly as she could,
"Of course, it must all be left with you, Mr. Gale."
"Yes, yes; and I think I may say we shall be his
match !" His eyes were remarkably bright, he seemed
unusually animated, and evidently enjoyed the prospect
of the legal battle impending.
No ardent lover of gymnastics, in the fulness of con-
scious vigour and strength, ever went to his bar and
pole with more zest than did the lawyer to a wrestle
at law with an opponent; and the natural shrinking or
fears of his client, on whom the fall, if such there should
be, might come with overwhelming and fatal effect, he
viewed with a kind of pitying contempt, which he took
care, however, to gild over by his professional smile, or
with a patronizing pat on the back, as in Veronica's
case.
Another thought had, however, come to Veronica.
"Perhaps,"-she said hesitatingly, for she felt her
speech would not be palatable to her trustee, "Mr. Sy-
mington ought to bave the property, and I have no
right!"
Mr. Gale looked amazed. "I do not understand you,
ma'am."
"I mean,that perhaps really and truly it should be
his; that Mrs. Lee might not, as he says, have been
quite sensible; or that, if she had been well, she might
not have given it to me.'
"If she had not left it you, she most certainly would
not have bequeathed it to Mr. Symington, that I may
say positively, that I know! But it is quite out of the
   

.
questionit is yours as clear as noonday, nothing can
be clearer, and that Mrs. Lee was in her right senses,
I can vouch. Why, madam, do you suppose then I am
a rogue?" And a decided frown settled upon his brow.
"Oh no, indeed! You quite misunderstand me,
Mr. Gale! I throw no reflection upon you, not the most
distant."
And she looked to John appealingly to help her out
of her difficulty. "We must leave it to Mr. Gale to settle
this affair, I think, Veronica. Till we know more
about it, it is impossible to see where the right lies."
He turned to Mr. Gale, "Is Mr. Symington a poor man?"
Mr. Gale shrugged his shoulders. "I suppose so! I
expect so! He is a spendthrift, has had very large
estates, very near your residence they were, Mr. Broad-
bent. The house at Scarsville belonged to him, and the
land about for many miles, but he drank and gambled
it away; he is a bad one, and I may now make no
secret of it, Miss Veronica, was one who did your
father no good in his young days, for they were very
intimate at one time.The estates were sold to a
stranger, and he went to the dogs. He was abroad for
many years. I believe he got a living at the card-
table, and made himself pretty notorious at Baden
Baden, and such like places, till he was forced to
come back. I have been told he has been hovering
about the old place of late, but chiefly at night, and in
a sort of disguise, though he need scarcely do that, he
is so altered, few would know him. And now he turns
up in this unpleasant manner. Ah, well, such is life!
But," continued the lawyer, musingly, "the estates I
have seen change hands in my lifetime is something
   
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE.

astonishing, chiefly, I may say, through bad practices,-
drinking and such like. I must say, Miss Veronica, I
miss my glass of wine when I come up to Brunswick
House now, habit's habit, you know! and Mrs. Lee kept
a good cellar, but I would rather see families doing as
you are here, than as I've seen them in some places.
Young Symington, I call him so yet sometimes, for he
was young when I was, had every inducement given
him to contract the habit of drinking, when with his
father, a fox-hunter of the old school, who could drink
and swearbegging your pardon, ladies!and hunt with
the best, I mean the worst; and the clergyman at Scars-
ville was a similar character, not quite so bad, you under-
stand, for he did not swear, but he was a great drinker;
port he drank, a bottle or two a day was only common
practice. And when a young fellow sits at such a table
as that every day, with the squire, or the baronet his
father, and the clergyman his spiritual adviser, to set
him the example and back him, what can you expect?
Hart got into bad company speedily, he was ripe for
it-betting at the ring and the horse-race when half-
seas-over they told me before he was sixteen, andyou
know the sequel of such doings. I understand now he's
a ruin, a complete ruin, a black-leg and a vile character
indeed! And yet, my dear young lady, you would
make a present of all this money to such a man as that,
or let him come and take it quietly, which is just the
same thing!" He looked triumphantly at Veronica,
with the air of a man who knows he has established his
point.
"On the contrary," said Veronica, "I shall I fear be
only too glad to think that the money is rightfully mine."
   

.
"The question of right is fairly settled, I think,"
said John, "now we are sure Mrs. Lee was fully aware
of what she was doing, and that Mr. Symington has
no other claim upon the property."
Mr. Gale did not stay much longer, he had to drive
back to Trentham that night, and after partaking of
supper
bid the inmates of Brunswick House farewell.
It was a brilliant moonlight night, and when the
lawyer was gone Clara suggested a walk. Veronica
agreed with alacrity. A moonlight walk was to her
a great enticement. John had again become absorbed
in the crabbed old Latin of his manuscript, and pro-
posed to join them on their return.
The two friends walked slowly across the broad
gravel walk, and so down by the row of yews to the
left, the moon lighting up their path till they trod
among half-hidden gems, the drops of dew hanging from
the grass bents, the night breeze softly touching their
cheeks the while as with delicatest brush of down.
"How cooling it is, how lovely!" whispered Veronica.
Lovely indeed, dear! And what broad sharp sha-
dows those yews cast! Is it possible that you really
dislike yews? To me they have many pleasant sugges-
tions."
"I dislike them because they are heavy and gloomy
even in the brightest sunshine; a perpetual shadow is
about them, as if they knew of some mystery or crime
that made them unhappy. They are like faces I have
seen, that no amount of laughter can cheer. They put
me in mind ofcan you not guess who? The man with
the shadow, as John calls him."
"Yes, they have their resemblance to him certainly.
   
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE.


But even he is not so bad as he seems. To you
his heart
has melted."
"It is wonderful such a heart as his can melt! But
am I not ungrateful, Clara? He saved my life, I must
not forget that! It seems to me I never do him
justice."
Perhaps," replied Clara thoughtfully, " if we really
knew more of those we disesteem, and view with dis-
like, we should see not a little to admire, and even
a something to love. I do not mean," and here she
smiled sorrowfully, " that your dark friend could be
loved as he is, but we know that he has human kindly
feelings. Even the wickedest and most abandoned have
some spark of good, could our eyes but discern it."
"Mr. Hart Symington for instance," added Veronica.
"Yes, I have no doubt there is good about him, though
Mr. Gale painted him in such dark repulsive colours
Yews are dark and disagreeable, and poisonous to cattle,
but they bear berries for the birds to eat with pleasure,
and they give shade from the sun and rain; and so, no
doubt, Mr. Symington has his crop of annual berries, and
does some good in the world, we will hope, somewhere.
Have I not learned my lesson well?" And she turned
the merry light of her eyesa light that could be dis-
cerned even by the moonbeamstowards Clara, and
was about to utter some smiling speech further, when
Clara put up her finger and said suddenly and mysteri-
ously, "Hush!" Veronica's heart seemed to stop beating
while she listened, but she could catch no sound. "What
is it?" she whispered.
"Did you not hear footsteps at our right? There!
Look beneath that yew-ah-he is gone!" And Clara's
   

.
eyes followed some invisible object, invisible to Veronica,
at least, who could discern nothing.
"I see nothing. What did you see?"
Clara stood a moment longer in the attitude of an
intent observer, then unbending, but with a disap-
pointed air, she said, "A man was here just now, quite
close to ushe stole out of the shadow of that yew,
and disappeared a little higher up the walk--who
could it be?"
* Perhaps your brother, to play us a trick."
"No, John never played me a trick of that kind in
his life; besides, it was a less man than John."
"Who could it be then? It is very mysterious."
" It seems so to me. And I think we had better go
in, and let John know."
They retraced their steps, but had not proceeded far,
before they were aware of footsteps near them.
Vero-
nica also heard them distinctly this time. And now, a
little alarmed, they made greater haste, and were soon,
to their satisfaction, in sight of the house. As they
approached it they beheld John coming out to meet
them. " Clara-Veronica, is that you? Why do you
run? what is the matter?" They explained to him the
cause of their fright.
"It is some follower of one of your servants, no
doubt," he said.
"How could that be? He would have avoided us,
but this man was evidently watching us, and listening
to us."
John mused. " It is certainly mysterious, as you
say, but there is no cause for fear. I will take a walk
round, and try to find it out."
   
FROM ST. WILFRID'S TO BRUNSWICK HOUSE.


"You must take me with you if you go," said
Clara.
"And me also," added Veronica.
"If it must be so it must." And he gave an arm to
each. They walked by the yews, even to the lake,
and home again by the other side the lawn, but heard
and saw nothing of any other human being than
themselves.
" You will think we have been silly sheep," said
Veronica, as they entered the house, " frightened at
nothing!"
No, I know Clara at least is no silly sheep; and I
have full faith that she really saw what she said. Some
day the mystery may be discovered."
And the next morning it was all made clear to them.
A letter lay waiting for Veronica on the breakfast
table, the address in a strange handwriting. Veronica
opened it and read.
"ALDBOROUGH, July --
MADAM.That I annoyed and perhaps alarmed
you and your friend last night, is a matter of regret
with me, but I had no other means of obtaining the
knowledge I sought. Finding now that Miss Lee and
the young lady I had the happiness to release from a
snow-drift, are one and the same, I at once give up
further law-proceedings, and wish you far more enjoy-
ment of my late sister's property than it has ever yet
given to its possessors.I am, Madam, yours most
respectfully,
HART SYMINGTON."
"Another mysterious letter?'' exclaimed John, as
Veronica put it into his hands; but when he had read
it, he looked quite as much amazed as herself.
But
   

.
what is this? Here is more yet." And he turned
over the page that Veronica bad omitted to examine. .
" To your friend who spoke so kindly of the dark
stranger,' I venture to present my most grateful thanks.
Would that I were more worthy of her benevolent
thoughts."
"There, Clara, he heard us as you thought! Heard
you, you dear loving sister, and appreciates you, as all
the world must!" said Veronica enthusiastically.
"What do you mean?" asked Clara, who had not
yet seen the letter.
"At all events he has one virtue left," was her
remark, "generosity. And who knows but the scale
may yet be turned, even for him?"
In the course of the day Mr. Gale appeared, his face
expressive of, and "written all over," as Veronica said,
" with important news."
"I have good news to communicate," he said hur-
riedly. "I have heard officially, that Symington will
give us no further trouble. Let me congratulate you,
Miss Lee! You are born under a fortunate star, I
perceive."
Veronica thanked him for his congratulations.
"It is strange, too! I cannot understand it, I con-
fess.-Not the least in the world.-A desperate devil-
may-care fellow like that, to give up so quietly, a
chance of worrying us! We have only to be thankful,
however."
Mr. Gale did not look particularly thankful. Clara
even fancied he was a little disappointed that the
excitement of the promised battle was not to be.

   
DEATH AMONG THE BREAKERS.

CHAPTER XXV.
DEATH AMONG THE BREAKERS,
SOME months have passed by since we left Stephen
Morris recovering from his attack of delirium. It was
a slow recovery, if recovery it may be called, retarded
by feverish fears and anguish of mind, by almost all
that could make a sick-room intolerable and painful,
pain of body, shame and trouble of mind. He craved
for alcoholic drink, and it was denied him; and part of
the wearisome day he would spend in lamentation, and
in fits of ill-temper that exhausted themselves on all
around him. He became in a great degree regardless
of the suffering he caused, and, lost in selfishness, would
demand from all, wearying and harassing service: So
changed was he in this respect from his usual self, that
the doctor shrewdly argued from it some latent disease
of the brain, and enjoined the strictest watching of
symptoms, and constant surveillance.
It became necessary he should leave his present
abode, and ever recurred the questions, Where was he
to go?How hide himself from the world? With an
enfeebled mind as well as body, he shrank from the
trouble and fancied dangers of a long journey; he was
querulous and childish, and found difficulties where
there would have been none to a stronger and healthier
individual.
However, under the protecting shadow of a warm
night in April, he was conveyed from his home at
   

BY TIIE TRENT.
Trentham, to Swansford. Short as the journey was,
it annoyed and tried his nerves excessively, and Jane,
who had intended to seek out some retired dwelling in
the country, many miles further away, gave up this
scheme at once. It was, no doubt, well she did, for
her mother's presence and advice were a great comfort
and support to her in her now worse than widowed
position. Every day her husband seemed less and less
able to converse rationally, and, alarmed at his con-
tinued and increasing mental imbecility, she once more
sent for Mr. Wilbraham. He called in to consult with
him an eminent physician, and both agreed that
softening of the brain had commenced, and that the
complaint was incurable. "Give hiin what he asks for
that is not positively injurious; contradict him in
nothing"this was their advice.
And thus he passed into the condition of a child,
his memory, judgment, power of concentrated thought,
gone, or going rapidly; a mournful wreck.
humoured and indulged as far as was possible, and
the sad, hollow-eyed wife saw him sitting for hours
together without change of posture, or spoken word,
gazing at the fire or on the floor, not in the reverie of
the philosopher, but in the apathy of the imbecile.
We talked of the condition of a child, but there is not
more difference between the fresh budding foliage of
spring, so full of promise and joy, and the decaying,
clay-trodden leaves of autumn, suggestive of death
and ruin, than between his dull, worn-out, dying brain,
and the rich swell and development of the faculties of
a child.
Jane bore with his fretfulness and whimsical changes
He was
   
DEATH AMONG THE BREAKERS.

of moodfor it was not all apathy with him ; he had
his hours of animal excitement and irritation with
patience and love; but it was a sad sight for the young
wife and mother to come into the nursery and find
him seated on the ground playing with his son's toys,
or opening a book wistfully, and declaring he knew
nothing of its contents. In a while, as the disease pro-
gressed, he forgot his friends also, both their names
and persons, and evinced no interest in their presence.
Every week, he required less and less mental pabulum,
could digest less, and before long his little boy exceeded
him in knowledge, and triumphantly pointed out to
papa the difference between great A and little a. He
lost memory of times and seasons, wife and child, and
the sight of his nearest and dearest brought no recog-
nition.
John Broadbent saw him once or twice at Swansford,
but Stephen had no recollection of his old friend, gazing
vaguely at his broad dark brow, following little Charley's
example, indeed, by putting out his hand to be shaken,
but with no slightest idea of him who had done so
much for him. John came away melancholy and
stricken at heart. "It is but the death-parting," he
said to himself, as he proceeded on his way home, with
bent-down head, "the soul being put to sleep before
the body; but, alas! what will be its state when it
awakes in the other world ?".
The sleep, however, was not for very long. He died
before the year was spent, and the unholy passion for
drink finished the immolation of its victim in this
world.
He had called himself a martyra witness; but he
 c
   

.
had been a witness for error, not truth; for sin, not
holiness; and the flames of his martyrdom did not rise
towards heaven. What sort of a martyr's crown was
his?
The grave-stone erected over his body by his mourn-
ing wife had little besides his name and age upon it.
What else could be said? Tears best expressed the
almost hopeless feeling of loss his death occasioned.
There could be no words of commendation, and the
outspoken or implied praise that is found on most
monuments was withheld in his case.
Among his late congregation his name was seldom
mentioned after the first tidings of his death had passed
by, or with speech of his brilliant talent and former use-
fulness, followed by a sigh or an abrupt silence. Similar
was the impression left on their minds to that which
remains to a spectator on shore, after having beheld a
gallant vessel coming into port, with colours flying,
music playing, and general exultation, that manages,
through the incapacity of the pilot or captain, to get
stranded and wrecked utterly before one voyager
touches the beach. Where was majesty, and strength,
and apparent safety, is now only a few disjointed planks
and the rolling breakers; and the eye vainly attempts
to penetrate their white foaming deeps for sight of the
living and dead treasure concealed below.
The same rocks that were so fatal to Stephen Morris
yet remain, and many a fair vessel breaks to pieces upon
them. Lighthouses are erected, and charts prepared,
but the list of shipwrecks is still fearfully large. Heroes
of the moral world, nothing daunted by the immense
difficulties in the way, the labour and the skill required,
   
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN.

propose
to remove some of these rocks, and themselves
are ready to give a helping hand. "It can be done,"
say they, "and with God's strength assisting us, it shall!
And for the poor man at least we will take away those
enemies to his peace and safetythe houses licensed
for the sale of intoxicating drinks, that now stand ever
ready for his ruin. There shall be no breakers near
our quiet haven of temperance, but treasure-ships of
countless price shall come and go with safety, on their
appointed journeys, and no wrecks or bodies of the
drowned shall strew our shores!"
CHAPTER XXVI.
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN.-THE TEMPERANCE MEETING.
THE fte John had named to Veronica when at Bruns-
wick House, for which it was necessary he should pre-
pare, was the anniversary festival of the Labourers'
Institute, established by him some years ago at St.
Wilfrid's. Each year the institute, with its induce-
ments to the formation of temperate habits, became
more popular, attracting more notice among the inhabi-
tants, and enlarging the number of its members, and
this particular celebration made an unusual stir in the
village. There was indeed a grand gathering, not only
of members and friends, but of people from far and
near, usually indifferent to the temperance cause, who
were not unwilling to partake of the jollity of their
wiser neighbours.
   

.
roses.
Preparations were made for days beforehand, and
Ebenezer Plowden and James Miller, as right and left
hands, with John Broadbent as head, were busy from
morning till night, on them chiefly falling the arrange-
ments and conduct of the whole affair.
When the villagers rose on the important morning,
they found put up, as by fairies' hands, invisibly and
silently, long wreaths of laurels and evergreens, from
the
sycamore in the centre of the green to John Broad-
bent's cottage, and to Ebenezer Plowden's, and indeed to
all the dwellings around, the sycamore itself standing
in the midst, adorned like a gigantic maypole, with
streamers and ribbons, and garlands of immense paper
And a triumphal arch, made gay with similar
materials, and with coloured banners and printed
mottoes, suggestive of the health and wealth to be
found in temperance, and the rejoicings of its followers,
rose grandly before the entrance to the field, where a
huge marquee was erected for the accommodation of
the visitors.
It was a splendid day; the sun shone out as if ap-
proving fully of the festivity, and looked down upon
the merry faces and gay preparations with a genial eye;
and 'lest his unshorn beams should be too hot for the
pleasure-seekers, a gentle breeze rolled across the Trent-
valley in soft waves, and floated with the coming boats
up the Trent.
At two o'clock the fte began at the village, and long
before this time boat-loads of people started on their
pleasure voyage up the broad current of the Trent from
the town, and brought an overflowing multitude of
friends, and well-wishers, and strangers, to the anniver-
   
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN.

sary gala. Boats also were in readiness at St. Wilfrid's,
gay with streamers and flags and banners, and adorned
with garlands, to conduct all who pleased up the river
to the fields beyond Scarsville, and when the Trentham
boats approached, these started, taking the lead as
became them.
John and Clara and Veronica were in one of the fore-
most boats, and near them were Mary Plowden and
her father and mother, with James Miller and others
of their friends; and when a Trentham boat came along-
side, bearing at the prow Jonas White, with members
of his congregation, or Mr. Wilbraham, who had also
honoured the fte by his presence, there were many
congratulatory speeches passed backwards and forwards,
with jokes about the Invincible Temperance Armada,
that it was hoped and believed would be more formid-
able to the enemies of temperance than the Spanish one
of ill-renown had proved to its foes.
A song full of allusions to the river, with the joys
and blessings of temperance for its burden, was given
out and sung to a pleasant melody, also composed for
the occasion, and a band of instrumentalists cheered
and amused the intervals of talk and song by their
aerial music. Merrily the oars pushed back the water;
merrily the company talked and laughed; merrily the
flute and hautboy and trumpet played; and merrily
over all and upon all the sun sent down his sparkles of
light and joy, while the sunbeams danced upon the
ripples, as the hearts danced in those thousand bosoms.
For there were no regretful drawbacks, or fears, that
Nathaniel, or Job, or Jonathan, would be getting to
hidden bottles of ale or porter. Hannah, the wife, did
   

.
not fear for Robert, the husband, or Lydia, that her
lover, Matthew, would be half-seas-over by night, with
potent stupifying drinks; and no mother with half-a-
dozen young children anticipated having to lead her
husband home after the gala, remembering with a sigh
how much more troublesome he would be to. drag
townward, than her four-year-old Sammy or Jemima.
Glasses of water were drunk,-many of them,-by
far too many for us to count, fresh from the great, clear,
abundant, cheap river, who made no charge for the
gallons that were consumed, or shouted out greedily
threepence a pint!" and still the people drank more
and more, for it was a warm day, and joy is generally
of a thirsty temperament; also, the water cooled, and
revived, and cheered, without injury, as never wine
did. The glasses descended and ascended rapidly from
the boat sides, amid much laughter, and some roguish
sprinkling (never mind! pure water does not stain),
and little children drank joyously with the rest, and let
the fresh clear elemental liquid gurgle approvingly
down their tiny throats. The tall elms of the Grove
that stood erect and full-feathered on their height,
seemed to survey the glad passers-by with satisfaction.
They too drank of the pure water that falls from the
skies, and their lowermost roots sucked up from hidden
water-veins and rills, the same life-bestowing fluid,
and from among their multitude of boughs the echo of
the mingled laughter and song, and cheerful talk, was
sent back with pleasant repeatings.
Arrived at the field, the temperance friends landed,
and passed an hour or so in quiet wanderings among
them, gathering wild flowers; or seated themselves to
   
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN.

enjoy the view of the winding river and the trees, and
to watch their more active companions; or joined in
some of the various games that were at once commenced
with vigour and alacrity by the younger part of the
pleasure-takers; or paid a respectful visit to the old
church lying beneath the shadow of the bold hill, where,
long ago, Bel-fires were lighted in honour of the Sun-
god, and cruel ceremonies and offerings gone through
and presented. Many generations of the dead lay
calmly around the old church, and made the place
solemn, but not sad, to these strangers.
Then once more the boats were laden with their
precious freight, and rapidly with the current they
slid homewards, anticipating now with some of the
zest of hunger, the meal prepared for them in the mar-
quee. Here a surprise awaited all. At one end of the
erection, duly surrounded by appropriate drapery and
flower-wreaths, were placed two of Mary Plowden's
pictures, lately completed, the one representing a
drunkard's home and its inhabitants, in all its bareness
and squalor and misery; not overdrawn, however-it
would be difficult indeed to overdraw such a subject;
and the other, the home of an industrious teetotaller,
with wife and children about him, smiling and happy,
himself in the midst, sane and proud, and more than
content. The denizens of the first home miserable
and half-naked, and crushed as they appear, were yet,
it was apparent, the same personages beheld in the
second, when changed and cheered, and blest, under the
genial influences of temperance and industry.
Under one picture, was placed in large letters, on 
printed label, "Want, misery, degradation, are the
   

.

fruits of the evil tree of drink;" and under the other,
Plenty, happiness, elevation, are the fruits of the good
tree, temperance." The paintings were
The paintings were no master-
pieces, as may be imagined, when we have named the
artist, but they were effective, and told their tale well,
and a large crowd was soon standing before them, for-
getful of the tea-tables, spread out with tempting pro-
visions, commenting, admiring, and explaining.
" Look at that, Sandy!" said a meagre-looking, ill-
dressed wife, who had with her husband, an individual
not quite unknown to us, joined the festive party
through the kindness of a neighbour bestowing upon
them tickets of admission. "Dost see? Which is the hap-
piest house? Look at that poor little chilt's face, it
looks for a' the world like our little Ned afore he was
took; he'd just such a pinched wizened look as that;
an i' that other picter, he's there on his mother's knees
just as he was afore, but a sight deal fatter an' prettier
lookin'! That father doesn't drink, you see, an' the
baby's a goin' to live. But our Ned, poor little 'un,
had no chance! Oh dear! I wish you'd be teetotal,
that I do." Sandy, with his long red nose over his
wife's shoulder, looked uncomfortable; he stood with his
hands in his breeches pockets, staring hard with the rest.
Something of the old merry hardness had vanished
from his eye, for he had been ill since we saw him
last; and his wife's tongue, like the constant drop, had
worn the stone, though scarcely in the right direction.
Why, mother," shouted a little wonder-stricken
girl, held up in her father's arms, that she might see
above the people's heads, "that's like you an' me, an'
that's like father, isn't it? Father's just had his ale,
   
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN.


an' he's goin' to give you a punch!" The father turned
red in the face, and put down the inconvenient com-
mentator at once.
You don't mean to say that, now?" asked a young
man, of his smart-looking well-ribboned sweetheart,
who took bold of his arm a little proudly.
I do, Joe! I mean you to sign the pledge to-night
afore we go away, or you'll be getting like that ugly
fellow in the picture some day perhaps."
" You must sign it too, then, Sally."
"That I will, and welcome! You first, me after."
" You're quite hard upon a poor feller, you are," was
bis response. Nevertheless, he looked smilingly down
upon the pretty face near him. It was plain he could
deny her nothing then. And here we would whisper a
word into the young women's ears.  Strike while the
iron is hot." If you want to insure sober husbands,
see to it that they are sober lovers, and get them to
sign the pledge as early as possible, like Sally.
But Sandy's wife is talking again. "There now,
Sandy, them picters is afore you, an' if ever man's had
warnin' you have! Look at one an' look at t'other!
One's our house, t'other's Phil's. Since Phil's been
teetotal, he's put nine pound ten shillin' i' the savin's-
bank, his missis toud me; he's gotten a good houseful
o' things about him, an' his wife an'childer goes about
wi' shoes to their feet an' decent clothes to their backs,
a thing yourn never does, except they borrows. Look
at 'em, I say. It a'most makes my heart burst."
"Well, well, woman, hold your tongue, can't yer?
or I'll be off. I don't want to be preached to! I'm
quite ashamed o' your noise." '
   

.
" An' I'm ashamed o' you as can say so.
My noise,
indeed! I should like
you to hear your own when you
come home fuddled !"
"Tea's ready; tea's ready, don't yer see?" said Sandy,
as he left her side diplomatically, and seated himself at
one of the tables.
As it happened, he had placed himself next Phil and
his wife. In his anxiety to get away from his wife's
rebuke he forgot to look who he was about to get for
neighbours; and to his dismay Phil, with a smart
bouquet in his button-hole, and in a suit of, for him,
stylish clothes, saluted him with"Eh, Sandy, my
boy, who ever thought of seeing you here? I'm glad
to catch sight of yer!"
Sandy's clothes were seedy, and these, with his rather
untidy, seldom-combed hair, and ominous red nose,
contrasted ill-favouredly with the spruce, jaunty dress
and carefully cut and brushed whiskers and hair of his
fellow-workman. He knew this, and felt, spite of
himself, the least in the world humiliated. We say the
least, for Sandy was obtuse where he chose, and gene-
rally presented for the arrows of society, and especially
temperance society, a thorough rhinoceros skin of
indifference and self-assurance. Perhaps, however, his
wife's severe strictures had penetrated his tough hide,
and so prepared the way this time for Phil's bow.
He answered his comrade sheepishly. Phil saw bis
advantage. "Now or never," he whispered to himself.
And then aloud, "This is my Bess; don't yer see her ?
She's lookin' uncommon young, isn't she? I've just
been telling her so." "Don't!' said Phil's better half,
who did not at first understand the affair. Sandy
   
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN.
Hli
glanced at her with an attempt at a smile. She was,
in truth, looking bonny and blooming, with a face
almost like a peony, partly the result of health, partly
of shamefacedness at finding herself in so much fine
company; and her dressa smart mousseline de laine 
a trifle too warm in colour for so hot a day, with her
cap full of pink roses and pink ribbons, while it helped
the general effect of pinkiness (to speak moderately)
that there was about her, also helped to dazzle Sandy's
eyes, much as the sun would. He turned them away
as if they had been hurt. But we beg to say in expla-
nation, he did not do so because of any artistic delicacy
in his visual organs, but because so much splendour
was a mortifying contrast to the appearance presented
by his own dowdily-dressed wife.
"She's blushin' like a young one, isn't she?" went on
Phil, still speaking of his wife. "An', do you know?
I must tell yer, for I can't help it, since I've been
teetotal she's got younger every month, an' prettier, to
my thinkin', because she's happier !We've begun
sweetheartin' again, haven't we, Bess? An' I've never
bin so jolly in my life!"
"Reason for why," exclaimed Mrs. Sandy, who had
now placed herself on the other side her husband, as
much in a corner as possible, not wishing for any too
damaging nearness to Mrs. Phil's smart clothes. "You've
common sense, you have, Phil, I'll say that of you! An'
what's the use of havin' a man as has all sense but
common sense? Here's Sandy now's as clivver as ony
on yemay, an' a good bit clivverer than some-right's
right, an' I'll say that of him! but he's no common sense.
He can't see through a glass winder, let alone a brick
   

.
wall. If he'd look i' your house, he'd see summut
different to his own; but, bless your life, he nivver
does wi' any eyes but a simpleton's. Them picters now!
I've bin a showin' him them picters "
"Picters be hanged," exclaimed Sandy fiercely. "I'm
not a-goin' to swaller them picters! I want some tea,
woman.
"I toud yer!" said his wife, giving her head a solemn
shake, and looking at Phil. "I knew he wouldn't let
me speak."
"Aye, aye, lad," smiled Phil at Sandy, perhaps
remembering the fable of the sun and the wind; "it's
right down comfortable to be here! I do enjoy my tea
some, now-a-days, I can tell you. I'd used to think it
poor washy stuff; but it's quite another thing now,
specially as we can afford to get it pretty good. None
o'your penn'orths for me, that's half hedge-leaves, or
three-parts, may happen; but a quarter of a pound of
right down good at a time! I'm a judge o' tea now, I
am." And he seemed as if he were, smacking his lips
in poor Sandy's sight and hearing, we are bound to
confess, all unpolite as it was, after each imbibition.
Sandy swallowed his with some internal grimace.
He had quite lost the relish for tea with his strong
potations, and of course, in one afternoon, under how-
ever favourable auspices, could not regain it. Still
Phil's hilarity and commendations influenced and had
their weight with him, and he began to wonder whether,
after all, tea and sobriety and a happy comfortable
home might not be better than the most enchanting
liquor the publican ever brewed, with poverty and
seediness and self-contempt.
   
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN.

He saw plenty of people about him siniling and happy,
far more truly happy, he could not help thinking, than
he had ever seen drinkers to be in an ale-househe
heard merry talk and laughter, and not a little joking
of the sort that does not make one wince for the jeers
of the rest, but that makes all gleeful alike; and he
noticed several well-dressed friends of his, not far from
him, who had not such large earnings as himself, from
which to provide for wife and family, but who were
temperance men, and could therefore, like Phil, find the
wherewithal for good food and respectable clothing, and
he felt ashamed, thoroughly ashamed at last. He had
not so many children as Phil, and yet how much poorer
he was! He had quite as good wages, and could get
through his work with more ease, for he was, as his
wife said, "clivver," and had been intended for better
things than to pass through life as a drunken good-for-
little bricklayer. But ah! the ale was so tempting, and
how could he ever resist the temptation, now he had
given way to it so many years? How find courage to
pass the ever-open door of the Seven Stars, and the Dog
and Doublet? That Dog and Doublet had been a dear
place to him. How many doublets had he not found
for the dog, and how very few for himself, and fewer
still, latterly, for his wife and children? For the dog
was a greedy animal, and every year wanted more and
more, while the family had less and less. "Why can't
I do as Phil does?" he asked himself, and the food stuck
in his throat, even the plum-cake, very good as it was,
and little as he was used to anything very good, would
not go down
"I think I'll go to the door," he said at last, as he
   

.
found the tea and cake getting more indigestible and
difficult to swallow. "I want a bit o' fresh air." And
he left bis place, and with some difficulty, for the tent
was very full indeed, made his way out. As he was
going Ebenezer Plowden's eye caught sight of him.
"Why, Sandy, my man, are you here?" And Ebenezer,
the master basket-maker, owner of house and field, and
who knows how much beside? put out his hand and
warmly shook that of the poor red-nosed seedy brick-
layer.
"I'm very glad to see you! Hope you've enjoyed
yourself! Had a good tea, eh?"
"Pretty well, master," replied Sandy, a little "flab-
bergasted," as he told his wife afterwards, at people's
eyes being fixed upon him. "Several grand ladies,
Miss Broadbent and Miss Lee, her as has come into so
much money lately, they say, and the vicar's lady, for
the vicar was there among the rest, let alone Miss
Plowden and lots more."
He went to the door, feeling that all the people's
eyes in the place were upon him, not that Sandy was
bashful, far from it, but he felt uncomfortable and un-
like himself just now.
He stood at the door of the
marquee till he found himself in the way, the waiters
passing and repassing with kettles full of steaming tea,
and plates of bread and butter, and then he stood in
the field not far off, looking at, but scarcely seejpg, the
youngsters who were amusing themselves by various
games, till they could be admitted into the marquee for
tea, there being far too large a company for all to par-
take at once.
The fresh air blew on his face, the river rippled and
Bag
   
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN.

rolled not far away. Did it sing him a song that
stirred in his heart a resolve long needed there, or how
was it?
When his wife came to him soon after, afraid of
losing sight of him too long, lest he should shirk away
to the "public," he turned round to her with a quick
decisive motion, and astonished her by saying, "Grizzy,
lass, I've made up my mind, I'll sign the pledge!" She
did not go into hysterics or faint, for she was a woman
of wire and bend-leather, and could bear very hard
blows indeed, both physical and emotional, as he had
proved many times, but she lifted up her hands and
exclaimed in a joyful tone, "Oh, Sandy, you don't say
so!" by which apparent denial she only meant to imply
astonishment and gladness, not disbelief.
After tea the tables were cleared away, and in front
of the pictures a platform rose for a dozen speakers or
so, and the people prepared themselves by sitting upon
the recently arranged forms, to listen to the orators of
the temperance meeting.
The vicar of St. Wilfrid's was in the chair, and well
he looked there, with his benevolent countenance lit up
by a genuine smile of satisfaction as he surveyed the
well-dressed, happy, sober company spread out before
him. Mary Plowden, as she saw him, thought he had
never appeared more like the kind good gentleman he
was, and the good Christian too, not even in his own
church on the Sunday, or when praising her industry
and skill in the "studdio;" and that was much for Mary
to think.
Near. him sat Jonas White, with whom the vicar
shook hands- very heartily, John Broadbent, Mr. Wil-
   

.
braham, and a young man quite unknown at St.
Wilfrid's, a Mr. Sylvester Reece, who was stated to be
very rich, and a friend of Mr. Broadbent's; and a little
behind the rest, but still on the same platform, Ebenezer
Plowden, James Miller, and a middle-aged man of
much muscle and sinew, a blacksmith of the neighbour-
hood, called "Gike Adams," a recent convert to teetotal-
ism. These were to be the speakers, and all expected
a treat.
After the vicar had introduced the business of the
meeting to the people, and given a very short but
pleasing account of the St. Wilfrid's Labourers' Insti-
tute, and the good it was effecting among that class of
men, at present so lamentably neglected and ill paid, he
named, with much praise, the labours of his much-
esteemed friend Mr. Broadbent in the temperance cause,
and his disinterested desires for the advancement and
happiness of the working-classes.
Then he called upon Mr. Wilbraham to make the
opening speech. The good doctor spoke fluently and
happily for half-an-hour almost, detailing incidents in
his professional career, with anecdotes from his own
manifold experiences, causing considerable interest and
some laughter, and sat down with much applause from
his hearers.
The Rev. Jonas White, who had come over from a
neighbouring town to attend this meeting, having left
Trentham, gave an account of his first meeting with
Father Mathew, his own conversion to teetotalism, and
his labours and trials among the drunkards of Trentham.
He showed a long list of teetotal pledges, which he
brought out from his pocket, gained in this neighbour-
   
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN.

hood, and he said he hoped to add to them to-night,
whereat Sandy's wife gave him a nudge with her elbow,
not of the gentlest; and Sandy looked grimly resolute.
The white-haired old minister ended by an earnest and
touching appeal to all present, to come out from the
city of destruction, and to seek after the things which
pertained to their peace, one of which he said, a most
important one, was temperance. He besought them to
become truly temperate, not "moderation men," with
their one or two glasses, that might so readily be made
into three or four, or five or six, before they were aware;
but to put by firmly, once and for ever, the cup that
inebriates, and so frequently ruins. We cannot do
justice to his speech, or indeed to any that were deli-
vered, neither have we time; we cannot even give a
faint abstract of it at all worthily; but few who listened
to him, and saw the earnest pleading of his eyes, and
heard the entreating accents in which he endeavoured
to persuade, were not affected almost to tears.
John Broadbent rose next, his dark eyes glistening,
his whole countenance glowing with delight and en-
thusiasm; but his speech was short, he knew there were
others to succeed him, who also wished to say what
was in them, and the time was limited. And first, an
allusion he made to "their glorious river" pleased all
present, both Trenthamites and those of the village.
But he soon left the side of the sparkling water, to
appeal to the sparkling eyes and glowing hearts before
him, and called upon the women, as well as the men, to
join hand and heart in the endeavour to put down in-
temperance. "First, by your own good example. I
speak here to both women and men, for unhappily both
 D
   

.
lave sinned in this respect, both have yielded to the
seductive temptation. Show by your own noble, un-
stained lives how temperance men and women should
live.  Then each may say, not proudly or exultingly,
but thankfully to God, the giver of all good-
"My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my
heart is pure.
"Band together for holiness, for truth, for temperance,
which is the handmaid of these, without which, indeed,
holiness cannot be, true temperance, that does not dally
with, but conquers the tempter, strong drink! How
much you may accomplish, working men and women,
if
you
will! Be determined never to rest till you see
around you neither drunkards nor the licensed houses
which too often make the drunkard, and which most
certainly push him forward on the road to destruction;
and in all fit places utter your testimony to the blessings
and benefits of temperance; above all, preach this every
day and hour by your lives!"
Ebenezer Plowden then came forward. His speech,
he told them, would be very much like his basket-
weaving, " in and out and round about," and before he
sat down he made his assertion good. He did not forget
ere he concluded to detail the particulars of his divorce
from the pipe, and he told them with some humour,
bringing many a laugh upon the faces of his audience.
"And," he added, "the man whom I converted by my
no pipe, to no drink, is here, just before you all, and all
the better for it. I see his eyes twinkle with joy, and
at this distance I can tell that his broadcloth is a good
deal more nappy than when he made himself so, and
   
SUNSHINE AFTER RAIN.

his wife's dress a fine deal handsomer than when he
helped the landlady to her silks and satins." Phil and
his wife laughed with the rest of the laughers, and these
were not a few; they did not at all mind being made
public characters in this, to them, flattering way.
"But," continued Ebenezer, after he had waited like
a practised orator for the laugh to subside, "the man
that converted me to 'no pipe' by his 'drink'is here
too, and I think he will never repent coming here. I
can only thank him again and again for the good he did
me that morning, and ask him to let me return the
compliment, I was going to say, but I'll say instead,
return the blessing, and get him to throw away his
glass, as I did my pipe, now and for ever!" Ebenezer
sat down, but Sandy, who was an excitable subject, and
was worked up by the basket-weaver's speech to con-
siderable heat, rose up, forgetful of all but himself and
the speaker, whirled his cap in the air, and shouted at
the top of his voice, "Now and for ever!" "Hurrah! !
that's it.---Come forward, Sandy!" exclaimed Ebenezer,
rising up again a moment amid much confusion and
cheering and laughter. The vicar good-humouredly
allowed the enthusiasm to find vent in this
way
for
minute or two, he knew the advantage of opening the
safety-valve, and then called to order.
James Miller spoke a few words, and was listened to
with some attention, though we cannot declare his
speech was eloquent; but many knew him, and the
beneficial change temperance had wrought in him. He
told his "experience," the best thing he could tell, and
certainly one pair of eyes were wet with joyful tears
when he had concluded, his mother's, while the feelings
a
   

.
of his father and Mary Plowden may be supposed as
not very sorrowful.
Mr. Reece next lifted his tall slender form upon the
platform, and delivered a few sensible, well-spoken
words, chiefly evincing his own interest as a landed
proprietor in the cause of temperance, and declaring his
determination to build upon his estates schools, and
temperance-halls; and, before all things, to put down
the public-houses wherever his property or influence
extended
Lastly, the blacksmith hammered out his sentences,
and brought sparks from many a piece of heated iron
among the assembly; and, we will hope, welded some
to thoughts of higher purpose than they had before
known. With much applause he laid down his hammer.
We do not know how many signed the pledge at
Jonas White's table that night, but the first to do so
was Sandy. In long sprawling letters he affixed his
signature, " Alexander Peach," ending with a flourish,
Sandy liked to do all things with an air. "Now Grizzy,
thine with mine," and Grizzy with much labour and
twisting of the fingers, made a crabbed crooked stroke
or two that she firmly believed represented her two
Rather against the rules Sandy took the pen
again, not content till he had given hers also a martial
flourish. And then with a long approving gaze he sur-
veyed the two names, and made way for others.
By the soft lengthened twilight, the happy but tired
company made their way back to their respective
homes. Little eyes were sleepy, and little legs and feet
very quiet, as the boats glided with them down the
stream, and mothers and fathers looked up at the fast-
names.
   
JOHN BROADBENT'S LETTER.

coming stars, with, perhaps, some dim perception of
the stars of moral light and beauty that were dawning
as these, upon the earth, dawning and rising to fulness
and glory, till the time should come when there "shall
be no need of sun or moon or stars,when God shall
be the sole light and life and love of this universe,
CHAPTER XXVII.
JOHN BROADBENT'S LETTER.
And here we would close, but we have yet a word or
two more to say of John Broadbent and some other of
our friends.
The events we have related took place thirty years
ago, and John Broadbent is now therefore an elderly
man of sixty or thereabouts.
His tall manly form stoops a little, his dark hair
is streaked with gray, but still remains the old genial
light in his dark eyes, the pleasant smile, the cheerful
voice. He is not in England now, St. Wilfrid's and
the Trent have long lost his pleasant apparition, but
lives abroad with Clara, who is to him dear and true
as ever, sister and wife in one. Their lives are calm
and blessed, for they are spent in doing good and being
good, and the people among whom they dwell revere
and love them equally,
James Miller and Mary Plowden have been married
this many a year; about them are tall grown-up sons
   

.
and daughters, one of whom, a son, inherits his mother's
painting faculty and more, or rather it is developed to
better purpose. The schools of art established now,
are an advantage not known in earlier days to budding
talent, and Aaron Miller, the painter of landscapes and
still life, proves how much he has been indebted to one
of them.
A letter lately received by James Miller from his old
friend John Broadbent, he has allowed us to tran-
scribe,
"H--, SEPTEMBER, .
"MY DEAR JAMES,The news you send me of your-
self and Mary and your children is very charming and
pleasant. Clara and I have talked much of you all
since we received it. Our hearts have
gone
out towards
St. Wilfrid's and you, and we have again wandered by
the green-pastured Trent as of old. Whether we shall
ever see you and it again, of course we cannot tell.
God has placed our home here for the present, and till
he guides us away, we do not really wish to move.
But if he should ever send us to you, it would be a great
joy, be assured of that, my dear fellow! What you
say about the work I did at St. Wilfrid's, the good I
accomplished, &c., I cannot receive. It is not I that
can do anything, it is God that accomplishes every-
thing. He seeks suitable instruments to effect his own
wise ends; we have but to submit ourselves to be used
by him, and He will employ us in the work he sees us
best fitted to do.
You ask me about Mrs. Sylvester Reece (late Vero-
nica Lee). She is perfectly well and happy. God has
given to herself and husband great wealth, and they
   
JOIIN BROADBENT'S LETTER.

employ it as his stewards for good and benevolent pur-
poses. You will be glad to hear that on all their large
estates, no public-houses rear their heads, but in the
place of these, are rest and refreshment houses in abun-
dance, with the best of entertainment both for body and
mind; and most of these houses charge at a rate cheap
and low enough for the poorest labourer. Their people
are happy and sober and industrious, and to ride
through their lands is a delight to all, even the intem-
perate and careless are obliged to acknowledge it. As
for Clara and myself, we also are well. Evening
shadows are about us, but a light comes through the
shadow that shall grow brighter and brighter to the
pure and perfect day. Another river than your Trent
is near us too, sometimes we think we see it flowing
towards our feetthe river of death, not so beautiful
and cheering outwardly, but we shall not hesitate to
cross it when God calls. For beyond it then will be
our home!With much love to you and Mary from
Clara and myself, Your affectionate friend,
" JOIN BROADBENT."
THE END.