OWEN:  A WAIF.
CHAPTER I.
Markshire Downs.
LUCKY the rain had kept off so long from Mark-
shire Downs; for Markshire had been holding its annual
cattle fair thereon, and it was not a pleasant place to be
caught in stormy seasons. The wind and the rain had
always done much damage there, and old Markshire
folk considered the wet season set in regularly at fair
time. It was a wise dispensation that the cattle fair
occurred on the rst week of September  when the
corn was' in, and the harvest beer drank, and the
harvest junketings ended. It always rained at Mark-
shire Fair, people said; and people no more went
thither without their stoutest boots and most weather-
proof habiliments than Markshire folk would go to
church in their Sunday's best without a baggy cotton
umbrella, by way of weather-guard. But this particular
year in which our story opens the weather-wise had
been balked in their prognostications, and people had
prepared against the fury of the elements in vain;
there had been sunshine on the Downs all fair time,
and, though the wind had blown a little fresh oc-
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casionally, yet it blew from the right quarter, and the
aborigines were not too particular. Lucky the rain
had kept o' so long then from Markshire Downs. So
genial a fair time had scarcely been known by "the
oldest inhabitant;" there had been an extra attendance
of sexagenarians and children in consequence, and brisk
buying and selling, and exchanging and swindling, had
been the order of the day.
What that the rain came down when the last
Welsh colt was sold, and a wretched animal of
eighteen years, with its teeth scoured and its tusks
led, remained still a dead lot on its owner's hands,
the bond /ide cattle fair was at end, and the drinking
and qnarrelsome evening that invariably wound up the
proceedings was an illegitimate appendage, only
countenanced by a nondescript crowd and a few Mark-
shire roughs. Sober people had wound their way
down the steep hill to the town, and their respective
villages lying ve, ten, fteen miles beyond the
Downs; and those who had stopped to revel and get
drunk after the day's business deserved a wetting for
the nonce, and there was no honest Markshire soul to
pity them.
It rained hard and it blew hard; revelry had up-
hill work, and even getting drunk under a canvas
roof, which kept the rain o for ve minutes and then
let it down all in the lump, was dispiriting and grew
monotonous. People who knew Markshire gave it up
at last, and, despairing of fair weather, made a dash
homewards, and left the Downs to the tent-keepers
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and cattle-dealers. Had it remained ne, or been even
moderately wet, the nomadic, heterogeneous classes up
there would have been melting away by degrees in the
night's darkness, and the morning sun would have dis-
covered but a few crazy skeletons of booths. But it
was a terrible night, and those most anxious to be
gone thought twice about it, after a glance at the
black prospect beyond the feebly-lighted, miserably-
dripping canvas tenements.
' There were no signs of clearing up, and men and
women resigned themselves to circumstance, and made
the best of it. Standing, at eleven o'clock at night,
on the Downs, a few paces from the scene of all the
day's life and strife and barter, an observer might
have fancied, from the dead silence, and his inability
to distinguish objects in advance, that not an atom
from the great cattle gathering was left there, and that
the Downs were free again to sheep ocks. And yet
there were all the elements of life and life's discord
beneath half the soddened tents  the world has a
guilty conscience, and can sleep not.
There was life  and restless, unsettled life, too
in Jack Archer's tent, where the rain came in with
less aectation, and the wind swooped underneath with
no ceremony at all. Jack Archer was not a particular
man himself, and did not like his company particular.
His was not even a respectable tent, but a sort of tent-
of-call for all the black sheep that a cattle-fair collects
together. A decent coat, a clean face, linen of any-
thing under a montl1's wear, would have been out of
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6 - ownn.
place therein. There were even some cattle-dealers
who preferred to give it a wide berth; and the rural
constabulary, represented by half-a-dozen mild young
men, whose trousers did not t them, ran for their
lives another way whenever the rumour of a ght in
Archer's tent got wind. And they fought often and
with vigour there, and Archer's tent was always lively
in fair time. /
But the fair was over, and Archer's tent participated
in the general gloom, albeit all life was not quenched
out by the night's deluge. A woman was awake, at
least, and moving uneasily from one part of the tent
to another, amongst men and tables, and even horses
and donkeys, varying proceedings by now and then
lumping heavily on a form, or struggling with the
canvas screen before the opening, and squeezing a
damaged bonnet through an aperture too small for it
in the vain endeavour to nd signs. of clearing-up 
an operation not always received with cordiality, or
even common civility, by those trying hard to sleep,
as it let in no end of extra wind, which threatened to
have the tent up by the roots.
"If you do it again, I'll pitch you out by the
scruff, by !" roared Jack Archer, who had been
dozing on his extempore counter under a pile of horse-
cloths, previous to the woman's last attempt to ventilate
the place  "you and that devil's imp of yours! {If I
stand any more of this, mind you, I'm !" and Jack
Archer's oily oaths slipped from- his lips one by one,
till sleep and beer fumes gained the mastery.
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The woman dropped the canvas screen, and stood,
with some appearance of deance, looking back at her
reprover. There was a lantern on the counter near
Jack A1-cher's head, and its feeble light indicated two
wild eyes glittering neath the shadow of the bonnet.
The light showed little else, it was so weak, and
struggled so hard for existence with the elements. The
woman was tall, and poorly clad, and hardly sober:
one could see the rst, guess the second, and have
little doubt of the third, as she moved uneasily back,
and went the whole length of the tent with an irregular
tread, pausing once to steady herself at a table, where
three or four men sat huddled together all asleep, and
snoring, and holding in their grimy sts, short, heavy-
handled, shabby riding-whips.
There were, at least, twenty persons in the tent,
all of whom, if not asleep, had lapsed into some sem-
blance of quiescence, with the exception of this troubled
woman. To and fro, to and fro, she paced uneasily
after the last remark of her uncourteous host, pausing
now and then to make sure that the rain continued
unabated, without risking further indignation by re-
opening the tent.
After half-a-dozen turns, or thereabouts, she walked
to the darkest corner of the tent, and groped about
the grass and the legs of morbid donkeys with her
hands, till they met with a bundle of rags of some
kind, which she shook roughly once or twice.
"Owen," she whispered  "Owen, are you
asleep?"
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8 OWEN.
To which question silence responding in the af-
rmative, she rose and re~commenced her peripatetic
exercise.
"It's better as it is  it can't be worse," she mut-
tered', after a time. "What's the odds to him or me,
for that matter?" .
This assertion not appearing wholly satisfactory,
the woman nally dropped on to a form, and took her
chin between her two hands, and moaned a little.
"Can't you sleep?" asked a voice, so suddenly at
her side, that the woman started.
"No," was the sullen response.
"You won't try  and you won't let others, more
tired and more inclined than yourself, sleep either.
It was a mild reproof, and in a woman's voice;
and the rst woman looked hard into the murky atmo-
sphere before her, and could make out something
wrapped in a plaid shawl, sitting with its back against
something taller that snored.
"People who are miserable, or sick of life, or anxious
to be gone, don't sleep," muttered the woman, either as
a moral reection or as a half-apology, according to the
humour of the party addressed.
"You have been pretty merry all the fair, too."
"How do you know?" was the short inquiry.
"I haven't been here with my eyes shut all the
time."
"Oh, you're one of the 'cute ones, perhaps!" said
the woman, with an awful bitterness. "You've a
living to make, and bread to earn; and I've money to
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get drink with. We can't all be up in the stirrups at
once."
"Ah, 11o! Try and sleep a bit now, will you?"
"For your sake or mine?" asked the other sharply.
"For both, perhaps."
"Then I shan't!"
"Very well," said the other, yawning. "Oh, dear!
how cramped I am!"
"You should have minded your own business,
then," said the restless woman, as though cramp were
the natural result of -intermeddling, and served her
right accordingly.
The woman in the plaid shawl, who was evidently
not inclined to quarrel, returned no answer; but seemed
to huddle closer to her companion for more warmth and
comfort than his back afforded.
"The idea of asking me to sleep!" commented the
woman, who could not shake of1' an aggrieved subject,
and evidently treasured an indignity  "of asking me
to sleep in Markshire!"
Her late interlocutor continuing taciturn, she had
all the conversation to herself.
"Why, I was born here, my good woman; had a
father and mother here, who both went to the church-
yard  broke their hearts about me, fools say! I saw
their grave last Monday. What a sight for one like me
to come and see at fair-time!" and her hand smote the
table angrily.
"Hush, hush! Don't make a noise  you'll wake
the people!" cried the other.
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"Ah! well, I don't want that, mind you. All's
fair with me, and I don't want that. Oh! this rain!"
"Are you in a hurry to be gone?"
"I' can't sit waiting here. I'm a madwoman at
heart; and my brain won't steady down  it turned
when I was younger by a good ten years, and well it
might for that matter."
"Don't shake the form so," said the woman, in a
hasty whisper, glancing nervously over her shoulder.
"Oh! you're all don'ts! " was the peevish rejoinder;
"as if I cared for them, and hadn't been hardened to
them years ago. Say, don't make up your mind to
drown yourself in Markshire river; and see what I shall
say, or how you'll balk me!"]
"Why, you never " began the other, andthen
stopped and laughed a not unpleasant musical laugh.
"Ah! you have been drinking too much. You'll feel
better in the morning, if you can only sleep a bit; do
try, now!"
"What, in Markshire!" scornfully cried the woman
again.
"Yes, to be sure. What's to hinder you?"
"I'1l drown myself, by all that's holy  I can't live!"
"Well, for a woman who is quite certain about
that, you are rather particular as to the wet," was the
somewhat sarcastic remark, as the plaid-shawl made
another effort to collect a little extra warmth in its folds.
"You're a bit of a port hussey  that's what you
are," 1-etorted the woman; but the pert hussey aforesaid
had made up her mind to be lured no further into con-
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versation; and the half-dozen acrimonious observations
that followed failed to arouse her from her apathy.
The woman even relinquished the attempt, and shufed
to her feet, and re-commenced her weary walk, once
stopping before the bundle, and whispering Owen as
before. Owen slept, however; and the woman, after
muttering something over him  a prayer, a curse, a
warning, a dreamy soliloquy having no sense or ob-
ject  either or all four, for what could be learned
from the few words whispered in that dark corner 
went with the same vacillating gait to the front entrance,
ripped suddenly from top to bottom the aperture that
had been closed by a needle and pack-thread late that
evening by John Archer, licensed to sell beer on retail,
and passed on to the Downs, admitting at one fell
swoop the torrent and the wind, which blew over forms,
and whisked o' Dick A.rcher's fur cap, and the lantern,
and swelled out the tent and cracked more than one of
the tent cords, and woke up three-fourths of the sleepers
in dismay.
"Jack! Jack! the tent' s coming down!" cried more
than one voice, whilst the earliest aroused were hurrying
to and fro, and Jack Archer, foaming at the mouth,
was leaping unprotably in the air, and hurling male-
dictions at the world and its eyes and its limbs generally.
It took several minutes to organize these startled atoms,
and bring them to something like use for the common
weal, and secure the tent, so far as circumstances per-
mitted, against a similar repetition. It broke up rest
in general for that night, and the ill-wind blew extra
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customers to Archer's double X, and made many thirsty
and noisy, and hindered sleep in the few who were in-
clined that way after the rst alarm had subsided.
There was but one who, amidst it all, slept soundly
and peaceably on  who, in the rst tumult and con-
fusion, had, for a moment, looked from his rags like a
young wild beast cub from its lair, and then subsided
quietly down again; and he, perhaps, had the greatest
reason to evince alarm at the incidents of that night.
For the mother who bore him, the reckless woman
of the preceding hours, who had begged and stolen for
him for nine years  perhaps had taught him to beg
and steal for himself  had shaken him from the
shadow of her wing, and cast him a waif on the world.
The woman, planning her escape either from him
or from the life she had grown weary of, had muttered,
at an earlier hour, "It's better as it is ~ it can't be
worse!" and possibly affairs could not present a more
forlorn aspect, or turn out worse for the waif. The
world had been ever before him, and met him with a
hard, unpitying countenance  the face of a Nemesis
revenging his appearance on a society that hates such
things!  and the mother had been a strange woman,
who had not loved him, or taught him what love was.
Will he wake to much despair when his nine years
are startled by the information that he is alone in the
world? Would he have cried out with much agony in
his sleep had he dreamed of the dark river, and seen
the woman he called mother standing irresolutely on
the brink, in the searching wind and rain?
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OWEN. 13
CHAPTER 11.
' ' Tarby. "
THE wind lulled half an hour before sunrise, and
the rain came down more steadily. A cold, incessant
rain, that gave no promise of clearing up for that day,
and suggested to all loiterers the expediency of re-
moving to more habitable quarters.
Life woke early that morning, and proprietors of
booths and drinking tents were hammering away at
uprights, and stowing away their large bales of canvas
long before the night's shadows had crept down the
westward hill reluctantly. Cattle-dealers brought forth
their surplus stock from unaccountable quarters, and
trotted away; carts and waggons, and houses that went
on wheels, were disappearing down the hill. Some
broken bottles and loose straw, some cut-up turf that
would take till next spring to replace, would shortly
indicate alone the site of the great fair, which had
been the pride of Markshire since 'Q.ueen Bess, of
blessed memory, granted the charter in 1567.
At seven in the morning Jack Archer's tent was
level with the ground, and his customers divided, and
Jack Archer himself was harnessing a lank horse to
the shafts of his cart, whilst a ragged boy of nine
years old stood with his hands in his pockets shivering
and watching the operation.
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"Ain't you anything better to do than stand there?"
inquired John Archer, adding force to his inquiry by
a jerk of the left elbow that rendered there somewhere
else on the instant.
"No, I haven't - and keep your hands to your--
self."
"Why don't you be off after your mother?"
growled the man. "If it warn't your blarmed mother
that let the wind in and nearly split the tent in half
last night, I'm a innocent. I only wish I had kicked
the couple of you out before the rain began, that's
all."
The man made a suspicious movement with the
reins; and a pair of sharp eyes taking note thereof,
their owner sauntered to a respectful distance, and left
John Archer to proceed with his arrangements unob-
served. There was something cool and easy about this
boy, singularly in contrast to his years  a bold, un-
abashed, almost deant air, partly, mayhap, an in-
heritance from his mother, the greater portion thereof
the natural result of such stern teaching as the world's
experience had afforded him. On the Downs, in the
midst of strangers, with his mother absent and himself
hungry, he appeared unconcerned and at home 
caring nothing for the rain that soaked through his
scanty clothes, and looking as sharply round for stray
morsels of bread and meat from those who were dash-
ing through a hasty breakfast, as the half-starved mon-
grels that waited on their master, and showed their
teeth at each other and at him.
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owmz. 1 5
Each minute after sunrise noted a departure and a
decrease in the numbers on the Downs, and by eight
in the morning there were not twenty people left to
keep the deserted boy company.
From that small congregation a woman in a grey
plaid shawl called to Owen.
"Here, young one  I want you a moment."
The boy, after a suspicious glance towards her 
"to be wanted" was a suspicious phrase, and suggested
many unpleasant reminiscences  walked towards the
woman, who was seated on a costermonger's barrow,
with an umbrella over her head, carefully screening
from the wet two large articial roses in her bonnet,
of which she was evidently a little vain. At the head
of the barrow, engaged in a little dispute with a
donkey, that objected to be backed between the shafts,
was a tall, round-shouldered, bullet-headed young man
in fustian, whose rst glance towards the boy was on
' a par with the looks he had already met with in his
pilgrimage.
"Where's your mother, boy?"
"I don't know."
"Haven't you seen her this morning?"
"No  I haven't."
"Oh! good Lord, Tarby!" addressing the gentle-
man at the head of the vehicle  "if she's been and
gone and drownded herself, as I was all along
afeard on!"
"Get out!" was the scornful reply to so extreme
a supposition.
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"I told you how wild and skeared-like she was last
night  like a lost thing, Tarby."
"Wo! back, you blackguard!" cried Tarby, who,
more interested in his donkey than his companion's
remarks, was becoming excited over the animal's re-
fractoriness. "Poll, this is a hanimal to come nine-
and-twenty miles for."
And Tarby tapped the animal's head hard with a
cudgel.
"But, do listen awhile, Tarby, to this. Something
ought to be done  somebody ought to be told, you
know."
"It's no business of ourn," said Tarby, regarding
the boy with more intentness. "If the young shaver's
mother can't take care of herself, we can't be
bothered."
"What's your name?" asked Mrs. Tarby, turning
to the boy.
"Owen."
"Owen what?"
"Owen nothing. I've got no other name."
"What's your mother's name?  she had one, I
suppose?"
"Madge they called her  that's all."
"Where do you live?"
"Mann's Gardens, Tower Street."
"What!  in Lambeth?"
"Yes. We lived there till the rent-man turned us
out, and then we came on here. Do you think mo-
ther's drownded?"
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"I don't know - God forbid, boy!"
"She said she would do it last week," he remarked,
coolly. '
"And what did she think was to become of you?"
said Mrs. Tarby.
"Oh, she never thinks," was the answer, accom-
panied by a short laugh  "'more do I. How it
rains!"
"Ain't you hungry?"
"Rather," was the emphatic answer, and the keen
black eyes looked round for something more substan-
tial than words to follow the inquiry.
"Tarby, I think we'll give him the rest of that
loaf," said the woman, with a timid glance towards
her lord and master. Owen glanced anxiously in that
direction also; it was a matter of importance to know
what Tarby thought of the suggestion.
Tarby, having harnessed the donkey, evidently
stood reecting on the matter.
"Times is bad!  we've parted with the old mare,
and come down to donkies, Poll; and meat's on the
rise, and we're three weeks back with the rent, and
and the damned winter's coming!"
And Tarby's face, pitted deep with the small-pox,
took a darker and more swarthy hue.
"Times is bad, Tarby," the wife remarked; "and
perhaps half-a-twopenny-loaf would make 'em badder
if we gave it all away at once. It's astonishing how
ne we have to cut it sometimes."
This, the reader will understand  the reader who
Owen:  A Waif. I. 2
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18 owns.
has not had any opportunity of studying Mrs. Tarby
just at present  was polite satire, intended to touch
Tarby to the quick; for Tarby, last night, had not
been full of such economic thoughts, and had con-
sumed rather more than a gallon of beer in Jack
Archer's tent, despite the objections of his better half
to the proceeding.
"Give the boy the bread, Polly," said Tarby,
after a pause; "perhaps he is hungry, the young
warmint."
Polly produced the bread, and Owen, with an un-
ceremonious half-snatch, proceeded to despatch it,
regarding Tarby, meanwhile, with increasing interest.
"I know you!" he said at last, with an artful
twinkling of one eye  "I've knowed you ever so
long."
"Oh! have you?" was the quiet reply; "I hope
you'll know your manners some day too, and under-
stand what thankee's for."
"Thankee's for the bread  I forgot!"
"You're welcome, boy," said Mrs. Tarby, heartily,
"I wish there was more of it."
"Oh! so do I  just," was Owen's reply.
"And so you know me?" said Tarby, looking down
on this shrewd specimen of human nature; "where did
you see me last, I wonder?"
"In the station-house, last Whitsun-Monday. Oh!
wasn't you drunk!" '
Mrs. Tarby, who had no ne feelings, laughed at
this; and Tarby's visage relaxed, as he gave a nervous
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twitch to a lock of straight hair behind his left
ear.
"That's a neat memory of your n  take care on
it," said he.
He was sitting on the shaft of his barrow a
moment afterwards, gathering up the reins in his
hand.
"I wonder what you wanted in the station-house,"
said Tarby, after a moment's pause; "you wasn't big
enough to get drunk, and then go ghting like the
holiday folks."
"I got hungry, and took some cheese o1'1" a shop-
board; and the man saw me."
"You'll be a credit to society when you gets bigger,"
said Tarby, drily.
"Will you give us a ride off the Downs?" asked
Owen.
"Bless your impudence! "
"I'm no weight; feel how light I am!"
"He is a little fellow," commented Mrs. Tarby;
"if our J emmy had lived, he wouldn't have been unlike
him, Tarby. Don't you see a look of little J emmy in
the eyes there?" -
"I can't say as I do," said Tarby, without look-
ing for the resemblance indicated. "Jump up, will
you?"
"Me?" cried Owen.
"Ah! just for a while; it's hard on the new moire,
though. Come up!"
5) .X.
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They were rattling and bumping along the Downs,
towards the narrow chalk road that led therefrom,
down, down by many a circuitous turn and twist to
the level country, and the London road. Owen sat
behind on an empty basket, enjoying his eleemosynary
meal; and the excitement of an unlocked for lift on his
journey.
Mrs. Tarby, accustomed as she was to London boys
to those precocious specimens whose home is the
streets  sat and looked with no little interest at
this youth, perched on the end of the barrow, with a
monkey-like sense of security.
"Do you think you'll nd your mother in the town?"
asked she.
"I shan't look for her, marm," was the reply;
"she'll nd her way back to London, and we shall
meet in Mann's Gardens right enough. She often gives
me the slip for a week or so, and goes off to drown
herself. She is fond of drowning herself, I can tell
you."
"And how'll you get to London?"
"Walk and get lifts, and so on  if Mr. Tarby's
afraid I shall kill his donkey." '
Owen elevated his voice at this, but Tarby did not
hear him, or considered it policy to be deaf to the
hint.
"Do you know anyone in London, boy?" asked
Mrs. Tarby, after a while.
"Only the Doctor."
"Doctor who?"
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"He's called the doctor  I don't know why 
he wouldn't doctor me if I was ever so ill. He buys
pocket-handkerckm-s."
"I wouldn't try to nd him," said Mrs. Tarby.
"He'll never be of good to you. So, here's the town;
just look about for your mother."
"Oh, yes  and sure to walk to London then,"
said the boy, dropping lightly from the barrow. "If
she wants me, she'll be looking out herself. I say,
Tarby."
"Hello!" replied Tarby, looking round sharply' at
this familiar address.
" T/mnkee for the ride so far  thankee, sir."
The boy laughed shrilly, and Tarby gave a hoarse
laugh in return, and cracked his whip at Owen's little
legs, which were too quick for the compliment, and
darted away.
Mrs. Tarby saw no signs of Owen's mother in the
town, although she troubled herself more about catching
a glimpse of the well-known battered straw bonnet of
that lady than her son, who ran lightly beside the
barrow till it drew up before the "Markshire Arms."
Tarby spent a quarter of an hour in the "Markshire
Arms," and nally emerged therefrom with a blue and
white china mug frothing over with that ale for which
Markshire has reasonable call to be proud. After Mrs.
Tarby had drunk, the mug was returned to Tarby,
who tilted it slowly upwards, and his head gradually
backwards, till his left eye became aware of an ob-
server. Tarby drank less fast, paused to take breath,
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22 owns.
looked fondly into the interior of the mug, and then,
with a kind of wrench of his better nature said,
"I suppose you wouldn't watch every drop a feller
drinks like that if you wern't thirsty. Here."
Owen snatched at the mug, drank off the contents,
and, possibly by way of return for Tarby's kindness,
ran with it into the bar. He lingered at the bar some
minutes watching the evolutions of a paroqnet at the
back, and when he was in the street again there was
no sign of Tarby's equipage. Owen set off at once in
pursuit down the wet London road; it was still raining,
and the deep puddles with which the road was studded
were cool and refreshing to Owen's bare feet, as he
ran splashing through them. The boy was light of
foot  good practice, the constant pursuit of that
society which ignored him and mistrusted him, and
with which, young as he was, he was at war, lwtd
rendered him a swift runner; and he dashed along in
pursuit, keeping his head ung back, his chest for-
ward, and moving his legs at a pace that astonished
many a Markshire rustic whom he passed on his
way.
Owen soon caught sight of the donkey trap ; and
the owner, looking round Mrs. Tarby's' umbrella, as
quickly discovered Owen advancing towards him, at a
pace difcult for his donkey to outstrip.
Still Tarby was a little tired of the young gentle-
man's society; Owen's persistence tried his temper, and
he applied the whip to his donkey in consequence, and
rattled down the hills and round the corners at a rate
## p. 23 (#35) ##############################################
owns. 23
that bumped three-fourths of the breath out of Mrs.
Tarby's body.
But all the perseverance in the world, accompanied
with a sharp whip and blasphemous adjurations, will
not excite a donkey to feats of any great importance
after the rst mad impulse to prance has been sur-
mounted; and Owen gained upon the barrow, to the
inexpressible annoyance of the proprietor.
"How well that boy runs, Tarby!" commented his
wife.
"He's an aggravating boy, and I don't like to be
put upon."
Tarby gave the donkey an additional cut with the
whip, which caused a spasmodic elevation of the
hind legs, but added nothing to the rate of pro-
gression.
It became very evident that there was no running
away from Owen  no tiring that youth, or rendering
him too short of breath to follow. Whenever Tarby or
his wife looked round, there was Owen a few yards
from them, grinning from ear to ear, or waving his
cap or his hand, by way of polite assent to Tarby not
to put himself out of the way on his account.
He was level with the barrow at last, and holding
on behind as he ran, and somewhat anxious to attract
the notice of Mrs. Tarby.
"Don't hang behind like that, young feller!" shouted
Tarby. "Don't you see it's hard work for us up the
hill?"
"All right, guv'nor," was the response, and Owen
## p. 24 (#36) ##############################################
24. owns.
proceeded to run by the side, and, as the way became
more steep, to take the precedence, and look behind
at the equipage somewhat derisively.
On the brow of the hill he condescended to impart
the information that the rain was clearing off a bit,
and then that the donkey looked "blown," and Tarby
inspected him with a stony gaze, and was very cutting
with his monosyllables.
Tarby did not attempt to leave Owen behind
again. He had many miles of ground to get over;
and, though he was a sufcient judge of donkey-esh
to know that he had purchased a rst-rate animal of
its class, yet he felt perfectly assured that pitting him
against a young vagabond, whom nothing seemed to
tire, was not a judicious experiment so early in
the day.
Still, he had no idea of adding any extra weight
to his barrow; nay, more, he had begun to consider
Owen's perseverance as a personal affront to himself,
and one that required putting down in some way. He
was not fond of boys' society at any time; and al-
though the boy had made him smile once or twice by
his ready answers, yet that was no reason why he
should carry him to London, free of all demands. The
boy's ofciousness annoyed him also. Once he dropped
his whip in the road, and, before he could slip off the
shafts, Owen had picked it up and put it in his hands;
and once, striding along to relieve the weight, Owen
had volunteered, in the coolest manner, to take the
reins a bit, if Mr. Tarby liked  which he didn't.
## p. 25 (#37) ##############################################
owns. 25
The rain ceased when they were six or seven miles
from Markshire; the blue sky struggled with the eecy
banks of cloud, and gained the mastery, and scattered
them so much that the sun shone forth and sowed the
hedgerows and grassy banks with diamonds. The
change in the weather, or an extra pint of beer that he
had slipped into a roadside inn to procure, did not im-
prove Tarby's temper, however; and Mrs. Tarby having
fallen asleep, with her head on one side, and her
bonnet half down her back, Owen was left destitute of
friends. He was used to that state of things; it was
his normal condition. He had been born so, lived on
so  everybody had been against him from his birth.
He could have borne and put up with a great deal,
and not considered himself aggrieved; and Tarby must
have been far more churlish and unmanlike before he
could have shaken off the good impression that past
kindness had left on the boy. Owen was of a pushing
order, and had not much bashfulness. Like a dog one
may have unintentionally caressed by the roadside, he
had become intrusive, and solicitous for a few more of
those kind words and looks to which his life had been
foreign; and even the sharp sidelong glance that he
occasionally bestowed on Tarby had something of the
animal instinct in it  that instinct to be friends with
a master who has lately used the whip or the harsh
word.
Mrs. Tarby awoke, after half-an-hour's nap, and
looked about her, and nodded at Owen, who brightened
up at her patronage, and gave a quick jerk of his head
## p. 26 (#38) ##############################################
26 owns.
in return for the salutation. The morning was grow-
ing late when they entered a little town some ten or
twelve miles from Markshire Downs, and drew up be-
fore another roadside inn, where some of ycsterday's
cattle-dealers and nondescript personages were lingering
about. Tarby exchanged a few words with one or
two who had fraternized with him yesterday; and Mrs.
Tarby went shopping, on a small scale, at a general
establishment over the way, whilst Tarby saw to the
wants of his new purchase, previous to lighting a short
pipe, and entering the tap-room. Owen, leaning against
the post that held the creaking sign above his head,
observed all this, followed with his eyes the movements
of Mrs. Tarby, saw her cross the road and join her
husband, with a slight feeling of disappointment,
perhaps.
Surely it was animal instinct that kept this lad
waiting for the humble pair, who had been, to a certain
extent, charitable towards him, that led him to make
friends with Tarby's donkey, and pat its neck, and
- rub its lumpy hairy forehead with almost a younger
brother's affection. There seemed even more sympathy
between Owen and his asinine companion, than between
Owen and his fellow-creatures. They understood each
other better, and were more inclined to be friends.
Both had seen the world, and experienced its hardships,
and been kicked and beaten, and sworn at, treated
cruelly and unjustly, in fact, from the earliest age.
Both were poor and disreputable, and were no livery'
to command respect.
## p. 27 (#39) ##############################################
owns. 27
I do not know if any similar thoughts occurred to
Owen, as he leaned his little shock head against the
donkey's neck; possibly he was thinking more of the
bar-parlour, and what it was likely Mr. and Mrs. Tarby
had for dinner. He stood there very quietly; and, as
he is handy for his portrait at this juncture, perhaps
the reader would like him at full length.
A boy of nine years, or thereabouts, tall for his
age, with large jet-black eyes, that gave him a gipsy
look, and would have added more interest to his
pinched face if they had been less inclined to sharp,
suspicious glances, that had no small amount of
cunning in them. What the face might have been
under happier auspices, it is difcult to saypossibly
frank and rosy, and expressing the candour and inno-
cence of youth; for it was only a face to shrink from
at rst sight, my respectable sirs and madams. Look
at it closely, and with that interest which all God's
creatures, and especially such poor strays as these, are
entitled to  look at it, remembering our common
origin and brotherhood  and the face is but pale,
and pinched with famine and anxiety, and the brow is
heavy and contracted only with the knowledge that
every man's hand is against its owner, and prepared to
thrust him from the door. The nose is long and
straight, and may turn out an aristocratic nose; and
nature has had nothing to do with the thinness and
whiteness of his lips. Push the cap off his forehead,
and brush therefrom that villainous lock of hair which
## p. 28 (#40) ##############################################
28 owns.
trails into his eyes, and there are thought, and in-
telligence, and energy expressed.
In the boy, as he stands there, are materials to
make a man of  a clever man, perhaps, whose way,
properly indicated, may lead to greatness; but there
are few teachers in the highways, and such boys as
these are disregarded by the philosopher in the crowd.
The thought, intelligence, and energy are misdirected
surrounded by things evil, they are applied to evil
purpose, and the tree brings forth the fruit after its
kind, as God's law indicated from the rst.'Vq'
Owen waited as patiently as the donkey for the
Tarbys; he had no thought of pushing on and being
overtaken some miles further on the road. He was not
anxious to reach London, or concerned about his
mother, or his school, or his work. There were no
friends waiting for him at the journey's end; no ad-
vantage to gain by returning to London, save that it
was a crowded city, and in crowds crusts are earned
and things are picked up more easily. It was rather
pleasant there in the sun, with the inn before him, and
the great trees rustling over the roof from the back-
garden, and the owers nodding to him from the rst-
oor windows, and the pure country breeze blowing his
rags about and cooling him after his toil up that last
~ hill where he had distanced the donkey by whose side
he stood. He drank some water with that honest
donkey from the trough; and if Tarby had only given
him another crust of bread, he would have been as
## p. 29 (#41) ##############################################
owns. 29
near happiness as most people. He wondered if the
bakers' shops in country towns kept their tins of penny
loaves as near the door as London tradesmen, and then
which was a better subject to dwell upon, and did
him less harm  if the buxom landlady behind the
bar would give him a halfpenny if he begged for it.
He tried that experiment, and failed; and, without
much concern one way or anotherfor he was inured
to disappointment  returned to his old post, and
looked about him once more. It occurred to him to
enter the bar-parlour and beg of Tarby and his wife;
but he felt Tarby would say No, and perhaps add a
piece of his mind about keeping him company for so
long a period. Besides, he was not particularly hungry
he had fasted thirty, forty hours, more than once
in his young life, when a roving t of his mother's left
him in Mann's Gardens, in an apartment as empty as
his stomach.
He had fallen into a speculative reverie concerning
an imaginary shilling  what he would do with so
large a sum supposing he could nd it in the roadway
when the voice of Tarby roused him to waking
life.
"What!  you are here still, are you!" grumbled
Tarby.
"I'm, in no hurry, you know."
"You don't think you're going to have another
ride, I s'pose?"
"I don't want one, thankee."
"That's lucky."
## p. 30 (#42) ##############################################
30 owns.
"I can keep up with the donkey, off and on, I
daresay."
"What do you want to keep up with the donkey
for  ain't you had enough of that game?" asked
Tarby, biting his short pipe hard, and looking down
at Owen. -
"WellII-it's a long way home alone, and
I thought you'd like company, perhaps."
"You're wery kind," said Tarby, with a withering.
satire that was lost upon the youth whom he ad-
dressed.
"And lookee here," said the shrewd youth; "when
you want to stretch your legs with a walk, I can jump
up and hold the reins, and keep the donkey from
bolting."
"Is that more of your imperence?"
"No  I mean it. I always mean what I say,
- Tarby."
"You're a rum customer."
Mrs. Tarby appeared at this juncture, and said,
"Well, boy," in a friendly manner, which made amends
for her husband's harshness. Owen took that phrase to
heart, and built hopes of future patronage on it; and
as Tarby was not particularly severe upon him after-
wards, he considered himself one of the party from
that time forth. Besides, he had his reasons for ad-
miring Tarby, which may appear a few pages hence,
in their natural sequence.
Tarby and his wife set out again, and Owen pro-
ceeded to run by their side so long as the speed of the
## p. 31 (#43) ##############################################
owns. 31
donkey necessitated it, which was only for the rst
half mile, and then the donkey dropped into a lei-
surely walk, and was deaf to the persuasions of its
owner's cudgel, and Tarby, and even his wife, had to
give up riding and lighten the labours of the quadruped
toiling on to London, by toiling on to London after its
fashion also.
It was noticeable during this journey the proneness
of Tarby to straggle towards each public-house that
they passed, and indulge in a half-pint or pint of beer,
as the case might be, and the sturdy determination of
his wife to have nothing herself, despite his offer once
or twice during their progress. Tarby's manner ap-
peared to soften a little beneath these constant stimu-
lants on the road; he was less inclined to speak sharply,
and his condescension to Owen exhibited itself once or
twice in quite a fatherly manner. Owen was more
often addressed as "a young shaver" than "a war-
mint," and Tarby's wife was always "Polly" and "old
girl."
A church clock was striking six, and the evening
shades were stealing over the landscape, when they
had performed about eighteen miles of their journey,
and arrived at a breezy common, where sheep and
oxen were browsing and boys playing. '
"We'd better not go on too fast, Tarby," suggested
his wife. "I'd take the donkey out of the barrow, if
I was you."
"How about London, Polly?"
"We'll do itLord bless you, we'll do it easily."
## p. 32 (#44) ##############################################
32 owns.
"It's a long pull," remarked he, with a grave shake
of the head.
"To-morrow's Saturday, and market-morning. We
always are early to market on a Saturday."
"Ah!" was the vague response.
"We can have a bit of a rest here  then a rest
and a bit of late supper some miles further on, and so
early for business to Covent Garden before we go
home."
"You're a woman of business, Polly  you allus
was," said he; "but nature won't stand too much, and
you're tired."
"Not a bit," answered the woman, cheerily.
Tarby looked doubtful as he unharnessed the don-
key and gave him a little hay, but appearances were
in favour of the assertion, and there was no direct
evidence to the contrary. Mrs. Tarby bustled about,
and with her own strong arms pushed the barrow up
the rising-ground to the common  an operation in
which Owen assisted her  whilst Tarby sauntered a
little way in advance, preparing a fresh pipe of to-
bacco.
Presently they were seated under a great elm tree,
which had kept the grass dry during the long rain;
and Tarby was full length on his back, with his brown
skull-cap cocked over one eye.
"What a nice place this would be with lots of
beer!" he observed, after a pause. "What a stunning
place!"
"Ah! it's been a holiday for us, Tarby," said the
## p. 33 (#45) ##############################################
owns. 33
woman. "You and I haven't had such a long spell at
the country since we were born."
"Three whole days!"
"And it hasn't been a loss, hardly. We sold the
pony well at the fair."
"Pretty well, considering."
"And we shall clear the rent off, and have a pound
or thirty shillings for the savings-bank again, if we
take care."
"Ah," responded Tarby, dreamily.
"You'll let me manage it all, Tarby? Why, it's
my turn this time!"
"All right, my girl."
Tarby responded in a manner still more drowsy,
and to the next question there was a dead silence, that
told of the senses benumbed, and the fresh air and
late half-pints being a little too much for Tarby. Tar-
by's wife sat and watched him for a little while, took
off her plaid shawl, and rolled it into a pillow; nally,
raised his head and placed it underneath him, with a
care and a gentleness of touch as delicate in a coster-
monger's wife as in a duchess.
For this woman was fond of Tarby  faithful and
honest and true to him; although Tarby had not been
the best of husbands in his day, but hard to please
and understand, and fond of drink, and improvident
in his habits, and quarrelsome. It had been a love-
match between them years ago, and Tarby, after his
fashion, was attached to his wife also. He was a
thoughtless man, and never took into account what she
Owen: -  A um'/L I. 3
## p. 34 (#46) ##############################################
34 owns.
sacriced for him, how laboriously she worked, what
a way she had of making the best of things, and nd-
ing a bright side even to their troubles; and how,
amidst the trials and temptations of their poverty, she
was always cheerful and energetic. He had struck her
more than once in his drunken ts, and she had cried
a little and reproached him when he was sober enough
to understand her; but she had been a true poor man's
wife, enduring much, and keeping strong to the last.
They had had two children, and lost both a few
weeks after their birth, although there was a pro-
bability of the race of Tarby being yet perpetuated,
if fortune were more favourable the third time. Mrs.
Tarby looked forward to that time as to better days
that were in store for her, instead of days which would
add to the expenses in fty different ways  poor
people are so inconsiderate in these times!
It was Mrs. Tarby's love for children that had led
her to treat with some degree of kindness the shock~
headed youth who had remained with them for so long
a period, and that then induced.her to unroll from a
series of papers a slice of bread and meat, which she
had reserved since dinner-time for Owen. Owen nodded
his head by way of thanks, and proceeded to consume
the of'ering in haste, and with evident relish  Mrs.
Tarby eyeing him meanwhile.
"What do you mean to do, if your mother's not at
home, lad?" she asked, when Owcn's second meal that
day was despatched.
## p. 35 (#47) ##############################################
owns. 35
"At home! we ain't got no home now! I told you
the rent man turned us out."
"VVhere will you nd your mother, then?"
"Oh! at the 'Three Compasses,' or the 'Spanish
Patriot,' or the 'Jolly Gardeners'  everybody knows
my mother."
"And if she should stay away altogether?"
"I should live, mum. Why, I can sing songs in
the street  comic ones," said he, enumerating his
accomplishments; "and I can throw hand-springs and
ip-aps."
"Can you read?"
"Lord  no!" .
"Ah! you're like me  with an eddication that
might have been better. But I wouldn't thieve again,
boy  no good'll come of that, depend upon it."
"Must do something, Mrs. Tarby;" and the boy's
face looked old, with its intensity of purpose.
"Haven't you any relations in the country?"
"What's that?"
"Any uncles, aunts, cousins?"
"Never heard on 'em, if I had."
"Didn't you go to Markshire churchyard before you
went on the Downs?"
"Mother did; I sat outside on the rails, and saw
the horses go by." '
"Wouldn't you like to be something, boy?" asked
the woman; "I think, if I was a boy, I should like to
be something, and ashamed of always skulking about
the streets."
3*
## p. 36 (#48) ##############################################
36 owns.
"Nobody'll have me  I am a bad character,
mum."
And the bad character pulled up some handfuls of
turf by the roots, and looked puzzled at his own de-
nition.
"I'd go to sea  I'd get made a drummer-boy, or
powder-monkey, or something."
Owen looked up; those professions had not struck
him before  they were worth consideration.
"My mother's a bad character, too," said he, as if
that assertion accounted for everything; "and as we're
both knowed so precious well in Lambeth, and knowed
no good on, it's no use o' the likes of us trying to do
anythink  there's such lots of us about, and we're
all marked, mum; and we don't nd many people in-
clined to be as kind as you are."
Tarby's wife looked askance at Owen; she had her
doubts of the boy's genuineness,  but Owen's face
was serious just then.
"If you had been my mother now, I might 
he began.
"Might what?"
"Oh! never mind now!  what's the odds?"
The boy was young in years to speak so recklessly;
words akin to despair, even though allied to burlesque,
sound awfully strange from lips such as his.
"Ah! that's like my Tarby"  with a look in his
direction  "he talks about the odds, as if the odds
weren't always agin his foolish notions. But you're a
77
## p. 37 (#49) ##############################################
owns. 37
little boy, and should know better, and should take the
advice of people older than yourself." -
"I'll think about the sea," said Owen, "and the
drummer-boy. I'm feared the drummer's a cut above
me, though."
"And when you're thinking about something else
that's wrong  you know right from wrong, don't
you ?"
"I don't know as I do," with a pull at the peak of
his cap; "no one's ever showed me the difference."
"When you'd like to know that difference, though
I'm no more a scholard than you are, I'll try to show
you, if you'll call on me."
"At Hannah Street  the greengrocer's?"
"Yes  how did you know that?"
"I know where Tarby lives  I've knowed Tarby
for years. I took to Tarby ever since he whopped
policeman 92."
"Ah! he had three months for it."
"I allers had a grudge against 92  he's been
down on me too often  he's a mighty bit too sharp
to live long, and I wish I was a trie bigger for his
sake, that's all."
"That'll do, my lad  we needn't talk about '92
just now. I wish Tarby would stir himself a little.
It's getting very late."
"Tarby!" shrieked the impulsive Owen, before the
impetuous "hush" of Mrs. Tarby could stay the lad's
exclamation. Tarby was sitting up the instant;after-
## p. 38 (#50) ##############################################
38 owns.
wards, with all the good temper born of beer quenched
from his pock-marked countenance.
"What are you making that yell in my ears for?"
he growled.
"It's getting late, Tarby," said Owen, in reply.
"What the devil's b11siness's that of yourn."
"It'l1 be too dark to nd the donkey presently."
Tarby looked round the tree, and saw the donkey
quietly snufing amongst the furze bushes at a few
paces distant. He turned to Owen, and nodded his
head signicantly at him; he did not exactly see
Owen's game, whether it was impudence, or solemn
cha', or an incomprehensible something that was bred
in him; but he nodded his head, as if he weren't to be
done, and Owen kept his distance for the remainder of
the journey.
A long, wearisome journey those last ten miles, in
the late night-hours and the small hours of the morning,
Tarby halting at every public-house for his half-pint
till midnight, when the doors were barred against his
beer-bibbing propensities. Tarby's humours came not
uppermost again  unless they were his bad ones,
which set in thick and fast about eleven. He had
passed his facetious point, and was speeding on to the
surly and disputatious  a gradation which he generally
reached when not settled down to his greens in Hannah
Street, or to his barrow at the corner of James Street,
Lower Marsh. There had occurred one little dispute
between him and his wife, concerning some money
## p. 39 (#51) ##############################################
owns. 39
which she carried in her bosom  and which was the
purchase-money of their ponyand he had threatened
to knock her head off if she didn't give it up  and
she had said "do," and held fast to the money; and
compounded the matter by some fugitive half-pence
from a side-pocket, which kept Tarby in beer, as we
have seen, till the public-houses closed.
When they were nearing London Mrs. Tarby and
Owen were walking in the roadway, and Tarby, as
superior animal, was curled like a tailor in the centre
of the barrow, which the donkey limped along with,
probably wondering how much further it had to go.
Mrs. Tarby caught Owen by the sleeve.
"We're going on to Covent Garden your nearest
way to Lambeth is 'over Vauxhall Bridge."
"Yes  I know."
"Go on, then."
"Oh! it doesn't matter where I go."
"Ain't you anxious about your mother?"
"Not a bit."
"You can't go any further with us. You'd better
not, now."
"Very well."
"Take care of yourself, young one;" and the
woman slipped a couple of pennies into his hand  a
large sum for her to disburse in charity, after Tarby's
encroachments. ~
"What's this for?" asked Owen"I've done nothing."
"It may be of help to you  little it is," said
she; "and there's the bridge to pay for."
## p. 40 (#52) ##############################################
40 owns.
"Thankee."
The boy hesitated still.
"What are you waiting for?"
"Shall I bid good-bye to Tarby?"
"He'll wake in a bad temper, and not thank you
much!" said the woman, with a little sigh.
"Good-bye, then, to you. I say -" he added,
pausing again.
"Well?"
"There's nothink I can do for you  you think?"
"Nothing," answered the woman, wearily.
"I'll do anything  I'm not particular," was the
eager addition; "isn't there anything you'd like car-
ried a long way now?"
But there was nothing required carrying then, or
next day, or next week; and Owen, seeing no other
method of proving himself grateful, went his way, and
parted with Mr. and Mrs. Tarby. When he had
crossed the road, he stood and looked after them by
the light of the gas-lamps. He had taken kindly to
Tarby and his wife; they had been kind to him; and
it was a new sensation, that touched feelings which he
did not exactly understand. He would have liked,
in his way, to show his gratitude; but his invention
was poor just then, and he was only a waif!
"Some day, when I'm bigger, perhaps," he mut-
tered, as he followed with his eyes the slow-going
donkey, the sleeping Tarby, the woman in the middle
of the road tramping steadily onwards to market, till
the bend of the road hid their gures from view.
## p. 41 (#53) ##############################################
OWEN. - 41
Some day when he was bigger!  he sat and thought
of that after they had gone, on a cool door-step, with
the raw morning air blowing on him. When he was
bigger  what a funny idea! Why, that would be
years and years hence  supposing such creatures as
he grew at all, which he was rather uncertain of 
when Tarby had gone to the dogs, and Mrs. Tarby
was in the workhouse, or dead. Well, it had been a
pleasant day, and a great change; and he wondered
where his mother was, and if she had obtained a lift
on the road, or was still drunk in Markshire  and
whether the country waggons that went lumbering by
would overtake Tarby, and what Tarby's wife meant
about right and wrong. Owen was in no hurry to
move; there was no one waiting for him, or anxious
about him, and the doorstep was very comfortable,
and went back into a recess, and was screened from
the wind, and he was "just a trie tired."
And then, when he had composed himself, curled
his legs beneath him, turned up half of the collar that
remained to his jacket, and thrust his hands into his
pockets, came the evil genius of his life to move him
on, or lock him up for sleeping in the streets, or take
him to the workhouse, according to the temper of the
being. It was to move him on this time, and shake
him, and don't-let-me-catch-you-here-again him; and
Owen, a waif on the dark unsettled sea of human life,
drifted once more on his purposeless way.
## p. 42 (#54) ##############################################
42 owes.
CHAPTER III.
Right or Wrong.
AT the corner of Hannah Street, Lower Marsh,
was situated the shop, or shed, of Tarby Chickney,
greengrocer. A greengrocer in the smallest line now,
whose stock-in-trade would have fetched something
under ve shillings at the hammer. A shop that
boasted a few cabbages and potatoes; and, in appro-
priate seasons, tempted the young of those parts with
early green gooseberries, that were preternaturally
soft, and a dish of parched peas, which were unneces-
sarily black. This shop, which had a back-parlour,
and two up-stairs rooms, let to as many respectable
tenants, with large families, was the province of Mrs.
Chickney, whom we have heard termed Mrs. Tarby in
a preceding chapter.
Tarby, in fact, was the Christian name of the
gentleman we have seen wending his way to London;
but, whether a misnomer, or really bestowed upon him
by an eccentric godfather, or a corruption of Darby,
we have no means of clearly arriving at. Tarby was
alone the name that gentleman bore in Lower Marsh
and parts adjacent, and only the word "Chickney"
over his door apprised those whom it might concern,
that to such a second appellative he put in a legal
claim. It was "Tarby" to the police  to the land-
## p. 43 (#55) ##############################################
owns. 43
lords and pot-men of the numerous public-houses that
he patronized  to his customers in the Lower Marsh,
where he stood with his barrow  to the wife of his
bosom, who attended to the little shop when he was
absent, or there was anything really to attend to,
which had not been the case till the pony was sold at
Markshire Fair. "'
For fate had been hard of late years on Tarby.
Tarby had known trouble, and had his temper soured
in consequence. He had been in prison for an assault
or two in holiday times; he had been unfortunate in
his speculations -~ for even little green-grocers specu-
late for the rise and fall, and burn their ngers with
over-purchases, and come to grief; he had gone back
in his rent and had an execution in, and pawned
everything to get the brokers out; he had decreased
his stock, and increased his aptitude for beer; and he
had, nally, sold the pony for eleven pounds, fourteen
shillings, and bought a donkey that was likely to turn
out well when its appetite grew less.
And perhaps things would turn out well when
'Tarby settled to work again, and surmounted his loose
ts; he was out of debt, and only a pony the less;
and the lodgers were all in work, and sent down the
rent every Saturday night with a punctuality that was
no less praiseworthy than it was encouraging to the
hopes of Tarby's wife. And as Tarby, when once in
the mill-horse round of business, drank little and worked
hard, and was up early and late, it was to be hoped
thatholidays excepted - these honest people would
## p. 44 (#56) ##############################################
44 owns.
thrive, and keep their heads above those troubled
waters which swamped so many Lower Marsh way.
For the neighbourhood of Lower Marsh, and the
wilderness of streets between it and Tower Street on
the one hand, between it and York Road on the other,
is a poor, struggling, hand-to-mouth neighbourhood,
that has not its equal further east. Essentially and
wholly poor shadowed here and there by the haunts
of crime, where the deadly temptation to earn money
easily ever presents itself  this neighbourhood was,
and is, and must remain, a city in itself, of hunger
and need. There is no chance of raising it. There
is an army of poverty-haunted souls inhabiting the
narrow streets and dingy courts, which make a net-
work of the place  a gaunt army, terrible in its
power to do mischief, and  mark it, philanthropists!
increasing; an army that is unorganized and of
separate elements, and drifts ~- fortunately for society
various ways; stealing out to beg, borrow, steal,
feast on the forbidden fruit  forbidden by the law
that governs neighbours' goods. Here plies incessantly
the double thread of which Tom Hood sang; here live
the shirt-makers, the shoe-binders, the working tailors
to the grand emporiums, where goods are ticketed so
cheap that there's a fragment of a life in every article;
the costermongers, the showmen and street acrobats 
the supernumeraries of the minor theatres; the cross-
ing-sweepers, the beggars that meet you in the broader
thoroughfares and clamour for your charity; the tribes
of children who shame you with their nakedness and
## p. 45 (#57) ##############################################
OWEN. 45
squalor, and are older in their knowledge of the world
than half the well-dressed whom they revile or lie to.
The three months that have passed since Tarby
went to Markshire Downs to sell his pony have brought
the winter upon Lower Marsh, and lled its streets
with snow. It was close on Christmas time, and people
who could afford it were thinking of their coming
festivities; and people who could not were cowering
from the cold in reless rooms, and ghting for the
best place at the Union gate, where the loaves were
given away to out-door starvelihgs who had come to
grief. Night had settled over Lower Marsh and Han-
nah Street; dirty boys and girls had retreated to their
haunts; the feeble gas-jet ickered at the corners of
the streets; gures here and there of poverty or crime
-it was doubtful which  were stealing in and out
of squalid houses, and itting noiselessly through the
darkness and snow; all was quiet at Tarby's shed,
where the gas burned low, and where Tarby walked
about on tiptoe, enjoying his after-supper pipe, and
looking as sober as a judge.
Tarby had his hands in his pockets, and his cap
tilted over his forehead, and was promenading thought-
fully to and fro, holding a committee of ways and
means with himself, and mapping out the proceeds of
last week, and calculating for the next, and disturbed
in the operation by thoughts of a deeper cast that
troubled him, and with which we shall presently trouble
the reader. Tarby's shed, or shop, gave signs that
Tarby was in less difculties than usual, and that his
## p. 46 (#58) ##############################################
46 ownn.
stock-in-trade, if not his business, had at least in-
creased. There was a pile of greens in a basket at
the back, a fair proportion of potatoes  and the cold
weather had run them up to three pounds twopence 
and a basin of parched peas (with a "ha'porth" already
measured in a tin mug for the next comer) of a size
and magnitude that had not been seen in Hannah
Street since the admirers of parched peas had rushed
to Tarby Chickney's shop.
Tarby, deep in committee and addressing the chair
at the present moment on the probability of a rise in
turnips, was unconscious of a watcher who stood in the
opposite doorway, and took stock of his proceedings.
A youthful watcher, whose clothes were a trie more
torn and dilapidated than when the reader made the
pleasure of his acquaintance, and whose face, if he had
stepped underneath the gas-lamp yonder, would haye
been found more thin, and pinched, and haggard, than
when attention was rst drawn to it on the great
London road some three months since. The eyes were
very anxiously directed towards the shop at the corner,
and the heart under the rags  this waif, cast hither
and thither, had a heart, reader, that could be touched,
as the hearts of all can if the right chord be struck at
the right time with the gentleness and earnestness of
a true player on such instruments  beat with an un-
certainty and a sickening sense of fear very new to it.
For the watcher had been at that post night after night
for above a week, and no sign of Mrs. Chickney had
presented itself; and he had wished to see and speak
## p. 47 (#59) ##############################################
owns. 47
to her. But Tarby had been only there of an evening,
and he had nothing to say to Tarby just then in which
Tarby could take an interest or assist him; it was
Tarby's wife he wanted, and she never appeared; and
he knew, by the drawn blind before the back parlour
glass door, that she was ill inside there, and that it
was better  however time pressed  not to trouble
her.
When Tarby was absent of a morning, the watcher
had been in the habit of passing and repassing. There
was a strange woman in the shop, and from the
periodical visits of a gentleman in black, Owen guessed
that Mrs. Chickney required no small amount of atten-
tion. He would wait till she was better before he
troubled her, or asked about her; and so he kept a
watch on the house, and bided his time. It did not
occur to him that it was necessary to make any in-
quiries concerning Mrs. Tarhy's health; he took it as a
matter of course that she would get better, and perhaps it
might set her against him if he worried her too much.
It was six in the evening of that December night
when Owen had taken his place on the opposite side;
it was seven when Tarby was in committee, and trying
to x his thoughts to business. His wife had only
said, half an hour ago, in a very weak voice, "Do
think of the business, Tarby, and not of me  there's
a dear, good fellow;" and he had promised to do so,
and gone into the shop to distract his ideas completely
from subjects foreign to cash transactions.
Owen was watching him with great intentness,
## p. 48 (#60) ##############################################
48 owns.
when the parlour door opened, and the woman whom
he had noticed serving occasionally in the shop came
hastily forth, and ung up both arms in rather a stagy
manner. Owen saw Tarby make two strides towards
the street, then stop at the woman's voice, hesitate,
and, turning back, go into the parlour. Owen left his
hiding-place, and ran to the opposite side of the way,
and up the two steps into the shop in his excitement,
then down again as the parlour door opened and Tarby
re-emerged. Hg was in his old hiding-place when 'I'arby
went to the shop-board, and proceeded to lug forth a
rickety shutter, that had not seen paint or varnish, or
known a scrubbing-brush, since its rst coat in ages
remote.
Owen looked perplexed, and turned a shade more
pale. He was uncertain, doubtful. If he had been
ever taught a prayer, it might have escaped his lips
then, hard and inured to the world as he was. For
she had been his one friend, the only one whom he
had known; she  but perhaps Tarby was only going
to shut up early; to-morrow was Saturday - market
morning  and he knew Tarby must rise at half-past
four to reach Covent Garden in anything like time.
Only going to shut up  to be sure. Why, here
came another shutter.
And that was the last! Owen saw him turn back
into the parlour, leaving his advertisement of a death
in Hannah Street to the notice of his neighbours. Was
it only an impulse that took Owen up the steps and
once more into the shop, where he stood against the
## p. 49 (#61) ##############################################
owns. 49
potatoe-bin, and waited some one's attendance. Pre-
sently the woman put her head out, and said, "What
do you want?" in no very civil tones.
"I want to see Tarby."
"Can't I serve you?"
"No," was the quick response.
Tarby reappeared in the shop after this abrupt
reply, and Owen and he looked each other in the
face.
"What  is that you?" said Tarby.
"Yes, it's me," and then they stood looking at each
other till Owen broke silence. "I see the shutters are
up - I'm sorry."
Tarby did not answer, but surveyed him with a
little more surprise.
"I daresay you don't think it, now?" with a strange
half-laugh.
"Well  it's funny."
"She  she " with a gulp  "gave me the rst
good word, and that's more nor my own mother ever
did. She promised to tell me what was wrong, if I
ever thought I didn't know it from the right  and
now she's dead, Tarby!"
"Not the old woman - not Polly, boy. It arn't
so bad as that."
"It'S  it's n
"The babby ~- the little one that was only born
a week ago, and, like all the rest, was tooked."
"Oh! I'm so glad it's dead!"
"Oh! are you?"
Owen:  A Waif. 4
## p. 50 (#62) ##############################################
50 owns.
"Instead of Mrs.' Tarby, you know," said the boy,
with some perception of having wounded Tarby's
feelings. "It wouldn't have done for us to \have lost
her."
"Well, it wouldn't have mattered to you much,
that I can see."
\ "I don't know that," said the boy, with feverish
impatience. "I can't say as much, nor more can you.
I came to ask about the wrong, and she'll tell me when
she's better."
"I can't make you out exactly," said Tarby,
dubiously. "VVhere's all your imperence gone to?"
'Tm not well just now," said Owen, hurriedly,
"and your shutters gived me a turn and I haven't
eaten anythink for four-and-twenty hours, and - and
when shall I call again?"
"Next week, if you like  when Polly's better.
You needn't come a-bothering now, you see."
"I see," was the reply.
"She's bothered, and I'm bothered enough without
you, young one. Here  hold your cap."
Owen held his cap as directed, and Tarby tilted
into it the measure of parched peas, and ate half-a-
dozen peas or so himself from the basin, by way of an
alleviation to his grief.
"Now, cut!"
Owen "cut" as directed, and was half-way down
Hannah Street, when he heard some one striding after
him. Looking back he found Tarby rapidly ad-
vancing.
## p. 51 (#63) ##############################################
OWEN. 51
"Here, she must have her way now. She wants
to see you."
"Does she, though?" and the boy's face brightened,
and was like a new face to Tarby.
"Don't bother her too much, now," warned Tarby;
"or make her cry or anythink, or I shall larrup you
when you come out."
"I'll take the most possiblest care, Tarby."
V "Don't talk of the babby," continued Tarby.
"Not a word."
"Cut it as short as you can, and don't drop the
parched peas over the oor, cos they make a cussed
row when you tread on 'em."
"I'l1 mind, Tarby."
Tarby and Owen entered the shop, and passed into
the parlour. A low, black, ceilinged room, of narrow
dimensions, and distorted shape  running to sharp
angels. A hot, close room, in which a re burned
brightly, and before which, on a sofa, lay Tarby's wife,
pale and delicate, and looking more the lady than she
did on Markshire Downs. The woman at the back,
wife of the up-stairs lodger, and officiating for the
time as nurse, was arranging something on two chairs
at the back, which Owen guessed was the dead baby.
"Well, boy, here you are again!" said Mrs.
Chickney.
"Yes, mum, here I are again."
"You were talking of something wrong; and I
thought I would not let you go away  although
there's something wrong here, too  without hearing
4*
## p. 52 (#64) ##############################################
52 owns.
all about it. We ain't no cause to forget other people's
troubles in our own, Mrs. Wortley."
"No, Mrs. Chickney, no. As you were a-saying
on  no cause," mumbled the old woman, without
looking up from her task. .
"Tarby, don't go in the shop," said his wife,
detecting in him a movement to withdraw; "I had
- rather you sit down a bit."
"Wery well;" and Tarby, obedient and lamb-like,
relapsed into a half-bottomless cane chair, and looked
steadily at the re.
"Now, what's wrong?"
"This is how it is, mum mother has never come
back. I've been to every public in the Cut and Marsh,
and no one's seen or heard on her."
"Oh, dear!  and what have you been doing all
the while?"
"Trying to live, mum. It's hard lines, though."
"You're sorry for your mother, now, I suppose."
"I think so," was the evasive answer; then he
added, "but she spanked hard, andI never seed a great
deal of her sober  only twice, I think."
"Well?"
"Well! I tried to get to sea; and no one would
have me, because they were afraid I should die half-
way out, afore I come of use; and as for entering the
harmy  as you thought on  I was laughed at,
mum!"
"Short as you can," suggested Tarby, from his
chair.
## p. 53 (#65) ##############################################
owns. 53
"And so I went to the handkercher man."
'(OM71
"Yes, mum; and he said he thought he could
make me useful, or nd me something to do in a
week or two, if I called; and I've put it off, because
I thought you'd like to know it, p'raps, before I
went."
"Do you like this man?"
"Can't abide him, Mrs. Tarby."
"But you must live, like the rest of us, and you'd
do better if you could?"
"Yes."
' "You'd be honest, if you had a chance, p'raps.
You'd try to know the right from wrong, and let others
teach you; and serve them well and faithfully, p'raps 
why, you'd try not to be bad, wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
"And it's as easy to go right as wrong, when you're
once put in the way  isn't it, Tarby?"
"Easy as a glove," afrmed Tarby, who had always
found it one of the hardest tasks of his life.
"Then Tarby shall make you errand boy here, if
you don't mind sleeping in the shop, and getting up
early to market, and attending to the donkey."
"Eh?" said the amazed Tarby.
"We shall want a boy the business takes up all
our time, Tarby, and he'll be a great help till I am
strong, and don't think so much of"  here her voice
faltered  "of poor baby there!"
"But "
## p. 54 (#66) ##############################################
54 owns.
"But you'll let me have my way, Tarby, inthis?
It's for the good of all of us, p'raps; and this boy
mustn't go astray. See how cheap it'll be, too  only
to have a boy for his keep."
"He'll get to the till," afrmed Tarby.
"Oh! don't think so bad of me as that," pleaded
the boy, whose chest was heaving and eyes sparkling
at the prospect of his rise in life; "may I drop down
dead, if I ever take a ha'penny of your money!"
"We will try him for a week, Tarby?"
"Um!" responded her husband.
"Do you remember me saying at Markshire that
he reminded me of our rst baby's looks?"
Tarby nodded assent.
"If we could only think that it was that rst baby,
growed up rather fast, and taken two years for one 
or only fancy that, to make up for having no babies
of our own, this boy was sent for us to make some
good out of. I don't know how it is that I should
take to the boy, and feel that I can trust him. Per-
haps because he's as motherless as I'm- I'm childless,
Tarby." ' .
"Now you're going to cry, old woman, and upset
yourself," said Tarby.
"And the doctor said that we couldn't keep you
too quiet, just at present," added the woman from the
background.
"And here you are a-going it, like one o'clock!"
clinched Tarby.
"I'm not a-going it  I'm not thinking of crying,"
## p. 55 (#67) ##############################################
owns. 55
said his wife, hysterically. "Shall we give this boy a
home now? Poor as it is, it may be a grand place for
him."
"We'll try him. Young shaver," turning to Owen,
"we're going to try you. Mind your manners, and
behave yourself according."
Owen, who felt a choking in his throat and a
spasmodic desire to clench and unclench his hands,
and tear little pieces off the ragged ends of his waist-
coat and jacket, nodded his head by way of ac-
quiescence.
"I needn't say," added Tarby, "you'll catch it, if
you don't. Now, come into the shop, and leave the
missis to herself."
Owen hesitated. He wished to express something
like thanks, but his powers of utterance were gone,
and there was nothing he could think of suitable to
the occasion, even had he possessed the full use of his
faculties. He was in a mist; everything was confused,
and had no tangibility. To wake up on some door-
step, or amongst the baskets of the Borough Market, or
under one of the dry arches in the Belvidere Road, or
amongst the logs which the timber merchants left on
open spaces of ground before their premises, would
have been the most natural termination to so strange a
scene, and only by its contrast have rendered reality a
shade more bitter. He could not believe yet that
Tarby's house was to be his home  Tarby, the hero
of Lower Marsh, whom it took six policemen to carry
to the station-house! And Tarby's wife, who was to
## p. 56 (#68) ##############################################
56 owns.
be a new mother to him  who was to let him under-
stand, for the rst time, what a mother was like! He
thought no more of the other mother; he would have
been sorry to see her return and claim him  she had
never sought to win his affections by a word.
It was a new life for Owen, from which much was
to evolve  the rst step backward from the easy
downward path his ignorance was leading him. Say
that the progress was not great, that Tarby and his
wife were people of common minds and low ideas, and
never went to church, or cared for church or chapel .
still Owen had stepped back from the brink, and the
step had brought with it reection for the past, and
a something like resolve for the future. We cannot all
rise from the mire and put on angels' wings, and oat
upwards higher, higher from the sordid earth that
claims us  if in the common business-life of that
earth one falters somewhat, and meets with much to
retard an earnest progress, how much more weak and
trembling are the steps that lead us from the snares
lying in the valley of unrighteousness!
END OF THE FIRST BOOK.
## p. 57 (#69) ##############################################
BOOK THE SECOND.
TRAGEDY IN HANNAH STREET.
## p. 58 (#70) ##############################################
## p. 59 (#71) ##############################################
CHAPTER I.
u 92:'
Two years since Tarby's child was buried, and
Tarby took a prote'ge' in the shape of Owen into his
establishment. Two years to such people as Tarby
and his wife, and in such a neighbourhood, do not
record great changes. The shop remained still open at
the corner of Hannah Street; the same greens might
be in the corner, the same potatoes in the bin, the
same mugful of parched peas measured out for the
next customer, as on the night when Owen was rescued
from the streets.
Tarby's fortunes had neither risen nor fallen since
that time. Tarby had periodical ts of saving and
sobriety, for which his wife could calculate as readily
as for his ts of relaxation and beer in Boxing-week,
and Whitsuntide, and Easter. Tarby was no more
known to be inebriated on the weeks preceding those
festive occasions, than in the memory of the coster-
mongers of Lower Marsh he was known to have passed
a holiday-week without "his ing," as they termed it
which "ing" consisted in drinking deeply, and
becoming quarrelsome, and ghting those who were as
disputatious as himself, and winding up the week in
Tower Street station-house. Tarby's idiosyncrasies
were so well known Lambeth way that, in holiday
## p. 60 (#72) ##############################################
60 owns.
times, the police on duty in the Marsh had a habit of
shutting their eyes to escapades not too glaringly out-
rageous, and to there's-a-good-fellowing him when they
wanted him to go home, and to even turning down
quiet streets if there were a ght outside the public-
house and Tarby's bullet head was seen dodging up and
down in the midst of the million who saw sport; but
the result was equally the same, and Tarby was before
a magistrate, and ned or committed three times a year
as usual. And yet Tarby made great efforts to amend,
and made Polly fty promises when sobered down,
and turned to his work and his costering, like a moral
Hercules when the t was over, and he had become a
sadder, wiser, poorer man, for his experience of life.
Looking in upon Tarby's wife, now two years have
swept by, we nd her busying about the shop and
bustling to and fro with all her energy. She was not
so strong as she used to be, she informed her neigh-
bours, and her face was more pale and lined, as if
Tarby's constant "goings on" were wearing out her
hopes, and scoring every one she lost upon her face.
And yet she laughed as heartily as ever.when there
was anything to laugh at in Hannah Street  and in
the midst of "poverty, hunger and dirt," poor people
will nd food for merrimentand had the same habit
of turning the best side uppermost, which would make
a pleasant dwelling-place of the earth, if the habit were
catching and we could-all have the complaint.
To hear her defending Tarby in holiday time, when
her neighbours came in ocks to compassionate her,
## p. 61 (#73) ##############################################
. owns. 61
and were rather disappointed in their hearts if she had
no black eye to present to public gaze, would have
done the heart good of a Diogenes.
"Lord bless you, it's a way of his I was used to
long ago.' You see, what with Christmas boxes, and
people standing treat, and no one working with the
barrow, Tarby takes too much, and his poor head isn't
strong. And then he's hasty like, and hits before he
thinks of what he's doing  sorry enough after he'll
be, if he's hurt anybody!"
And Mrs. Tarby would proceed with a cheerful
step into the back parlour, and trim the candle, and
bring forth a whole basketful of needlework to amuse
her, while sitting up for the Tarby whose "poor head"
was at that time, perhaps, being rapped about by
policemen's staves, and found thick enough to bear
that operation without cracking much.
They had been fortunate and unfortunate in busi-
ness during the past two years, but of late Tarby had
worked extra hard, and "brought the place round again
a bit," as he termed it; and the donkey remained in
the back shed, and they were not more behind with
the rent than usual. There was a chance of Tarby's
wife presenting to the world another feeble specimen
of the Chickney race by that time, and Tarby's wife
had many thoughts to make her anxious, keep her
weak.
Owen had grown some inches in the two years,
and was looking better and more creditable. He had
lost a good deal of his pallor, and all that pinched ex~
## p. 62 (#74) ##############################################
62 owns.
pression which famine had scored on his face, and his
eyes only retained something of that shrewdness and
rapid manner of passing from object to object to which
we have alluded in an early portion of this history.
The reader may have anticipated that he has kept
honest and faithful to the Chickneys; the boy had only
required an incentive to turn from the wrong, a goal
to work forward to, a hope to be held out, a seed to
be planted, to proceed a better, purer way than that
which circumstances had seemed to indicate. They
would be cruel statistics, and full of mystery, and of a
fearful interest, if we could have our tabular accounts
of those who might have turned like Owen in their
younger days, had the one friend stepped forth, or the
one loop-hole to escape been left unguarded. Who
will answer for those accounts when the day comes?
shall you and I, dear brother, have our shares
allotted, and have claims to pay for that wilful blind-
ness, lukewarmness, plea of overwork and overstudy,
that have kept us from the poor and sinful, to whom
our guidance might have been salvation? There may
come a dreadful reckoning, without friends or loop-
holes for ourselves; and the measure we have used will
mete out God's charity to us  we have been warned,
and yet we take no lesson.
It is true that Owen might have been in better
hands; but it was an honest life he was pursuing, and
Mrs. Chickney was full of homely sayings, that more
often left a moral than even Owen was aware. Owen
was of great use to Tarby now  could wheel a.
## p. 63 (#75) ##############################################
owns. 63
barrow at eleven years of age, and conduct business
in the Marsh, even of a Saturday night; and had the
quickest eye for a bad halfpenny of all the youths in
Lambeth. .Tarby, who was not a man of fancies, and
was difcult to please, had taken to the boy after a
while, and been pleased with his unwearying exertions
for the Tarby cause in general. No distance was too
great, no load too heavy, no hour too late or early for
him in the Chickney service; and Tarby, though not a
good temper himself, could admire an exhibition thereof
in his errand boy.
"Can I do anything for you now?" Tarby had
said one day, in the warmth of his heart, when Owen
had been over-earnest in his duties.
"Yes  teach me to ght, Tarby!" was the ready
response; and Tarby went down on his knees in the
shop, and gave Owen his rst lesson, as a reward of
merit for services of distinction.
If Owen's mother had made her appearance at any
time during the course of those two years, she would
have scarcely found her son recognizable, he was
shooting up so fast, and there was not a rag to swear
to his identity. Tarby's wife was a tidy woman, and
handy with her needle, and wished Owen to be a
credit to the establishment; and Owen was worth the
trouble and the expense, and the stray penny or two
with which he was remunerated at times. Owen could
take another basket, or barrow, and sell on account in
another part of the Lower Marsh, and bring home the
## p. 64 (#76) ##############################################
64 owns.
prots correct to a fraction. It was possibly the extra
exertion of Owen that had kept the little shop in
Hannah Street in about the same position, despite the
wear and tear of prot which Ta.rby's uncertain actions -
incurred. Two years, then, to the very day of the
month of Owen's adoption  a Saturday night, and
Lambeth life busy and feverish. The snow of two
years since might be the same white garment covering
the dirt and dust of the roadway, the scene in Hannah
Street had changed so little. There was more action
in the scene, however; and the tide of men, women
and children, owing to the cheapest market, streamed
on unceasingly. The Lower Marsh was deafening
with a thousand voices, calling attention to as many
varied wares, and the roar thereof sounded like a
distant angry sea in Hannah Street. There was every-
thing to sell and buy in the busy thoroughfare; and
traders in human weakness were even at their old
game of selling penny sovereigns, and sealed packets
that could only be presented with halfpenny straws, a
trick which has gone on for thirty years and more, and
is still found protable, even in streets where the
shadow of privation lurks eternally.
Mrs. Chickney was driving a good trade in Hannah
Street, despite prices being higher than usual at that
season of the year. There had not been sufcient
capital in hand to stock Owen's barrow as well as
Tarby's that particular evening, and Owen was at
home with Tarby's wife, assisting in the general busi-
ness, and taking things home when required by pru-
## p. 65 (#77) ##############################################
owns. - 65
dent folk who were going farther, and perhaps had a
Sunday's joint, and six loaves, and a "baby to carry
back.
"The parcel of greens and potatoes has been waiting
a couple of hours, Owen," cried Mrs. Chickney in dis-
may, when a lull in the trade afforded an opportunity
of discovering the omission. "Oh! dear, and new
customers, too  what'll they say?"
"I'll manage to make it all square, mother," rc-
plied Owen.
Owen had begun, of late years, to call Mrs. Tarby
"mother." It was a natural word, and there was a
pleasure in the sound to the hard-working woman, who
had never been a mother for many days at a time.
And she had been a true mother to this waif of ours,
and he was grateful.
"It's No. 6, in J enkin's Street, and the name's
Dell."
"I shan't forget it."
"And don't leave anything without the money 
we can't trust people till we know a little more about
them."
"All right."
And Owen, passing his arm through his basket-
handle, proceeded on his way whistling the last melody
that the street songsters had made popular in Lambeth.
No. 6 in J enkin's Street was soon reached  a street
a little more wide and clean than that of Hannah
Street in dirty weather, and where more of the neigh-
bours had taken the trouble to sweep the snow from
Owen: -  A Waif. 1. 5
## p. 66 (#78) ##############################################
66 owns.
their doors, and polish their door-handles, and give an
additignal brilliancy to their little dabs of knockers.
Owen knocked and gave a peculiar yell, which
Tarby had taught him, as of a canine animal in the
direst agony, and which was symbolical of "greens,"
and presently the door opened, and a pretty-faced girl
of ten years old stood waiting to receive the goods.
"Oh! is it you at last?" said she; "how late you
are!"
"Mrs. Chickney's wery sorry, and forgot all about
'em till this minute  hopes you haven't been put out
at all, or had to sit up  one shilling and three half-
pence, please."
"Tell that boy to come inside," shouted a voice
from the parlour, the door of which was open, and
through. which the fumes of tobacco-smoke were stealing
forth into the passage.
"You're to come inside, please."
"Well, don't catch hold of the basket, then . I'll
carry it," said Owen, who had his suspicions of a credit
account being suggested by the head of the family, and
had an objection to urge to the contrary.
Owen entered the room without any reluctance, and,
having forgotten to remove his cap, gave from under
the peak one of his sharpest and most comprehensive
glances. He nearly dropped the basket in his conster-
nation at the rst object of his attention  a big,
burly man, all whiskers, in a blue uniform and white
buttons, and having the gures 92 neatly worked on
his collar, and an enormous iron-topped hat resting at
\
## p. 67 (#79) ##############################################
ownu. 6 7
his feet, between two enormous boots to match the hat.
Government turns out things on a large scale, and is
more improvident than sparing with material.
If there were any consolation to Owen, it was in
the knowledge presented by the garterless left wrist
that 92 was off duty and had his stock unfastened,
which gave him a less erce and red aspect, and did
not keep all the blood in his head with undue pressure.
He had evidently retired from public action for that
particular evening; and the pipe in his mouth, and the
glass of gin and water at his elbow, gave a happy and
novel turn to his general appearance. '
But 92 was only a guest at No. 6 in Jenkin's
Street, and for the rst time in Owen's experience was
playing a subordinate part, and shoving nobody, and
moving nobody on! Why, he looked quite happy and
peaceable, and Owen would have liked Tarby to have
seen him just for half a minute  he would have
scarcely believed his eyes. To think of 92 smoking a
long clay-pipe  it was enough to make Owen dream
of it, and have the nightmare, under the little counter
where he slept.
Although occupied in particular with No. 92, Owen
had taken stock of the second inmate, also smoking a
long clay pipe, and having a second glass of gin and
water at his elbow to match that of his ofcial friend's.
He was a man of smaller proportions, in a suit of
clothesthat had once been white, but was now covered
with iron-mould and dabbed with soot, and marked
with extra shades of blackness at the knees and elbows.
5'}?
## p. 68 (#80) ##############################################
68 owns.
A man above the middle height, but squarely built,
and with a family likeness to 92 in the countenance,
which was, however, of a less lumpish description, and
boasted two great grey eyes, that looked through
Owen, and made him feel uncomfortable, and as if he
had'stolen something.
"Put that basket down, lad, and come here," said
the man in fustian.
"All right, sir," said Owen, giving vent to his
usual remark, and retaining a rm hold of his basket
as he advanced; "it's one and three-halfpence, if you
please."
"Don't you think I'll pay you?" asked the man.
"Ain't afeard of that, sir," was Owen's doubtfully-
moral reply. '
"If I don't, lad, give me in charge"  and he
pointed with the stem of his pipe to policeman 92.
"OH duty, John  off duty."
And John and 92 laughed heartily, and nodded
at each other in a pleasant here's-'your-good-health
style, before they dipped their noses simultaneously
into their glasses of grog.
"These things were ordered long ago," said the
man addressed as John; "and I like punctuality it's
a good thing, and you can't have too much of it. If
I support your mother's establishment, I must have all
promises kept to the letter. Tell her, will you?"
"All right, sir."
"But it's all wrong, sir, if you come creeping in
three hours after time. Time's money; and I'm always
## p. 69 (#81) ##############################################
owns. 69
true to the minute myself. If you had ever heard
of John Dell, boy, you'd have known that by this
time."
"Time's money  and I'm wasting it," said
Owen.
"Eh?  what?  wasting it in listening to pro-
table advice?" '
"You see I'm wanted," said Owen, apologetically;
"and it'sit's a long time to wait for one and three-
half-pence."
Dell could not forbear laughing at this, and striking
his hand smartly on his knee.
"An eye to business after all," said he; "this lad's
not slow, Bob?"
"No, no," was the hesitative answer; and 92 bit
his pipe hard, and shut one eye and looked atten-
tively at Owen with the other. Owen felt he was
known, and coloured up to the roots of his hair.
"So it comes to one and three-half-pence," said the
master of the house. "Where's your bill, boy?"
"Haven't brought none."
"Brought none!  who said you had brought
none?" said Mr. Dell, taking up his grammar. "Bob"
(turning to 92), "your pencil a moment."
Bob drew a lead pencil from .his pocket and pre-
sented it to Mr. Dell, who commenced writing on a
scrap of paper.'
"Always methodical you see, Bob," (he commented
as he wrote). "I like things square still, and keep
things in order to the best of my ability. 'To greens,
## p. 70 (#82) ##############################################
70 ownu.
etc., one and three-halfpence'  here, put paid to
that."
And paper and pencil were pushed towards our
hero, who reddened again and stupidly regarded the .
document.
"We never give bills," said Owen, after a pause.
But the gentleman addressed was picking out one
and three~half-pence from a handful of coppers and
small silver he had drawn from his trousers-pocket,
and heeded not the remark. The exact sum having
been laid by the side of the paper, Dell said, in half
soliloquy:
"I haven't had time to sort all those four-penny-
pieces yet. I like my money, when I have any, in
proper compartments, Bob. A pocket for small-change,
another for half-crowns and shillings; a special pocket
that I have made thief-proof for the few half-sovereigns
that so seldom turn up  now, boy, look alive and
put 'Paid."'
"I can't write," Owen confessed, slowly, and almost
sullenly.
"Can't write!" exclaimed the other; "that's hard
that's wrong."
He sat with one large veined hand pressed on the
table near the paper, and looked at Owen steadily.
There was something open as the day in the man's
face, and Owen took to it, although its looks abashed
him.
"How's that?"
## p. 71 (#83) ##############################################
owns. 71
"I haven't had a chance  no one's thought of it.
I'm busy all day."
"You should go to evening school like me, little
boy," said a voice close to his side.
Owen looked at the pretty-faced girl who had rst
opened the door to him. Her soft voice, after the
sharp ringing tones of John Dell, was a pleasant
relief, and it was hard to answer all John Dell's
questions.
"I haven't the time, miss." .
"Then you must make time, boy!" cried Dell in a
passion. "It won't do to be a dunce in these days.
It will be worse when you're a man, and have a living
to earn. You must push about, and learn by any
means, at any time, in any fashion. What's your mo-
ther and father about all this time?"
"Father I never had, and mother run away from
me," said Owen.
"Ay, ay  that's it."
"You're with Tarby?" said 92, addressing Owen
for the rst time.
"Yes."
"Who's Tarby?" inquired Dell, catching up the
words, and following on in a characteristic brusque
manner.
"A costermonger  a -
"Know anything against him?"
"N'no," replied 92, pufng more vigorously at his
pipe.
"O' duty, Bob?" said Dell.
77
## p. 72 (#84) ##############################################
72 owns.
"Ay, ay, John  off duty."
And both men laughed again.
Owen here suddenly broke in with 
"There's nothing much to be said agin him, off
duty or on. He's quick at times, nothin' more. 92
can't say a word more agin him than that."
"Quick and hot," said 92  "not much more."
"No;" and Owen looked as if he thought he might
have said a little less.
"And they won't give you time, morning or night,
to go to school? Theyhad better give you time to
hang yourself than run you quite so close," said Dell.
Owen relinquished his basket to Ruth, and bent
over his money, and went through a calculation of his
own to make sure that it was quite correct. He had
nothing to say to Mr. Dell's last remark. It was un-
called for, if unanswerable. Mr. Dell was taking up
his time too, and it was Saturday night.
"Make your mark or something, boy, and that
gentleman will witness it," said Dell. "I like things
ship-shape, and proofs of payment evident."
Owen made a cross, and 92 affixed his signature
thereto, as witness to the legal payment in full of all
demands of one shilling and three-halfpence to Mr.
Chickney, or Mr. Chickney's representative.
"That'll do, boy," said Mr. Dell. "Here, Ruth,
put this on the le, and show the dunce out."
"You're hard upon me," said Owen, with a ash
of spirit, and the black eyes regarding Mr. Dell in a
manner far from loving. V
## p. 73 (#85) ##############################################
owns. 73
"You're hard upon yourself, and Tarby's harder.
Don't put the blame on me. Good night." 
"Good night," Owen felt called upon to respond.
"You don't look quite a fool, and you're losing all
your chances by growing up to be one," he continued,
with no 'small warmth. "Your , what? Going,
Bob?"
"Yes, I must be off, J ohn; now," replied 92, rising.
"Glad am I to have found you well and hearty, and
as full of steam as ever."
"You would not have me at a lower pressure?"
"No, no. It looks well."
"It wouldn't do to be even too slow in your line,
eh?"
"Not exactly," said he, putting on his hat. "Well,
good night to you, John. I hope you'll like your
place."
"I make up my mind to like a thing I turn to.
It's more comfortable."
"Ay, that's true."
"It's philosophical, Bob."
"Ay, it's philossicol," said 92, after a little
struggle with the word, ending with! bringing it out
wrong, as people who struggle with a ne word ge-
nerally do  a phonic retribution for meddling with
things they are not well acquainted with.
Meanwhile Ruth Dell had shown Owen into the
passage.
"Do' you mind waiting a minute more?" she
asked.
## p. 74 (#86) ##############################################
74 owns.
Owen, who was anxious to leave the house wherein
he had experienced no small amount of torture, he-
sitated; but, before he could reply, Ruth had darted
up a ight of stairs in the dark, and was down again
ere he had done fumbling with the lock in his eager-
ness to be gone. '
"There's my rst spelling-book  I went through
it years ago, and shall never want it again. Will you
take it home and look at it, please?  I want you so
very much to take it home."
Owen took it from her hands and thrust it in the
pocket of his jacket, and felt more bewildered than
ever beneath all this attention. He was far too con-
fused to thank her before she shut him' out in the
street, or to repeat the good night which accompanied
the gift. He did not see his way very clearly before
him; he had gone a step out of his old track into a
new world, and the new world had dazed him. That
92 must have put him out and taken away the use of
his tongue; who'd have thought of seeing him!  his
evil genius; the man who never let anybody alone, or
winked at anything!
The man who never let anybody alone put his
hand on Owen's shoulder, as Owen trudged on with
his basket. Owen gave a jump; it was so like the old
times, and being "collared," and walked o' to Tower
Street station-house.
"You've been two years at this fun, haven't you,
Owen Owen?" he asked.
It was the name they had written more than once
## p. 75 (#87) ##############################################
owns. 75
on the charge-sheet at Tower Street, after nding
Owen so completely in the dark respecting his sur-
name. And 92 had had his eye upon him all that
period, it seemed, too.
"Yes  two years."
"Well, it's a lift; and you've been pretty quiet,
and gone round the corner when told, and not been
sarcy, and kept your hands from picking and stealing.
I'm glad to see the improvement, Owen Owen."
Was this 92 who spoke so friendly, and whose
voice was so less harsh? What a difference off duty
appeared to make in a man!
"You didn't  you didn't tell them that I had
been ever looked up?" asked Owen, anxiously.
"My perfession tells me to keep my tongue quiet.
"If I was always telling tales off duty of what happened
on, I should never feel easy in my mind, and com-
fortable, and unbuttoned."
"You'll never look me up again," said Owen,
cheerfully, and with a toss of the head that expressed
his sure conviction.
"Do you mean it?"
"Yes."
"Well, it's a nasty part of my occupation, and I'm
glad to hear it  it's so seldom chaps like you turns
over a new leaf." \ '
"We haven't all people to take care of us, 'or we
might grow good, like Mr. Dell's little girl."
"How do you know she's good?" asked 92, in
some amazement.
## p. 76 (#88) ##############################################
76 owns.
"She looks it  I can see it in her face  it's
like a face I once saw in a picter-book."
"Ah! it's a nice, comfor'ble face," said 92, "God
bless it; it's something like a face  the picture of
her mother, who went off early."
"She's not like her father much," observed Owen.
"Isn't she?"
"She hasn't got such popping-out eyes."
"I'm her father," observed 92.
"Oh, I didn't mean you."
"No, but the compare-ison will t," said he;
"they're family eyes; and mine's a trie worse than
my brother's, owing to the stock. It's been noticed
before."
"She has lent me a spelling-book," said Owen,
anxious to change the subject, as 92 continued to
favour him with his company.
"She's the best of girls  I'm vain enough to
think the very best, at times."
"What's she "
Owen paused. He felt his curiosity was mastering
his politeness.
"Go on, boy."
"What's she living with Mr. Dell for, I was going
to say?"
"To keep his house for him, and look after him,
and have a proper home of her own. John wished it,
and I was a widower, and moved about here and there
and everywhere, and away all day, or all night, and
she without a'. friend; and so she went to J ohn's."
## p. 77 (#89) ##############################################
owns. 77
"I see."
"It was not proper to bring her up in a back-
room, or in an'empty house, which I might live in
scot-free till the next tenant came; and John, so
capital a manager in everything, and earning a good
bit of money, and wanting a little housekeeper so
much, being an old bachelor  it wasn't proper, and
I saw it."
Owen, overwhelmed by 92's communicativeness,
could merely nod his head in assent, and wonder if
the man were always like this off duty, or whether
Mr. Dell's gin and water had rendered him loquacious.
It was agreeable gossip, though; and Owen was in-
terested in the Dells.
"I shall see him very often, now he's come to
London; he and Ruth dropped into Lambeth, too,
which has been my beat for many years. Why, I can
be always looking in and seeing him and her."
"It'll be more comfortable."
"Much more comfor'ble, as you say, boy," said he;
"and it'll be growing young again, and less stout, and
if the superintendent don't change my quarters, why,
it'll be pleasant for the three of us, and John will
make his fortune under my own eye."
"When is he going to begin to make that?"
"Oh! he's working up; he gets a better place each
time; everybody takes to John, and sees J ohn's sense.
In the country he went higher and higher; and now,
in London, he begins where he left o', and begins in
## p. 78 (#90) ##############################################
78 owns.
Cherbury's factory, too, at fty-ve shillings a-week -
a pot of money!"
"Fifty-ve  eh!" and Owen whistled long and
plaintively; and as he trudged on with his basket,
thought what a sum of money it was, and wondered if
he should ever earn half as much. Heigho! to hear
of these great incomes makes us all a little envious.
"And he was a ragged chap like you used to be,
even."
"Like me!" cried Owen.
"Well, he kept his hands to himself a little more,"
said 92, with a reserve; "but he was like you  poor
and ragged; both of us two poor and ragged little
country urchins."
"And he got on, didn't he?  and everybody
wasn't agin him?"
"To be sure not."
"I'll learn to read and write; I'll go to school; I'll
have a try at something!" cried Owen, with excitement;
"why shouldn't I?"
"Ah! why shouldn't you?"
92 paused. They were close on Hannah Street.
"Young fellow," said 92, when Owen had paused
also; "don't- forget that this little talk has occurred in
leisure moments  moments of unbuttonment, as I
may say  and don't take liberties, or grow familiar,
when I am on duty in the Marsh. I'm 92 then, and
duty's duty."
And after this oratorical display, 92, with his head
very erect, marched down an opposite street. Owen
## p. 79 (#91) ##############################################
owns. 79.
looked after him, and wished it were always a life of
unbuttonment with the big policeman  it made him
so much more like a friend and brother, and left it
hard to reconcile his identity with the ofcial, who
was so severe on minor delinquencies, and would have
everybody moving on. As Owen watched him "moving
on" down the street, he could fancy there was a
tremulous sway about the lower extremities that re-
minded him of Tarby early on Boxing-day, before he
had drunk himself into a bad temper; and he fancied
John Dell of Jenkins Street, had mixed the gin and
water rather stifsh, or kept the glass lled with a too
liberal hand. He fancied so; but then he was in a
reective mood, and inclined to fancy many things
that night. He had been humiliated, too, and laughed
to scorn by John Dell, and called a dunce. This
John Dell, who had no thought for his own past
estate, but swollen to greatness with his fty-ve
shillings, taunted poor lads like him with their igno-
rance of letters. He'd learn  he would learn; there
shouldn't be any more crosses on the bills he might
have to receipt six months from that date. Nor six
days, for that matter, for he'd nd out which was a P
and an A and an I and a D, and practice at "them
four jockeys," till he knocked them off like copper-
plate.
He was absent in mind the rest of that night, and
required calling to order more than once by Mrs.
Ohickney, who "dratted" the boy, and couldn't under.-
stand what ailed him. When the shutters were closed,
## p. 80 (#92) ##############################################
80 owns.
and Tarby had returned with a pile of halfpence on
his barrow, Owen, over a humble supper, suddenly
burst forth with -
"I shall go to school."
"Bless the boy!" cried Tarby's wife, with a jump
in her chair, "what ails him?"
"I'm not wanted in the evenings, except Saturday;
and there's a free school in Charlotte Street, and
I'll go."
"Who's been putting those silly notions into your
head?" asked Tarby.
"There's no getting on if you can't read and write,
I see that, and I mean to try at both, Tarby."
"Don't be rash, Owey. Haven't I got on well
enough without sich nonsense?"
"If I learn to read and write when I'm not wanted,"
said Owen, without heeding Tarby's last remark, "why
shouldn't I? Everybody ain't going to beat me,
Tarby." '
"I wonder I didn't think of it before," remarked
Mrs. Chickney.
"You don't blame me, mother?"
"Who  I? Why should I, my lad, be sorry to
see you trying to do well? Learn all you can, and
shame the devil, that nearly got hold of you."
Owen found time to look at the spelling book be-
fore he went to bed. It was an old volume, with long
s's, badly printed, and on indifferent paper, but still in
excellent preservation. If Owen could have read, he
would have seen on the y-leaf the autograph of John
## p. 81 (#93) ##############################################
owns. 81
Dell, and a date of thirty-two years back; and be-
neath that, in a clearer and even in a beautiful hand-
writing, "Ruth Dell, her book."
But all was undecipherable to the neophyte stand-
ing at the door of the temple, and about to make his
rst step. He could only turn over the leaves and
gaze at the rude woodcuts, and pass the book round
for inspection to Tarby's wife, and for cool contemptu-
ous disparagement on the part of Tarby.
"And who do you think I saw at our new cus-
tomer's, Tarby?" said Owen, when the book was
returned to him. "You'll never guess."
"Your mother."
"No, no," cried Owen  "not she."
"It was some one as set you silly, anyhow," said
Tarby.
"It was 92."
"Good Lord!"
"Off duty, and unbuttoned, and smoking a pipe,
Tarby. He came nearly home with me, talking about
his brother and his little girl."
"Nonsense!"
"He did, I tell you. He isn't half such a bad
fellow as we thought."
"Isn't he? Well, I daresay not. I wish I hadn't
hit him quite so hard last Easter, then!"
And that was Tarby Chickney's tribute to the
merits of 92. He could acknowledge virtues even in
his bitterest enemy.
Owen turned into his bed, composed of sacks and
Owen:  A Waif. I. 6
## p. 82 (#94) ##############################################
82 owns.
straw and shaving, with one blanket that had seen
better days for covering, and lay awake half the
night, bewildering himself with dreamy speculation as
to what was to become of him when the world went
round a little more, and brought him greater strength
and a beard upon his chin. Should he ever read and
write, and earn his fty-ve shillings a week  and
repay Tarby's wife for all past kindness? Should he
ever be higher than he was?
Through the glass darkly we can but guess at the
shadows itting beyond it; the veil is never drawn, or
the landscape open to the view. It may be meadow-
land, or rocky steep, and we are blest by ignorance to
know not either till the tting time. Say that some
magic crystal of the old magicians, concerning whom
such wondrous tales have been recorded, had been
held before him, with many future years of life therein
all their trials and temptations  evincing to him
then all the force of that bitter disappointment which
came long afterwards and smote him down  and,
with a boy's judgment, knowing not what is best, he
might have cried, "It is better as it is. Leave me in
my poverty and wilful ignorance, and let others, des-
tined to be happier than I, march on the road I turn
away from now!"
## p. 83 (#95) ##############################################
owns. 83
CHAPTER II.
A Step Forwards.
Barons eleven the next morning, when Tarby was
still asleep, and his wife was beginning to toast a
herring for his breakfast, there came visitors to Hannah
Street. Owen had been up and inspecting his lesson-
book some hours, and was then practising at a large
capital A with the point of a skewer on the counter,
when the door was shaken, not lightly, from without.
Responding to the summons, Owen was very much sur-
prised to nd on the door-step John Dell and his
niece.
John Dell and his niece strangely metamorphosed:
the uncle in a blue dress-coat and waistcoat, and
trousers of a snowy whiteness, with boots that shone
in the sun like varnished leather, and a bran new hat
on. John Dell, with his greyish whiskers brushed and
oiled, and his eyes a trie more protuberant, with all
the excitement of this "getting up." His niece, too,
had exchanged her dark Saturday-frock for a bright
claret-coloured French merino, which looked more
seasonable that rapidly-thawing morning than the white
ducks of her uncle, and her face looked prettier
than ever under her straw hat and dark green rib-
bons.
"Look here, young fellow," cried Dell, in his old
I
6*
## p. 84 (#96) ##############################################
84 owns.
impetuous manner, directly the door was opened, "I
want that book you took away last night."
"Took away!"  and Owen' s face ushed and his
hands clenched. He had learned the sin and shame of
taking away his neighbour's goods.
"That Ruth here lent you and you took away.
Where is it?"
Owen went back to the counter and returned
with the book  the eyes of Mr. Dell taking note
thereof.
"Thankee," said Dell, putting it into the tail-
pocket of his dress-coat; "it was a mistake of Rnth's,
and she did not know I set some store by it  that
some day it will be on a crimson cushion and under a
glass shade. It taught me my letters, and then Ruth's
and there's luck in it, and I prize it. You under-
stand now?"
Owen nodded. His heart was a trie too full for
any reply just then; and the rough words of John Dell,
allied to a very rapid utterance, grated a little even on
him, who had been used to rough words all his life.
"Uncle will buy you another," said Ruth  "one
that you can read better; but he is very careful of
this, and I had forgotten it was not mine to give away.
You are not angry with me?" she asked, as Owen con-
tinued silent.
" No.71
"You shall have another, if you call to-morrow,"
said Dell.
Owen nodded again.
## p. 85 (#97) ##############################################
owrm. 85
"You mean to come?"
"Yes."
Dell and his niece descended the step. On the
pavement he said: 
"I'm not quite used to the neighbourhood yet. The
second turning will lead straight to Waterloo Road, I
suppose ?"
"Yes."
"We shall be late for church, Ruth?"
And uncle and niece walked off.
Owen stood watching them, saw the little girl look
behind her, pause, and then say something to her
uncle, whose face assumed a laughing expression as he
paused also. A moment afterwards, and she came run-
ning back to Owen.
"I'm so sorry you're disappointed, little boy!"
Owen was a head and shoulders taller than she;
but he did not consider it a tting opportunity to call
attention to that fact, although he had before objected
to the appellative bestowed upon him.
"Oh, don't mind me, Miss."
"It's only because uncle thinks a great deal of the
book that he has taken it away. You'll call to-morrow
evening?"
"I said I would."
After a pause she said, suddenly,
"Don't you ever go to church?"
"I go to see the funerals sometimes of an after-
noon."
"But inside a church?"
## p. 86 (#98) ##############################################
86 owns.
"Oh, no!"
"Don't you want to go to church?"
"Can't say as I do."
"Oh, dear!  you are a funny boy!"
And with a look of bewilderment at Owen, she
went backwards down the step, and then ran after her
uncle, whose swallow-tailed coat and white ducks were
a long way down the street. ' 
Owen leaned against the door-frame, and watched
them out of sight; remained there several minutes after
they had turned the corner, thinking of the incident
that had suddenly despoiled him of his prize, and of
the last verdict of Ruth Dell, that he was a funny boy
because he didn't go to church. He did not see any
great amount of fun in it himself; he had not thought
about it before  Tarby had never gone, neither had
ll/Irs. Tarby. Once or twice he had seen the people
issue forth at one o'clock, and noticed how nely they
were dressed - especially the beadle, who generally
sunned himself at the great gates during the exodus.
He had even thought he should like to be a beadle
some day, and wear a coat with gold lace, until 92
had spoken of fty-ve shillings a week to be earned
by honest folk who were clever and industrious; and
he doubted if the beadle got that, with all his nery.
He had a vague idea that there was praying at church
for something or other, and that everybody was shut
in a little box, and told to be quiet by the pew-opener,
and that the beadle was there to hit people who couldn't
behave themselves. People who where christened or
## p. 87 (#99) ##############################################
owss. 87
buried went to church he believed, but he had never
gone through either ceremony; and besides, his clothes
weren't good enough. He knew that beadle would hoist
him down the steps if he went up them; and serve him
right, to think of such a thing. Only one person in
Hannah Street went to church, and that was a hump-
backed woman at the other end of the street; and per-
haps they let her in because she was hump-backed,
and it made all the di'erence as to right of entry.
Owen went to St. J ames's Park in the afternoon
with Tarby  Tarby's wife was not quite strong
enough to take such long walks just at present  and
almost forgot about the Dells in his admiration of the
ducks, which had taken advantage of a warm winter's
day to show themselves again. But Tarby's company,
in which Owen had delighted so much, was somewhat
wearisome that afternoon, till Tarby met a friend, who
kept him stationary three-quarters of an hour, and
talked of nothing but pigeons and terrier pups all that
time  affording Owen an opportunity for reverie
meanwhile.
Owen was glad when Sunday was over, and the
shutters were down again in Hannah Street; there were
so many hours less between him and his desire to
learn. Owen knew there was a free evening school
opened in the neighbourhood, thanks to the worthy
exertions of a few inuential parishioners ~ a pioneer
to the Ragged Schools that, a few years later, threw
open their doors to the poor and ignorant who required
instruction and Owen proceeded thither in the even-
## p. 88 (#100) #############################################
88 owns.
ing, after calling at John Dell's by the way, was re-
ceiving a new spelling-book in exchange for the volume
returned yesterday.
"I wish to learn," said Owen, entering the school
boldly, and marching up to a desk at the end of the
room, where a grey-haired, middle-aged man was
standing.
"You are welcome."
And thus was made the second step in Owen's
career upwards; and Owen, who was earnest, and not
naturally dull, soon went ahead of most of his con-
temporaries, and made a progress satisfactory to his
teacher. In the early part of Owen's novitiate there
was not a large number of pupils, and the teacher
could pay more attention, take more interest in the
single scholar anxious to advance. The school was an
experiment at that time, launched amidst a hundred
obstacles and as many doleful prophecies; and the poor
even turned from education gratis, and had their suspi-
cions of a trap set somewhere.
Owen was never without his lesson-book  it was
a new life to him, and each smile of his tutor was a
reward for his labour. With his barrow in the streets,
in his early walks to market, over a slackness of trade
in the articles he hawked about, he studied his lessons;
and at his age a boy will learn readily or never. He
did not think much of fty-ve shillings a week then
as the goal to be arrived at some fair day, when his
hopes were brightening; he saw the reward to follow
## p. 89 (#101) #############################################
owns. 89
his mastery of lesson-books, and felt jeontent with the
new world that opened for him gradually.
It was a proud day to call on John Dell, who was
so particular concerning money matters, and sign his
name, Owen Owen, in full, and see little Ruth watch
his pen, and hear John Dell's hearty "That's well!"
as he completed his task, and even nished off with a
ourish.
"Why, you'll be a great man, Owen, if you go on
so fast as this," he added.
"I shall thank you for it, Mr. Dell."
"No!  will you?"
And John Dell brought his hand smartly on his
thigh again, after a habit of his when particularly ex-
hilarated.
A turn was given to Owen's thoughts and a little
check to Owen's learning by the sudden news that
Mrs. Chickney was taken ill, and required the immediate
attendance of the doctor. The news was communicated
to Owen by Tarby, who had run all the way to the
free-school to impart the information and render Owen
useful.
"Run to the parish doctor, Owen, and fetch some
one as quick as you can. Tell 'em it's Mrs. Chickney
they've got her name down in the books. Run like
a devil, Owen  there's a good boy!".
Owen broke from school and tore off at his utmost
speed, his heart heating with the fear that there
was danger to the woman who had been so good a
mother to him. The parish doctor of that day lived
## p. 90 (#102) #############################################
90 owns.
in the Kennington Road, and many minutes had not
elapsed before Owen was tugging at the bell with all
the impetuosity of one in a desperate fright.
The summons being responded to, a fair, young
man with a fresh colour, a high forehead, and a mass
of wavy hair, appeared in the doorway.
"What are you kicking up this row for? Whom
do you want, boy?" \
"The doctor. Mrs. Chickney 'wants him directly."
"Mr. Waggles is out. "The is it, do you say?"
"Mrs. Chickney, Hannah Street  Tarby's wife."
"Can't you say 'sir?'"
"Yes, if I like."
"Say it, then, if you want attending to."
Owen objected to this young gentleman's imperious
manner, and might in a case of less emergency have
exhibited some freedom of opinion on the matter; but
Tarby's wife was ill, and he would have gone down
on his knees to the gentleman with the light hair, if
he had required it at that moment. He was even polite
remembering his schooling.
"I beg your pardon. Sir f it is, sir."
"Come in."
Leaving Owen to shut the door, the young man
walked into the surgery and lumped down on a little
counter a volume, which he proceeded to unelasp and open.
"What name did you say  Chickweed?"
"Chickney, sir, of Hannah Street. She's very ill,
sir," he added, seeing that the young man acted with
great deliberation.
## p. 91 (#103) #############################################
owns. 91
The announcement did not appear to startle the as-
sistant in the least degree; people very ill was a fact
nothing new to announce at a parish doctor's.
"Chackster  Chub  Chafnch  Chucksley
Chickney," said he, with a yawn, as his nger halted
half-way down the column  "here we have it. I'll
be with you in a moment."
"Thank you, sir. She's very ill!"
The assistant dawdled out of the surgery, and was
absent about a quarter of an hour, during which time
Owen paced up and down, and ground his teeth, and,
I fear, enunciated all the oaths he had nearly forgotten
with his better teaching, and felt what a relief to his
mind it would be to smash every bottle in the place.
When the assistant reappeared, carefully brushing a
black overcoat, Owen breathed a little freer, till the
man looked for something in a drawer, then in another, and
nally gave up the search and struggled into his great-
coat, and took a hat down from behind the surgery door.
"You need not have waited for me," he said, tartly.
"I know the way."
"Oh, I wasn't sure, sir."
"And you needn't hang about me now, but run
home and tell them I'm coming."
"Certainly, sir. You'll make haste now, I hope,
sir? She's really ill."
The assistant smiled contemptuously at this, and
proceeded to draw on a pair of lavender kid gloves,
the admirable t of which we will leave him admiring,
and follow Owen to Hannah Street.
## p. 92 (#104) #############################################
92 ' owns.
Owen found the little shop where he had left it -
which in his bewilderment he had hardly expected --
and Tarby and the old woman, who had ofciated as
nurse two years ago, passing in and out of the parlour.
"Where's the doctor?" cried Tarby, catching sight
of Owen.
"He'll be here in a minute  that is, his assistant
chap will  a fellow with such a head of hair. How's
mother?" '
"Pretty well, considerin'."
"I think I'll run a little way back, and see if he's
coming."
"Why, you're hardly in the shop yet."
"No; but the fellow's such a time  ain't he?"
"I suppose it's young Glindon; he always did take
things easy," said Tarby, who was trying to appear
cool and collected himself. "There's no occasion to
urry yourself, and  damme, if he don't make haste,
I'll catch him up and carry him!"
Tarby had just obtained a glimpse of Mr. Glindon
coming round the corner, at the easiest rate imaginable,
and his temper was a little soured at the prospect. But
he did not carry his threat into execution, and Mr.
Glindon, at his own pace, turned into the little green-
grocer's, and proceeded to business forthwith, after
shutting Tarby and Owen in the shop.
Tarby was as nervous as Owen after the doctor's
assistant had left them. He dgeted with the potatoes
he knocked over the parched peas  he scratched
his head with a vehemence that must have hurt him
## p. 93 (#105) #############################################
owns. 93
he took a run of a hundred yards down Hannah
Street, for no earthly purpose that was conceivable.
"I wonder what would happen to the old shed, and
you and me, if she was tooked, Owey?"
"Oh! don't talk like that!"
"She hasn't been herself lately  quite."
"Don't you think so?"
"P'raps it's only fancy, though. We won't talk of
anything so horrid."
It must have been an age before the doctor came
out of the parlour, and the crying of a child was heard
within, and Owen and Tarby looked into his face for
their answer.
"As well as can be expected, perhaps," he said.
"I'll look in again in about an hour."
"Thankee," said Tarby. "And the babby  is
it a boy?"
"No  a girl."
"I suppose it  it won't live now?"
"Live!" echoed the young man, "why shouldn't it?"
"Well, they haven't tooked to living at present
here. It disagrees with 'em."
"This is a ne hearty infant!" and the assistant
said it emphatically, as if he wished it to be taken as
evidence if Tarby should poison the child in the night.
"Lord! Is it, though?"
Mr. Glindon was going down the steps when Tarby
called out '
"And the Missis?"
"Keep her quiet. She'll do  with great care."
## p. 94 (#106) #############################################
94 owns.
CHAPTER III.
Reform and Relapse.
FOR the rst time in the history of the present race
of Chickneys, a baby was born that crowed, and kicked,
and waxed fat  with which everything agreed, that
took everything that was presented to it, and went
never back in its appetite. A baby that was the ad-
miration of Hannah Street, and which the female in-
habitants thereof called to see in little parties of four
and ve, and which every one thought took kindly to
her nose or bonnet, and was wofully deceived when she
had it in her arms.
Baby, in its early stage, only took kindly to Tarby,
which was an awkward dilemma, and confused that
gentleman's arrangements, as Boxing-day happened be-
fore Mrs. Chickney was fairly up again, and three-
fourths of his friends and acquaintances expected his
company at the "Compasses." But the baby had taken
a fancy to a particular and novel kind of rock on the
part of Tarby, and would not be put out of his arms
after he had once introduced it to its notice, save and
except for nourishment purposes, or when utterly off
its guard. '
And Tarby, rather proud of the patronage conferred
upon him, rocked and went through a husky kind of
chant, and was persuaded or attered into staying at
## p. 95 (#107) #############################################
owns. 95
home all Christmas week, and making himself useful.
And Mrs. Chickney, who had struggled to her feet
again with no small difculty, was pleased to see Tarby
at home, relieving her from the weight and worry of
a heavy baby with a loud voice; and Tarby wandering
about the shop with the infant was a novel sight to
witness.
We say that Mrs. Chickney had struggled to her
feet; but it had been a hard struggle, as Mr. Glindon
had foreseen, and when she appeared in the shop before
her strength allowed  for poor people have no time
to nurse themselves and "play the lady," as they term
it  she was ever from that time a faint shadow of
the Polly, Owen had seen rst on Markshire Downs.
Tarby's wife and Tarby's baby could not have
strength together; and the rst baby to live was to
stand as witness to a greater alteration in Mrs. Chickney.
Still Tarby's wife would not have changed positions;
her heart had always yearned for a child of her own,
to live and grow up, and be a comfort to her when
Tarby went away, and she took her failing health as
part of the bargain.
"And I'm not going to drag about like this all my
life, you know," she said to Tarby one day; "why,
every day I'm getting stronger!"
Tarby could not see it, and asked Mr. Glindon,
who recommended the air of Hastings and port-wine,
and lighter diet  say, a boiled chicken  and so
on; and as he might equally as well have ordered the
air of Madeira, and a slice off a Phoenix, Tarby
## p. 96 (#108) #############################################
96 - owns.
thanked him for his advice, and said he'd think of it.
But Mrs. Tarby did gain a little strength, by slow
degrees, without leaving Hannah Street, and strength
of mind, too, to insist upon having the baby christened,
and Owen, also, at the same time, which interesting
ceremony took place in Waterloo Church, and went off
with great e'cltit.
For the baby, who was christened Mary, after Mrs.
Chickney, took so readily to the clergyman, whom, it
probably fancied, was Tarby in disguise, that it nearly
had its rst convulsion when returned to the arms of
its mother.
So time went on in Hannah Street; and the world
was wondering, as usual, how that time had slipped
away, when it was summer again, and Mary Chickney
was six months old. Easter and Whitsuntide had
passed by that time, and Tarby had resisted all temp-
tations, and remained sober throughout, and kept to
his baby and his business, till the prots of the latter
made ample amends for the expensive luxury of the
former. Owen assisted with the baby, too, and relieved
guard with Tarby and Mrs. Chickney, and learned half
his school lessons with the infant Mary in his arms.
So progress, especially moral progress, was made in
Hannah Street; and happiness was so near to these
poor folk, that carriage-people might have envied them.
But a ash of happiness here and there, to keep our
hearts from sinking in our pilgrimage, and we should
rest content; happiness is a fugitive sensation, that is
## p. 97 (#109) #############################################
owns. 9 7
gone in a breath, and children born of trouble cannot
expect its duration.
Tarby had made a hundred promises to reform
entirely; he had tried sobriety for six months, and
found it protable, he said. Owen was gaining know-
ledge, and could already read and write, and work his
sums out; Mrs. Chickney was looking better, and the
baby was as big as any two in Lower Marsh.
At that time, some six or nine months after baby's
birth, Tarby was unfortunate enough to meet a friend, who
had returned from America, rich enough to stand glasses
round to all his ancient pals and brother costers. And
Tarby took his glass with the rest, and returned home
-with bloodshot eyes and unsteady gait, and with his
old quarrelsome ts upon him.
Tarby Chickney, once unsettled, took full a fort-
night to compose, the days following the rst relapse
being an increase at compound interest, of all his
reigning faults and weaknesses. It seemed likely to
be a blank week, after Tarby's rst start in the old
direction; and Mrs. Chickney always muttered a
"Thank God!" though she was not a prayerful wo-
man, when her husband was heard knocking at the
street door, however late the hour, and however drunk
and ill-tempered he might prove to be.
Owen, close on twelve years old, was a tolerable
substitute for Tarby at this time; young as he was, he
could make a fair bargain at market, and sell his
goods at a remunerativc price afterwards; and, there-
fore, the loss of Tarby's services was not felt, in a
Owen:  A Wuif. I. 7
## p. 98 (#110) #############################################
9 8 owns.
pecuniary sense, so much as in the olden times, when
nothing came in as an equivalent to everything running
swiftly and surely out. Still it was a miserable, un-
pleasant time setting in; Tarby was satised 'with
nothing, and Mrs. Chickney and the baby being weak,
Owen came in for all the superuous cuffs and shakings
that Tarby had to spare on his return.
"He'll have his run out, Owen," said Tarby's wife;
"and then be just hisself again. Poor fellow!  he
hasn't had a change lately  I daresay he was worrited
and hipped to death."
This consolatory assurance was delivered on Thurs-
day night  the fourth night of Tarby's "run"  when
Owen and Mrs. Chickney and the baby were sitting up
for him, and the Dutch clock was ticking its way to
two.
"He's rather later than usual," remarked Owen.
"Ah! he won't be long now," afrmed the wife, who
little dreamed that Tarby Chickney was never destined
to cross the threshold of that home again, and that the
shadows to fall upon it were of a deeper hue, and were
close upon her, to haunt that house for every hour of
her after-life.
Owen, be it said, par parenthesis, was pretty cer-
tain of Tarby's whereabouts; he had stolen out before
the shop was closed and seen Tarby at the "Three
Compasses," dancing a kind of mad jig to a barrel-
organ played by a grinning Italian, and surrounded
by a mob, who began to impede the trafc and attract
the notice of policemen; and he had no doubt  now
## p. 99 (#111) #############################################
owns. 99
the "Compasses" had closed  that Tarby had emi-
grated to the night public-house, near the cab-stand in
the Westminter Bridge Road, where he would possibly
remain till he became too uproarious, or was kicked
into the street, or was given in charge to the police,
an idea Owen did not think it worth his while to im-
part to the poor woman nodding over her baby by the
empty re-grate.
A single heavy dab on the outer door  a dab
solemn and steady enough to be from Tarby in his
soberest moods, and therefore calculated to arouse
suspicion at once.
"The door, Owen  something's wrong!" was the
quick exclamation of Mrs. Chickney, and Owen ran to
the door and threw it back at once. He knew it would
not be Tarby before he opened the door  Tarby
would have accompanied his arrival that particular
evening by trying to shake the house down, and bawling
denunciations at Owen through the key-hole for not
responding to his summons. He was half prepared for
a friend of Tarby's or a policeman, but not for police-
man 92, with his hat crushed into half its size, and
his nose nearly doubled in magnitude.
"Where's Tarby?" cried Owen.
"In the station-houseI've been sent fora change
of clothes by the Inspector."
This was so remarkable an errand, that Mrs. Chick-
ney ran to the door with her baby.
"He's got hurt in ghting, and hurt some one else
107. It's a bad job, I'm sorry to say."
'-7!
## p. 100 (#112) ############################################
1 O0 owns.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!  mayI come round to-night?"
"No; you're not wanted," said 92 in reply. "You
can't come round ~ he'll be sent up to Lambeth
police-court in the morning, and you can see him
there. But we must make him decent for the magistrate."
"It'sit's nothing more than usual, is it?" she asked.
"Just a trie."
"Oh, dear!" she sighed  "Owen, mind the baby
while I look up his other clothes, and keep away from
the door as much as you can. Will you come inside?"
"Thankee;" and 92 stepped into the shop and
closed the door, and remained with his back against it,
very sti" and upright nothing like the conversational
being with whom Owen had walked from J enkin's
Street. But 92 was on her Majesty's service, and,
perhaps, the damage he had received had rendered
him extra rigid and uncongenial.
He had nothing more to say concerning Tarby,
and, when pressed, only repeated that it was a bad
job, adding that it might be worse; he couldn't say 
nobody could say at present. IIe departed with the
bundle which Mrs. Chickney had prepared for him, and
the weary night seemed as if it would never go away,
and bring the morning round for Tarby's examination.
Tarby's wife did little more throughout the night,
than rock herself and baby in the chair she had occu-
pied before the old, old news came home. The cloud
was heavy over her, and there was no oneto sustain
by a false show of spirits then; so she sat till it was
time to move about and prepare for the visit to the
## p. 101 (#113) ############################################
OWEN. 101
police-court, where the at of the magistrate would be
life and death to her in Hannah Street.
For however the punishment be merited by him
who perpetrates the crime, the sentence must sweep
down upon a crowd of innocent to whom the criminal
is dear.
Mrs. Chickney was prepared to leave home at eight
in the morning, although the magistrate at Lambeth
was not likely to take his place till eleven. Owen
opened shop as usual, and attended to all comers;
whilst Mrs. Chickney, with no heart for work, remained,
with the parlour door shut between her and the world
of Hannah Street.
But the parlour door could not keep the gossips
out, and there were many in the neighbourhood who
knew all about Tarby's last "sensation act," and were
anxious to impart the intelligence, more or less exag-
gerated, to his wife. The wife was eager to hear the
news, too; and the gossips went one by one into the
parlour, where they remained till the parlour became
full, and the cotton skirts of late comers began to back
amongst the greens.
It appeared to have been the customary street
brawl, with everyone in a worse temper than usual,
and inclined to hit more hard. The quarrel had risen
between Tarby and a policeman in the manner natural
to Tarby's quarrels. Tarby, pig-headed and personal
with drink, and the policeman, who was new to the
force, inclined to exhibit his authority with a little
more ourish than was protable to Lower Marsh
## p. 102 (#114) ############################################
102 OWEN.
policemen in general. Tarby had been shut out of the
"Compasses" at twelve, and, being inclined to resent
the proceeding as an insult, had kicked and hammered
at the doors until the new representative of order had
requested him to desist. An argument on the merits of
the case had been begun  broken off-begun again,
till threats of locking-up had aroused all Tarby's
virtuous indignation, who had resisted being taken by
the neckcloth, and therefore knocked the policeman
down. The confusion natural to policemen being
knocked down ensued at once in Lower Marsh. The
crowd, which had been collecting for the last ve
minutes, gathered more closely round the combatants,
and swayed from pavement to road and from road to
pavement, bawling in a hundred keys; tradespeople
pulled up their upstairs window-blinds, and took re-
served seats for themselves and families; the rattle
cracked its warning to the night, and all the boys and
girls and dogs of London appeared to swell the con-
fusion and enjoy it. More policemen from the New
Cut, James Street, and Frazier Street; more co-mates
and brothers ill drink to the rescue of the noble Tarby;
women by some means mixed up in the quarrel, taking
opposite sides and strong grips of each other's back
hair, tearing at each other's face, and shrieking
in C sharp; Tarby on his feet  then on his back
then on a policeman  then under half a dozen.
There is but one sequel to these street brawls: an
increase of ofcial force  a slackening of zeal on the
part of those just sober enough to know that they are
## p. 103 (#115) ############################################
owns. 103
getting into trouble. Tarby was a prisoner; and one
policeman, felled by the staff which Tarby had wrested
from his hand, was carried away moaning to Tower
Street, with a stream of people hustling after him,
and commenting on the outbreak of the night.
These were the particulars offered to Mrs. Chickney
in the back parlour of that shop wherein we have pro-
phesied that Tarby will no more set foot; and Mrs.
Chickney, taking heart from the details  for they
seemed no more new and strange than half-a-dozen
such incidents that had happened in times past, and of
which Tarby had been the hero  took heart, and
thought he fwould get his month, perhaps two, and
"things were not looking worser than they had looked
once or twice before, and she must make the best of it
there!"
Leaving to Owen the sole direction of the business,
Mrs. Chickney, toiling under the weight of the baby,
set forth for Upper Kennington Lane, where is situated
the Lambeth police court, at the back of the general
line of houses, and having an ignoble, cow-shed kind
of entrance, nishing off with an ugly-shaped and
covered yard, where friends of prisoners and witnesses
kick their heels till the Court is opened, or their ser-
vices are required.
Mrs. Tarby was accompanied by more of her female
friends than the little court could decently accom-
modate, and there was much pushing and crowding
when the uncivil young man in the ofce unfastened
the door and let this ragged fringe of the general
## p. 104 (#116) ############################################
104 owns.
public enter. Mrs. Tarby and baby went in with the
rest, and Tarby and two friends, in a bruised condi-
tion, took their places before the magistrate, after a
few preliminary cases had been disposed of.
But Tarby's case was not to be settled that day or
the next. The important fact that the policeman struck
down last night was too ill to attend was delivered to
the magistrate, and a minute after the case had been
remanded, and before Tarby could be removed from
the box, another messenger brought the startling tidings
that the man was dead!
Tarby's bruised face took an unearthly hue, and
his handcuffed hands fell heavily to his side. It was
all up!  he felt that now  he knew that now, as
surely as the woman did who fainted in the body of
the court, and was carried out clinging to her baby,
the one frail hope to hold to in the midst of a sea of
trouble that was rising.
The man dead! A verdict of manslaughter, per-
haps murder, and a long journey for Tarby, or an end
to him, that in his love of drink and heat of passion
he had never dreamed of. And an end, also, to all the
hopes of Tarby's wife  to the little ambitious dream
she had had but lately, of taking a larger shop, per-
haps in the Marsh itself, and buying a pony, which
difculties should not compel to sell again at Mark-
shire Cattle Fair. An end to the fallacy that baby
Mary would work such changes in her husband, that
temptation would be resisted, and a new life begun,
the happiness of which would be greater and more
## p. 105 (#117) ############################################
OWEN. 105
lasting than all the past experience had presented an
idea. Life, with her husband sober, her own old
strength returning, Mary and Owen growing up,
both a comfort and a blessing to her  both her
children!
Well, it was all over! The curtain falls every day
on scenes the brightest, and cuts the pleasant comedy
in half, and drops its sombrcness between it and the
light. Why should the greengrocer's wife be spared,
when queens and peeresses are weeping? When Tarby
was gone, she would have her baby still, and her
business, and many well-meaning, humble friends in
Hannah Street, in a spirit of self-abnegation that
richer folk might imitate, would lose half-a-day's work,
a day's dinner, to keep her company and comfort her,
when company and comfort were necessary to preserve
her from wholly breaking down. The honest poor are
hearty sympathists with each other  would we were
as near the kingdom of heaven as some of them.
It was settled at last, after inquest, and remand,
and trial; it was printed in the papers, and known in
Hannah Street, and recorded in the books of the law,
that Tarby Chickney was guilty of the manslaughter
of policeman 107, and must suffer in consequence, and
be transported beyond the seas  beyond that little
baby, of which he thought so much now!  for the
term of fourteen years.
And Tarby went away, after a painful interview
with his wife and baby and Owen, the full details of
which we spare the reader. Enough to say that, as
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106 owns.
they were passing from the grating behind which
Tarby stood, he called Owen back in a hoarse voice,
and said -
"Owey, lad, she's been more than kind to you; she
has only you now. You won't grow too big to forget her?"
"I!" cried Owen, dashing the tears away with the
back of his hand; "I!"
"You'll be a man soon; and I mayn't live to come
back, or she to see me come, Owey, though she tries
to cheer me up by talking on 'em bothit's like her;
but she's broke down awfully. Look after her and the
babby you're old enough. Lord, see how that bahby
is crowing at me now, and trying with her fat sts to
get be-behind this i-iron work! Take her away; there's
a good little cha-ap!"
And Owen hurried mother and child away, and
closed the interview.
"Mother," said Owen that night, when they were
together in the parlour, and baby was asleep across
Mrs. Chickney's lap; "Tarby asked me to take care of
you and baby. Am I big enough?"
"I hope so," said she, wearily.
"He thought I might grow too big to forget you
some day  is that likely?"
"No.17
"As if my heart did not grow, too!"
"For both of us?" pointing to the baby.
"To be sure."
"I am so glad of it!" she said; and Owen hardly
understood her at that time.
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owns. 107
CHAPTER IV.
Temptation.
Cossonnns are hard to be comforted. Those readiest
with good counsel, and happiest in their remarks on
the tness of things to our moral condition, turn away
from the well-meant advice when their own time is
come to bear the shock of afiction. The old story of
preaching and practice, wherein the practice is scanty,
but wherever the preachers are legion.
Tarby's wife could not take consolation from others;
it was a harder task than attempting to stem half the
sorrows of Hannah Street. She could not nd a bright
side to life now. Tarby was gone; and, though he had
not been the best of husbands, though he had been ill-
tempered and unjust, and even cruel in his drinking
days, yet she took his absence to heart, and looked an
older woman by a half-score years. She had talked so
much of the better days, that when the worse con-
founded all her arrangements, she gave up the struggle,
and confessed herself vanquished.
Even little Mary helped to rouse her but little -
for Tarby's heart had been open to that child; and
what was to become of it in the future, stretching so
dimly and far away from her prescience? Still she
must strive to live on, for little Mary's sake; and Owen
was a good lad, who worked hard for her, and, in her
## p. 108 (#120) ############################################
108 owns.
trouble, was already her reward for that past charity
which rescued a waif from the world. Owen, at twelve
years of age, too, attempted the part of consoler; talked
of fourteen years as fourteen days which were to vanish
away and bring Tarby home again, and boasted of
what he could do in the interim to keep the business
going, and the business arrangements in fair order.
Owen, thrown early on the world, and possessed of no
small amount of native shrewdness, did the marketing
and the hawking, and kept the wolf from that door at
which 92 had arrived with fatal news.
Looking at it as a business speculation, the ab-
sence of Tarby did not very seriously affect the funds
of the Chickneys, the additional income arising from
Tarby's exertions having been generally dissipated in
holiday times by drink and nes for assault. The
change rendered Owen's visits to the free school some-
what uncertain  for Mrs. Tarby was not always strong
or energetic enough to attend to the shop of an evening
then; but Owen worked with renewed vigour when
fortune favoured his attendance, and begged for more
lessons at home to make up. V
Mr. Graham, the tutor of the school, could not help
paying a little extra attention to Owen in particular;
there was something singular in the lads intense desire
for knowledge  in the energy that mastered the dif-
culties in his way, and craved for further tasks that
would absorb his time, and occupy his leisure moments
in Hannah Street when business was slack, or he was
sleepless. Owen was not alone the scholar to whom the
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owmw. 109
opening of that school had done good, and taught a
moral to that pig-headed section of society which sees
harm in driving ignorance from the heads of the hard-
working; but he evinced alone at that time a restless
eagerness for improvement, which each step further
away from the past only served to enhance. Give him
learning, heap task-books before him, set him arduous
lessons for the next school-day, and Owen drew his
breath more free, and in his eyes there was a greater
light. 
To such a lad, it may be imagined, two years of
even fugitive teaching worked wonders; and Owen, at
fourteen, when the new mother had somehow settled
down to her lot  if she were not resigned to the in-
evitable  was scarcely recognizable. The new mother
was weak, and had the face of an old woman, and
Owen was a strapping lad, with a bright, intelligent
countenance, that did one good to see inHannah Street.
Mr. Graham had not forgotten the religious instruction
of his favourite pupil  Owen was the show-boy now
when visitors came  but Owen, although ready to
learn everything, had not evinced any great partiality
for theological doctrines, or proted so much thereby
as his tutor desired.
Owen's was a practical, even a hard mind, that saw
no progress in life derived from a bible studywhieh
guessed that gures, and good handwriting, and general
knowledge, would raise him in the scale without it.
He had not experienced real trouble, and knew nothing
of real comfort; the bible was a matter of history -
## p. 110 (#122) ############################################
1 10 OWEN.
and he learned his task, and turned to another with
composure. The seeds of early training, or that lack
of moral training which is in itself an evil culture, must
bear some fruit, or have some tendency to spoil the
tree transplanted to new soil  some of the original'
nature will cling to it, and permeate amidst its better
life; and Owen was to be no exception to the rule.
He learned right and wrong from his school bible;
he could shudder at his early life, and the road he
might have followed; it taught him to be grateful,
even to an extent thankful  but it warned him not.
It was a study prosecuted with no ardour, and there
were other books he preferred to his bible  books of
travel, and biography, and profane history, all of which
he borrowed from the school library, and took to heart,
and set himself many lessons therefrom of perseverance
and will.
So Owen grew taller, and stronger, and more wise;
whilst Mrs. Chickney struggled to keep home together.
He began even to see what a poor ignorant woman she
was, who had afforded him shelter when a shelter was
salvation; but such knowledge only strengthened his
love for her, and he was a considerate youth, who
never wounded her by a word. He had grown tired
of his present life, and the little business, and the
baskets of greens, and the eternal round of hard work
for scanty prot. He knew to seek his own way in
life now would be better for his after-success; but he
evinced not by a word that such thoughts ever crossed
him, and he turned from them angrily at times, as
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owns. 111
though they were temptations that wronged his love
and gratitude. He was Mrs. Chickney's support, and
without him there was the Union for the new mother
and Mary, who looked up to him. He would live for
them, toil for them all his life, if need were  re-
membering what Tarby's wife had done for him. He
might be something better now than a lad wheeling
fruit or vegetables about the street; but he might have
been a thief or a felon, if the helping hand had not
been offered, and the kind words spoken in good
season. In the fulness of his boy's heart, he had vowed
to serve a life-time; and he did not inch from his word
in the days of greater condence.
The temptation beset him in strange shapes occa-
sionally; friends and enemies seemed to conspire to
make his position one of trial  for his enemies taunted
him and mocked his position, and his friends encour-
aged him to break from it and act for himself. Well
for him he had a will of his own thus early in life -
that even in this waif there were noble qualities, from
which heroes have sprung. May there not arise, even
from these shapeless materials with which we work, as
good 'a hero for a story-book as a Mayfair novelist
creates? Surely all the virtues, noble sacrices, and
honest manliness of heart have not gone West yet, and
may nd room to live even in such a place as Hannah
Street. We say may, for the discerning reader will
take notice that to this present'page we have not
termed him who gives a name to these volumes  our
## p. 112 (#124) ############################################
112 owns.
hero. For we are young and cautious in authorship,
and speak with a reserve.
Perhaps at this time John Dell was Owen's greatest
tempter; for Owen met him more often, and John Dell
had taken an interest in him from the date of the les-
son-book. He had watched Owen's progress more nar-
rowly than that lad himself was aware of. He was a
self-taught man, and saw his life once again in him.
He lent him books that he knew the boy would study
and improve from; and he followed his career step by
step, though he appeared to be minding his own busi-
ness and never interfering.
He interfered at last, however, and became the
tempter. Ruth Dell was fourteen years old then 
tall for her age, and possessing those long arms, and
bony elbows and ngers, which girls of fourteen, giving
promise of exceeding the average standard of height,
invariably exhibit. Owen had called to return a book
that had been lent him, and found Dell, with his niece
Ruth. Two'Ininutes before there would have been
company at No. 6, Jenkins Street; for Owen had found
92 in the act of closing the door of his brother's house
behind him, and exchanged a good evening with him,
which was graciously responded to, 92 being o' duty,
and having the buckle of his stock loosened. There
was a strange freemasonry, be it observed, between 92
and Owen, which neither could have explained had he
been called upon  a secret kind of understanding,
which embarrassed Owen in particular. In old times
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owrm. 1 13
lying so far distant, thank God, that the view was
misty and the perspective confused  the knuckles of
92 had been driven into Owen's neck, and 92 and he
had been followed by a street-mob to Tower Street 
an unpleasant reminiscence, that brought a tinge to
Owen's cheek when in 92's company. 92 appeared to
be always remembering this fact, Owen thought, al-
though, from the manner of the Dells towards him, the
secret had possibly not escaped.
And if it never escaped, he should be happy, feel
himself a different being,  if only the story of the
past life could sink further and further back with every
day! \
In 92's eyes there was the whole story, however,
combined with a quantity of suggestive matter, that
gave a dreamy appearance to those optics. One might
read at times admiration of Owen's energy, the doubt
of its continuance, and then admiration and condence
together; but on all occasions there was the past story
being pondered over when they met.
It was as evident on that particular night-of their
meeting, as on the night when Owen rst became ac-
quainted with the Dells.
"Learning again! Owen, Owen!" with a glance at
the volume in Owen's hand, 92 had said.
"Yes, sir."
"You must have rattled on in the edicationary
line," he had added, with a dash at a hard word as
'usual; "to get through J ohn's books. Glad to see it,
lad!"
Owen:  A Waif. 1. 3
## p. 114 (#126) ############################################
1 14 owns.
And on their next meeting, which occurred one
afternoon in Lower Marsh, with Owen on the shafts of
his barrow, reading through a slack day, 92 gave to
his eyelid a tremulous motion, which might have been
a wink, as he pointed to the barrow, and said 
"Move on, my lad; it's an obstruction, and my orders
are strict. Move on here!" Owen understood by that
peculiar millade, that 92 wished him to see that no
offence was meant; but duty was imperative when a
man was buttoned to the chin, and had something on
his wrist. And Owen wheeled on his barrow sub-
missively.
But we are stepping out too rapidly, and forgetting
Owen's temptation. It was Michaelmas Day, and Mr.
Dell was looking at his quarter's receipt for rent as
Owen entered, holding it at arm's length, and frown-
ing, as though it were a warrant for his immediate
execution.
"I improve the man's house, and build a little
workshop, with a furnace in it; and he takes advantage
of my not having a lease, and raises my rent!" he was
saying, with his usual rapidity, as Owen entered.
"Such a man as that it would be a luxury to kick,
Ruth."
Ruth was at needle-work by the window, and doing
her best to ruin a pair of ne hazel eyes, by working
"between the lights."
"Well, it was not business on my part; but I was
in a hurry to run up a workshop, and had faith in
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owns. 115
human nature  Hallo, young man! why didn't you
knock?"
"92 was going out as I came in, sir," replied
Owen; "but I knocked at the parlour door before I
turned the handle."
"And very proper, too; though I was too busy to
take notice of your summons," said he. "Ruth, my
dear, put the receipt on the le directly. Well, young
man, good evening to you."
Owen returned the tardy salutation, and bade a
good evening to Ruth Dell, who replied, "Good even-
ing, Owen," in her usual kind manner. And Owen
liked her manner exceedingly, and thought it a great
improvement on her uncle's.
. "So the book's done! What have you learned
from it?"
"Oh! a great deal."
"It's the life of a man who worked his own way.
I like such men," and he looked as ercely at Owen,
as though Owenhad expressed an opinion the very
reverse of his own.
"It makes one want to try  don't it, sir?"
"It makes the right sort try at once  not think
of trying."
"Ah! if they had the chance!" said Owen, with a
half-sigh that did not escape the quick observer before
him.
"The right sort makes the chance  not waits
for it."
Dell gave the usual jerk of his head to the custo-
3*
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11 6 owns.
mary jerk of his voice; but Owen felt there was some-
thing more implied than a mere emphatic comment on
passing events. And Owen was right.
"Sit down, Owen. Let us talk this matter over
you and I. Are you pressed for time?"
"No, sir."
"Sit down, then, and don't make that confounded
shufe with your feet."
Owen was always a little nervous in John Dell's
presence; he had long since seen much in him to re-
spect and admire; but to the present time he had never
become accustomed, or relished, his sharp manner of
address. A man so naturally kind, so anxious, in his
way, to do a little good, might have had a more agree-
able way with him to advantage, Owen fancied.
Owen sat down, and left off shuffling, and Dell
began 
"Look at me. You know what a genius means?"
"Yes." '
"Well, I'm not oneI never shall be."
Owen could not very well reply to this, and Dell
continued 
"You've been reading the life of a genius  a
genius for mechanics  who made his fortune, and
rose from the crowd. I'm not a genius, and may never
make my fortune; though I pushed my way for a be-
ginning in much the same way as he did. He went
further, and I, nding my level, came to a stop, or
nearly so. All right and proper, and nothing to grumble
at, is there?"
## p. 117 (#129) ############################################
owmz. 1 17
"Not that I see, sir."
"You appear to see pretty clearly for a lad of
fourteen. Don't you see an opening for yourself?"
"No, Mr. Dell; besides - "
"There, don't begin a lot of 'besides,'" he inter-
rupted; "if I hate anything besides cats, it's 'besides,'
and 'ifs,' and 'supposes.' They hamper honest men to
death!"
Owen did not enlighten him further. He was
about to speak of'Tarby's wife, when John Dell had
interrupted him; and it was a story that perhaps his
listener would hardly understand, and, therefore, better
left alone.
"I've been round to your school!" was Dell's sud-
den remark.
"Indeed!"
"I've been bothering my head about you, and
getting to the rights of things. Graham tells me you
are head boy, and know as much as he can teach you
that it all rests with yourself now, or with higher
masters than you or I can afford. You're quick at
gures, you know a little English, you can speak for
yourself, and  you trundle a barrow all day!"
"Yes," and Owen bit his lip.
"I don't say you'll ever be like the man you read
of in that book  it's not probable; but nothing can
hinder you getting on a little, if you carry the same
'gumption' into the world with you. You should ad-
vance, boy."
Owen nodded, as if it were very good advice; but
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118 owns.
it was a listless recognition of the interest felt in him,
and irritated John Dell in consequence.
"Any fool can wheel a barrow, and shout out the
price of what he has to sell upon it; an idiot can carry
a basket of greens home. You've shown energy in
some things  why do you lack it at a time when
your whole life may be inuenced by one step?"
"I don't lack it  I don't like my life  I "
Owen stopped and coloured, and Ruth Dell, who
had found it too dark to continue her needlework, sat
with her back to the window, interested in the dia-
logue.
"Go on," said Dell.
"Oh, it doesn't matter!"
"But it does; for there's a reason  and if it's a
bad one, the sooner we scotch it the better."
"I've been left in charge of Tarby's wife, who's
been a mother to me," said Owen, with some of Mr.
Dell's abruptness. "Tarby's wife must go to the Work-
house without me; and she shan't. Tarby left her
and little Mary to me," cried Owen, with excitement;
"and I'm proud of my trust  there!"
John Dell, nursing one knee, and biting one thumb
nail, kept his great grey eyes xed on Owen. He
made no reply for several moments, as Owen paused,
and fought a little for his breath; but still watched
him, as a microscopist might watch the labours of an
ephemeron under his lens. He was touched by the
boy's earnestness, but he would not show it  he was
vain of his self-command, as are all men, if they have
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owns. 1 19
any of that article to boast of. For a reason of his
own he would go on tempting; and he checked a
speech of his more impulsive niece by a frown, that
sent her back to obscurity.
"I might obtain you the rst step in the foundry.
I am likely to be foreman of a shop soon, and then
there's my own life to follow step by step. There is
no cleverness wanted, only fair steadiness and strength."
Owen shook his head and thanked him. His heart
warmed to the offer, and he was grateful; but he
swerved not for a moment from his old promise to
Tarby. Ruth Dell letting him out that night whis-
pered 
"You have acted for the best. My uncle thinks so.
Don't look so dull, Owen," and Owen had pressed her
hand in return for the words that fell so gratefully.
"You are very kind, Miss, to say so. I am glad
you think so," he added with emphasis, as he turned
away.
Ruth was only fourteen years of age, but the earn-
estly uttered words made her colour, although she was
a girl who had never even had a boy sweetheart, but
had been frightened of boys all her life, as rough crea-
tures in trousers, who were always inging stones, and
reviling their seniors.
And Owen was glad that Ruth Dell considered he
was right, for Ruth was a superior being in his eyes,
and held in greater estimation than her father. Ruth
was a clever girl, who was always doing good. She
had become a Sunday-school teacher lately, and the
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120 owns. ~'
pupils were progressing under her care. John Dell
had told him so much of Ruth too; how quickly she
learned everything, and how she took to everything,
and excelled in it, even to the piano, at which she
only practised in the room of her nishing governess.
For John Dell had launched into the extravagance of
a nishing governess for his niece. When he saw ta-
lent he was anxious to develop it - and her talents
would be her living, or render her at least independent
of adversity some day. She had been a careful house-
keeper to his lonely bachelorhood, and the very best
of children, and he could but evince his gratitude by
giving her the best of educations. 'People in Jenkins
Street, who knew all about it, thought John Dell was
very foolish to afford her an education so much above
her position and his own, and that the result would be
ingratitude and unbecoming pride.
But John Dell knew better, for he understood
Ruth's character, and how a high education would
adorn it, as jewels and lace and other vanities adorn
certain phases of beauty, let the poet say what he
may. Ruth would always be gentle and loving, let
her have that which is "most excellent," to render her
t for any station in the future. She would presently
leave him and go out as pupil-teacher and governess,
and then every "extra" for which he paid would be
of service to her, God bless her!
And Owen said "God bless her," too, that night,
for his heart had been troubled, though not shaken by
the words of her uncle. Dell was a man- who did
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owns. 12 1
everything for the best, and had a high opinion of
what was man's duty to himself as well as to his
neighbour; a man who could argue and put things in
their most presentable light, and say plain truths, from
which there was no escape.
No escape! And though Owen, under his coun-
ter, felt the weight of them, he was a willing prisoner,
whose gratitude was greater than his pride. Self-ab-
negation is an heroic quality, so from this time forth
then, 0 reader, let us write him  our hero!
## p. 122 (#134) ############################################
122 owns.
CHAPTER V.
The New and the Old.
TAKING advantage of the absence of Owen, John
Dell, who was a man who let not grass grow under
his feet, made his appearance in Hannah Street. It
was a few minutes after half-past four, the time be-
tween that and ve allowed for tea to the workers at
the foundry. But he was inclined to resign his tea for
one night if need were, although Ruth might wonder
what had become of him, and dget herself about
some accident at the great place, the high roofs and
tall brick shafts of which shadowed the street wherein
she dwelt. '
Mrs. Chickney was sitting in the shop, hard at
work at a little frock for Mary, who, perched on the
counter, had half a carrot, a turnip, and the head of a
penny doll for toys, whilst her mother laboured
diligently. The woman who had given way, and was
mourning still for Tarby, was not a woman to sit idle,
when there was work to do and some one to work for.
For herself, she was supine - it did not matter to her
what people said or thought; and John Dell, standing
in the doorway, was puzzled to assign a reason for so
very clean and bright a baby, and so very dusty and
untidy a mother.
"You know me by name as a customer, Mrs.
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owmw. 123
-
Chickney? - John Dell," he said, by way of intro-
duction, as he entered the shop.
"Yes, sir," she answered languidly.
"I've come to have a little talk with youthere'll
be no offence meant?"
Mrs. Chickney looked at him with a mild surprise.
His smartness even seemed to awaken in her some
slumbering elements of her own old character  for
she answered with a briskness very new to her in those
days 
"To be sure, sir  and no offence meant. Where's
the one to take it in its wrong sense?"
The one to take it now and then in that sense was
transported for fourteen years, and she thought so the
moment afterwards, and fell to zero. Everything would
remind her so of Tarby!
"Perhaps the articles are not so good, now Tarby's
gone," she said, wearily. "I suppose it's that you've
come about."
The articles were a great deal better; but Tarby's
merits had magnied by distance, and it was a happy
time when he was free, and had made things look
better to her.
"No  I've come about Owen."
"Oh! what's he done?"  and she looked up with
a hasty expression of alarm.
"Nothing, woman  don't jump like that and try
to frighten me. He's done nothing, and in more senses
than one, too."
"And n
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124 owns.
"And he ought to have done something by this
time. A brisk lad, with good sense, good temper,
and some knowledge of English. Do you understand
me?" '
"Not yet, sir."
Tarby's wife put down her work, and took her
child into her lap, and was all attention.
"For a lad half-brought up at evening-school and
half self-taught, he's got on well," said John; "and
would get on better, if not hampered."
"Who hampers him?" inquired Mrs. Chickney,
with a heightened colour  "is it this place, or me,
or baby here? Oh, sir! he hasn't been complain-
ing?"
"No; he's a good lad," was the sharp answer.
"Ay, the best of lads as ever growed up  a son
to me, who never complains or gives me a hard word.
Isn't that a deal to say, sir?"
"It is," said Dell; "and it's more to say that you
cannot see how his slavery here is keeping him down.
I could nd him a berth now, where he would earn his
twelve to fteen shillings a-week, if he were quick and
clever; and he can't take it, because he's a green-
grocer's boy, who must run on errands and wheel a
barrow. And I can't persuade him to take it."
"Can you expect me?" asked Tarby's wife, with
a ash of her old shrewdness  "me he helps so
much?"
"No."
"Ah! then you may; I ain't been a friend to him
## p. 125 (#137) ############################################
owns. 1 2 5
all my life, to stand in his way now. I'd rather go to
the workus than that."
"Does this business bring you in any money?"
"I've managed to save a little lately."
"Won't it pay you to have some one else to manage
it, and let Owen board with you?"
"It may  it mayn't. I don't know where the
some ones to come from, and I ain't so sweet on the
place as I was. I thought once I might struggle on
till Tarby came back; but there's no waiting twelve
years here, and I growing weaker every day. Still, I
won't stand in Owen's light  I have made up my
mind, sir  you're right."
"You'll have to argue with him, for he's a stubborn
lad, and blind as a bat to his own interest. There's
no need for any hurry; but it's a pity he's here, and
- and I take to the lad  there!"
John Dell looked as if he had said a very foolish
thing, and wished to brazen the matter out.
"You should have been a married man, sir."
"Eh!"  and John De1l's eyes protruded more
and more, and his face for a moment underwent a
change.
"You're fond of lads and children; you brought up
your own niece like your daughter like a lady born
a'most. Owen's told me everything."
"Owen should mind his own business," was the
gru' response.
"And you have been very kind to Owen, and you
won't nd him ungrateful. Poor lad!"  with a little
## p. 126 (#138) ############################################
126 owns.
sigh  "as if I hadn't knowed before you told me,
how I was standing in his way  as if it hadn't
worrited me nights and nights. Heigho! I wish I had
a friend to go to."
"Have you any relations?"
"No, sir. I was an only child, and mother, and
father, and father's brother and sisters all died early.
We're an early dying lot!"
"And on Tarby's side?" -
"There's one or two on Tarby's side; but then
Tarby put 'em all out long ago, by marrying me, when
he might have done better with Sall Sanders. They
were very much agin the match!"
So even costermongers have their me'salliances; and
there are differences and disunions amongst us, even to
the lowest rung of the ladder. Amidst the grimly
ridiculous at which John Dell smiled, he could but pity
the woman, and in his interest for her forget the tea
simmering vainly at home upon the hob.
"You'll think of all this then?" he said; "and as
the shop is a living, I should advise you to stick to it,
and nd another help."
"I've no one to help me."
"God!"
Dell spoke more sharply than even his wont;
religious feelings were deep in his heart, and actuated
most of his motives, though he seldom confessed it.
He was a man who kept his religion to himself, who
read his Bible and went to church, and was rather
proud of making no show, when even making a show
## p. 127 (#139) ############################################
owns. 127
would have beneted his fellow-creatures. He had a
horror of cant, and even feared a good example might
be taken for an exhibition thereof. There was not a
man at the foundry who had an idea of Dell's piety;
even 92 was in the dark, and only 92's daughter but
half read him. Therefore, Dell spoke sharply, because
he was vexed with the woman's apathy, and did not
care to let her indifference to the present pass wholly
unreproved. Nay, he would have been glad to make
a convert, if his intentions had not stood a chance of
being wrongly interpreted.
"Ay, it's too late to think of Him!"
"What do you mean by too late?" cried Del],
taken o" his guard - "have you only half an hour
to live?"
"More than that, I hope"  hugging the child
tighter to her breast, as though the suggestion had
frightened her.
"Then there's time - think of it."
And Dell rushed from the shop and ran down the
street, for the factory bell was beginning to ring the
workmen back to labour, and to be behind time was
not only a ne, but a slur to a-man's reputation.
Tarby's wife did not put Mary back on the counter
and resume the work from which Dell's appearance
had distracted her. She sat with the child in her lap,
gazing dreamily beyond the open shop front into the
street. Dell had aroused many and strange thoughts;
to none more strange than that to which his last few
words had given birth. -She could think of that and
## p. 128 (#140) ############################################
128 OWEN.
her duty to Owen too; they seemed to go together,
and set her heart throbbing, and bring wish after wish
to her lips. She had lost her old strength, was more
liable to new impressions, was pining for some real
comfort in the midst of her desolation, and this man
had brought it her. \He was of a class not too far
removed from her own; he was a hard worker, and
could understand her, though he had little time to
spare, and was a man more of action than thought.
She felt that she could trust him  that he spoke fair
and intended well  that it would be better for Mary,
and even Owen, if she could make up her mind to
think a little of her God. Was it so hard a task
to learn to pray, when she had so much to pray for?
Tarby's wife was very meditative for some days;
then she broached the rst subject that had helped to
disturb her.
"Owen, I'm going to let the shop."
"Let the shop!" exclaimed our hero  "what is
that for?"
"I'm tired of it, boy; I'm pining for fresh air, and
the country, and the elds; I'm ill, and change will
do me good, if anything will."
She spoke as if she doubted it.
"Take a week or a fortnight's holiday, mother, and
leave the place to me," said Owen, quickly. "Then
you and little Mary will come back well and strong."
"No; I shall live in the country  some little
cottage or other, where rents are cheap  some little
shop or other that I can manage by myself."
## p. 129 (#141) ############################################
owns. 129
"What's to become of me, then?"
"You'll do better, Owenyou're t for something
better than this now."
"Am I?"
"You can write to Tarby and let him know what
change we've made; and, perhaps, you'll come down
now and then to see us."
"I know all about it!" cried Owen, jumping up,
and overturning his chair. "Dell's at the bottom of
this  don't tell me he.hasn't been here putting all
this in your head, for I know better! When was he here?"
"A week ago," she answered, with hesitation.
"He has no feeling  he don't understand me or
you, or what you've done for me. I will have no al-
teration  I will share your troubles, and be that
eldest son you've called me many a time. Oh! mother,
I'm not the rst-born in your heart if you seek to ing
me off like this!"
"Oh, Owen!  Owen "
And Tarby's wife began to sob passionately, as the
boy's arms stole round her neck and pressed her to
him. She could understand the love she had gained,
and its depth, for the rst time in her life, perhaps.
Owen tried to look too big to cry like a baby now,
but he gave way at her emotion, and turned away his
head to conceal the tears that silently welled over. But
he was rm, and would have no alteration that should
part them  he had promised to look after her and
little Mary, and God be his witness he would keep his word!
Mrs. Chickney descended to the next question of a
Owen:  A Wuif. I. 9
## p. 130 (#142) ############################################
130 ownn.
new general manager, and Owen in the foundry where
John Dell worked, and Owen promised to consider
that point when he had discovered the manager suitable
for so delicate a task. Till then he put off the question
sine die. Owen would have no more of it, and he began
to arrange his books, and light the bat's-wing burner
in the parlour, preparatory to a new course of study.
"He would have no more of it," Owen had said,
as though he were a ruler of puppets instead of a
puppet himself  a little knowledge had given him a
little power, and he felt inclined to use it tyrannously.
But there were changes to be made, despite his wish;
and there was no power at his command to turn them
by a single hair's-breadth. The change must come, for
the Hand that never falters had recorded it.
Tarby's wife became more ill and weak: Owen had
to go to the doctor's instead of the market, and,
doctors doing no good, eventually to a physician,
whose fee swooped away three-fourths of the week's
receipts.
Tarby's wife was in bed, and could not always
bear little Mary's noise now, and Owen was nurse to
the child, while the old woman above-stairs  ever a
good nurse when help was needed  came a third
time in our experience into the back parlour to attend
to Mrs. Chickney. - .
The physician doing no good, and the parish doctor
and his new assistant making matters, if anything, a
trie worse, Owen bethought himself of the Mr. Glindon
of old times  no longer an assistant, but, thanks to
## p. 131 (#143) ############################################
ownu. 131
a lucky legacy, in business for himself, Newington
way. Mr. Glindon had not pleased Owen in those
times to which we allude, but then he had proved
himself possessed of a certain amount of cleverness;
and, since his success, people had begun to talk of
him  as people do about you and me, reader, when
their good words are of not half so much account as
they might have been years agone  and to say what
a rising M. R. C. S. he was likely to prove.
Owen went in search of Mr. Glindon, and for-
tunately met that gentleman in the fore-court of his
house, making his way at a leisurely rate, that re-
minded our hero of their rst interview, towards a
smart private cab awaiting him. He had taken o' his
hat a moment, as if to ventilate it, and Owen could
see that his hair was more ourishing than ever at the
ends, and that his forehead looked more high and white.
"Your name's Glindon?"
"Yes."
"Will you come and see my mother at once  the
other doctors are doing her no good, and I've faith in you."
"Thank you." And Mr. Glindon looked a little
gratied.
"You did her good once  three years ago."
"Where does your mother live?"
"Hannah Street, Lambeth."
"Oh, so far as that."
And there was a perceptible change in Mr. Glindon's
good-looking face.
9 -x-
## p. 132 (#144) ############################################
132 owns.
"It can't make much difference with your cab 
and you'll be paid at once, sir."
The tone of Owen's voice possibly reminded him,
despite the change of three years, of the boy with
whom he had had some triing altercation; and the
abrupt mention of payment even a little nettled him.
"I have seen you before."
"Yes  I came for you once, sir."
"The green-grocer's in Hannah Street, was it not?"
was the next question.
Mr. Glindon had evidently an excellent memory.
"Yes, sir."
"It's rather far for me, and I've no doubt your
mother's in safe hands."
"Then you won't come?"
"I am very sorry" (Mr. Glindon was more polite in
his new estate), "but I really don't think I have the
time."
"Perhaps you don't like poor patients?" said Owen,
bluntly.
"Not particularly" with a supercilious glance at
the querist.
"Isn't their money as good as other people's, or
have you grown too much of an upstart?" said Owen,
almost with a shout.
"Let me pass, my good fellow, and don't bawl in
that outrageous manner here  I might have hesitated
had you kept a civil tongue, but to such impudence as
yours, I 11:-vrw give way."
And looking very hard about the mouth, he passed
## p. 133 (#145) ############################################
owns. 133
Owen, stepped into his private Hansom, and was
whirled to more respectable thoroughfares than Hannah
Street.
Owen felt sorry that he had lost his temper with
Mr. Glindon; but there was something in the man 
his looks, his manner, his implied superiority  that
had roused our hero's antipathy, even though he had
gone in search of him, as a clever practitioner who
might do his mother good. Still, there were men more
clever, and possessed of more experience  he would
take that day to nd them out.
And they were found out, and did no good to
Tarby's wife, who was breaking up, and for whom
there was no hope. She was a woman who had seen
much trouble, and much trouble is the wear and tear
which put the inner machinery quickest out of order.
She had borne much with her husband, and helped to
support him by her own example; but when he went
away, half her life went too, and so there was only
half the strength to battle with disease.
She called Owen to her side one day.
"Owen, I should like to see that Mr. Dell again."
("Why?71
"Not to ask a favour for you. Don't look so
darkly at me."
"I, mother!" and Owen did his best to smile.
"But I want to see him. He's one of the few, Ithink."
"The few?"
"The few good, and willing to do good. Will you
ask him to come?"
## p. 134 (#146) ############################################
1 34 ownn.
Owen went upon his mission, and saw Ruth, and
left his message with her; and in the dinner hour
John Dell, in fustian, made his appearance.
"Mr. Dell," said Tarby's wife, as he came into the
parlour, "you're sure there's time to thinlc of it?"
Weeks had elapsed since then. Tarby's wife had
worked for little Mary, and argued with Owen, and
then broken down. John Dell had gone early and
late to the foundry, and been engaged at a hundred
different tasks, and had his mind employed night and
day, and yet each turned to the subject where it had
been abruptly broken o', as though but a few minutes
had elapsed since they had spoken of it.
"Whilst there is life there is time, and  hope."
"Will you sit down here, and try to help me on a
way that is very dark. Shall I be robbing you of too
much time?"
"No.71
And the man of robust health took his seat by the
dying woman's side, a picture that an artist might
have rendered touching at that moment, for there was
true religion allied to true simplicity. Let us leave
them together. It is not our province to preach at
any length in the pages of a book of this nature, and
if the moral strike not home without our preaching,
not all the homilies from the lips of our characters will
affect the most sensitive of our audience. And novelists
are players, not preachers, critics tell us, and should
keep their place. So be it, we bow to a fair verdict.
And .yet, upon second consideration, we are in-
## p. 135 (#147) ############################################
owns. 135
clined to have the last word too, for is there not a
doubt where the novelist's task ends and the preacher's
begins? In the novels professedly written for amuse-
ment, and eschewing a moral like poison, is there much
amusement offered us of an original description? Do
not fty out of fty-one begin, and continue, and end
in the same manner, and is not the "damnable itera-
tion" tedious? Surely a little more morality, if pro-
fessed morality, would do no harm to our three-volume
creations, if we could slide the ingredient carefully in,
and not plaster our pages with wise aphorisms. And
be it understood, that when the true novel be allied to
the true moral; when the moral shall not be sacriced
for effect, and the effect considered of importance, and
not buried under dreary dissertation, there will be a
revolution in letters, and a success undreamed of even
in these book-reading times.
John Dell and Tarby's wife remained half an hour
together, and Tarby's wife seemed more at peace with
herself and the world after his departure.
~ "He is a good man," was her only comment on the
interview, which was not the last between them; for in
his dinner hour, and after work in the evening, his
grave, earnest face would light up that little back-
room, as the face of a dear valued friend always lights
up our homestead. Owen remained in the shop during
these long conversations, only the old woman nurse
was a witness and auditor. Dell's visits lasted a week
or more, with doctors calling every day, and keeping
Hannah Street lively; and then John Dell brought
## p. 136 (#148) ############################################
136 owns.
his favourite clergyman to talk to Tarby's wife "better
than he could himself," albeit the invalid was of a
different opinion.
And then came the last day, when physicians and
surgeons were of little use, and all that they had pro-
phesied looked nearer truth, on entering that room.
Then, as is noticed in more cases than her own, Tarby's
wife became nervous, and irritable, and fearful of the
future  not so much her own future as Owen's, and
that child of three years old, who went in and out of
the parlour, wondering what it all meant, and why
mammy lay so still, and people's voices were hushed,
and she herself bidden eternally to make less noise.
"Owen, isn't it late enough to put the shutters
up?" Mrs. Chickney asked, when it was eight in the
evening, and John Dell had looked in and gone again.
Owen was sitting by the bedside, and the old nurse
was in the shop with Mary.
"Almost; shall we close early to-night, and have a
long evening together?"
"It does not matter."
Owen looked anxiously at her.
"They have told me the worst as well as you,
dear  there's no occasion to keep it quiet. I'm not
afeard to talk of it."
"That's well," murmured our hero.
"I'm not afeard to die  I have not done much
harm in my life, and I've not forgotten Him at the
last; and yet I'm not happy, Owen."
## p. 137 (#149) ############################################
ow:-m. 137
"You don't mind telling me all that keeps you
anxious, mother?"
"No-17
She paused a moment to ght with her breath,
which was very weak and low, and then held her
hand to Owen, which he took and clasped between
his own.
"You have been a kind lad  a good son," she
murmured  "may God bless you, and lead your steps
aright. You will write to Tarby, and tell him how I
remembered and prayed for him at the last?"
"Yes."
"You will begin a new life like after I'm gone 
with the Dells and others. You may grow too big to
think of this day with anything 'cept shame."
"Do you think so, mother?"
"Well, I think not; but I'm  I'm afeard!"
She had changed colour so, that Owen had started
to his feet to run for the doctor, when called back by
her faint voice.
"Don't leave me, Owey, dear  I've something
more to say."
Owen resumed his station by her side, and her hand
with a great effort made its way between his own again.
"Tell me what is to become of Mary, my little
baby, that brought so much misfortun' with the blessing
of her coming?"
"Trust her to me."
"You will care for her, till she is old and can
care for herself? you will do your best to serve her?"
## p. 138 (#150) ############################################
138 owns.
"With all my heart and soul!"
"Sometimes" (with a sigh) "I'm wicked enough to
wish that she could die along with me  both going
away together seems to me to be happier for both!"
"Trust her to me," said Owen again.
"In your own struggles for a better life, remember
her; in your own hopes let her have a little share; in
that heart you told me once was a-growing and a-grow-
ing with you, keep a place for her!"
"Mother, I will never forget her. She shall be
the sister I will love and work for  she  mother,
do you feel much worse?" he cried, hastily.
"The  the child!"
Owen darted into the shop, motioned the woman
to hasten in search of the doctor, caught the child in
his arms, and bore her back to the room.
"Mother, here is little Mary  will you speak to
her before you go, and say goodbye? Oh, mother!
pray God to bless this guardianship of mine!"
She smiled faintly, and her lips moved at his re-
quest; but the ame was dying out, and the messenger
was waiting. As the child was held towards her
mother, she smiled still more faintly than before, and
died, with Owen sobbing at the bedside.
* * * =1= =2 a
It had begun to snow an hour afterwards, when
the shutters were closed, and Owen was standing at
the door whilst the old woman went through that
ghastly work of "streaking," which old women of her
species seem to delight in. She had nursed.her tenderly,
## p. 139 (#151) ############################################
owns. 139
and done more than her duty; she would have been
glad to see her recover, but, the worst having hap-
pened, she set to work at her new task, and took snuff
over the deceased, and had one or two crones, who
scented the dead as vultures might, to look in for a
moment or two, and offer their instructions.
Little Mary had not gone to bed yet, but stood
by Owen's side, and held his hand, and watched with
him the snow drifting down the narrow street, in which
there were grief and mourning.
As they watched, there passed them slowly and
unsteadily the gure of a woman, at which Owen
recoiled and drew back a step with Mary; for the
gure was well known to him, and ve years had not
changed it. It had been advancing towards them
down the street for several minutes, creeping in the
shadow of the houses, and pausing once or twice to
steady itself by clutching at occasional window-sills
and shutters. When Owen had seen it rst he had
been struck by something in its manner, walk  even
in the way the shawl was worn, with the ragged fringe
trailing in the mud, to which the feet of passers-by
had trodden the snow that had fallen hitherto. He
'had recoiled when, passing under the street-lamp, the
face was held up for a moment, and had been seen in
all its drunken vacuity of expression. The face had
haunted his dreams and troubled his waking thoughts
too long not to scare him then; and his impulse was
to retreat into the shadow, while the woman passed
## p. 140 (#152) ############################################
140 ownrz.
and turned the corner, breathing hard as though she
had been running.
Shadow of crime, as it were  reex of his past
estate, from which he had emerged  still it was the
mother who had borne him in shame and sorrow, and
she might be starving, or full of desperate thoughts.
Relinquishing little Mary's hand, his second im-
pulse carried him into the street which she had recently
entered. No signs of her  her footsteps merged in
a hundred others  nothing in the wintry streets but
a lean cat, which was stealing across the road, looking
right and left, and suffering from nervous trepidation.
Owen ran bareheaded a little way, -but saw no
sign of her, and felt perhaps it was better for them
that they had not met just then.
It was a strange chance  or a stranger working
of that mysterious element which is not chance, but is
akin to Providence  that had brought the mother
into the same street that night. As the new mother
died, who had saved Owen from temptation and given
him a home, so stepped into the light the mother of
old, who had deserted him, and taught him but things
evil. It seemed as if the good were dying out, and
all the ills from which he had escaped were drifting
back with that night's snow! V
It was a time for morbid thoughts, and he could
not escape them; in the bitter moments of such a loss
and such a recovery  he could but let them
master him, and wonder what the end would be.
END or THE snoom) BOOK.
## p. 141 (#153) ############################################
BOOK THE THIRD.
BATTLE-GROUND.
## p. 142 (#154) ############################################
I
.i ,.. '-
## p. 143 (#155) ############################################
CHAPTER I.
Seven Years.
WE design this chapter as a record of the seven
years that have passed since Mrs. Chickney departed
this life, and left her daughter Mary to the care of an
adopted son. The chances and changes natural to
seven years have passed over the heads of those to
whom prominence has been given in this history 
time has moved with them and worked wonders, and
set them on their varied paths of life, the end of which
lay hidden in the impenetrable Beyond.
To speak of Owen in particular is to allude to the
majority of those good friends of ours who have
already made their bow to a critical audience. The
life of our hero has become so interwoven with theirs,
and owes its progress so much to their own, that in
keeping to our central gure we lose not sight of
those who have their parts to play in future pages of
a story somewhat strange.
Possibly the reader is prepared for progress in
Owen  does not expect to nd him still in Hannah
Street, from which the rst step was made, and from
which dates so much of regeneration. Seven years
place Owen on the threshold of man's estate, take him
out of his teens, and set him before us to re-copy.
## p. 144 (#156) ############################################
144 ' - owns.
Life has begun in earnest with him, and it is an
earnest face that meets one's own. There is vitality
in it, and in these days of platter-faces, of stupid-
looking, simpering, young exquisites, whose soul is in
the set of their shirt collars, such a face is pleasant to
come across. A dark countenance is that of Owen's,
inclined to be swarthy, and its good looks a matter of
doubt, and requiring the opinion of a whole jury of
ladies. It is a peculiar face, the features sharply cut,
the lips a little too thin, the eyes possessing that
searching quality which, in a person who dislikes to
meet people's eyes, produces a sensation the reverse of
pleasurable. And yet it is a frank, intelligent face,
and the at la vnilitaire crop of the black hair gives the
head a lightness and ease that carries it well on his
shoulders. Owen is above the middle height, of a
slight, well-proportioned gure, that is a little at
variance with his feet and hands, the former of which
are small, and the latter large and bony. Charac-
teristic hands those of Owen's, not attempting to
escape observation by large cuffs, but fairly displayed
by having the coat sleeves turned back above his
wrists. Shrewd observers have pretended to judge
character by the hand, and taken it as an index to
the mind of its owner, and, no doubt, there are some
hands which are extremely suggestive. Owen's are,
at any rate; and bony as they may appear, they are
well shapen, and imply a delicacy of touch when
occasion requires as well as a rm grip that a nervous
man would object to have at his neckcloth. They tell
## p. 145 (#157) ############################################
owns. 145
of strength and rmness  a man asked to judge by
their appearance in inaction would not have taken
them for the hands of a vacillating, easy-going man
they seem hands that can make a way for their
owner through the briars and underwood of the world's
wilderness; that may be torn and gashed in their pro-
gress, but, inching not from the danger, will press on
to the end  to the prize that may hang there, or
the bubble that may burst in their grasp.
Looking back on the path trodden by our hero,
let us mark his progress, and see how he has fought
his way. From such a starting-point, in a world that
is full of barriers, and is sceptical and unbelieving, he
has worked hard to gain the vantage-ground from
which we take up his story.
Making the best of the stock-in-trade, xtures, and
effects of the little shop in Hannah Street, and in-
vesting the same in a savings' bank for Mary Chickney,
Owen, acting on the advice of John Dell, friend and
counsellor at this juncture, had placed Mary in charge
of an old female friend of Dell's mother, resident in a
Surrey village, a convenient distance by railway from
London. 'Of Mary's progress in her new home more
anon; at present we have Owen before us.
Having fortunately placed his ward in good hands,
it became the young guardian's interest to look out
for himself; and here John Dell, to whom he had al-
ready been indebted for so much advice, came with
his shrewd common sense to assist him.
"It is a rough, hard life at the foundry, Owen,"
Owen:  A Waif. 1. 10
## p. 146 (#158) ############################################
146 owns.
said he; "but you are not afraid of work, and one can
push his way there, if he keep steady. I will speak
to Mr. Cherbury."
And old Mr. Cherbury, with whom Dell was a
favourite, and who had recently made a foreman of
Dell, and given a considerable lift to his position in
life, took Owen into a service that necessitated a
thousand to fteen hundred pairs of hands. And in
this great factory, where the noises were never still,
where night and day some furnace roared, some ham-
mers rung, some men toiled at overwork, Owen began
his new life, and might have continued to plod on
there, and have become in time another John Dell,
had not Mr. Cherbury  an eccentric old gentleman,
whose soul was in the great factory his perseverance
had reared - observed the lad, when he was seventeen,
studying some book over an employment that required
but a mechanical and regular application of the ham-
mer. So earnest a study, under circumstances so dis-
advantageous, pleased Mr. Oherbury. He could re-
member an incident in his own life akin to it; for he
was a self-taught man, who had worked his way up-
wards. He questioned Owen as to the extent of his
abilities, held a conference of some length with Dell,
ascertained Owen's skill as an arithmetician, and,
much to the disgust of two clerks in the counting-
house, promoted him to a desk, and made him junior
assistant on probation.
The probation was hard, for the clerks were hard
upon him, and the managing-man even  a just man
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enough  inclined to shrug his shoulders at Mr. Cher-
bury's new eccentricity.
Owen, after a week's desk-work, took counsel with
John Dell, in John Dell's new house, in Kennington
Road, where Owen lodged and boarded.
"I'd rather go back to the foundry," said Owen
impetuously, after recounting one or two little slights,
which had aroused his indignation.
"What for?" was the blunt rejoinder.
"I can work my way there  I can see my way
clearly  I'm not sneered at by a couple of jackanapes,
who think themselves gentlemen."
"Are the accounts too difcult?"
"NO."
"Then keep where you are. What does it matter
what the jackanapes say and think? A man will al-
ways have enemies when he begins to rise in the
world. This is a grand step, Owen."
"Ay, most people think so."
"Don't you?" Dell jerked forth, with his eyes a
few degrees more prominent in his head.
"I don't want to be a gentleman, and wear ne
clothes. Wasn't I happy enough in my fustian, Mr.
Dell?  wasn't I more at home?"
"It is a matter of doubt how long you would have
remained so," said Dell, in reply. "You're becoming
such a man of cultivation."
"Ah! I can bear your hard thrusts."
And Owen laughed, and let his strong hand fall
on Dell's shoulder, which it shook with a rough affec-
10*
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148 owmz.
tion, that said a good deal for Owen's heart. F(0r
Owen had been three years with John Dell then, and
learned to understand him.
"You're always cramming your head with some-
thing or other out of the books you buy  one day
you would have learned that the men at the foundry
were too rough for you, or have wished that some-
thing higher and less laborious had lain open for you
in the days when you were younger. Think yourself
lucky."
"I'm lucky enough  if not so happy."
"You're not afraid of these young fellows  are
you?"
"Afraid!"
And Owen, in his pride, looked afraid of no one
just then.
"What is it, then?"
"Well," said Owen, after a little hesitation, "I
need not keep it back from you  it's the past life I
have sprung from that stands in my way. I feel I
have no right where I am, and that a chance word
- may degrade me. The work of the hands for me
seems more tting than the work of the brain."
"You're an ass."
"Thank you."
John Dell did not know, Owen thought, of a past
dark estate, lower than that to which allusion had
been made. And Owen did not care to enlighten him,
for many reasons; it was his one secret, jealously
guarded  watched over with a morbid sensitiveness,
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owrm. 149
that seemed ever on the increase with every upward
step which he made.
"You're not talking like yourself. Dashed!" (John
Dell's most vehement exclamation in excited moments)
"if I don't think you've taken to novel-reading."
"Not I," said Owen, with sturdy contempt.
"Nothing in penny numbers?"
Owen shook his head.
"Well, it's not like you  that's all. I thought
you could push your way anywhere."
"I will push my way here," said Owen, deter-
minedly; "only I see the e'ort will be unceasing, and
I know the friends will be few."
"They always are  good ones."
"And in the other case "
"Drop it, drop it, drop it," cried Dell, with irrita-
tion. "You try a man's temper  there's something
more than I see to account for it. Isn't there?"
And out came Dell's eyes again.
Owen coloured, but answered in the negative, and
Dell regarded him dubiously.
"You're an odd sh to grow timid all of a sudden;
you haven't been a bashful boy  rather free-spoken
and brassy-facerl, on the contrary  and if you won't
tell me, why  I must nd it out."
Owen laughed again, but it was not the free,
hearty laugh that had characterized the more early
period of that dialogue. He was certainly embarrassed,
and there was an awkwardness in his timidity which
did not escape his companion's observation.
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However, Dell never cared to press a subject, on
the free discussion of which there was a hidden re-
serve; and had he been even disposed to do so, the
entrance of Ruth at this juncture would have frustrated
the attempt  for Ruth was not always at home
then, and her visits were made much of by John
Dell.
Ruth was acting as pupil-teacher for two years,
previous to entering a training-school and becoming a
governess by profession. She had evinced a disposi-
tion for teaching at an early age, even before the end
of our last book, when she was one in the ranks of
Sunday-school teachers  a noble little army of volun-
teers, to whom society is not sufciently grateful 
and the taste had grown with her, and the desire to
be independent of John Dell, and not hamper his
means, become too strong to withptand.
"I can never repay you all your past kindness, my
dear uncle," she had said; "but I am growing a young
woman now, and must work for myself."
"Perhaps there is no occasion now," returned Dell
"although I did fancy it was best once."
"We are of the working-classes, and must not sit
idling because the sun shines a little on the present
can we tell what may happen, uncle; and have I a
right to neglect my share of labour?"
"Oh! my own words four years ago -4 but don't
you think I shall miss you?"
"But I shall see you very often, and I must work
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and car n money, if it be only to pay you back some-
thing of "
"Hold hard!" shouted Dell, "or I set my interdict
on everything. Pay me back! Haven't you paid me
back in love and gentleness, and duty, years ago, my
girl? Aren't you a true daughter to me now? Well,
it's right to go, perhaps  it makes a lady of you,
Ruth  and, as you say, we can't tell what may
happen."
And Ruth went, and was working as pupil-teacher
when the conversation that we have recorded occurred
between Owen and Dell. Was there any clue to the
secret of Owen's extra nervousness and timidity in the
colour which went and came upon his cheeks as Ruth
entered that day? Dell saw it, though he made no
sign  he treasured it as a remembrance, rthough it
was years before he spoke of it, and then not
till a time of trouble for Owen, and of thought for
himself.
But we, who are in the secret, need not wait so
long to record our suspicions of the case; nay, more, it
is essential to our story to mention that Owen, at
seventeen years of age, was in love with Ruth Dell.
It was an early age to begin love troubles, but Owen's
mind had always been older than his years, and there
was nothing unnatural in his loving early, and in
loving the daughter of his benefactor. All his reminis-
cences of her were pleasant, and encouraged it; from
the rst day of their meeting, when she gave him her
uncle's spelling-book till that time, he had thought of
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152 ~ owns.
her; she had been allied with his progress  it was
she whose smiles had rewarded his exertions, and
whose silvery voice had ever cheered him onwards. He
believed he had loved her at twelve years of age; and
he did not marvel at the passion growing with him,
though he kept it hidden deep, and with his older
years sunk it prudently more and more from the garish
outer world. He built no hopes upon it  that is, he
would not have owned to hopes, however slight. He
believed Ruth was far above him  that if she ever
married she would wed far above him; and he kept
his secret, and was content to worship her, and make
from her the poetry of his life. When she went away
as pupil-teacher he felt she was still further removed;
but he did not love her less, and at one-and-twenty
years of age the same true thoughts were at the bottom
of his heart.
His was not a disposition to swerve; he mixed not
with the world, but kept to one round of home and
business, and was more grave and steady than most
men of twice his years. It seemed as if his early ex-
perience of life had aged him before his time, and kept
its shadow ever in the way of such light thoughts as
come to youth, and are good for it. In other circum-
stances, under other inuences, he would have thrown
off his passion, and gained the mastery; but he sought
not society, and he oscillated between the Kennington
Road and the great foundry day after day. He kept
to his desk-work for the\ four years that succeeded the
dialogue between John Dell and him. He did his
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work well, and gained the good-will of his employer,
and rose in ofce year by year. Calculating on his
chances in the future, he might have aspired to Ruth's
hand, and looked forward to his marriage with her, the
reader may suppose; but to Owen she was ever far
distant. His birth was a disgrace to him, and the in-
cidents of his early life were known to Ruth's father.
He had been a thief and in prison, and it was an
ugly retrospect, which he could not shut out, or live
down. 92 had not betrayed him Owen believed, and
he was grateful for that reticence, though the secret
lingered in the ofccr's looks still, and he could read
it in the broad, whiskered face that met his own oc-
casionally.
During the last year in particular he met 92 more
frequently  92 having retired from active service,
and been rewarded with a Government pension, and a
chronic kind of gout in both feet. 92 could afford to
spend more time with his brother John now; and as
age had rendered him more loquacious, and more fond
of hard words, "that never came right," the good gen-
tleman became somewhat of a bore to Owen, and pos-
sibly troubled John Dell more frequently than the
younger brother cared to own.
It was about this time that Ruth, having passed
her examination satisfactorily at a training school, was
recommended to the post of governess of an institution
erected amongst the Surrey Hills, for the health and
education of the daughters of city tradesfolk, who had
seen their better days.
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There had been a family council in John Dell's
house before Ruth's acceptance of the appointment.
John Dell could but see it was a sure foundation to
Ruth's future  supposing she never married, and
were left alone in the world  and he was not selsh
enough to seek to inuence her for the worse, though
he wavered respecting his old projects concerning her.
It was right for her  nay, more, it was a very good
thing for her; and though, if it interfered with John
Dell's happiness, she would consent to wait a. while,
yet her uncle could but press her to accept the o'er.
The distance between them was only a short railway
journey, accomplished in three-quarters of an hour,
and her uncle was to see her very often, and make the
best of the position.
"Some of these days, Ruth, I may ask you to
give it up and live with me again," said he, "when I
can see my way clear to a competence, or am growing
old, and need a daughter's love to keep the horrors
from me."
"Perhaps you'll be looking after a wife, soon,
John," said 92, who was present at this interview.
His brother made a wry face, but said nothing in
reply.
"You're fteen years my junibus not quite forty
yet, is it?"
"What's that to do with it?"
"And you'll be bringing down your young wife
and babby to see Ruth, and then me at my cottage -
## p. 155 (#167) ############################################
owns. 155
vegetating in my unbuttonment, John - and so always
glad to see you!"
92 had resolved upon a country life, and a cottage
half a mile or so from his daughter's school, where
Ruth could visit him after her work was done, in the
leisure hours before bed-time. 92 had shifted for him-
self so long in the world, that, with the assistance of
an old woman for an hour or two in the morning, he
looked forward to a pleasant country life, and a bit of
nice gardening, and a daughter's face to smile on him
very often, "and nobody to move on," but the little
boys, who came over the hedge after the unripe goose-
berries.
God bless that daughter! He had not seen much
of her in his life, and now he was going to begin and
have his fair share of her. John could not grumble.
And John said "No" in his quick impatient man-
ner, and felt it was all fair, and dgeted a little be-
hind the cloud of smoke from his tobacco-pipe, when
his brother reminded him, that if he had married at a
reasonable age, he would have had a gal, perhaps, like
her.
"But John never did take to the softable sex,"
added 92, with a chuckle; and Dell said, "Right you
are," and changed the conversation.
Ruth spent a long week with her uncle, at her
uncle's house, previous to going away for good. During
that week there occurred two events, which in their
results affected the ultimate fortunes of our characters
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the death of Mr. Cherbury, and a letter of Tarby's
from Tasmania.
Old Mr. Cherbury was succeeded by his son Isaac,
of whom more anon; and Tarby's letter, written by his
own hand  for he had been taught writing abroad
apprised Owen of the information of a ticket-of-
leave having been granted, and of his resolve to settle
in the colony, even when his time was up, and he was
free to return.
"You have kept my secret, Owen, from my little
girl," he wrote; "God bless you for it  it was the
best that could have been done for her and me. I
have been thinking much of it since my ticket's come,
and I'm a trie nearer freedom. I shall never come
back now  for her sake, I shall always be dead and
gone. To know me is to know shame, you see, Owen
so I died, like her mother, when she was young!
Always keep that before her, and you can't be wrong.
God bless her and you," he concluded; and Owen felt
that the lines were from the heart, and that the change
in Tarby was for the better.
So, altogether, it was a memorable week for Owen
and the Dells, although the death of his employer
added to John Dell's grave looks.
It was intended to have been a pleasant week, but
that naturally proved a failure  the efforts of each
and all were such miserable attempts at conviviality.
Owen's attempts to give a light turn to events were
possibly the most successful, although Owen felt the
weight of the coming change as much as all of them
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put together. He was twenty-one years of age, and
had a right to feel love-lorn  he with his strong
mind and deep feelings. He would not have dropped
so much as a corner of the mask then for all the
world; for though Ruth was ever 'kind and gentle, it
was a sisterly kindness, that never embarrassed her,
and its very frankness gave him pain.
On the last evening, a Sunday evening, after their
return from church with John DellJohn had made
a church-goer of Owen, albeit Owen was still hard in
his religious habits, and not deeply impressed by any-
thing he had seen and heard hitherto  Owen con-
tented himself with regarding Ruth over the top of the
book he feigned to be perusing, and thinking how
handsome a young woman she had grown, and what a
lady she looked, sitting there in the relight, with her
uncle's hand in hers.
A tall young woman of a graceful gure, calm,
and self-possessed, and, like Owen, looking older than
her years. A young woman who was entering life with
many xed intentions, and in all earnestness of pur-
pose  one who estimated her duties not frivolously,
and had not made herself and the comforts of her new
home the rst consideration. She felt a great task was
before her, and that she was young to undertake it;
but she felt, also, strength for her work, and, the pain-
ful parting once over, that she should succeed in her
vocation, and gain the love and esteem of all her new
little friends.
## p. 158 (#170) ############################################
158 owmz.
"Well, it's come at last, Ruth," said Dell"we've
talked about it a long time now, and here's the solid
fact, that no hammering will knock out of shape. It's
tough work thinking of it now."
"But I'm not going abroad, like many of my old
companions; even fty or sixty miles will not divide
us, uncle."
"No  that's true."
"You must come and see me very often."
"Yes, Owen and I," said Dell.
"To be sure," answered Ruth, looking towards the
dark corner where Owen, enshrouded in window-cur-
tains, was but half visible  "Owen, you are not
asleep there?" she asked. .
"No, no  I was thinking how Mr. Dell and I
could manage it together  thank you, Ruth," he
answered, hoarsely. Then, fearful that the change in
his voice might be remarked, he came forwards, and
took the lead in the conversation, till 92 arrived, and
relieved guard by talking enough for the whole of
them.
A dull evening, notwithstanding everybody's efforts
to make it the contrary  a still duller morning, when
the cab was ready to take Ruth to the station, whither
John Dell was to accompany her.
We do not dwell upon any feelings or emotions in
this chapter  we attempt no analysis. This is all
retrospective, and before the curtain rises on-the scenes
and characters destined to appear and follow with us
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owns. 159
till the FINIS is written which 'puts an end to our
chronicle.
Through the mist walk but dimly Owen and those
destined to inuence the mysterious after-life  the
shadows come and go, and stealing up the mountain-
side advance the gures to cross him, rival him, be-
come his friends, advisers, helpers, enemies. He was
not thinking of them, when, with his face a shade
more pale, but with a grave unmoved face that might
have been of stone, he watched the departure of John
Dell's niece from home.
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CHAPTER II.
A Lady Patroness.
THE institution for the daughters of decayed tra-
desfolk of the city of London stood on the brow of a
hill, at the foot of which lay the village of Ansted,
Surrey. A steep hill to climb in hot weather, and with
the sun on one's back  hard work at all times for
the little feet belonging to the tradesmerfs daughters,
who were thus taught early and practically that the
ways of life are toilsome and stony. Still, though the
hill was high and the roads steep, there was a bracing
air on its summit, and a fair view of the country.
From the little dressing-room of John Dell's niece
there was a range of hill and dale, and corn-eld,
dotted here and there by the mansions of the lucky
ones in this world, and marked at rarer intervals by
little nests of houses, constituting the villages of Sur-
rey people, many of whom were as primitive and
"countryed" as though they had been living two
hundred miles from London instead of two-and-
twenty.
Ruth Dell was soon at home in this institution
aforesaid, for she understood the art of settling down.
She was a young woman who made the best of her
position in life, and was quickly resigned to the un-
alterable. She knew there was little to regret in this
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instance; that her position in life had been bettered;
that a sure independence was before her, and that her
uncle's long dream concerning her had been realized.
For the rst few days in her new home, with a world
of new faces, she felt strange and dull; but her duties
soon became something more than mere routine, and
her interest in all living and breathing around her soon
rendered her regret at parting with old friends less
acute.
For Ruth Dell was an energetic girl, under whose
feet the grass had little chance of growing. In her
manner of teaching and governing there was no small
copy of her uncles re'g1'nze, unsullied with that uncere-
monious sharpness, which rendered the natural merit of
his principles less palatable.
Ruth possessed John Dell's method, energy, and
practical good sense, and added thereto a new gentle-
ness, which worked wonders in her teaching. And
Ruth's heart being in her task she succeeded well, as
was natural and just.
Still those good ladies of the shears and dista'
must have been against Ruth Dell's peace of mind to
set her down in this quiet retreat, whence was to arise
all those troublous incidents which were to affect more
futures than her own, and whence was to evolve more
than she could guess. It is not in the busiest scene,
or amidst the noisiest crowd, that troubles the most
great, troubles to cling to us, always arise. Apart
from the world, in the silent home of our choosing,
Owrn:  A Wail'. I. 11
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162 owns.
may lie hidden the rock whereon we strike and
give up. I
Her new life  almost the new story  began in
this wise. Ruth Dell had not been three weeks at
Ansted school when a visitor, in a somewhat uncere-
monious manner, came rustling into the school-room
a lady visitor of imposing exterior and proportions
verging on colossal, clad in furs, and crapes, and
ounces, and carrying her two or three-and-sixty years
in a sti'-backed, military manner.
The offspring of the race that had seen its better
days rose en masse at the appearance of this lady in
the school-room, a'ording sufficient evidence to Ruth
that the new comer was a person of importance.
"Pray, don't rise, Miss Dell," said the lady, taking
a half movement of Ruth's as an intention of so doing.
"I am very charmed to have the pleasure of making
your acquaintance."
A pause succeeded this assertion, during which
both ladies took stock of each other, after the invari-
able manner of ladies on similar occasions. Ruth Dell,
by a simple glance from her table, comprehended the
ample proportions of her visitor, and fancied there was
something kind and friendly in the broad smiling face
that met her own; and the lady more deliberately
surveyed Ruth, and took her time over her critical
inspection.
What she saw we will endeavour to describe for
Ruth Dell is one of our chief players, and has not
been introduced with that proper amount of formality
## p. 163 (#175) ############################################
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due to leading characters in general. Sitting there,
with her small library-table drawn close to the open
window, through which a warm spring air was enter-
ing the schoolroom, Ruth offered a fair opportunity for
the lady's observation. Evidently a curious lady, for
a gold double eye-glass was settled rmly on her nose,
to make quite sure that nothing escaped her; and Ruth
felt a little uncomfortable under the inspection, though
she feigned to be unaware of so deliberate a survey,
and continued the hearing of the class that at that
moment chanced to be before her desk.
The lady-patroness was pleased with Ruth Dell.
She saw before her a young woman of graceful car-
riage, tall for her age, looking rather grave and earnest
for her years, simply and neatly dressed, and with a
fair English face, that was pleasant to stand and
quietly admire. A pale face, on which thought and
even rmness were expressed, shaded by bands of dark
chesnut hair, and lit up by two large hazel 'eyes -
worlds of beauty in themselves. No wonder that poor
hero of ours had thought of that face too much, and
of those deep thoughtful eyes too often  they had
been before him since his awakening to a better self 
they had encouraged him to ght his.way in the world
- they had been his incentive to exertion, and had
troubled him and been amidst his everyday life a
romance and a snare. If they had seemed farther and
farther from him every day, he could not shut them
from his thoughts, though he might sink them deeper
11*
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from those who would have been alarmed at his
secret. 
The lady visitor having concluded her inspection,
taken a vacant seat, and gently lowered herself into it,
as though doubtful of its capabilities of support, waited
patiently for the class to nish its lessons, and swung
her eye-glass to and fro by its chain, as though that
monotonous occupation relieved her mind a little.
The class dismissed, and the school duties over for
that afternoon, the portly dame dashed into conversa-
tion with a vigour that showed how trying an ordeal
her previous silence had been.
"My dear Miss Dell, you must never mind my
calling here at unseasonable hours, and seeing how my
school-pets progress  for I'm aficted with a great
deal too much time on my hands. I should have
troubled you a fortnight ago, hadIbeen strong enough
to exert some of my old energy; but I have had a
great loss, and 'this is my rst efort at anything like
change. I don't bother you?"
"Oh, no!" said Ruth, with a smile.
"I'm afraid I bother a great many people though
even my son, who is glad to run away to his busi-
ness, and leave nie in my great grand house, all alone
with the servants; a good lad in his way, but not a
mother's lad  all for making money and dying rich,
I suppose, like his poor father before him. Oh! dear,"
with a heavy sigh, that went to Ruth's heart 
"you must not mind me coming here and seeing the
## p. 165 (#177) ############################################
ownrz. 165
children very often  it's so dull at home, Miss Dell,
and I'm growing such a nervous old woman now!"
Ruth thought their acquaintance of too short a
duration to o'er much sympathy, and contented herself
with a quiet expression of her pleasure to see the lady
whenever she felt disposed to wend her way up the
hill. The stout lady brightened at this, and took to
Ruth on the instant.
"I'm very much obliged to you, Miss Dell  for
I'm fond of children, and it occupies one's mind to
come here. One's breath, too," she added ~ "for it's
a terrible walk up that hill, and I don't always like to
bring the carriage  it's so very fussy, isn't it? Once
I tried the pony-chaise; but I'm afraid my weight was
too much for the pony, for it hasn't been well since --
and Isaac don't like me walking so much, although it's
good for me, and been recommended by the Faculty.
You're a very nice young lady," she added, with a
suddenness that made Ruth blush and laugh, despite
the serious countenance maintained by her visitor.
"Oh, but you are," said. the lady, "and I've met with
such very nasty young ladies in my time, that it's a
gratication to come across an antithesis. Disagreeable
pert young ladies, like your predecessor, who told
everybody I came too often, and upset the children
with the messes I brought them  messes she called
them!  and interfered with her duties, and actually
hinted to my face that I was vexatious and trouble-
some. I believe she reported me to the Board; but as
## p. 166 (#178) ############################################
166 owns.
I subscribe fty pounds a year to the Institution, I
wasn't suspended."
The lady talked very rapidly, and it was only a
.shortness of breath, accompanied with a bellows-like
noise, that hindered perpetual motion. For ladies are
voluble now and then, especially stout ladiesa phy-
siological fact that is worth inquiring into.
"Well, she went away, and married, and serve her
right; and now you reign in her stead, and I think I
shall like you."
"Thank you."
"I don't go into society much. Isaac  that's my
only son  takes me to a dinner-party now and then
fussy work, my dear, and bothers dreadfully. And
\ Ilike quiet people and young people, and grand doings
make my head ache  I wasn't brought up to them.
I should like to see my boy more at home in his own
house  and, oh! if I only had had a daughter to be
a companion to me, what a happy old woman I might
have been!"
A strange old woman, this stout lady, thought Ruth
one who, despite her wealth, felt lonely and un-
happy, and made no disguise of itone whose frank-
ness already won a little upon Ruth, despite that
volubility which there was no chance of checking.
"I've often thought of adopting one of these poor
children, Miss Dell, for I've money in my own right,
and my boy is well off enough without me; but he
don't like the idea, and I'm a poor soul, who is easily
## p. 167 (#179) ############################################
owns. 167
talked over. And perhaps it's all for the best, as poor
Cherbury was so fond of saying."
"Cherbury?" repeated Ruth.
"Yes, my dear  Cherbury of Ansted, Surrey,
and the Iron Works, Lambeth. I daresay you have
heard the name?"
"Very often, madam. My uncle at present is fore-
man in your son's foundry."
Ruth thought it would be better to inform Mrs.
Cherbury of that fact, lest the lady should become too
friendly, and feel the avowal at some future period too
much of a shock. But Mrs. Cherbury's face only ex-
pressed a mild air of surprise, and her ne feelings
did not appear to be at all affected by the revela-
tion.
"Dear me, now  that's funny. And I've'heard
poor Cherbury speak so often of Mr. Dell, one of the
best workmen he ever had. And you're his daughter
well, I'm glad to see you rising in life, Miss; and
it was very creditable of your uncle to give you a good
education. Your father and mother are not living, I
suppose?"
"My father is, Mrs. Cherbury. He rents a little
cottage about a mile from here  he has recently
retired from the police force."
Ruth Dell would have no false ground beneath her
feet: lady as she was in all that makes the lady 
education, manners, deportment  she would have no
mistake concerning her antecedents with one who
treated her as an equal.
## p. 168 (#180) ############################################
1 68 owns.
"And he can't bear to be too far away from his
daughter  a worthy old gentleman, I have not the
slightest doubt  and proud he must be of you, my
dear. Are you very busy just now?"
"Not very busy," replied Ruth, a little doubt-
fully. '
"Then, Miss Dell, I shall take you back to Oak-
lands this evening  I want to talk to you about the
school, and my little plans, which your predecessor so
strongly objected to. There's the carriage outside, and
we shall be there in ten minutes."
"Thank you, madam, but "
"But, my dear girl, you're not busy, and it must
be very dull in this school-room, or in your own apart-
ments after the children have gone to bed. And I'm
very dull, too, in my great house since Mr. Cherbury's-
death, and it would be such ,a favour!"
Mrs. Cherbury looked so wistfully at Ruth, that
Ruth wavered. If she put it as a favour  if her
company would relieve her from any lowness of spirits,
why, it was a different matter. But it was all very
precipitate  they were strangers half-an-hour ago,
and the lady was from the higher sphere beyond her
own.
"It is so very sudden," she ventured to remark 
"and if you could excuse me, I--"
"Ah! but I can't excuse you, for I'm a selsh old
lady," she interrupted; "and as we're such near neigh-
bours, we may as well break the ice at once. Why,
you and I are both lonely women."
## p. 169 (#181) ############################################
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77
"But your position
"Fiddlededee, my Idear  ddlededee!" said Mrs.
Cherbury, "don't talk of position  poor Cherbury
and I never cared for it, and certainly never took cre-
dit for having been lucky in business. Why, bless my
soul, that predecessor of yours treated me with such
haughtiness, that I was rather nervous in coming to
see you, lest you should happen to be of the same
pattern. A very high-notioned young lady, who would
never come to Oaklands, because we were people in
trade, and her father was a gentleman, and a half-pay
ofcer, and had spent his life in earning glory and two
wooden legs. Such a fussy young lady, and" 
(lowering her voice to a whisper) "fond of beating the
poor little dears on the sly. I declare to you, Miss
Dell, I have heard such torrents of slaps coming up
the hill, that I have fancied the zinc corner of the
schoolhouse were loose, and apping about in the wind.
And you will come?"
"If you be quite alone, then?" said Miss Dell,
timidly.
"Always alone, my dear! Isaac don't come home
for the week together - in fact, he is never at home
without something is the matter with him. There, go
and put your bonnet on, and I'll wait here till your
return."
Ruth Dell did not keep Mrs. Cherbury waiting a '
great while, and had she been a longer time absent
that good lady would have found the wherewithal to
amuse herself. For immediately after the departure
## p. 170 (#182) ############################################
170 OWEN.
of the schoolmistress, Mrs. Cherbury had risen from her
chair, crossed the room, and opened one of the windows '
that looked upon the playground.
A well-known friend and a great favourite with
the children was Mrs. Cherbury evidently, for they
were dancing round her, and leaping up at the sill
immediately she made her appearance. They were
children who forgot nothing, and remembered the
pounds of sweetmeats and acidulated drops that had
always accompanied her, and given a sweet turn to her
visits. And there were their forest of hands stretching
upwards, and Mrs. Cherbury shaking from a large blue
paper endless comts and almonds, keeping a wary eye
on the schoolroom door, meanwhile, lest Ruth should
make her appearance too suddenly, and catch her in
the act.
"And I hope you like your new schoolmistress, my
dears," she said.
And a spontaneous afrmative was uttered with a
more hearty good-will than she had heard for along
while.
"And I hope you'll be good girls, and learn your
lessons, and not worry her too much, and never deceive
herand not say anything about these drops, because
I forgot to ask her permission. I'm going to shut the
window now  mind your ngers, my dears."
Mrs. Cherbury was in her old seat and looking the
picture of innocence when Miss Dell, equipped for de-
parture, entered the room.
In a few minutes they were rattling down the hill
## p. 171 (#183) ############################################
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away from Ansted schoolhouse, towards a large white
mansion standing in its own grounds, and commanding
one of the nest views in Surrey.
"You have dined, Miss Dell?" inquired Mrs. Cher-
bury.
"Some hours since, thank you."
"So have I  late dinners are so fussy. Isaac
dines late, but then he belongs to the new school, and
has been brought up dierently to poor Cherbury and
me. A dear lad, though  and God bless every hair
of his head!" added this full-hearted mother.
## p. 172 (#184) ############################################
172 owns.
CHAPTER III.
The Cherbury's of Ansted.
IT was striking six when the carriage drew up be-
fore the great Oaklands portico, and one footman let
down the steps, and another held wide the door, and
the calves of two or three more were observed shimmer-
ing in the background of the hall  their owners
evidently trying to appear as busy as possible.
"No one has called, I suppose, George?" inquired
Mrs. Cherbury of the servant, as she and Ruth passed
into the hall.
"Only Mr. Cherbury, ma'am."
"Good gracious!  and has he gone again?"
"He is in the drawing-room, ma'am."
Ruth Dell felt naturally a little nervous. Her rst
ent-re'e into Oaklands was intended to be a quiet, matter-
of-fact proceeding  almost a favour on her part, to
relieve Mrs. Cherbury's monotony; and now Mr. Cher-
bury had arrived, and confounded both ladies' arrange-
ments.
Ruth hesitated.
"Don't look so alarmed, my dear. The most quiet
lad you ever met in your life, and one who won't put
you out in the least. Not a bit like young men in
general, who do rattle on now and then. I'm sure he
will be very glad to see you."
## p. 173 (#185) ############################################
owns. 173
Ruth was not sanguine on this point, and inclined
to depreciate herself and her simple grey silk, and
more inclined to feel a little in awe of the represen-
tative of the great rm wherein her uncle played so
subordinate a part. Mrs. Cherbury might be a humble,
hearty old lady enough, but what would her son think
of. the daughter of one of his servants sitting as guest
in his country mansion? She wished she had been
rmer, and declined the proffered hospitality of the
lady at her side.
But it was too late to withdraw with any grace;
and once aware of the worst, she braced her nerves to
meet it, after the fashion of her uncle J ohn.
Five minutes spent in Mrs. Cherbury's dressing-
room, and then Ruth, with her hand on the old lady's
arm, was entering the drawing-room.
A room on the handsome furnishing of which no
money had been spared, and in the ample space of
which Mrs. Cherbury's lad seemed lost.
"Why, Isaac, my dear, where are you?" exclaimed
the mother, looking round with some little surprise,
until Isaac, aroused from a nap by her loud voice,
struggled from the depths of an easy chair in the
corner, and stood up, looking grim and sleepy.
Isaac dear was a lad of forty-one or two, very tall,
very wiry, very stiff in the joints, and very much
starched about the collar and cuffs. A man with a
certain amount of good looks in him yet, but with a
heaviness of brow and a general hardness of aspect
that was not pleasant to meet  a man who seemed
## p. 174 (#186) ############################################
174 owes.
to have traded in iron, until some portion of that use-
ful metal had become incorporated in his system.
"Isaac, dear, this is Miss Dell, the new school-
mistress of Ansted Institution  Miss Dell, my lad."
The lad bowed with more courtesy than Ruth had
expected, and seemed to hesitate for a moment as to
whether he should allude to the pleasure of making
the schoolmisti-ess's acquaintance; but, being a man of
probity, and averse to unmeaning compliments, thought
better of it, and relapsed into his easy-chair again, and
crossed his legs.
"You have not dined, Isaac?"
"I dined in town, Mrs. Cherbury," he answered, in
a deep and somewhat grating voice, "and came up by
the train immediately afterwards. I'm not well."
"Oh, dear!  not your head again?"
"I've only one complaint, and that is my head,"
he replied. "Glindon says I work and think too hard
with it, and recommends a few days' quiet."
"And very kind of him, too," said Mrs. Cherbury;
"I'm sure I'm much obliged to Mr. Glindon. It will
be nice to have you at home, Isaac, with a mother to
take care of you."
"The quieter I am kept the better, Mrs. Cherbury,"
said he, drily  "not too much worried about the
housekeeping, and the servants, and so on."
"Oh! dear, no  to be sure not."
"I thought I'd mention it."
And Isaac closed his eyes.
"Perhaps I had better
" began Ruth, when
## p. 175 (#187) ############################################
owrm. 1 75
the eyes opened again, and xed themselves on the
speaker.
"Miss Dell will excuse me, I am sure," he said,
politely, and less harshly, "for my seeming want of
courtesy in not playing the part of host on this occa-
sion. I am sure I leave her in good hands."
After which speech he re-composed himself; and
Mrs. Cherbury, left to do the honours of the house,
acquitted herself to perfection, and talked of the school-
life at Ansted, of herself, her lad, and poor Oherbury
of her amateur gardening in the spacious grounds
seen from the bay-window at which they sat and of
a hundred other subjects which rose readily to the sur-
face, and left no unpleasant hiatus in the dialogue.
In the window recess Mrs. Cherbury and Ruth had
tea together, and the servants glided stealthily in and
out, for fear of disturbing the repose of their lord and
master in the corner remote.
Ruth Dell found herself more than once looking
towards that corner, and feeling an unaccountable
curiosity as to' what Mr. Cherbury would do when he
waked, and wondering whether he objected to her pre-
sence there, and if his head were an excuse for his
taciturnity. More than once, too, she fancied that he
was not sleeping at all, but watching her from between
his half closed lids; and once she was certain that she
saw them quiver and close together more tightly when
she glanced suddenly in his direction.
"I wonder whether a cup of tea would do his head
good, or he would care to be roused to answer that
## p. 176 (#188) ############################################
176 ' owns.
question?" said Mrs. Cherbury, looking in his direction
also. "Perhaps I had better let him be," she added,
"as he don't like to be disturbed when his head's
bad."
"Does Mr. Cherbury su'er much?" inquired Ruth.
"He complains a great deal at times  you see,
he has the chief management of a large business now,
and he hasn't the head of his father. But he's always
quiet and reective  just as if he had something on
his mind, my dear." -
The right leg of Mr. Cherbury slipped off his left
knee at this juncture, and the foot came to the oor
with a heavy stamp, that startled both ladies.
"I beg pardon," Isaac said gravely; "a sudden
leap, that's all. I wonder you don't have lights it's
cold and dark here."
And Mr. Cherbury went through a perceptible
shudder.
"I have rung for them, dear," was the mother's
answer.
Mr. Cherbury rang again on his own account, and
continued to ring with a quiet pertinacity, that must
have been extremely disagreeable in the servants' hall.
"Lights!" he said to the scared domestic who re-
sponded to the summons, and lights made their appear-
ance in haste  two wax lights in silver candlesticks
for a little side-table, whereon was a desk, and a large
ormolu lamp for the centre table.
"Now you're not going to write letters to-night,
## p. 177 (#189) ############################################
owns. 1 77
Isaac!" said the mother, as her son rose and unlocked
the desk.
"One or two that are important  if Miss Dell
will excuse me."
Miss Dell inclined her head.
"But, my dear Isaac if Mr. Glindon said "
"If Mr. Glindon said a hundred times I wasn't to
write a letter, I should write," he replied, with a dogged
obstinacy that told of the iron in his system again, and
he commenced writing at the same-moment.
He was still engaged at his desk when the hall-
bell rung and the hall-door knocker roused the echoes
of the establishment, and woke up the stable-dog, who
barked deance to the noise and essayed to break his
chain, with the amiable intention of biting the new
comer in two'.
Mr. Cherbury put his pen back in its tray, folded
his arms, and closed his eyes again.
"A terrible noise," he muttered  "a hideous and
most unnecessary uproar." .
"Who can it be?" exclaimed the excited mother.
"I think it's very likely to be Mr. Glindon," ob-
served Isaac Cherbury.
"Dear, dear me!  why didn't you tell me he was
coming?" said the mother, half reproaehfully.
"I thought it wasn't of much consequence. It's
very dull here without company, and I thought he'd
relieve my head a little. You'll do your best to make
him feel at home, if I forget anything, Mrs. Cherbury."
Mr. Glindon was announced the instant afterwards,
Owen: -  A Wa-if. I. 12
## p. 178 (#190) ############################################
178 owarz.
and Ruth fancied the- gentleman was not quite a
stranger to her. A handsome man in everysense of
the word, and with a complexion of white and red
seldom seen in a man of a healthy habit of body,
possessing a clear-cut, keen-looking face, and a well-
shapen, almost massive forehead, from which was
brushed back a mass of light wavy hair. A man that
people might notice in a crowd and set down for a
clever fellow, and be not far out in their judgment.
Mr. Glindon gave a little start upon his introduc-
tion to Ruth, and his expression of the pleasure the
introduction gave him was muttered in a very hasty
manner.
An instant afterwards he was shaking hands with
Mr. Cherbury, and inquiring if he felt better that
evening. 1
"A little,-I think."
"It's all nervousness, I assure you," said Glindon,
"and so I have dropped in to give you a quiet game
at cards by way of distraction."
"You're very kind."
"In fact, I've made up my mind to settle in Ansted
become consulting surgeon to Ansted free-school,
and work a little practice in the neighbourhood."
"That's a change."
"I like change."
Meanwhile Ruth Dell, who had remained standing,
gave a meaning, even an entreating glance towards
Mrs. Cherbury. She was new to society, and afraid
of it.
## p. 179 (#191) ############################################
owns. 179
"My dear Miss Dell, you are not going?"
"If you will allow me," returned Ruth, in some-
what of a hurried manner; "I am anxious to reach the
schoolhouse before nine."
"I fear, Miss Dell, we are frightening you away,"
said Mr. Glindon, rising; "I hope my presence here is
not to deprive Mrs. Cherbury of the pleasure of your
company."
"I would rather return, sir, thank you," answered
Ruth.
And there was so much rmness in her manner
that Mr. Glindon gave up his persuasive attempts, and
Mrs. Cherbury saw there was hope of a longer stay for
that evening.
"I will order the carriage, then, to take you back,
my dear," said Mrs. Cherbury; "Isaac, will you touch
the bell, please." .
"I would prefer walking " began Ruth, when,
to her surprise, Isaac himself interrupted her.
"Your pardon, Miss Dell, but it is really much too
late to venture alone to the schoolhouse. The carriage,"
he added, to the servant who had entered at this
moment.
Ruth was secretly annoyed at this determination
to send her home in state, though she merely inclined
her head and followed Mrs. Cherbury from the room.
She would have preferred a walk home up the hill,
with the moon rising behind the schoolhouse, and the
perfume of the wild owers, saluting her on the way,
to the hot close carriage and the parade attached
12*
## p. 180 (#192) ############################################
180 owns.
thereto. She could have thought better of all that had
happened that night as she quietly wended her way
homewards after her own fashion; but it was not to be,
and there was the carriage and the pair of greys
awaiting her when. she and Mrs. Cherbury were in the
hall again.
"I wish you had stopped and spent the evening
with us, my dear," said Mrs. Cherbury, who was quite
concerned at her early departure, "and become better
acquainted with my lad and Mr. Glindon. I'm sorry
they are here to spoil our rst evening together; and
rely 'upon it, Miss Dell, I will manage better next
time. And  and I shall give you a call in the
morning, my dear, if Isaac don't 'want too much
nursing."
Mrs. Cherbury folded Ruth in her arms in quite a
motherly manner, and ran beneath the portico to make
sure Ruth was comfortable and the night air was fairly
excluded from the carriage, and then parted reluctantly
with her new companion.
Returning to the drawing-room she found Isaac
and Mr. Glindon with a pack of cards between them.
"You'll not interdict a quiet game at cards between
Mr. Glindon and me, Mrs. Cherbury," said her son;
"it's seldom I can induce him to visit Oaklands."
It was so seldom he could be induced to visit Oak-
lands himself, his mother thought  although she
could but accord her permission to the game, and sit
herself down at her work-table, and make preparations
to be very busy by producing her glasses, and needle-
## p. 181 (#193) ############################################
owns. 181
J
work, and gold thimble. She would have understood
her son's emphasis on the adjective had it not been
accompanied with a peculiar look that was unlial to
meet with, and which signied an earnest desire to
keep down her loquacity. Aware of his mother's weak-
ness, he might have hinted his wishes with a little
more grace; but then he was not a man of ne feel-
ings, and perhaps had forgotten how to honour his
mother years ago. It's an accomplishment easily lost.
Still Mr. Cherbury was the rst to break the silence,
as Mr. Glindon shufed the cards and prepared to
deal
"Have you had the pleasure of Miss Dell's ac-
quaintance for any length of time?" he asked a little
abruptly.
Mrs. Cherbury was nearly launching into a full and
particular account of their rst meeting, and the
favourable impression that young lady had made on
her, when she encountered her son's glance, and our-
tailed matters.
"Only from this evening. She is our new school-
mistress at Ansted."
"So you said before. Deal, Glindon."
And Cherbury, more interested in his game than
the schoolmistress of Ansted, drew his chair closer to
the table, and with something of a gamester's eager-
ness proceeded to contest the game with his medical
friend.
There ensued a strange stillness in that room, con-
sidering the number of its occupants - the servant
## p. 182 (#194) ############################################
182 owns.
entering with the decanters a few moments afterwards
was quite startling by contrast. When he had retired
again, the ticking of the gilt timepiece became the
noisiest thing in the room, save and except a heavy
breathing, which indicated that the arms of Morpheus
were encircling Mrs. Cherbury, whose head had fallen
on her ample chest, and whose needlework was trailing
on the carpet. The card-players continued silently and
cautiously, and took no heed of anything besides their
game  and nished money duellists they seemed, in
the full blaze of the oil lamp that lighted the eld on
which they fought.
There was something gloomy and morbid amidst it
all  something that would have struck an observer
as even strange and sad upon entering the room at
that moment. The disregarded mother asleep over her
needlework  the tall gure of her son at the card-
table fencing cautiously for his money, and Glindon
playing with an energetic dash that seemed to last till
the stakes were his, when he brushed the shillings to
his side, or let them fall to the oor  he was not
particular.
It was a room with three grave faces in it, albeit
the shadow of the sorrow that had recently fallen on
the house was not there at that time.
Presently Mrs. Cherbury awoke with a start, and
might have dropped her head over the back of the
chair, had she not exerted a counter movement and
jerked it suddenly forwards.
"Dear me, I was nearly off to sleep!" said she,
## p. 183 (#195) ############################################
owns. 1 83
rubbing her eyes and yawning; "will you gentlemen
have supper now?"
"Presently," said her son, with some little irri-
tation.
"I don't feel much inclined for supper myself, and
think I will go to my room. Good night, my dear
lad  good night, Mr. Glindon."
There was some muttering from the lad that might
have represented a response  a more polite good-
night from Mr. Glindon, who rose and shook hands
with her, and then Mrs. Cherbury went upstairs to her
lonely room, and left the gentlemen to 'themselves.
"Four games to you," said Cherbury, an hour after
his mother's departure  "there's no scoring a point
against you."
"I always make up my mind to win," he answered;
"I came to Ansted to win," he added, with a meaning
at which he could only smile himself  for only him-
self understood it.
Cherbury dgeted with the cards - he did not
care much about cards now he was losing money over
it; but still it kept him from thinking of his head, and
was better than idle talk at any time. But Mr. Glindon
seemed disposed to vary the entertainment by a little
conversation.
"May I ask how long you have known Miss Dell,
Cherbury?"
"About half-an-hour or so when you arrived."
"Oh, this was her rst visit here?"
"Yes, Ibelieve so."
## p. 184 (#196) ############################################
184 owns.
Mr. Glindon sipped his wine  Mr. Cherbury as-
sisted himself to another tumbler of cold water, dashed
with just enough sherry to turn acid on the stomach.
"What do you think of her face, Cherbury?" said he;
"does it not strike you as a very pure and classic one?"
"I didn't notice it."
"You're not so old either as to shut your eyes to
every pretty face that passes by."
"I've my business to attend to," was the quiet re-
joinder; "I don't notice anything or anybody out of
that much."
Mr. Cherbury rendered this statement a doubtful
one a short time afterwards, when Mr. Glindon sat still
oblivious to the fact that his adversary faced him with
the cards in his hand, ready to deal.
"How long have you known Miss Dell?" asked
Cherbury.
"I?"
And Glindon was ingenuous enough to colour a
little at the question.
"I thought by your manner you had seen her be-
fore," observcd Cherbury.
The young surgeon laughed.
"Well, you're right," he said; "I have seen her
once or twice at a distance  at a training school,
where one of the masters was a patient of mine; her
face struck me then as a bright intellectual one."
('H7m~,1
"I know even a fact concerning her that may
startle you."
## p. 185 (#197) ############################################
owns. 185
"Nothing startles me."
"You're not a proud man, or I would not tell
)7
you.
" Wouldn't you?"
Mr. Cherbury shufed the cards again and
yawned.
"She's the niece of a foreman of yours."
"Indeed!"
"John Dell's the man's name. Do you know
him?"
"One of my best hands," was the answer.
"Glad to see you are not shocked at your fore-
man's daughter taking her place as a friend of your
mother's. Cherbury, you're one of the new school and
the best."
"Oh, am I?"
"I'm a proud fman myself, but it's an odd pride
that don't look back to a man's father or mother be-
fore I make a friend or form an acquaintance. That
weakness has been the curse of my parents, and they're
as poor as Job, too, and living, for economy's sake,
on the Continent. I suppose," he asked, a little
anxiously, "Miss Dell will become a frequent visitor
at Oaklands?"
"I suppose so. And you also, Glindon?"
"Why?"
"You will be near us  if it's all true about the
Ansted appointment."
"Oh, yes  but liow long shall I care for the
place? There was pleasure in trying for it, because
## p. 186 (#198) ############################################
186 owns.
everyone prophesied that there was no chance for me
but as for the place itself, I would resign it to-
morrow. Certainly there's Miss Dell," he added, after
a pause, "and I'm a ladies' man  I always was."
He looked a trie conceited as he ran his ngers
through his wavy hair, and Mr. Cherbury might have
had that idea also. But Mr. Cherbury was anxious to
get on with the cards, and make one more effort to
regain the shillings lying so carelessly at the elbow of
his friend. What did he care about Miss Dell, on
whom his medical friend seemed inclined to dilate?
What was Miss Dell to him?
She was a matter of no consideration  it was his
mother's business, not his, and he had no ne feelings
to be wounded by any revelation concerning her origin.
He could remember his father no better o3 than her
uncle, but he did not care to prolong the conversation
by alluding to the fact. He was no prouder man than
his father had been before him, and could see no harm
in Miss Dell's visit; and supposing there were, it
was not his business, and his mother would 'alone be
answerable. His soul was in the conduct of his own
particular pursuits  was hovering over them then,
whilst his body was at Oaklands. Apart from the
work at which his father had toiled before him, he
was only half himself It had been different once
when he was younger, but the wild oats were all
gown, and he was a hard-working money-getting man,
who watched his chances, and prospered like his sire.
This sluggishness and apathy to which we have been
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a witness was possibly the reaction from the busy life
at Lambeth where he seldom slept, or was nervous,
or complained of his head.
"Well, let us have another game," he said, "and
drive Miss Dell out of the discussion. I never was
a good hand at talk, like my foolish mother upstairs-
Deal."
Well for that mother  thinking of, perhaps
praying for, the son downstairs  that her heart was
not wrung by the hard words which escaped the lips
of the rst born. For such words are of the sharpness
of the serpent's tooth, and sink deep within those who
have children and are striving for them and their love.
To some poor mothers there falls the burden of some
such ungrateful offspring  there are prizes and there
are blanks amongst the children of men, and it is not
the one most endowed with the world's goods who is
to have the greatest share of the world's happiness.
Glindon had soon forgotten Miss Dell, and was
shortly afterwards content with his game and studying
hard its intricacies. Mr. Isaac Cherbury continued to
lose with great caution and secret annoyance; and
Glindon, after a hard struggle, to win with exultation
the stakes, which he afterwards carelessly brushed to
his side.
Far into the night the lights burned at Oaklands,
with the players at the table, and the servants lingering
about the downstairs regions, wondering if they should
be again required, and how long the young master and
his friend intended to sit up.
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CHAPTER IV.
The Young Guardian.
Psssrse over three weeks of our narrative -
although it may be shortly our duty to allude to some
incidents that 'happened therein  we return to him
who has given us a title for our history'.
It was striking four one summer's afternoon in
June when Owen emerged from the Eltingham rail-
way station, four miles from Ansted, and walked
sharply down the green lane away from the little town
on the right. Owen always walked sharply, after the
fashion of energetic people who know what money
may be earned in an hour. There was nothing to be
gained in this instance, save pleasure perhaps, but
pleasure that required to be made the most of by a
practical young man who understood the value of
time.
Owen marched onwards at a smart pace, then, with
his head thrown back and his chest squared like a
drill-sergeant's  it was a fair evening's walk, and he
enjoyed it and the scenery that lay in his way, and
the breeze that met him on the hilly road, as a man
accustomed to toil in a London factory can only enjoy
God's air and sunshine. He did not pause in his pro-
gress to admire this bit of landscape or that brook by
the wayside where the ducks were oating and shock-
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owns. 1 89
headed village boys angling for sh that never had
existence therein: he took it all in at a glance, and
passed on at the same steady pace which carried him
quickly over a fair stretch of country.
At the foot of one of the Surrey hills he paused
for the rst time  not to take breath for his ascent,
but to watch ying down the hill with a velocity al-
most too rapid to be safe, a little girl of ten years old.
He laughed and waved his Scotch cap to her as she
came towards him, and he caught her in his arms
when she was near enough, and held her panting
above his head.
"Why, my little Mary, couldn'' you wait till I
arrived a little nearer home?" he asked. '
"Oh, no, Owen  because Mrs. Cutcheld would
have had all the talk before I could say a word -
and I haven't seen you for so many, many weeks."
"And where's Mrs. Cutcheld, Mary," said Owen,
after kissing her and restoring her to the ground.
''You''l see her come over the hill in a minute,
out of breath with running after me," said the child,
with a musically ringing laugh of her own, "and
then yuu' hear her begin to scold me, Owen  oh,
that's so funny!"
"Indeed!"
"Because she can't scold properly, Owen dear."
said the child  "she only makes believe, and isn't
angry like my governess when I don't know my
letters. Oh, I have such a lot to tell you, gardy -
where shall I begin?"
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"Wherever you like, Mary," answered Owen, as
she danced on at his side; "but do keep still whilst
you tell me, or you'll dance yourself to pieces."
"But I am so glad you've come to see me."
"Oh, then dance away if you feel the happier for
it," he said, pressing the tiny hand in his, as he looked
down at Tarby Chickney's daughter. '
A pretty, graceful child, if small for her age, was
that daughter of Owen's old friend  a girl all light
and life, her cheeks glowing with health, her dark
eyes sparkling with pleasure. A fairy-like child, so
light and gay was she, the musical voice raised to a
high pitch, and the musical laugh rippling off from her
red lips at every comment of Owen's. Her excitement
and delight were something pleasant to witness, and
rendered Owen very proud of the child's affection.
Proud of his charge, too, by the way, was our hero
to see her growing up a girl of whom any mother
might be proud, was a happy time for Owen. Looking
down upon her, he thought of the mother who had
been so good to him and died so early, and wished
that she had lived to see her little Mary then  to
hold her to her breast. He thought of Tarby, too, at
that time, and resolved to have a photograph taken of
Mary, to remit to Tarby by the next mail  it would
be a comfort to that father, who had thought it best
to be considered dead to his child.
Little Mary was in the middle of her life and ad-
ventures since Owen had last seen her, when Mrs.
Cutcheld, struggling with the little breath a long
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owmz. 19 1
chase had left her, and striving hard to keep a white
mob-cap from making off in a retrograde direction,
came labouring towards them.
"Oh, you naughty girl, to r-r-run awa-ay like
that;" she gasped; "Lord love her soul, I thought she'd
a-gone a-opping into the brook! She hasn't got a
mite of still blood in her body, Mr. Owen  you'll
have to give her a good talking to."
Mary looked out of the corners of her eyes at
Owen, and her struggle to present a demure ap-
pearance under difculties was too much for our hero's
gravity.
"And she's a-laughing now, and I so cross with
her."
"But, mammy Cutcheld, Owen don't come every
day."
"Ah, that's true!  there's somethink in that -
what a child she is, sir!"
Owen nodded assent, and the old woman  she
was sixty-eight or seventy at least, and carried her
years well, or she could never have run down the steep
hill after her charge  turned and walked with the
guardian and ward.
"And how's the world been treating you, Mrs.
Cutcheld?" asked Owen.
"Middling as times go, sir."
"I hope Mary has been the best of girls?"
"The bestest little girl, sir  a mite too lively,
perhaps, especially when she hears you're coming to
see her, and always inclined to make a racket when
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I want a little peace and quietness with my Bible.
But you're a good girl, ain't you, Mary?"
"Oh, yes, always!" answered Mary, condently.
"She shufes and kicks a mite of shoe leather out
she'll ruin her gardy in shoe leather if she don't
keep still a little oftener, and gardy'1l have to go to
the workhouse, and be fed on bread and water."
Mrs. Cutcheld went through a series of panto-
mimic winks and nods at Owen over the ehild's head;
till Mary, looking straight at Owen, said,
"Is that quite true, gardy?"
"Perhaps rather too dreary a look out," said Owen
in reply, "but shoe leather is expensive." ,
"Then I'll sit still till I grow a big woman."
"No, don't do that," said Owen quickly; "now I
think of it again, it's not expensive at all  besides,
I'm earning a lot of money, Mary. We mustn't check
the life in her, Mrs. Cutcheld," he added, turning to
the old lady  "it's a sign of health and strength."
"So it be, sir,  in moderation," she added, with
a reserve.
"So don't keep her too quiet  I won't have
that," and Owen looked very rm and decisive.
"Lord love her," said Mrs. Cutcheld, prefacing
her remarks with a benediction customary to her, "it
isn't the likes of an old woman that can keep her
quiet, Mr. Owen  it's only now and then, by telling
her how cross you'll be, that I can manage her at all.
But she's the best of children, for she has a feeling
heart, and one can reason with her."
## p. 193 (#205) ############################################
owns. 193
And Mrs. Cutcheld smoothed the disordered black
curls of her charge, with an affection touching to wit-
ness in so old a woman.
They proceeded to the cottage, standing in its own
square of garden ground, and lying a little way back
from the road, and sat down to the tea prepared for
the young guardian  a simple country tea enough,
with brown bread and fresh butter and platefuls of red
currants and water-cresses, and other miscellaneous
items. Owen was not particularly partial to red cur-
rants with his bread and butter, but it was a country
custom, and he had become too polite in his manner
to enter more than one simple protest against the fruit
Mrs. Cutcheld heaped together in his butter-plate.
"We've spent all the afternoon gathering 'em,"
was the old lady's remark; "the gooseberries are a
little back'ard."
"Thank you  currants will do very well. Mary,
won't you take any?"
"I'm afraid there won't be enough for you, gardy,"
replied his ward; "and you've come all the way from
London, and must be so hungry."
Owen fancied half a gallon of red currants a trie
too much for him at one sitting, and assured Mary of
that fact, who consequently began to participate in the
general festivity. After tea, Owen's present, in the
shape of a new picture-book, was presented to Mary;
and whilst she sat by the lattice window absorbed in
the coloured plates, Owen and Mrs. Cutcheld settled
their cash transactions for the ensuing quarter.
Owen: -~ A Waif. I. 13
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194 owns.
Presently Owen and Mary were in the garden,
Mary showing her guardian her own particular patch
of garden ground, where the owers, bright and radiant
as herself, were reared, and Owen, becoming thought-
ful, and looking at his silver watch.
"It's not late, gardy," said the child, with a scared
look into Owen's face. The thought of going away
again had driven the colour from her cheeks.
"Ay, but it is late for one who has a long way to
go, Mary," said Owen.
"But I haven't shown you my sprig muslin for
Sundays  and my new hat that Mrs. Cutcheld
trimmed  and you haven't heard how well I can
read now."
"Some day when I have a little more time, Mary
dear."
"Oh! I shan't care to learn any more, if you won't
hear how I get on. I'll grow up such a big dunce,"
and the child pouted her pretty lips, and the tears rose
to her eyes.
"Get the lesson-book, Mary, then," said Owen,
good-naturedly, "we mustn't stop your learning."
The lesson-book was procured, and Mary, installed
on Owen's knee, went through several exhibitions of
her spelling and reading powers, under the old honey-
suckle porch at the back of the house. But Owen's
thoughts were evidently inclined to wander, and his
gaze went beyond the book, and across to the distant
hills, until Mary aroused him from his reverie by
saying,
## p. 195 (#207) ############################################
OWEN. 195
"You're not listening to me."
"Who says I am not?" asked Owen, aggrieved at
the charge.
"Well, I fancied so," said Mary, doubtfully; "but
I suppose you know it all without a book."
"Most of it."
"I wonder now, gardy," with a critical glance into
Owen's face, "why you want to run away from me so
early to-night? You seldom leave here before dark,
Owen."
"Ah! but the evenings draw out, Mary."
"Have they drawn out any longer than last sum-
mer's, gardy, when you always stayed till Eltingham
church struck nine."
"What a memory you have," said Owen, with a
little confusion that he tried to hide by a laugh; "and
what a deal you want to know for a edgling. Shall
I tell you, I'm not going straight home, then?"
"Oh! dear, where are you going?"
"To see an old friend who lives in the country, at
Ansted; the father of the Ruth Dell of whom you have
heard me speak so often, Mary."
"Has he any little girls you love better than me?"
"There isn't a little girl I love half so well in the
world!"
"Oh, I'm glad of that, Owey," said she, inging
her arms around him; "and I shan't mind you going
away so much; although I hope Ruth Dell's father
won't always live about here, and be taking you away
so early. Where's Ruth Dell?"
13*
## p. 196 (#208) ############################################
196 owns.
"She lives at Ansted school now."
"You don't care about seeing her, then?"
"She may be at her father's," said Owen, "it
wouldn't be proper for a young man to call on a young
lady, Mary."
"Why not?"
Owen had entangled himself somewhat in his ex-
planations, and could only reiterate that it wasn't
proper, and set Mary on the ground, and rise to his
feet.
"Be a good girl till I see you again, Mary  it
will not be many weeks, I dare say."
"I should come a little earlier if I were you, to
make up for going away so soon."
"A good idea," returned Owen, "I'll think of it.
Now run and tell Mrs. Cutcheld that I'm going."
Mary, after an odd little sigh, ran as directed, and
the old woman made her appearance, and desired to
be remembered to Mr. Dell  to the John Dell, be
it understood, who had at rst recommended her to
Owen.
"It's many a year since I saw John Dell," com-
mented Mrs. Cutcheld, "and I've only heard from him
since my old man's death. He was a boy then, with
all his troubles before him, though he thought all his
troubles had come and upset him. He was a good
young man though, and knew where his real comfort
lay. And it isn't every young man who turns to a
bible in his distresses  is it, sir?"
"No," said Owen, wincing a little.
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owns. 1 9 7
"I'm doing my best to larn Mary to take to it,
young as she be. It won't be time thrown away, some
day."
"N o," answered Owen again; "you're right."
He raised Mary in his arms once more, and kissed
her, shook hands with Mrs. Cutcheld, who wished
him a pleasant journey back, and then opened the
rustic gate separating the garden from the shady lane,
and strode away. At the bend 'of the lane he paused
to look back; he found Mary close to his heels, and
Mrs. Cutcheld in the rear, struggling with her breath
and her mob-cap again.
"I forgot to remind you, gardy, to come earlier
next time, to make up!"
"To be sure."
"And you won't go away so early, then  fond as
you are of Ruth Dell's father?"
"No  not next time."
"Good-bye, dear gardy, then  and don't forget
me."
She was in his arms again, and, as he kissed her,
she said 
"At the top of the hill you can see my bed-room
window  will you look back there?"
" Certainly."
"Good-bye, then."
At the foot of the hill mentioned by little Mary,
Owen looked back to nd his ward engaged in an
energetic struggle with Mrs. Cutchcld, who objected
to a renewed sally in his direction. The old lady had
\
## p. 198 (#210) ############################################
198 owns.
obtained a rm purchase this time; and though her
mob-cap was in the road, and under Maryis feet, she
was not inclined to relax her hold and allow Mary to
y off.
Owen laughed and waved his hand, and strode
rapidly up the hill, halting again on its summit to
keep his promise to his ward. Far beneath him, on
the left hand, embosomed amongst the trees that grew
each side of the lane he had quitted, a glimpse could
be obtained of the thatched roof of the cottage, and the
open window in its side, where Mary sat, and waved
something white towards him  probably the cap of
her custodian, from its size and general appearance. It
required good eyes to detect her at that distance; but
the eyes of both guardian and ward had a long range,
and Owen responded to the signal, and ung his cap
in the air.
"God bless her!" he muttered, as he turned away;
"it is worth the living for, to have that child's love 
it is worth the working for. With such a sister to
love, and keep from the danger, ought I ever de-
spair?"
Of what was Owen despairing, as he resumed his
way that summer evening, looking so grave and
thoughtful?
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owmz. 199
CHAPTER V.
Opposing Elements.
THREE miles and a half, or four miles, are nothing
to a. good pair of legs, such as Owen was the fortunate
possessor of. He was a rapid walker, and milestone
after milestone seemed to y by him in his progress.
True, he exerted himself to the utmost, in his anxiety
to make up for lost time  as if lost time were ever
regained by discomfort and self-sacrice! and paused
not for breath or reection, till the cottage of Robert
Dell, familiarly known as 92, appeared on the high-
road.
Save for being on the high-road, instead of a shady
turning therefrom, it might have been the cottage he
had quitted. The same thatched roof, with the window
in its side, the same patch of garden ground sur-
rounding the house, and the identical rustic gate
hanging by its two defective hinges, which had swung
back to his entrance a few hours ago. Owen had
visited the cottage before, with John Dell, and had
found no difculty in recognizing itand, considering
that he had reached the end of his journey, his face
did not brighten a great deal at the prospect.
Was it for the reason that the ci-dvvrmt 92 was
hobbling about his garden, feebly working a Dutch
hoe in amongst his cabbages, and fancying he was
raking up weeds by the roots, instead of neatly cover-
## p. 200 (#212) ############################################
200 owns.
ing them with a surface of mould? For the reason
that 92 was alone that summer evening, and he had
been hoping otherwise from the moment his mind was
made up to take a day's leave.
Well, it was his luck, and he must make the best
of it. Dell never showed his disappointment, and was,
to a certain extent, his model to copy from. And if he
had walked four miles, and thrown himself into a per-
spiration only to see a super-annuated policeman with
gout in both legs, why there was no help for it, and
he must salute 92 gracefully.
"A good evening to you, Mr. Dell," cried Owen,
from the roadway; and 92 left off raking, and shaded
his eyes with his hand.
"Bless me! is that you, Owen Owen?" cried Ruth
Dell's father. "Well, I'm uncommon glad to see you,
to be sure. Push the gate to the left and give a hoist,
my lad, and step this way."
Owen entered the garden as requested, and 92
looked keenly at him as he advanced.
"Nothing wrong at Kennington?"
"Oh, no."
"Nor at Ansted; you haven't been there, Owen
Owen?"
"No. All's well everywhere, I believe," responded
our hero, with a short laugh, that was far from natural.
"I don't suppose my nerves are quite so rst-rate
as they used to be in old penny-patetics times," said
92, after a moment's reection, "for you gave me
quite a turn like."
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owns. 201
"I have been to Eltingham, to see a little friend
of mine."
"Chickney's daughter?" immediately inquired the'
old man, who had a good memory still, if even his
nerves had deteriorated.
Owen responded in the afrmative.
"And how's she a-growing, Owen Owen?" asked
92; "and who does 'she take after? Not Tarby, I hope."
"No  not Tarby," replied our hero.
"That's a mortal good job, for Tarby were a rough
'un at times. I shall never forget him to the last day
of my life  the rows I had with him. The bad
tempers that took hold of him, and made him savage.
Is he alive yet?"
"It's doubtful," said Owen, who had his reasons
for not being too communicative.
"Got his ticket, I suppose?"
"Long ago."
"Gone into thebush and disappeared - just like
'em all."
Owen hastened to turn the conversation.
"You haven't told me how Ruth is  or whether
she likes her change of life."
"She's looking very well, and tells me she's nothing
to regret. I saw the dear girl in the beginning of the
week."
"Nothing to regret!" Owen did not know, or
would not have owned, what there was in the words
that jarred upon him. He expressed his happiness to
hear so good an accountof her, although he might
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202 owns.
have felt better pleased had he been told that she
could not 'shake of1' all the memories connected with
the old house, and that they made her dull at times to
dwell upon them. To dwell upon them himself, made
him dull and set his heart beating. Was he really of
a nature more sensible to outer impressions than she
who was so frequently in his thoughts?
"Does she call here very often, Mr. Dell?"
"Whenever she can, the dear girl  it's only a
mile walk, up to the side of the hill yonder, and down
this side; and she wafts over the ground like a zebra."
92 intended to say zephyr, but the owery parts
of his speech were a little inclined to run wild that
evening.
"Bless your soul, Owen, it's a' bran new unbuttoned
life, this here," said 92, reectively-, "retired from
active service, and conned to a beat of my own
making, and no one to take up  and all pleasant
and comfor'ble. It's beginning life again, to see that
girl's face so often here, to hear her voice so often 
it is'nt like any other voice that I ever heard in my life."
"Or in mine  it's a nice quiet voice, you see,"
added Owen, fancying that 92 had looked at him with
mild air of surprise.
"It's like an Oligun harp," afrmed 92, with the
air of a connoisseur in those instruments; "and so was
her mother's, though she didn't live long to enjoy it.
And, as I was a-saying, she don't feel herself too
proud, or too much of a lady, to keep away from her
old father, although I was the rst to think that John
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owns. 203
was bringing her up too grand. Very kind I thought
it, Owen Owen, but a trie too grand for policeman 92.
And John was right, and I was wrong, and was natural
enough."
"She's not a vain girl," said Owen.
Next to the pleasure of seeing her, was the pleasure
of talking of her to a garrulous old man, who was not
likely to have any suspicious; and Owen drew 92 out
accordingly.
"As humble as an old shoe, with all her learning;
and the lift she's got, as school-mistress to Ansted,"con-
tinned the old man. "Why, it was only last week,
when she met that young doctor fellow outside here,
that she said, 'My father,' with a grace and elegance,
that made me feel like a general-is-ipsebo."
"A young doctor fellow -what, at Ansted?" said
Owen, in the coolest manner possible.
"He's the new doctor to the school, and attends to
the little one's gripes, and so on a young chap with
a high forehead, deeentish in his way  and o'-handish
just a bit  you don't know him?"
"Oh, no," said Owen, "I don't know him. I sup-
pose he don't come here very often."
"Well, he's rather interested in my marrow."
"Why, what's the matter with it?" asked Owen,
alarmed.
"My vegetable marrow, I should have said  one
I bought on spec, of a gardener down town. It
grows like mad, Owen Owen  only look here, now."
Owen bitterly repented his last question, it sent the
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204 ownn.
old gentleman so far on another tack, and brought the
history and genealogy of that vegetable-marrow plant
to the light, together with a full register of its pro-
gress, from the day it became incorporated in 92's list
of garden stock.
Owen would have liked to learn a little more
detail of that young doctor fellow, who was troubling
his mind, and pressing on it and robbing him of his
natural tone of voice. He did not know why he should
care  it was the height of folly, considering what
Ruth was, and all that he had been. Long ago he
fancied there had not been a single hope left at the
bottom of his heart, and it was natural enough young
fellows should be interested in her  more especially
"young doctor fellows," who had the happy chance of
often seeing her.
"And isn't this Ruth coming down the hill?" asked
Owen, with a leaping heart, as the well-known gure
of his old friend's niece appeared advancing. He had
no doubt upon the subject, although he would have
given all that he was worth in the world to be told it
was not she at that time. For she was not alone, and
sauntering by her side was a young man whose face
did not appear quite strange to Owen.
"Yes, and the young doctor fellow too."
"Is his name Glindon?" asked Owen, as the re-
membrance of their last interview ashed upon him.
"To be sure, Glindon's the name."
Owen watched them narrowly, as they came down
the hill together. Every gesture of Mr. Glindon's,
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owsx. 205
every movement of Ruth's, was accurately marked by
the keen black eyes observing them. And though
there was little to observe, though the conversation was
evidently commonplace and far from animated, Owen
felt his hand tremble as it rested on the fence. The
man looked at her too often, his jealous fancy whispered,
and she looked down too much, or away from him, or
anywhere save at him, with that old frank look he
knew so well;  so be it, .was it his right to cavil or
demur?
Slowly down the hill came Glindon and Ruth,
Owen's heart sinking at their near approach. They
were face to face with him at last, and Ruth, with a
bright smile, held forth both her hands to him.
"What, Owen!  oh, how glad I am to see you!"
"I thought I might have a chance of meeting you
at your father's, before I went back to town to-night,"
said Owen, letting the little secret reason of his pre-
sence there escape him. '
"Thank you, Owen, for taking all this trouble.
And my uncle, you haven't told me how he is."
"Quite well; and sends his love, of course."
Owen took it for granted he might deliver that
message on John Dell's part, notwithstanding John
Dell at that present moment imagined Owen to be with
Mrs. Cutcheld and his ward.
"Dear uncle  he never forgets me."
"Is it likely?"
Owen delivered this compliment in his usual
straightforward manner, not intending it as a compli-
## p. 206 (#218) ############################################
206 owns.
ment, but uttering it, as a matter of course, that all
the world might listen to if it liked. From any one
else, the remark might have brought the colour to her
check: but Ruth, who understood Owen so well, only
smiled, and betrayed no embarrassment. It was "the
young doctor fellow" on whom the remark grated, and
whose eyebrows knit in consequence; but Owen was
not heeding him  had, even in the rst moments of
meeting with Ruth, quite forgotten him.
It was time to remember, when he who had been
surveying Owen for some minutes said 
"Surely, MissDell, I have met this gentleman, before."
"Indeed!" was the reply. "He is an old friend of
my father's and mine  Mr. Owen  Mr. Glindon,"
added Ruth, by way of introduction, as she passed
along the path towards her father.
"Am I not right in my surmise, Mr. Owen?" in-
quired Mr. Glindon.
"Possibly;" and Owen looked at his interlocutor
and inched not.
"Once or twice, I think, I had the pleasure of
meeting you  you were a boy then."
"You are quite right," was Owen's short answer.
Owen objected to the tone of the speaker; the look
on his face was half supercilious, he fancied  but
then he was full of fancies!
"On both occasions, I think, we had a triing dis-
pute  I forget the subject."
"You required more court paid to you than I had
time or inclination for  that's it."
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"Possibly," was the airy reply. "It has not dwelt
upon my memory, or disturbed me in the least."
"I wanted you to attend a dying mother of mine,
and you refused."
"Want of time," said Glindon. "Ah,'yesI begin
to remember." .
"And want of inclination my mother was a poor
woman, and you were afraid of lavishing your services
at a discount."
"I don't understand you, sir."
"I have no more lucid meaning;" and Owen was
turning away, when Mr. Glindon touched him on the
arm.
"You are as abrupt as ever, and forget yourself,
sir. You bring yourself forcibly to my remembrance
now  you were rude and ill-mannered."
Mr. Glindon spoke with some warmth, for he had
lost his temper, and was a man of spirit. In his
opinion Owen had treated him rudely, and dashed at
his own cavalier manner with a savage ferocity. He
had wielded a light ashing rapier, and this rude
fellow had struck at it with a bludgeon.
' "Possibly, I was excited, and you were coolly con-
temptuous," replied Owen.
"I must beg to dissent from your verdict."
"Well, there was an opposing element in your
nature, or in mine  or in both."
"Do you think it exists still?" asked Mr. Glindon,
with a curling lip.
"Very likely," answered Owen; "there are some
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208 owns.
natures that are better apart, perhaps - whose total
dissimilarity must jar when they meet. You will ex-
cuse me, but I have a habit of speaking out."
"So I see."
Mr. Glindon, who objected to such plain speaking,
raised his head haughtily, and passed on towards Ruth
and her father, stood and conversed a few minutes
with them, retraced his steps, passed Owen without a
glance in his direction, and went out at the gate, and
along the road he had recently traversed with the
schoolmistress.
Owen, before joining father and daughter, watched
him as he wended his way up the hill. It was the
dusk of evening now, with the broad moon rising, and
silvering the landscape. A dark spot on the white
country road seemed the receding gure of Mr. Glindon
as dark a spot on Owen's life would be the man, if
fate should bring them more together. Thrice had
they met and exchanged words that grated on the
remembrance; thrice had Owen felt that opposing ele-
ment within him, of which he had spoken in that brief
colloquy, and which might belong to dream-land, so
untrue and unrealistic seemed it. And yet the dark
spot went on along the road, and Owen watched, and
felt his hands clench.
"If he cross Ruth's path too often  God help me
- and her, perhaps," he added, after a pause.
It was a gloomy soliloquy, but his heart was in
shadow then, and his spirits at zero.
END or THE THIRD BOOK.
## p. 209 (#221) ############################################
BOOK THE FOURTH.
DISCORDIA.
Owen:  A Wail'. I.
14
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CHAPTER I.
What Owen Expected.
OWEN was so far from a hero, that he never
allowed his love troubles to oat uppermost. His co-
mates and brothers in desk-work would have found it
difcult to believe in any change; he was a hard
worker, who in business hours sought to discharge
faithfully those duties for which the house of Cherbury
paid him. He might have been a trie more grave
over his account-books; smiled with a little more effort
at the few practical jokes of his companions, which a
sharp head-clerk's absence occasionally allowed; but
his calculations were ever exact, and he did an ex-
cellent day's work, even when his heart was smarting
under his rst disappointment.
Yes, it was a disappointment, after all  one of
the greatest and the most acute, because Owen would
not confess to himself that he had ever had a right to
think of Ruth Dell. Therefore his morbid feelings,
and a sense of having lost his chance of the greatest,
brightest reward that his hopes>could look forward to
and long for, were all unwarrantable. His duty was
to check those feelings; he would be a very child to
show them to the light, and let the few friends whom
he owned be witness to such foolish weakness. He
14*
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212 owns.
was a man, and would live down all disappointment;
his should be a heart for ever hard to guess at!
That he had dreamed and awakened from a fancy
picture, was the fate of more than him; others had
su'ered and grown strong, and what others had had
the power to do, he felt would not fail him at his
need. She had never known, and she would never
know, what idol he had raised in the inner temple,
for a secret worship known but to himself; if the temple
were a ruin, still he had betrayed nothing. There
was even a morbid satisfaction in believing things
had progressed much further than they had; that Mr.
Glindon and Ruth were on the eve of an engagement,
and every day might bring the tidings home to him.
From the fragments he had gathered at Ruth's father's
cottage, from Glindon's manner on that evening, de-
tailed in our last chapter, he had framed her story,
and, though it clouded the landscape, he believed in it.
It was a wild romance, and he had been a visionary;
he, whose duties in a working world should have
taught him better. So to the ledger and day-book,
and away with the fancies of youth from that day
forth. Such fancies had perplexed him, and, to win
in the hard race before him, one should be cool, col-
lected, of business and money-getting habits.
Time went quietly along some nine or twelve
months after this, and Owen saw but little of Ruth
Dell. He avoided Ansted, and never curtailed his
visits to his little ward, in order that he might nd
time to cross the elds in search of one who had held
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the rst place in his heart, from an age that he would
have blushed to confess. Once or twice there was no
escaping Ruth; at her uncle's house, principally in the
holidays, she took her place in the straight monotonous
path he was pursuing, and was kind and gentle, and
ever the same to him; but he was growing older,
stronger every day, and his was a nature that could
subdue itself. His was a nature, too, that could quickly
harden, that a rm mind would force to harden, as a
cure for a romantic disease which had been a trouble
to him; and yet, possibly at this particular period of
which we write, Owen was more unsettled, if practical
and cold, than at any other time before or since.
It did not lighten his thoughts to hear no news of
an engagement; he knew Mr. Glindon was consulting
surgeon at the great Ansted school, that Glindon and
Ruth must meet frequently, that the man at least was
in love with her  he was sure of that!  and that
all would follow in due course; and if a little later
than Owen had at rst imagined - what mattered it?
Did it matter either that John Dell had seen Mr.
Glindon, and thought him a shrewd, intelligent fellow,
who would succeed in the world  that once during
the last Midsummer holidays Glindon had called at
Kennington, and exchanged with Owen the coldest of
civilities? It mattered nothing to him  nothing
ailed or affected him, he assured John Dell one day,
when that old friend thought he was looking pale, and
told him so.
"Is there much to trouble your mind at present,
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214 owns.
young fellow?" said Dell, with that rough precipitancy
of speech which took away all idea of his feeling
much interest in the reply. And yet John Dell, at
that time, was regarding him somewhat wistfully.
"Nothing." '
"'Stick to your business,' is a good motto; but
there is a sticking too close to one idea, one task 
till the whole thing becomes a trie top heavy."
"Do you think so?"
"I know so," afrmed Dell, positively.
"My business is not a trie too heavy for me,
Mr. Dell  I am growing stronger and more condent
every day under it."
"You want change."
Owen shook his head.
"You have taken no holidays this year  save an
hour now and then, to see that ward of yours."
"It don't strike me that you admire much change
yourself, Mr. Dell," said Owen, with a laugh. "Practice,
not precept, for me."
"If you'll follow my example, I'll take a week to-
morrow," said Dell, sharply, and his eyes protruded
horribly with the suggestion.
"I've nowhere to go."
"My brother's cottage, near Ansted."
Owen winced.
"Or the sea-side  Margate if you like, along
with the Cockney tribe, at which so many ne people
sneer. A good pickling in the sea would do you a
world of good."
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owns. 21 5
"I was never better in my life."
" That's a 1ie!"
Owen coloured to the roots of his closely cropped
hair. The lie direct was unpleasant and unpalatable;
and John Dell, albeit the best of men in Owen's
opinion, rendered objectionable remarks still more
galling, by the crude, biting way in which they were
delivered. Never a man had less of ne feelings, or a
regard for them in others, than Dell. He wielded his
tongue, as he wielded at times his hammer, and it fell
very often with a dung, and jarred horribly.
"Think it what you like, sir."
They were facing each other at the open parlour
window, that looked into the little back garden; Dell
in his work-of-day suit, with his arm on the window
sill, enjoying his after-supper pipe. Ruth had returned
to Ansted only yesterday, and perhaps her absence
was testing her uncle's temper again. Or was it nearer
the truth to surmise that her uncle was trying Owen 
seeking in his own way, after his own manner, to
probe to the depths all that had kept the youth facing
him so dull and grave lately.
"Well, I'll think it a lie," he said coolly, "because
I have known you less dull in my experience, and to
assert to the contrary is to try and deceive me. And
I won't be deceived," he said, brusquely.
Owen felt uneasy. Dell was a plain speaker, and
might ask an uncomfortable question at any moment.
"Perhaps I haven't a right to press you so hard,
Owen," and his hand smote our hero on the shoulder;
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216 owns.
"but you are like a son of mine now; and if there's
any trouble under that waistcoat, why, I should like
to share it with you, or chase it away. And it was a
plaguey lie to say you were never better to me  me,
a man conceited enough in his knowledge of human
nature for fty. Why, Owen, everything's at sixes
and sevens."
"Where?"
"In that morbid anatomy of yours, to be sure.
You're not so sharp as you were  more like a worn-
out old mill-horse than anything else. You don't per-
severe  you drag on."
"I stick to my work, you own that."
"Yes, but with as much outward interest as the
anemone has in the slimy rock it holds fast to," said
Dell  "your heart's gone."
"Eh?"
And Owen coloured once more, and looked in-
dignantly at his lecturer.
"The man with no heart in his work is a machine
and a fool." '
"A machine, granted  why a fool?"
"A fool to remain at a task he will never excel
in," cried Dell. "Did a machine ever get on in the
world, I wonder?"
"You are severe on me to-night, Mr. Dell."
"I want to rouse you," said Dell, less vigorously;
"you have changed for the worse, and I must cry
stop, if I fail in turning youfia Why, Owen, I never
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owrm. 217
see you open a bible now  and you did once pretty
regularly for a youth. And  and I don't nd you
at my elbow at church now. It was only a habit of
yours, Owen  I knew that  but it was a good
one, and might have led to more good."
Dell looked earnestly, almost reproachfully, at him,
and Owen's heart was touched. A new stubbornness,
of which he had been unaware himself, melted for a
moment, and in that moment there hovered on his lips
all his trouble. But a momentary impulse, and then
the secret dropped like a dead weight to the bottom of
his heart again, where it lay, cold and heavy. Dell
was a man who would have heard all, and offered no
sympathy, thought Owen; let him keep his own
counsel, and be wise. He could but remember one to
whom that secret, at such a moment,might have been
told, and she had been a mother t/o him in a time of
tribulation, and worked all that good in him for which
he thanked her often yet, never his God. And she
was dead, and there would he never a woman, mother
or wife, to take her place and o'er her faithful bosom
as a pillow to his heated brain. He wondered, in that
bitter moment, whether he would not have been a
happier man had he drifted away on the dark waters
from the midst of which she saved him.
Perhaps it was sixteen or seventeen months before
the crisis came which Owen had expected. In that
time the reader may think Owen should have struck
for himself, and perhaps given a turn to his love affair.
But Owen was a shrewd young man, and seldom pre-
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218 owns.
cipitate; he had guessed there was no love to be
aroused for him in the heart of Ruth Dell, and he
shrank from meeting mortication and vexation of
spirit. She was a sister, and had faith in him yet; let
them keep their old friendly relations, from which a
word of his would affright her for ever. In the face of
a hope he might have dashed forward; with the con-
sciousness that one was in advance of him, and must
win, he hung back like a sensible man.
"Look here," said Dell one evening, when Owen
entered the house, "here's a long letter that may sur-
prise you."
"From whom?"
"Glindon, the doctor."
Owen felt inclined to drop the letter, or tear it in
a hundred pieces, the opposing element of which he
had spoken throbbed so powerfully within him. How-
ever, he mastered himself sufciently to pass quickly
the letter across the table to Dell.
"I'm a bad hand at reading long letters. Will you
tell me the substance of it?"
"Can't you guess?"
Owen met the protuberant eyes. It was a subject
he must learn to face, and he made the effort to con-
front it then.
"It concerns Ruth?"
lAy.77
"It asks your consent to an engagement?"
"Spoken like an oracle, Owen of ours."
Owen dived to the depths of his pocket, and
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brought forth a cigar-case, that was new to John
Dell.
"Where did you get that thing?" Dell asked, dis-
paragingly.
"Bought it," was the quiet response.
"So you've taken to smoking, after all. It's a bad
habit."
"It's soothing, I have heard you say."
"Ay, and expensive. And it's not every man that
can content himself with one pipe or cigar a day, like
me. What do you want soothing for?"
"Oh, everybody smokes now," said Owen, eva-
sively.
"I hate to hear a man quote everybody as a pre-
cedent. Everybody is a snare and a temptation."
"But J
"But, Owen, what makes you dart away from a
subject that should be as interesting to you as to me?
Don't you care for Ruth's future?"
"As a sister's."
"Then sit down, and quietly talk the matter over
with me. You like a brother, I like an old father, to
whom trouble has come."
"A trouble!"  and Owen looked anxiously toward
him. ,
A trouble to John Dell as well as to hirnit was
strange.
"You shall give me your advice, Owen," said he;
"though I shan't take it, because I never cared for any
one's'advice but my own."
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220 ownn.
"Then I'll save my breath, Mr. Dell."
"No, don't do that."
"I have no advice to offer  I have no right."
"Dash it!  I give you the right, don't I?"
John Dell lumped into a seat, and began nervously
beating the table with the letter of Arthur Glindon's.
He was put out that evening, and made no attempt to
conceal it.
"Sit down, sit down, Owen, and don't hang about
like a great gawky," he said; and Owen' sat down
accordingly, and, altering his mind about smoking that
evening, placed his cigar case on the table, where it
lay between him and John Dell, with an enamelled
Messalina-like head, in showy relief against the dark-
green Morocco. John Dell surveyed this head once or
twice, and dgeted and twitched angrily his right grey
whisker, as though it put him out.
"Subject number one uppermost, and to be care-
fully led before subject number two is laid before us,"
said Dell. "Subject number one, now?"
He had pinned Owen to it, and Owen braced his
nerves and kept no longer his dark eyes downwards.
"I'll read you the letter," continued Dell, "and if
you've no advice to o'er, why you can leave it alone.
He's a bit of a blunderer, for he dashes ofl' without a
date, like a silly woman, and writes downhill anyhow, ~
like a wretched author I knew once.
It was a well written courteous letter, at which no
one, however prejudiced, could nd fault. It was an
earnest letter, too, and Owen felt it was not a false
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pretence of earnestness. A false letter always betrays
itself, and mock sentiment on paper has a mark of its own
which there is no mistaking. This letter was not what
Owen expected; he had no admiration for Mr. Glindon,
but he felt that Mr. Glindon wrote well, and meant
what he wrote; and that possibly he had painted that
gentleman in darker colours than he deserved. At all
events the man loved Ruth Dell, and though Owen
bore him no esteem for that, on the contrary, hated
him with a new intensity for which he could not
account, he could but say at the conclusion, "a fair
statement."
"Well, it's fair enough, as you say," assented John
Dell; "it states his case, his love for Ruth, his opinion
that Ruth loves him; it tells us that he has seen her
father, whose opinion is worth about as much as his
caterpillar-eaten cabbages he bores one to death about,"
added John Dell very unfraternally, "and he winds up
by asking for my consent in a polite and gentlemanly
manner, and yet I don't like it."
"You have expected it?"
"Ay, partly, partly  I don't walk through the
world with my eyes shut."
He walked through the world with his eyes very
much out of his head, and perhaps saw more than
other people. Owen even doubted at times whether he
had not seen through him  a matter of no difculty
though Owen fancied his imsey rags of disguise
were triple-clad steel, which' no suspicion could pierce.
"And it's a good match."
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222 owns.
"Ah! I don't see so much as that," said Dell
quickly; "the man being a surgeon, and of a good
family, don't square it. It's a good match for him,
lad."
"True."
"It's a good match for any man who can win a
virtuous religious girl to himself; if he be a right-
minded man, he will think it the greatest blessing that
can ever befall him on God's earth."
John Dell's hand smote the table heavily, and
scared Owen's reverie to the outermost verge. He had
never seen his friend so excited.
"I'm an old bachelor, Owen," he said more softly,
as he met Owen's surprised look, "but I think so all
the same. Had I come across such a girl, I would
have tried to marry her years ago, and I would have
been a better man. I might have had then a daughter
to give away of my own, instead of this sham!"
"Ruth is like your daughter  there is no sham
in it. She would not marry him, if you were to say
'he is unt for you  I object.'"
"God bless her, she's a good girl. And I think,
Owen, you've gone pretty near the truth, for an addle-
headed lad."
"Thank you for the compliment."
"And you have been addling yourself lately, and
been a trouble to me, boy. I suppose she was at the
bottom of it  eh?"
His great hard hand  and yet his kind fatherly
hand  passed quickly over the table and pressed
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owns. 223
Owen's arm, curbing the convulsive start which would
have taken our hero from the room. It was a time to
talk of it, and John Dell had seized the right time,
like a cautious man as he was.
"Sit still, Owen, for a moment or two, I won't bore
you. I've kept it back a long while knowing no good
could follow it, but it may as well come out, now all's
over and ended. I've seen it all along, and wished it
but it wasn't to be."
"Wished it  oh, sir!"
"You were more in her sphere  you were steady
and persevering, and likely to get on. You would
have made her a good husband in time, and she would
have led your heart aright, and made a Christian of
you  which you arn't  and, oh! Owen, which you
may never be."
"And you knew it, and didn't think- her too good
for me  me, a waif from the streets!" he cried pas-
sionately.
"Don't bellow out like that  there's half-a-dozen
boys trying to swing my front gate o' its hinges, and
they'll hear you. What a place this Kennington Road
is for boys!"
And as though interested in so momentous a ques-
tion, he withdrew his hand from Owen's arm, and sat
and reected upon the subject, giving time for Owen
to subside again into himself.
"I daresay after to-night you and I will never talk
of this again," Dell resumed, in a manner very strange
and gentle for him; "it's a subject far from palatable,
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224 owns.
and had better die out in its own way. What I wished
did not come to pass  it was God's wish, too, and
so for the best."
"You have never given Ruth to believe that II"
"No," broke in Dell, "that would have been unfair
to you, and distressed her. I should not have spoken
of it, only these kinds of disappointments change a
man, and rob him sometimes of his best motives for
exertion. You'1'e changed."
It was the old sharp manner, and Owen felt glad
of it. The new manner had pained and moved him,
and the tears had been in his eyes more than once.
"Ruth will go away and have a home of her own
some day," said he, "and then there's only you to look
after  a rough young cub, that will be more trouble
than half-a-dozen girls. You are changed, you know."
"You have told me so before, I  I am sorry if
you think I have changed for the worse."
"I know you have," said Dell, "for you're unset-
tled and restless. Those young clerks don't do you
any good  dash 'eml"
"They do me no harm, I think."
"It's very odd that a parcel of young men to-
gether must talk obscenity, and think it ne talking,
and so manlike," said Dell; "it's very awful to think
of the evil thoughts that slide in under cover of a jest
of the evil deeds that follow the thoughts, just as
the evil seed follows the rank weed that has owered
amongst the corn. Just as - well, I won't preach."
It was John Dell's weakness, that horror of preach-
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ing. His honest nature detested cant, and he was not
hold enough to be thought a canting hypocrite him-
self. He felt he could have done more good in his
time by striking at the right moment, in the right
mood, but he had left it for others less practical than
himself. He would have been laughed at by those
whose opinion he already thought valueless, and 'he
had been only moved here and there, as by an im-
pulse direct from the God whose servant he was. He
was a timid man, for all his abruptness, and would not
venture into the deep waters, even to save those who
might be sinking down. For they sank so slowly they
might be only drifting with the stream, and there were
a. hundred better hands than his upon the banks to
offer help and strength. It was not his profession to
be continually alive to the weakness and wickedness
of all passing around him. So there are men who
preach too little as well as too much  who let the
right time go by as well as the wrong; and so the
balance in both cases swings heavily to the dark side.
Perhaps there may come a time when even saving sin-
ners may be fashionable. Grand people have started
a great many out-of-the-way things in their day!
In the present instance John Dell, despite his as-
sertion, had not quite done with our hero; he saw a
chance of turning him from that abnormal state of
misanthropy which Colin, who has been disappointed
in Colinet, has taken to from the days of Arcadia.
"I won't preach," reiterated Dell, "but I won't
Owen:  A Wnif. I. 15
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226 ownu.
wind up without again hinting that it will be the bet-
ter for you to turn back to your old self. You are
sliding away from it, and making for the easy, devil-
may-care, fast school."
"And yet I study too hard, and don't take enough
holidays!" said Owen;
"Exactly; and so there will be a reaction and 'a
grand plunge," said Dell; "and all my hopes of seeing
you a bright man will go down with you like so much
lead round your neck."
Dell became excited again, and caught up Owen's
cigar-case, and shivered to pieces the china medallion,
with which it was ornamented, against the corner of
the table.
"There, I meant to do that!" he said, pitching the
case to Owen  "I hate your brazen-faced portraits of
hussies who ought to have known better than sit for
them; and what pleasure you or any man can take in
such wretched rubbish is a puzzle to me."
"It was the quietest I could pick out of the hate ."
"I'd have ung the lot at the owncr's head, then,"
said Dell.
Owen smiled at his friends impetuosity, and Dell
took it as a good omen that the rst acute pangs were
recovered from. Still, parting from Owen that night,
he could not forbear shaking hands with him, and look-
ing him steadily in the face again.
"I mustn't have you change," he said. "I don't
take so often to faces, that I should care to see this,
lined and shadowed, and looking reckless, like so many
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I meet in the streets. Your disappointment is of thistle-
down, and one hearty breath will putf it away!"
"Well, I''l try then."
"Look at me, and say if you think I am a puling
white-faced, lackadaisical prig, who is wasting away or
piling up the horrors, because a woman wouldn't take
to him."
It was a bold, grey-whiskered, slightly-lined face,
without a dash of sentiment in it. Love-troubles
might have swept at it once, but they had been dashed
off like the spray from an iron-bound coast.
"I don't think you have suffered much from the
tender passion, Mr. Dell."
"I have suffered deeply, and kept my cares to my-
self. What you have felt is a child's fancy; from such
a disappointment as mine, may God keep every honest
man free!"
The shadow of that disappointment crossed him as
he spoke, and it was for a moment a face on which
trouble rested and changed. Owen would have dreamed
of 92's love-troubles before John Dell's. Dell, to his
fancy, had always been hard and abrupt, and un-
yielding; an unfanciful child, plodding on quietly to
'an unfanciful manhood. And after all, he had had his
heart touched by a fair face, and been crossed in love
like other mortals  suffered more than most, or his
truthful tongue would not have asserted so much.
Well, Owen would grow stronger  he had no
fear of that. His was hardly a love-story, for the love
15*
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228 l owns.
had been all of one side, and could therefore be more
easily lopped away.
Still, he was uneasy and unhappy. .For his love
was a pure, unselsh passion, and hevhad a fear that
he had not owned to his companion that Ruth had
chosen, or was about to choose, unwisely. He had
seen but little of Glindon, but all that he had seen was
distasteful, and seemed to tinge his character unfavour-
ably. -
And the shadow of such thoughts kept him wake-
ful at his open window, long after John Dell in the
next room had dropped quietly to sleep.
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CHAPTER II.
Arthur Glindon.
Jonrz DELL went alone to Ansted the following
evening, and saw his niece Ruth. It was a long inter
view, with which we do not intend to trouble the
reader, and it ended satisfactorily, and with a few tears
on the lady's side  natural to such interviews in
general. With that frankness she had inherited from
him, she let her uncle see that Mr. Glindon had made
some progress in her aections, and John Dell could
but give his assent to the engagement, and add thereto
as hearty a blessing upon it as though she had been
his own child. He wrote to Glindon after his return,
and that gentleman called upon him at Kennington,
and entered into a statement of his prospects, his family
matters, and his parents; all of which we also refrain
from troubling the reader with. His prospects in life
will be alluded to in due course, and the parents will
not make their appearance, being abroad, and intend-
ing to stay there. Sufce it to say, that Glindon's
statement was satisfactory to John Dell; and revert we
a little to that course of events which made lovers of
the young doctor and the school-mistress.
In the rst place, it had not been an easy conquest
of Arthur Glindon's - Ruth Dell belonging to that
## p. 230 (#242) ############################################
230 OWEN.
staid, thoughtful class'of young women, growing every
day so unbeautifully less. Ruth Dell had not given
much thought to the morrow or the men; whether she
should be married, and who would fall in love with
her, and take her to be his wedded wife. She had been
brought up quietly, and passed on her way to womanhood
without having her senses distracted by what homely
people -call "a parcel of chaps." Undeniably a pretty
girl, she had not made good looks her study, or sought
to trade in them and raise a sensation with them, as
young ladies of a faster order of creation do now and
then. The sterner sex had not perplexed her before
Glindon's appearance on the scene; she had not dressed
for them, or talked at them, or invited them to her
side by glances meant to be shy, or broad stares in-
disputably bold; she had not irted and simpered and
ogled and angled and been so prettily-fast as is 
alas!  the fashion in the sad new times wherein hus-
bands are scarce. The sad new times wherein such
manners, fashionable though they be, are soaring true
lovers away, and bringing the false and vapid to no-
thing but empty compliments  the trying grievous
times for mothers of families whose daughters are on
their hands still, and whose sons are going dead against
God's laws and calling it life. And when sin is looked
at as a jest, and sinners are but free-livers and "horse-
breakers," society is undergoing a change which is bad
for it, and against which every man that thinks and
feels honestly ought to protest.
Possibly because Ruth Dell was the reverse of the
## p. 231 (#243) ############################################
owmz. 231
fashion, and made no "eyes," Arthur Glindon thought
it necessary to fall in love with her. He had fallen in
love with her before she was schoolmistress at Ansted,
and whilst she was yet unaware that such a person as
Mr. Glindon existed. He had seen her at the training-
school, whither business had called him, heard of her
acquirements, and been interested in her. Fortune had
not been favourable in his case, and he had only found
the opportunity of making her acquaintance just at the
time that she escaped him and went to Ansted. His
was a nature that struggled to subdue opposition, and
took not prudence into consideration when led on to
attain any object that tempted him. There was interest
in the chase then, and fortune becoming more kind,
rewarded his perseverance by making a vacancy for
consulting surgeon at Ansted. Having obtained, by
more than common energy, the appointment, he began
to think perhaps it would not be prudent to fall in
love too deeply with Ruth Dell. It was only an in-
fatuation  he had been subject to such  and it
would die out in good time.
He was a rising man, and she was a school-mistress;
her family was objectionable, while his was a highly-
respectable family, if a little poor in its way. In the
second instance he had found it hard not to fall in
love, and in the third he had begun to despair if Ruth
would ever fall in love with him, and so gone slap-
dash into the stream and struck out for her with all
his energy. And he had won her, after a long struggle,
after more patience than he had believed himself pos-
## p. 232 (#244) ############################################
232 OWEN-
sessed of, and more perseverance than he had ever
bestowed on his profession. Naturally clever, he had
worked his way easily upwards  had much applica-
tion been necessary, he would have still been an assis-
tant at a parish doctor's. He was astonished to nd
what a difference his love chase had made in him -
how many extravagant habits he had laid aside for the
nonce  what a many fast friends he had omitted to
call upon  how the time had slipped away in going
to and from Ansted, to his patients lying beyond the
free school on the hill.
Not that he attended to his patients quite so re-
gularly as he might have done; albeit if his love-mat-
ters had not lured him away, other incentives to plea-
sure would have caused him to wander. Glindon was
not of the settling-down, stay-at-home order; if it had
not been for one or two of those lucky cases which
make a medical man, he would never have had much
connection to attend to. He was naturally impatient
and irritable  add thereto that he was vain, and the
reader knows almost as much of his character as we
intend him to know in this chapter. The reader has
met with him before, and is aware of one or two bad
habits of his; how they will affect his history, and the
tenor of more lives than his, future pages must decide.
It may be a matter of surprise that Ruth Dell
should have taken to Arthur Glindon, but there are
strange inconsistencies in the universal passion, and
Ruth knew less of the real Arthur Glindon than the
reader knows. She had seen and met often an accom-
## p. 233 (#245) ############################################
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plished young man, who was neither frivolous nor
affected, and when business brought them not together
at Ansted school, there was good Mrs. Cherbury to
manoeuvre without her knowledge at Oaklands. For
that estimable lady was of the good old order of
matchmakers, and having taken a fancy to Ruth Dell,
would have moved heaven and earth, had it been in
her power, to nd her a tting husband. Her rst idea
had been to reserve Ruth for her "dear lad Isaac," but
that was a sanguine dream, in which both Isaac and
Ruth "fought shy." Isaac was forty-three, and seemed
dead to temptation, and Ruth would have preferred a
nunnery to accepting him, had the choice lain between
the two. Finally Mrs. Cherbury took Mr. Glindon in
hand, and nearly made his case hopeless by her inter-
ference, and by her clumsy manner of arranging meet-
ings intended to appear chance ones; but the end made
good the means, and now Ruth Dell was engaged to
Mr. Glindon, and was to marry him after a year's pro-
bation.
"And the Glindons are a very nice family, my
dear," said Mrs. Cherbury; "a little fussy, perhaps -
but that was their way when they were in England.
And we all have a way with us; and though they
thought nothing of my poor Cherbury because his blood
wasn't good and theirs was  not that I saw any
difference, unless it made Cherbury more of a purple
shade, as if his waistcoat was tightyet they'll think
a great deal of you for all that."
Some remarks of this kind led Ruth to inquire of
## p. 234 (#246) ############################################
- 234 owns.
Mr. Glindon whether he had communicated with his
parents respecting their engagement? Yes, he had
written, as a matter of course  and the reply', as a
matter of course, would be favourable; but was not he
old enough to be his own master? His parents did not
expect him to marry an heiress  in fact, never
troubled themselves about him, and were simply poor
gentlefolk, living abroad for economy's sake. He was
the best judge, and knew who would make him the
best wife.
And Ruth blushed, and evaded his looks, and felt
very happy under the circumstances. And she was
very happy, with life- at that time in its spring, and
no clouds threatening. He was her rst love, and the
one hero of her life. Before that time she had had
ever a reputation for rmness and self-control, but she
was always strangely confused now, and business
matters appeared dwarfed in importance, after John
Dell's consent had been added to that of her father's.
Owen saw more of Arthur Glindon after the engage-
ment  strove, for Ruth's sake and her uncle's, to be
as pleasant and agreeable to the young surgeon, as the
young surgeon strove on his own part. But there cer-
tainly was an opposing element at work, which kept
them a long way apart in their hearts from each other.
There were little spars of words between them when
they were left together for a moment, playful satirical
little thrusts at each other in arguments on passing
events, that were trying to both tempers.
"He would insult me, if he dare," thought Glindon;
## p. 235 (#247) ############################################
owns. 235
and "he would do me an injury, if it were in his
power," was the inward conjecture of Owen. Both
remembered too well that night of the renewal of their
acquaintance, when both spoke a little too plainly and
warmly. Its shadow was ever between any reciprocity
of feeling between them. Owen regarded Glindon as
a man who had won.a prize for which he had been
secretly striving, and as a man also with whom that
prize could not be trusted; and Glindon took no more
readily to Owen, for his belief that they had been
rivals when they met at 92's cottage, near Ansted.
And if the truth must be told, Glindon, from his own
elevated position, looked down a little on Owen. Owen
had been a- greengrocer's boy, and was still only a clerk
in a factory. He would not have looked down on him
if he had not given himself such airs, perhaps  and
Owen did'show off a little now and then, for he was
human, and had his weaknesses  and he was some
years Glindon's junior. It was well Glindon loved
Ruth Dell with a strong man's passion, for he was
contracting a me'sall1'a1zce, at which many an one in his
position would have hesitated. She would grace his
home, and make him a lady-like, accomplished wife;
but, heavens! what a father, uncle, and friend! If he
could shake off the whole of them, and take Ruth to
a foreign land, how much better it would be!  there
were fairer opportunities of succeeding in another
country. So Arthur Glindon was an unsatised being,
to whom the glorious unattainable was ever beyond,
making him unhappy, because out of his reach. Another
## p. 236 (#248) ############################################
236 owrm.
phase of his character you see  a strange phase, that
renders him a most remarkable and out-of-the-way
creature.
Surely not true to human life this Arthur Glindon,
cry my readers  dear and valued friends of mine,
who, like myself, are always content with the present,
and have no cause to grumble at anything. Our busi-
ness and prots are large enough  our friends are
only a little better off  our mothers and sisters-in-
law, and wife's acquaintances, are all that we can
wish  and our poor relations are the slightest of
thorns in the plumpest of esh. We sit composedly
under our g-tree, and have no schemes for advance-
ment, no repinings at the poorness of the prize for
which we fought so hard in times past, and no upward
glances at the grapes, which' seem as distant as
Heaven. - .
## p. 237 (#249) ############################################
OWEN. 237
CHAPTER III.
What Owen did not Expec
MR. ISAAC CnnRBURY's head not troubling its owner
with its aches sufciently to detain him from business,
he was once more punctual in his attendance at the
foundry, wherein his father had made much money for
his widow. Isaac, as the reader is aware, had been
bequeathed the business to make a fortune for himself;
and early and late he was at his post in his private
room, planning and corresponding enough for half a
dozen men at least. He would allow himself no holi-
day; the unholy fever of money-getting kept him more
restless than his father, and rendered him more spare
and pinched. If he had been less anxious, he would
have been a handsome man; if he had bent less over
his desk, he would have been more straight in the
back, and some inches broader across the chest. ,
He had a pride in the business, but it was not the
old pride of his father's  he would have worked hard
for money in any shape, under any circumstances. We
have seen him at the card-table with Glindon, ghting
hard for a few shillings; before the great library-table,
whereon so many papers were heaped, one could
scarcely imagine him the same man, although it was
the same passion that chained him there. Still, he did
not appear one who could betray excitement, or be
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238 owns.
moved by any loss or gain  he seemed ever cold,
calculating, and close. The chill of his presence stole
into the counting-house, and made an ice-pit of it; and
if he appeared in the workshops, the hammers seemed
to ring more faintly, and the furnace burn less erce.
And yet he was not a proud man, only one who
objected to be bothered and have those ideas with
which his head was full disturbed by other people's
suggestions. He was taciturn in business hours, and
as grim as though he had committed a murder, and
was ever haunted by his victim's ghost. '
He was a fair master to his men; he gave them
holidays on all legal occasions; and in matters of dis-
pute it was more comfortable to reason with a man
who never answered than with the foreman and over-
lookers, who bullied so ferociously. But he was not
liked much. He kept at a long distance from his ser-
vants; he was a silent man, and, moreover, as will be
presently shown, he was a suspicious one.
"Times are altered," and "the young tree is never
like the old stock," were the comments expressed when
he assumed the sceptre of government; Mr. Cherbury,
senior, was a pleasant, chatty, amiable old gentleman,
but his successor was hard to make out, and hid him-
self too much in the inner sanctum to be a favourite
with a thousand and odd workmen who cared not to be
estimated as so many slaves or machines.
Owen, among the rest, did not entertain any very
great amount of affection for Mr. Cherbury; had, in
fact, but seen very little of that gentleman, and had
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owns. 239
only received a commission now and then concerning
books and papers connected with the business, couched
in the briefest terms.
Some two or three months after the engagement
between John Dell's niece and Mr. Glindon, when
Owen, having taken Dell's words to heart, was more
like his old self before love matters troubled him, a
turn was given to Owen's life that was unexpected and
strange.
Lives owing on calmly and monotonously do re-
ceive these sudden "pulls up" at times; on the great
chess-board, amidst the crowd of lords and ladies,
blundering rooks and humble pawns, one must receive
a check sometimes  it is the law of life, the natural
sequence of mixing with the world.
Owen had many reasons for remembering that
"tum" to the last hour of his life; when he was an
older man it made him grave to think of it. Mr.
Cherbury's head had been a trie more unmanageable
than usual one morning, and Mr. Glindon had been
sent for in haste, and spent half an hour with him,
passing in and out of the counting-house without
acknowledging the existence of a young gentleman
whom he was accustomed occasionally to meet in a
different sphere. Owen had not troubled himself con-
cerning the slight, if slight it could be called. Possibly
Mr. Glindon had feared disturbing him over the ledger,
and thought friendly salutations in hours of business a
little out of place; probably he was "stuck up," and
wanted to show o'  it did not matter one way or
## p. 240 (#252) ############################################
240 ownn.
the other to Owen. That particular morning the chief
clerk, a little wiry man who had served the Cherbury's
for fty years, was sent for, after Mr. Glindon's de-
parture, and remained with the head of the rm half
an hour or more. Returning to the counting-house, he
addressed our hero direct.
"Mr. Owen, Mr. Cherbury wishes a few minutes
conversation with you."
"With me!" said Owen, scarcely able to realize
that fact on the instant.
The head-clerk nodded, and Owen left his high
stool and walked briskly towards the master's study.
At the door he paused to wonder what Mr. Cherbury
could possibly want with him, and had a vague idea
that some important topic  such as a rise in salary
was about to ensue. Well, he had been thinking
of a rise in salary lately; how agreeable it would be
to swell his savings' bank account, which had remained
in statu qu for some months, now Mary Chickney's
expenses becoming a little more heavy as she grew
older. Buoyed up with this pleasant thought  for
he had had an unaccountable presentiment before this
that something was wrong  Owen knocked at the
door, and received from within a summons to enter.
Mr. Cherbury was sitting in an arm-chair by the
empty re-grate, his knees crossed, his silk handker-
-chief hanging over his head as a protection from ies
- his whole appearance suggestive of ease. A position
similar to that in which we rst met him at Oaklands,
## p. 241 (#253) ############################################
owns. 241
and a singular position to nd him in his house of
business, with the letters unanswered on his desk.
"Shut the door quietly, Mr. Owen," he said, as our
hero entered, "and make sure no one's listening outside."
Owen complied with his request, and then ad-
vanced a few steps into the room, saying,
"I hope you are not unwell, Mr. Cherbury?"
"My head feels too big for me, that's all. It's the
only complaint I have," he said, in a petulant manner,
as if it were one complaint too many, and rather hard
on him. -
Owen stood by the library table waiting his master's
pleasure.
"Mr. Glindon recommends me to keep quiet till
three, so I thought in the interim I would send for
you and settle that matter."
"What matter, sir?"
"Only the matter that has been troubling me the
last three days  a little matter, which it may be as
well to settle at once."
It was very strange, Owen thought, and his active
mind went busily to work for a clue to the mystery,
and could not wait for the slow explanations of Mr.
Isaac Cherbury.
"I only wish you to say No and withdraw," re-
marked the employer.
"To say No?" repeated Owen.
"I don't believe it can be Yes, andand I'll take
your word to the contrary."
"Pray, explain, sir," said Owen, impatiently.
Owen:  A Waif. I. 16
## p. 242 (#254) ############################################
242 owns.
Mr. Cherbury appeared to have some difculty in
explaining, or having been recommended quietness
would not put himself in a hurry. Besides, he had
nearly an hour before him, the time-piece in its ebony
case on the mantel-shelf stood only at a quarter past
two.
"Well, then, an absurd statement has reached my
ears, Mr. Owen, and I leave it for you to disprove. It
can't be true, and yet it bothers me."
Owen felt uncomfortably tight about the chest.
Relating in after years the story, he said the whole
truth ashed upon him at that juncture, and paled his
face and took away his breath. The dark past came
nearer to him in that instant than it had done for many
years. He was a waif in the streets, homeless and
friendless, and ignorant only a few days ago!
"Were you ever in prison?"
Mr. Cherbury might -have brought the question
round with greater delicacy. His former manner had
evidently given evidence of an intention of so doing;
but'long statements were an abomination, and he was
naturally a man of few. words. It was a cruel question,
that struck hard, though Owen was prepared for it 
it was the long-cherished secret of his life, rent away
ruthlessly. It staggered him, and be pressed more
heavily his hand against the library-table to support
himself. He must have changed outwardly too, for
Mr. Cherbury, as if sorry at his abruptness, said in a
kinder tone,
## p. 243 (#255) ############################################
owns. 243
"Take your time. It is a rough question, but as
your employer I am forced to put it."
"I have been in prison, sir," said Owen boldly.
What if in his dark estate he had been in prison a
hundred times, now the evil shadows were gone and
he was an honest man?
"For theft?"
"Yes."
"And more than once?"
"Yes."
Owen answered more rmly every awkward question,
and heeded not the change in Mr. Cherbury's coun-
tenance. It was growing more hard and grim than
even business hours were accustomed to make it.
"I anticipated a denial of the charge, Mr. Owen.
I could not suppose its conrmation."
"It is the truth, sir, I am sorry to say  it is the
one secret of my life, unknown to my best friends. It
all happened when I was a boy; there were no friends
round me then, and the way was dark, and I was
ignorant! I fought my way upwards, from the evil
that might have ruined me." '
"Perhaps so  perhaps so  but my father was'
not aware of it when he placed you here."
"Was I to blazon out my early disgrace?" cried
Owen, a little warmly.
"And the head-clerk knows it now  and  and
there is a mistake in the accounts."
"My God!" - and Owen dropped into a chair by
the door, and then sprang from it again, erect and deant.
16 *
## p. 244 (#256) ############################################
244 owns.
"Not in my accounts, sir  I defy you to prove
that."
"In the accounts generally  there is a mistake
somewhere of fty pounds, and the whole books are
thrown out, the head-clerk tells me."
"I heard him speaking of it yesterday  some-
thing has forgotten to be entered, probably by .the
clerks  I hope, sir, you have no suspicion that I
touched the money?"
"No  but "
"But I am an honest man', and, in this new life of
mine, above suspicion."
"Who is there to suspect?  they are all honest
men, Mr. Owen, young men whose families are re-
spected and well known."
'-'I say it is a mistake."
Mr. Cherbury did not answer, and Owen, looking
very white and rm, moved a step nearer him.
"A mistake that I will nd before the day's out,
Mr. Cherbury. That I will prove is an error of entry,
with your permission."
"I shall be glad if. you prove it," said Cherbury 
"under the circumstances, unless it be proved "
"Stay, if you please  when it is not proved, let
me know your decision."
Mr. Cherbury looked into the young man's face
and paused. It was a frank face now, and the dark
eyes that were bent in his direction were a trie too
much for him. He looked down, and felt a little an-
noyed with himsclf at having opened the subject so
## p. 245 (#257) ############################################
owns. 245
harshly; in his heart, which he seldom allowed to dis-
turb him, there were the feelings of a gentleman. But
he had not expected Owen's avowal, though he had
desired the subject to be ventilated, and there was a
mistake in the accounts!
If he had intended a threat to be conveyed in his
last sentence, at Owen's request he did not complete it,
and Owen went back to the 'ofce, collecting his
thoughts by the way. Seated on the high stool he put
away his regular work, and had the various account
books brought him, and piled up on his desk. He felt
there was an error of entry somewhere, and not of his
own makinghad Mr. Cherbury waited till balancing-
day, next week, it would have shown itself, no doubt.
The error was nothing to Owen, and did not trouble
him  it was the cruel thought that his past life was
known, which burned at his brain and made the room
swim round with him. There was an enemy lurking
somewhere, against whom he must guard, and who had
struck at him like a coward in the dark.
He thought of Glindon, and dismissed the thought
then he held his breath as it came back with ten-
fold force, and balked his discerning powers. Glindon,
of whom he had been suspicious himself; Glindon, who
had been his rival, and won the only prize of life he
had thought worth the having. It was all plain enough;
the old policeman, her father, had betrayed his secret
to Glindon in a loquacious moment, and the rival had
made capital of it to disgrace him. Glindon had been
## p. 246 (#258) ############################################
246 owns.
there that very morning, and it had all followed his
appearance.
And over the sheets swarming with gures Owen
cursed him, and into the heart of the mortied man
entered thoughts and feelings which were to narrow it
for many a day forth.
Meanwhile Mr. Cherbury sat watching the time-
piece and praying for three o'clock. He was a man
who obeyed the doctor's orders to the letter, although
his faith in doctor's drugs and advice was not great.
He had taken a powder and left his table, whereon
another postal delivery had placed a dozen unopened
letters, and when he had found a nap difcult to obtain
with the hammers ringing across the yard, sought only
to kill the monotony of his position by a little talk
with his head clerk and Owen.
And now Owen troubled him, and increased his
headache. He wished he had put off the interview
with that young man, or waited a day or two to see if
the missing fty pounds were likely to turn up  this
prison business had all happened when Owen was a
child it seemed, and though the child is father to the
man, he had heard, yet in this instance he believed he
had been a trie too hasty. Still fty pounds was a
large sum, although the chief clerk in his interview of
that morning had treated the matter lightly, and
merely asked if the mistake were in the cheque-book
he who drew his own cheques, and never made
mistakes!
It was singular that the amount should have been
## p. 247 (#259) ############################################
owns. 247
missed at once, when he numbered his cash transac-
tions by thousands of pounds weekly  perhaps there
was more than chance in it, and it was a warning to
him after all.
He was very glad when three struck, and he could
begin opening letters and answering them, and plun-
ging into business again. He had satised his conscience
by sending for the doctor  he was not going to
neglect his health for anybody  and now he could
set to work anew, and forget the little events that had
harassed him.
A tap at the door.
"Come in." 
And Owen with a small book under his arm made
his re-appearance.
He was very pale still, and having pushed his hair
half-a-dozen di"erent ways during his search for an
error in the accounts, looked a trie more wild than
during the preceding interview.
"I have found the mistake, sir  it's your own,
and the head clerk's."
"The devil!" ejaculated Mr. Cherbury.
"You drew twenty-two cheques on Friday last -
one for the workmen's wages, two thousand ve hun-
dred pounds, instead of two thousand ve hundred and
fty, which sum the head clerk told you was neces-
sary. The cash received from the bankers' was entered
in the books by Mr. Simmonds as two thousand ve
hundred and fty, when fty pounds less was received-
## p. 248 (#260) ############################################
248 owmz.
The bankers' book has just come in, and you'll nd
the cancelled cheque there, Mr. Simmonds says."
Owen laid the book on the desk, and Mr. Cherbury
dived at it, and looked from his account to a cheque
which he had drawn from the pocket.
"You're right," he muttered.
To have been robbed of a thousand pounds would
have displeased him less just then. His pride was in
his business accuracy, and this young man had proved
him careless and slovenly, unless that Mr. Simmonds
did ask for a cheque for two thousand ve hundred
pounds. That must have been it, he was inclined to
think. He rang for Simmonds immediately, and the
head clerk came bustling into the room.
"It's your mistake, it appears, Simmonds."
"No, sir  yours."
"You did not tell me two thousand ve hundred
and fty pounds?"
"I wrote in for it, sir  you were rather busy at
the time."
Mr. Cherbury consulted a le of slips of paper, and
scratched his head angrily at discovering Mr. Simmonds
to be in the right.
"Still you counted the cash when it came from the
hankers'," he said. 
"Yes, sir  but I had so got it across my mind
that it must be the sum for which I wrote in, that "
"Then you had no business to get anything so
foolish across your mind, sir," interrupted Mr. Cher-
bury, "it has led to a great unpleasantness."
## p. 249 (#261) ############################################
owns. 249
"I'm very sorry that Mr. Owen has been connected
with our mistake, sir," said the clerk, "especially as
that foolish story of "
It was Owen's turn to interrupt.
"What! are you in the secret too?" he cried,
ercely. "Mr. Cherbury," turning to his employer, "is
this gentleman aware of the subject of our last con-
versation?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, it does not matter. It only conrms the
resolution made whenIwas in this room an hour since.
Mr. Cherbury, I ask your permission to leave your
service at once."
Mr. Cherbury looked up. Mr. Simmonds ejaculated
"God bless me!"
"You have not been backward in suspecting me as
soon as the ofcious tongue of a friend told of an
estate which no one can more bitterly regret than my-
self. Here, in your service, it is impossible to remain.
You have lost condence in me. My fellow clerks, all
with whom I may come in contact from this day forth,
will distrust me."
"I should like you to consider," urged Mr. Cher-
bury.
"I have been in prison for theft, sir," said Owen,
bitterly.
Mr. Cherbury did not like his position. More than
that, he was sorry for his clerk.
"I wouldn't be too hasty."
"I would not serve you again, sir, for thrice my
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salary," said Owen. "Your father raised me above
my station, and I have not been happy in it. I will
descend and seek out a new life more tting for me.
I had forgotten the old until you reminded me of it. I
had hoped it was all sunk for ever. But you, your
clerk, all who will hear the story now, will cry 'he
was a thief,' and shrink away."
"Owen, I'm sorry it has happened," cried Mr. Cher-
bury.
It was a strange avowal for one usually so grim
and icy, and even the old clerk looked about him with
surprise. There was human nature at the bottom of
this manufacturer's heart. Passion had played there,
and his generous thoughts  such as his father had
had  were only dying out, not dead.
"Thank you," said Owen, drily. "We are all
sorry, I hope. You will be glad an hour or two hence
that I seek to end it in this way. He who has been
a thief, one must always suspect when accounts are
wrong. It is the law of nature, and retributive justice
on him whose hands have snatched at his neighbour's
goods. I stole because I was a beggar and hungry --
because I was set on by one who was hungry like my-
self  and because no one had taught me better. If
your father had asked me years ago for this story, I
would have told it him frankly, and declined his ser-
vice, though I had died of shame at his feet. But I
kept my secret because no one suspected me, and I
have been to your father and to you a faithful ser-
vant." '
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"I believe it," said Mr. Cherbury, "and for that
reason I ask you to remain and "
"Mr. Cherbury, I am going to leave you. There
is no power to make me stop when such a secret as
mine has once escaped. If you consider I have not
been here under false pretences, I will take my salary
to this day. If you have your doubts on the point, I
will relinquish it."
It was Mr. Cherbury's turn to feel humiliated. He
did not know why. He had acted for the best, if a
little churlishly, and it had come upon him with a
great surprise, this news of Owen's juvenile delinquency.
hlr. Cherbury could do nothing but write a cheque,
however, and in the impulse of the moment offer a
sum in excess of Owen's salary  a novel kind of
conscience money, for taunting his subordinate with
the old sins which he had long ago lived down.
Owen tore the cheque in two, and said a little im-
patiently,
"Do not burden me with favours, Mr. Cherbury -
let me feel independent and free. My salary is a
quarter of a hundred and thirty-ve pounds, minus the
days between this and Michaelmas  for what I have
worked I only desire to be paid."
"Very well, very well," said Mr. Cherbury, with a
heightened colour; and, after a little calculation, 8.
second cheque was drawn. Mr. Simmonds, troubled
in his mind also, had retired by this time, and Mr.
Cherbury and our hero were alone together.
"That is correct to the farthing," said Mr. Cher-
## p. 252 (#264) ############################################
252 ' owmz.
bury, a little satirically; "may I 'trouble you for a
receipt?"
"I wrote it in the ofce, sir," said Owen, tendering
the required document in exchange for his salary.
There seemed nothing more necessary save to retire
gracefully from an awkward interview, and Owen
walked slowly to the door.
"One moment, Owen," said Mr. Cherbury, who
had been watching his progress across the room.
Owen faced his master oncemore.
"Of course what has passed is a secret between
you and me and Mr. Simmonds. Of course, if I am
referred to for a character, I shall speak as I found
you  honest, industrious, and energetic."
"I shall not trouble you as to character, sir you
must keep something back; and  what do you know
of me, after all?"
And with this Parthian dart, Owen left the room,
strode quickly along the passage to the counting-house,
took his hat from the desk, nodded to his old fellow-
clerks, and then went his way, full of a new resolve
that, in the midst of much bitterness of spirit, kept him
strong.
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CHAPTER IV.
The Past Comes Back.
HE would go abroad. There were ties still that
held him to England, but they were not indissoluble,
and of England he was tired. It was the theatre of
his early disgrace, and of all his disappointments. He
was restless and unsettled; and a great change could
only cure his secret despondency and his bitterness of
spirit.
He would not go away for ever, but for a few
years, until Mary Chickney grew up and required a
stricter guardianship. What was to become of her if
. he stayed in London when his secret was bruited about
that he had been a thief and in prison  when the
doors of honest employment closed against him one by
one', and he was thrown as much on the streets as in
the old days before Tarby's wife rescued him from
wrong?
Owen was aggrieved, and, therefore, took a false
view of things, as aggrieved persons do generally. The
glass that he saw through darkly was a false medium
just then, and the prospect before him was distorted.
True, the tongue that betrayed his secret might
whisper it again in a fresh quarter, and, if actuated by
malice, wherefore should it pause? He thought of
Glindon, and gnashed his teeth over his injuries;
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Glindon hated him, and would have no mercy, or he
was an idler and a tattler, and would have no con-
sideration.
And yet Glindon had only spoken the truth after
all; it would have been charitable to disguise it, but
why should the man entertain much charity towards
him. They had been secretly at daggers drawn for
some months, and possibly this humiliation was de-
served on Owen's part. Glindon had had a chance of
striking a blow and lost it not. So be it; his turn
might come some day, to strike back with all his
might! And he sat and nursed that idea, 'with the
devil at his elbow, till half John Dell's good teachings
were buried beneath the load of darker thoughts which,
brooding on his wrongs, had given birth to.
John Dell came at a later hour of that day, the
stormy incidents of which were not yet over, to offer
him all the comfort it was in his power to afford.
"Owen," said he, entering and coming direct to
our hero, "I've been talking with Mr. Cherbury."
"About me?"
"Yes."
"An unpleasant subject."
Dell might have added a remark equally unplea-
sant and uncomplimentary had it been an occasion of
less moment, but at that time he was grave and in
earnest.
"Mr. Cherbury has told me all, I think."
"And he who talked of keeping my secret betrays
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it to the only friend whose respect I would have re-
tained," cried Owen angrily.
"What difference does it make in me?"
"It will make a difference  the shadow of my
disgrace must lie between me and you, Mr. Dell, as it
lies between me and all old projects, wishes, I have
formed."
"Don't you think I have known it all along?"
"Have you?" cried Owen, eagerly.
"Yes."
Owen seized his hand, and wrung it in his own.
He bit his lips to keep the tears from his eyes, but
they would come, although his strong e'ort of will
kept them from welling over.
"And your brother was the informant?"
"Hardly. I guessed as much in the old Hannah
Street days, from a little slip of his, and I heard the
rest of the story from Mrs. Chickney."
"A sad story, Dell," said Owen, gloomily.
"Not a bit of it."
"How's that?" and Owen looked up surprised.
"I say it's a bright story, with the sun shining on
it. A story of God's goodness, in rescuing you from
the downward path. If it end in ingratitude, why,
that makes the story sad  nothing else."
"Ingratitude to whom?"
" The Rescuer," said Dell solemnly.
Owen was touched, but it was with Dell's earnest-
ness; with the fresh proof of the man's great heart, the
man's intense interest in his welfare.
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256 owmz. ,
"Well, I am punished, Mr. Dell," said he with a
faint smile; "what I have been saved from, what I
was, I have been reminded of to-day."
"Is it anything so serious?"
"It is to me. It changes my life."
"Rubbish."
"I shall go abroad, and earn my living there. I'm
young, strong, and able to push my way onwards."
"How easy it seems to talk of going abroad!"
"Mr. Dell, I have no other chance," said our hero;
"or if I had, I can't follow it. I am a coward, and -
fear hearing again in my ears the cry of 'Thief.' I
sinned in my youth, and the sin rises again like a
ghost. Besides, I am unhappy here."
"Then go!"
And Dell laid his hand on his shoulder as though
it were a blessing, and he were wishing him God
speed.
"I shall be sorry to lose you, Owen," said he, "for
my lonely time is coming  my niece, and now you!
And I had been thinking of a plan of setting up in a
small way for myself, and making a partner of you in
my enterprise."
"You will get on better without me, Mr. Dell. I
am an unlucky fellow."
"We shall see," said Dell; "there's not much to
grumble at yet."
"Well, perhaps I am misanthropical."
"More than likely," was the sententious response.
"And I am ungrateful, especially to you, sir. You
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heap on me fresh proofs of your condence, and I am
already bewildered when I look back at the old, and
learn how the sins of my childhood were known to
you."
"You outlived them; you began a new life, and I
saw that it was in earnest. Is it taught us to turn
from the sinner, when he ies from the guilt and
shows by every act his repentance?"
"And Ruth  what does she know?"
"Only that you were a poor boy at Chickney's
when I rst saw you."
"She will know all now," groaned Owen, as he
thought of Glindon. .
"Should she know it, she will respect you more,
knowing from what a depth you have worked your
way. But I have kept your secret, and will see that
my brother keeps it too."
Owen did not answer; the secret had gone beyond
Dell or his own power to stay it  too many in the
world were already acquainted with it.
"You talk of going abroad; for how long?"
"Five or six years, till-Mary is a woman, and re-
quires a brother's care," said Owen; "she is in good
hands now, and I think I may trust you to see her
occasionally, and write to me all the news, and receive
my remittances in her behalf. All this, if  if I don't
take her with me."
"Better leave her where she is," said Dell; "she
will clog your rst efforts, and she is safe here."
"I will think of it  I am a trie too bewildered
Owen: - A Waif. I. 17
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258 owns.
at present to sketch any settled plan. I may be
walking in dream-land, for what I know of the
matter."
"May you wake to a brighter life  a better one,
Owen!"
"Thank you."
"What a 'thank you' and what a doleful coun-
tenance!" said Dell, with forced cheerfulness. "Do
you think to make a fortune, and start in search of it
with a face like Don Quj1ote's?"
"You must give me your advice as to the best
way of setting forth in life, Mr. Dell."
"Condence in yourself and faith in your God,"
was the quick answer  "There is no better advice
this side of the grave. There is no  but I won't
preach!"
It was the old cry, and he turned away and cut
short his exordium. He could have grown eloquent
then, but there was a hard expression on Owen's face,
and he felt no words of his would soften his comrade
at that time. Still, he did not like to leave him with
that darkling countenance, and in talking of the life
to which Owen seemed to have made up his mind, a
chance word might bring forward a subject on which
he was anxious to dwell, for the sake of one to whom
his heart yearned as to a son.
He was anxiously watching Owen, whose reverie
had become a deep and gloomy one, when a peculiar
knock, heavy and clumsy, like a coal-porter's, or a
street-beggar's, aroused the echoes of the house. There
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was nothing remarkable in a single knock in the dusk
of the evening, at a house in the Kennington Road,
and yet both listened attentively, and looked from one
to the other.
Dell broke into a laugh.
"I think we must be two nervous old women to-
night," he said.
The words had scarcely left his lips when the little
maid-servant, who had responded to the summons,
gave a scream from below, as something fell heavily
in the passage.
Dell darted from the room, and as Owen stood on
the stairs a moment afterwards, he could see him bend-
ing over something lying in the hall.
"A light, girl! a light!" he said; "keep there,
Owen, and don't come blocking up the way. Keep
there, I say," he repeated, with a strange erceness;
"we must have air down here."
There was a light ickering in the' passage a mo-
ment afterwards, and Dell, forgetting his last injunc-
tions, 'pushed the street door to before he raised the
head of the prostrate gure, and looked into its
face.
"Who are you, woman?  what's your name?"
he asked; "whom do you want?"
"Owen," demanded a hoarse voice.
"Owen, do you know this woman?" said Dell,
looking towards the stars.
Two downward leaps brought Owen to the side
17 *
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260 owns'.
of .the woman, whose tangled hair he pushed lightly
aside, with a hand that was struck at angrily for his
pains. .
It was a face he had not looked into for many
years  a seared, swollen face, in which all claim to
womanhood might be utterly extinguished, - for any
lingering trait of it that showed itself that night.
"Do you know her?" asked Dell, once more, with
feverish impatience.
"Yes  she is my mother!"
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-owns. 261
CHAPTER V.
Mother!
Ye~, it was his mother, risen as from the awful
grave of the past, and lying there to scare him.
Years had not so much altered or aged her but that
he recognized her, and recoiled as at his deadliest
enemy.
In his time of trouble she appeared to add to his
sense of desolation; she had crossed his path in the
time of the great grief that followed the better mother's
death in Hannah Street, and now she lay before him,
to add to his shame and mortication on a day that
would be ever full of bitter memories.
He could have no love for her, or feel no pleasure
in the knowledge that she lived; she only lay there a
reproach, a witness to how low a woman lost to right
can fall. He felt as if his life were cursed, and that
no good could come to him from such a parentage;
from so much evil must spring evil in its turn!
Owen might well have some such morbid thoughts
to look upon her then  so utter a wreck of all that
was fair and womanly had been cast at his feet. Shadows
had itted by him in the dark crowded streets at times
shadows of lost, benighted women, like unto this
but he had feared to face them, glance towards them,
and now this one had tracked him out and claimed
him, and was at his feet in John Dell's house.
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262 - owns.
There was little change in her, he thought, since
the day they went to Markshire together  since he
lay down to .sleep in Jack Archer's tent on the Downs,
and she had cursed him for a pig-headed, drowsy
brute, who wouldn't stop awake to amuse her. She
was sitting half crouched against the wall, and half
against John Dell's knees, ghting hard for a clear
perception of things, which had been slightly dis-
arranged by her fall, and Owen shuddered to think
how like she was to the old grim past that had grown
unreal and dream-like to him until then.
The same torn plaid shawl that had caught in every
nail and splinter until it seemed impossible to rend
again, seemed half hanging from her shoulders and
half trailing on the oor; the battered old straw bonnet
might be the one she had ung at him in excited mo-
ments, and jumped upon and torn at with her teeth;
and the remnants of the dress huddled round her she
surely wore when he was as ragged and neglected as
herself. Owen had felt long since that if she ever
came back to disgrace him she would come back like
this; he had seen her fty times in his dreams, as
ragged, forlorn, depraved, and drunken as in that mo-
ment. The one difference that he had not thought of
was in her dishonoured grey hairs, which her hand
kept feebly pushing back from her face and trying to
tuck into her bonnet, as she sat there a woman whom
Owen might have been pardoned for wishing she might
die and end his shame there.
"You can go downstairs," said Dell, taking the
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light from the maid-servant, who after another amazed
look at the scene, disappeared to the lower regions.
"Can you walk now?" asked Dell, leaning over
the woman.
She regarded her questioner vacantly for some mo-
ments, and then made a scramble to regain her feet,
clutching at the wall and John Dell's legs.
"Lean on me," said Owen sternly, and the woman's
hand was drawn within his arm, and they were standing
side by side, mother and son.
"Mr. Dell, may I ask room for my mother in your
house a little while?" '
"Is there any need to ask it of me, Owen?"
"You are very good  but  but this woman is
such a disgrace to you."
"Neither to you nor to me," said Dell, shortly;
"we have no share in it. God knows, it has been no
fault of ours."
Owen's mother su'ered herself to be led into the
little parlour, and carefully deposited in an arm-chair,
where her chances of falling were only limited to a
forward direction, against which contingency Owen
and Dell, sitting near her, were prepared.
So much prepared, that the woman took it as an
insult to her powers of self-command, and looked angrily
from one to the other.
"What are you sitting like that for, both of you?"
she said; "don't you think I have taken ca  care
enough of myself in my time, to forget what's all
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264 owns.
proper and straight? You needn't fear me coming on
the fender  I never hurt myself."
"Do you know me?" asked Owen.
The woman took both hands to her hair this time,
and pushed it back a tangled mass behind her ears.
Owen drew his breath with horror. No, no, never in
his dreams had such a face as that been bent so close
to scare him! Drink-swollen, smeared with dirt, grazed
and bleeding from some fall on the kerb-stones without
it was more like the face of a witch than a wo-
man's.
"So you're Owen, I suppose?"
"I am Owen  your son."
"Don't call me son, jacka  napes," she said con-
temptuously; "I throw you off and disown you -
you've never been a credit to me and my bringings
up. You began to thieve before you could speak plain
you did."
"What do'you want here?"
"What do I want here!" repeated she; "well, I
want to see you. Haven't I a mother's feelings?" she
cried, changing her insolent tone to a low whine;
"haven't I been put upon enough and ground down
enough, that after all these heaps of years I'm asked
by my own boy what I want here. Oh, how thirsty
I am!"
"Dell, will you leave us?"
Dell seemed to hesitate, once turned to the woman
as if to address her, then rose and went out of the
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room, running one hand after the other through his
bushy hair. -
"What can I want but help, do you think?" she
said; "you're my son and have money, and I have
been a beggar in the streets for thirteen years, or
locked up in a workus or a prison. I'd rather die in
a prison than a workus," she said reectively; "there's
more meat and less slop - not that I care much for
eating, my child. Oh! how thirsty I am! God bless
you  how you've grown!"
The woman's moods were variable, but of all of
them Owen recoiled at any evidence of affection. He
felt how false and unreal it was, and that the words
were a mockery, which chilled him. Her hot hand
had fallen on his, and he had drawn his hand hastily
away and frowned.
"Oh! the airs of my gentleman," said she, taking
up the contemptuous vein again; "mustn't be touched
by his  hic own mother, because she hasn't washed
since Friday. Because he's a swell, and wears ne
black clothes, and goes to ofce, and lives in a grand
house, and, and  Owen, for the Lord Almighty's
sake, lend us one-and-six-pence!"
"Her claw-like hand clutched at the sleeve of his
coat, and he made no attempt to shake it off a second
time. Let it rest there  it was the hand of a
mother!
"I will give you money to-morrow  when you
are sensible," said Owen; "sit still now and keep
quiet."
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"I was always a wild one," with a short laugh;
"I've had rare fun in my timeI shall only be quiet
in my grave."
"How did you nd me out?" asked Owen, anxious
to change the subject.
"I've had my eye on you  off and on you 
for a long time. I knew where you were  and you
saved me a mite of trouble and harass, and weren't
any longer an expense to me for board and lodging,
and ~ and education. I was locked up for a couple
of years after that, and then I  oh! how thirsty I
am! -- then I missed you, and then I found you, and
then I was locked up again, and at last it has struck
me you could help me with a bit of money."
"It has been a long while striking you."
"No, it hasn't," she said quickly, "butI had always
a proper spirit, and I thought I wouldn't come near you;
and I've been locked up so much, you see. Now, about
the eighteenpence?"
"To-morrow  to-morrow."
"Ah! that's what the man says in the play  but
you don't get over me with your to-morrow  I'm too
old a bird now. I was ruined with that promise, Owen
by God!"
"In that God's name, cease!" cried Owen, vehe-
mently.
"Get us something to drink, then  I'm so cursed
thirsty."
Dell entered at this juncture with a cup of strong
tea, and the woman would have fallen out of the chair
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in her eagerness to rise, had not Owen's strong arm
retained her in her place.
"Here  drink this," said Dell.
The cup clattered in the saucer beneath the wo-
man's trembling hand, and her teeth rattled against
the edge of the cup for a moment or two before she
tossed the tea down her throat, in true dram-drinker's
fashion.
"Ah! it's poor stuff!" was her ungrateful remark,
as Dell took the cup from her and placed it on the
table.
"It will clear your head a bit," quietly remarked Dell.
"I like it muddled."
"Well, it's a matter of taste," was the response.
There was no humour intended,.for Dell was very
stern that night, but the woman laughed at the remark,
and it was a shrill discordant evidence of hilarity, that
froze them both. '
"A muddled head's good-for some complaints 
Lord bless you, it wouldn't do for me to think, if I 
I wanted to steer clear of that Bedlam place at the
back here. Why, I'm often a mind to drown myself
as it is, and " in a husky whisper, as she turned her
bloodshot eyes on Owen, "I've been awfully near it
once or twice."
Owen did not answer. He looked so troubled, so
perplexed, as to what was to become of this woman,
that Dell stepped forward to the rescue.
"You will stay here to-night," said he, addressing
her in his usual abrupt way.
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268 owns.
"I don't care about it," was the response; "if Owen
'll give me a little money, I'll "
"You'll stay here to~night," interrupted Dell, more
sharply.
The woman started, and looked more intently at
him who had thus imperatively expressed his opinion.
So intently, with her hands on the arms of the chair,
as if she were about to make an effort to raise herself
by them, that Dell turned away and made a feint of
shifting the cup and saucer from the table to the mantel-
piece.
"Mr. Dell, I can't think of this," said our hero.
"Owen, it's no trouble. There's a spare bed,
and she mustn't venture into the streets to-night.
Remember who this woman is, with all her sins and
weakness."
"I would not turn her out, but ."
"But don't think of me. What trouble is it to me,
do you think, Owen? She is your motheryou must
not cast her away."
He was strangely excited; Owen could see that he
was trembling as he turned to look at her once more.
She was sitting in the same position, with a hand on
each arm of the chair, and her wild eyes glaring at him.
Dell met her steadfast looks this time, and she gasped
forth  I
"You are John Dell, of Markshire?"
"Yes."
"Ah! that's fzmny now  to think, after all these
years, that "
ll
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"Not a word more now," said Dell, sternly; "you
are not t to talk  I am not t to listen. It is a
cruel day for you and me  a cruel meeting; and I
ask you, if you have any power to comprehend, to say
no more at this time."
"I am quiet," murmured the woman.
"The servant is waiting outside to see you to
bed," said Dell; "shall Owen or I assist you up-
stairs?"
"I think I'll take the boy's arm," she said; "I'm
a trie loosish on the legs still."
Owen offered her his arm, and rising, and leaning
heavily upon it, she and her son went from the room.
She was silent all that slow, weary way upstairs, and
Owen made no attempt to break the stillness. The
servant was waiting in the room, into which she
stumbled.
"You can go," said the mother to her.
"But I'm not to leave you until "
"I shall lie down on the bed," said she; "I haven't
undressed for six weeks; and I ain't a-going to begin
now for anybody, and tear my things worse than they
are."
"Take away the light," said Owen; and the maid-
servant, glad to be so soon rid of her charge, complied,
and hurried down stairs. There was a full moon that
night, and the room was far from dark after the maid-
servant had withdrawn. The woman appeared not
to notice the difference, but ung herself on the bed
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face-foremost, and told Owen somewhat roughly to
leave her.
"I shall see you in the morning, mother."
"Oh! yes."
"Is there anything I can do for you before I go?"
"Nothing."
"Good night, then."
"Good night."
Owen softly closed the door and went down half-
a-dozen stairs, then paused. He fancied that she
called him, then that she was sobbing in her room.
He went back and pushed open the door.
He could see her dark gure on the bed still.
She had changed her position somewhat, and was lying
with her two arms stretched above her head and her
hands clasped. He was right in his second surmise,
too  she was sobbing and moaning extravagantly,
although amidst her wild abandonment of grief there
were the germs of real agony, such as she had not felt
for many a long day.
"Mother, what is it?  are you ill?" I
"Shut the door  shut the door, and don't trouble
me!" she cried; "it is nothing to do with you, or the
likes of you, what I am making myself a fool about.
It's only a mad freak -~ and I'm raving mad with
drink!"
Owen quitted her reluctantly, and descended the
stairs to the room in which he had left John Dell.
He found that true friend sitting at the table, with his
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elbow thereon, and his square chin clutched in his
hand. The weight of a great care was on him  it
seemed to have already lined his face and aged it.
"Come and sit here, Owen  this is a strange
night for both of us."
"For both?"
"Ay!  you must have seen and noticed that I
am not myself  that your mother and I are creatures
of the past, who have had thoughts and wishes in
common, and on whom the world was hard. On her
especially  for, good God, to what a depth she has
fallen!"
"You knew her before?"
"Long before  when she was a young woman,
and you were not born, to add to her cruel shame.
Owen, lad, I thought once that she would have been
my wife!"
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CHAPTER VI.
" The old Story."
Jorm DELL and Owen were silent for some time
after the shock of the revelation. It had been a
struggle to confess; it had been a- painful shock for
Owen to listen to such news. Owen could understand
all that had been a mystery to him; all the inner
depths of Dell's character that had perplexed him
were, by his own words, brought to light.
"From such a disappointment as mine, may God
keep every honest man free," he had said, in speaking
of his own griefs to Owen; and Owen knew then what
a childlike trouble his had been, in comparison to his
old friend's. ~
"There's nothing new in the story, Owen," he
said, after a long pause; "it's an old story, though
you might have doubted my connection with it; it's
the story that happens every day. They would be
cruel statistics if the numbers who fall away from
right could be estimated with our births and deaths -
the birth of the new sin, and the awful moral death
which makes life a mockery must happen fty times a
day to crowd our streets with suffering, reckless women.
What a'leprosy must exist under the fair mask of
outward appearance to work such evil, Owen?"
"It is an evil world, and there's no justice in it."
I
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"Hush! lad  that's wrong."
"You are of greater faith, Mr. Dell," said Owen,
bitterly; "but what comfort has it brought you?"
"Comfort that the world can't take away, Owen,"
returned Dell; "it's a sad moment with me now, but
it does not shake my faith in God, or his mercies.
Why do you sneer?"
"Pardon me, I was wrong. And I am in a dark,
desperate mood, when I would sting my best friend."
"Well, the friend forgives you."
"Will you tell me of my mother? I do not ask
you for details, but for any fragments of her mis-spent
life that will touch my heart, and teach me charity
towards her."
"What her life has been, God knows," said Dell;
"when I rst knew her  when I saw her last  she
was a young, fair woman. Wondrously fair, people
thought her at that time; a little vain of her looks,
and more fond of admiration than was good for her.
I was an apprentice then  just out of my time ~.-
and she was a year or two my senior. I loved her,
I told her so frankly, and she was to wait for me two
years, till I could work upwards to a home for both.
It was a settled engagement between us, and having
faith in her, I had no more fear of losing her than I
had of losing my life. I put my whole trust in her,
and I had patience to wait. It was a happy time
enough, with a fair prospect beyond, and it lasted
eighteen months, and then I went away for a quarter
of a year on business of my employer's. The night
Owen: -  .4 Waif. 1. 13
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before I left Markshire was the last time I ever saw
her until now. I was coming back to marry her,
when they told me she had'left home, mother and
friends."
Owen groaned.
"So the old story, as I said, and the old end to it.
I could guess it all when rst stung by my disappoint-
ment. I see it realized to-night."
He was silent for a moment, then he said, quickly,
"But shall this be the end? May it not be willed
otherwise, Owen? She is under my roof, and you are
her son.
"What is a son's duty in this instance?" was the
gloomy rejoinder.
"Ask your own heart!" said Dell, as he leaped
from his chair, and left the room precipitately.
But Owen's heart was troubled, and before him,
and round him, was confusion. What could be his
duty to one who had ever neglected a mother's duty
to him? He could give her money, which she would
spend in drink; but he could not feign affection, or
expect affection from her. He could not talk religion
to her, for he had no faith in religion himself, and
was every day becoming more hard and sceptical. Of
her life and character he had had more experience
than John Dell, and he believed the case a vain and
hopeless one. Had he but the simple faith of Ruth's
uncle, he might have prayed for strength to undertake
a task of reformation.
Owen sat up that night, despite the expostulations
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of John Dell. He had a fear that his mother would
steal down at a later hour and rob the place, or, at
all events, attempt to leave the house. And he had a
strange desire to see her again  this erring mother,
whose name he had never borne.
The next day was Sunday, and Owen's mother
made not an early appearance down-stairs. John Dell
departed for church; the servant carried the woman up
some breakfast, the liquid portion of which she drank,
and the solids of which were put outside the door,
along with her breakfast tray, into which Owen trod,
in going up-stairs, half an hour afterwards.
"Mother," he cried, knocking softly at the door 
"will you come down-stairs now? I wish to speak to
you."
"Not now  presently."
"Will you open your door?" said Owen, after
trying it, and nding it locked on the inside.
"I will come down soon  don't worry me."
Later in the day, when John Dell had returned,
she came slowly down-stairs, walked into the room
wherein they sat, and looked from one to the other,
half-nervously, half-deantly.
"I am sober now," she said; "shall I go away?"
"Sit down, please," returned Dell.
She sat down in the chair of yesternight, and put
her bonnet at her feet, ready to be snatched up at any
moment. It was a wan face in the broad daylight.
The eyes were sunk deep in the head, and the lines
and scars were numberless. She had made some faint
18*
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attempt to present a more reputable appearance; her
hair was arranged with some degree of order; and she
had pinned a smart pink bow, that she had found on
the dressing-table, and which was the servant's pro-
perty, on to the tattered bosom of her dress, where it
shone out in glaring contrast, and roused the bile of
the maid, who came in at this juncture to lay the
dinner-cloth.
"In a moment or two, Jane," said Dell; and Jane,
with another glance at her how, to make quite sure
that so cool an appropriation was not a dream, went
out of the room, looking daggers.
"Do you think you are able to hear reason now?"
asked Dell. .
"I don't know  I don't want to ,hear it," said
the woman, morosely. "What good has hearing reason
ever done me?" '
"Not much; but still you have come hither, and
your son is anxious concerning you."
"Is he?" with a glance at Owen.
"Yes," answered Owen.
"I wish I had dropped down dead before I had
entered the house," said the woman. "It was only
drink that brought me here at last. Sober, and I've
kept away and starved or stolen rather than come near
him,  knowing what a wretch I was."
"You have done this?" asked Owen, with more
interest. 
"Why shouldn't I own it," she replied. "It's to
my credit, and there isn't much of that which falls to
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my share. 'You were getting on in the world, and I
didn't see why I should spoil your chance by my
ugly self. I wasn't going to sponge on you at any
rate."
She was not wholly bad then! Here was a tful
gleam passing athwart her rugged nature, and the
son's heart, only waiting for one sign, yearned to help
her.
"When I'm drunk I'm mad. Wasn't I mad last
night, John Dell?"
"Possibly."
"To think of coming here and meeting you. Ain't
the times changed since you and I' were sweethearts!"
The woman shuddered as she spoke, although she
feigned to make light of it, by indulging in a hideous
little laugh.
"You don't want to talk of that time," said Dell.
"It's past."
"I only want to do one thing."
"What is that?"
"Drown myself."
Owen remembered the old threat. When he was a
boy she was always asserting her intention to per-
petrate that act, and the habit had not left her. And
she had wished it many years, and more than once had
stood at the river's brink meditating what sort of death
it would be, and ever recoiling from the mysterious
Afterwards, and going back heart-sick and desperate
to the life which was a horror and a shame.
"You are reckless and foolish."
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"True enough, John. Wasn't I so when I knew
you and played you false? Shan't I be so to the
end?" '
"Unless God soften you."
"Oh! you were always a bit of a parson, John,"
said she, "and that set me against you rst. You
were too steady and good for me, who was a ighty
one. I  I think I'll go now."
"Where?" asked Dell.
"Anywhere. I've no home just at present."
"Don't you ever think of turning back  doing
better?" said Dell, eagerly.
"My God!  me!"
"Yes  you."
"Where's the chance  where's the likes of such
a thing?" she cried. "Isn't every man's hand against
me? Wasn't it too late years ago?"
"No!" cried Dell. "And it is not too late now -
it can never be too late to say, 'Father, I have sinned.
Have mercy on me.' Margaret, won't you make some
effort now?" '
"What's it to end in?"
"Salvation! Is it worth nothing?"
"I don't know. You're talking awfully! Oh, what
a fool I was ever to come here!"
"Mother, will you trust to me?" cried Owen, with
excitement. "In the years that have parted us I have
learned to live better, and become an honest man.
Will you be the true and honest mother of that man
in the years that are left you? I am going abroad, to
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begin a new life. Will you share it with me,' and
begin anew also?"
The woman gave one terried look from one to the
other, and then covered her face with her hands. She
could have met reproaches, curses, anything better than
kind words. They were new to her, and unnerved her.
She dropped her hands, and there were signs of
tears upon her face. Even in that short time Owen
fancied the face was more softened and womanly.
"It's only the drink," said she, as if to defend her
weakness. "I was crying drunk last night, and it
hasn't all worked off yet. I'm bothered with this talk
of you both. It don't seem natural  it can't be
true."
"Will you think of my offer?" said Owen. "Will
you try and reect what good it may do you and me?"
"And you  why you?"
"By showing me that the mother who deserted me
years ago is not all bad  that she is strong enough
to make one effort to turn from the evil of her ways."
"The best thing I ever did was to desert you; the
worst I could ever do, would be to come back and
call you son. I'm sober now, and know what I'm
about. Don't let us have any more of it. You can't
mean it - it's a spurt."
"Try me."
And in the new hope lying before him, Owen felt
strong again, though the days were early yet in which
to acknowledge it. The woman looked wistfully at
him  he was her child, and in her way, perhaps,
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she had loved him. If she could only keep sober- and
feel always as she did just then, she might teach her-
self to worship him. For he had offered her new life,
and new life to her  what did it mean?
"P'raps going abroad is better than drowning,"
she said, after a little reection. "Will you have
your dinner, you two, and let me go up-stairs again to
think it over?"
"Will you not " began Dell.
"I'll not touch bit or sup to-day," she 'cried,
tetchily; "you can't do better than leave me to my-
self."
Dell and Owen were of the 'same opinion, and made
no further effort to stay her. When she had gone,
they ate their dinner gravely and silently, or rather
made a pretence of eating, for both hearts were full.
When the cloth was removed, Dell said:
"You have made a great offer, Owen  do you
inch yet from such an undertaking?"
"Do I look as if I were inching?"
"No; but I cannot think you have weighed all the
consequences of this step."
"If I can but save her from herself!"
"You may do it  it is not impossible. Backed
by a true religious feeling, it may be done; devoid of
condence in your God, and having trust but in your-
self, you will fail."
"Still, I will try."
"You are stubborn, Owen; but I think your heart
is softening. Should it not change now, it never will."
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"I may be more a'Christian -- I may have your
great and trusting faith, if my mother be spared to
live a better life, and not become my lasting shame."
"Ah! I see now; it's all pride, not charity. And
you would drive a bargain with your God, as though
He were a pedlar?"
"I'm thinking of my mother's welfare."
"Partly," was the dry response.
An hour afterwards, and Owen's mother returned.
The pink bow had been replaced on the dressingtable,
and her dress and .grey hair had been once more re-
arranged.
"Owen, you're a kind young man. I've thought
it all over, and I'm going to grow such a good one.
All of a sudden, like the people in penny tracts."
"Well?" .
"I'll go abroad, and you must nd me a place out
there  perhaps I'll be your house-keeper, if you
won't tell anybody I'm your mother. While I'm here
I can't live with you or him,"  glancing towards Dell
"you must nd me a room, till you're ready to
start."
"And I can trust you then ?"
"Yes, yes," with a nervous look in his direction;
"I think you can trust me, but I'm very weak."
"Courage!" said Dell.
A text was on his lips, but he had preached too
much that day, he was inclined to think, and the wo-
man, during the last few moments, had appeared to
shrink from-him. He was too cold and stern in his
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manner, perhaps, and she could not forget how she
had wronged him in the early days, when his heart
was young. Still, he bore her no malice; and he was
anxious to tell her that all had long since been for-
given; that it was part of the duty of his daily life to
forgive all trespasses against him.
He wanted a long talk with Owen; he saw Owen
was excited, and unlike himself; he felt a few words
at that time might be of service to the lad. And
amidst it all there was a doubt of Owen's mothe1"s
stability of purpose. The change had been too sudden,
was one of impulse, showed too little of mortication
of spirit. The good at the bottom of every one's heart
had been evinced that day, escaping from the murky
depths to God's daylight; but the depths were there
still, and the ascent was steep. Owen would trust to
himself' and his strong will; he would notbelieve in
God's power to work a change, till the change had
been worked by his own hand. He had no condence
in religion aiding him in the great, difcult task of
reforming one who had sinned before he was born, and
fallen deeper, deeper, with every year of his after-life.
He would be religious presently  for then he would
be grateful; forgetting that for all the past gifts he
had evinced but little gratitude, and thinking not how
he had turned and grown callous under trials which,
in comparison with those lying beyond, were only
snow-akes in the sunshine. '
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CHAPTER VII.
The First Parting.
ONE swallow makes not. a summer, and one im-
pulsive leap to a purer moral atmosphere Constitutes
not a repentance. There are sudden changes in the
nature of things evil to things good, but they are the
exceptions to the rule; from the darkness to the light
is an ascent, and not to be made by one step. The
natural craving for new life must be followed by the
earnest purpose to ght upwards and deserve it --
they are strewing the way now, those good resolu-
tions, those ebrts to live better, with which we set out
on our journey! 
Owen's mother had been touched by kind words
when she had least expected them, and the interest of
the son in her had awakened thoughts and feelings
that had slumbered since her girlhood. Yes, she would
turn at the eleventh hour, and enter on her new exis-
tence, and be her son's housekeeper, slave, anything to
escape from the dangers which beset her. She was
poor, and in rags, and food and drink were uncertain-
ties with her; the workho'use she abhorred, and though
there was better fare at the prisons, yet they cut her
hair and made her pick coir there, spoiling her per-
sonal appearance, and wearying her to death with
monotonous labour. It would be better to be taken
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care of by a son who was going abroad  that hand-
some boy, who had grown up such a blessed credit
to her!
These were not her rst thoughts, but her second.
There was a new series, a third to follow, but of that
we shall speak in its place. The rst thoughts were
shame and repentance, the second were of expediency.
She saw'what was best for her and accepted it, and
even made more than a single effort to deserve her
son's kindness and faith. But she was not happy, and
did not feel as if she ever should be  it was very
hard upon her!
Owen, whose heart was in his work, did his best
to keep her strong; his absence from his old post
placed the greater part of his time at her disposal, and
he spent it in talking of their life together in the new
world wherein neither of them would be known. If
she would not be happy with him, she might obtain a
place abroad, or he might set her up in some little
business  there was nothing done without a trial, he
assured her. He told the story of his own progress
from an estate as shadowy as hers; but she was grow-
ing old in years, and could not wait so long to earn
the respect of honest folk. His perseverance chilled
her  she was afraid he would expect too much from
her. And kind as he was in his way, yet he was a
grave, ster n young man take him all together, and if
she stumbled on her path she was certain he would
have no mercy.
"I put my trust in you, mother  do not abuse
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it. I link the honest name I have earned with your
own  do not cast it back to its rst disgrace by
letting me sink with you. I am jealous of your wel-
fare now, for it is my own."
She could scarcely understand him, but she felt he
would not pardon her again  that this was her rst
and last chance, and he would be of iron if she let it
slip. She was proud of him  in her own way she
was learning to love him but she was afraid of him.
Had Owen been a religious man the end of all this
might have been more assuring, but he was waiting to
be religious. John Dell was right  Owen would
drive a bargain with his Maker. He would form his
own narrow estimate of God's mercy by his mother's
actions  if she repented he would follow God, and if
she swerved he would be a sceptic to the end. A
Christian out of gratitude, or a man of the world,
worldly, in deance of Him who had been so hard and
relentless! This was the agreement he had drawn out
for himself, though he scarcely knew it  though he
might have shuddered had the articles been put before
him as we have put them to our readers.
John Dell worked on a different principle, but his
power was less, and he saw less of the patient. More
than that, Owen's mother objected extremely to John
Dell's appearance  it was from the better days,
wherein she had been innocent and pure. Dell's pre-
sence was ever a reproach, and she could not bear it;
every moment she feared he would speak of the past,
and crush her with the horror of its retrospect. He
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talked to her of God's mercy  of the change in her,
for which she ought to be thankful, and pray for
strength to proceed  but she was ever thinking of
their old relations to each other, and how cruelly she
had wronged him. It was kind of him, but she could
not bear to hear the sound of his voiceand if Owen
did not preach to her about her sins, and her duty to
seek forgiveness for them by prayer and supplication,
why couldn't he leave her for a little while, until she
had grown stronger. She expressed as much one day,
crying and wringing her hands, and John Dell wavered.
He had alarmed her by speaking of her present awful
position, and perhaps he was too precipitate, he had
never had condence in too much preaching. When
he should have persevered most, he halted. When he
had touched her heart and made her wince, he turned
away and let the iron cool and harden. He would
wait a better opportunity  for he would not neglect
his chance here  and the opportunity to both their
lives never again came back. '
Concerning that past life to which she dreaded John
Dell's allusions, Owen spoke one day.
"My life, which is yours, is a mystery. My right
name I have never borne or known. The fate that
parted you from a man who would have made your
future bright, and cast you down so utterly, I have a
right to know."
"Oh, for mercy's sake, don't go on like that!" she
cried.
"I must know all, mother," said Owen, rmly.
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"It's all over and past. No good can come of it;
and if it drives me mad to think about, what do you
expect talking will do?" she asked, with almost her
old surliness.
"Place condence between us," said Owen, quietly.
"You're down upon me too much."
"No, I am not," answered Owen; "I am but fair
and open, and wish the same in return. Take your
own time, but sooner or later you must tell me all."
"Some day, then," said the woman, catching eagerly
at a postponement; "some day, Owen dear. But think
what a poor weak woman I am just now."
Owen put off the evil day; and his mother, who
had taken the name of Owen, and would answer to no
other name, breathed freer in consequence.
Owen was not living with John Dell at that time;
he had rented a sitting-room and two bed-rooms in a
street near his old friend's house. If any fresh disgrace
were to accrue, John Dell should not share it, and all
the credit of raising his mother upwards must be his
own. It was his duty, and he was jealous of inter-
ference. Even to those visits of Dell, to which we have
already alluded, he had at that time almost his mother's
distaste. Owen worked hard for his one great object,
and was gratied by witnessing some improvement.
Differently dressed, his mother was a different woman,
and the face, hard and stony still, was not, however,
the bruised, distorted countenance which the light had
fallen on in John Dell's passage. He trusted her with
money for his house-keeping, and she abused not his
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trust; he had interdicted drink the rst day of 'their
reunion, and she had obeyed him implicitly. Still she
was dull and thoughtful  at times restless  and
Owen, feeling it would be better for both to leave
England as early as possible, hastened his preparations
for departure.
It was all accomplished at last  his own and his
mother's outt, their passage booked in an Australian
vessel, and but three more days to be spent on English
soil. In those three days 'there were leave-takings to
occur, and arrangements to make with Mrs. Cutcheld
and John Dell concerning Mary, his ward.
The coming parting with Mary troubled him most.
At times he felt as if he were breaking a promise made
to a dying woman, by leaving the child alone in Eng-
land.
"You can't take her with you, Owen," reasoned
Dell; "you have no settled home, and you are too
young a guardian: Your mother, too  you will pardon
me  is not a t companion for her, however much
she may have- reformed."
"You are right."
"And you are not going away for ever."
"I shall return in six years."
"God willing," added John Dell.
"In six years I will have stepped forward or sunk,"
said Owen, not heeding his friend's remark; "if I come
back a rich man I will accept that partnership you of-
fered one day. That is," he added, "if you are of the
same mind."
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owmz. 289 .
"Always the same mind with the same old friend."
And the two men shook hands with tears in their
eyes.
"And poor Mary," said Owen, reverting to the sub-
ject which troubled him most; "you must see after her,
Mr. Dell. Keep the secret of her father's life from her,
write me all the news concerning her  we shall cor-
respond very often  and rely on my punctual re-
mittances."
"Ruth will see to her, Owen; Ansted is not far
away from her."
"Ruth will marry and leave Ansted long before I
return," said Owen. 
"True  I had forgotten."
"And I had almost forgotten there is Ruth to part
with too," added Owen.
He had forgotten nothing of the kind, but it was
his pleasure to think so, and Dell did not consider it
worth while to express his doubts of the fact. The last
day Dell and Owen went together to Ansted, or rather
to the little cottage on the Ansted Road, where 92
imitated Cincinnatus and abjured the cares of state,
and had a little advantage over the Roman, in possessing
a quarterly pension from Government sources. 92 was
at his old work of gardening as his brother and Owen
came towards the cottage, and Owen's quick glance
assured him that Ruth had not arrived yet. It was
Wednesday afternoon, half-holiday, and there had been
plenty of time to reach the cottage from the school,
our hero thought a little bitterly. It might be their
Owen: --- A Wolf. I. 19
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last meeting, and she might have shown some alacrity
under the circumstances. And yet why should she
hasten on her way to meet him?
"So you're off to for-rin' parts, Owen Owen?" said
92, after the usual greeting. "Fortune-hunting and
wife-hunting, p'r'aps, and such like things. Well, you're
a young man, and I wish I was you." 
92 heaved so deep a sigh, that Dell broke in with
his old abruptness:
"Why, what's the matter with you?"
"Nothing much," said 92, evading his brother's
eyes, which seemed inclined at that juncture to leap
out of their owner's head towards him; "only things is
a little dull here, and I've been used to active life."
"You're too old for active life," said Dell.
"I'm too old for the service, John, if you mean
that," said 92; "I couldn't stand the night work, or a
Lower Marsh beat, or anything of that kind. But it's
dull work here, always unbuttoned."
John Dell laughed, and 92 resented it.
"You've a hactive mind, John," said he, "and
ought to understand my contigimies better. You
wouldn't. like to be always stuck amongst cabbages
~that never come to a heart, but run up to seed, or get
mildooded  you'd like to be a-stirring."
"It's a life a little monotonous, no doubt."
"Never mind what it is," said 92; "it's what I
don't take to a great deal. It's really too much un-
buttonment, John, upon my word. If I had the capital
I'd go into business, or into partnership with some one
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who'd do the activity part while I went on with the
head-work. See?"
"I see," said John, who was disgusted at the
general discontent pervading the species to which he
belonged. Yesterday Owen  to-day a brother with
gouty feet talking of change. He should be thinking
of change himself next. What a world it was!
Owen wandered restlessly about the garden whilst
the brothers talked. He had but a couple of hours to
spend at this cottage before he went on to break the
news to Mary and Mrs. Cutcheld, who, for reasons of
his own, had been kept in the dark till the last. Only
two hours, and Ruth Dell had not come yet! He did
not care for her now - she was another's and he had
long since given up caring for her  but he would
have liked to have seen her and talked to her before
that last parting; it might have been a pleasant re-
trospect some day  who could tell?
He walked to the gate and looked anxiously up
the road, along which one moonlight night, he had
watched the receding gure of Arthur Glindon. Glin-
. don!  ah! may the name be accursed! No, no -
God forgive him  he did not mean that; for there
would come a time when Ruth would bear that name
and he wished her every health and happiness.
And as he watched she came down that road 
not alone, but with him he felt he hated, and ever
should hate. The opposing element leaped within him,
and he had made more than one effort to check it, not-
withstanding. He did not check it, then, for he had
19*
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not wished to see the man. He will be a shadow on
this nal meeting, thought Owen  he will be ever
associated with it in my mind. Could she not for once
have spared me, spared herself, his company!
When they had entered the garden, and the usual
formal bow had taken place between Glindon and our
hero, Ruth laid her hand on his arm and led our hero
away. It was the rst time that she had done so of
her own free will, and his heart thrilled.
"You are going away for many years I hear, Owen,"
. she said; "I am sorry."
"Thank you," responded Owen; "it is pleasant to
hear our old friends express regret at separation."
"And you are so old a friend  have been a son
to my uncle, and a brother to me. For how many
years do you think of leaving England?"
"Six."
"A long period. Where shall we all be, and what
positions shall we occupy, six years hence? Oh! dear,
what a time it is!" And she sighed, and looked
thoughtfully downwards.
Owen watched her narrowly. She was more grave
than ordinary, he thought; more grave than his coming
absence from England warranted. Had she begun to
doubt her future that she spoke of six years hence so
sorrowfully?
"I hope to return and nd you happy, Ruth  as
happy a wife and mother as you deserve to be."
"I knowIhave your best wishes for my welfare
you will believe that you have mine?"
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owen. 293
"With all my heart."
Owen and Ruth strolled on together alone. 92's
garden ground was pretty extensive, and they chose
the end paths, away from the brothers Dell and Mr.
Glindon, standing in a group near the cottage, with
Mr. Glindon glancing at them now and then from under
his hat. Owen had already seen these glances and
'taken no heed, or rather, on the contrary, taken a little
satisfaction to himself in being in Glindon's place, and
arousing no small degree of jealous feeling. Anything
that pained Glindon must of necessity be a satisfaction
to Owen, it seemed  it was the rule governing op-
posing elements. However, Owen had soon forgotten
Glindon's existence in his interest in Ruth Dell, and
Ruth was eloquent and earnest that day. He had
divined by that time the object of her leading him
away from her friends; and he listened to words that
from any one else in the world he would have closed
his ears and heart, too.
For Ruth Dell, a fair judge of human nature for
one so young and with so little worldly experience 
as will be seen as we go further up the stream  had
also remarked those principal traits in Owen's charac-
ter which tended so much to narrow it, and deceive
him. They had been children together  sister and
brother as she termed it  and her interest in Owen
was not small. Moreover, she was a truly religious
girl  patient and gentle and self-denying  and she
could not let Owen set forth upon his journey without
expressing all her concern for his welfare  all her de-
## p. 294 (#306) ############################################
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sire to see him a prosperous man and a good Christian.
She preached to him without Owen divining it was a
sermon  for she was a fair preacher, and earnest in
her work. He was touched more at her interest in him
than at her cxhortation  for he thought she had
long since forgotten him and their old friendly rela-
tions together.
"If anything will make me a better man, Ruth, it
is your words to-day. Your wishes shall be my in-
centive to exertion when my life has begun across the
seas."
She told him how no exertions would prot him
without faith in the Giver of all blessings, and be-
seeched him, in that new life, to be less stern and have
more childlike condence in God. He listened till his
chest heaved and his eyes swam ~ he felt that she
was right and he was wrong  and he promised to
do his best, and ever seek to remember her words.
He told the whole story of his mother then  of his
intentions regarding herand had scarcely concluded
when Mr. Dell advanced towards them and broke the
charm which had enwrapped Owen, and made him
forget time and place, and the last duties before him.
"Two hours are nearly up, Owen," said he; "I
don't wish to hurry you, but if you have to see Mary
to-night and catch the last train there's no time to
lose."
"Well, I must begone then," said Owen with a half
sigh.
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"You have been here a trie too long already,"
whispered Dell.
"Why?"
"Because you are a dolt and a dreamer, and don't
know what is best for you."
"It is for the last time in all my life, Dell," mur-
mured Owen, "and she has been speaking of my wel-
fare  earthly and spiritual. I feel a better man now
stronger in the purpose lying before me."
"Well, well, she's a good girl, and you are to
be trusted with her; but Mr. Glindon's not of my
opinion."
"Does he say so?" cried Owen, losing all his
pleasurable sensations on the instant.
"He don't say much, but he looks a deal more,"
observed Dell.
"Let him."
"And I don't say he hasn't a right to look so,"
added Dell, "not knowing too much ofyou, and per-
haps not judging Ruth as I might. If I were a young
man, I should like to knock your head off."
Owen laughed, as Dell seemed to expect some such
return for his facetiae, but it was a poor effort, and the
parting was so near! Owen did not think or care for
Glindon much then; he was anxious to abridge a time
of trial and pain to him, and the smiles or frowns of
the man were equally unimportant.
And yet when he was face-to-face with him 
when, as it seemed expected by all of them, he had
shaken hands with him, he could not help saying: 
## p. 296 (#308) ############################################
296 ownn.
"You are left the best of girls in the world, sir 
may you make her a happy wife."
"I shall know my duty, sir," coldly responded
Glindon.
Owen 'did not answer. It was on his lips to say,
"If you swerve from -it, I am her brother and will
come back to take her part;" but he adopted the wiser
course of remaining silent, and turned to Ruth and her
father, whose hands he could shake more heartily. His
parting with John Dell was reserved for the morrow
on shipboard.
"A fair journey and a fair future to you, Owen
Owen," said 92; "and an old man's blessing on you,
if it's worth anything." -
When he had both Ruth's hands in his, 92 said
again: 
"You've been brought up together in John Dell's
house  son and daughter to him  kiss her, Owen,
as you've a right to."
And Owen, needing no second bidding, kissed her
cheek, and Glindon stamped his foot on the garden
path as heartily as though our hero were beneath it.
He had had enough of this Owen; he was heartily
tired of hearing his name,  the Lord be thanked
that he was going on a long journey!
It seemed the beginning of that journey to Owen
when he went away that day.
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CHAPTER VIII.
The Second.
SURELY the most bitter parting was overnothing
worse could follow this. He had taken his leave of
her for whom he had borne a dreamy, wild passion,
and the rest that lay before him would be easy work.
There was but a child to console with that night, and
an old friend to bid good-bye on the morrow, and
then the world before him!  the new life he had
planned for himself, and the new heart he had almost
promised Ruth Dell. Yes, the worst was over now,
thought this sanguine man, as he set forth on that four
miles walk to Mrs. Cutcheld's cottage. As if man in
his blindness and moral perversity knows what is best
or worst at the time he asserts it.
Owen plodded on thoughtfully, revolving in his
mind the best method of breaking the news to Mary
Chickney. He was a practical man, who had set
aside, for the nonce, all the troublous thoughts
engendered by the parting with his rst love. There
would be time enough to think of that in the future.
There was his ward to consider now, and how to
reason and comfort her. He had put off the evil day
of his sad communications until the very last. She
was a child who would give way and weep, and whom
it would be difcult to console; and he desired that
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she should remain happy as long as it was possible
under the circumstances.
It was twilight when he neared the cottage. He
could see a light behind the latticed casement, where
Mrs. Cutcheld's plants were ranged. He almost hoped
that Mary had gone to bed, and only Mrs. Cutcheld
remained to hear the news. It would be better after
all if Mrs. Cutcheld were the recipient of the tidings,
and he could take his farewell of Mary in her sleep.
With this thought he walked the rest of the way to
the cottage at a slower pace, and gently tapped at the
door, for fear of arousing the peaceful slumbers of the
child.
Some one within had been reading aloud, for the
voice stopped at the summons, and Owen could hear
Mrs. Cutcheld and Mary whispering together.
"I  I really think it's Owen, mammy Cutch-
eld!"
"Nonsense, child. Don't he always write rst?"
"Not when he wants to surprise us, you know.
Oh! please," and some impetuous stamping of small
feet rang on the tiled oor, "do open the door."
"My dear, there's bad characters about  people
off to the hop-picking, and so on. There's no knowing
anybody at this time of night. I/Vho's there?"
"Owen," responded our hero.
"I said so! I said so! I said so!" cried Mary,
and the feet pattered more than ever on the oor, and
there was a great deal of excited scufing inside,
ending in the withdrawal of one rickety bolt, and a
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rush into the night air of something or some one, that
tilted Mrs. Cutcheld's candlestick into the rst ower-
bed, and left all in total darkness.
"You dreadful child! What a mussy it had been
if I had put you to bed half-an-hour ago."
"Oh, gardy dear, I'm so glad you've come to see
me!" cried Mary, whose arms were round Owen's neck,
and whose feet were off the ground by this time. "I
was only talking of you just now, and wondering about
you. Wasn't I, Mrs. Cutcheld?"
"Oh! you're always up to something," was the short
answer of the old lady, who was groping in the ower-
bed to the left of the porch; "I wonder wherever you've
knocked that candle to! Here's the candlestick, but
wherever the oh! here it is, and a nice mess you've
made of it! A new one set up to-night, Mr. Owen,
and now all over grit and muck. And I hope you're
well, sir."
"Thank you  quite well, Mrs. Cutcheld."
"I was afraid something might have happened, sir."
"Oh, no," replied Owen, huskily. ~
"I'll get a light in a minute, when I can nd the
tinder-box," said the old lady, returning to the house.
"Step inside, sir, and mind the chairs  Mary opped
one of 'em over running to the door. I daresay she's
bruk it. Mary, don't hang round Mr. Owen's neck
like that  you'll choke him!"
"I am so glad to be surprised," said Mary, obey-
ing Mrs. Cuteheld's orders, and dropping to the
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ground, "it is so kind of you to come, Owen, and
surprises are so nice  arn't they?"
"Sometimes," was the hard response of our hero.
"I think I should always like them," ran on Mary,
little thinking of the second surprise that awaited her,
"it's better than waiting for any one, and getting cross
and dgety. Oh, it's so nice, gardy, to think of going
up to bed in a minute or two, and then to have you
come suddenly in  like a blessing."
Owen laughed, as his little ward, holding his hand
between her own, danced at his side. His presence
like a blessing to this child, whom he was going to
leave  whose greatest pleasure he was about to take
away! It was a laughable subject, he thought bitterly.
He made no attempt to enter the house, but stood
thoughtfully under the porch, with the child at his
side. He was endeavouring to think of the best method
of breaking the news to Mary, and the effort puzzled
and pained him. He had hoped to nd her in bed,
and to have been spared this parting, and even in this
his plans were frustrated. Unless  ah! unless he
still waited till Mary had gone to her room.
The last thought made his heart more light. He
was no coward, but he feared to face the child with
the shock of his revelation  surely there would be
sorrow enough for her in the future without his striking
at her that night! Better to let the days roll on for
weeks and months until she wondered at his absence,
and then  some friend to break the truth to her, and
tell her that he had gone away for years. There was
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some advice he should have liked to give her  but
no matter  he left her in good hands!
He did not know he was even then suggesting
doubts by standing there so quietly in the shadow of
the vine leaves that ran over the porch, with the grey
landscape and the stars a background to his gure.
"Gardy," whispered the child, "there's nothing the
matter  is there?"
' "To be sure not," said Owen lightly.
"Because you've never come of a dark night be-
fore, and you're very quiet now you have come 
and  and you've been holding my hands so tight!"
"I'm only waiting here for Mrs. Cutcheld's light,"
said Owen, "we'll talk enough presently. What a
child you are!"
The click-click of the int and steel had gone on
all this time by way of an accompaniment, and Mrs.
Cutcheld had knocked her tinder-box, and blew at
its contents, and worried it with a damp match, and
rattled away with her steel several times before a re-
sult was obtained.
"It's always the way when you've company," she
said, in half soliloquy, as the brimstone end of the
match ignited at last, "everything going wrong, as a
matter of course. I do believe I must take to those
new-fangled bits of reworks after all  and I can't ~
abide 'em, for fear of being burnt in my bed."
Lucifer matches had been in fashion some twenty
years then, but they were still "new-fashioned things"
to this primitive dame.
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"Come in now, sir," said Mrs. Cutcheld, "and
excuse the candle  that's Mary's fault."
Mrs. Cutcheld was picking off the knobs of mould
with which it was decorated with the point of her
snuffers as Owen entered, and Mary, after a vain
attempt to smother her laugh at the picture, broke
forth.
"You'd better a been sorry, I think," said Mrs.
lutcheld, grimly regarding her; "there's nothing
much to laugh at  is there, sir?"
"Well, not a 'great deal; but let her laugh -
she's young."
"Ah! but old enough to know better, sir. She
must be growing steady soon, and not flying away
helter-skelter out of her skin because there's a knock
at the door." '
"But you will forget that I didn't expect gardy,"
cried Mary, who was already on Owen's knees; "how
could I be quiet after that, do you think? Oh dear,
dear," with a little comical sigh, as she leaned her
head back on Owen's chest, "how very happy I am
now!"
"We won't spoil your happiness by scolding you
then, Mary," said Owen; "yours is a sensation that is
speedily rid of  eh, Mrs. Cutcheld?"
"Ay, it's a ash-like. And, God bless her, she
hasn't been quite well the last two days."
"How's that?" cried Owen quickly.
"I've been trying to learn a little too hard 
that's all, gardy," said she, turning round and looking
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into his face; "because you told me it was so nice to
be clever and know everything, and I  I was going
a little back in my schooling; and when I grow big
enough to take care of you and your house, gardy,
and live with you always, I want to be as clever as
you, for company's sake."
"Ah! I see."
"And  oh! Owen dear, there is something the
matter!"
The great black eyes of Mary Chickney had been
looking full into the face of her guardian, and a child
is quick at observation. The face was changed since
she had seen it last  it was a pale, stern face, and
lacked its usual expression  there was something in
it new and strange, and the child's heart sank.
"Mrs. Cutcheld,  oh! don't you think some-
thing has happened?" appealed Mary to the old lady,
before Owen had time to assure her that it was all
fancy.
"I don't know, my dear  I hope not," said
Mrs. Cutcheld; "there's no bad news, sir, anywhere,
surely?"
"Of course not."
Owen answered in too easy and off-hand a manner,
and Mary Chickney was not to be bafed. Besides,
he was troubled, and was naturally a bad actor. The
thoughts in his heart leaped very readily to the sur-
face, and they were sad thoughts, and betrayed him.
He was touched by the child's earnestness and a'ec-
tion ~- and pleasant as it was to think how he was
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loved and reverenced, bitter was the thought that he
ended it all that night; and in his return  should
he 'ever return - she would have outlived her best
thoughts of him. It was life, and the way of the
world  his fate was to be friendless and alone! And
then to add to his dark thoughts was ever the sugges-
tion  bearing on him in that hour with a tenfold
pressure  whether he had acted rightly, after all?
He had been anxious to leave England, to make his
better name and higher fortunes in Australia  a
land where names are soon known, and fortunes more
quickly made than in England, he had heard  but
was he acting well by Mary? Had he considered her
sufciently? Was he keeping his promise to her who
had died early  his second and best mother? What
would she have thought of his step?  and what
would Tarbyfthink when the letter he had written
reached his hands? He had meant all for the best
throughout, and Mary would be taken every care of,
and he should hear from her and of her very often.
In danger he would forfeit all chances, and come back,
true to his promise  but in the years of her child-
hood he would not be much further removed than at
present. When she was older, and felt friendless in
the world, he would be at her side again, with God's
help.
Such thoughts, added to many others, crowded on
him that night, and he could not shake them off, or
disguise them. To-morrow he would be on ship-board,
and it was the last time he might ever hold that dark-
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haired child to his breast  and she was his little
sister, whom he had not believed he had loved so
dearly until then. '
"Dear 'gardy, you will tell me everything  your
own little Mary," she pleaded, clasping him round the
neck; "I would rather hear everything from you than
from Mrs. Cutcheld afterwards. If it's anything sor-
rowful  such as your going away," she added, with
a readiness that made Owen start, "I could bear it so
much better if you told me, and be comforted by
you - only by you  so much more!" .
"Mary, I'll tell you, if you promise me not not
to fret about it and make yourself ill."
Mary in her eagerness would have promised any-
thing just then.
"It is best - and everything happens for the best,
' Mary."
"Oh! I don't believe it," said Mary impetuously;
"but please tell me the worst now, and get it over."
Mary lay back in his arms, and his arms pressed
her closer to him. They were both white faces 
guardian and ward's  then. Mrs. Cutcheld nervous
respecting the coming revelation, snuffed the candle
with a shaking hand, and then leaned across the table,
full of interest. Was something going to happen to
her dear child? - was anyone coming to take her
away now, she who was nearest her heart?
"I'm going a journey, Mary," said he, trying to
render his voice less broken and harsh. Surely this
parting was worse than with Ruth Dell  for here
Owen:  A Waif. I. ' 20
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306 own.\:.
was some one who would grieve for him, and require
consolation!
' "A long journey?" asked Mary.
"Only six years, dear," said Owen, tenderly; "a
time that will pass by very quickly, and bring us
together again."
"Six years  oh! Owen, darling, it's a lifetime!"
She had promised to be calm, but she was but a
child, whose estimation of her own powers was faulty;
she was of an excitable nature also, and a breath dis-
.turbed her. She was turning round with the intention
of burying her face in his chest, and giving way to a
passionate outburst of tears, when he held her at arm's
length and said,
"You must keep your word, Mary, for my sake
and your own. If you cry, I shall not tell you any
more."
Mary looked at him through her tears, and fought '
hard to be calm.
"I  I'll try to be quiet now," she said, and
leaned her head back in its old resting-place.
"I'm going abroad, Mary, to work for you and me
here in England it's hard to live as I wish. I have
calculated on six years being enough to make a stand
in the world; if I should be wrong, still at the end of
six years I shall come back to protect you till you
have a home of your own."
"Won't my home be yours?"
"Till you are married to some one who is worthy
of you."
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owns. 307
"I won't have any home but yours  I'll build on
that for six years, if you like, and count the days till
you come back  Owen, I'll marry you!"
"Thank you," said Owen, smiling through his
trouble at the child's ingenuousness; "six years hence
you will be of a different opinion." ' -
"Not in sixty, gardy ~- or in six hundred. I sup-
pose little girls do marry their gardys sometimes 
there's nothing against it, in the prayer-book, or
catechism, is there?"
"Nothing."
"Lord, bless the child, how it's carrying on, to be
sure!" cried Mrs. Cutcheld. "Mary, dear, you don't
know what you're talking about. Mr. Owen may bring
a wife back with him from forrin parts."
"No, no!" cried Mary; "that's not true, is it?"
"No," said Owen, "I think not; but leave to the
future the things that will happen in it, and let us talk
a little while of what is about to befall us."
"I want to forget that, gardy  oh! do let me
forget that," and the tear-lled eyes and the white face
returned.
"I am going to Australia, whence I shall write to
you every mail, Mary, and expect by every mail that
leaves England a letter from you. You must tell me
all your little joys and sorrows, and keep nothing back
-- let me in the strauger's land follow your life step
by step. You will keep your whole heart open to me
for a little while longer. When I see it closing against
me," he added, "I shall be less happy."
20*
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308 owns.
"You will never be less happy, then," said Mary.
"You have seen Mr. Dell once or twice, dear,"
Owen said; "he will come here more often when I am
away, and see you and Mrs. Cutcheld in my place.
Trust in him, Mary, as you would in me. In any
sudden trouble - which I pray may never occur to
you  go to him and ask his help. You will see his
daughter often, I think  learn to love her, Mary,
and to conde in her also. You see, I leave a host of
friends behind me."
"Ah, but not one like you!"
"All better, and more able to guide you," an-
swered Owen; "and so trust in them, I say again 
even for my sake."
"Very well," said Mary, "I will try hard to love
them and make them love me. And in six years I
shall see you again  and you don't think six years
such a very long time to be away?"
"It is a time that will soon pass," said Owen. "Be
patient and strong. It is a hard parting now, dear,
but every week will wear off the impression. In six
years you will have made new friends, mixed in new
scenes, and I do not expect ever to come back and
resume the old post I abandon. Still you must keep a
corner in your heart open for me, Mary, and not let
silly dreams trouble you."
He was afraid of Mary dwelling on one dream too
longthe child had evinced such anxiety to share his
home on his return. She was but a child, it is true,
but a child that thought much and saw little change
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and he had not expected even in her so much
evidence of her love for him, and so much pain at
losing him. '
He did not relate the story of his mother to her
it was a long story, and beyond her comprehension,
and that mother was waiting for him at home, and
alone. The hour was growing late, he was some dis-
tance from London, and there were a few instructions
for Mrs. Cutcheld before he departed.
He expressed as much to Mary, who, with a sigh,
unclasped her arms from his neck, and slid from his
knees. '
"I am going to my room now," she said; "I  I
shall see you again?"
"Yes."
"You will not leave me without saying good-bye,
gardy?" she said; "I'm not such a little child as to be
run away from, for fear I should cry too much! I have
promised not to cry!" she said proudly, and it was the
secret of her strange composure.
"I shall see you again," answered Owen.
"I'm going to nd you something for a keepsake,"
she said  "that will hinder you forgetting your little
ward."
She went upstairs to her room, and Owen drew his
chair nearer the table, and talked to Mrs. Cutcheld
of future necessities; to whom she was to look for her
expenses, and how she was to train Mary, and keep
her heart young. Mrs. Cutcheld listened, and nodded
her head, and thought within herself she did not
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require one quarter of his instructions, and that she
was the best judge  a pardonable idea considering
her years. It did not suggest itself to her  and
only to Owen when he had been four weeks at sea 
that she was a very old woman, and that six years to
her might stretch across the boundary separating life
from death. They spoke of the interim with con-
dence  they were both dreamers, recking not of
the chances and changes incidental to all years  and
they planned little Mary's life out, as if there were no
greater planners than themselves.
"That girl's a long time upstairs," remarked Mrs.
Cutcheld, "and very quiet for her. I've allus fancied
she was in mischief when so uncommonly still until
now. And now it's only in trouble  her greatest!"
"Shall we go upstairs to her?  it's very late."
And Owen looked at his watch.
"I think we will. Tread lightly," said Mrs. Cutclr
eld; "if she's gone to sleep over it all, it'll do her
good, and I wouldn't wake her."
"No  better not."
Owen went up rst with the light, and pushed the
door of Mary's room gently open.
Mary was kneeling by the bedside, and looked
round as he entered. She was very pale, but on her
face was calmness, and something more than calmness
something holy and full of faith. Her old protector
had reared her well, and taught her in whom to trust, and
in her trouble she had sought Him in that darkened
room.
## p. 311 (#323) ############################################
owns. 311
"I am praying that we may both be spared to see
each other again, Owen," said she, innocently 
"praying that you may never forget me  oh, my
gardy!"
"God for ever desert me when I do," he cried,
catching her up in his arms, and kissing her; "now
good-bye, dear, and don't fret at my going away 
it's a promise  and God bless you and watch over
you. I think [10 will?" turning with an anxious face
to the old woman, as if she understood God's ways
better than himself, which perhaps she did.
"He watches over little children, and loves them,"
murmured the old woman.
"He will watch over her," said Owen, condently,
as he let her cling round him still. "Well, where's my
keepsake, Mary?"
"I couldn't nd anything that would pack nicely,"
she returned, "or that would keep you thinking of
me, except  one of my ringlets. One or two of
them."
"Law's a mussy on us, look at the left side of her
head!" gasped Mrs. Cutcheld.' And sure enough the
left side of her head was worth looking at for its
novelty  three ringlets having been shorn therefrom,
without any regard to future appearances.
"If you had only taken 'em proportionably, child,"
said Mrs. Cutcheld, whose pride had been in that
glossy black hair, "but not have chopped 'em off any-
how, and lopsided your head, like. God bless you,
what a naughty girlryou are!"
## p. 312 (#324) ############################################
312 owns.
"Here's a parcel of it, Owen," said Mary, tendering
a neatly folded packet; "I hope it's  it's not too
much."
"No, no. And here's the grim photograph of your
gardy," said he, putting in her hand a small gold
locket; "it was taken yesterday, my dear. For I am
jealous, too, of being forgotten."
"You!" cried the child  "as if it were likely!"
"Well, I hope not," said Owen; "and now good-
bye again."
A shower of kisses between this strange guardian
and ward, a shower  heavy and thick  of tears
from Mary, and a struggle with Owen to present some
degree of rmness, and then he was hurrying down-
stairs, and making for the garden and the country lane
lying beyond.
He would not trust himself to look back until he
was on the hill-top where we have before observed
him gazing across the dip of land at the cottage
wherein Mary had her dwelling-place. In the old spot
he paused, and looked across the dark landscape to-
wards the house. The light was in the upstairs win-
dow still, the trees were rustling faintly in the night
breeze, the peaceful stars were glittering down upon
him and his ward.
"Do we know how much we are loved, or how
deeply we love ourselves, till tested by such a parting
as this?" muttered Owen.
A fair night on which to leave her  calm, and
still, and star-lit  God's blessing, as it were, on
## p. 313 (#325) ############################################
OWEN. 313
Mary, whispered by those rustling trees. He could
echo it from the heart, and feel condent in her future,
and more strong within himself to work for her and
that other one whose life was taking a turn, as he
thought, for the better.
The soft autumn air brought to his feet some early
dead leaves, but he read no moral from them  hopes
die every day and fresh blossoms come upon the tree,
and life's a mystery!
CHAPTER IX.
The Last Chance.
IT was nearly midnight when Owen was in Lon-
don. A change had come over the night since he had
left his ward at Eltingham; the stars had gone in,
some grey clouds had begun to sweep across the sky,
and a drizzling rain to welcome him as he stepped
from the bustling station into the silent, echoing streets.
Had he been a man to believe in auguries, he might
have thought a change awaiting him.
But his thoughts were still of the past; the present
did not warn him, and the future he thought was
marked out, vain dreamer! - all had been planned
and prepared in it, and it was the past alone that
kept his thoughts pre-occupied as he hurried along to-
wards home. It had been a busy, painful day, and he
was glad it was over  that the partings were ended
between Ruth and him, between his ward and himself.
Much that had been said that day was ringing in his
ears still  would vibrate therein for years to come.
Words had been spoken that had gone far to change
his heart and soften him; he was less condent in his
1+:
## p. 4 (#14) ###############################################
4 owns.
own strength and knowledge, and more inclined to
trust in a higher power than his own. Give him but
his mother, now, to bring back to a something more
pure than her steps had followed hitherto, and might
he not become what John Dell and his niece wished
to see him  what his childlike ward, in the sim-
plicity of her heart, believed him? Was it so bad a
world after all?  and had the shadows fallen-on him
more darkly than the rest of men? He had only been
a sceptic, and less inclined to meet the ills that fall
naturally to all men's share.
Full of such thoughts, he had reached his home in
the street leading out of the Kennington Road before
he was aware of it. Apartments strangely out of order
now, with boxes in the passage, signicant of the great
change coming with the morrow. And yet hardly
signicant of all, even at that hour, with a change so
near at hand.
As his mother had promised to sit up for him, '
Owen was a little surprised to nd no light burning in
the room  more surprised to nd, when he had
struck a light and turned on the little gas-burner, that
his mother had not gone to bed as he had supposed,
but was sitting on the sofa fronting him, with her
hands on her knees and a peculiar unfathomable look
in her eyes.
"What's the matter? Why are you sitting in the
dark?"
"I have been out shopping, and just come back,"
was the answer.
## p. 5 (#15) ###############################################
owns. 5
Owen looked more intently at her. It was a
short answer, unlike her new manner of replying to
him  a dogged answer, that reminded him of old
times.
It struck him that her face was different, also 
less resignation and more deance thereon  but per-
haps he was nervous.
"A late hour for shopping," he added quietly, as
he took a seat near the empty re-grate, exactly facing
his mother. The position seemed to displease her,
his searching looks towards her to worry and excite
her.
"I wonder what you are looking like that for?"
she muttered. "Do you think I am under a mi-
croscope, or can bear it? Isn't it hard enough as
it is?"
"What is?"
"Oh! I don't know."
"Do you mean this present life?" demanded Owen,
sternly.
"Perhaps I do," was the reply; "and hard it is,
Owen. Day after day hard work, and no thanks 
and your face over it all, as cold as a statty's."
"What do you expect?"
"Nothing."
"Do you think I have been unkind to you?"
"N  no," she replied; "I donon say you have 
I don't say anything, mind you. I'm not grumbling."
It was something very like it, and Owen, who had
expected a di'erent welcome back, in that last hour of
## p. 6 (#16) ###############################################
6 owns.
his stay in England, felt annoyed. More than that, he
felt disheartened. His mother had been gradually b-
coming more dull and thoughtful; to-night had ren-
dered her morose  brought back much of her past
discontented ways.
"Have you been so good a mother to me in my
life, that you should expect much evidence of my
affection?" said he. "Cannot you be content with my
efforts to render you a better woman, until the time
comes when you can prove your amendment?"
"Well, perhaps I can," she said. "I know you
mean well, and that your heart's set on making a good
woman of me. P'raps it's all right enoughbut what's
it to end in? Say I am a good woman some day, I
shall be only slaving my life out somewhere  I who
always hated work!  as a reward for choosing the
narrow path, as the parson says!"
Owen frowned, and his foot beat impatiently on
the carpet.
"There you go again!" cried the mother, "with
your savage looks, that make one's soul sink. You're
a blessed sight more like a magistrate than a son 
you always will be! And I know I deserve it," she
cried, suddenly taking a turn in a new direction -
"that I'm a wicked, ungrateful woman, tempted by the
devil to the streets again  the black devil, Owen,
that hangs to my skirts, and keeps me down. There's
no hope for me  there's no chance!"
The woman burst into a passionate t of weeping,
and began rocking herself in her chair, after the old
## p. 7 (#17) ###############################################
owns. , 7
manner. Owen sat unmoved. There was no genuine
emotion in her grief  it was an impulse, born of the
gin that she had drunk that night. She would be
railing at him a minute hence, or sneering at all those
e'orts for her regeneration, which he had striven for
and failed in. It was a bitter hour with him; and in
the rst mortication at his mother's relapse, he ex-
perienced more anger than pity. He had striven to do
his best, and she had eluded his efforts. There lay
before him once more all that gigantic task which he
had set himself  the beginning once more of the
great up-hill effort to link this woman's life with his,
and make it different.
"Has any one been here?" he asked.
"John Dell called late, to know if you had come
back," said she, wiping her eyes; "p'raps seeing him
has dazed me a bit. Ah! that John Dell! he always
gives me a turn that's hard to get over  and an aw-
ful turn it has been this time!"
"You give way to tries," said Owen, peevishly;
"every little check in your way is a mountain, before
which you sit and moan like a fool."
"Do you know how old I am?" she retorted  "do
you think at my age I have all the strength and will
that has made you so brave?  do you think that
there is so much ahead of me that I should 'care for
this life?"
"What life have you enjoyed better than this?"
asked Owen, sharply.
"The life where I was not always being watched,
## p. 8 (#18) ###############################################
8 owns.
and where"  with a shudder  "such awfully great
things were never expected of me. Why, when I was
a young woman I never " ,
"I'll have no more of this," said Owen, starting to
his feet  "I will talk with you to-morrow, when you
are better able to understand me. Here in England
the task to reform becomes wearisome. I will hope
against hope in the new world that awaits us."
The last part of his speech was more of a soliloquy
than an address to his mother  a wail, as it were,
over the ebrts mis-spent, and the result hitherto of his
greatest experiment.
"Will you go to your room now?" he said; "we
must rise early to nish our packing."
"You said about twelve in the morning would be
time enough to leave here?"
"There are many things to arrange before twelve."
"So there is, Owen darling  so there is," assented
his mother, with a spasmodic gasp of affection.
She rose from the sofa, and stood poising herself in
an upright position, previous to a start. She might
feel a trie unsteady, and it was necessary to make a
good beginning, with those "cat's eyes" of her son
upon her. What the devil had she done, that she
should be watched like this!
She set ofl' at last, and came to a full stop by the
centre table, on which she leaned her hand for a mo-
ment, preparative to starting afresh.
Owen touched her arm at this moment.
"Mother, you have been drinking."
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owns. 9
"No.77
"And you are lying  don't deceive me."
"Oh, dear, what a fellow you are!" sighed the
woman; "there's no pleasing you  I give it upI'll
go and drown myself!"
"You have been drinking," repeated Owen.
"Only two glasses of gin at the 'Ship,' " she said,
apologetically. "Not both at once for I was a long
while making up my mind to have the second  came
quite home rst!"
She confessed to the struggle between good and evil
within her, and there had been no good once to con-
tend with. But Owen only saw the evil that night,
and his heart was closed. He was angry, too, at so
poor an end to his ebrts.
"You are going back  the struggle has been too
much for you, and this is the reaction," said he, his
hand tightening on her arm. "Take care, mother. It
depends upon yourself what son I am to be  un-
charitable or loving, it is in your own hands  don't
blame me. This is a time of trial for you, and your
last chance  throw it away and betray me, and I
cast you back to the streets!"
The mother turned of an ashen whiteness beneath
his look and words  she shrank from him, and made
one feeble attempt to cover her face with her hands,
but he held them down with his arm, and went on -
"I will not have your life mixed with mine, if it
is to be a disgrace to us both. I will raise you with
me, or you shall sink alone. Live honestly and soberly,
## p. 10 (#20) ##############################################
10 . owns.
and I will be a faithful son; but more of this awful
weakness, and I will have no mercy on you. I will
raise no hand in your defence again; I will let you go
your own accursed way!"
The woman shrieked, and sank on the oor, as
Owen relinquished his grasp and went towards the
door. Oh, what a son he was! cruel and unmerciful;
where was to be the happiness with him? Better the
streets he talked of casting her back to,  better the
streets, in whose welcome darkness she could eushroud
herself!
Owen felt that he had been too harsh, that he had
adopted the wrong method, when he stood at the door
looking back on her. It might be necessary to be
stern, but she had been in no mood to be talked to
then, and he had chosen the wrong time, and only
affrighted her. He had spoken of himself and his own
anger, and the light he had attempted to show by con-
trast was dim and murky; he had spoken of his own
mercy, if she repented - never a word, even then, of
his God's.
Owen was sorry for his harshness, and went back
to her, and tried to raise her from the ground; but she
tore herself from his grasp, and only begged to be left
there. She would be better in the morning  she
would go to her room in a minute or two, if he would
only leave her  if he stayed there by her side, she
would scream the house down in a minute more 
would be leave her or not?
"Yes, I will leave you, if you wish it," said her
## p. 11 (#21) ##############################################
OWEN. 11
son; "if you promise me you will go to your room at
once."
"Yes  yes  at once."
Owen left her seated on the oor, and went up-
stairs to his own room, at the door of which he stood,
a stern, watchful sentry, listening for a movement.
Presently he heard the rustling of her dress, and the
shambling of her feet across the narrow landing-place,
towards the back room on the same oor. Then the
door closed, and all was still.
He was content, then, with the result; his words
had pierced through the gin fumes that had besotted
her  they would abide with her when she awoke in
the morning, and teach her penitence and humility.
He could but treat her yet as some wild beast he hoped
to tame  presently he might show her he was less
cold and cruel than she had fancied him. He entered
his room, and sat down to think of the morrow and
his best course therein  as if he were the ruler over
that mysterious to-morrow which wiseacres tell us never
comes. And the morrow as we dreamed it, wherein we
wished to live, and make fame and fortune  the
morrow we planned and strove for and prayed  does
it ever come to us pilgrims so happily, that we sit
down by the wayside content?
She was thinking of the morrow, too, in that
darkened room. She had not thought of a light until
she had somewhat noisily closed the door behind her,
and lumped herself on the oor, in a position similar
to that which she had adopted in the drawing-room,
## p. 12 (#22) ##############################################
1 2 owns.
after the last reproaches of her son. He would be
quiet now, and not come down to worry her till the
morning  till the morm'n.r;! She shuddered as she
thought of it; it was an awful prospect that morning,
when he would enter with his death's face, and those
dark eyes which would go clean through her, and
make her feel ready to sink through the oor. He
would talk of her moral weakness, and the last chance,
and she would be sober then, and every word would
stab like a dagger  and yet he would go on stabbing
unmercifully. And after all, for what?to make her
live better, show a clean dress and face to the society
she hated  render her a servant and a slave  take
her to foreign parts, which she did not believe for a
moment would agree with her. What did it all amount
to?  misery! She was to be sober, and think eternally
of those many sins which had multiplied upon her since
her rst step from right  and thinking of them was
horror! She had been all her life trying to forget
them in drink, and now he took the drink away, be-
cause it was more respectable. She didn't care to live
respectable  just to please him who, now he was a
ne gentleman, wanted a decent mother. He was only
thinking of himself  he didn't care much about that
past life he was so anxious she should escape from!
And it wasn't such a miserable life, come to think of
it. There was no one but herself to please, and it was
hard to please two, she had found that out soon enough.
She couldn't please two all her life, and the time would
come when he would throw her o' in her weakness,
## p. 13 (#23) ##############################################
owns. 13
and then she should be in a foreign place, where there
were no old pals to look up  no old haunts to seek
refuge in. No, it hadn't been so miserable a life 
lots of fun and gin! A rare exciting life, with little
to do but hang about "the publics," and spend the
money one had begged, borrowed, or stolen. He talk
of casting her back to the streets  why, the streets
were her natural element, and she could exist there!
She was a woman of the streets, and their darkness
was congenial. She knew every turn of them, half the
faces in them, and to think of it all made her yearn
as for home. What if she were more dirty, more an
object of suspicion to the law, and a mark of pity for
people in white chokers, who were bold enough to
venture her way, she was her own mistress, and it was
comfortable. She had tried a change, and it had not
agreed with her  let her be off. When the worst
came to the worst somehow that unfriendly meeting
did occur with most of her pals at the last  she could
drown herself. There might be a year, two, a dozen
between this time and that, and between-whiles she
should be having her own way. Let her be off then,
silently and cunningly, with her boots in her hand, lest
the stairs should creak in her descent, and her breath
bated for fear the quick ears of that proud young up-
start should hear herhe was awfully sharp, like his
mother!
She had unlaced her boots as thought suggested
her plan of action; she had risen with them in her
hands. An awful gure looming amidst the darkness
## p. 14 (#24) ##############################################
14 owrm.
the angels who had had hope of her might have
wept to see her! The old look, the old evil thoughts
the old gure borne back by the strange, irresistible
attraction which sweeps back to the sea so many like
unto her. For the one who clings to the rock and
holds fast in the storm, how many go down? Can it
be a world full of penitents, amidst a crowd of unbe-
lievers, and e1-ring 'men and women, and good men
mistaken in the right way, and blundering vainly at
reformhave we a right to suppose it?
What would Owen think of her? That he was
well rid of his burden, or that he had been too hard
upon her  she didn't know - she tried to believe
she did not care. Perhaps he would fancy that she
had left him because she had no condence in her own
efforts, and that it would be better to leave him to go
on alone  ever better without her. If he would only
think that now; very likely he would, and she would
think so herself  it made going much more easy and
excusable.
The door creaked as she opened it, and she cursed
it for being noisy and unmanageable; the stairs were
not silent beneath her weight, but cracked at inoppor-
tune moments, and scared her. She was not quite
steady in her gait yet, and it was the gin's turn to be
cursed, for a hot, vitriolic mixture, with no real spirit
in it. She could remember the time when half a dozen
glasses of gin  a dozen  only rendered her a trie
more loquacious, but kept her head as steady as fate's.
She was getting out of practice! On the hall mat in
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owns. 15
the passage, where to her surprise a small candle-lamp
was burning a beacon for an absent lodger who kept
late hours. If he should turn the key now, and she
should frighten him to death, or make him scream by
her appearance there. If Owen, alarmed by any out-
cry, were to emerge from his room and come down in
pursuit of her. Let her hasten away before the thought
unnerved her. With Owen was captivity, and in the
streets freedom and life.
She stepped into the streets, and left the door ajar
behind her. It was raining heavily then, and she
huddled her shawl round her and pulled the bonnet
over her eyes, and in an instant it was the same world-
worn, desolate gure we have seen on Markshire Downs,
met in Hannah Street where Tarby's wife died.
Plodding on in the shadow of the houses went the
woman to her dark estate, back of her own free-will to
the sin-haunted life from which one upward spring had
been fruitlessly made. In the rain and the wind, with
her head bent down, and the refractory grey hair al-
ready making its escape after the old fashion, she
emerged into the Kennington Road, crossed from the
"Hercules" Tavern to Oakley Street, turned down
Gloucester Street, and plunged into the net-work of
courts and alleys that spring thencedens of poverty,
and sin, and ignorance, and all uncleanliness, which
there is no sweeping away. 
Had the seven evil spirits worse than the rst met
this woman by the way, that she should ing her arms
up wildly and cry, "Home!"
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16 OWEN.
CHAPTER X.
Outward-Bound.
J om: DELL making his appearance in Owen's room
at the hour of nine, A. M., was surprised to nd our
hero sitting thoughtfully at the table, on which were
no signs of breakfast, and staring before him at the
window-blinds, still left drawn down from the prece-
ding night.
"What! Owen," he exclaimed, "is anything fresh
the matter?"
"Can't you guess?"
"Your mother," after a hasty glance round the
room  "she was here last night  she hasn't gone?"
"No mother of mine from this moment  I have
done with her."
"Has she left you, then?"
"Ay  like a coward and a fool, who knew not
what was best for her. It was her last chance, and
she threw it away."
"Poor woman."
Dell took the rst vacant seat by the door, and
looked sorrowfully down at his feet. It was a sad ter-
mination to both. their hopes concerning her.
"You seem more angry than sorry," said Dell,
looking suddenly towards Owen, who had maintained
'the same posture, and forgotten his friend's existence.
## p. 17 (#27) ##############################################
owns. 17
"My patience is exhausted with this fruitless end
to my labours, Dell," said Owen; "I am sick of Eng-
land and all in it. It is time I was gone."
"And all in it?" echoed Dell  "thankee for
nothing."
"All hopes in it  not old friends, I intended to
say."
"You should say what you mean."
"Ah, that's difcult."
He was relapsing into thought, when Dell rose and
shook him heartily by the shoulder.
"You want rousing, Owen. This won't do, you
know."
"I know that as well as you, Mr. Dell," said Owen,
gloomily  "I shan't give way  I never have de-
spaired, and I never intend."
"What's to be done about your mother?"
"No mother of mine," repeated Owen, quickly;
"that woman who stole from here in the dead of night
is no thought of mine now. I have done my best with
her, and failed. I warned her last night, and she
mocked my warning  it is all over between us."
"How do you know you've done your best?" said
Dell, shortly.
"By my conscience, which does not accuse me."
"Perhaps it may some day," was the quiet re-
sponse.
"I drew the picture last night, Dell, of what she
might be  what she was," continued Owen, not heed-
ing his remark  "the son I might be to her, if she
, Owen:  A Waif. 11. 2
## p. 18 (#28) ##############################################
1 8 owns.
lived soberly and honest: I put her case and mine in
every light, and she ed from me."
"Ay, you trusted in yourself instead of your bible,
and the end is bitterness," said Dell; "you could not
preach to that woman God's mercy  tell her the
story of Him who died for us all."
"I was not born to be a preacher," replied Owen.
It was Dell's turn to pay no heed to a remark that
might be considered personal. He was too excited
and too full of his subject to stop just then, and resent
it or remonstrate.
"All your talk was of the world, and she was
hardened in it  there was nothing therein that could
tempt her. Man, will you never believe there is a bet-
ter, higher world than this sordid one?"
"In the last I have a living to ght for," said
Owen, coolly.
"Ah, you have hardened again," replied Dell -
"yesterday I had hopes of you; to-day I despair. You
will be ever a man to whom a trouble is an insult, not
a reproof."
"All I do turns against me."
"And ever will."
"Dell, you don't want to part bad friends with
me?" said Owen  "I can't think that."
"God forbid, my lad."
"Then let us drop this vexatious talk  I'm in
no mood to argue  I have been deceived by an un-
grateful woman, and my heart is wrung. Will you
hear my plans concerning little Mary?"
## p. 19 (#29) ##############################################
owns. 19
"Go on."
Owen detailed them, and Dell listened. The reader
is aware of them, and we avoid vain repetitions. Suf-
ce it to, say that Dell was ready to take any trouble,
any commission on himself which he thought would
make Owen's mind easy whilst he was absent.
"I hope I have not detained you from business,"
said Owen, suddenly becoming aware that business had
begun at the foundry, "time is more valuable with you
than me."
"Not a bit  I'm a free man."
"I don't understand you."
"I left the service ve minutes before I entered
this room."
"This is sudden."
"Events happen suddenly some times  I had a
reason for the step."
"May I ask it?"
"No," said Dell, with a erceness that took Owen
aback.
Owen remaining silent after so positive a denial,
Dell said in his usual rapid manner.
"Cherbury was early, and I tendered my resigna-
tion, which was accepted  what does it matter about
the reason? I'm going to set up in business for my-
self  say that's it."
Owen looked at his watch, and Dell immediately
imitated his example.
"Take one hour to reach the docks, and there's
one more hour left you. Have you packed?"
2*
## p. 20 (#30) ##############################################
20 owns.
"Yes."
"Is that hour a free one?"
"Almost."
"Say quite."
"It is at your service, Dell, in any shape."
"Come with me, then."
He went down-stairs, and Owen taking up his hat
followed him. They closed the street door behind
them and went towards the Kennington Road, emerged
into that broad thoroughfare, and followed as it were
the last night's track of thefallen woman. So closely
yet unintentionally, that they were standing in Glou-
cester Street down which she had turned only a few
hours before.
"What is the meaning of this?" asked Owen with
a frown.
"Don't say till the hour's over that you give her
up  that's not Christian-like or fair. God won't
give you up so easily." '
Owen felt his lip quiver, and his heart smote him.
Dell, who was watching for some sign, brightened at
the e'ect of his words, and passed his arm through his
friend's.
"You have told me you were born about here;
you must know her old haunts, make one turn through
them with me. Call that her last chance, if you will.
It's a poor effort of ours, and will probably end in
nothing  still it is your duty. Will you come?"
"You have my promiseI will go anywhere with
you," was the evasive answer.
## p. 21 (#31) ##############################################
owns. 21
Owen's stubborn spirit would not acknowledge too
muchit was a chance, and he would leave to chance
his actions in that hour. Time enough to resolve if
she crossed their path  for the present the stern
countenance and the steeled nerves. Dell, who under-
stood Owen better than he understood himself, led him
along, and together they threaded the maze of turnings
between Oakley Street and Tower Street  West-
minster Road and Waterloo. It was a strange tour
in that last hour of his stay; a visit that he had never
bargained for, to all the foul home-spots from which he
had arisen. The streets were more narrow and dark
than in his youth, and in the courts and alleys down
which they walked it seemed as if all honesty of pur-
pose and all moral strength to combat the Hydra-
headed Crime would ever be inevitably stied. Men,
whose faces were akin to those which had glowered at
him in his boyhood, regarded Owen and Dell with
evident suspicion; women like his mother watched them
screamed and blasphemed after them  a train of
dirty urchins, from four years upwards  reex of
himself in the past days  followed them till they
were tired, and then ung stones at them.
"If I ever live to return a rich man," said Owen,
"I will have a refuge for the destitute near this
place."
"It needs it," was the reply.
It was a solitary walk that Dell had taken our
hero  every street had its lesson, spoke to him of
the past; of his own life, which, but for one more
## p. 22 (#32) ##############################################
22 owns.
patient than he, might have been darker than his
mother's. Had he met her in that hour he would
have essayed again the task of turning her, would have
taken her with him to Australia, and tried other, better
methods of working her regeneration; he would have
done all this, despite his assertion that it was well she
had escaped them, when they were slowly, wearily
making their way towards Kennington once more.
"It's a biting speech, but it's only from an unruly
tongue," said Dell in answer.
"Think so, if you will."
"I wonder what sort of animal you'll turn out in
six years, now?" was Dell's next remark.
"Can't you guess?"
"Ah! you're a riddle!  there's no regulating your
actions by rule."
"What sort of a man does the world make of one
who sets forth to encounter hardships, and ght the
stout battle with no friends to back him  one who is
resolved to get on, and will devote his whole soul to
money-making, to the accumulation of that wealth for
which the world will honour him, however vile be his
antecedents? What sort of man?"
"A thundering disagreeable one," growled Dell,
who hated Owen's acrid vein, and was never more out
of temper than when he indulged in it.
"I shall come back a kind of young Cherbury
a man of the world, hard and cold, and uncharitable."
"Cherbury's neither one nor the other  don't
speak of him."
## p. 23 (#33) ##############################################
owns. 23
"He's no friend of mine," said Owen, "pass
him by."
"And you aim at turning up hard and cold, and
uncharitable; and talk of it as if such a character
would be creditable to any man."
"I don't want any feelings  they're in the way."
"You'll come back an ass if you don't look out.
A man who wants to be a model character always falls
back into the spoony. You're morbid, and it's a com-
plaint that a good sea sickness may cure. I hope you'll
be as sick as a dog! Romantic young men in your
mood, would ape one of Byron's heroes  practical men
would endeavour to become a machine."
"Do you think I shall get on?L'
"Well, yes. You're the right stuff  you've seen
life, and can work hard. When brain work's unpro-
table you've two mutton sts of your own. Is this
your cab?"
"I ordered it at eleven."
"And it's ten minutes past  come on," said Dell.
"Begin methodically, Owen. I was never ten minutes
out in my life."
Owen's boxes were on the cab, and Owen and Dell
were soon afterwards being rattled towards the Docks.
Presently they were in the Docks  off which lay the
outward-bound ship. A boat took them and the boxes
on board, where the captain politely reminded Owen
that he had given him more time than any other pas-
senger, that the ship left at four, and no strangers
that day were admitted on any account  they would
## p. 24 (#34) ##############################################
24 owns.
be only in the way, and get hurt in the confusion na-
tural to a ship on the eve of departure.
"Then I'll bid you good-bye now," said Dell, wist-
fully regarding him. "
"Good-bye, old friend  best of friends  true
father."
They wrung each other's hands heartily; but it was
not the iron grip of either that brought the tears to
the eyes.
"I could preach to you now, much as you hate it,"
said Dell, with an unnatural hoarse laugh. "It's a
parting like this that will bring the sentiment out of a
man, if he has any. But I won't preach!"
"You'll give me God speed though?"
"Ay, and God bless you, my boy," ejaculated
Dell.
They had parted hands, and Dell, who was turning
away, veered precipitately back again.
"Yes, I will preach  just for a moment. And I
won't take it back again, and break' the promise I
made my own niece. Here!"
From the depths of his breast pocket he brought
forth a small gilt-edged bible, which he thrust into
Owen's hands.
"It's a present from Ruth," said be; "but I don't
want you  she don't  to value it for the giver's
sake. Keep it  treasure it for it's own. There is
no truer friend, kinder adviser, better comforter, than
that can be. Turn to it in your trouble, Owen, like a
man and a Christian. Don't set it aside now, going
## p. 25 (#35) ##############################################
owns. 25
the long journey on sea and by land, from the perils
of which many thousands will pray for you to-morrow
none more heartily than I, lad. Do think of it a
little more, and 'let God get the better of that proud
spirit of yours. It adds to my unhappiness at parting
to see it mastering you."
"You are the best of men," murmured Owen. "I
shall ever be unworthy of your friendship. Remember
whence I sprung."
"See what it says there about that," pointing to
the bible, "it's my answer, Owen."
They were Dell's last words to him as he descended
the ship's side into the boat. And Dell's last look was
wistful, urgent, and was before him all that long
voyage. He felt he was close to Dell's heart, and that
he really was unworthy of himof his great affection
and solicitude.
All that long voyage he thought much of him; he
kept the foreground with Mary and Ruth; the young
ward and the dreamy rst love, that to a certain ex-
tent had helped to change him. In the foreground with
them were his thoughts of the new life, and of the
energy that was to carry him on successfully, but never
the bible, John Dell's present as much as his niece's.
Once or twice he had made a listless e'ort  for John
Dell's sake, not his own  but his heart was strong
and self-sufcient, and his interest soon agged, and
further and further into the background of his thoughts
went the words which, with God's help, would have
moulded his character anew. He had only himself to
## p. 26 (#36) ##############################################
26 owns.
think of just then, and he did not care to pray or read
bibles on his own account. If his mother had been
with him, gradually softening in character and be-
coming more of a true woman and mother, he might
have seen God's mercy evident, and been altered
thereby!
It was the silent revenge on his mother's defalca-
tion, and he revenged it on himself! And so, with his
heart a strange compound of atoms  full of life,
energy, ingratitude, stubbornness, pride, and a hundred
other ingredients  the waif was oated away to new
lands.
END 01:' BOOK THE FOURTH.
## p. 27 (#37) ##############################################
BOOK THE FIFTH.
RECORDS MANY CHANGES.
## p. 28 (#38) ##############################################
## p. 29 (#39) ##############################################
CHAPTER I.
One Step Backward.
WE have no intention of taking our readers to the
Antipodes. If our hero choose to wander away to
distant regions it is not our province to follow him,
and it may be a matter of doubt if the reader would
follow us. For our own part, speaking for the nonee
, as a reader of novels  whether object-novels, object-
less or objectionable we are not compelled to assert 
we have a rooted antipathy to travelling afar with the
hero; we have our suspicions that his appearance on a
foreign soil is a snare and a blind, a check to a
novelist's collapse. Once or twice we have found our
suspicions misplaced; more than once or twice we have
been unfortunate enough to see them veried. We
object honestly to foreign lands in English novels 
a crowd of foreign characters and incidents shot down
in the middle of a book we just think we are getting
comfortably into. Objecting to these innovations as a
reader, as a writer we will be consistent, and leave
Owen to his fate. We have not room for his life and
adventures beyond the scene wherein this story is laid,
and we shut our hearts against the ghost of a new
character at this stage of our journey. Owen will be
amongst us again by and bye, and business of import-
ance with those he has left behind will occupy us till
## p. 30 (#40) ##############################################
30 owns.
his return. His absence after all, is somewhat con-
venient at this juncture; it affords us time to look a
little deeper into the inner machinery regulating the
life and conduct of Arthur Glindon. The absence
of one suggests a little attention to the other, perhaps
a little inquiry into the nature of that opposing ele-
ment between the young men, and in which both were
inclined to believe.
It is as well to state here that Glindon had no
better opinion of Owen than Owen had of him, and
that both were far from good judges. The opposing
element was a medium they saw through, and a nice
distorted likeness it made of them both. The element
was rivalry and jealousy; both were clever and shrewd
young men, and both quick enough to see that they
were in love with the same woman  a discovery
that did not tend to induce any entente cordiale between
them. Certainly Glindon had come out in the darkest
colours, for Glindon was really less of a hero than
Owen. He was a more jealous man, and had several
objectionable points of character which Owen possessed
not. We have already had occasion to note that he
was a bad temper  let us see how that dominant,
jealous spirit behaved itself after Owen's departure.
To begin with. It was restless that night of
Owen's farewells, even before Owen and Ruth had had
a long conversation together in 92's garden. It had
spoiled Glindon's temper, and rendered him sulky and
ridiculous. The young surgeon was a man who enter-
tained a sincere affection for Ruth, and an abhorrence
## p. 31 (#41) ##############################################
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of Owen, his rival  and it was not pleasant on his
part to witness so great an interest in Owen's welfare
evinced by Ruth Dell, notwithstanding our hero sailed
for Australia the following day.
Escorting Ruth from Ansted schoolhouse that
evening, the bad side of his character had showed
itself too much, and startled her. He was a man who
always had some difficulty in disguising his feelings,
and that evening they betrayed him.
It was the rst sign given of his jealous, almost
distrustful, nature. There had been no occasion for
its appearance before, or Ruth might have not enter-
tained for so long a period a belief in the thorough
excellence of her lover. She had found out that he
was a little hasty and irritable  never with her, but
with the business of the school and the authorities
thereof  but it was a surprise, even a shock, to nd
him quite an ordinary mortal. Glindon, up to that
time, had pretty well disguised his dislike to Owen
from Ruth. He had listened to her anecdotes con-
cerning him  what a persevering, earnest young man
he was, and how attached to her uncle, who in his
turn looked upon him as a son; and though Ruth had
detected an indifference to the subject, she had been a
witness to no jealousy. She had known, too, that
neither Glindon nor Owen understood each other; and
the knowledge paining her, she spoke 'to each of the
other's good attributes, in the hope of awakening an
interest, and making friends of them. And she failed
in her best motives, although ignorant how utterly, till
## p. 32 (#42) ##############################################
32 owns.
the mask dropped suddenly from the face of her future
husband, in the hour before Owen bade her farewell.
"I am going to have a long talk with Owen this
evening," she had said, as they were proceeding down
the lane together  "going to try all my persuasive
powers on an old friend."
It was a very husky "indeed" that responded to
this remark. I
"My uncle has been for a long while disturbed
about him; he tells me," continued Ruth, after a rapid
glance at her lover's grave countenance  "that he is
anxious concerning his moral welfare. He thinks
Owen is too much for the world, and in his desire to
succeed therein will utterly forget greater and better
things. Have you observed any change in him?"
"Oh, yes!" said Glindon  "more abrupt in his
demeanour, and less wanting in common civility to me
treating me as an enemy rather than a friend."
"Have you made any attempt to render him your
friend?"
"No!  why should I? Our tastes and wishes
are dissimilar  our positions in life are very dif-
ferent."
"So are mine and yours," said Ruth.
"No, they are not, Ruth," quickly returned Glin-
don; "we are both servants of one institution, are we
not?"
"Have we both risen from small beginnings?"
"My beginnings were small enough, at all events,"
he said; "in speaking of your friend, Ruth, I did not
## p. 33 (#43) ##############################################
owns. 33
intend to take any credit to myself for my birth or
my antecedents. I contrasted our present positions 
perhaps they are not so far apart as I fancied at rst.
Possibly he will take the lead of me  there is more
energy and concentration in the man. There, is not
that a fair amende honorable?"
"Yes," said Ruth doubtfully, for she liked not the
tone of his voice  there was something strange
in it.
"Then let me change the subject, Ruth. Frankly,
it is a subject distasteful to me."
"But I wish to dwell upon it for a short while
longer," said Ruth rmly. "Owen is a valued friend
of mine  I have always looked upon him as my
brother, and it is more than ,a little painful to know
that our best friends are not appreciated."
"Does it pain you much to know, Ruth, that Mr.
Owen does not appreciate me?"
"Very much," was the frank answer.
"Will it pain you more to learn that I am jealous
of your interest in this young man," said Glindon
hastily, and with a heightened colour; "that knowing
his dislike to me, and mine to him  I disguise it
not  you set him ever before me as a hero?"
"I do nothing of the kind," said Ruth, warmly;
"you forget yourself, Arthur  you are very strange
and uncharitable this evening."
"I cannot see that Mr. Owen requires so much at-
tention, he is his own master, and has a right to
follow his own course. He is a man of ability and
Owen:  A Waif. 11. 3
## p. 34 (#44) ##############################################
34 own->1.
energy, I am told  I believe, or he would have
never worked his way from a costermonger's barrow to
a clerkship  and men of that kind will either not
thank you for your interest in their future, or believe
it prompted by a more tender feeling."
"Men of OWen's stamp will not think that."
"I am doubtful of the point."
"It has been my uncle's wish that I should say
one or two words to Owen; and pardon me, Mr.
Glindon, but I shall obey him."
"Oh! I have no intention of setting my wishes
above that of your uncle's, or considering them any-
thing but secondary to his," said Glindon, very erect
with his head, and very straight in his back.
Ruth Dell's lip quivered, and her eyes swam with
tears, but Glindon, looking straight ahead, did not
observe the change in her. It had been a pleasant,
equable courtship up to that period  perhaps a little
too quiet and stately a piece of love-making, as love-
making goes now-a-days ~ and she had been very
happy, and thought Glindon so likewise. And now
here was a sudden change over the brightness of the
landscape, and the rst cloud, no bigger than a hand,
rising athwart the blue sky. She had seen a few
faults in Arthur Glindon, as he perhaps had in her,
but here had arisen one which might shipwreck a life's
happiness. She had been to a certain extent deceived
in Glindon after all  she did not know that a woman
is ever deceived in the character of the man she loves,
for love helps to blind and super-exalt. She only
## p. 35 (#45) ##############################################
owns. 35
thought it was strange after so long and intimate a
relation between them; but strange things will oat to
the surface to startle one. And in life there is great
diversity of character  we may tell a man at a
glance; we may know one for a score of years and be
deceived in him then.
Ruth and Glindon proceeded silently the rest of
the way together; Ruth wished to reect upon every
word that Glindon had spoken, and that gentleman,
solacing himself with the idea that he had made an
impression, left it to work after its own fashion. And
if Ruth were deceived in him, Arthur Glindon was still
more blind to the true character of her he had been
fortunate enough to win. He had ever seen her quiet,
timid and gentle  a true, modest woman, that any
man would be proud to possess for a wife and be sure
of her value; but he was not aware of her )truG
character, and how closely it resembled John Dell's.
He had had no occasion to be a witness thereto, and
had therefore very greatly mistaken her. If he had
been a little hard that particular evening, why it would
prove to Ruth that he had a strong will of his own,
and she might as well learn to bow to it at once, and
consider him the ruling agent. He had no doubt that
Ruth would be almost reserved to Owen after that
little expression of his opinion; and if things turned
out dull that evening, still it was all for the best, and
he was content.
He was not contented  on the contrary, very
urprised and indignant  to see Ruth lead Owen
3*
## p. 36 (#46) ##############################################
36 owns.
aside, and begin that persuasive, almost energetic ap-
peal to the better feelings of our hero, which we know
almost attained its object, and which, but for an after-
disappointment, that rendered him hard and un-
charitable, might have effected lasting good. Glindon
was mortied at the result of his lecturing  he be-
lieved that Ruth intentionally prolonged the interview
to annoy him  he betrayed so much irritability under
the ordeal, that John Dell read a great deal of his
feelings, and closed the long conference as described
in a previous chapter. It was Ruth's deance to the
assertion of his will, and he was bafed and mad with
jealousy.
And poor Ruth, whom Owen had noticed as dis-
turbed in thought when they met, had had no intention
of defying Glindon  on the contrary, had framed to
herself a little scheme to bring Glindon and Owen into
closer contiguity that evening; but becoming engrossed
with her subject, and carried away by the hope of
working a change, had grown enthusiastic and forgetful
of time and place. And nally, Owen, by his last
words to Glindon, had increased that gentleman's
vexatious feelings; and 1o! from set-fair to stormy, the
hand swerved in an instant.
The storm did not break, however, till Ruth had
bidden her uncle and father good night, and, escorted
by Glindon, was two or three hundred yards on her
way to the school-house. Then a glance at the troubled
face of her lover warned her of the course of her own
love taking a turn. From that night, in that hour,
## p. 37 (#47) ##############################################
owrm. 37
suddenly a turn. From the peace and perfect faith in
her future and in him, to that lower level common to
us all  to the sorrows, and 'anxieties, and fears which
love must be subject to, as well as everything else in
the world.
"What is the matter?" was her rst quiet and na-
tural inquiry.
"The matter is, that I have been deceived."
"By whom, Arthur?"
"By you."
He was in no mood to soften his words  the
curtain had dropped between him and his master-
passion  and jealousy has no gentleness, justice, or
fair consideration. .
Ruth's hand left his arm as though it had been
stung like her heart  she accused of deceit, and by
him!
"I have been deceived in my estimation of you,
he went on; "I fancied if you loved me you would
have had respect for my wishes. I believed I might
rely upon you to study my feelings a little."
"In how have I offended?" asked Ruth, quietly
regarding him. Her look was steady, though her heart
was aching with her new surprise. He had so well
disguised his passion, that the sudden change had for
the moment rendered him a new being by her side 
surely it was not to this man that she had pledged her
faith, and evinced the wealth of her affection?
"In defying me. In holding a secret conversation
H
## p. 38 (#48) ##############################################
38 owns.
for two hours or more with that young, sulky brute,
in whom your sz'str>rly interest is so strong."
Ruth gasped for breath at this charge. It must be
all a dream, not waking life, and she would nd her-
self in the school-house presently; at her desk, and the
children's lessons heaped before her, waiting critical
examination.
"I don't know whether it is worth while to ex-
plain," said Ruth, after a little struggle with her com-
posure; "I will give you an explanation if you wish
it, sir."
"I wish it, Miss Dell."
Terrible side-thrusts these "sirs," and "misses,"
and "madams," after the "Arthur's," and "Ruth's,"
and "dears," of a few hours since; - your last little
ti" with that beloved being of your choice, O reader!
will give you an idea of their force and signicance.
"It is a repetition, sir, and unnecessary, but heat
of passion may have rendered things confused."
"I am quite calm  I was never more calm in
my life, Miss Dell," and his teeth went half through
his lower lip as he spoke, and the pain made him
swear, sotto voce.
"My brother "
"Your brother!" he interrupted, angrily.
"My friend Mr. Owen," corrected Ruth, "was in
trouble. In that great trouble, when the heart is nar-
rowed to the truths of life, and one is growing a sceptic
and a visionary. I had fancied it in my power to say
the right word that might move him; my uncle thought
## p. 39 (#49) ##############################################
owns. 39
so too, and I attempted it. I think I have succeeded
and, thinking so, I have no cause to regret the course
adopted, or even the anger of Mr. Glindon."
"It was a word that took two hours to say," he
muttered.
"There was much to speak of  he was going
away for many years, and about to leave a little
ward to the care of me and my uncle. There was a
story of his own to relate, too; of his own efforts to
rescue a poor sujering sinner from the darkness -
such a story as might have warmed your heart, even
to the man you bear so strange an antipathy to."
"It is more than an antipathy," cried Glindon; "I
hate him  I should be glad to lear n that the ship he
sailed in had gone to the bottom! I am tired of his
praises, and, if they could be ended thus, I should not
sorrow for his fate."
"Mr. Glindon, I have been deceived in you," said
Ruth, and despite all her e'orts there was no rendering
her voice rm; "you have shown an ungenerous spirit
- you have betrayed a passion hardly reconcilable with
the actions of a sane man - you have wished evil to
one of my best friends, and expressed a want of con-
dence in me  it is better that we part at once."
"Very well, madam  if an opinion cannot be
calmly expressed without your taking dire offence at
it, perhaps it is better," said Glindon, hurriedly. He
hardly knew what he was saying  Ruth Dell had
resented his words so quickly and effectually, that he
had no time for consideration - perhaps it was better,
## p. 40 (#50) ##############################################
40 owns.
as he had said. He did not know, just then; his head
spun round so, and his blood was so far in advance of
fever-heat.
"Better to nd that we are not t for each other
now, than at a later day," continued Ruth, "to acknow-
ledge at this time that our engagement was a mistake
and a folly."
"You are strangely anxious to be free," said Glin-
don; "so sudden a wish to break asunder the ties that
have been formed between us suggests a suspicion "
"I am above suspicion, sir," said Ruth proudly.
"Your pardon  possibly I am hasty  I  I 
Ruth, do I understand you," he asked, in a hoarse
voice, "that you really think the better plan for both
is to think no more of each other? After all this while
you think so?"
"I do."
"Good-bye, then " and with an impetuous swirl
of his heel he faced about, and went rapidly down-hill,
leaving Ruth alone at the school-house gates. Could
it be really the waking life, thought Ruth, when she
was in her own room, pressing her hands to her aching
temples; had the one romance of her life ended, and
was the old prosaic existence to come back again?
Had Glindon really uttered all those cruel words, and
betrayed the passion of a child, and been uncharitable,
and vindictive, and wrong? What an end to all the
fancy-picturing of only a few days ago, and yet how
much better for her! Both had acknowledged it to be
so much better; and yet how strange it was to know
## p. 41 (#51) ##############################################
ownrr. 41
oneself free, and yet feel weighed down by iron chains.
Was it more easy to talk of separation than realize the
idea of it? She had not engaged herself hastily to
Glindon, and a hasty severance from his love seemed
strange and unnatural. Well, it would take time to
become reconciled to the shockbut she was a strong
woman, and her mind had been well regulated, and
was capable of training itself to anything. After that
time all would be well with her  every day would
make her silent, undiscoverable sorrow more bearable.
She was sure of that.
She was right in her convictions, for her thoughts -
were not alone of this world; loving and doing her
duty in it, still she had never swerved from those
higher duties taught her years ago by her uncle, and
her faith was on the rock that abideth. With Owen, a
great loss, a great worldly sorrow was a blank to his
life-time; he acknowledged no power beyond his own
to give him ease. A wanderer on the desert strewn
with his dead hopes, he passed on, famished and weary,
caring not for the oasis in the waste, or the well-spring
that might give him new strength. Man bereaved,
seeks the world and' its action  true woman, her bible
and God.
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42 owns.
CHAPTER II.
A Year's Record.
ARTHUR GLINDON, after parting with Ruth, went
off at a railroad pace, as excited, ungovernable, and
dead to passing events as any inmate of Bethlehem
hospital. The barriers that restrained his evil tempers
had given way, and the ood of angry emotions swept
him along unresisting. He strode on like one possessed;
he cut at the heads of the nettles in the shadowy
hedge-rows with his walking-cane; he stopped to stamp
his foot angrily on the ground more than once, -and
to ejaculate a hundred anathemas on Owen, and, when
tired with Owen, on himself. He crossed a stile and
made for some elds, the path through which was a
near cut to Oaklands, and coming close to the house
of his friends the Cherburys, he turned back again,
and went along eld after eld once more till his feet
were wet with the dew.
The church clock was striking two when he was at
his apartments in Ansted town  it had taken ve
good hours to walk the passion out of him. "When
the devil gets the mastery of me, I try to walk him
down," he had once told his friends; and whether the
devil were underfoot or not, there was my gentleman,
tired and exhausted, letting himself in with a latch-
key when all the honest folk of Ansted were slumbering
in their beds.
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He did not think of his own bed that night, but
lighted the candle-lamp and sat himself down on the
sofa, and crossed his arms like a stage villain. He
was restless, and could not sit there, however - and
in a moment or two he was on his feet once more and
pacing the room, till the thought occurred to him that
his landlady slept in the parlour underneath, now her
house was full.
He took a chair, and, for the rst time, noticed a
letter that had been awaiting his return since last post;
he opened it, read it, passed his hands through his
hair, and stared at it again  half in surprise and
half vacantly.
"At this very time," he muttered, more than once,
and then folded the letter and put it in his pocket with
a erce downward thrust, as if even his pocket had
offended him. From the chair to the sofa he shifted
his position once more, and before the clock had struck
three he was again in the chair, with all the devil out
of him at last, and something like contrition ghting
its way uppermost. He had been a fool and a madman,
and thrown away his best chance in life  severed
himself, by his own words, from the only woman who
would ever have made him happy. Since his engage-
ment he had been a new man, less dissatised with
everything and everybody, and feeling more steady,
and more like a rational human being. He had not
been so ready to take offence, or stand upon the order
of his dignity since his knowledge of Ruth  gradually,
almost imperceptibly, his love for her had worked a
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marvellous change in his character. Her patience and
gentleness had exercised its inuence over him  to
how great an extent he did not know till that moment,
now the evil t was burnt out, and the result of it all
was staring him in the face.
It had been always so with him  it would be
thus till there was an end of him now  {he could see
the end beyond there very plainly! In old times he
had striven for honours and fame, and, gaining them,
had thought them of little worth till Ruth had taught
him better  it would be the same again, now he had
lost the only prize he had ever cared to treasure. His
passion had mastered him, and carried him away from
her -  there was no sailing up the stream that had
borne him so ruthlessly away. He did not know till
then how much he had loved her  in the quiet days
preceding the disruption he knew that he was happy.
There was no consolation in the thought, now, that it
was better they had parted  that from natures so
utterly dissimilar must arise trouble and anxiety; the
fact that he had lost her became every instant harder
to bear. '
"You were not equals," hissed his pride; but his
pride had ever tormented, never comforted him, and he
would take no consolation to himself from that source.
"She would have honoured any station," said his
common-sense; "She would have altered my whole
life," cried despair.
Change was the one thing absolutely necessary for
him, and the letter he had received offered it,' He must
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begone  he could not enter the school day after day,
and meet her looks, and feel he was a stranger to her
that all thought and sympathy between them were
entirely cut o'. He was impulsive, and the great
thought now was to put some hundreds of miles be-
tween him and his old love. He would begin imme-
diately  vanish away like a dream-gure.
Glindon opened his desk, and began at once to
write his resignation as consulting-surgeon to Ansted
school. The board met on the morrow, Saturday, and
no time would be lost. He had received another ap-
pointment, better and more lucrative; and he trusted
'the committee would not ofer an objection to his im-
mediate withdrawal. He thought he would write to
John Dell after he had signed and sealed his rst
letter, expressing his regret at the dissolution of the
engagement, his love for his niece, and so forth; but
he began one letter after another, and tore them in
pieces after the rst few lines, and scattered the frag-
ments on the carpet. He gave up that attempt  he
was in no proper frame of mind for composition  so
he tore up his nal sheet of paper, and contributed his
last quota to the little snow-storm which had already
fallen around him.
"So we are to lose Mr. Glindon's services, Miss
Dell," said the secretary to Ruth the following day.
"He is very anxious to depart, and has already named
a successor, whom he.thinks will suit us. But the
committee will not be treated quite so cavalierly, and
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he must serve another month with us, however objec-
tionable his post-may have suddenly become."
Ruth heard all with a pale face, and a heart that
was unsteady in its movements, albeit she returned a
few general remarks, and went to her desk, and to the
weary lessons, which she had to endure between that
time and one o'clock. She had not altered her mind,
like Arthur Glindon; she was still convinced how much
better it was that it had all ended thus, and how un-
suitable a husband he would have been for her; but
she was troubled nevertheless. She had not given her
best affections away lightly, and they were centred in
him still  she was sure of it even when the know-
ledge that they were irrevocably parted seemed more
rmly established each day. She could wish him in
her heart every happiness, and a better wife than she
should have made him  she prayed for both when
Glindon thought she had wholly forgotten him.
The committee of Ansted school, knowing nothing
of this love affair, held rm by their bond, and kept
Mr. Glindon to his month's engagement. Consulting-
surgeon to an hospital in Scotland was a matter of no
account to them  the Scotch patients must wait for
their clever doctor, and the doctor for his more hand-
some salary. It was the way of an ungrateful world
to forget on the instant past benets, when something
more substantial turned up in its favour.
Glindon, who had become surgeon to Ansted school
solely on Ruth's account, chafed at the delay the rst
week; but was after that period more reconciled to his
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position, even sorry that the days were numbered when
he should see Ruth no longer. It was a curious sensa-
tion to meet her every day, and she so cold and busi-
ness-like; it aggravated him at times, and brought on
his bad tempers or his morbid ts, both of which he
kept to himself, like a wise man.
Ruth had apprised her father and uncle of the
change, and 92 had said, "Lord bless me!" and asked
no questions; whilst John Dell had reappeared at An-
sted to ask a hundred. Ruth simply told him it had
been a quarrel, and both had expressed a wish to
separate. She begged him not to press her to relate
the details of all that parting  her wound was un-
healed, and she owned the subject distressed her.
Dell respected her wishes, and went back to the
new business he was planning,  of which more anon.
He was sorry for Ruth, for Glindon also. He loved
the one and had some respect for the other, as a clever
and rising young man  it was odd that a break had
occurred so soon after Owen's departure for Australia.
He thought, perhaps, Owen was connected with it 
that the dark looks of Glindon that night had been
followed by words which the spirit of his niece was
not likely to brook.
"So serve him right after all, if he doubts her,"
said' John Dell; "she isn't a romantic girl, and losing
a surgeon fellow won't hurt her much."
Such was Dell's opinion, and then he dismissed the
subject  love affairs didn't trouble him a great
deal now.
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But if losing the surgeon did not hurt John Dell's
niece, it made her thoughtful beyond her years, and
robbed some of the light from her countenance. Her
school duties became simply a wearisome round of
teaching for a while, and the interest she had taken in
them all her life seemed suddenly lost. She would
get over it after a while, but the shock to her con-
dence and love was recent yet, and she was a girl
who had never learnt the art of disguisement. Mrs.
Cherbury, the only lady in the secret, was the rst to
detect a di'erence in Ruth, and the rst lady to guess
at the cause. '
"My dear, you have had a lovers' quarrel with Mr.
Glindon," said she, one afternoon, between school
hours, in Ruth's neat parlour, looking on the country
road; "I've been sure of it the last week. Now, do
own it, my dear."
"We have expressed some little difference of
opinion, and discovered that our ideas on things right
and wrong are widely dissimilar,  and so, like two
rational beings, we have made up our minds to part."
"Part, my dear child!" exclaimed the loquacious
dame  "oh, that's the nonsense all sweethearts talk
when there's a di'erence. Poor Cherbury and I made
up our minds to part half-a-dozen times before we took
each other for better for worse  it's all fussy stud,
my dear."
"I am sorry you don't believe me."
"I,wouldn't believe you on any accountI should
be too grieved, my dear Miss Ruth, for you're just the
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young lady that suits me, and I want to see you com-
fortably settled. You were brought into the world to
be comfortably settled  a handsome clever husband
was the blessing intended, dependupon it."
Ruth smiled.
"I don't think it will be Mr. Glindon, then."
"But won't you tell me the story?" implored Mrs.
Cherbury, passing one fat hand over the other in a
dgety manner; "I am so fond of a love-story, even
when it goes all wrong  and you won't disappoint
me? If you won't tell me I shall ask Mr. Glindon."
"Pray, don't do that," said the alarmed Ruth 
"he will think that I havebeen speaking of him .
grieving, perhaps, for "
"Pray, don't be fussy, my dear," said the old lady;
"do you think I would mention you to Mr. Glindon if
you did not wish it? It's not like me I'm a woman
of few words, and keep my own counsel. And, oh! I
am so sorry the match has been broken off  if it be
really broken, what am I to do? Isaac's left o' giving
dinner-parties, and talks sometimes of selling the business
and going abroad  and if he take me with him, why
you will never nd a husband for yourself, you're such
a poor quiet thing."
Ruth could not forbear a second smile, there was
something so genuine in the old lady's manner, and in
the midst of much useless verbiage there lurked always
the feeling heart of the woman. And one woman can
confess to another so much of a love-secret without de-
scending from the sublime to the ridiculous. Ruth did?
Owen:  A Waif. II. 4:
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not feel half so much reluctance to conceal her story
from this honest dame, as from her uncle John. A
little more pressing on the part of the lady brought
forth the story, to which Mrs. Cherbury listened with
rapt attention, and scarcely breathed till the conclusion
of the narrative. Since she was a little girl in pina-
fores, and compelled by her governess to sit painfully
mute, she could not remember her tongue remaining so
long motionless. She made up for it at the conclusion,
however, and expressed her opinion on the matter at
some length. Our version is an abridgement, which
the indulgent reader will possibly excuse.
"Well, to think that that's all," with her eyes
distended with astonishment, "that there's no young
woman in the case, no irtation on anybody's side, -
only a little warm discussion, such as you and I might
have had, if you were a bad temper, and couldn't put
up 'with my ways. Fifty times poor Cherbury and I
were jealous of this young man and that young woman,
and said, oh! ever so many more cruel things, and
there we were hankering after each other just the same
before the end of the week. It can't be thoroughly
broken off ?"
"Thoroughly," repeated Ruth.
"Dear me, it's a very uncommon case, and I had
no idea Mr. Glindon and you were such a fussy couple.
I suppose it's the ne feelings of the two make all
the difference."
Such a remark, emanating from another person,
would have sounded like polite sarcasm; but there had
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been never a mite of acerbity in the good lady's dis-
position. She had risen from a low sphere  had not
been very elaborately nished off by governesses and
foreign masters  and had quite a respect for ne
feelings if they were not allied to "fussy" ones. More-
over, she was really grieved at the separation between
Glindon and Ruth. Match-making was her forte, and
this was a young, good-looking couple, whose faith in
each other should have lasted all their lives. If, before
the gulf widened between them, she could bring them
together again, what a triumph for her. She was sure
Ruth was unhappy; and Mr. Glindon, who came once
to Oaklands, and whom, more than once, she met in
the green lanes  purposely, perhaps, after the rela-
tion with which Ruth had favoured her  looked like
the ghost of himself, looking about for its own cor-
poreality.
"You must come and spend a quiet evening with
me  you are moping yourself," said Mrs. Cherbury
to Ruth, a few evenings before Glindon's month ex-
pired. "You never have a change now, and it's so
necessary, my dear."
"But I am very well, thank you, Mrs. Cherbury!"
"But I know better. Haven't you a pain here?"
and the old lady laid her hand on her capacious chest
or stomach, for it was difcult to say where the one
ended and the other began.
"Not any pain at all, I assure you," said Ruth,
laughing.
4*
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"Doctors tell us there's nothing like change, and I
hope you will come."
Ruth felt inclined to ask if any company were ex-
pected, but she had condence in Mrs. Cherbury not
exposing her to the embarrassment of a meeting with
one mutual friend at least. It was not likely that she
would so far help to pain her,  she who knew so
well how everything was at an end between her and
Arthur Glindon.
But we are all the victims of misplaced condence
in our turn, and Ruth, dreaming not of a snare, was
betrayed into visiting Oaklands, where Mr. Glindon and
Mr. Isaac Cherbury were spending the evening together,
for the sake of a change also.
"Dear me, what a singular coincidence now!" said
this old hypocrite,' inging up both hands with affected
consternation. " My dear Ruth, you will never believe
but what I planned all this?"
And Ruth never did believe anything to the con-
trary. She could see at a glance that Arthur Glindon
was equally as surprised as herself; that he turned
white and red, and frowned at Mrs. Cherbury, as if
with the hope that his glances would shrivel her to
nothingness. Mrs. Cherbury had meant well; but it
was a clumsy eontrivance to bring the "young people"
together. She thought so herself the instant Ruth had
entered the drawing-room, and paused at the door,
looking in with a troubled expression of countenance.
She had meant 'well, but it was a terrible muddle 
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she could see that now, although a "change" had been
a good excuse to lure Ruth, and Isaac's head a fair
apology to bring Gliudon to Oaklands.
She might have imagined that Mr. Glindon would
see the delicacy of his position, and riseimrnediately
to take his leave in a quiet, easy, off-hand manner that
was natural, and put no one out. The rst shock over
he was himself again, save and except a triing at-
tempt of his blood to rush to his head, and keep him
a bright vermillion; and after a few general remarks
to Ruth, such as he had bestowed on sudden meetings
with her in the schoolhouse, he shook Cherbury by the
hand and departed. '
Ruth Dell did not remain above an hour at Oak-
lands; her rst impulse had been to resent Mrs. Cher-
bury's manoeuvres, for she had never felt more inclined
to indulge in the haughty and indignant vein, but that
well-meaning lady was so truly sorry for her own weak
plans, and sat so confused and penitent for past errors,
that the heart of Miss Dell was not hard enough to
resent the indignity.
She was glad to be on her way back to the school-
house at an early hour, however; she was poor com-
pany that night, and "the change" had done her more
harm than good. It was daylight yet when she was
on her way home on foot  the o'er of Mrs. Cher-
bury's carriage having been declined, for more reasons
than one. A warm evening for an autumn month,
with only a few dead leaves ickering here and there
to the ground  augury of the bright days coming to
a
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an end, and the cruel winter time stealthily on its
march towards her.
Turning the bend of the road before the ascent of
the hill was commenced, Ruth came face to face with
Mr. Glindon.
"Pardon me," he hastened to say, "I did not mean
to alarm you. I have only a few words to say, Miss
Dell."
"Is there necessity for any between us, Mr. Glin-
don?"
"I have been waiting an hour to see you," he said,
speaking in an excited manner; "I have been anxious
to assure you that our meeting at Oaklands this even-
ing was entirely unpremeditated on my part  that
my last thought would have been to insult you by my
presence at that house. You will believe that, Miss
Dell?"
"I have not believed for an instant that you in-
tended to meet me at Oaklands."
"If I have pained you "
"You have not pained me, Mr. Glindon; I have no
complaint to urge against you. Pray allow me to con-
clude this interview."
Ruth drew down her veil with a trembling hand:
she had intended to be very calm and lady-like, but
Glindon's excitement had unnerved her. She did not
know how far he might venture on a strange topic
and she was anxious to be once more alone.
Glindon regarded her wistfully, but allowed her to
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pass him. Then an impulse not to be resisted  he
was ever impulsive  carried him towards her again.
"Miss Dell, I am going away in three days. Be-
fore I go, will you allow me to express my regret at
the angry words, the unjust words, that severed an
engagement on which I had built my hopes of happi-
ness?"
Ruth Dell felt it was necessary to curb all emotion,
to press it down by any weight, at any sacrice just
then. Women are capable of strange metamorphoses;
it was the grave schoolmistress of Ansted that calmly
surveyed him.
"I am obliged by your doing me justice, Mr. Glin-
don. I thank you."
"I am going away a miserable man; will you give
me one hope to keep my path straight, my soul from
collapsing?"
" You are extravagant, Mr. Glindon  more, you
are unmerciful." '
"Why unmerciful?"
"To revive a subject that is ended for ever, and
can but give pain."
"Not ended for ever, Miss Dell," he cried impe-
tuously; "for years if you will  but not for ever!"
"Mr. Glindon, what do you expect from me?"
said Ruth. "What am I to understand by this wild
manner?"
"I am not vain enough to dream of a renewal of
our engagement, Miss Dell," said he; "I have fallen in
your eyes, and a few hasty words will not raise me.
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But will not future efforts, future deeds, lead the way
to some hope?"
"I have lost all condence," said Ruth, scarcely
able to keep back a sigh.
"Then I go away an objectless man. I cast myself
on the world, seeking amidst it forgetfulness or ruin,
and caring not which."
"For shame, sir!  for shame!"
Ruth reproved him, but it was in a softened tone.
She was a woman, not a machine, and he had been
very dear to her once. More, he was a strange man,
and she did not know, could not guess, if he still loved
her, what the end might be of this wildness. Glindon
noticed the change in her tone, and his heart leaped
within him. Here might be hope after all  he had
grievously o'ended her, but she might forgive him in
time. He became eloquent in his defence  he only
begged for one hope in the future.
"Say nothing, promise me nothing, but that you
will remain free for one yearIwill call that a hope,
and live on it." ' '
"I shall never be engaged again, Mr. Glindon,'
said she; "the reality of life has begun with me."
She thought so then, and Glindon took it as his
answer.
"God bless you  I will live to deserve you yet,"
he cried, and turned away, leaving Ruth strangely ex-
cited and perplexed.
Had she really made a promise, given him hope to
7
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-win her by his better conduct in the future  what
did it all mean?
The subject perplexed her long after Glindon's post
in the school-house was lled by a stranger  kept
her brain busy during the long winter, the following
spring and summer. She neither saw nor heard any-
thing of Glindon during that time, but he did not die
out of her thoughts  gradually the last meeting
seemed to soften the recollection of their rst quarrel;
and though she would confess nothing, she wondered
what the end of the year would result in. Early in the
autumn she read in the papers of a surprising cure
effected by Mr. Glindon, of  Hospital, Scotland 
a cure by a new method, that spoke of a clever man's
close application to his profession. And in the autumn
time, when the past wrongs were one year old, when
absence had, perhaps, made the heart grow fond 
who knows?  Glindon re-appeared amidst the Surrey
hills, and calmly and earnestly made the tender of his
hand once more.
He had kept her memory green during one year of
absence - she was still his rst thought  he ex-
pressed unfeigned sorrow for the past, and, after a little
struggle with her feelings, and a little more grave re-
ection, she re-accepted him. So they were lovers
again, and another year's engagement was entered into.
Ruth would not hastily risk her happiness by be-
coming his wife at once. Amidst all the new bright
thoughts that had returned to her, there lurked still a
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latent fear that she had not acted for the best  for
one year more he must wait for her.
Taking counsel of John Dell, he had said, ab-
ruptly,
"What do I know of your sex  what advice can
I give to one who don't know her own mind?"  the
harshest remark that ever escaped her uncle's lips to-
wards her. But he was worried with his business just
then  it was up-hill work; and though he agged
not in the ascent  he never agged  still it tried
his temper at times. Perhaps an old idea had come
back to him since the disruption of his niece's engage-
ment, and now it had ashed away again to the ether,
and was more distant than ever.
So they were lovers again, we repeat, and Mrs.
Cherbury (lid manage pretty well to bring about that
relationship, judging by the result which this chapter
records.
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CHAPTER III.
Mary.
ARTHUR Gmsnos went back to Scotland in a happy
frame of mind; his troubles were over, his rst love
had returned to him. He should never be jealous
again, he thought  the prize he had so nearly lost,
he would now know how to estimate at its fair value.
It was not so comfortable an engagement as the rst;
for they were many miles apart, and he could only
contrive to see her once or twice in the three months
seldom more often. They corresponded more fre-
quently, and bridged over space that way; and if cir-
cumstances ran a little adverse just then, why there
was coming a time when one home would be theirs.
Glindon, in his impetuous manner, had wished to
resign his new post of surgeon at the hospital. It was
bringing him a fair competence  it was a settled
independence, but he was away from her, and he was
sure he could nd something equally as good in Lon-
don. He did not care for it very much  it was not
exactly what he had expected  what did Ruth think
of his throwing it up altogether?
Ruth expressed her thoughts on the subject very
rmly. She was sorry to see the old failing, the old
dissatisfaction, still a prominent feature in his charac-
ter. He was energetic in striving for honours, and the
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honours were little esteemed when attained. It was
ever the far-away prize at which he grasped, and in
the present there was never content. Would it be the
same some day with herself, and had the difculty of
winning her only aroused his desire to conquer her
resolves?
Glindon said "no"  ten thousand times no to
such a thought, and remained at the hospital, a living
testimony to his own power of settling down.
Whilst the lovers wait and are patient, we can
afford to look round and note the progress of other
characters whose lives have been linked with our hero's.
The business of the piece assures us we must not allow
the reader to forget them. " I'
John Dell was trying his fortune his own way,
when the engagement was reneved. Three months
after Owen's departure he had essayed the experiment;
when his niece considered herself once more happy the
business was established, and John Dell in deep water.
All the sunken rocks lying beyond the harbour of his
neat little investment had been cleared by his shrewd-
ness and foresight; and, with health before him, there
was little doubt of the success of his venture. His old
employer, Mr. Cherbury, had begun like him; hundreds
had begun like him since the world began  there is
no secret in money-making, if one be steady and have
a fair amount of brains in his head. Only a fair
amount is necessary; an undue preponderance forces a
man to be ambitions of a name; sets him on out-of-the-
way paths ending abruptly; deceives and ,misleads;
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makes one take credit for being a genius, and renders
everything top-heavy. A genius earns the name more
often than the money  the world, that will not put
a penny in his pocket, will cry out what a clever fellow
he is; and the clever fellow so seldom sticks honestly
to work like a practical man.
John Dell saw his way, and put his shoulder to
the wheel. There was nothing to distract his attention.
Mankind had not attered him. He had never been
in the newspapers (he had once written a letter to the
Times concerning his opinion on Strikes, which letter
an unfeeling editor had not considered worthy of in-
sertion); there were no wife and children to assert a
claim on his time, attention, and money; his undivided
exertions could be turned in any direction; and even
if he failed, there was no one to feel the blow save
himself. Not that Dell intended failure; on the con-
trary, success was the object for which he had 'made
up his mind. But disappointment would not have
broken his spirit, or altered his character one iota.
Riches or poverty would make no, difference in honest
John Dell.
He began in a small way at the old business of
engineering. He rented small premises Southwark way,
and started with a few hands  volunteers from Cher-
bury's works', who would have gone anywhere with
the old foreman, and taken no denial from him. Every-
body worked with a will, and what a deal can be
done in all professions when the will ags not over
the rst up-hill road! The difculties were many, but
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John Dell surmounted them. The premises began to
be enlarged, orders to increase, condence in Dell's
work to become established. It was not an immense
rm at the end of two years  it might never be any- -
thing like that from which he had so suddenly with-
drawn his services; but it required a hundred and fty
hands constantly employed, and where the staff is large,
and work well looked after, the prots ow in like a
blessing on good management.
Amidst the pressure of his new employment, Dell
forgot not to write regularly to Owen, and pretty
regularly in return came back the letters from the
wanderer. He was in Melbourne, and in business for
himself, also, he said; he had no reason to complain
he was sticking hard to his work, and saving
money thereby  if he made not a fortune, he did
not think he should return when the six years were
up vthout a few hundreds in his pocket. He asked
many questions concerning his ward, and was referred
to Ruth for the best information.
Dell had no more neglected Mary Chickney than
he had his letters to Owen; he saw the child regularly,
and settled accounts with Mrs. Cutcheld, whom he
thought a trie too garrulous concerning old Markshire
times, and inquired very closely into the religious in-
struction that Mary was receiving. For he was an old-
fashioned man the reader knows, with the good old-
fashioned belief that there was nothing like the bible
as the base of education; the central and great study,
the apex to all the accomplishments. Behind the times
## p. 63 (#73) ##############################################
owns. 63
you see, reader  for those who study the bible hard
now-a-days, try to pick it to pieces, in lieu of pinning
their faith to it. It is an age of critics, and we "review"
even Isaiah and St. John!
Dell was a man fond of children, and regretted
that he could not apply himself more intently to Mary's
progress. He was interested in Mary, in her life, and
youth, and generous impulses  in her grand belief
in Owen, the one object of her childhood's reverence.
He entrustedher to his niece's care more especially.
Ruth had more time on her hands than he, and could
watch her more intently.
"Spare no expense in her education," wrote Owen;
"she may have to earn'her own living some day. I
think I shall bring her up as a schoolmistress  an
honourable and praiseworthy profession."
Ruth went to Mrs. Cutcheld's twice a week at
least to make inquiries; and the old lady, who rst
objected to so much espionage  "as if she didn't
know how to manage the blessed child, and hadn't
seen to her education, and found her the best school
long ago!"  took nally to Ruth Dell, who had the
tact to obtain her own way in a few matters which she
thought necessary, without wounding the feelings of the
governrmte in the e"ort.
"She's a good young lady, that John Dell's niece,"
she remarked more than once; "but then she comes of
a good stock, and that's everything."
Little Mary Chickney of course took readily to
Ruth, wished she lived a little nearer Ansted school to ,
## p. 64 (#74) ##############################################
64 owns.
be a pupil there, and could not understand why the
rules of that establishment would not have admitted
her if she had. And would the rules matter so much,
or the people who made them be very cross, if Miss
Dell were to smuggle her in over the palings? Mary
Chickney loved Ruth for herself, her gentle manners,
that kind, loving way which she had with children,
and more especially with her; but much that tended
to promote the affection was Ruth's knowledge of Owen.
Ruth knew her dear gardy, who wrote her such long,
kind letters from Australia, telling her to keep good
and grow up clever for his sake and her own. She
had been brought up with Owen, remembered him
when he was a little boy, could relate many anecdotes
concerning him. And everything and everybody was
secondary to the guardian -L the love that should
have been lavished on a mother, father, sisters, had
been concentrated in him, and nothing would ever
shake the child's worship. She was never tired of
talking of Owen, hearing others speak of him  it was
an inexhaustible subject, on which she became ever
eloquent.
"I wonder you never married him, Miss Dell,"
said Mary; "I wouldn't have let him grow up without
loving me, if I had been always with him, and your
age."
"But suppose I thought of marrying some one else,
Mary?" '
"Yes; but it's funny you should  knowing my
dear Owen so well. But you've lost your chance now,
## p. 65 (#75) ##############################################
owns. 65
and he's coming home to marry me when I'm big
enough." '
"You must not tell anyone that. It sounds bold,
and you are growing a big girl now."
"I'm just thirteen, Miss Dell."
"And thirteen is too young to get that impression
on your mind, my dear. It may do you harm," added
Ruth, who was a little startled at the child's persistence
in the statement; "and give you false views of life.
You should look on him as a brother  father 
guardian. It would distress him very much to think
you were growing up a young woman, with the same
impression that as a child was a little jest between
you."
"Don't you think he will marry me, then?"
"I cannot think it likely, my dear Mary. You
will have the same idea as myself when you are two
years older."
Mary looked very grave at this. She could not
understand it, or why it was wrong to cherish the
thought.
"Perhaps he'll bring a wife home with him,
Mary." '
"No, he said he would not do that," said she
quickly; "he won't love any one better than me out
there, I know. And if he comes back, and I can live
with him and keep his house, and see him happy, it
doesn't matter whether I'm his sister, his wife, or his
grandmother, does it?"
Owen:  A Waif. 11. 5
## p. 66 (#76) ##############################################
66 owns.
\
"It's a strange subject to dwell upon," answered
Ruth; "let us change it. I am going to write to
Owen a full account of your progress; will you add a
postscript, or write a little letter that you can enclose
in my own?"
"I think I should like a little -letter all to myself,"
said Mary, after a moment's reection; "do you think
you will have room for a ringlet?"
"Well, it makes such a mess, Mary."
"A mess!" said Mary disconsolately, not seeing
that the observant Ruth had detected the faintest bud
of a romantic disposition, and so ruthlessly nipped
at it.
"All the loose hairs straggle about so."
"Ah, so they do; and I remember Owen writing
to say that he thought he had quite enough now 
he has had one with every letter, and he took some
away with him in a parcel. I wonder what he's doing
whether he's thinking of me now, and fancying I
shan't grow up a good girl? As if I shouldn't do that,
knowing how much he wishes it."
Ruth wrote her letter in Mrs. Cutcheld's house on
a Wednesday afternoon, and Mary sat by her side and
concocted her own careful epistle, making one or two
inquiries as to matters of spelling as she went on. It
was good news Ruth sent to Owen, news of his ward
and her moral, intellectual, and physical growth; and
in due time Owen very gratefully thanked her for the
missive, and sent an especial note to Mary in reply to
her epistle,  a note that set Mary wild with delight
## p. 67 (#77) ##############################################
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because he was so well in health, and talked of only
four years now instead of six.
Mary Chickney 'had one more friend  quite a
new acquaintance, that had been formed since Owen's
departure. Owen had warned her to be careful of
new acquaintances, but this one had come with creden-
tials from Miss Dell, and been introduced to her by
that pearl of schoolmistresses, or rather had introduced
herself by the name of Cherbury, when the grand car-
riage had brought her and Miss Dell one day from
Ansted.
"Four miles each way are too much for you, my
dear," Mrs. Cherbury had said to Ruth; "you are
lighter than I am, but not so much set, and the horses
require a 'deal of exercise  it's a dreadful weight on
my mind those horses, and Isaac always looks cross
when he hears I have not been out with them. So
pray make use of my carriage, and take me with you
to see the little Mary you talk so much about  I'm
so very fond of children, you are aware. No denial,
Miss Dell, no denial  if you're too proud for the
carriage I'll walk with you, and have a t on the
road."
A terrible threat, that resulted in the carriage
being ordered, and the lane by the side of Mrs. Catch-
eldls house being blocked up for an hour or two.
This was Mrs. Cherbury's rst visit, and was the
precursor of many more  far more than Mrs. Cutch-
eld cared about, though she refrained from expressing
5*
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her opinion, out of respect for the lady who was Miss
Dell's friend.
"She do come a might of times too often," said
Mrs. Cutcheld to a neighbour of hers as old as her-
self; "and the beastly sweet things she brings that
child in pound parcels would ruin any constitution, if
I didn't hide 'em as fast as they came, and make- ,
believe the last but two lot is the last on 'em. A well-
, meaning lady, and fond enough of my Mary  as
who wouldn't be?  but a trie too often here, Mrs.
Philpot."
Mrs. Cherbury was of the same opinion, though
she found it a matter of difculty to keep away; she
had been all her life trying to kill time; she was fond
of children, and to this one in particular her warm
heart had opened. "Here I am again, Mrs. Cutch-
eld," said she, "there's no keeping away, and I knew
you'd excuse me. The horses wanted exercise too,
the groom told me, and I'd rather come here than
anywhere else whilst Miss Dell's busy. When will
Mary be home from school?"
"About twelve, mum."
Mrs. Cutcheld generally began in a cold, almost
a gruff manner, with Mrs. Cherbury, and only softened
by degrees beneath the genial manners of her visitor.
"Shall I take the carriage and fetch her home?"
suggested Mrs. Cherbury.
"It only stirs up the school, and makes the other
children jealous, mum  but of course it's not the
## p. 69 (#79) ##############################################
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likes of me to hinder you. Not but what a run
along the road does more good after school hours."
"So it does, so it does  but don't you fancy
she's likely to be run over?"
"There's not much trafc, thank goodness, and
she's more careful than she used to was, Mrs. Cherbury
- minds the crossroads, and keeps to the hedges. A
brave girl that dear Mary of mine is, too," said the
old woman, becoming more conversational; "to see her
steer her way through a heap of bullocks, that'd
frighten you and me to death, would do your heart
good."
"Oh! dear  and it's market day!  I think
I'll go and fetch her."
"She's done it for many years now, mum  pray
sit still and don't dget yourself." ,
"I hope I'm not fussy," said Mrs. Cherbury quickly.
"No, marm, I can't say as how you are," said
Mrs. Cutcheld; "a little bit nervous, I should think -
that's all."
"It's the great house  and alone in it so much,"
said Mrs. Cherbury with a sigh; "if I only had a
daughter like your Mary. Daughters are a comfort
young, and they grow up a comfort to their mothers
but the sons forget us  always."
"Better to have no sons at all, then," said Mrs.
Cutcheld sternly sententious.
"Forget us in their way, you understand," said
Mrs. Cherbury; "so much to think of, so few ties at
home  the mother such an old-fashioned institution 
## p. 70 (#80) ##############################################
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such a waste of time to sit and converse with! Now,
my lad, I believe, loves his mother as well as most
lads, and would be very sorry if anything were to
happen; give me a fussy funeral, and put a great
pile of stonework over me; but he's not a bit domesti-
cated."
Mrs. Cherbury wiped a stray tear from her eyes
with a sudden dash of her fat white hand; and Mrs.
Cutcheld was a fellow-woman who felt for her, and
who excused her innovation for that day. Mrs. Cutch-
eld quite forgot the superior station of her visitor,
likewise  sign of great tact and true lady-like
management on Mrs. Cherbury's part  and took a
chair by the fuschia-laden window-sill, and entered
into her own grievances  her life, marriage, and
widowhood  and the one son whom she had had,
and who died cutting his teeth.
"So you're better off than I am, Mrs. Cherbury,"
said Mrs. Cutcheld; "and half a son's better than no
son at all  just like half a loaf."
"My dear Mrs. Cutcheld, that's exactly my senti-
ments."
And the two old ladies jerked their chairs closer
together at every moral reection, until their knees
touched. Ah! there's nothing like a wholesome piece
of gossip between two elderly females, to afford one an
idea of a sense of enjoyment.
\ When Mary came dancing into the room, she was
kissed heartily by each lady in turn. Mary had been
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running home, and the colour had ushed her cheeks
and made her eyes sparkle.
"What a pretty creature she is now!" ejaculated
Mrs. Cherbury.
"Lawks, don't go on like that, and spoil the gal,"
corrected Mrs. Cutcheld; and Mrs. Cherbury thus
called to order, produced a large tin canister of acidu-
lated drops, by way of peace-offering.
Mrs. Cherbury was a designing woman,  respect
her as we may, and, grievous as it is to record the
fact, we must be truthful chroniclers. She had made
her appearance in that cottage with the secret motive
of carrying Mary home to spend the afternoon with
her, but had deferred breaking the news till Mrs.
Cutcheld was in the best of tempers, and there was
Mary's persuasions to back her own. Then the truth
came out slowly, and Mrs. Cutcheld felt sorry that
Mrs. Cherbury had taken such a fancy to Mary one
instant, and rather glad the next.
"She's a rich lady, and it might be a good thing
for Mary," she thought; "and she was too old a woman
to be jealous, much less to let jealousy stand in the
way of Mary's advancement. But, oh, my dear," she
said, when she was putting on Mary's best Sunday
frock upstairs, "don't be dazed by a ne house, and
love mammy Cutcheld less than the ne lady who
belongs to it. After all these years you won't do
that?"
"Never, mammy - never!"
## p. 72 (#82) ##############################################
72 owrm.
And Mary's arms were round the old woman's neck
on the instant.
"Then go, and I hope you'll have a pleasant day
and mind they send you back early  and don't
be dazed  and pray don't, for the Lord's sake, eat
everything the lady wants you!"
Mary was whisked off in the carriage shortly after-
wards, and a rare red letter-day in her recollections
was that rst visit to Oaklands. The great house,
and the great garden where she could lose herself, and
the park where there were deer, and the green lawn
she could dance on, and the spotted coach-dog with
whom she fraternized. Then, not to mention picture-
books, and great oil-paintings on the walls, and Mrs.
Cherbury anxious to show and give her everything,
and the funny silent man, who came in as she was
putting on her bonnet to return, and to whom Mrs.
Cherbury said, "This is the little girl I was speaking .
of, Isaae;" and who answered, "What little girl?" and
then said, "How do you?  a ne evening, miss," to
her, just as if she were a big woman. Mary had much
to think of that day  a memorable day for her, still
more so for the lady who had been kind to her. For
the son  or the lad who was only half a son  had
come home expressly to have a long talk with his
mother, and long talks were quite out of his line, and
must bode something singular. Mrs. Cherbury thought
so  whether she were right in her surmise let the
next chapter prove.
## p. 73 (#83) ##############################################
owns. 73
CHAPTER I V.
A Change for more than One.
ISAAC Cnnnnunv and his mother were prepared
thoroughly for a long talk. Isaac had dined in town,
therefore there were no preliminaries to get through.
Nothing to do but take the easiest chair in the draw-
ing-room, motion to his nervous mother to subside into
the opposite seat, and dash at once into his subject.
He was a man of few words, and took the straightest,
if not the easiest way to an explanation. He had
abhorred circumlocution all his life.
"Mother, I have sold the business."
"Bless my soul, Isaac! whatever made you think
of such a thing?"
"My head  it's growing heavier every day."
He was growing more of a hypochondriac his
mother thought, although it was scarcely worth while
to state so just then. Besides', she wouldn't have hurt
her son's feelings for the world.
"I've been told so much about change doing me
good, change working such cures in this and that, that
I've resolved to try it. The business was in the way,
but there was a good price - a very fair price,"
drawing in his breath, "o'ered, and a man can make
money one way as well as another. Foreigners are
always short of money, and pay an extraordinary per-
centage."
## p. 74 (#84) ##############################################
7-1 owns.
"Go on, my dear lad, go on."
"So I sold the business, and it's off my mind, and
still my head aches  damn it!" he muttered in a
lower key.
"And what's to be done now; are we to go abroad,
and shall I sell this house that your father left me, or
shall we let it till our return?"
"My arrangements, mother, will not put you out in
any way  I'm going alone."
"Oh, dear, dear, dear!" cried the distressed lady.
She had thought there was something dreadful
coming by his calling her mother  it was always
"Mrs. Cherbury" when nothing was the matter. He
called her mother when her husband died  he called
her so again now he was going to leave her.
"Shall you be long away, Isaac?" she said, with
a great gulp.
"I can't say  ve or six years  it depends upon
my head, in a great measure."
"Your head in a great measure  dear, dear me,
it's very sad!"
Isaac sat with his knees crossed, twiddling his
thumbs backwards and forwards; he wished to offer
some consolation to his mother - he did not see in
what way exactly. He was not an unfeeling man -
he was hard to move, and of a Sphynx-like appear-
ance, but be respected his mother, and he knew that
his mother loved him. He had a dreamy conscious-
ness that he had never been a good son to her -- in
the old days he had been wild and inconsiderate; in
## p. 75 (#85) ##############################################
ownu. 75
the present icy existence he had been taciturn, and
evinced nothing but a sense of being bored.
"You're quiet - you're so very quiet always,"
murmured Mrs. Cherbury, by way of half reproach;
"you never think of a mother's advice, but do all
without her, even to the selling of the business, which
was your father's pride. I think  I  I should have
liked to have been told of it, even if you had made up
your mind. Your poor father never kept me so much
in the dark."
"I never thought of it," said Cherbury; "it's a
habit of mine to nish any plan before I speak I've
always found it the best. Of course, I meant no
offence."
"No, no, my dear child, I know that. You were
never bad-hearted. You're only a little strange."
"I had a shock once," he said, "perhaps that
accounts for it."
"A shock!" said the wondering mother.
"Yes  it's nothing worth speaking of - and
how we are wandering, to be sure! Most unbusiness-
like, unmethodical, and so unlike me. So, as I said,
mother, I intend to leave England to-morrow."
"To-morrow  oh, you never said so!  you have
never thought so, Isaac," said Mrs. Cherbury.
''Diidn' I mention to-morrow  ah! well, I intended.
To-morrow I leave for Paris. I shan't put your house
much out of order by packing; one portmanteau of
things will sufce."
## p. 76 (#86) ##############################################
76 owns.
"What will you do, all alone in a strange land,
my dear lad?" said Mrs. Cherbury.
The thought struck him, what he should have done
with his mother; but he kept his thoughts to himself.
He had every condence in his powers to combat the
dangers of foreign cities, he assured his mother  that
is, he said bluntly "I'm all right," which signied the
same thing.
The long talk was over on his side; it had been a
great exertion, and he was glad he had broken or
thumped through the ice, and apprised his mother of Q
the state of affairs. Mrs. Cherbury seemed anxious to
sustain the conversation; to weary him with motherly
advice upon matters concerning which she knew nothing
when would she ever understand that he was no
longer a young man, but forty-ve years of age, or
thereabouts?  a cold, calculating man of the world,
whose worldly knowledge everybody appeared to re-
spect, save his mother.
He adopted the old ruse of closing his eyes, having
previously stated it as his opinion that his head was a
little worse than usual, and his mother, well trained to
obedience, sat silent and watched him. It was a great
trial to her, this going away  this leaving her alone
in the world. It would have been different, had there
been a. dozen children  half a dozen  only one
more! But her rst-born, her only son living  one
whom she might never see again after the parting had
taken place between them. A strange end to all a
mothcr's dreaming she must have thought it that night,
## p. 77 (#87) ##############################################
owns. 77
remembering her past fancy-sketches of that son, and
of what a comfort he was to be in her old age. She
wondered how it would have all been if she had been
dependent upon him; if Mr. Cherbury had not left to
her sole disposal the house in which she lived, and a
fair round sum in Consols, to support the expenses
entailed by so large an establishment. Would there
not have been more sympathy between them, more
concern on his part  might he not have offered then
to take her with him? Was it selshness or indifference
now, that led him to regard so coolly things of such
moment to her?  did he ever think that she could
not live for ever, and what a desolate death-bed her's
might be? She cried a little to herself behind her
laced handkerchief - not too passionately at rst, lest
she should disturb his slumbers, and he should wake up
ill-tempered; and when her grief began to master her -
for a stout woman will sob unpleasantly loud  she
repaired to her own room, where no noise could be heard.
Mr. Isaac Cherbury went away the next day in the
most quiet manner, shaking hands with his mother,
and promising to write now and then when he had
time, or there was anything to write about. Mrs. Cher-
bury could not have complained of any "fuss" in the
parting  all the fuss in the matter was on her own
side just then! It was a great blow to her that separa-
tion, although Isaac had been seldom at Oaklands, and
had always left his mother too much to herself. It
had been consolatory to know he 'could be sent for if
she were ill, or that she could seek him out if his head
## p. 78 (#88) ##############################################
78 owns.
got the better or the worse of him; and if months
passed away without their meeting, still the satisfaction
of their contiguity remained. But it was all altered
now, and Mrs. Cherbury was alone in the world!
She took to fretting after that close-hearted, lub-
berly lad of hers, and fretting disagreeing with a con-
stitution naturally intended for sanguinity, drove her
to a corner and took her off her feet. "Too much
alone," said the doctor to Ruth, who spent every
leisure moment at her bedside, "she only requires ral-
lying. Not a great age by any means, and a good
constitution to work upon." ,
When Mrs. Cherbury was down-stairs again, she
saw more company. Her buttery neighbours living
in the great houses scattered round Ansted came to
pay their respects and offer their mock sympathy; but
they seldom stayed more than ten minutes, and seemed
always glad to escape from the house. She was a
woman without marriageable sons, and never gave
dinner parties or the' (lansantes.
"My doctor has been talking of the seaside this
afternoon, Miss Dell," said she, when Ruth had arrived
to pay her usual evening visit. "Nice advice for an
old woman like me. The sea-side, and not a friend
amongst all the fussy crowds that assemble there. I've
been thinking what a pity it was that I ever tried to
make you Mrs. Glindon. I could have offered you
such a nice post as companion. Whatever am I to do
when that young surgeon takes you away for good?"
"I shall come and spend a week or two with you
## p. 79 (#89) ##############################################
owrm. 79
very oen," said she; "and you must return the com-
pliment, and kill time that way."
"Thank you, thank you,~my dear  that's a more
cheering prospect. What has become of little Mary
Chickney?"
"She's quite well, and very anxious to see you."
"God bless her heart! is she, though?" said Mrs.
Cherbury, brightening up, "and I've been afraid to
frighten her with my long faces. I will send the car-
riage for her to-morrow. If anything will do me good
it's the sight of that child."
Mrs. Cherbury's carriage was in the lane before
nine the next morning, and an earnest message from
Mrs. Cherbury to Mrs. Cutcheld, with her love, 
which set Mrs. Cutcheld all of a utter, and made her
as proud as a peacock  begging that Mrs. Cutcheld
would not object to sacrice one day of Mary's school-
ing for a poor old invalid's sake, to whom the society
of children was a great boon. Mary went to Oaklands
for the second time, saw more to admire and wonder
at, took more than ever to the gentle, motherly lady,
who had always been so kind. Mary returned home
to Mrs. Cutcheld with a second letter, which caused a
second disinterment of a pair of tortoiseshell rimmed
spectacles from a black worsted pocket.
"What a dreadful lot of writing, to be sure," said
Mrs. Cutcheld. "Why don't she send a message? It
gives a body such a heap less trouble."
"Shall I read it, mammy?"
"It mayn't be meant for your sharp young eyes.
## p. 80 (#90) ##############################################
BO owns.
Perhaps you've been misbehaving, and I'm to tell your
governess."
Mary laughed. She knew it could not be that -
there was no misbehaving oneself at Oaklands. Mrs.
Cutcheld read theletter, and then imparted the news.
"She wants me to tea to-morrow."
"You, mammy Cutcheld?"
"Ain't I good company enough for her?" she asked,
harshly. "Is it such a wonder?"
"It seemed a little strange," said Mary, "because I
don't remember you going to tea more than twice, per-
haps, and that at Mrs. Philpot's."
"Strange or not, I know all about it," said Mrs.
Cutcheld, taking off her spectacles, and beating a
nervous tattoo on the table with them. "It's not so
strange but that I read my ne madam like a book."
"What is it, then?"
"You'll know to-morrow, mayhap."
And Mrs. Cuteheld closed all argument by stalk-
ing upstairs to bed.
At three in the following afternoon, much to 'Mrs.
Cutcheld's surprise, and something to her satisfaction,
though her countenance presented a Timon of Athens
aspect, the carriage arrived for her. Mary was to stay
with her governess until she was fetched in the even-
ing, and, therefore, there was no fear concerning her on
Mrs. Cutchfield's mind.
Arrived at Oaklands, Mrs. Cuteheld was speedily
ushered into the drawing-room, at the open window of
which  it was late in the springtime  Mrs. Cher-
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owns. 81
bury sat. If Mrs. Cutcheld had arrived in a stern
mood, she was speedily melted; for she said, very ,
heartily,
"Oh! dear, I'm very sorry to see how you've
altered, Mrs. Cherbury."
"I'm getting better now, Mrs. Cutcheld  I was
a sight last week."
"So you are now, mum  fallen away like "
"Yes, not quite so stout as I was. My son's gone
to live abroad."
"So I've heard."
"And perhaps I fretted because he wouldn't take
me  as if grown-up lads expected to be hampered
with their tiresome mothers."
She gave a little hysterical laugh, which having
recovered from, she ordered tea, and a maid to show
Mrs. Cutcheld where to put her bonnet  an ofce
declined by that cautious female, who insisted on sit-
ting with it in her lap, as if it were portable property
of some value, that might be made o' with, if she did
not take care.
A friendly gossip over tea, but the one subject that
had led to the visit untouched upon, Mrs. Cutcheld
felt quite certain. It was coming, when the servants
had removed the tray, and the French windows were
closed.
"Your little Mary has no relations, I believe?"
"I believe not, mum."
"Who is this Owen of whom she talks so much?"
Owen:  A. Waif. 11. 6
## p. 82 (#92) ##############################################
82 owns.
"Her guardian  a young man who knew her
parents."
"Poor?"
"Well, not particularly rich, I should say."
"He's in Australia, Mary tells me."
"In Austrayly, as Mary says, mum. Quite cor-
reet."
"I wonder whether he would mind  whether you
would mind  my offering to adopt that child," said
Mrs. Cherbury anxiously; "I would bring her up as
my own daughter, love her as such, and leave her all
my money. I want a companion like her for my de-
solate old age; she, I think, would learn to love me in
return  and I've no one to study in the world but
myself. I think her position in the future would be
greatly enhanced by it, Mrs. Cutcheld  I am sure
she would be happy here."
"It's a grand chance for her," said Mrs. Cutcheld,
moodily; "it isn't for the likes of me, who loves the
very ground she treads upon, to persuade her to say
'No.' It isn't even the place of one who is paid to
take care of her  more, it isn't right. It's a grand
offer."
"Do you wish I had not made it?" asked Mrs.
Cherbury.
"For her sake, no  for my own, a desolate old
woman, too, it's the truth to say 'Yes'  and I never
shirked the truth."
"But I have been thinking of you, too  I don't
think I am very selsh; people never told me so."
## p. 83 (#93) ##############################################
OWEN. 83 ,
Mrs. Cutcheld waited patiently for further par-
ticulars, and the stony expression of visage 'softened
not.
"I don't see why you can't come here also?"
"No," was the short answer.
"Why you cannot at least enter my service, say
as lodge-keeper," Mrs. Cherbury hastened to add;
"there's a nice little cottage at the entrance-gates, and
my visitors won't trouble you much  in fact, you
may leave the gates open if you like, or take them off
their hinges, which will save the worry of ever shutting
them. Mary will not be far from you then, and can
see you every day."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Cutcheld, slowly soften-
ing; "it's a kind offer of yours as regards me, too 
you're a kind woman, I have always heard  I can
believe it. But it's not that, exactly."
"Well?"
"Well, Mary loves me, next to her guardian, of
anybody in this world  and it's hard to have
you step in and buy her from me. For it is buying
her!"
"No  don't say that. I love the child, but I
would not rob you of one scrap of her affection."
"Won't it all go naturally, if you try to make a
lady of her?" '
"No - I'm sure not."
"If I only thought that - and Mary is different
from most children," said the woman; "and different or
not  to be thought a deal on, or to be quite for-
. 6*
## p. 84 (#94) ##############################################
84 owns.
gotten  I can't stand in the way of such a rise in
life for her. May I ask who else has been consulted
in this matter?"
"No one yet."
The old lady seemed gratied at the preference -
the rst shock over, the prospect did not appear so
gloomy.
"There's a good many to consult  I don't know
but what some may stand in the way," said Mrs.
Cutcheld; "there's John Dell, and there's Mr. Owen.
And Mr. Owen's rather hard to manage, I should say.
And there's Mary herself."
"We will set about the matter at once  I'll talk
to Miss Dell to-morrow, and I'll write to Mr. Owen
when I learn his address. You don't know how I've
set my heart on having that child to love."
"Yes I do  I understand exactly."
This was the sum and substance of the dialogue
between Mrs. Cherbury and Mrs. Cutcheld  the fol-
lowing day Ruth Dell was apprised of it, and John
Dell written to.
There was some reection on the matter; it 'na-
turally required careful consideration and looking at
from all sides, but there was no mistaking the ad-
vantageous offer, and no doubting what was best for
Mary Chickney. Dell was more adverse to the propo-
sition than his niece, and in his interview with Mrs.
Cherbury raised a hundred objections, but common
sense would come round to the one point, that it was
a chance in life seldom offered, and Mary might
## p. 85 (#95) ##############################################
owns. 85
ever afterwards reproach them for refusing it on her
behalf.
Dell thought of the secret of her father, but he
would leave that for Owen to communicate or not, as
he thought t. He even made some inquiry concerning
Mr. Isaac Cherbury, his late employer, of the old lady,
and somewhat startled her by saying, in answer to her
statement of his living abroad 
"Then there is nothing to object to."
Two letters went to Owen by the next mail -
there would be many months to wait for an answer,
Mrs. Cherbury thought, dolefully  one written by
Mrs. Cherbury, the second by John Dell.
Mrs. Cherbury's letter was energetic and persua-
siveDell's laid the facts of the case before Owen as
though they were the heads of an argument.
"Mary will be happy  well cared for in the pre-
sent, well provided for in the future  it is worth
your earnest consideration," wrote Dell; "I would not
let any old thoughts which the name of Cherbury may
conjure up, stand between you and Mary's rise in life.
I do not o'er any advice myself  God alone knows
what is best for the girl. I seek only to call your at-
tention to the facts  you are her guardian, and the
only one who has a right to decide. Mary has not
been spoken to on the matter  let her wait your de-
cision - whatever you tell her, we know she will
abide by. Think well of her parentage, and whether
it be necessary to inform Mrs. Cherbury."
Owen's reply came back in due course. Mrs.
## p. 86 (#96) ##############################################
86 owns.
Cherbury was better then; sustained by the hope of
the young companion she now saw so frequently, her
old strength had returned. Owen wrote several letters
by that post  the purport of each somewhat similar.
From that to Mrs. Cherbury some fragments may be
necessary.
In the rst place, he thanked her for the offer,
very coolly and briey, and then referred her to his
ward herself, if Mrs. Cherbury remained still of the
same mind. He took that opportunity of adding, that
had he alone the right to inuence the after-life of his
ward, he would have declined the o'er, but he did not
feel justied in incurring so grave a responsibility.
He thought possibly it would be better for Mary to
decide  he had been assured she would be in good
hands  and therefore he left it to her good sense.
He had even written to Mary, advising the acceptance
of Mrs. Cherbury's o'er, he said; weighing the ad-
vantages fairly and honestly in the scale, with that
which he believed might prove disadvantageous to
her.
"You will possess the love of a child that is
amiable and aectionate," he concluded; "I alone shall
be the loser. Your scheme has altered my own, but it
may be questionable whether mine would have made
her so happy. And her greatest happiness is of course
my one consideration. For the present I remain her
guardian  it is a trust I cannot relinquish to any
one  I still reserve the right to advise and console
when necessity requires it. No one must stand be-
## p. 87 (#97) ##############################################
owns. 87
tween me and my ward, until she is able to judge
for herself. In four years' time I shall see her
again."
Owen made no allusion to Mary's parentage; he
had carefully studied the question, and arrived at the
conclusion that it was better to keep it in the back-
ground. For Tarby's sake, he had no right to divulge
the secret; for Mary's sake especially, he felt it would
be acting unfairly. He did not know Mrs. Cherbury;
he had had experience of how soon secrets escape, and
he was too well aware of the blessing and comfort
Mary would be to one, who offered her a position she
would be sure to adorn. For the present, at least, let
the secret rest.
Mrs. Cherbury could not Iexactly make out the
letter. It was an epistle that gave her the idea that
Owen was a very sti' young man, with an unbendable
back  a touch of her own lad! There was satisfac-
tion in knowing there was a consent attached to it,
and she hastened with the good news to Miss Dell,
and then with Miss Dell to Mrs. Cutcheld, the latter
of whom looked pleased and severe by turns, as though
some one were pulling a string behind.
"I haven't had such a trial since my old man
died," asseverated the old lady.
"And what does Mary think of it?"
"Oh! she's been a-crying, and don't know what to
do for the best. I don't think she likes to part with
me, and the old cottage, after all," added the old lady,
proudly.
## p. 88 (#98) ##############################################
88 owns.
"Where is she?"
"Up-stairs, reading Owen's letter for about the
ftieth time," said Mrs. Cutcheld. "What a hulla-
boloo there is when a letter of that young mau's comes,
surely!"
"He advises her to go."
"Yes, if she can still be true to him as his ward
will obey him, if he requires it, in any case that he
really thinks for her good. But here she is."
Mary came down and glanced towards her three
friends, and began to cry again.
"You're getting too old to cry now, you little
gggoose," said Mrs. Cutcheld, digging her own
knuckles into her eyes to keep the tears back.
"What shall I do?" she cried. "Why did he leave
this resolution to me? Oh! Mrs. Cutcheld, I don't
like to leave you  Oh! Mrs. Cherbury, perhaps I shall
never love you as you deserve!"
"My dear Mary, I don't feel that "
"And before all - always  for ever," she cried,
"I shall love my gardy best  don't forget that any
one  what he says and wishes I must always do!"
"Well, if he wish you away when he returns, it
will make no difference in my intentions towards you,"
said Mrs. Cherbury; "and shall not I have had four
years of happiness?"
"And you will not mind me staying too much with
Mrs. Cutcheld at the lodgeI shall be true to all my
old friends."
## p. 89 (#99) ##############################################
OWEN. 89
"God bless her now! hear that!" and Mrs. Cutch-
eld executed a fandango movement in the back-
ground.
"I shall mind nothing but your happiness, my
dear," said Mrs. Cherbury; "you won't nd me at all
fussy."
"Then I'll come and be a lady, and have a gover-
ness all to myself!"
"That's right  half a dozen, perhaps," said Mrs.
Cherbury; "My dear," turning to Miss Dell, trium-
phantly, "I've caught her!"
And she spoke as exultingly as an Isaac Walton's
disciple over a two-pound trout.
So the life of the child born in Hannah Street took
another turn, and Mrs. Cherbury went away with her
prize. Both were gainers by the compact, matron ,and
maiden  money, and education, and station, in ex-
change for priceless affection  rooms of empty
splendour, to be lled with a bright presence  a de-
solate woman to be gladdened by a daughter's love.
The wealth of the world versus the wealth of the
heart. The former, that a false friend, an evil rumour,
a wrong step, can always snatch from us; and the
latter, imperishable, and in misfortune ever a comforter.
Surely this Mrs. Cherbury, a woman in a thousand, had
obtained the best of the bargain.
## p. 90 (#100) #############################################
90 owns.
C HAP TER V.
"Time Flies."
MARY CHICKNEY was installed at Oaklands, and
Mrs. Cherbury began a new life. Governesses and
music-masters were sent for to perfect Mary's education,
and a more liberal amount of pocket-money bestowed
upon her than was probably judicious on the part of
her new protector. But then Mary was not like other
girls  nothing tumed her head! A great house, ser-
vants to wait on her, an indulgent protector, tended to
make the child grateful, not spoil her  and not all
the,nery in the world would have kept her from her
daily visits to Mrs. Cutcheld at the lodge.
Mrs. Cutcheld even thought she came a little too
often, and that Mrs. Cherbury might not like it after a
while.
"Oh! she will never refuse me anything," said
Mary; "I don't think she could be out of temper. And
I can't give up mammy Cutcheld for anybody."
"But if she shouldn't like it, my precious."
"Then we'll go back to the old cottage and wait
for Owen's return. I'm only waiting for dear Owen
now, remember."
"Perhaps he will wish you to live here."
"What!  for ever and ever!"
"You can't do better, depend upon it."
## p. 91 (#101) #############################################
owns. 91
"Oh! he will never wish that," said Mary, and she
was very grave the remainder of the day at the
thought.
Time went plodding on after the old fashion at
Oaklands; summer followed the spring, and autumn
the summer, and six months of life there had rendered
the place home to Mary, sunshine to the old lady, who
was made to love children and be loved by them. Not
an unpleasant destiny, however trivial it may seem to
the reader, to whom children are troublesome little
things, that are always in the way. He must be one
of the right sort to win a child's love  no sham will
go down with the juveniles. If they see the world in
one's face too much, they will y you  it must be
something in your looks, or voice, or smile, which will
bring them towards you, condent that the heart speaks
in addressing them. Depend upon it, my friend, if
children are fond of you, there's something of the true
metal in your system, let wiser people behind your
back say what they may.
Time made the best of friends of Mrs. Cherbury
and Mary, who, by the way, deserves a better title
than "only a child." Mary was fourteen when the
autumn had come round, and if more childlike than
most young people of her age in these precocious times,
that is no reason we should take an unfair advantage
of her. A light, dancing, fairy-like girl, who gave
life and animation to the whole house  certainly
small for her age  but that made her all the more
loveable, Mrs. Cherbury asserted.
## p. 92 (#102) #############################################
92 owns.
Readers well up in novels will be surprised to hear
she evinced not a spark of genius, and was not clever
in one particular. She only learned her lessons tolerably
well, made no rapid improvement in the piano, sketched
awfully, and dashed through a copy-book with a ra-
pidity that took the breath out of her governess. "If
she were not so anxious to nish everything, Miss
Chickney would distinguish herself more," Miss Mifeton
the governess asserted; "she's always in such a dreadful
hurry to nish. She learns her lessons in half the
time I ever knew anybody else, but she don't remember
a word of them the next day, and is only anxious to
know how long it will take to get to the end. But
she's a dear girl, Mrs. Cherbury."
Miss Mifeton was really of that opinion, notwith-
standing she knew which side her bread was buttered,
and that which would always put Mrs. Cherbury in a
utter of delight. And Mrs. Cherbury was always in
a utter now; here was something not only to love,
but to repay her with love in returnshe was happier
than she had been for many years; and if her lad Isaac
had only written to her a trie more regularly, there
would have been nothing to unsettle her mind. She
had only received two letters from Isaac, during the
six months  one dated Paris, and informing her that
he was as well as he ever expected to be; the second
St. Petersburg, apprising her of his opinion that he
cou'1dn' feel much worse. There was no news in either
epistle, but he always promised to write a long letter
## p. 93 (#103) #############################################
owns. 93
next time, which was something that pleased his mother,
and did not cost him anything.
Late in the autumn Arthur Glindon returned to
Surrey; his term of probation was over, and he emerged
upon the scene looking more pale, studious, and steady.
No one meeting him at Mrs. Cherbury's with his af-
anced wife at his side, would have given him credit
for so dangerous a temper as was exhibited two years
ago at a few hundred yards distant.
"I have conquered all the evil spirits, Ruth," he
said, condently; "they have vanished away to the
depths, and you may trust me."
"Would you be sitting here if I doubted?"
"We shall be the happiest couple under the sun,"
said he; "and under an English sun too, for I am
growing very tired of that Scotch hospital."
"Never content, Arthur; is not a restless spirit a
weakness?"
"It is not restlessness, only ambition," replied
Glindon; "surely it is honourable to try and make a
step in advance. I think I shall work up for my
M.D., become Doctor Glindon, and pocket ve-guinea
fees. It would be a ne thing to be a physician,
Ruth."
It had been a ne thing once to become head-
surgeon of the hospital, Ruth gently hinted; and his
answer was, that he had wished to rise in life for her
sake, and the hospital had not realized his expecta-
tions. Besides, he was not comfortable; there was a
young man petted too much by the Govemor and
## p. 94 (#104) #############################################
94 owns.
Directors, thought very clever, and pushed in his way
a little too often  a young fellow who actually
wanted to teach him at times!
Was this the old jealousy putting forth a shoot in
a new direction  the old demon of discontent that,
driven from one corner, had squatted down in another,
and was leering from under his hand at his victim?
Ruth gravely asked the question, and he coloured and
laughed. He jealous now?  jealous of the members
of his profession? - was it likely?
He spent his days oscillating between Ansted and
London; he had come from Scotland to be married,
and the hour xed for so momentous a step every day
approached nearer. Ruth had resigned her post at
Ansted school, and was staying at Mrs. 'Cherbury's;
she was happy, but it was a grave kind of happiness,
peculiar to her who did nothing rashly, and had ever
been of a reective nature. She had promised to be
his wife, and she loved him and hoped for the best;
but there would come a doubt at times of how it would
end. He was ever eager in pursuit, steadfast and per-
severing whilst the goal to be reached lay beyond 
place all he had sought at his feet, and he turned to
new wishes at once. Might he not some day turn from
her, and might she not lose the power to keep him
straight in his path?
She hoped not, she even believed not, or she would
have never become Mrs. Glindon. Hers was an un-
poetical mind like her uncle's, and she did not expect
to marry a perfect being; a hero who would not have
## p. 95 (#105) #############################################
OWEN. 9 5
his tempers and his weaknesses. She looked forward
to being something of a guide, an adviser, a comforter,
as well as a companion; she knew he might wander
restlessly from the track - but she believed she would
have power, by her love and gentleness and sense of
right, to bring him back. He had the abilities to be-
come a great man; she would use her best exertions
to aid him in his career, ending not alone in great-
ness, she prayed, but in an orderly and Christian
life.
They were married at Ansted Church, and Mrs.
Cherbury gave a quiet wedding breakfast at Oaklands
to the parties principally concerned in the match.
There were no grand acquaintances asked, only those
who had long known the young couple, or were related
to them. Grand acquaintances would have gone home
to laugh at all this, and say what a medley of people
and mixture of caste!  what a quiet bride, and what
an odd-looking fellow the bride's father, and what a
rm, straight-a-head-looking party the man with the
ringing voice, who was called John Dell, seemed to
be! "People in trade," grand people would have cried,
and shuddered at the stigma, and thanked heaven they
were not as other men were, and had livings to get by
selling and buying. It is possible, even  92 being
excited and ofl' his guard, morally "unbuttoned,"
though outwardly braced tight that the ex-policeman
might have talked too much of antecedents, and
strewn the drawing-room carpet with defunct "swells,"
## p. 96 (#106) #############################################
96 owns.
to whom such revelations would have been a little too
much.
So only John Dell and 92, and Mary Chickney
and Mrs. Cherbury, assisted at the marriage of Arthur
Glindon with Ruth Dell  and certainly they were a
mlange. Arthur G-lindon's parents, proud and poor
people, had they taken the trouble to cross the Channel,
would have wondered at Arthur's wife's relations, as
they had already wondered at his marrying a school-
mistress,  he who might have done better! But then
Arthur had had always a will of his own, and it was
too late in the day to offer him anything but eon-
gratulations. They expressed a regret that their ad-
vanced age would not permit them to undertake the
fatigue of a journey to England, hoped Arthur, in his
leisure moments, would visit Germany, and bring Ruth
with him, and sent their best wishes for the happiness
of man and wife.
And with these best wishes, added to those uttered
by full hearts at Oaklands, the young couple started
,on their way in life, and time went stealing on again,
and marriages made in heaven and earth  thought of
in a third place, perhaps, or what are divorce courts
for?  took place every day, and all the hopes and
fears belonging to them bore fruit after their kind, and
good and evil went round with the world.
How the marriage progressed, whether light and
shadow most predominated, this future history will, in
its own time, declare. It is enough to say here, that
## p. 97 (#107) #############################################
owns. 97
one child was born when their marriage was twelve
months old, and christened Arthur after its father, and
that its mother was of opinion that it was the most
extraordinary child in the world  a singular opinion
for a mother, and therefore duly recorded in this
place.
Time went on  say year after year, till Mary's
sojourn at Oaklands was of four or ve years date, and
Owen's letters suddenly ceasing gave hope of his
return, true to a past promise. Mary Chickney was in
her eighteenth year then, with the "nishing process"
reaching a termination, and Naturo's nishing process
turning her out a bright-faced, animated young lady
of the petit order  a loveable, amiable, impulsive
girl, who had the rare gift of making friends wherever
she chose to take a liking herself. In the quiet retreat
at Oaklands echoed the cry, general in the servants'
hall as in the drawing-room, round about the village
as at the lodge, where Mrs. Cutcheld dwelt, still
hale and hearty,  that "there never was such a
girl!"
"Why, the place is all sunshine," said the cook to
the butler, both old servants of the Cherburys; "what
a difference to the time when we had that lump of a
man about the house!"
"Ah, he was a stiff 'un!"
"What a man to begin fretting about!" further
remarked the cook.
"I should a on'y fretted at his living so long, if I'd
been his mother," added the butler; and there was
Owen:  A Waif. ll. 7
## p. 98 (#108) #############################################
9 8 owrm.
much hilarity among the subordinates at so caustic a.
speech.
They take us off unmereifully down-stairs these
necessary evils; even when we 'think the honour of
serving us, and the salaries we give them, have gained
their respect. E W M
Isaac Cherbury had favoured his mother with two
more letters during those four or ve years  both
dated from India, where he had ostensibly settled
down. He hoped his mother was well  he wished
he was! Sometimes he fancied he should try England
again, and the medical advisers of his own country 
he thought no one understood how to manage his head
in the East.
John Dell was still hard at work, would be
always working hard till his name was struck o13' the
. list of toilers and "moilers." He had never under
stood what it was to sit still and let the workers go
by him  give him a day's leisure, and he was mise-
rable till his holiday was over.
His business had progressed largely  eight
hundred men went in and out at the strokes of his
factory bell. John Dell was known to the trade as a
practical engineer, a man who turned out his work
well, and to the very day on which it had been pro-
mised.
Energetic and yet methodical, having a time and
place for everything, a keen eye for a aw, and a
good method of drill, h,e naturally succeeded. He had
anticipated successfiwhen he lrst made his venture;
## p. 99 (#109) #############################################
owns. 99
now he was bidding fair to become a rich man. In-
crease of orders, contracts of magnitude, were perhaps
a little too much for one brain. If he could only nd
a partner, he thought, to share the labour, and work
upwards with him  a partner who would not inch
at the wheel  he should have nothing to wish for.
If Owen would only keep his word and come back, a
little less proud and independent than when he started,
now! And Owen would come back, he had not a
doubt of it  though from Owen's letters he judged
that his friend would be a reserved man. Owen had
only hinted at progress, and had not thrown much
light upon the nature of his business, or the prots it
might be bringing him in. Of the,present he wrote
little  of the future, nothing. ' 'hether he would
say more when they were face to face, John Dell
doubted.
John Dell doubted if the six years since their
parting would have improved Owen; still, he was not
of a morbid disposition, and he hoped for the best.
Dell still lived alone, in his quiet quarters, in the
Kennington Road, with a middle-aged housekeeper to
attend to his wants. He had thought once or twice
of a country villa down the line somewhere, but he
was careful of his money, and in no hurry to launch
into extravagance. He did not want a great house all
to himself  for he was a sociable being when he had
time. More than once he had proposed to his brother
to give upithe cottage at Ansted', and live with him;
7*
## p. 100 (#110) ############################################
100 owns.
but 92 had had so much bustle in his early life, that
his brother's brisk manner alarmed him.
"You'd worry me, John; I ain't methodical enoug ,"
he said; "and now you'r growing a rich man, I don't
feel exactly grand enough."
"I'm no grander than I ever was stupid," cried
Dell.
"No, but it looks like it, and I'r sure my potter-
ing ways would dget you. I'm much better here,
with my vegetables, than bothering you or Ruth's hus-
band too much. Not but what it's very dull work,"
he added, with a sigh, "and .I'm still thinking of start-
ing a little business."
"I'll set you up in one to-morrow."
"Yes, but you can't set me up with a practical
partner, no more than you can nd one for your-
self."
"What business are you thinking of?"
"Well, I'm blessed if I know, John!"
"I'm blessed if your brain isn't softening," com-
mented his uncomplimentary brother.
The fact was, 92 had long since grown tired of
the country and ashamed to avow it  discontented,
like Glindon, Owen, half the world, with the Present.
He was an old man, who had his crotchets; having
formerly been accustomed to moving on people, stand-
ing still had long since grown monotonous. He did
not know what he wanted exactly; he was not t for
the police force, he had not a great deal of energy,
he didn't want to be a bore to his brother, or a nui-
## p. 101 (#111) ############################################
owns. ' 101
sauce to his son-in-law; he was conscious that his slow
movements would try J ohn's temper too much --
John had often said he hated people creeping about
the house  and he had the good sense to know that
Arthur Glindon would respect him most at a distance.
Glindon had never wounded his feelings by so much
as a hint to that effect; but 92 understood human
nature, and could guess what the result would be.
Therefore, he only called twice or thrice a-year to see
his daughter; and although he saw his daughter more
often, it was for the reason that Ruth came to Ansted.
92 was at work in his garden, when a tall man,
in a black coat a trie too short for him, stopped near
the rickety gate and intently watched the process of
hoeing. It was a fair spring afternoon, and 92's rheu-
matism had taken a turn for the better along with the
weather. He could hobble more easily along the in-
dierently-weeded paths, and charge the "wort weed"
and groundsel that would come up along with the
early peas; or rather that were troubled with peas
shooting up in their midst.
92, intent on his labours, and full of reection,
did not observe the stranger until he had hoed, in a
feeble manner, one-half of the bed, and had changed
his position, with his face to the gate. 92 stood up
to survey the stranger and straighten his back a bit;
he had expected to see a neighbour, and the gentleman
was new to Ansted.
"Good evening," said the stranger, however.
"Good evening," responded 92.
## p. 102 (#112) ############################################
102 owEN.,
"How far do you reckon it to Oaklands, sir, if I
may take the liberty to ask?"-
"Not above a mile, I should say."
"Mrs. Cherbury's, isn't it?"
"Cherbury's it be," said 92, "as any one might
know in these parts."
"Ah! I don't belong to these parts."
92 and the last speaker looked steadily at each
other again  the last speaker for a moment seemed
to inch a little. 92 could not account for his inch-
ing; he did not remember the man, who was tall, and
round-shouldered, and pock-marked; and yet he had a
dreamy consciousness of having met with him before.
Very possibly one he had taken up or moved on in
ofcial days; and yet almost too quiet and steady-
looking for that.
"Isn't your name Dell?" was the inquiry.
"Such it is, sir."
"You were a policeman once  92?"
Certainly one who had cause to remember his
number. Yes, 92 it was  what made him remember
him?
"Nothing particular," said the man; "I lived Lam-
beth way once, and knew your brother by sight 
that's all. But I didn't expect to run against you all
of a heap, like. How you've altered."
"Since when?"
"Ah! since a lot of years  more than I care
to recollect," was the reply. "How bad the peas
look!"
## p. 103 (#113) ############################################
owns. 103
"It's the cussed birds  they eats the tops off,"
said 92; "never knew such birds for peas as there are
in these parts. Do you know, I'm trying to bring
your face to mind?"
"Try away."
And the man laughed, and leaned against the
fence, and stood 92's scrutiny.
"I've seen it, and I ain't  pair-of-socksical,
eh?"
"Eh?" repeated the stranger, in some bewilder-
ment.
"What people call pair-of-socksical  it is and
it isn't. It's a face I know; but I don't think it was
exactly that face when I did know it, you see."
"I see."
"And so I give it up."
"Well, it ain't the same face," replied the man 
"ifs altered; and years do alter faces, people, and all
mmner of things. You'll see it again in a couple of
hous or so."
"Are you off?"
"Yes, I'm off  good-day, for the present."
"Good-day to you  and a rum customer you are,"
he added, in a lower tone, "and a rummer you've been.
A Tower-street customer, possibly."
The stranger, who was a fast walker, was soon up
the hill, on the brow of which he paused, remembering
he lad not inquired of 92 the way to Oaklands. He
did 1ot think it worth his while to go back, however;
he p1t one hand in his trousers-pocket, and took his
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104 owns.
hat o' with' the other, and then dawdled along at a
very leisurely rate. Coming upon a roadside inn a
few hundred yards to the right, he veered out of his
path, and went beneath a shady clump of trees into
the passage, and awoke the landlord from his after-
noon nap under the lemon-net. Having inquired the
way to Oaklands, and been reyvarded with a very
surly "To the left  you can't miss it!"  for lami-
lords of public-houses object to inquiries without orders,
especially if they are awoke up to answer them  tle
man went straight out of the house, and set off at a
smart pace.
His mode of progression was certainly eccentric,
for, after a sudden halt, as if to remonstrate with him-
self, he adopted the dawdling rate again. Eviden:ly
he was a fast walker, whose intention was made up to
walk slowly, but whose old habits were a trie :0o-
strong for the intention.
He fell into a pretty equable kind of goose-szep
after the last remonstrance, till within sight of Oak-
lands, when he came to a full stop, and looked rOlI1(l
for something convenient to set his back agahst.
Finding nothing but hedge-rows, separated from the
foot-path by a narrow ditch, he stood in the middle of
the road, with his hat still off, gazing before hin at
the landscape.
A sun-burnt, weather-beaten face, and much lhed
as well as pock-marked  a face which gave one the
idea that its owner had seen trouble, or had suffeied a
great deal.
## p. 105 (#115) ############################################
owns. 105
The man stood there a considerable time, might
have remained there much longer, had not a milkman's
horse and cart come rattling down the road. After
stepping aside, he held up his hand to attract the at-
tention of the carts occupant, and said,
"That's Oaklands, isn't it?"
"Yes," said the driver.
"Thank'ee."
A few more steps towards the journey's end, and
then the ditch ending abruptly, and a sloping bank in
its place  a fair resting-spot for a man who seemed
unsettled in mind. He put his hat on, and leaned
against the bank, keeping his eyes towards Oaklands,
and pulling up little shreds of grass, which he let drop
through his restless ngers.
If the stranger's mission closed at Oaklands, what
kept him without the pale of the journey's end, idling
time on the hedge-banks? Was the past a weight
with him, or was the present difcult to face?  or
was he, after all, nothing but a way-side loiterer, in-
clined to take his time and enjoy the landscape that
lay before him? /
He was in no hurry now, whatever he might have
been; the stable clock at Oaklands chimed the half-
hour past four, struck ve, chimed the half-hour past
ve, and still he sat there, watching the white house
amidst the distant trees, and plucking the grass with a
nervous hand.
"No, this won't do," he said at last, and giving an
extra tug to his hat, which brought it very low over
## p. 106 (#116) ############################################
106 owns.
his forehead, he jumped to his feet and walked on
rapidly. He would not falter now, lest his heart should
falter with him; he had come a long journey, and
it must not end in nothing, and he go back like a
fool.
He was at the lodge-gates, which were open 
there was a bell ready to his hand, but the hand felt
like lead, and refused to be raised. He might have
turned away even then, if an old woman had not made
her appearance from the lodge and confronted him.
"Do you want anyone here, young man?"
The gentleman addressed was not young enough
to deserve the cognomen, but anything under sixty
was gay youth to Mrs. Cutcheld. She had seen
eighty odd summers, and was getting old herself now,
but she did not think the world was becoming old
with her.
"Yes," said the man, hoarsely.
"What's your business, may I ask?"
"I've  I've brought a message to a lady who
lives here  a young lady."
"Miss Chickney?"
The man nodded.
"Lord bless us, what a man to stare!" was the in-
ward comment of Mrs. Cutcheld. "Well, what's the
message? You may trust me with it, for, old as I am,
I've an excellent memory."
"I was to give it to her myself."
"Oh, it's something important, then?"
"Yes."
## p. 107 (#117) ############################################
owns. 107
"Nothing to frighten her, I hope, my good man?"
asked the alarmed Mrs. Cutcheld.
"Oh, no  nothink at all."
"Will you wait in the lodge, or go up to the
house? Miss Chickney isn't at home at present."
"Will she be long, do you think?"
"I don't think she will  I can't say exactly."
"I'll  I'll step into the lodge, please."
Mrs. Cutcheld led the way into the neatly-furnished
lodge, and placed a chair for the new-comer. Whether
by accident or design, the chair was placed full in the
light, a position that the stranger appeared to object
to, for he backed the chair against the wall, and sat
down, nursing his hat. Mrs. Cutcheld had been in-
terrupted in her tea when the stranger at the gates
had attracted her attention, and she proceeded to pour
out her second cup after the gentleman had placed his
chair to his mind.
Very grave and thoughtful was Mrs. Cutcheld
over that second cup of tea  the coming of the man
perplexed her. There was nothing remarkable in a
person bringing a message to Miss Chickney  it
might be from the town and the tradesfolk  but the
man had said it was a matter of importance, and the
statement kept her inwardly dgety. And then there
was something in the man that puzzled her  he was
not from Ansted, for she knew every one in the town
he looked like a man who had been burnt a little
in forrin' parts, or at all events had had a deal of
knocking about in the sun somewhere. He was so
## p. 108 (#118) ############################################
108 owns.
silent a man, too, and hardly seemed to be composed
enough for one who had only a message to deliver to
her Mary. Perhaps if she bribed him with a cup of
tea  he looked thirsty - he would become more
communicative, and, oh, dear! she felt so dreadfully
curious-like!
"Will you have a cup of tea, sir?"
"Thankee, ma'am  thankee," said the stranger;
"I don't know but what it might do me a little
good." '
"Ain't you well?"
"Oh! I'm well enough," was the brisk answer.
"Your message hasn't been a heavy one to bring
here," with a shrewd look at him out of one eye.
"Nno," was the reply; "I said not."
The cup of tea was held towards her visitor, who
rose, thanked her once more, and took the tea back
with him to the shadowy place wherein he had en-
sconced himself.
"I just hinted it,' because a bad message to Mary
Chickney might upset her mind  it's hard not to be
prepared for anything."
"You're right."
"She's a tender-hearted girl, and hasn't been used
to bad news."
"And I' haven't brought any."
H Oh!"
The stranger blew and stirred at his tea till fully
convinced of a lower rate of temperature, then he took
the beverage o11' at a gulp  castor-oil fashion.
## p. 109 (#119) ############################################
OWEN. 109
"I suppose you know Miss Chickney by sight,
young man?"
"Well  let me see now 
Mrs. Cutcheld had not supposed anything of the
kind, but she was becoming more anxious to draw out
her guest. She waited for the result of the man's
mental reection very patiently. No, he didn't think
he knew Miss Chickney  he was a stranger to these
parts.
"You're from forrin' parts, then?"
"I'm from London."
"Then you can't know anything of Miss Chickney,
who hasn't seen London since she was a very little
girl."
"I think I saw her once about these partsa tall
girl with brown hair."
The stranger was drawing Mrs.,Cuteheld out in
his turn, and that lady, less on her guard, dashed into
the subject at once.
"You're very wrong there  her hair's as black as
jet, and she's a little mite of a thing for a young wo-
man  light as a fairy, and such sperrits, and so
good-hearted! Lord bless you, sir, nothing would ever
turn that girl's heart from old friends  she's full of
true feeling and real love for everything and everybody.
She's cut out for an angel, and I've allus got the fear
that she'll be whisked away when none of us expect it."
"Ain't her health good?" asked the man, quickly.
"She never knew a day's illness in her life she's
been blessed as yet, as well as she has been a blessing.
77
## p. 110 (#120) ############################################
1 10 owns.
She ts any station, and becomes it, Lord love her
heart, she does!"
"I suppose she looks as if she had been born a
lady?"
"How do you know she hasn't?" sharply inquired
Mrs. Cutcheld.
The man looked confused, and passed one large
brown hand over his forehead, as if sweeping back the
short hair that had not intruded thereon.
"It's the talk about  there's no secret in it."
"N  no," said Mrs. Cutcheld, keeping a dubious
eye on the man still; "but I didn't think it had got to
London."
"Couldn't I hear it coming along?"
"Yes, you might; people do cackle about here
awful. Have another cup of tea, young man?"
"No, thankee."
"Then pass over the cup and saucer, please; you'll
dget with it till you break it. Look as if she'd been
born a lady!" repeated Mrs. Cutcheld; "of course she
does  of course she would. I knew she would when
they took her away from me, who had the. rearing of
her from the tiniest prettiest child you ever' clapped
your eyes on. And I never lost that child's love, sir,"
she cried proudly; "the great house made no change
in her, and it never will, however long I'm spared to
see her."
Voluble and ancient ladies who have a pet subject
to discourse upon, are not always pleasant company,
but this messenger thought otherwise. He had changed
## p. 111 (#121) ############################################
owns. 1 11
his easy position with his back to the wall, and sat
leaning forward with a hand on each knee, all atten-
tion. He scarcely breathed for fear the old lady should
stop short in her discourse, and break the spell that
was on her, and that seemed to rest on him, and take
him from the outer world wherein he must have ex-
perienced much hardship. Had he known more of
Mrs. Cutcheld, he might have felt perfectly easy on
the score of interruption: she would have run on for
hours concerning the merits of little Mary, time could
scarcely abate her eloquence, or put an end to her
anecdotes. Bless her with a patient listener, and give
her a quiet evening after tea, with nothing on her
mind but the tea-things, which she could "wash up"
and talk over, and "how she could go on about that girl!"
"But here she comes!"
And the old lady, quick of hearing, and not slow
in her movements, ran to the lodge-door. The man
kept his place, and laid his head back once more
against the wall. Mrs. Cutcheld thought him a person
very short of breath  a lazy person, too, who wanted
waiting on, and stuck close enough to the chair, good-
ness knows, and didn't seem inclined to show much
civility by rising.
He had risen, however, before Mary came into the
lodge, and was standing twisting his hat round in his
hands.
' "Here's a man brought a message to you, Mary."
"Oh! I hope it's a nice one!"
"He's waiting inlthe lodge."
## p. 112 (#122) ############################################
1 12 owns.
The rustle of a light muslin dress, and then Mary
Chickney, in the lodge parlour close to the man who
regarded her so curiously.
"You bring me bad news!" she exclaimed; "don't
keep it back. Let me know the worst!"
"No bad news," he said very huskily; "don't distress
yourself, -it's quite eontrairy."
"It's about Owen  Mr. Owen of Melbourne?"
she said eagerly.
"Yes, Miss, it's about him."
"Well, well, well! What does he say?  have
you brought a letter from my dear guardian? What
a big, awkward snail you are, sir!"
"Beg pardon," stammered the man, "no, it's not a
letter, only a message  if I was coming this way,
just to call and say that he was on his journey home."
"I know that  he wrote to tell me that," cried
Mary; "but you're very kind to come and tell me, sir.
It's the good news over again," she added, clapping
her hands; "and dear Owen thought he'd make quite
sure. You're very kind, sir, to come all this way,
you're  where's my purse? - I wonder where my
purse is?"
"Don't be in such a urry, Mary dear  what a
girl you are!" said Mr. Cutcheld.
"Don't give me money, please," said the man; "I
don't want it  ain't short of it."
There was something in the ma.n' voice that
checked Mary in her search for her purse; an offer of
money he seemed to imply would be an insult to him.
## p. 113 (#123) ############################################
owns. 1 13
A strange man, not badly dressed, and yet one whom
nobody would have taken for a gentleman.
"I beg pardon. And oh! sir, do you know my
Owen? Did you know him in Australia?"
"I have known him many years, miss."
"How's he looking?  sit down and tell me all
about him. Has he altered much in six years? Do sit
down!" urged the impetuous Mary.
"I haven't seen him for some time," said the man;
"he wrote to me  that's all."
"What's your name?"
"Miss?"
"What's your name?  you're a friend of ()wen's
- I should like to know your name." '
"Van - Van Demon," said the man with a dash.
"What a funny name!" ejaculated Mrs. Cutcheld; "I
thought you weren't English by your manners, long ago."
"No, marm  exactly," said he;" and I'll go now
if you please, Miss Chickney  and God bless you
here and arterwards!  and my head aches, and I
must have fresh air."
He reeled slightly in his walk as he made for the
lodge doorstanding against it, he held by the door-
post for a moment and looked back. "What a strange,
wild looking man!" thought Mary; "and why does he
stare at me so hard?"
She trembled even a little, and glanced at Mrs.
Cutcheld inquiringly. Had the man been drinking
on his way to Oaklands, she wondered, that he should
give her his blessing, and then regard her so strangely?
Owen:  A Waif. 1!. 8 '
## p. 114 (#124) ############################################
1 14 owns.
, "Good evening," she said.
"Good evening;" and the man turned, went down
the one step into the gravelled carriage road, gave one
hasty glance back as he passed through the lodge gates,
and then strode away at a great pace. There was no
dilatoriness in his progress now  he marched on
rapidly, with his head a little bent. The sun was
going down behind the hills  workmen from the
town, and eld labourers, were wending their way
along the road  up from the east the twilight and
the stars were coming.
"Well, I've seen her," he muttered; "just for once
and all, I've seen her, thank God! After all these
years, how precious odd it seems!"
A man met him, walking as fast as he  went
rapidly past  stopped. The messenger, deep in
thought, and with head still bent, continued his way.
He who had stopped, turned, and went as rapidly
back again, seizing the thoughtful man by the arm.
"Stop! surely I know you? Fourteen years 'ago
you were a friend of mine."
The men looked each other in the face. The mes-
senger saw before him a man as tall as himself  a
dark-haired, dark-skinned man, with eyes that seemed
to pierce him through. Fourteen years ago it was the
face of a child, and he had seen it last through a pri-
son grating.
" Owen!" he cried.
" Turb1/.7 "
## p. 115 (#125) ############################################
owns. 115
CHAPTER VI.
The New Tarby.
TI-IE hands of the two men, separated for so long,
met as in an iron grip, and for a few moments they
were silent. It was a strange meeting  it was open-
ing a whole grave of recollections, bridging over all
the trials and troubles between fourteen years and then.
It was the world of Hannah Street again and the green-
grocer's shop at the corner, and the faithful, honest
woman, whom God had taken away from them, itting
about again with.little Mary in her arms. Was it
fourteen years ago, since the one was a small shop-
keeper, and the other a lad tfully snatching at learn-
ing from the midst of his labour?had all those long
years glided away, and they were face to face again,
as in old times?
"I don't know whether I ought to have shaken
hands with you or not," said Tarby, when they had
relinquished their grasp.
"It's the hand of a friend."
' "Thankee."
"It grasps the hand of one who would give much
to forget the past  live it over again?"
"Ay  I told you so in the letter they taught me
to write I meant it thenI mean it now, Owen."
"And yet you are a promise-breaker."
L
3*
## p. 116 (#126) ############################################
11 6 owns.
"True."
And Tarby hung his head like a child under re-
proof.
"You have been'to Oaklands?"
"I could not help it," said Tarby; "wasn't it na-
tural of me  considering. Lord! what a deal of
pluck it took, Owen!"
Owen had altered his route. Tarby and he were
walking away from Oaklands, towards 92's cottage.
"Have you told her all, Tarby?"
"I tell her!" exclaimed Tarby; "I'd ha' sooner
dropped down dead a-coming home, than stabbed her
with such an awful story. Didn't I make up my mind
years ago, and hasn't it growed stronger, Owen?"
"It ran a risk to-day."
"Not a bit," said Tarby, sturdily; "I took a mes-
sage to her that you were coming back  you wrote
me word you'd started; and I did have a desperate
wish to see her once  just to know, old fellow, if she
was like  her mother."
"How is she looking?" asked Owen.
"Like a real lady born  as bright and pretty a
face as ever I seed, with a ash of the poor mother in
it, too. P'raps if it hadn't been for me, she might
' have lived to see this day."
"Would Mary have been where she is?"
"Ah! no  I forgot that, Owen," and he held out
his hand once more; "do you know what that's for?"
'(No.77
They shook hands again; and Tarby said,
## p. 117 (#127) ############################################
owns. 1 17
"For keeping lwr in remembrance, and her grave
like a ower-bed. Do you know, I cried like a babby
at what you wrote upon the tombstone. You call her
there 'your faithful mother,' and it's good of you."
"Could there have been a more faithful mother to
me?"
"She was the best of women, and I  the worst
of men."
"Not quite so bad as that, Tarby."
"I broke her heart by my goings on  could I
have done much wus than that?"
Tarby's education, thanks to Government school-
masters, had improved somewhat; he could write a
large letter and spell a little, but in excited moments,
as we see, he forgot his education. "I used to make
fun of your larning," he said to Owen on a later day;
"and hang it, if I wasn't served out myself, and taught
to read and write! The hardest work in all my life,
Owen."
But we are advancing too fast, and Owen and
Tarby are still in the country lanes.
"So I only wanted to see her once," said Tarby,
recurring to the old subject, "to know what she was
like  what I could remember her by; I served my
time out in the colony, I got my ticket after eight
years' service  I worked the tother six on my own
account, and earned six hundred pounds. I come home
here to pay all I owe you, and alter my mind about
dying in foreign parts. I thought I would rather share
her grave when my time comes do you blame me?"
## p. 118 (#128) ############################################
118 owns.
"No."
"I shan't hang about Oaklands after my daughter,
until the story comes out to disgrace her," continued
Tarby; "you needn't be afeard of me. I swore to keep
me strong when I touched English groundI'll never
break my word!" '
"Is it for the best, I wonder? Why should you,
who come back a better man, be deprived of one who
would be for ever a blessing to you?"
"My story would come out, and it's a shame to
her. She's a lady now, and it would stand in her way.
She don't know me, and I should frighten her to death.
Let her think her parents died honest, when she was a
young one. She knows the grave in Waterloo church-
yard, Owen?"
"Yes."
"What does she say to no fathcr's' name being
under themother's?"
"You died abroad."
"Ah! that's wellbut when I'm stowed there my-
self?"
"When that time comes  a long day hence, I
hope  she shall learn the story from me, if I live,"
said Owen. "It will be 'a story of a brave man's
sacrice."
"It's a duty, Owen, you know?"
"I don't knowI must think about it.",
"Right or wrong, I shall keep to my part in it,"
said Tarby sternly; "there's no changing mefor all
the love that she had for me when she was a little
## p. 119 (#129) ############################################
owns. 119
babby, I wouldn't have her know her father killed a
man, and was transported for it."
They had reached the road-side inn where Tarby
had made his inquiries an hour or two before.
"Shall we enter?" asked Owen.
"Not a drop of the drink again!" cried Tarby; "I
swore to that, too, long ago. I ain't signed a pledge
I don't call myself a teetotallcrbut I can't touch
drink now. I should see the dead man's face in the
glass!" added Tarby, with a shudder.
"Why, this is a great change, Tarby."
"Oughtn't there be one?"
"There was room for a little, perhaps."
Tarby looked into Owen's face, and then laughed.
"Ah, you were always a saucy young beggar 
many's the time you have riled me, you  I beg
pardon, you're a gentleman now."
"Who says so?"
"There's a cut about you that speaks for itself,"
answered Tarby; "and you hold your head up, like a
man who's got a place in the world."
"And a place in his heart for the man who gave
him the rst start."
"Always?"
"Always."
"Let's shake hands again, then. You're the best
of fellows!"
Having passed the inn, Tarby said,
"We may as well go and see 92 again. I've a
liking for that old gentleman; I used to knock him
## p. 120 (#130) ############################################
1 20 owrm.
about so. The up and down ghts he and I have had
in the Marsh, and the heavy weight he was when he
came uppermost, Owen!"
Owen laughed.
"Ah, boy, no laughing matter," said Tarby, grimly
"there's an end to it all that takes the fun out of
me!" .
"The past is gone and atoned for."
"I hope so. I say, Owen, what do you think of
me turning out a religious character  that's a new
start, eh?"
"Rather a change."
"There was a parson out there who spent his life
in trying to work a little change amongst the prisoners
hard work of his'n that the men, most of 'em,
laughed at, or played the humbug with, and tried to
do him. He knew my case, and picked me out amongst
the rest, just as if it was ordered so. I think it was
now!"
"Well?"
"Well, he made a better man of me, I think," was
the modest answer; "he made me sorry for the past,
and hopeful for the future. He read the Bible to me,
till I knew how to read it myself."
' "Has it done you any good?"
"Why shouldn't it?" rejoined Tarby.
"Ah, why shouldn't it."
Owen did not care to prosecute the subject. The
Bible had not done him any good  he had never
cared to open it. He could not have the childlike
## p. 121 (#131) ############################################
owns. 12 1
faith and condence of this man  he would have
been glad to doubt it, for it was a reproach to him.
For some years he had been advising Tarby, giving
him honest counsel, praying him to keep steady, and
live down the past; and now Tarby was ahead of him,
and might have taught him in his turn.
For six years had not humbled the spirit of Owen,
and the pursuit of wealth had but hardened him. In
success or reverse he had been equally the same  it
had been his pride to be stoical, and he had steeled
his heart against its better promptings. Once or twice
in the early days he had wavered, but further away
from all whom he loved, sinking deeper and deeper
into the inner mystery of self, the process of ossifying
had become an easy one. And yet, strange to say, he
came not wholly back a stern man; to the friends he
had left he had still the same warm heart; those he
had loved in the past, or who in the past had done
him service, he turned to again  it was only to the
outer world that he presented an inexible front.
"So you've come back rolling in riches I suppose,"
said 92, after the rst greetings were over, and 92 had,
with no small surprise, observed Owen's companion;
"people do come back from Australy, nabobs and bobs
of all sorts."
"I've earned what I anticipated  a fair amount,
but no fortune," said Owen; "enough to set up in
business on my own account, Mr. Dell."
"Oh, it's very comfor'ble this business. And
country life, after all, is wegetation."
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"I wonder you've lived in it so long, sir," Tarby
broke in with. '
"You may well wonder, sir  it's a 'plexity to
me," said 92, "I was delooded into these mildooded
parts by fancying I should be happy near my daughter,
who married and went off after a while  the way of
the sex, sir. Now I want activity. I've a little in-
come  regular but small  and wouldn't mind a
business myself, or joining in with a suitable partner."
"What do you call a suitable partner?" asked
Tarby, eagerly.
"Quiet and steady, and not unused to business."
"I wish you'd take me."
"Eh?"
"I think you and I might jog on together very
nicely somehow," said Tarby, "although I've no cha-
racter, and you've only my word  perhaps Owen's
here  that I've turned for the better. I'm Tarby."
"Tarby of Lower Marsh?  wonderful!"
"A temperance advocate," added Owen.
"A teetotamer, too - wonderfuller!"
92 took time to recover his surprise, lighted his
pipe over it, and considered it in all its bearings; and
Tarby, who had found it more difcult to eschew to-
bacco smoke than strong beverages, lighted a pipe also
and kept 92 company.
Tarby, side by side with 92 on an old garden
bench, related his history and adventures since his de-
parture "for his country's 'good;" the resolutions he
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had formed, and the little bit of money he had scraped
together.
"We're both lonely fellows, and getting old," said
Tarby; "we might be company for each other in a
business  if you've less money, why eddication will
make it up somewhat  you shall do all the ac-
counts, 92."
"What business do you think on, now?"
"Oh! I haven't thought - anything quiet."
"Tarby," holding his hand out, "I'm your man."
"Thankee, 92," answered Tarby; "by George, it's
like making it up with all the police force!",
So these two men, who, in the days of greater
health and strength, had been constantly opposed, sank
the byegones for ever and became the best of friends.
Their partnership had been strangely brought about
there was much diversity of character between them -
and yet from that time forth they took to each other,
and in the days of their future business together never
exchanged an angry word. Tarby became somehow
the junior partner, and 92 took the lead and was a
trie dictatorial  notwithstanding Tarby found three-
fourths of the capital and all the energy. There were
not many ideas in common between them, but Tarby
gave way, being proud of his partner.
Like opposes like, and in unlikes there is an at-
traction. As in science, so often amidst that greater
science in which few are deeply read the inscrutable
ever-varying philosophy of human life.
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CHAPTER VII.
Guardian and Ward.
Lnavmo the Montague and Capulet of Lower Marsh
.days to sink their little di'erences, Owen passed
through the little wicket to the country road again.
He had not yet visited Oaklands, and he did not care
to disturb Tarby's serenity by expressing his intention
of doing so before the night ended. But his heart
yearned to his ward, and he was anxious to see if time
had made much difference in her. Six years, and a
change from cottage life to an atmosphere more grand,
must work the usual change  he had not detected it
in her letters, he would be quick enough to see it face
to face.
Owen was still inclined to take a morbid view of
things  he would believe for the worst till the best
brightened the prospect. He had left England with
these views, and they had not grown less during his
absence. He had fancied, or tried to fancy, that John
Dell, Ruth, and Mary would all be different in the long
days to come, and had prepared himself to meet the
-change, coldly and phlegmatically. There is a system
that works well on railways, we hear  that of be-
lieving in danger till the all-right signal be displayed;
such a system in life is obnoxious  it renders men
distrustful, and saps at the root of all condence! Such
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owns. 1 125
a system Owen appeared to cultivate  almost uncon- .
seiously and it did not tend to improve the prospect
before him.
The stars were out as he retraced his steps rapidly
to the point from which Tarby and he had started to-
gether  the nights had not lengthened to any extent
yet, and the daylight was gone before Ansted clock
struck eight. It was not yet eight when Owen was on
his way to the lodge  when he paused some little
distancefrom the inn which Tarby had abjured, and
listened to voices nearing him along the country road.
Two voices - one of which was surely Mary's. It
,had rung too often in his ears for him to doubt it even
then.
"I think it's a wild-goose chase, my dear; and if
you had only waited for the carriage we should have
reached there in half the time."
"And whirled by him on the road, and so have
lost him."
"Well, you will have your way you always did,
Mary, dear  and if you should be right in your sur-
mises, and he really sent the man to break the shock
of his coming  won't he think we're a little bit
fussy?"
"Oh! no  that's not like my Owen."
"Come along then, my dear, we'll go as far as Mr.
Dell's cottageand if we're not robbed and murdered
down these dark lanes, it's not your fault. I was ne-
ver out so late in my life."
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"My dear Mrs. Cherbury, if you are in the least
nervous, pray let me go alone." ,
"You're a y-away thing, and not to be trusted."
There rang some pleasant laughter on the silent
road  how the rippling music of one at least sank to
the heart of the listener! Owen felt new life within
him, and that one dark view of things was already re-
ceding  that one very dear to him as a little sister
was still the loved one of old, considering him the rst
and the best, as in the days of her childhood, when a
word of his swayed her. Well, it was very pleasant
to be kept in memory so long  he could bear all, if
a grand life had not altered his ward.
Two gures of women turned the bend of the road
along which he had again proceeded  he would walk
past them, for fear of a surprise. In the shadowy
highway, there was not much chance of recognition.
He crossed to the hedge-row on the opposite side, and
continued his progress  the ladies glanced towards
him, the younger one with nervous eagerness.
"My dear Mary," reproved Mrs. Cherbury, "if it's
a strange gentleman, whatever "
"It's my gardy  it's Owen!" cried Mary, darting
away from her protectress, full of condence; "Owen,
- I am right  say I'm right!"
"My quick-eyed ward  my dear little Mary!"
Mary forgot she had turned seventeen, and leaped
up to him; Owen ung away his six years, and lifted
her in his strong arms and kissed her  it was a
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owns. 127
meeting that made amends for much bitterness of
parting.
"My dear Mary!" cried Mrs. Cherbury, "arn't you
a trie too impulsive? Good gracious me, if it had
been a railway guard going home, or something of that
sort!"
' Mary looked confused, but she clung to the arm '
of her guardian.
"Do you scold me, Owen?"
"Not I."
"I am so glad to see you, that I can't think I'm
any bigger than when you bade me good-bye, and
nearly broke my heart. You are in England for good
now?"
"Yes."
"What happy times are coming for me, gardy!"
"You must not expect too much happiness from
very stern material," said Owen in reply; "we are in
different worlds, you and I."
"Ah! for the presentbut you will want a house-
keeper, and you have come back to watch over your
ward  the old promise, Owen!"
"What, are you tired of Mrs. Cherbury?" he asked
in a lower tone.
"No, no, the best and the kindest of women, but I
cannot change her for my guardian."
"We shall have all this talk at a time more be-
tting," said Owen; "meanwhile, we are treating Mrs.
Cherbury very badly."
"Not at all, not at all, Mr.Owen," cried that lady,
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who had heard the last words of our hero; "I'm sure
you have a right to forget me under the circumstances.
And, my dear Mary, you are quite sure there's no
mistake ? I've known some dreadful cases of mistaken
identity."
"Let me risk the introduction, Mrs. Cherbury," said
Mary, laughing.
The introduction was made, and Mrs. Cherbury
very frankly extended her hand to Owen.
"I am glad you have returned, sir," she said; and
then added, after a pause, "for Mary's sake."
Mrs. Cherbury was doubtful how it might turn out
for her own - how much love she might lose! 
whether with the love might not vanish away the girl
who had wound her way round her heart.
"At least I shall have four years of happiness,"
she had said, on the day Mary's choice was made; but
happy years ash along like the lightning, and lo, it
is the Present again, which the bright lightning has
scathed! Here was another to step between Mary and
her  another whom Mary had ever confessed to love
best  and yet she was an unselsh woman, and for
Mary's sake was glad.
"Your son, Mrs. Cherbury, is still absent from Eng-
land, I suppose?" asked Owen as they neared Oak-
lands. ,
"Oh! yes"  with a sigh; "always absent, sir."
Had it been otherwise, the probability was that
Owen would have gone no further than the lodge; for
he was a man who treasured up too much of the past,
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owns. 1 29
or rather too many of the bitter memories appertaining
to it.
At the lodge there was a long talk with Mrs.
Cutcheld, who insisted upon asserting that Owen had
grown; and it was not till nearly nine o'clock that
Owen, his ward, and Mrs. Cherbury were in the spa-
cious drawing-room at Oaklands. In the full light
Owen felt he was the central gure, the object of in-
terest to Mrs. Cherbury and her prote'ge'e  in the full
light his eyes could wander to his ward also, and note
the changes that six years had made in her.
A lovely girl, budding into womanhood, and still
retaining all the child's frankness and affection - the
old love existent in as fair a form and face as had
ever crossed him in his wanderings. In the midst of
the beauty that he gazed upon, and was as proud of
as though it had been his sister's he fancied there was
more of the mother's likeness predominant than he had
been a witness heretofore. He felt the resemblance
existed, and that it drew him towards her  if he
treasured bitter memories, in the midst of all he had
suffered and had yet to suffer, the remembrance of the
true mother never escaped him. Had the world really
changed Mary, checked her a'ection, lured it naturally
to a strange source, he would have loved her for that
likeness through it all; she would have ever been his
sister to be watched over, and kept from harm.
And Mary in her turn, taking stock of the guar-
dian, thought what an earnest face, if a little stern, his
had become! A face which, amidst the lines that were
Owen:  A mir. 11. 9
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there before their time, was a truthful, expressive face,
which looked at the world steadily, and inched not
from the storm that its frown might forebode.
Mary was new to that world, and knew not its un-
charitableness, guessed not what had already risen in
Owen's thoughts as he sat watching her bright face.
He had promised her once that his home should be
hers till she married and went away for good; he be-
lieved then that a word would bring her to his side
from her grand home, but he had already seen the
futility of such a scheme! As guardian and ward,
brother and sister, the world would have no mercy on
them they were too young to escape censure, and must
wait awhile. Nine-and-twenty could not set itself up
as the sole protector of a girl not eighteen years of age.
When he was grey-haired  and there were grey hairs
in his locks already  he should assert his claim, and
become her guardian in earnest. A foolish idea, he
thought a moment afterwards: Mary would marry a
gentleman, one of the Cherbury set, and pass for ever
away from his protection. Tarby had thought so, and,
with an eye to future relationship, had vowed ever to
remain dead to the daughter. Yes, she would marry,
and the promise made to her mother would pass away
as surely, as one less to love would pass away from
him also.
Owen stayed late that night at Oaklands  he
had much to relate concerning Australia, and Mary
was never tired of listening. Mrs. Cherbury was soli-
citous that Owen should make Oaklands his home for
## p. 131 (#141) ############################################
OWEN. 1 3 1
a. few days  "save such a deal of fuss in coming
backwards and forwards, my dear sir"  but Owen
was rm, and the Cherbury hospitality was a little
distasteful to him. The kind motherly old lady exerted
herself to make him welcome, but the name stood in
the way of gaining much progress  she was the
mother of one who had scouted him as a thief!
Still, Mrs. Cherbury's manners won upon him 
there was an amiable disposition evident, and she was
attached to his ward. He had been agreeably disap-
pointed in her also, having anticipated a highly-
starched ne lady, from whom her son had possibly
inherited his stiffness and angularity. He was speedily,
undeceived, and might have softened even more during
that rst interview, if Mary had not monopolized so
much of his attention.
Owen could only reconcile Mary to parting with
him by promising another visit on the morrow; and
Mary, no slave to etiquette, and whose childlike affec-
tion went beyond all precedents, was with difculty
persuaded from seeing him as far as the lodge down
the dark carriage drive.
"Is he not my guardian?" was her assertion; and
it required Owen's negative also to keep her in the
drawing-room.
"What a pity it is that I am growing too big, as
you call it," said Mary to Mrs. Cherbury, when Owen
had departed  "as if the more I should grow, the
less I should love him who has come back to make
9*
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my life happy. Am I to outgrow the child's heart,
Mrs. Cherbury?" 
"Not for all the world, my dear," said Mrs. Cher-
bury; "but he is so much younger than I expected to
nd him, and you are only seventeen, and must sink
the child in the woman. What will he think?"
"Oh, if it only depends on what my Owen
thinks " \
"But, my dear, he isn't your Owen," corrected
Mrs. Cherbury; "you said so twice this evening, and
I am sure the young man quite blushed again. And
what Mr. Owen and I may take as the impulsive affec-
tion of your warm 'young heart, other people may put
a very different construction upon."
"But I don't care for other people!"
"My dear Mary, be assured you will have to study
them a little," said Mrs. Cherbury; "the older you
grow, the less consideration they will have for you.
I I hope, my dear, I am not paining you, but I am
an old woman who has seen much of the world, and I
fancy it is useful counsel I am giving you."
The woman whom the world had not hardened, let
her hand rest on that of the impetuous girl's. In the
school of life it was Mary's rst harsh lesson, and she
could see how necessary it was to learn it, .despite 'a
strange wish to rebel, and trust to her own judgment.
She had been the child Owen had left six years ago
that night  it would be necessary, maidenly, to evince
more respect and less affection.
"He will never take me to his home, now," she
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OWEN. 133
said, mournfully; "more than once to-night he has im-
plied that."
Mrs. Cherbury was very glad to nd that Owen
had such forethought, although she attempted con-
solation.
"Well, it would hardly be right, my love," said
she; "but you must not consider that a sorrow. II
hope you won't, for my sake?"
"No, I won't sorrow about it," said the girl, hastily
dashing a tear or two from her eyes; "I feel it's right,
and that six years brooding upon it cannot alter the
position. But he did promise me!"
"He was younger himself by six years, and you
were only a child of eleven," said Mrs. Cherbury;
"people can't lay out their love like a plot of garden-
ground. Besides, you are not going to be miserable
with me because the guardian comes home. All the
love that has grown up between us will not die away
like .that, my darling."
"Never, my dear, never!"
And Mary ung herself into Mrs. Cherbury's arms,
and cried for some reason better known to herself than
to the world. And maidens are incomprehensible, and
will shed tears over out-of-the-way subjects, and would
be puzzled themselves to tell what the tears are for.
True maidenhood is shy and impulsive, and full of the
generous unworldly thoughts belonging to days past
for ever; hovering between girlhood and womanhood,
it utters vainly against the bars which are as a screen
from the outer perils, concerning which it is ignorant.
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They are barriers in the way of a free ight and an
open heart; the struggle is painful if short, and reason
sits down with a sigh to life's "proprieties."
And in one or two of the sighs that escaped Mary
then, and troubled the faithful bosom on which her
head rested, there escaped also much of the free na-
ture of the child  much of its wildness and excita-
bility  and there remained behind ever the loving
woman, impulsive still as was her nature, but capable
to take her part in the crowd, and better able to think
for herself and for others.
One may dream on for six years, and heed not
how time ies  one may wake in an instant to a
new life and its duties.
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owns. 135
CHAPTER VIII.
Marks Progress.
Owns saw the change in Mary Chickney, and was
doubtful if he were pleased with it or not. So many
people whom he met were prone to disguise, and re-
gulated their actions so constantly by set-rules, that
the warm heart speaking in every word and action of
his ward had exercised a strange charm on the night
of their meeting.
There was something constrained and difdent
about her from that day; he had parted with the
child, and yet from that day a graceful young woman
came ever forth to meet him. To meet him gladly,
and to make little effort to disguise her joy at seeing
him; to listen to his words and set store by them; al-
ways quick to understand his lightest wish and obey
it, but nevertheless not the Mary of old.
A sister and ward, with less exhibition of love for
him, and more of a respect far too deep and reverential
to please. He felt it ,was right, that the change was
better for both Mary and him; but it was not the
more pleasant. He knew the child's heart had closed
perhaps no longer existed  and that every little
joy and trouble would not be offered to him to share
now. She would esteem it frivolous talk, and the
world would cast its shadow, by an inevitable rule,
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136 owns.
ever between them. He should not lose her affection
he felt assured  but he would miss her condence,
and the woman of the name of Cherbury would be
trusted more than himself.
Very right and proper, but very hard to bear 
a necessity that there was no ghting against; there-
fore let him be content, or appear so. ,
During their second meeting he spoke of his home.
"I have seen John Dell, and am going to live
with him again, Mary," he said; "he and I settle
down to our old positions, just as if six years had
made no difference between us. He has o'ered me
partnership, and I am better able to accept a share in
his work, and to work for him. This is not the pic-
ture, Mary, you drew for me when I went away from
England."
"No, Owen," said Mary gravely; "it was a ehild's
fancy sketch, and not likely to be realized."
"Still you thought the guardian would come back
for his ward," said Owen; "and till you married, I
had fancied your home might be mine. But it is
better as it is, Mary. I hope you think that?"
"Yes-77
"You will be glad to see me often at Oaklands,
and you would perhaps have tired of me and my little
smoke-dried house in London after a time."
"Never, Owen  you don't believe so," she cried,
and then checked herself with some embarrassment.
"Well, we will say no more on the subject," said
he; "I ..m the guardian to come once or twice a-week
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owns. 137
and pay my stately visits to Oaklands, keeping a
watch on everybody inclined to fall in love with you,
and dispute my rightful authority. I suppose there
will come a time when the ward, growing rebellious,
will resist my commands?"
"No, Owen," was the answer, "your word will
ever be law to me. You will nd me to the last an
' obedient ward."
"Wait awhile: 'promises spoken  especially rash
ones  are made to be broken!'"
Mary shook her head.
"We can look back at some dead promises strewing
the way already, Mary," said he; "don't let us make
any fresh ones. Already you have a right to take
wing and away from me, and my guardianship is but
a name."
"Oh, don't say that!" cried Mary; "I shall never
be happy if I think you have given up control of me;
that you leave me in the world unstrengthened by
your counsel, perhaps forgotten by yourself."
"Have I so many friends that I can a'ord to
forget the best of them?"
"Really the best?" asked Mary, with sparkling
eyes.
"Never a better one in all the world."
"Then I'm not sorry I've become a young woman."
It was the old frank speaking, at which Owen
laughed, and Mary coloured a moment afterwards.
Why, this was better than working in Australia; a
place where he had made but few acquaintances and
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138 owns.
found no friends. This was real life opening to him,
and he might be happy therein. 4
Owen soon began life in earnest under John Dell.
Energetic and clear-headed, he applied his abilities to
the task before him, and both partners worked on with
a will. Dell felt a weight removed from his shoulders;
it was a great satisfaction to nd Owen sharing the
business with him, and that six years knocking about
in a strange land had not been the worst of chances
for his friend. Owen was stern in his way, looked
perhaps a little too gravely at the surface of things 
even studied the money question a trie too closely -
but he was no longer morbid, and never talked of
despair, and solitary futures. Dell knew he had re-
turned no more religious than he had set forth  that
the consciousness of his own power was enough for
him, and that sufcient for the day was the good
thereof as well as the evil. Still he hoped that a time
would come when this strange young man would think
a little more deeply concerning matters of moment 
after all, he was not very hard to move, and the time
would come to work a change. Till then he would
not preach  no man should ever accuse John Dell
of cant and hypocrisy!
Dell had not wholly fathomed our hero's character;
it was difcult to thoroughly comprehend. Possibly it
was an unsettled character, for in the midst of much
that seemeed quiet and methodical and pains-taking,
there ashed out at times something of the old rest-
lessness.
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owmz. 139
Dell thought he could bear to speak of the mother
now, and mentioned her name, expressing a hope even
that she had not gone wholly back to the past life;
and Owen turned almost ercely towards him.
"My mother is for ever dead to me  don't thrust
the disgrace before me anew. I have done with it."
"Don't say you are still unforgiving, Owen," an-
swered Dell, reproachfully.
"I bear no malice  if I were mistaken, the fault
is my own," said he. "I am only anxious to consider
her dead."
"Suppose she starts forth from the living again -
what then ?"
"She turned from me  I have done with her!"
'"Ah! you may think so!  I doubt it."
And perhaps Owen doubted also, for he made no
attempt to defend his assertions. It was a subject he
was anxious to consider ended for ever  let him
forget it, and live alone in the present. In the pre-
sent there was much to do, many plans to carry out
one of which in particular the reader will be
troubled with in our next book. In the present he
desired to show a calm front in the battle of life; he
had outlived romance, and in the sober reality around
him he desired to work and save money. He was
saving money for two ends, neither selsh  one was
for his ward's dowry, when "one of the Cherbury set"
carried her off. His ward should not pass portionless
away from his charge, whenever her turn came to love
and be loved.
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14O owns.
Every day he thought more of that time ad-
vancing  she was a beautiful, amiable girl, and
must soon touch the heart of the stranger. What he
would be like to be worthy of her, he did not know 
he could not imagine. But he would be watchful, for
Mary's sake, and no false colours should deceive him.
The trying time was coming for his innocent ward;
sooner or later it must be. He had spent six years
abroad,  during the only period he could leave her,
and be true to the promise he had made Mary's
mother  now it was his duty to be watchful, lest
the outposts should be passed and he never'the wiser.
Alone with Mrs. Cherbury one day, he very openly
asked the question, as a guardian's right, concerning
the state of Mary's heart.
"I presume it to be untouched yet," he said lightly,
"but seventeen or eighteen is an age when love may
a'ect the heart and head of a girl  you as her friend
must have had opportunities of observation."
"Good gracious, our Mary!" said Mrs. Cherbury;
"why she was only a child six months  three months
ago. She has never thought of a sweetheart in her life
yet, I'm sure. Time enough, Mr. Owen, for a fussy
state of existence. You don't wish her to marry early,
I hope?"
"W'hy should I?"
"Because you're so very quick with your suspicions
that her affections may be engaged," replied Mrs.
Cherbury; "and it's seldom your sex take so much in-
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owns. 141
terest. It's the mother and female friends  never the
father, and brothers, and guardians."
"I am an exception to the rule, then  Mary's
'love-affairs' will be a subject of paramount interest to
me," said Owen.
"I don't say you're in the wrong, sir," said Mrs.
Cherbury, "but it's a little remarkable, or else I
haven't been used to seeing the masculine gender quite
so dgety. My poor husband never took notice of
anything, even when it was quite plain and unmista-
kable, and my lad was the only one who did not
see that Mr. Glindon was falling in love with Miss
Dell." .
Owen thought that was plain enough to be seen,
at least, but he was not talking of Mr. Glindon and
his wife. They did not belong to the present  they
were living in the country, and had vanished away
from his sphere. Owen wished to speak only of his
ward, for he was anxious concerning her.
Mrs. Cherbury should have set his doubts at rest,
but still his anxiety- did not seem to abate he knew
in his heart that it was increasing. Calm and matter-
of-fact as he might appear, there was little doubt of
Mary perplexing him  every day he became more
watchful and solicitous. Things that did not appear
to be connected with her future happiness even began
to disturb him.
A letter from Isaac Cherbury that arrived when he
was at Oaklands set him thinking very much.
It was a brief letter, as Mrs. Cherbury might have
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anticipated, but it contained important tidings, and
carried the good lady to the seventh heaven ex-
citement.
Isaac Cherbury's head was no better, possibly worse
a physician had recommended his native air  he
thought he should return home, and he was her affec-
tionate son, Isaac Cherbury.
"He'll be glad to have his old mother nursing
him!" cried Mrs. Cherbury; "oh! dear, I shall be
the happiest woman in the world then  Isaac and
Mary."
Owen objected to this coupling of their names -
he did not know why  it was sheer accident, but
it made him secretly angry. Mr. Chcrbury might never
return, and if he did it was not any business of Owen's,
and could inuence Mary's life but little Owen's not
at all. He and his ward would meet as often, if in a
di'erent place  for it was doubtful if he should face
Mr. Cherbury, a man who had humbled him, and who
knew the secret of his early life.
When a second letter arrived, informing Mrs. Cher-
bury that her son had really resolved to return, Owen
took a bold step. His was a straightforward nature,
at least, and his quick eye saw the embarrassments
that might eventually arise. He would be rst with
that avowal of his antecedents, which possibly Mr.
Isaac Cherbury might think it his business to commu-
nicate. Older as he had grown, with more faith in the
world's judgment of a man who had worked upwards
like himself, he felt his voice falter and his cheeks
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redden with the avowal. But it was necessary, and
he made it.
"Your son returns in the course of a few weeks?"
"Thank God!  yes, sir," answered the mother.
"It will possibly make some little difference in my
visits to my ward," said he;' "I shall see her at the
lodge  take her for a stroll in the green lanes once
or twice a-week, but probably my visits here will cease
with your son's return."
"My son is the quietest of men," said Mrs. Cher-
bury; "I am sure "
"I am sure that he will not care to have me as a
guest at his mother's house  that I shall not care to
face him."
"Owen," exclaimed Mary', turning pale, "what do
you mean?"
Mrs. Cherbury sat open-mouthed and very much
amazed, waiting for Owen's explanation.
"Years ago I was in your husband's service, Mrs.
Cherbury, then in your son's. Years before that, a
poor boy, with no moral counsellors, and not a single
teacher to tell me right from wrong, I stole for bread,
and the law called me thief, and locked me up. Res-
cued from evil .by Mary's mother here, supported by
John Dell in my efforts to escape the dark life in
which I might have sunk for ever, I worked upwards,
and entered, as I have said, your husband's service.
The past life was a disgrace to me, and I kept it a
secret, believing it known but to one man upon earth
it was a slur on my good name, and of my good
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name I was proud. Your son gave me my rst cheek,
and cast me back, as I thought, to the old disgrace;
he discovered my secret, and became ungenerous and
suspicious. Judge if I can meet that man again?"
"It is very strange," said Mrs. Cherbury; "but
you must have mistaken my son, if you thought he
would despise any such efforts as yours. He is a silent
and reserved man  perhaps a suspicious one  but
he never despised a worthy motive, or an honest effort,
I am sure."
"There was not much explanation of his motives or
of mine ' I relinquished his service, and he lled my
place with a man whose character would bear an acuter
test. I am not blaming him, madam  I am inclined
to think now he was right, knowing how few true
reformations there are  but I cannot face him in this
house."
"Well, there will be time enough to talk of this
when Isaac returns," said Mrs. Cherbury, anxious to
dismiss a painful subject, and perhaps seeing a way to
reconcile matters that appeared insurmountable to
Owen; "you will not turn from us, or desert Mary
here, because my son has wounded your feelings, I am
sure."
"Are you not both alarmed at me?" said Owen,
feeling wondrously relieved now the revelation was
made.
"I am proud of a friend who has fought upwards
so bravely," said Mrs. Cherbury.
"Thank you, madam," said Owen, turning some-
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what nervously for his answer to Mary, who sat still
pale and silent.
"You have understood what is right from a child,
too, Mary  can you understand me?"
"My dear guardian," burst forth Mary, in an ex-
cited manner, "am I old enough to understand all
your perseverance, to guess why you have always
been so kind, and gentle, and faithful to me, for the
sake of the mother who left me so young to your
guidance ? Will you think that I love you the better
for it?"
"I will think you the best little woman in the
world, having faith and charity to all men!" he
cried.
He thought of Mary's father at that moment, and
whether he and Tarby had been right in their narrow
judgment to keep the secret of her parentage a
mystery. Here was a love that would forgive every-
thing, and Tarby was entitled to it  a love to
endure and grow strong. And yet it was Tarby's wish
that that pure-minded, sensitive girl should not be
stung with the knowledge of crime, taking a share of
her father's punishment, and exposing herself to a ver-
dict from society that would be onesided and unfair.
Society has no time to look to the,tness of things;
to test the strength of the under-current and the
value of the straws that oat to the surface - it
judges, and condemns, and passes on. Society would
say she was the daughter of a man who had been
transported for man-slaughter  perhaps 'I'arby was
Owen:  A Waif. n. 10
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right, and it was better that the curtain should hang
ever between father and daughter. It was the fatherr'
wish at least, and he had no right to interfere. Owen
went more often to see his ward after that day; when
Mr. Cherbury returned, he was certain there would be
an inconvenience attached to his visits to Oaklands.
Mr. Cherbury might be sorry for his own part in the
past  it was just possible  but he had no liking
for the man  he never should have. He would go
more often to Oaklands now, and less when the family
circle had increased thus striking a balance between
his love and his pride. It was Owen's argument or
excuse for his frequent visits  he did not appear to
want an excuse, and yet he often made one to his
wondering ward.
The summer had come when Mr. Isaac Cherbury
returned. Owen had received no information of his
arrival, and was shown into the drawing-room where
Mrs. Cherbury and her son awaited him. He paused
on the threshold irresolutely the remembrance of his
last meeting with the man stole across him, and aroused
his pride.
"Mr. Owen," said Mrs. Cherbury, "my son has
been anxiously waiting to see you."
"Indeed!"
Mr. Cherbury rose and advanced to Owen with an
extended hand.
"Mr. Owen; I am glad to see you. I hope the past
is forgotten?"
He said it in his usual heavy manner, as though
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he had been rehearsing his speech beforehand, but the
grasp of his hand was a friendly one, and the face
seemed to mean what its owner asserted.
"Quite forgotten," answered Owen immediately.
"I was hasty and unwell  I had missed "
"Quite forgotten, sir," repeated Owen, with some
sharpness.
"Ah, you are right," he said; "it is best to drop
the subject. I am a man of few words, and my head
aches more than it used. A constant and insufferable
headache, Mr. Owen."
"A bad complaints," was the dry rejoinder.
"I have tried travel and the excitement belonging
thereto - I come back to the Surrey hills."
"You will nd no better air."
"No, I think not. Mrs. Cherbury, do you mind
talking to Mr. Owen now?  my temples are going it
like mad!"
And, with half-shut eyes, this hypochondriacal
gentleman betook himself to his arm-chair, and relapsed
into his usual "statuesqueness," looking perhaps a trie
more stony than his wont. Owen fancied six years
had not altered him or his ways much, and he wondered
within himself why Mrs. Cherbury should testify so
much delight at his return. What was there to love,
admire, esteem in the man, full of his own complaints,
and ever shut up in himself?
Later in the evening, when Owen thought he had
been asleep an hour or two, Mr. Cherbury suddenly
said
' 10*
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"How's John Dell getting on?"
"Very well, sir  I am his partner in business,"
Owen added, with pardonable pride.
"Ah, you will both succeed. The old business, I
suppose?"
"Yes."
"Is John Dell well?"
,"Quite well, I thank you."
"A desperate man when he gets in a passion," said
Isaac, with a shudder. "Mrs. Cherbury, isn't it time
to take that medicine?"
"Anothenhalf-hour, my dear."
"Very well  don't forget."
And Mr. Cherbury subsided again, to arouse him-
self for a moment before Owen's departure.
"You will come here just the same to see your
ward?" he asked a little anxiously.
Owen hesitated.
"I ask it as a favour."
Owen bowed, and then, perplexed with Mr. Cher-
buryls eccentricities, left the drawing-room.
Mary went with him to the hall, and said,
"You will come, Owen?"
"I will come to Ansted."
"Not to Oaklands?" said Mary  "oh, Owen,
you don't bear malice in your heart against your old
master?"
"No  but it is unpleasant to face him."
"But it will make Mrs. Cherbury unhappy, I am
sure."
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"And she has been a good friend to my ward.
Well, I'll come."
The following week Owen, to his surprise, found
Mr. Cherbury looking ten years younger. Half the
lines in the face appeared to have been ironed out,
and there was quite a smile in theiriplace as Owen
entered the room. Mary had been playing the piano,
but she quickly left the music-stool to give him wel- '
come. Mr. Cherbury had risen, too, and was the rst
to shake hands with him.
"Your ward has been trying an experiment on my
nervous headache, Mr. Owen," he said, "and I think
she has succeeded. Mozart before medicine, after
all!"
"I told him seven years ago he gave way too
much, and only wanted rousing," said Mrs. Cher-
bury.
"If Mr. Owen will excuse me, I should like to
hear the fourth part of the symphony," said Mr. Cher-
bury.
"Don't try your head too much, dear," said his
mother.
"I don't mean,' was the dry rejoinder.
Owen was led to study Mr. Cherbury more intently
that evening. There was certainly a great improve-
ment in his manner as well as his looks - he had
emerged from himself, and was certainly more pleasant
company. He would have detained Mary at the piano
all the evening if Mrs. Cherbury had not interposed;
and when the piano was closed he joined more freely
7
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in the general topics of conversation than his mother
had known him for years.
"I think I must have hipped him to death, Mr.
Owen," said his mother to our hero; "I humoured the
crotchets on his head and his nerves, and it was only
rousing he wanted. Six years travelling about the
world worked no change  one week with my light-
hearted prote',qe'e, and he's almost the son of the very
old times. What a charm there is in youth to take
the fussiness out of us!"
"Yes," said Owen, drily.
Mrs. Cherbury rambled on, and Owen, xed on the
sofa beside her, listened very attentively, and watched
Mr. Cherbm-y's eyes, and thought they turned a little
too often in the direction of his ward. Mr. Cherbury
might require rousing, but he objected to his ward
making the experiment; an unaccountable objection,
but none the less strong. Better, in his opinion, for
the man to have kept his headache all his life than be
indebted to Mary Chickney for its lighter sensations.
He did not begrudge his ward her light heart and her
ow of spirits; he only envied their e'ect on Mr. Cher-
bury. And there was something in Mrs. Cherbury he
objected to, also; she was too' full of her son, too so-
licitous to intrude him upon Owen's attention; trum-
peting his virtues, and looking askance out of her eyes
to note their effect upon Owen.
"How do you like' Mr. Cherbury, Mary?" Owen
said in a low tone, when he had contrived to escape
from the mother to the side of his ward.
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"Oh, better every day." ,
. Owen did not relish the answer, but he made no
reply.
"He was very dull and grave at rst  like a
ghost, Owen," said Mary, "but the last few days have
made a great alteration in him. He has taken off the
mask of stolidity, and changed into quite' a well-bred
conversational gentleman. A little too matter-of-fact,
perhaps, like my grave gardy, when a business t's on
him."
"When is that?"
"Oh! not very often at Oaklands," replied Mary;
"but I fancied he was dreaming of the accounts when
Mrs. Cherbury was talking to him  am I right?"
"No, Mary  I was thinking of you."
"Of me?"
"That is of your future  of one or two things
presently to be discussed between you and me. How
old is this restored-from-the-dead gentleman?"
"Mr. Cherbury, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"His mother was talking of his age to-day  only
fty, Owen."
"Ah! quite a youth!" said Owen, satirically.
But Mary did not understand satire, and looked at
Owen for an explanation.
"Don't you like Mr. Cherbury?" she inquired.
"Not much  if the truth must be told," said he;
"why should any affection for him be anticipated from
me?"
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"I don't know that is anticipated," said Mary;
"but he is the son of a kind friend of your ward's."
"I shall become used to him in time," answered
Owen.
"You would like him if you saw him more fre-
quently," said Mary; "he really has changed so for
the better. Mrs. Cherbury says I am the good genius
of the family, and bring a blessing to each of its
members; and if I can make him more of the son and
less of the stoic, I shall have done some little good in
my time."
Owen did not seem elated at the prospect; on the
contrary, went away with so ster n an expression of
countenance, that Mary teased herself with the fear
that in some manner or other she had unwittingly
offended him. And that ster expression which had
alarmed Mary, Owen took back to London, and kept
for three or four'days, as much to the perplexity of
his partner as it had been to Mary Chickney. Owen
was a faithful guardian, and the importance of his
charge began to weigh upon him. She was young and
impressionable, saw little society, and owed a debt of
gratitude to Mrs. Cherbury  what a strange end to
a story if that man before all others should be ac-
cepted of Mary for a husband! Incidents as strange
happened every day  men of fty took as incom-
prehensible steps; girls as young chose suitors as old,
and lived happily with them - life in the world was
so different to life in books. He prayed it might not
be  that he might never be asked to give his consent
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to such an union; he grew miserable and dull about it,
then excited. So fair, so young, so loveable a girl was
not t for the man who had outlived youth, and should
be beyond the pale of youth's sympathy. He must
stop it!
"Stop what?" said Dell.
Owen had given voice to his last thoughts, and
Dell looked up from his account-books at his junior
partner. Owen hesitated but for a moment. Why
should he not trust this old friend?
"Stop Isaac Cherbury falling in love with my
ward."
"Eh!"
John Dell pushed away his books and leaned over
the desk full of interest.
"Just say that again," said he.
Owen repeated his assertion, adding thereto, "And
I'll stop it. Youth and age mated together have an
up-hill ght for happiness. Mary's path shall be smooth,
if it lies in my power."
"Who told you this?"
"No one."
"All fancy, Owen  it's impossible."
"I tell you I am in the right."
"Shall I tell you something?"
"Go on."
"You're falling in love with your own ward. Al-
ways the case with young guardians, and serve 'em
right."
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154 owns.
"I in love  and with Mary! Dell, don't ag-
gravate me."
"I have done."
. "But haven't you anything to say with regard to
Cherbury?"
"A man not to be trusted."
Dell was poring over his books again and did not
notice Owen's start.
"The worst that could happen to your ward would
be her marriage to Isaac Cherbury  that's all."
HBut 47
"But that's all, Owen  don't you see I'm busy?"
he added, a little peevishly.
Owen had only gained fresh food for thought by
asking John Dell's advice; there was only one thing to
be learned from it  that Dell's opinion of such a
match was similar to his own. Not that his partner's
opinion was always worth a great deal  to wit, his
ridiculous assertion, that he was falling in love with
his own ward. He fall in love with a girl of seven-
teen!  why, was he not going on for thirty years of
age? She was only a child still, and he was a man
of the world who had seen sorrow. What was there
in her to please him, or in him to draw her towards
his sternness and coldness? They might make a happy
couple, but Mary was not for him. She did not love
him  never would love him. There was no con-
fusion in her manner towards him  a sister could not
be more frank and conding. Still, she must not be
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sacriced to Cherbury, or talked into accepting him by
the mother. He could make her more happy than the
retired merchant; for he understood her nature, and his
heart had not quite withered within him. She would
be happier with him, too  he knew that, he was
sure of that  they were old friends. When a boy,
he had held her in his arms a baby. Heavens! what
a different life it would be for him and her; surely a
brighter one, for his heart beat at the thought, and his
eyes swam till the picture before him became blurred
and indistinct.
He was in the railway train and making for Ansted
that afternoon. He was at Oaklands long before sun-
down. He must study this Mr. Cherbury, who might
rob him of his ward, playing the thief in his turn.
The change in his late employer was still progressing;
ve more years off the man's age, and his "confounded
head," in a gurative sense entirely thrown aside. No
mistake in the man's motives either; all clear as noon-
day to every one but Mary Chickney. Fifty-nine years
or more a bachelor, and now his withered, tough, old
heart pierced by the arrow  evidence of that in his
attention to Mary, in his desire to ingratiate himself
with Owen, in the change in everything about him,
even to his past inexible bell-metal voice.
"Mr. Owen, you should be proud of your ward,"
he said that night. -
"Why?" was the quiet response.
"She has the priceless gift of bringing sunshine to
## p. 156 (#166) ############################################
156 owns.
a house  to a man's heart," he said, enthusiasti-
cally.
Quite gone, thought Owen, and drifting into romance.
What an old ass, to be sure!
"Well, I am proud of her," answered Owen.
"Doubtless."
Mr. Cherbury seemed inclined to add a little more;
but his natural taciturnity got the better of him. For-
tunately too; for Owen was inclined to acerbity that
evening, and might have answered more sharply than
courtesy warranted. Mr. Cherbury walked slowly away
across the lawn  the short dialogue had taken place
on the grass-plot and left Owen to his own thoughts
concerning him.
The man was in love, no doubt of it, thought
Owen; he would be frivolous and drivelling soon, like
all old men inspired or touched by the tender passion.
He would be more ridiculous, then, and less likely to
impress his ward. There was something in that new
gravity of his, so different from his ancient "lumpish-
ness," that probably interested Mary, and encouraged
her in her good work of making a different man of
Isaac Cherbury. Wait till he made a fool of himself
by becoming sentimental!
Mary was talking to Mr. Cherbury at that instant
she was looking up at him, and saying a few
laughing words - and the face of Isaac Cherbury
changed and softened wondrously, whilst she addressed
him.
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owns. 157
"Curse him if he step before me, and take her
away too," muttered Owen; and the shadow of the
curse was on his face when Mary came lightly towards
him.
"Why, Owen, dull again to-night?"
"As you see."
"Will you tell me what's the matter?"
"A business t," he answered, sullenly.
"Did I offend you, gardy, by talking of your busi-
ness ts the other night? Oh! how altered you are, to
take o'ence at such tries!"
"I do not take offence readilyis it likely, Mary,
that with you I should be the rst to feel offended?
But  but, ward, sister, Mary  I am unhappy."
Mary's hands were on his arm at once  she had
not lost her interest in him, or in his words yet, and
the look of excitement in her face made his heart
thrill.
"Will you walk with me a little way, Mary?"
"Into the park?"
"Anywhere."
"And you will not keep your secrets from me,
then? You will tell me what makes you unhappy?"
"Yes  every word."
They were in the park ve minutes he'nce  all
the way thither, down the green slopes, whence the
deers scampered at their approach, Owen was silent.
Under the rst green boughs of the great elms he
stopped, and held both hands towards her, and she
O
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1 58 owns.
looking straight into his searching eyes, placed her
hands within his own.
"Mary, my secret  such as it is  concerns
you."
"Concerns me  it is not I who make you un-
11=1PPy?"
"Ah! but it is." ,
"I am so sorry," and Mary's lips quivered.
"I am unhappy lest Mr. Cherbury should ask you
to be his wife. There is a great change in- him, and
you are the cause; Mrs. Cherbury's heart is in her son's
and your happiness. Is there anything more natural
than her desire to see you man and wife?  anything
more likely than it should strike that man what a
golden after-time his life would be with you? So,
Mary, I am unhappy about you."
She could feel his hands tremble as they clasped
her own. Her own heart was beating strangely, and
for the rst time in life she could not meet his gaze.
"I am sorry, Owen."
"If he asked you, would you marry him?"
"No.77
"It might be the wish of her whose love you have
won  a wish pressed urgently for her son's sake; it
would be-in the eyes of society a good match."
"Owen, would you wish it?" she asked, suddenly.
"Not for all the world."
"I am your ward  ever dutiful and obedient,
Owen, in remembrance of that love which has a claim
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owns. 1 59
before Mrs. Cherbury's, before the whole world, my
guardian. If I loved him  which I do not, which I
never can  it would depend upon your answer."
"I say, for once and ever  No."
"Then you will not distrust me any more, Owen?"
"I said I was unhappy, Mary  I never spoke of
distrust. I fear, too, I am growing a jealous gmardian,
whose dark looks will scare every lover away. Can
you bear with me till you are one-and-twenty?"
"Till I am old and gray."
"Ever obedient, Mary  never repining at my
will?"
"I think not."
"Then let my guardianship cease  I resign it.
And let a new right to protect you be earnestly sought
let the lover take the place of the guardian, and
the afanced wife that of the ward. Mary, I love
you!"
"Oh! Owen." ,
She tried to release her hands from his, then, but
he held them rmer in his own. She was trembling
like a leaf in his grasp, and the tears were welling
from the dark, downcast eyes.
"This is a strange wooing  forgive me if I pain
you. I do not ask you to love me now, Mary - the
guardian' changes too suddenly to expect it. Take a 
year to consider if my grim self be worth the living
for, if, my life be worth the brightening by your pre-
sence; and at any time within it, if your heart fail
## p. 160 (#170) ############################################
160 owns.
you, say, 'Owen, give up all thought of me, it is best,'
and I will resign you, and trouble you never more by
a word."
"Owen, you love me?"
"With all my heart and soul, Mary."
"I am not too young for you  you, you could
bear with all my childish ways?"
"They would lighten my toil, and add to my
love."
"Then  then, Owen, I will be your wife when
the year closes; a year for you-as well as for me, lest
this be an impulse that carries you beyond your in-
tentions. Oh! Owen, is it unmaidenly to say that
that this has been a hope, a dream of mine so
long?"
"My dear girl  my own Mary!"
"Didn't I say you were to come back from Australia
to marry me?" she said, shyly.
"A child's dream, that comes true, Mary, in the
future."
"Ay, God willing."
It was said hopefully, but it sounded like a doubt
in his ears till he pressed her in his strong arms to his
breast, and then hope came back, and far away in the
future the bright life seemed awaiting him.
He thought so, but his heart was making wild
leaps, and in his reason there was no calmness that
night. He was madly happy. It was the rst deep
draught of happiness  true and pure  he had
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snatched at in his life. To nd that he was loved for
himself, that the fair girl by his side had no fear of
the future. The bright life awaited him, he thought
beyond in the sunshine it lay, with only twelve
months intervening. What were twelve months to him,
who would see her almost every day?  who every
day would love her more deeply and truly? They
were engaged, and in a year they would be married.
His best life would date from the day their hands and
hearts were united.
Both were young, and to the young is ever given
such dazzling visions, where the heart knows no sorrow.
To Owen's mind all the great trials of life had gone
by  as if trials ended, like a comedy, when the
lovers' hands were linked together. The sun was bright
on his path, and he looked not for the shadows; stand-
ing on the rock, the murmurs of the last storm sounded
faintly  the storm which might break over him, and
end all. Drifting towards him were the gures that he
deemed he had thrust back, or that had vanished away
of their free will slowly, surely onwards to one end;
to one trial that might make him, or dash the cup
from his lip.
END OF THE FIFTH BOOK-
Owen:  A Waif. II. 11
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## p. 163 (#173) ############################################
BOOK THE SIXTH.
CAST ASHORE.
## p. 164 (#174) ############################################
## p. 165 (#175) ############################################
CHAPTER I.
" Owen's Help."
In the heart of Lambeth, amidst that labyrinth
of streets threaded once by John Dell and Owen in
search of a lost woman, there opened suddenly a
refuge for the poor and houseless. There was no parade
in its opening; there was not even a single voice at the
doors to proclaim the glad tidings to the wanderers 
it was left to work its own way in the world. Two
words were written over the door, and they told their
story to those who could read, who repeated it to
those who could not; and so the - good news went
abroad to the starvelings. "THE HELP" it was called
by its founder; "Ow1~:N's HELP" by those who sought
shelter therein, and were grateful to the charitable
hand which had pointed the way. A quiet, unobtrusive
institution, that one might pass a dozen times; merely
a. few of the small houses of the neighbourhood knocked
into one, and communicating with what had formerly
been a carriage-breaker's shed, but which was now a
dormitory  large, well-ventilated, and containing a
number of mattresses. It was a place where no ques-
tions were asked of the comer  his warrant was the
rags that hung round him; his claim for shelter was
the pinched white face, or hers the skeleton baby in
her arms. A bread supper, a rest till the morning, a
## p. 166 (#176) ############################################
166 ' owns.
poor breakfast, were offered  things not to tempt '
the indolent to take advantage of charity, but were
none the less god-sends to the outcasts. Thither went
the old and the young; the ghosts of the better days;
the offscourings of that which had always been vile;
the thoroughly bad, who would ever oust honest
poverty from its claim; the weak, ghting still to be
good, and to whom one night's shelter from the streets
might be one more screen from temptation. In the
midst might be even the pride that turned from the
workhouse as a disgrace  "that had lived its forty
years in the parish and paid its poor-rates in its time,
and had never once asked relief, sirs," and the despair
which the workhouse porter had turned away and
slammed the gates against. "Owen's Help" was open
to all, and cared not for parish, character, or imposture;
till the place was full, the waifs of the street might
ow in through its portals and be sure of a welcome.
And from the surging crowd in such a parish what
waifs were they, and when the dark winter months
came round, how they streamed towards the beacon,
and fought their way, and were bafed and heart-sick
so often by the ominous "FULL" that was placed over
the doors. There were no loiterers allowed at "The
Help"  every morning by nine o'clock the place
was expected to be empty; now and then one weary
and wayworn, to whom a few hours' rest were life, was
suffered to remain till mid-day; once in the woman's
ward a poor wretched infant saw the light. So there
were a few exceptions to the rule; for the founder was
## p. 167 (#177) ############################################
owns. 167
' a man who had known the poor, and shared their
hardships, and was merciful. He had planned it years
ago; he had been saving money for it since; he had
lived to see it a reality, existent in the streets wherein
his early life was spent. He would have no interference
with his schemes; to good suggestions as well as bad ones
he turned a deaf ear, and ruled the place after his own
judgment. ,
Voluntary contributions were not turned away, oc-
casionally in hard times solicited by advertisement;
but those who were most generous with their gifts had
no voice in its management. Pious Puseyitish ladies
thought lay sisters might be a comfort to many; stout
old gentlemen advocated soup; sensitive people softer
beds; clergymen a sermon every evening at nine to
keep those dead heat with toil awake a little longer
than necessary. John Dell was for one prayer  he'd
say it himself, if Owen liked, in the evening after the
supper had been given, or in the morning before break-
fast  but Owen would have the place nothing more
than a refuge.
"Let all religions and no religion at all enter here,"
said Owen; "when they want prayer, they know where
to nd it. I will not have my charity a mask in this
place."
So "The Help" might have been improved in its
way, but its founder was an obstinate man. He had
his faults of management, like other practical, well-
meaning people, but the broad result was good, and he
was content. In the rst two months of its start, Owen
## p. 168 (#178) ############################################
168 owns.
supported it entirely from his own purse; when eon<
tributions began to ow in, he was ever the greatest
giver; his pride being in its founder and its chief
support.
"The good in the man will work its way some-
where," was John Dell's opinion; "perhaps it's only
another way of being religious after all."
And consoling himself with this opinion, he would
not preach at Owen. Perhaps he was not very far
from the truth, for true religion is something more than
high-sounding verbiage  and good works if not
salvation, is a step towards it, if the worker be earnest
and humble at his task.
Owen's heart was in his work  he was ever
anxious to extend the sphere of its inuence; to pur-
chase more room, and give more comfort to the class
who sought shelter. Mr. Isaac Cherbury whose head
still continued improving by the way, despite the
knowledge of Owen's engagement to Mary  spoke
of "The Help" one evening at Oaklands. Hevwas a
quiet grave man enough still, but he was no longer
lugubrious, and was more of a son to his mother. If
he had ever dreamed of proposing to his mother's pr-o'te'ge'e,
he bore his disappointment well, and was still interested
in Mary, and enjoyed her society.
"You are open to contributions, I hear, Mr.
Owen?"
"Yes; every man has a right to share in a great
and good work."
"Will you accept this, please?" and Mr. Cherbury
## p. 169 (#179) ############################################
owns. 1 69
passed across the table a cheque which Owen put in
his pocket, and did not think of looking at till the
following day, when, to his surprise, he found it lled
in for ve hundred pounds. A liberal donation, and
one scarcely to be expected from one who had been
ever careful with his money. Perhaps his head has
betrayed him, thought Owen; so he wrote to Mr. Cher-
bury, inquiring if so large an amount were really
intended, and in due course came back the answer.
"I am interested in the cause," he wrote, and
therefore Owen added it to the common funds, and
thought he vnig/It make Mr. Cherbury out in time, if he
were fortunate to live long enough.
That was a happy time with Owen  his heart
was light, though his brain was busy. From the cares
of business, from the study of "The Help," he could
turn to the pleasant retreat at Ansted, and in Mary's
society nd comfort and peace. It was pleasant to feel
that there was no truer heart beating for him than
hers, no one in the world who could ever love him and
understand him like she did. Love had had its birth
in her childhood, and grown with her growth; but a
step from the child's love to the pure, unspeakable
passion which goes beyond self, and has made heroines
innumerable since the world began. Mary had made
the step, and full of trust in the future, was even more
happy than Owen. For she was a woman who could
be grateful for happiness, and in the fullness of her
heart remember the great Giver. '
It was strange that with her greater peace of mind
## p. 170 (#180) ############################################
170 OWEN.
much of her light spirits abandoned her. She was
more silent and thoughtful, as though the future duties
of the new life with Owen struck her as a task to be
thought over, or to be set about earnestly, almost re-
verently. There was a fear too, at times, to steal on
her, softly, imperceptibly, the faint shadow to the
felicity too deep for wordsthe fear lest Owen's hap-
piness should not be as lasting as her own. He was
clever, and older than she; he might grow tired of her
ways, fancy she did not sympathize sufciently in his
pursuits, or, growing absorbed in them, make her,
whom he loved so much now, ever a second considera-
tion. Even as it was, she fancied now and then he
looked upon her as a child still; caressed and talked
to her as if she were still the Mary he had left in Mrs.
Cutcheld's cottage. He never sought her advice, re-
lated his business stories, his trials, vexations, or suc-
cesses of the day. He studied more to please her, to
shut out all concern from her -- to see her thoughtful
made him anxious. Was she too young to be his help-
mate, companion, and comforter? she asked herself oc-
casionally, and even once she timidly put the same
question to him.
"Why do you ask, Mary?" he said.
"Because I fancy sometimes the thought crosses
you. I know in the bright days I shall make you
happy. Do you fear my power in the obscure
ones?"
"No.77
"I fancy you must have once loved somebody very
## p. 171 (#181) ############################################
OWEN. 171
di'erent from me, and now I am chosen by way of
contrast. A staid, clever some one, whose strong mind
could have aided you in the battle of life better than
the little girl's you have chosen."
"I have chosenfor the best, Mary."
"Miss Dell would have made you a better wife.
Why were you not fond of her before Mr. Glindon
stepped forth?"
"I don't know. Fate, which knew what was best,
was keeping you in store for me, Mary."
Mary was not quite so certain on that point, and
held fast to the subject from which Owen would have
drawn her away. A curious subject for her to cling
so closely to, and a subject to be remembered by
them both in the days that were stealing towards
them.
"Do you know, Owen, I also fancy at times that
the real wife is yet to come in your way  her with
whom you would be more contented than me. Should
she cross your path, will you tell me?"
"Why?"
"Because I should like you to be happy  be-
cause "
"Because in fostering my happiness you will not
study. your own," cried Owen, pressing her to his side;
"my dear Mary, now and for ever believe my life is in
your hands, and only you can gladden it!"
"By every means in my power, Owen, even by
resigning you, if by that means I add to your peace."
## p. 172 (#182) ############################################
1 72 owes.
"By that means you will shut me out in the dark-
ness. Let us reason no more over impossible events."
It was only once during their engagement that they
allowed so heavy a shadow to fall, and a word of
Owen's sent it far away to the background. They
would not have been a model couple had they mann-
dered much over the evils that might be in store for
them. Owen was sanguine, and Mary was but thought-
ful, lest the present bliss should ash away from her
view.
All the long summer and autumn, till the winter,
which set in ercely and early that year, owed the
even current of this engagement. Owen had only to
wait for the spring, and then a house of his own, and
the bright face of his wife at his side.
Owen's e"orts with "The Help" were doubled in
the winter-time  on an improvident poor the winter
always presses hard. To the new harbour of refuge
from the frost-bitten streets, streamed the naked and
hungry; Owen and those who assisted him working
hard in the cause. Owen was there during the winter
almost every day  he had found two trustworthy
servants, male and female, for the separate depart-
ments, but he was ever solicitous himself concerning
the comfort of the needy. He took a strange interest,
it was observed, in every boy who sought refuge  it
always seemed to pain him to turn a child back to the
streets.
"Men and women 'are better able to shift for them-
selves, but the boy soon grows reckless and desperate.
## p. 173 (#183) ############################################
OWEN.' 173
Cast adrift, he loses energy, and oats away on the
waters, where never a rescue may come; as a right
word may change him, so a wrong word, an evil ex-
ample, will add to the temptations around. Keep the
boys here if you can," was the injunction, "and speak
kindly to them that they may come again, and prefer
this place to the streets." -
And amongst the boys who made it home, Owen
passed with his friendly words and his one injunction
to keep honest  more than once telling them that
part of his own story, which might apply to them and
strike home. His watch over his secret had given way
to his desire to benet those whom he had been like
in his youth  he would have no preacher at "The
Help," but he would encourage sinking hearts after his
own method. And it was 'only to the boys he talked,
and only the boys who knew him. So Owen was
happy, in more ways than one: he was doing good,
and the result in more than one instance encouraged
him to persevere - John Dell was right, it was
Owen's way of being religious. Not the best, or the
wisest, or the most satisfactory, to anyone but himself,
but still a religion prompted by feelings he ;could
scarce gauge the depth.
One November evening, Owen was surprised to nd
a lady visitor at "The Help." It was against his
rules; for visitors, more especially lady visitors, were
an abomination to him.
"Half of them have not sense, and the other half
are only curious to see what a medley of humanity can
## p. 174 (#184) ############################################
1 74 owns.
be gathered together by one common necessity. I will
have no visitors," was Owen's answer to all applicants
for admission. It was natural, therefore, that Owen
should frown a little at receiving the intelligence of a
lady "in-doors"  of a lady who would receive no
denial, and who, having stated herself a friend of Mr.
Owen's, had pushed her way to the woman's depart-
ment. '
He was confronting the lady a few minutes after-
wards, and his anger left him at recognizing the niece
of John Dell. He had not seen her for close on seven
years, and he drew his breath a little at the change in
her. Dell had told him that she was altered, that the
country air did not seem to agree with her very well,
but he had not expected to see so pale a face, or one
quite so marked with care.
"Mrs. Glindon," he said, extending his hand;
"surely it is Mrs. Glindon?"
"Do you nd it hard to recognize an old friend?"
"N  no," said Owen, with some little hesitation;
"but you are changed, and I was not aware you were
in London."
"Yes, and in London for good now. Arthur has
given up country practice, and thinks there are better
opportunities in London. I suppose he knows best,"
with a sigh that did not escape Owen.
"He is Dr. Glindon, I hear, now."
"Yes; he has been practising as a physician these
last two years."
"And the boy  is he well?"
## p. 175 (#185) ############################################
owns. 175
"Not quite well, thank you; he is in the country,
for his health's sake," said,she. "Have you seen Mr.
Glindon yet, Owen?"
"No; is he at your uncle's?"
"Yes; he has promised to wait for me there. I
was anxious to see 'The Help' before I joined him.
This is a great work of yours, Owen; it must assist at
their direst need many unfortunates."
"I am of the lower orders, and can guess the
struggles of the children of the streets  you learned
all my story, Mrs. Glindon, on the night we parted?"
"Yes."
The night they parted was a painful retrospect to
Ruth; she did not care to dwell upon it, or to enlighten
Owen concerning the after-incidents, of which he was
ignorant.
"Owen, I have a favour to ask of you," she said.
"It has only to be asked."
"Will you let me visit here occasionally - try my
inuence on the poor women who seek this shelter in
their desolation?"
"I have an objection to their being too much
preached to on their sins; this is not a meeting-house,
and no sermons are wanted," he said, lightly.
"Ah! Owen."
"But I can trust you, Ruth; 'for you know how to
use the right word discreetly," added he. "I have no
fear that even a look will mar my ebrts, or that in
the work undertaken here your services might not be
priceless. I have only feared lofcious well-meaning,
## p. 176 (#186) ############################################
176 owns.
blundering people in my way; you I can always
trust."
"Thank you."
"You are what I may never be  a true Chris-
tian."
"No, Owen only a weak woman," corrected she,
"with all the faults and failings common to my sex in
general."
"May I ask if you have mentioned to Doctor Glin-
don your desire to assist at 'The Help'?"
"Of course. And he has no objection to urge,"
said Ruth. "He is aware that it has always been a
great desire of mine to raise the condition of the poor.
My life like yours began with them, Owen."
"The poor are often ill' and fever-stricken, and you
have a child to care for."
"Do you think I've forgotten my boy, then?" ex-
claimed Ruth.
"It is not likely."
"My little boy is delicate, and the London air
would kill him. It has been a great trial to me to
leave him behind in the country but it was Arthur's
wish."
Owen guessed there was a story connected with
her boy  she changed colour so; a story in which
her heart had been tried and wrung, perhaps, or she
was not the Ruth of old times. Had she made a false
step in marrying Arthur Glindon, as he had feared
once?  had the vision ended, and the reality proved
itself unprotable? In love-matters the best and wisest
## p. 177 (#187) ############################################
own. 1 7 7
of women are likely to be misled  might not Ruth
have chosen for the worst?
"It will be quite an excitement for me, Owen; and
I will not weary your people by visiting the place too
frequently. Arthur thinks I study my child too much,
and fret too needlessly about him  so I have given
him up for three or four weeks as an experiment. And
now my own mistress, with Arthur seldom at home, I
seek a distraction  is it an honest one?"
"Yes," Owen answered, absently.
"And it is a compact  I am to have the right of
entry here?" ,
"To be sure," said he; "when shall the rst ofcial
visit be made?"
"It is uncertain," she answered; "leave me to
choose my own time. We shall not meet very often,
I daresay, for my visits will be chiey of a morning,
when you have your own business to attend to."
"Are you going direct to your uncle's?" asked
Owen.
Ruth replied in the afrmative, after a moment's
hesitation that our hero failed to remark.
"We will proceed thither together, if you will wait
one moment for me."
Ruth could not say her time would not allow her
to wait, and she had never been one very ready at an
excuse. She would have preferred, however, proceed-
ing to her uncle's unescortedshe did not know why,
except that Arthur was occasionally a little strange,
could not always hide the signs of a jealous nature
Owen:  A Waif. II. 12
I
## p. 178 (#188) ############################################
178 owns.
peering up from the surface. And little things affected
him more than they used  he was even more irri-
table with her!  and seven years might not have
altered his feelings with regard to Owen. Still, Arthur
was her husband now, and had no right to be jealous;
and Owen, of whom he had been distrustful, was shortly
to be married to Mary Chickney.
They repaired to Kennington together, Owen talk-
ing of his ward during the journey  what a dear,
amiable, loveable being she had become! He could
talk to Ruth enthusiastically concerning her, for not a
trace of the old passion was left in his breast. Old
loves die out, and from the ashes rise the newer and
more true  was it possible that this grave-looking
matron at his side had been ever his rst love?
Arthur Glindon and John Dell were waiting for
them in the parlour. The former rose as they entered,
and seemed inclined to bow stify towards our hero,
who would\ have no more frigidity, but shook him by
the hand. Glindon was looking more old and care-
worn than Owen had expected to nd him; there was
less colour on his cheeks, and more of a waxen cast
about the face. There was a restlessness in his manner,
too, that particular evening the result of a mild sort
of lecture he had been receiving from his father-
in-law.
"Well, Ruth, my dear," said Dell, rising with ala-
crity to meet his niece, "how many ages since I saw
you last, I wonder?"
## p. 179 (#189) ############################################
owns. 179
He folded her in his arms and kissed her, and then
held her at arms' length and earnestly surveyed her.
"You've been worrying yourself?" he said, bluntly.
"I have been alarmed a little concerning my boy's
health."
"But you have your husband's assertion that there
is no danger. What dgety beings you women are!"
"Still his health is delicate, uncle, and he is away
from his mother." '
"It is best for the mother and for him," interposed
Glindon; "we were compelled to return to town, and
the boy's health would certainly not permit him to ac-
company us just then. I think, after all, you would
be happier with him than me, Ruth."
There was the slightest contraction of the high,
white forehead as he spoke. It was an old grievance,
evidently, that mother's love for their child. He was
second now to her boy; the foremost place in her heart
was no longer his  and absence did not even alter
the case.
"If he were well, it would not matter so much,
Arthur," she said, half reproachfully.
"Ah! it would be all the same, I fear," he answered,
carelessly.
"A1-n't you well?" said Dell, turning round on his
son-in-law.
"Pretty well, thank you  why do you ask?"
"Because you don't seem satised; and an unsatis-
' ed man has generally something the matter with
77
him
12*
## p. 180 (#190) ############################################
180 owns.
"I'm right enough." And Glindon forced a smile
of composure.
"I have been lecturing your young gentleman here,
Ruth," said Dell, when they were seated; "he must
consider me his father, with a right to say a word now
and then. I scold Owen occasionally."
"Ah! he is a favourite son," said Glindon.
"He listens to reason sometimes, Glindon."
"And I don't, then?"
"Well, I don't see the impression it makes."
"May I ask the subject of the lecture, uncle?" in-
quired Ruth, after a nervous glance in her husband's
direction.
"The old subject on which I have told him my
mind a dozen times," said Dell; "an essay on that
musty old proverb concerning the rolling-stone that
gathers no moss. Back in London again, he fancies
he might do better somewhere else, just as he fancied
the hospital berth was everything till he obtained it.
He thinks he can nd a friend at Court to procure him
an appointment abroad."
"He has been speaking of it to me," said Ruth.
"Well, one can get heartily tired of medicine and
sick patients," said Glindon; "and if I could drop in
for an appointment under Government, it would be a
change."
Always harping on change  ever restless and
dissatised. The reigning fault when we left Arthur
Glindon last, striving with all his might to secure
Ruth's love to himself, and to repair the injustice he
## p. 181 (#191) ############################################
owns. 181
had done it  always looking forward to some great
prize awaiting him in the future! Had the restless
fever a'ected his love for Ruth  the highest prize he
had ever striven to win  and was he growing tired
of her? It is a rule governing natures a shade more
unworthy than his own.
"Am I the only rolling stone in the world incapable
of making my fortune, Mr. Dell?" said he; "surely the
good luck of Mr. Owen is an incentive to wander."
"Had I seen my way clear in London, Mr. Glindon,
I think I should have stayed here."
"But I don't see mine, Mr. Owen."
"Indeed!" '
"You are a friend of the family, and may as well
know my secret as anyone else. I am not so well off
as I was two years ago."
"That's bad news."
"Mr. Dell tells me it's my old habit of giving up
as if I gave up before I had tried my utmost. I
think it's my ill-luck which turns my gold, and my
golden dreams of success, into withered leaves. If I
be a discontented man, it is the fault of the Fate that
haunts me, not my own."
His restless hand began to tap the table fretfully.
Dell looked towards his niece.
"I thought you could have taught him better than
this, Ruth," he said.
"I have tried."
And there was a whole history of trial after trial,
of faint success and much discouragement, in her answer.
## p. 182 (#192) ############################################
182 ' owns.
It had never been difcult to make him promise to
amend, and Ruth had always buoyed herself with hope
concerning him  the trouble lay in the amendment.
Had he been still Ruth's lover, more good might have
been effected; but the prize was in his hands, and so
the old story!
"You're a character precious hard to get at, Glin-
don," said Dell. "If you were a drunkard, gamester,
bully, anything but a fair specimen, one might .x you.
You'll keep to London for a time."
"Oh! I'll try it, of course. I'll try anything."
"And if there's any help wanted "
"Mr. Dell, I have always learned to help myself,"
was the proud, irritable answer. "I cannot consider
anyone my friend who doubts my ability, and offers
me money to work my way in the world."
"Ah! there's not many of your opinion," was the
quiet answer. ,
"I would not take a penny of any man to save me
from starving," said Glindon, glancing across the table
at Owen, as though he expected that small offer of as-
sistance to come from his direction.
No one replying to this, Glindon subsided into his
usual self, and in a few minutes was conversing at his
ease with John Dell. Time, and some barriers in his
way, had not improved Arthur Glindon's temperbad
tempers never improve as the world goes round with
them. Long ago Ruth Glindon had discovered this
and been patient, and striven with him. What he
would ,have been without his wife, it is impossible to
## p. 183 (#193) ############################################
owns. 1 83
say. She was the one he still esteemed most in the
world the only one who, by patience and argument,
could change many a rash intention; but it was uphill
work, and her spirit was breaking with the effort. John
Dell had seen it two years since; Owen, an observer
in his way, guessed half the secret in that night of
their reunion. He could see that Glindon was a jealous
man, jealous of his wife's love for the child, of the
child's natural preference for the mother, secretly
jealous even of Owen, because he was John Dell's
partner, and John Dell, .in his absence, had sounded
his praises, and indirectly offered him as a model to
copy. Ever a distasteful personage would this Arthur
Glindon be to Owen  never a friend. They might
meet, shake hands, and exchange greetings; but there
would he never any real sympathy between them 
fragments of the old opposing element might be oating
round them now, for what they knew of the matter.
Owen turned to Ruth. They had not met for many
years, and he had much to tell her, and to thank her
for her care of his ward, before Mrs. Cherbury raised
her to greatness. Ruth, he fancied, was slightly em-
barrassed at rst, but she became animated over past
associations, until Glindon's very unamiable expression
of countenance warned her of the ruling passion.
Then the conversation, with quiet, womanly tact,
was led to a general topic, in which John Dell and his
son-in-law took part. And presently, by some adroit
change of partners, Doll and his niece were conversing
## p. 184 (#194) ############################################
184 owns.
together, and Owen was left to discourse with Glindon,
or leave it alone, as the humour seized him.'
Owen, in the spur of the moment, was inclined to
leave it alone', but he' resisted the desire, and ex-
changed a few words with his old rival. For Ruth's
sake, for John Dell's, he would sink, if possible, his
unnatural antipathy. Surely Glindon was not so hard
to bear with, or Ruth's marriage with him was a
mystery.
But there are many sides to a character, and to a
person he disliked, Arthur Glindon ever turned his
sharpest facet. Besides, he was envious of Owen's suc-
cess in the world, as'we have intimated, and as Owen
had presently to discover.
In his heart lurked a species of resentment against
Owen, which was new an idea that John Dell should
have offered him the partnership in lieu of waiting for
our hero. He was his niece's husband, he was not
getting on well in the world, he was fond of change,
and had no objection to become rich. Mr. Dell might
have made him the o'er at least. He was tired of
medicine, and engineering seemed easy enough  or
rather the management of an engineering rm, with
John Dell to look after the practical part. And Dell
had passed him by, and chosen him whom, of all others
in the world, he most objected to.
"You are a fortunate man, Mr. Owen," said he,
after they had eonversed for some time on the business
"one of the few who rise in the world, to counter-
## p. 185 (#195) ############################################
owns. 185
poise the many who fall. Years ago I was foolish
enough to look down upon you now from the heights,
what a giant you have become!"
"I was low enough once, if you remember," Owen
could not forbear saying.
"A shopkeeper's boy, when I was walking the
hospitals and dreaming of what a clever fellow I
should be."
"Lower, innitely lower, than a boy at a green-
grocer's," said Owen. "Surely Doctor Glindon has not
forgotten that?"
"I don't keep a book of your antecedents," said
Glindon, nettled at the erce look in the eyes of our
hero.
"No matter," said Owen, "we are living in the
present. Sneer at my past if you like  believe what
you like concerning it  I have risen above it."
"Have I expressed a doubt to the contrary?"
"Your doubts belonged to the time when I was
Mr. Cherbury's clerk," said Owen. "I fancied from
your tone they might exist still." '
"I don't understand 'you."
"I wish you did not," muttered Owen.
"Pray explain?" and Glindon, despite his irritable
tendencies, looked interested.
"You expressed a doubt of  of my honesty, seven
or eight years ago, to my employer," said Owen; "the
result was my dismissal, or my resignation, which you
please to consider it."
## p. 186 (#196) ############################################
186 owns.
"I expressed nothing of the kind, Mr. Owen," said
he; "more, you mystify me immensely!"
Owen looked steadily into the other's face, which
was not likely to conceal anything. He read surprise
therein  no desire at concealment  and he held
out his hand.
"I have misjudged you for many years, Dr. Glindon."
"Very likely!" was the cool response.
Glindon retired into his shell, and took no heed of
Owen's hand, that was a moment afterwards very
hastily withdrawn. Had their hands met then, fairly
and honestly, much that followed afterwards might
have been avoided. A fair explanation at that time
might have rendered them better friends, and altered
at least the future of one. But Glindon was a jealous
man, and Owen was quick to resent.
They parted that night after the old fashion; in
all their meetings there had been never any love lost.
"A cold-hearted upstart, there is no taking to,"
thought Owen, as he watched his departure with Ruth.
"I must hate that man!" muttered Glindon.
## p. 187 (#197) ############################################
owns. 187
CHAPTER II.
;'h' Honest Distraction.
ARTHUR GLINDON thought a great deal of that ap-
pointment abroad, concerning which John Dell had
expressed his opinion. He could see his way to dis-
tinction very clearly, if once taken in hand by a
paternal Government. Let him begin only at the foot
of the ladder, and his energy would carry him up-
wards. He should not ag in a service where there
would be always something to look forward to. Medi-
cine was a dead level to him; he had become a physi-
cian, and could advance no further; the degree he had
won was an empty honour, that he cared nothing for.
It was one dreary round of visiting sick and fanciful
people day after day, and he was tired of it heartily.
Diplomacy was his forte; he was a clever fellow
no one knew that better than he  he would be a
useful servant to the public; he could see the laurels
waiting for him.
Impressed with these ideas, and with many ideas
similar in their nature, Glindon courted the friend,
whose inuence with a second friend might inuence
friend No. 3, to persuade his friend, who had the
giving (f the appointment, to think of Arthur Glindon.
And we know sufcient of Glindon's character to- be
aware that a prize before him was an incentive which
## p. 188 (#198) ############################################
188 owns.
forced down the barriers in his way, or surmounted
them. Half the energy in his own profession would
have again raised him a step, but his ambition was
directed to another quarter now, and he braced his
energies to the task, and went on. Disappointments
and rebuffs he met in his progress, but they daunted
him not; his patients, nding themselves neglected,
turned from him, but he was too deeply concerned in
the new chase to care for the falling off of his fees;
every wheel that could possibly be turned by ingenious
tact or sturdy persistence, he moved in his favour, and
having the power, when he chose, of ingratiating him-
self with new friends, he certainly advanced nearer
the object in view. '
It may be imagined that Ruth Glindon did not re-
ceive much attention during his pursuit of govem-
ment honours  that she suffered, like his patients,
from neglect.
Their house in George Street, Euston Square,
seldom contained Arthur Glindon  early in the morn-
ing, or at a late hour of the night, his footsteps only
echoed there. Ruth was left to pass the hours as she
best might. Arthur might have spared her at that
time to visit the North, and see her child again, but
his jealous temper would not allow her that privilege
the boy was becoming accustomed to her absence,
why upset him again by appearing at his side? She
knew he was in good hands  why was she ever so
restless and dissatised? Surely he was troubled
enough, why not solace him with her wishes for his
## p. 189 (#199) ############################################
owns. 189
success? The time might hang a little heavily on her
hands just then; but she was a woman who had not
been used to company, and could endure all for a little
while. Only a little while, and then life abroad, and
the real life for which he was destined beginning for
them both.
Ruth Glindon was patient and uncomplaining; had
even a hope that it was all for the best, and that
possibly Arthur was more tted for a stirring life 
there was not half so much chance of settling down.
Keep the waters disturbed, and give him something to
battle against, and he would ever oat in their midst,
condent in his own powers of success. The house
was very lonely without him, but it was only for a
time, as he had said, and he did not bind her to
George Street; there was her father in London, why
not call upon him?  there was her uncle, and though
he, Glindon, did not care much for his society, he knew
Ruth did. Mr. Dell was too fond of lecturing for him
just as if he had a right to interfere!
Ruth always defended her uncle from Glindon's
acrimonious attacks; and Glindon, to do him justice,
generally succumbed, and acknowledged himself in the
wrong. For he loved Ruth still, in his way  with a
capricious, fretful kind of affection, that harassed her
more than it gave her comfort. Winning her to him-
self after years of perseverance, he had not wholly
cast her aside  her patience touched him at times,
and her advice he would even occasionally take. She
was an ornament to his house, the mother of his child;
## p. 190 (#200) ############################################
190 owns.
she was an accomplished Woman, and never wearied
him  oh! yes, he loved her. All the old romantic
nonsense had vanished away, of course  he was get-
ting on for forty now, and it was time. But he esteemed
Ruth very much, and kept her close to himself, lest
others should esteem her also. In the early days after
their marriage, he had been jealous of a glance to-
wards her  but he had outlived that nonsense!
Why, when Ruth spoke to him very warmly and
enthusiastically of "Owen's Help," although Owen, his
old rival, had founded it, he said frankly, it was a
noble institution; and when she expressed a wish to
visit the place occasionally, having a belief in the
good to be worked there, he had given his consent at
once. True, she was beginning to look pale with so
' much connement! to the house, and perhaps to fret a
little at times concerning the child  and "Owen's
Help" might be a safety-valve. She had had always
an absurd idea about doing good; in the country she
had been always at the old women's houses, or form-
ing bible-classes, and perhaps she missed the excite-
ment - by all means visit "Owen's Help," and see
what good might be done there before they left Eng-
land. And Ruth, deeming it "an honest distraction,"
as she had termed it to Owen, visited "The Help"
once or twice a-week, and did her best for the poor
su'ering humanity that sought its shelter there.
Ruth spoke of her labours to Glindon, when he
had fully related all his own struggles for the day 
the interviews he had had, and the promises-he had
## p. 191 (#201) ############################################
owns. 19 1
obtained  and Glindon listened to her animated nar-
rative, and thought the change was doing her good.
-Always during the recital the question arose, "Did
you see Mr. Owen?" and as the answer was generally
in the negative, Glindon was satised.
For he would not have' cared to hear Ruth had
seen that,fellow too often  his estimate of human
nature was not a high one  and though Owen was
engaged now, it might be possible to fall twice in love
with the same woman. Besides, he hated Owen 
he hated all men who had been more successful than
himself  and though he might not mistrust Ruth,
he had no faith in John Dell's partner.
Mrs. Glindon's father's place of business was in
Lambeth - a quiet, old-fashioned tobacconist's in the
Westminster Road, with a branch' trade in walking-
sticks and newspapers. Proceeding to "The Help"
on her new mission, it was Ruth's custom to call and
' see 92, who with his partner appeared to be always very
contented and comfortable. We may say here that
Ruth was not aware that the partner's name was
Chickney  he had taken the euphonious name of
Brown, and was a friend of Owen's  for Tarby had
thought it necessary to keep that information as secret
as possible, for his daughter's sake; and 92 was a fair
hand at a secret, notwithstanding his loquacity. John
Dell and Owen were alone aware of Tarby's return to
England; and from his old Lower Marsh friends, who
might have recognized him despite his extra fourteen
years, Tarby kept carefully aloof. He had served his
## p. 192 (#202) ############################################
192 owns.
time, and had no reason to hide himself; but he was
a respectable member of society now, and had no
leaning towards ancient acquaintances. He had pur-
chased the tobacco business jointly with 92, and
Dell & Co. was painted over the shop front, and he
and his partner jogged on amicably together. Tarby
considered himself settled in life and business  he
was as happy as he ever expected to be; he should
have liked to hear that daughter of his say "Father,"
but he had sworn No to that, for her sake. Sometimes
he felt a wavering, and then a strong desire to rush
to Oaklands and claim her; and then his love for her
was restrained by his wish to keep her name pure.
When Owen told him Mary was to be his wife one
day, he felt as close to happiness as he ever had in
his life: he dashed the tears from his eyes, and seized
Owen's hands, and hoped God would bless their mar-
riage.
"I've hoped such a thing more than once, Owen, "
and thought it allus far too good to be true. You'll
be her guardian then for life, lad?"
"Yes, Tarby  for life."
"It's like a blessed dream."
"I have been talking with John Dell about you,
Tarby  he and I have arrived at one opinion."
"What's that?" he asked eagerly.
"That on ouf marriage day you sink the stranger,
and boldly tell your story  hers is a heart easily
\ touched, Tarby  and all this is very hard on you."
"She's a lady  I'm a returned convict, Owen;
## p. 193 (#203) ############################################
owns. 193
it can't be," said Tarby  "the disgrace would kill
her."
"I have considered it in its manifold shapes, and
can see no real hindrance to it, if she marry me. I
am no new friend, Tarby."
"Well, it is different, ain't it?" said Tarby. "Of
course if she married a gentleman  not that you
ainn' a gentleman, and the best of 'em  you know
what I mean  I could never have faced him, or
given him a handle to shame her with, if so be as
they ever quarrelled. It is different, and I'll take
three months to think of it, Owen."
At the end of that period Tarby revived the sub-
ject.
"I can't make up my mind, Owen; it don't seem
fair on her."
"I believe she will be the happier for it."
"She'll be your wife then certainly. Owen, what
a glorious day that was for me when I lit on you at
Markshire Downs."
"Where's the glory of it?" asked Owen, laughing.
"I see it all plain  it's like a book to me now,
and the large print in it tells me what to be grateful
for. Supposing my poor old lady had not been so
pressing, or my hard temper had sent you away, where
would Mary have been? I should have met the same
fate; Mary would have been left with no Owen to take
care of her  only the workus gates to shut in upon
her like a trap. Well, things come round queer
Owen:  A Wuif. 11. 13
## p. 194 (#204) ############################################
1 94 owns.
enough; but I can thank God that it is  as it is,
Owen."
"And without your help, Tarby, at that time, what
would have become of me?"
"Ah! you've something to thank God for, too."
"True."
Owen felt the sting, unintended by Tarby  the
reproach that lurked in his words. How much more
to be -thankful for than this man; and how much less
grateful! Well, well, his better time was coming now,
he thought.
"Lor', Owen, to think of it all now. Talk of a
dream  it's fty dreams one within the other. Sup-
posing any one had said to me on the Downs, 'You
see that ragged little cove yonder  he's to be your
son-in-law,' I should have knocked him down with
disgust. And now, Owen, it's the proudest thought of
my life, and I can't sleep for it."
Owen led the subject round to Mary again; he had
thought of Tarby's long secret, and that it was time
to end it. Tarby, on their wedding-day, should give
away his bride, and the snapped links of the chain be
once more riveted together.
"You're very good," said Tarby, humbly.
"She will not he a stranger to you then."
"How's that?"
"I am going to take Mary one evening to 'The
Help;' we shall call here afterwards to see old Mr.
Dell."
## p. 195 (#205) ############################################
owns. 195
"You  you don't mean it?" And Tarby turned
as white as a sheet.
"Yes, I do."
"Give me another couple of months to prepare for
it, or I shall make a fool of myself, and tell all."
And in two months' time Mary Chickney went
with Owen to "The Help," and thence to Dell and
Co.'s. She could scarcely understand Owen's wish to
take her there; she had only seen Ruth's father once
in her life. Certainly he was an old friend of Owen's,
and, therefore, should be a friend of hers.
It was a very short interview, for Owen would not
test Tarby's powers of endurance too far; but it was
sufciently long to make Mary think that Mr. Dell's
partner was a singular man, with an unpleasant habit
of looking at her out of the corners of his eyes. Still
she liked him a little, for he had brought her good
tidings once. She had always fancied Owen had sent
him as a pioneer that day of their reunion, and so gave
Tarby credit for more tact than he deserved.
She thought him a very reserved man, or a very
shy one, and that he was afflicted with palsy when she
shook hands with him; but Owen told her afterwards
it was only his way, and his way did not affect her
much.
Owen and Mary began in the winter time to pay
more frequent visits to London. Owen had settled on
his house between John Dell's and the business, and
he wanted Mary's advice concerning the furniture.
The shop in the Westminster Road was never passed
13*
## p. 196 (#206) ############################################
196 owns.
in their London visits, and Tarby became more ac-
customed to the sight of his daughter. Still he was
always reserved, and strangely respectful to her; always
glancing at her wistfully, and wondering within himself
how she would bear the revelation. He did not believe
it would shock her very much, or that she wouldu't be
even like a daughter to him some day; but he still
withheld his answer to Owen: "Leave it a little while
longer, he was thinking of it every day."
So, calling frequently at the rm of Dell and Co,
tobacconists, Owen and Mary, early one winter's even-
ing, met Ruth Glindon, to whom we revert again after
a round-about fashion. The meeting between Mary
and Ruth was a warm one, and there was much to say
concerning the Cherburys and their past days together
at Ansted.
"Next week I hope to be at Oaklands," said Ruth.
"Arthur has accepted an invitation for us to dine
there."
"So Mrs. Cherbury has told me," answered Mary.
"I hope Arthur will soon be a little more free,"
added Ruth, with a sigh.
"Is he still sanguine about that appointment?"
asked Owen.
"Yes; and he made a great step yesterday towards
it. I believe it is almost promised him."
"I am glad to hear it," said Owen.
Ruth did not know whether she was glad or not,
for she made no answer to Owen's expressions of good-
will.
## p. 197 (#207) ############################################
owns. 197
"Have you been to 'The Help,' Owen?"
"Yes. They have been compelled to turn a hundred
away already. When I saw the streets alive with people
I was disheartened at my own work, and at the little
relief it seemed able to afford. I left your uncle there
bargaining for the hire of some disused stables for a
night or two for the men. Entirely on his own account,
Mrs. Glindon  quite an opposition establishment."
"Do you think I shall be able to meet him before
he goes?" asked Ruth, eagerly.
"I think it likely. But, Mrs. Glindon, it is late
for a visit in that direction alone."
"I am not afraid," was the reply. "I was there
last night at a later hour."
"Indeed!" said Owen.
"It's a black slum for a lady," said 92, "and
Owen's quite right in his asturtions. Where's my stick,
Brown, I'll see Ruth to 'The Help.'"
"No, no  I would rather not to-night," said
Ruth, in a confused manner. "You must excuse me,
father. I am so well known, and could not think of
taking you out of your way. Perhaps Arthur will meet
me there, too. Good night."
And very precipitately Ruth hurried away, leaving
Owen perplexed at her demeanour, so strangely in con-
trast to her usual orderly habits. He set it all down
to Glindon, however. There had been some little
quarrel between husband and wife, and Ruth was still
agitated concerning it.
But Owen was wrong in his judgment; and as it is
## p. 198 (#208) ############################################
198 owns.
time for us to throw a light on the mystery, we will
follow Ruth to "The Help." ,
Owen was right, the streets were alive with people.
The frost had swooped suddenly down upon the
wanderers that early winter, and hindered out-door
work, and run up the price of provisions, and lled
the place with hungry faces. Round the workhouse
gates of London that night were huddled crowds of
applicants for admission. To all such refuges for the
destitute as men like Owen had formed in different
parts of London, there streamed the poverty-hunted
and forsaken  steadily, unceasingly on, every hour
increasing the number, and speaking more of the misery
at the heart of a great city.
Towards "The Help," formed by Owen, men, women
and children toiled and went back, bafed by the news
that no more room could be given, and met others as
gaunt and haggard as themselves, who would not take
such news for gospel, but went on to be bafed in their
turn. Near "The Help," crouching on door-steps, or
leaning against the house-walls, lingered a few de-
spairing ones, who had come thither as a last chance,
and had given up when told it was too late. One
woman, in particular, sat heaped on the pavement, un-
able or refusing to move another inch, and deaf to all
the remonstrances of a policeman, to whom the refuse
of "The Help" was, to use his own words, "the
cussedest torment of his life." Half-a-dozen beggars
and thieves were interested in the dispute, and waited
## p. 199 (#209) ############################################
owns. 199
attendance on the law  it was nothing new, but it
wiled away the time a little, cold as it was.
"I'm done for, and can't move," moaned the wo-
man; "and what's more, I was told to come by the
lady."
"But they're full at 'The Help,'" remonstrated the
ofcer.
"So much the worse."
"And you'd better get up  the people can't pass
you."
"I shan't get up. Let 'em go in the road!"
Ruth pushed her way through the crowd, and
looked down on the woman, evidently recognizing her.
"You were here last night  do you remember
me?"
The woman looked up.
"You're the lady that was kind?"
"I was at 'The Help' last night."
"You've brought me all the way back here, and
see how I'm served."
"I'm very sorry  will you come with me?"
"I must have rest  my God, I must have rest!"
moaned the woman.
"It isn't all sham, ma'am," said the policeman,
turning to Ruth.
"No; she was weak and ill last night, and might
have stayed there another day, if she had wished. Will
you come with me?" she repeated.
The woman scrambled slowly to her feet, and Ruth
offered her arm as a support.
## p. 200 (#210) ############################################
200 owns.
"Where are you going to take me?"
"Only a little way."
The woman walked with difculty, and they went
slowly away, the outcasts of "The Help" watching
them. Ruth was known to most of them already, and
"the lady" was muttered here and there, often in a
reverent whisper, strange to hear. Amongst the crowd
there were naturally some discontented ones - it was
not the general rule to be grateful  and, "see what
favourites are made of some of us," was muttered more
than once.
The woman caught the words, and said with a
sickly smile,
"It's odd to be called a favourite, ma':-mm."
A moment afterwards she stopped, and exclaimed
in ercer tones,
"Where are you taking me?  I have your
word  it was said solemnly, mind!"
"Across the road here; I have hired a room for
you opposite."
"You thought I'd come, then?"-
"You gave me your word."
The woman scoffed at her word being trusted; but
Ruthptook no notice.
"I am here to time," she said, "and you were a
little before it, or I might have saved you applying at
'The Help.' "
"You never intended me to go there?"
'KNOB,
"Why didn't you say so last night?"
## p. 201 (#211) ############################################
owns. 201
"You were a little suspicious of me."
"Because my own fool's tongue betrayed me, and
you were mighty sharp to catch up my words. Well,
it's a wonder you see me."
"Why?"
"Because I thought of drowning myself  that's
why!"
"Hush!  hush!"
Ruth shuddered at her answer  had she known
how long that intention had been considered in all its
bearings, she need not have been greatly alarmed.
"I did not know whose 'Help' it was, when
I stumbled upon it last night," said she; "and it's
'Owen's Help,'  I heard the people saying so."
"Yes  Owen's ~ your son's."
"It's hard grudging help without kind words,
then!"
"No."
"The boy means well, but he's awfully hard.
Where's the place?  I shall drop dead in a minute.
I'm worn to death, and you drive me mad about the
boy. I've your solemn promise?"
"It shall be kept till you release me from it."
"That's well  you're one of the good sort."
They were at the door of a little house half-way
down the street, and at Ruth's summons a poorly-
attired woman, with a baby in her arms, responded.
"Does this belong to 'The Help' too?" the woman
asked.
## p. 202 (#212) ############################################
202 owns.
"The upstairs room is hired sometimes, when there
is a very pressing case, like yours."
"Why is mine a pressing case?  because I might
die if I were left in the streets?"
"You require rest," said Ruth, evasiyely.
"I belong to the streets  I've a right to die in
'em. I don't think I can go up all those stairs."
"Will you rest a moment?" asked the woman with
the baby  "I will bring a chair."
"Owen never comes here, does he?" whispered the
other.
HNo.77
"Let me get upstairs, then  now, your arm
again."
Slowly and painfully, with Ruth's assistance, Owen's
mother dragged her way to the front bedroom, and sat
herself shivering in the rst chair.
"I've come up here to die, I do believe."
"I hope not," answered Ruth.
"About the best thing that could happen p'raps 
what's this?"
"Water."
"Put it on the mantel-piece  I'll have some pre-
sently. I never did care much for water. I say,"
(very eagerly) "you won't leave me to-night?"
"I must return home in an hour or two  my
husband would be anxious about me. The woman of
the house will see to your wants."
"And to-morrow?"
## p. 203 (#213) ############################################
owns. 203
"I shall see you once more."
"And never a word to Owen; it would kill me to
face him again  never again!"
And she broke into a second shivering t more
violent than the preceding.
Ruth sat on the edge of the bed, watching her
narrowly. The woman had changed even since the
preceding night  and then she seemed to have her
days numbered on her face. A woman utterly worn
out with toil, and privation, and drink; who might
not live anothen week,, Ruth had thought on their rst
meeting  who could not linger far beyond that
period, Ruth felt convinced that night.
"Would you like to see a doctor?" Ruth asked,
after a long study of her weak, frail sister.
"Doctors are no good for me," she said; ."I only
want rest  I'm so awfully weary."
Ruth did not press the question, for it appeared to
irritate the woman. She left her in charge of the
supplementary nurse  engaged on special occasions,
like the present  and sent for the doctor, also called
in when sickness at "The Help" necessitated.
Mrs. Owen  at this stage of her history we do
not care to learn her real name, and Owen has never
borne it  felt herself aggrieved at the appearance of
a medical man, and declined to answer any questions
that were put to her, and made quite a little ght for
her arm when he endeavoured to feel her pulse. But
the doctor was a grave, quiet man, and waited his
## p. 204 (#214) ############################################
204 owas.
opportunity, and sat watching her face, from which a
skilful practitioner gathers so much knowledge.
" She is very ill, sir?" asked Ruth.
"She is breaking up  she will live seven or
eight days, perhaps," was the verdict delivered in
the narrow passage of the branch establishment to
"Owen's Help."
"There is nothing sudden to be anticipated?"
"Nothing," said he; "I will send round a stimulant.
Good evening."
Ruth remained till Owen's mother=was in her bed,
then she said,
"Last night you repeated a prayer after me."
"Ah, yes!  don't go on again like that; it was
only fun of mine. I am weary to death."
"Will you not say it?"
"Not to-night!"  almost peevishly.
"To-morrow?"
"Yes  to-morrow, then," she answered, clutching
at a postponement.
"You will keep your promise?  for I will keep
mine," said Ruth.
"It's a bargain."
And the woman turned on her side with a half
groan, and was asleep in an instant. She was very
weary of the world!
## p. 205 (#215) ############################################
owns. 205
CHAPTER III.
" The Old Complaint."
Ir must be confessed that John Dell's niece de-
served a better fate than being linked for life to a man
so ill-tempered, jealous, and variable as Arthur Glindon.
Owen thought so, and it had long been John Dell's
secret opinion.
Still there was no woman better capable of making
the best of a bad bargain than Ruth; no one who could
quicker learn resignation and take comfort from ad-
versity. Her fate was no worse than that of being
matched to an unapprec1'atiue husband to a man who,
full of his own pursuits, had no sympathy for hers 
who, busy in the world himself, forgot to make the
little world of home he left behind as bright and
pleasant as a few words might have done. There are
some men like this, as there are some women in-
tolerant and exacting; wedlock is a lottery, wherein
there are a few  just a few  uncomfortable
blanks.
Ruth Dell's great mistake in life had been to for-
give Arthur Glindon in the very face of her own
wisdom on the matter. True, she loved the wretch,
and love gets the better of wisdom occasionally; and
as he was earnest and truthful for the time, so her
earnestness and truth carried her away and warped her
## p. 206 (#216) ############################################
206 owns.
judgment. Still, we repeat, she made the best of it;
she set herself the great task of reforming all her
husband's eccentricities, of planning his life for him,
and studying in every way to prove his ideas therein
were premature, and his passions misleading; and if it
were too great for her strength, the object of interest
being stubborn and often unapproachable, why it has
been the fate of many women before her. Most wo-
men, perhaps, would have shown more spirit, exhibited
a little more of those family discomforts yclept "airs,"
forgot all about loving and obeying long since  but
Ruth was a proud girl, and did not care to own to so-
ciety how mistaken she had been. She -set the good
example of hiding her husband's faults with the same
veil that concealed the wound in her heart; and, thanks
to John Dell's early teaching, there was religion 
pure, deep, and unalterable  to sustain her in her
hour of trial.
.!},And she had not given up all hope of Glindon -
for she was a woman. Nor her love, for she was a true
wife and mother. She was lookingforward still to
the better times beyond the present  Glindon's san-
guine nature even affected her own. Each new step
that he made might, she thought, render him more
content, and if there were times when she doubted, she
kept the shadow from him. If he were more than
usually abstracted and forgetful of her, there was her
child to turn to; and, now the child was away, there
seemed suddenly offered to her a great task, in which
her whole heart became instantly engaged.
## p. 207 (#217) ############################################
owns. 207
Owen's mother had emerged from the darkness, and
sought shelter at "The Help;" in her weakness had
given signs of contrition for much in the past. Her
strength was failing her, her life was drawing to a
close, and the old wild beast humour to roam was
dying out with her energy. She was a woman who,
as we have seen, had snatched tfully at good, and
yet went on deantly to evil. The tide against her
was ever too strong for her futile ebrts to turn back,
and those who had tried to save her had their narrow
ideas of what was best, and so lost their chance
with hers!
Ruth saw all this in the rst meeting, when a few
incoherent words betrayed who the wanderer was; so
the task of attempting the woman's reformation became
a great and worthy effort.
Ruth was earnest and gentle  knew, with a
woman's tact, how much one stricken could bear -
which was the right word, and when was the right
time to say it. In their rst meeting she had made
some impression; in their second, she had engendered
condence; in all that followed there was some pro-
gress to be noted.
Owen's mother shrunk very much from Ruth's
teaching at rst; but Ruth's manner was new, and she
was weak unto death. Her son had attempted a moral
cure; but he talked of himself, his character, the wrong
that had been done him  never of the Saviour who
had died for her, of the angels in heaven who would
rejoice at her repentance. Somehow she had escaped
## p. 208 (#218) ############################################
208 owns.
that teaching till then, or it had been attempted at the
top of the teacher's voice, and with annihilating
glances. It was all new to her; she could remember
something of the kind when she was a child, and she
had forgotten it till that day. She clung to Ruth at
last and repented.
We will not attempt to fathom what would have
, been the end of this had her strength come back, and
with it the old temptation of the streets; but we believe
that Owen's mother would have made a better stand
for it, than when Owen took her case in hand. There
was more to ght for, she had learned more, and with
God's help she might have kept strong to the last. But
her reformation was left till the eleventh hour  as
some are, and are none the less reformations  and
Ruth's task was rewarded and blessed.
Still, the master-passions live on to the end, and
the shades of character that have made us stubborn,
yielding, proud, or wilful, icker with the sinking
ame. In one thing Owen's mother was rm  that
of holding Ruth to the promise to keep her state from
her son. In her weakness, her terror of that son was
so extreme  the horror of meeting him so great
that Ruth did not dare to press her to the ut-
most.
"Long ago he told me it was my last chance, and
that if I threw it away he had done with me. It's all
over between us, and I don't want to see him, and I
don't dare to face him. If he came, it would be but
to frown, and tell me  what is true enough  how
## p. 209 (#219) ############################################
owns. 209
much 'I have disgraced him. I can see his white face,
and his eyes like coals of re  you must not let him
come to me!"
"You are mistaken in him," Ruth would reason;
"he would be ready to forgive everything, and take
you to his breast. I, who have known him so long.
can answer for him."
"I daren't face him!  I daren't face him!"
"Will you let me tell him how ill you are, and
where you are?" pleaded Ruth, later in the week. "I
promise you he shall not see you till you wish it 
till you hear from him that everything has been long
ago forgiven."
"And he shan't see me  and you'll tell me every
word he says?"
"Yes."
"Tell him to-morrow, then  not to-night, mind,"
said the mother; "and if he's 'not really sorry to get
rid of me, not really angry with all l've done and
said, tell him to wait until I have thought his words
over. But in mercy," catching at Ruth's dress, "not
before I send, and am prepared, or the sight of him '
will send me to my grave, a madwoman. He might
have saved me, had he thought more of God and less
of himself, eight years ago."
Ruth used her utmost e'orts to induce Owen's
mother not to delay till the morrow, but she kept rm
to her rst assertion.
"Are you afraid I shan't last?"
Owen:  A Waif. 11. 14
## p. 210 (#220) ############################################
210 owns.
"No; but Owen's message may be of much comfort
to you, and Owen himself a blessing."
"Never that!" said the woman, moodily.
"Will you let me go to him?"
"No, no."
"Will you let me send to him?"
"Tomorrow."
Owen's mother became so ill and excited that night,
betrayed so great a fear that Ruth would leave her and
communicate with her son, that Ruth saw to quit the
house under any pretence would be to kill her.
"You'll stay till it's all over now," she pleaded, "or
at least till the morrow, and then go to Owen yourself?
Won't you write to your husband and ask him to spare
you for one night?"
Ruth could not nd the heart to quit the su'erer
it was neither her duty nor her inclination. She
penned a hasty note to her husband, stating that a
woman was dying at "Owen's Help," and she had
found it impossible to leave  adding a hope that she
had not already alarmed him by her lengthened stay.
The letter was despatched by special messenger, and
reached George Street many hours before the arrival
of Doctor Glindon, who ascended his steps as the rst
hour of the morning was being notied from neigh-
bouring church steeples.
Doctor Glindon had been dining with a friend 
half a dozen friends  on a special occasion deserving
of a feast. He had obtained his appointmentwhich
was in India  and thus the reward for all his energy
## p. 211 (#221) ############################################
OWEN. 211
in the pursuit had come to him. He was inclined to
be elated with his success  not with the wine, for he
had not drunk deep, and was ever a temperate man
and he passed into the drawing-room to communicate
the good tidings to his wife, and to receive her con-
gratulations.
He stood surprised for a few minutes at the empty
room, and the letter awaiting him in a conspicuous
position between the looking-glass and its frame on the
mantel-piece; then he turned pale with the fear that
something had happened to Ruth, seized the note, and
hastily dived into its contents.
Having read the letter, Arthur Glindon relapsed
into the easy-chair with a rapidly-contracting brow,
and began slowly and savagely a repast on the letter
in his hand. To think he had returned full of the
brightest news to nd Ruth absent for the night  to
think a dying old woman at a refuge should be con-
sidered matter of sufcient moment to detain her. Damn
every old woman under the sun, for dying at unseason-
able hours!
Having cursed and sworn to his heart's content 
an operation that appeared to greatly relieve himhe
went upstairs to his room. There was no help for it
but resignation; it was foolish of Ruth to trouble her-
self about people who did not belong to her; he was
thankful it could not last much longer. Just a little
while, and then he, Ruth and the boy would shake
from their feet the dust of a land wherein he had
never been happy. He was sorry he had ever given
14*
## p. 212 (#222) ############################################
212 owns.
his consent to Ruth playing the Samaritan at "The
Help;" it was natural people should die there some-
times, and give other people a vast deal of trouble.
And it was that Owen's "Help;" and perhaps Owen
was there also, and interested in the invalid. And the
had loved Ruth once, although Ruth had been for ever
in the dark concerning it; and now one common in-
terest might awaken love in the man's breast again.
He did not like Owen - he was one whom he could
never trust, and he had always been suspicious of him.
Still there was nothing to fear or suspect; it was un-
likely Owen would be at "The Help;" and the morrow
would soon come. What a fool he was to work himself
into a frenzy about nothing. And his common-sense
told him it was nothing, and so cooled him.
Satised that the woman would die in the night,
Glindon awoke the next morning in a better frame of
mind, and was disposed to meet Ruth on her return
with an amiable countenance. But when Ruth returned
not, and the clock on the landing struck hour after
hour, and he had eaten his solitary breakfast, which
he had delayed till ten in the morning for her, his bad
tempers set in again  not the bad tempers of last
night, but an entirely new set, manufactured expressly
for the occasion, and capable of greater expansion.
He commenced a rapid perambulation to and fro,
tramping heavily and monotonously, and shaking every-
thing in the room, even to the windows in the sashes;
and having indulged in this exercise for an hour and
a half, he seized his hat and ran into the street. He
## p. 213 (#223) ############################################
owns. 213
would fetch her back from the refuge, or see if that
old woman were not shamming illness, and imposing
on his wife. He would read his wife a smart lecture
for her inattention, he might almost say her disregard.
From that day forth his interdict on Ruth's visits to
the accursed institution, which Owen had thought it
necessary to open  from that day forth a tighter rein
on Mrs. Glindon. Cab!
Ensconced in a patent Hansom, Glindon lay back
and fumed and anathematized most things that his
memory could suggest, "Owen's Help" in particular.
Whilst recurring to "The Help" for the twentieth time
or so, it struck him that he need not trouble himself
to ride thither. Why should he testify such extra-
ordinary concern for Mrs. Glindon, as to arrive in
breathless haste to make inquiries concerning her, or
allow the people there possibly Owen amongst them
to think he was uneasy or distrustful? Why should
people talk about him at all?  and why should he
exhibit more anxiety for the wife than the wife had
shown for the husband? He dashed his st at the trap
in the cab's roof with so much suddenness as to frighten
the cabman.
"Make for Southwark Road," and he called out
John Dell's business address to the driver. He would
proceed to the engineering department, and communi-
cate to his father-in-law the success of his plans for
obtaining that appointment which could alone make
him happy, making sure by the way as to what had
become of our hero. If he were not "pottering" about
## p. 214 (#224) ############################################
214 owes.
"The Help," o'ering a hundred excuses to be near
Ruth, why, he should be satised that his wife was
safe, and perhaps justied in attending to the wants of
some miserable specimen of humanity. And if Ruth
had already reached home, so much the better for her
she would grow concerned about him in her turn,
and have a nice long day in George Street all to her-
self. And it was just possible, he thought vindictively,
that he should arrive home very late that night.
He was at the workshops and foundry of Dell and
Owen the many hammers were echoing in the street;
the great shaft was smoking vigorously; there was life
and activity in the hive into which he stepped. Signs
of a young and thriving undertaking met him at each
turn  the hosts of men at work, the bustle of the
foremen, the pre-occupied look of John Dell, with a
pen in one hand and a whole mass of letters in the
other, as he came to meet his son-in-law, all bore testi-
mony to it. "This should have been my sphere,"
thought the discontented man. "I should have been
earning my fortune here, instead of being driven by
fate out of my native land. But a stranger was pre-
ferred to the husband of her supposed to be nearest
his heart."
"Good day, Glindon. What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
"I thought you looked pale. Will you step into
the counting-house?"
" Thank you."
## p. 215 (#225) ############################################
owns. 215
Glindon followed John Dell, and as he entered the
counting-house looked quickly around him.
"Where's Mr. Owen this morning?" he attempted
to say in an unconcerned tone.
"He hasn't come yet. Take a' seat."
Dell was turning over the letters in his hand to
make quite sure he had not lost one crossing the yard,
or he would have been startled by the sudden change
in Glindon's face. Glindon had not been really suspi-
cious before. He had worried himself by what he felt
to be his own foolish thoughts; but the rst real doubt
struck at him like a dagger. Still it might be only a
coincidence. It was not likely he would be with Ruth
it was impossible!
"I was not aware your partner was so lax in his
business habits."
"Eh?"
Glindon repeated his observation, and Dell's great
eyes appeared slowly coming out of their sockets, and
over the handful of letters at the visitor. Dell fancied
he detected in Glindon the old desire to depreciate
Owen, and a sneer at the regular habits of one of whom
he had spoken too partially. So he answered very
shortly,
"Lax he isn't. Sharp and regular, and uninching
to his share of the work, he always is."
"It's strange!"
"He has some plans to nish at home to-day  a.
clever idea of his, which is worth considering. But
## p. 216 (#226) ############################################
216 owns.
still," with a glance at the counting-house clock, "I
did not understand he would be quite so late as this."
"Something wrong at 'The Help,' perhaps?"
"I haven't heard. It would be something very
wrong to send for him."
"Some one dying, perhaps?"
"I don't think they would send to Owen at once.
He's at home."
"Are you sure?"
"What do you mean?  do you want to see him?"
asked Dell; "out with it, Glindon  something is the
matter."
"Nnothing. I am only the bearer of good news,
and desire all my friends to offer their congratulations.
I have gained the appointment."
"In India?" and Dell's countenance lengthened.
"Yes."
"That's bad news for me. I shan't congratulate
you."
Glindon did not answer. He had turned the cur-
rent of Dell's thoughts, but his own owed or un-
changeably, in the dark, deep channel of mistrust. He
might have been jealous before, but he had never ex-
perienced his present sensations. He might have been
angry without a reason very often  now with acause,
what an intensely bitter feeling it was!
"I'm in doubt how the climate will agree with Ruth
and her child."
"Oh! well enough."
## p. 217 (#227) ############################################
owns. , 217
"What!  are you going?"
"Yes, I must hasten home  I've a deal to pre-
pare." -
Dell made no ebrt to stay him. It struck him
that Glindon's manner was peculiar; but the son-in-law
had been eccentric at times, and Dell was very busy
just then. Glindon did not appear to him to be greatly
excited over his good fortune  possibly now the goal
was reached, he was beginning to think he might do
better at something else. Dell would consider it in the
dinner-hour  and he stood at his high desk and
spread out his letters carefully, preparatory to answer-
ing each in its turn.
Meanwhile, Glindon walked out of the ofce, re-
crossed the yard, and started for Kennington Road and
Dell's private residence. Owen was at home, Dell had
informed him  it might be so, he prayed it might be
so, and he would never suspect a living thing again!
He had no right to suspect anyone  Ruth had
been the best and the most faithful of wives  but it
was Glindon's nature ever to see darkly.
He went up the steps of John Dell's house very
impetuously, as if he would outwalk such awful thoughts
as the devil was whispering in his ear, and knocked
noisily at the door. The servant-maid who responded
looked with some amazement at the white face of the
new comer.
"Where's Mr. Owen?"
"In the front parlour, sir  with Mrs. Glindon."
" WHAT! " shouted Glindon.
## p. 218 (#228) ############################################
218 owns.
The servant was trying to nd the voice which
Glindon's impetuous manner had frightened to a low
depth in her system, when he thrust her aside, and
ung back the door.
Owen and Ruth were standing side by side, and
Ruth seemed agitated. The quick eyes of Glindon saw
that Owen held her hand, and that Owen was pale,
excited, and trembling. The quick ears heard, also,
"You have kept it a secret till now. Oh! Ruth, do
you know what a reproach all my after-life may be?"
"Ay, and deserves to be!" cried Glindon  "a re-
proach to be shared by me, and this weak woman
here!"
"Are you mad?" said Owen, releasing Ruth's hand,
and turning suddenly upon him; "are you mad?"
"I may be presently!" returned Glindon, "when I
have inquired into this mystery, that brings my wife
and you in secret conversation here!"
"Arthur!" cried Ruth, "you don't knowyou"
"Madam! I will come to you for an explanation
presently. I insist upon your departure, now and at
once. I will not have you here an instant longer!" he
cried, with a stamp of his foot.
"You are foolish, sir!  you are disgracing your-
self and me!" said Ruth, indignantly. "You are not
sparing one whose troubles are real and severe!"
"I shall be pleased to hear every word in extenua-
tion," said Glindon; "but not in this house. At your
own home  the most tting place for you and me to
discuss the propriety of this visit."
## p. 219 (#229) ############################################
owns. 219
"Arthur!  all this will be your bitterest retro-
spect some day!"
"Will you leave me to your friend whose feelings
you are so anxious to spare?"
"I will leave you to your better self."
Ruth went out of the house, trembling very much
more ashamed of her husband's excitement than in-
dignant with him. She was sorry that he had betrayed
so much anger in an unjust cause before Owen; but
she was not alarmed concerning him. She felt the ex-
planation was simple, and would satisfy him, however
reasonable he might be; she would leave him to think
how cruel and ungenerous he had been, and, when the
moral had struck home to him, she would forgive him.
Out of evil even good might arise, and he might be a
changed man from that day. She would hurry round
to Owen's mother with the son's assuring message,
that he bore no enmity towards her, and only yearned
to see her again,  and then to her home, and her
inconsistent, ungenerous, distrustful husband. She had
no fear of a quarrel ensuing between Owen and him.
Owen's rst words would disarm Glindon, she thought;
and being anxious that the full force of his injustice
should impress him before they met again, she has-
tened on to the street wherein "The Help" was
situated, fearing lest he should overtake her, and, ob-
taining his pardon too readily, too readily forget the
evil he might have caused.
It was not her wisest step, possibly; but she was
agitated, and more than one event had occurred to dis-
## p. 220 (#230) ############################################
220 owns.
turb her. The sick woman's excitement, when she had
set forth to break the news to Owen; the horror, and
even remorse, of Owen, at his mother's dread of meeting
him; and, lastly, the erce attack of her husband. She
reasoned rapidly, and followed the bent of her reason,
and went on, dreaming not for one instant of the ex-
planation never being o'ered to Glindon, and he left
to still ght with the ends that beset him.
And Owen never explained. The departure of
Ruth from the room was the signal for a return of
Glindon's erce demeanour. He demanded the reason
of his wife being there, in tones that rung throughout
the house; he strode close to Owen, and held his
clenched hand in his face; he gave way to all that
extravagance of action to which passion can lead a
man. It was the passion that overpowered him, that
is akin to madness, and has been the father of
murder.
Owen lost patience. He was sorely troubled, and
this man wearied and vexed him.
"You demand!" he said  "if you ask an ex-
planation, you shall have'it. Don't demand of me; I
am neither your slave nor your victim!"
"You are a villain and a coward!"
"Glindon, do you understand that there is a dying
woman, and that "
"I know that story," he interrupted; "that is a lie
and a subterfuge, and I will not listen to it!"
"Will you leave this house?" and Owen put down
## p. 221 (#231) ############################################
OWEN. 221'
the clenched hand of his antagonist, and laid his own,
large and bony, on Glindon's arm.
"You refuse me an explanation?"
"I refuse everything," said Owen, rmly. "I have
had enough of your tempers; if you rouse mine, it will
fare badly with you. Will you go?"
"You are~a knave!" repeated Glindon.
"Do you think I am knave enough to rob you of
your wife? - or that, having such a devilish thought,
I should succeed with one so near the angels? Man,
you're a fool!" .
He thrust him angrily back, and Glindon struck at
him. Owen caught the wrist as it descended, and held
it in a vice. '
"Go home to your wife and hear her story," said
he. "See if there be hesitation, a look throughout,
that should warrant this vile conduct; and if you do
not ask pardon on your knees before her, you are less
a man than I consider you. Your wife has been the
dearest friend and comforter to me, and more than me;
you have always been an enemy, and quick to mis-
judge. The story I might tell, you would only half-
believe; when you are reasonable, I will explain 
not now, to a madman!"
"I will go to her!" said Glindon, suddenly. "I
cannot expect truth from you. But there is a reckon-
ing coming between us, and you cannot escape it." '
Owen opened the door without answering, and, with
a menacing gesture, Arthur Glindon passed out. The
dark look in his face warned Owen that it might be
## p. 222 (#232) ############################################
222 owns.
better to force the truth upon him  that it would
possibly be more just to Ruth to attempt the explana-
tion, and he called out "Glindon!"
Whether Glindon heard or not, he only paused to
repeat:
"There will be a reckoning between us in our next
meeting," and dashed into the street, dreaming not of
the hundred chances for ever intervening in life to
thwart evil as well as good projects. Now a word,
and now the turning of a hair, and now the silent
valley of death, into which the most sure-footed may
suddenly slip.
Owen went back to think of all this  to lock
himself in the room with it, and wonder what had
suggested all Glindon's unaccountable suspicions. It
was a trouble to him; but, like Ruth, he believed
Glindon would very soon emerge from the mists of
ignorance in which he was groping. When he was
calmer, he would be more reasonableif he only had
his (Owen's) trouble! And Owen, with his elbows on
the table, and his face covered with his hands, forgot
Glindon's madness, and,shook with the agony that
beset him.
His mother was dying, and begged him not to see
her  she preferred the stranger's care to his own,
and could only face him at the last  she accused
him even; for Ruth, having a good motive in view,
had informed him of that past hardness and selshness,
which had sent the mother away from him, when the
word of God might have stayed her. He was to his
## p. 223 (#233) ############################################
own. 223
mother a stern, unpitying, selsh man, and she would
die in very fear. His face at her bedside, his hand on
hers, would but shorten her life. He had risen in the
world, and struggled from an evil past to honesty, and
yet he had had no mercy on her efforts, naturally more
weak than his own, but let her fall away again, and
pardoned not. Seventy and seven times was the man
in the parable exhorted to forgive; and he had given
her one chance and cast her o'. God forgive his pride
and wickedness!
He might have thought thus an hour, when a mes-
senger brcathlessly arrived with a note.
"It's from Mrs. Glindon, sir," said the servant, and
Owen opened it with eager hands.
A few lines hastily written in pencil met his eyes.
"Dear Owen  Game at once.
7
"Ruth."
He let the paper fall from his hands, and stood for
a. moment horror-stricken  then he dashed from the
room, seized his hat, and ran ofl'. The vicinity of
"The Help" was not a long distance from Dell's house,
and he ran rapidly down the Kennington Road, across
to Oakley Street, and then to the mass of streets and
courts to the right thereof.
People stared at him and jumped out of his way,
doubtful if he were from Bethlehem Hospital, or had
stolen anything, or was merely keeping himself warm
that wintry day; but before their doubts had arrived
at a denite solution, Owen was out of sight.
## p. 224 (#234) ############################################
224 owns.
He reached the house - it had seemed an age to
him, notwithstanding his quick progress  the blinds
were down in the windows, but then the sun shone on
that side of the way, and poor people were always
dgety about their colours ying. It was not too late
it couldn't be too late to see her!
The woman opened the door and curtsied to him.
He nodded his head by way of recognition, but asked
no questions  he had not the courage to address a
word to her.
"Upstairs, sir  Mrs. Glindon's there still."
Still! What a strange word it sounded! The door
was closed, and he turned the handle and pushed it
open without announcing his presence.
Ruth was kneeling at the bedside', and in the bed
lay the dead mother!
"Not dead, Ruth  not dead without a word!" he
cried. '
Ruth rose, and held her hands towards him.
"My poor Owen, it was to be. -It was God's will."
"It is awful!"
He dropped into a chair, and sat there looking at
her who was at peace. Very mournfully was his gaze
directed to the silent gure.
"At the last, Ruth  what did she say  what
were her last words?"
"God make the son's life better than the mo-
ther's!"
"Not the old accusation  not again the awful
words you told me this morning?"
## p. 225 (#235) ############################################
owns. 225
'(Noo,
"Will you say them again?"
"What is the good, Owen?"
"I wish it," said he; "go on: 'He might have
saved me '"
"'He might have saved me, had he thought more
of God and less of himself eight years ago!'  but,
oh! Owen, I believe she was saved."
"By the efforts of a stranger, who had more faith
in God than myself  yes."
"Still saved," said Ruth, earnestly; "and with faith
in the promises made by Him who died for us, Owen,
she passed away, praying for your better life  FOR
YoURs!"
The change was working in him. He saw all that
he had missed of truth, and all that he had closed his
heart to. He heard of her repentance, and that last
prayer, with a heaving chest. He stood by the side of
the mother, and thought how she might have died but
for Ruth. God's hand was in it all.
"I have been as hard as the nether millstone  I
have sinned! Will you go away, and leave me with
the dead."
Ruth closed the door upon his sorrow, and left him
gazing at the dead face  a face so much younger,
brighter, and more peaceful than he had ever known
it living. He stooped over the bed, kissed her fore-
head, drew the white sheet over her, and then the
strong man sank upon his knees, a very child!
U108!!!  A \m/; n. 15
## p. 226 (#236) ############################################
226 owns.
CHAPTER IV.
The Result.
ARTHUR Gnmnon did not hurry back to George
Street to pour forth his vial of wrath  he walked
back at what he considered a temperate pace, and
o'ered himself every opportunity of becoming cool and
collected. He would do nothing rashly; it should not
be said this time that in the spur of the moment he
gave vent to words which, in the cooler after-period,
he bitterly repented. He attered himself that he was
in the right for once; and so he would be just, but in-
exible. From that day forth no more of Ruth play-
ing the Samaritan, and no more of her friend's danger-
ous expressions of his gratitude.
To do Doctor Glindon justice, it is fair to say that
he did not now suspect any pre-arrangement in the
meeting between his wife and Owen; he would grant
it, now he was getting cooler, to have been an ac-
cident, taken advantage of by that designing hound
who had ordered him out of his father-in-law's house.
A curse upon him; he should me it yet! He should
not play the hero to his wife, and seek step by step
to rob him of her affection. The paltry game was seen
through, and should end!
Glindon let himself into his house in George Street
with the latch-key; it would be better to get his little
## p. 227 (#237) ############################################
own. 227
expression of will over as quietly as possible; and ser-
vants were ever suspicious and quick at detecting the
signs of a storm. Not that he intended to storm very
loudly now  he was as calm as a judge, and his
pulse was not much above fever-heat.
Into the drawing-room, where he had expected to
nd Mrs. Glindon, and where its vacuity made him
feel uncomfortable  not that he doubted his wife's
disobedience to his last commands to return home.
Possibly she was upstairs playing the injured heroine,
with hair down her back and the tears streaming forth.
Well, the picture would not stop him delivering a
piece of his mind.
Glindon went upstairs with this idea, found the
rooms empty, came down again, looked in the break-
fast parlour and study, returned to the drawing-room,
noticed for the rst time two letters awaiting him.
Hastily breaking the seals, he found one from the
North, communicating the good news that his son's
health was rapidly improving, and that he wished so
much to see his mother; and the other from Mrs. Cher-
bury, reminding him that he and Mrs. Glindon had
promised to dine at Oaklands that day.
"A quiet dinner at ve," she added; "but Ruth
has promised to come earlier and make a long day of
it. If you should be pressed for time, do not return
home to dress  we were never fussy people, you
know."
Glindon crumpled the letters on the table, went
through a little quick exercise over the carpet, made a
## p. 228 (#238) ############################################
228 owns.
sudden dash at the bell-rope, and hung on to it, 81 la
Leotard, till some one responded to his summons.
"Where's your mistress?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Don't know? Why, she came in a little while
ago, I suppose?"
"No, she did not, sir."
"Not been in yet?"
"No, sir."
"Then go down-stairs, and don't stand staring
at me!"
More quick steps, then ga full-length plunge on the
sofa, and a grind, grind of his white teeth together.
It was plain she cared nothing for his will, for his
feelings; she had not returned, although there had been
plenty of time allowed her; she had chosen to go her
own way and defy him. At her own convenience
would she meet the brunt of his anger, not at his own.
She would return to "The Help," or do some damnable
shopping even, before she considered it her duty to
obey his behests. Very well  or rather, very bad
now, what was the next step of Arthur Glindon,
M.D.?
The next step was to wait half an hour, going
through a series of evolutions on and off the sofa, to
beguile the time  his last step to proceed to his room
and dress for the visit to Oaklands. It suddenly struck
him that Ruth had proceeded direct to Ansted, taking
it for granted that he would remember the invitation
## p. 229 (#239) ############################################
owns. 229
and follow  and follow he intended now with a
vengeance.
He was on his way, shortly afterwards', to the rail-
way station, but his suspicious mind would not allow
him much rest. He was not satised that Ruth had
proceeded to Oaklands. It was hardly likely, con-
sidering their quarrel, and yet one woman readily
seeks the consolation of another, and Mrs. Cherbury
was so old a friend. But he would go to "The Help"
rst, just for an instant, and make an inquiry; and the
cabman received orders to turn in the direction of Oak-
ley Street and inquire for "Owen's Help."
Before "The Help," which at that hour of the day
was closed, he sprang from the cab, and made a spite-
ful effort to wrench the knocker off, rousing half the
street meanwhile with his application for admission.
"Is Mrs. Glindon here?" he asked of a little girl
who, open-mouthed, had answered his summons.
"No, sir."
"Nor Mr. Owen?"
"No, sir."
"Has either been here to-day?",
"No, sir."
"Can't you say anything but 'No, sir'?"
"No, sir."
Glindon cursed the damsel with hearty vehemence,
and strode back to his cab, the maid following him as
far as the kerb-stone.
"Have you anything more to say to fme?" he
asked.
## p. 230 (#240) ############################################
230 owns.
"Please, Mrs. Simmons is out who minds 'The
Help,' and the place is empty. Mrs. Simmons can tell
you, sir. I'm only one of the 'sistants on trial."
"But, Mrs. Glindon  you know her?  has not
she been here to-day?"
"No, sir."
"And there's no one dying here?"
"No, sir."
"Drive to Kennington Road again!" cried Glin-
don. "This is a devilish black mystery, that must be
solved!"
It was scarcely passion now that mastered him,
and made his hands tremble, and rendered his face
so ghastly livid. There was a lower depth of rage,
more silent and intense, and he had descended to it
suddenly. He was a man groping in the mist now,
and his heart was very heavy. One inch before him
in the future he could not see, whither to go, or in
whom to trust? He had been suspicious, cruelly
suspicious, before that hour; but in his heart he felt
there was no wrong done, that all had been accidental
and spontaneous. Now it had assumed sombre pro-
portions, and was of a seriousness to affect a life. And
yet it was his wife whom he suspected; a religious
woman, whose chief anxiety had been his own spiritual
welfare  a quiet, grave, even methodical woman,
who despised romance and passion. What did it all
mean?  what could it mean! Up the garden front
of John Dell's house, where he had not expected to
nd himself again, and with a heart so much more
## p. 231 (#241) ############################################
owns. 231
heavy. The servant had seen him from the lower
window, and had the door open as he went up the
steps. Like a man in a dream he passed her, and
walked into the room where his angry colloquy with
Owen had ensued. The maid followed him.
'If you please, sir, Mr. Owen has been out some
time!'
"Indeed!"
"Ever since the message was brought him from
' The Help.' "
"','he Help" again! Were all Owen's servants in
this jlgglery, or dupes thereto? He caught sight of
a papr on the oor, and picked it up. Any clue to
so dar. a mystery would be grateful to him, and this
might )6 the message  "Good God!"
"bar Owen,  Game at once.
Ruth."
Heaat down after that blow, and steadied his head
by restig it on his hand; it was the last feather, and
he hadsunk with it. Was there any occasion to
suspect my longer?  were not his worse suspicions
conrms, and had not the darkness utterly closed
in? Th servant's voice recalled him to himself a
little.
"Wil you wait for Mr. Dell, or Mr. Owen?"
"I ai going now."
He cdd not wait for Dellthat hard, dry being,
whose sol was in his niece. Dell would not believe
in any vong; the whole story, told link by link,
## p. 232 (#242) ############################################
2 3 2' owns.
would not a'ect him. He would give Ruth one last
chance before he red the train to startle all the litile
world in which she had gained such love  he wolld
go to Oaklands.
For one instant he did not think to nd Ruth
there; in the face of the stern facts, and the still
sterner lies which he fancied he had already dete;ted,
' with that last crushing note in his hands, written
by Ruth as if in desperation, - he had no rigit to
believe for a moment he should nd her. But he would
go to Oaklands in search of her  making rt one
call at her father's, in the Westminster Road, b,' way
of a forlorn hope. '
' Not at her father's  she had not been thera for a
week, 92 informed him  did Mr. Glindon vish to
see her particularly?  had anything happened'
"Happened?  no."
"I thought the child might be worse, pehaps,"
said 92.
"He's better."
"That's good news; for Ruth seemed anxrus-like -
77
last week, when Mr. Owen was 
Glindon could not hear the name againcoupled
with his wife's. He left the old man to comlete the
sentence to Tarby, or to the tobacco jars, and d ed into
his cab. At the railway terminus, engagedzrlfmehow
in a little dispute with a gentleman whom he d thrust
aside in his eagerness to obtain a ticket, tln on the
platform looking for the train that was to btl' him to
Ansted  nally in a rst-class compartmeii, with a
\
i
I
## p. 233 (#243) ############################################
owns. 233
surly-looking old gentleman, reading the '1'i1/zes news-
paper.
Glindon crossed his arms, and gave himself up to
the battle of thoughts within him. They were all
against Ruth now  step by step, as though it had
been ordered so, had he been led on to the discovery.
From that day forth no faith in woman or the world
no trust in any one save himself no belief in honour,
justice, woman's virtue, heaven! It was all a blank,
and men and women were but creatures of the hour
now tyrants, and now victims. He was scarcely con-
scious that the train had started, when the guard was
bawling "Ansted" in his ears. If it were a dream after
all, what a mercy would be his awakening!
The miserable man stumbled out of the carriage at
the Ansted Station, and went through the town and
along the country road in the old mechanical fashion.
How the times had changed since he was there last! 
what a different train of thoughts had kept his brain
busy! He spent his weddingday in Ansted, and friends
wished him every happiness in life, and prophesied it,
believing in the truthfulness of her he had chosen for
a helpmate. Well, he had believed it himself  and
now he distrusted all the world.
Before the place, and passing Mrs. Cutcheld's lodge,
and walking very slowly up the broad carriage drive.
The trees were bare now, and the frost hung its silver
work upon the branches, and the robin  homeless
and alone like himself  hopped before him up the
path. It was a tting time to return there, with the
## p. 234 (#244) ############################################
234 owns.
frost at the heart which had glowed so warmly in the
summer of his life.
Surely a dream still, for he was in the drawing-
room at Oaklands, without a consciousness of having
passed the hall, or having been ushered in by servants.
Yet Mrs. Cherbury and her son Isaac were before him
and a dark-haired young lady, whom he had never
seen, left the music-stool on which she had been sitting,
when he entered.
"Where's Mrs. Glindon  where's Ruth?"
He looked from one to the other wildly, then he
sank into a chair, and commenced striking the table
like a madman. ,
"Glindon  what's the matter?" asked Cherbury.
"Oh! my gracious!  what has happened?" echoed
his mother.
"The worst has happened, Mrs. Cherbury," said
Glindon, turning his white face towards her; "I have
been deceived in my wife, who has lied to me  I
have discovered an intrigue  I call it nothing more
nor less now! - between that woman who bears my
name and Owen."
"Owen!" echoed three voices, one very shrill and
piercing.
"He loved her when he was a youth  he owned
that long ago he was my rival; now he would have
been my false friend! I found him at her side to-day
I found this letter at a later hour  may Heaven's
lightning blast him!"
"Hush, hush, sir!  it's a mistake," cried Mrs.
## p. 235 (#245) ############################################
own'. 235
Cherbury, " you are not reasonable - you do ,not;know
what you are saying or doing."
"It's all true!" and Glindon, after a vague look
at her, dropped his head between his hands, and
remained silent. Meanwhile Mary had picked up the
note which he had cast on the carpet, and read the few
words it contained. She was deathly white, and held
one hand to her side.
"Mary, dear  don't you be alarmed," said Mrs.
Cherbury, "Doctor Glindon is excited, and does not
know what he is saying. Sit down, my dear, sit
down. It's a dreadful fuss, but we shall soon get
over it."
"Yes, yes  don't alarm yourself, Miss Chickney,"
added Isaac Cherbury.
But Mary was already alarmed, and had much to
trouble her. For suddenly in the midst of her happiness
had fallen the bolt to shatter the idol. She would not
believe in its destruction yet, however; Doctor Glin-
don's excitement was great, and could not be without
a cause, but that Owen had acted in any way un-
worthily she would not believe for a moment. He
might have loved Ruth in times pastshe had fancied
he had once  he might love her even now, and his
love for his little ward be a pitying, compassionate
a'ection, at which her heart revolted, but he had not
acted falsely to the wild man sitting there.
"Doctor Glindon, you will stay with us some time,"
said Mrs. Cherbury.
## p. 236 (#246) ############################################
236 ownn.
"I have nowhere else to go, Madam," he answered
in a more rational manner.
"Mary, come for a walk with me, child  it will
do you good."
Glindon was on his feet.
"You are going to George Street  I will not
have it."
"Upon my word, I am thinking of nothing of the
sort, sir."
[Glindon dropped into his seat once more, and looked
at Cherbury facing him.
"You must think me mad, Cherbury."
"Well - n  no," replied that gentleman.
"I have borne enough to drive me mad, although
I have no right to come hither with my wrongs and
rave about them. Perhaps I am a little mad  wise
people would have kept all this to themselves."
Mr. Isaac Cherbury thought it probable. He looked
rather nervously at the door, as it closed behind Mrs.
Cherbury and Mary, and edged his chair nearer to the
bell-handle, in case of further eccentricities on the part
of his friend.
"You need not be alarmed," said Glindon, noticing
the movement, "the volcano subsides into itself; a
tting place, where it can consume within and trouble
no one. I have but thrown into the air a few hot
ashes, signs of the heat and force that such a wrong as
mine must naturally create."
"Glindon, do you know I think you are mis-
taken."
## p. 237 (#247) ############################################
owns. 237
"Think what you please."
"I have known Mrs. Glindon as long as yourself 
I have lately had many opportunities of judging Mr.
Owen's character."
"One may live with a man or woman all his life;
he may be his closest friend, she may be even his wife,
and yet he will ever remain ignorant of the real
nature of either."
"Circumstances have misled you, Glindon," said
Cherbury; "you will think dierently soon. Will you
take anything?"
"Brandy."
Cherbury rang the bell, and then began to pat his
own head carefully. All his old symptoms were coming
back, he fancied  his head ached t to split!
The brandy and water ordered and brought, Cher-
bury stood by the table, manoeuvring with the glasses.
"Shall I mix for you?" he asked, intending the
weakest possible dose for his friend.
Glindon answered by snatching the brandy-bottle
from the liqueur-frame, and half lling the tumbler
nearest him.
"I wouldn't - I wouldn't drink it neat, in your
state." -
"You needn't fear."
And the brandy disappeared down the throat of
Arthur Glindon.
"That would nearly kill me," observed Cherbury.
"Ah! you've grown abstemious, and temperate,"
sneered his friend; "once upon a time, in the merry,
## p. 238 (#248) ############################################
238 owns.
merry days when you were young, it was di'erent, I
have heard."
Cherbury looked as if he objected to the remark,
but he made no answer; and Glindon, pushing the tray
away, leaned his head on his arms, which were folded
on the table.
A long silence ensued; Mr. Cherbury thought he
had fallen asleep, and moved cautiously about on tiptoe
in search of the music-book from which Mary Chickney
had been playing. If Mr. Glindon could have a nap
it would refresh him, and he might wake up a little
less excited, which would be pleasant for all parties.
Assuring himself tltus, and after discovering the music-
book, he took up his place by the bell-handle again.
He fancied Glindon was more drunk than mad now;
still he might as well sit near the bell! Glindon had
always been a bad-tempered fellow, he knew, but in-
clined to be sorry when the t was past; it would be
all right presently, and he should hear the whole story,
and be able to express an opinion thereon after arriving
at the rights of the case. What a pretty song that
was of Mary Chickney's, and how nicely she had sung
it, and how very easy and comfortable he felt before
that young man came bouncing into the drawing-room
like a stage-ranter. He, Isaac Cherbury, of Oaklands,
was a man of the world  a sceptical man in his way
- but he could not believe that Glindon was correct
in his surmises. He had a great esteem for Owen
now  for his energy of character, his frankness, his
ebrts to do good to the class from which he had arisen
## p. 239 (#249) ############################################
owns. 239
and he could not for an instant believe him guilty
of a thought against the honour of his friend. There
was a misconception of facts, that might be easily ex-
plained; and consoling himself with that thought, he
would think of Mary Chickney's last song.
Glindon and he were occupying the same positions
when Mrs. Cherbury re-entered the room.
"Hush  don't make a noise  he's asleep!"
"I'm not asleep." And Glindon leaned back in his
chair.
"I should have awakened you if you had been,"
said Mrs. Cherbury. "Here, young man, is a tele-
graphic message I have received from your wife."
"Wl1at's that!"
"And it's my opinion there was no occasion to be
half so fussy."
"Will you explain, please?"
"I thought it jushpossible that Ruth was at home,
and so telegraphed to her, informing her that you
were here, and asking her to join you. This is her
answer."
"Is she at home, then?"
"Yes."
Glindon pushed his hair back from his forehead
and looked bewildered. The consciousness of having
made a fool of himself was beginning to suggest itself
unpleasantly. He took the paper from Mrs. Cherbury's
hands and read:
"Pray m-czzse mc to-day. I have been sz'ttz'ng up all
## p. 240 (#250) ############################################
2 40 OWEN.
night with Jllr. Owen's mother, who died this 1nornz'n.q. I
hope Arthur will not be late."
Doctor Glindon turned the message over a few
times, read the address of sender and receiver, in-
spected the printed directions, scratched his head
savagely. There was a great load taken off his mind.
If there were still a mystery, he could see it would
take very little to explain it  noonday was shining
in again, and he had been an ass, and, what was worse,
summoned others to witness that fact. His heart was
lighter, but his temper was still affected. He was a
proud man, and it mortied him to reect on the extra-
vagance that he had committed. He had shown to the
world that the wife whom he should have been the last
to distrust had been suspected. He had heaped accusa-
tions against her, and called down vengeance on Owen
and all for nothing!
Human nature is strangely inconsistent. VVith the
load of misery removed from him, he could almost
fancy it would have been better to have been less
clearly proved in the wrong than have sat there so
pitiable an object.
"There is a mistake, no doubt," said he, rising,
"and I have to apologize for all the folly I have been
guilty of. I'm not myself to-day  let me excuse an
abrupt departure."
"Not going?"
"I should be poor company here," he continued,
"my head aches. I shall be better in the air."
## p. 241 (#251) ############################################
owns. 241
Mrs. Cherbury did not press him very warmly to
remain. She thought it best for him and his wife,
that matters should be satisfactorily cleared before the
sun went down on his wrath.
"I'm afraid I have missed the next train to London,"
said he, looking at his watch. "I shall never walk it
in the time."
Mrs. Cherbury offered the carriage, which hehac-
ccpted. He was in great haste to begone now - he
would not miss that train for fty pounds  he re-
membered an appointment with the Colonial Secretary
at four that aftemoon  he thought the servants might
have made a carriage in less time, than they took to
harness a pair of horses to it.
"How long a time is there left to catch the train?"
he inquired of the coachman.
"Seven minutes and a half."
"A sovereign if you do it!"
The carriage whirled him away from Oaklands and
along the country road in good style. Seven minutes
and a half would soon be at an end though, and he
might lose the train after all. He hung out of the
carriage window, and begged the man to drive faster,
and swore at him in his impatience, which seemed to
render all progress so slow. At the station, and the
shrill whistle sounding in his cars!
"I'm afraid we've lost it, sir," said the coachman,
taking off his hat, and shampooing his forehead with
his pocket-handkerchief.
Glindon ung a sovereign into the hat, and rushed
Owen:  A Waif. ll. 16
## p. 242 (#252) ############################################
242 OWEN.
through the station. The train was slowly gliding on,
and the guard stopped him as his hand was on the
carriage door.
"Train moving, sir  against the rules."
But money breaks through most rules, and Glin-
don's fee softened the man's heart and opened the car-
riage door.
"Jump in, sir."
'In the carriage  the door banged to and fastened
the guard swinging himself into his back cupboard
the train pufng and clattering on its way to
London.
To the London it never reached in safety. The
old blunder of luggage-vans upon the line, and signal-
men giving no note of danger, and station-masters
ignorant of orders, and a board of direction that di-
rected nothing properly, and set no value on human
life, save as it affected dividends  and nobody in
the wrong, or nobody to whom sufcient blame could
be attached to hang him properly out of the way.
The old story, that leaps from the newspaper half-
a-dozen times a-year, and is always a record of shame
and gross mismanagement. The story which a sleepy
House of Commons will not set straight  there are
so many railway directors whose feelings might be
hurt amongst the great M.P.'s.
There were two lives sacriced in this instance -
one that of Arthur Glindon's. Well for him, well for
Ruth, that he had not died full of distrust to ,the last!
nsn on THE SIXTH BOOK.
## p. 243 (#253) ############################################
BOOK THE LAST.
HOW THE STORM ENDED.
16*
## p. 244 (#254) ############################################
## p. 245 (#255) ############################################
CHAPTER I.
Troubled Waters.
THERE are extremes in religion as well as in every-
thing else. A man suddenly convertcd  shocked, as
it were, by an act of his own, to think less of the
world and himself generally  takes to that extreme
and becomes an ascetic. Time may bring him back
to a higher view of things unsecular; but in a sudden
awakening from error his desire to recoil from the
brink makes him proceed, not too far the other way,
but too far along the tortuous, briary, uncomfortable
path, when a fairer track would have sufced as well.
Owen had awakened to the one mistake of his
life  he saw it then in all its narrowness and de-
formity. Pride in his own works, in the name he had
made, and no charity to others lower in the scale.
The Pharisee to pass by, never the Samaritan to heal
the stern teacher, seldom the scholar  the upright
and high-principled man, but never the meek and all-
forgiving Christian.
"God make the son's life better than the mother's!"
had been the mother's prayer, and the last words of
the woman were an atonement for her whole life's ut-
terance. They did good  they humbled the strong
man in his pride and self-reliance, and they taught
## p. 246 (#256) ############################################
246 owns'.
him to be grateful. True, he showed his gratitude in
a strange manner, but he was one of a class, and there
was no singularity in his evidence. The reaction was
great, for his mother's death had greatly affected him.
There was some of the old monkish doctrine of ex-
piation in Owen. By making himself as uncomfortable
as he could, he thought he was atoning for his past
errors and stubbornness  by thinking less of his
business, shunning for a time Mary, to whom he was
engaged, and in whose society he was happy, by
lavishing more money than he could well afford on
"The Help," he fancied he was evincing a more con-
trite spirit.
And he was truly contrite, and might have shown
it after a different fashion, but the shadow of death
was heavy on his heart, and there was mourning in his
home and in John Dell's. For Owen was no longer
living with Dell, but renting apartments in the same
neighbourhood. He preferred life alone for the pre-
sent; he wished to study and review his position, and
he was better by himself  much better! Besides
Ruth, a young widow, who smiled as little as himself
now, was with her boy, living at John Dell's house,
and the world had had something to say concerning
him and Ruth.
Servants' eyes, on the day of his quarrel with
Glindon, had been sharp; and servants' tongues rust
not idly as a rule, and are not backward in magni-
fying incidents out of the common way, or in the com-
mon way either  so the world had caught at the
## p. 247 (#257) ############################################
owns. . 247
threads and laments oating about the atmosphere of
Kennington, and pieced together more of a romantic
story than a scandalous, which was at least rather
kind of the world, considering what an old backbiter
it is. A story of an erotic shade, perhaps  like a
sentimental French romance, where the good wives of
prosy men fall in love with saintly, but misanthropical
youths, and much passion struggles with much pro-
priety, and all ends in a proper manner  with a
double suicide perhaps  in the last chapter. Owen
had been an early lover of Mrs. Glindon's, and the
common charity at "The Help" had brought them to-
gether again, and Mrs. Glindon and Owen had talked
of old times, till they cried over them; and Doctor
Glindon, who was supposed by the world to have been
ninety, had caught them crying, and there had been
an exciting scene, and a duel arranged, and, happily,
indenitely postponed, by a matter of fact railway ac-
cident  a common thing, that happens every day!
That was the story, to which a concluding chapter
was added, a little precipitately. Owen was to marry
the widow, and live happy ever afterwards.
So Owen thought it a good plan to absent himself
from the house of his friend; and John Dell endorsed
that opinion, though he was angry with the world,
and went about with eyes distended and his hands
clenched, as though anxious to punch its head, for get-
ting such nonsense crammed into it.
"I suppose I'm never to be comfortably settled!"
he grumbled  for John Dell could grumble at times;
## p. 248 (#258) ############################################
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"rst Owen with me, then away  then with me, and
away again then a heap of talk about his marrying'
poor Ruth!"
We have said that Owen preferred punishing him-
self by keeping away from Mary Chickney; he wrote
her one or two letters, apprising her of his mother's
death, and the shock the discovery had been to him.
He stated how utterly disheartened he felt under the
circumstances; and prayed her, for a time, to leave
him in that gloom and misery he justly merited.
Mary received these letters, read them in the soli-
tude of her chamber, but made no comment upon them
to her friends at Oaklands. She had become strangely
dull and taciturn herself, as though the shadow of
Owen's loss had fallen heavily upon her. Mrs. Cher-
bury was perplexed with Mary's demeanour, did not
admire her sorrowful looks, or the deep reveries into
which she occasionally plunged.
"You mustn't give way, my dear, because a trouble
has befallen Mr. Owen; the troubles must come in their
time, and we ought to bear them resignedly. And you,
my dear Mary, are not bearing them in the right
way."
"I shall be better in a week or two," murmured
Mary.
"We shall have Mr. Owen paying his regular
visits soon, and all the roses back in your cheeks be-
fore Christmas."
Mary smiled, but replied not.
"And perhaps Mr. Owen is a little too particular
## p. 249 (#259) ############################################
owmz. 249
about form," added Mrs. Cherbury; "and makes rather
a fussy mourning of it. If I had been in his place, I
should have thought a little distraction good for me,
and not have stayed at home, brooding over the irre-'
parable. But he will come round, my dear, after the
fashion of men who are inclined to be extravagant.
"It's like the young widowers, my dear  and the
old ones, too, for that matter tearing their hair, and
crying and knocking their silly heads about the rst
month, and at the end of the third engaged to be mar-
ried again, and looking quite fat and rosy! Oh! these
men, my dear, they're an out-of-the-way lot!"
"I am very anxious to see Owen," said Mary.
"Then I should write to him to that effect, and
give him a piece of my mind, too, if it were only to
rouse him. He will come trooping down fast enough
then."
"Poor Owen!"
"Mary, I shall write to him myself if you don't
you're giving me the creeps, my dear."
Mary, alarmed at Mrs. Cherbury's assertion, pro-
mised to write to her guardian, but the fullment of
the promise was delayed for several days. What she
wished to write appeared a trouble to her, and there
was ever a struggle with her composure as she sat be-
fore the desk thinking of all she should say to him.
For she had a great deal on her mind to say, and her
heart felt heavy over the task. The seeds of Glin-
don's visit had taken root and borne fruit  much of
her day-dreams had vanished  the after-life lay be-
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yond an impenetrable mystery. She was sobered at
once from girlhood, and the cares of womanhood were
pressing heavily upon her. In her bright life she had
fancied that such happiness as hers must be transitory;
she had been almost prepared for some change, and
now it had come she thought the burden difcult to
sustain.
Mary Chiekney found herself at this time paying'
more frequent visits than ordinary to Mrs. Cutcheld's
lodge. She was troubled, and it was pleasant to seek
the old friend in whose care she had been formerly
placed. "I can fancy the old days back with me, the
.humble sphere again existent," she said, as- though the
grand life had not brought all the happiness antici-
pated. There was another reason for her visits, which
neither Mrs. Cherbury nor Mrs. Cutcheld guessed at
in the rst instance, a belief that Mrs. Cutcheld was
less of an observer than the lady of Oaklands. In the
society of Mrs. Cutcheld, Mary could fear less the
discovery of the secret that she was unhappy, or that
Owen's absence was not the original cause of her sor-
row. She could revive the past with Mrs. Cutcheld,
talk of her school days, and the life she had led the
old lady in her vivacious moments; and Mrs. Cutch-
eld, always primed for a subject so engrossing, took
the lead, and related her twentieth-told anecdotes
anew, crying and laughing over them as things of
yesterday.
Mary Chickney had reckoned without her host,
notwithstanding. The old nurse and mother was a
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woman who liked a reason for everything, and Mary's
grief was not very deeply veiled. She was a girl to
whose ingenuous nature concealment was difcult, and
every day the thoughts accumulated and distressed her.
Mrs. Cutcheld put on her spectacles to inquire into
the matter more closely, and on the next occasion of
Mary's visit related her stories with the same zest,
but watched very narrowly their effect on her listener.
It was very plain, then, that Mary sought her com-
pany for something more than her stories, Mrs. Cutch-
eld thought; for when the old lady appeared to be
fairly started with her long train of reminiscences, the
fancy work dropped into Mary's lap, and the ngers
plied no longer the needle.
Still Mrs. Cutcheld rambled on  artfully drop-
ping here and there a few incoherent phrases, to watch
the result - till a white hand was suddenly passed
across the eyes.
"Mary Chickney, something's the matter!" said the
old woman, suddenly.
"No, no," cried Mary, hastily; "nothing more than
usual."
"Ah! but what's the usual about," said Mrs. Cutch-
eld; "is it a secret from the old mammy, as well as
the rest of the world?"
"Yes  I think so," said Mary, with a sigh.
"It's the love troubles that are bothering you, my
dear  they always catch us up young, and the
twitches are horrid. And yet you  you oughtn't to
be dgeting now."
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Mary tried to laugh away the old woman's suspi-
cions, but it was a feeble attempt, and necessarily
failed.
"You haven't been quarrelling with Mr. Owen? 
that's not likely."
"No.77
"You're not sorry you were ever engaged to him?
Mary, my dear girl, it can't be that!"
"Yes  yes  it is!"
And Mary  a child still in many things threw
herself into Mrs. Cutcheld's arms, and sobbed there
several minutes, the old woman patting her back with
alternate hands, in a drum-solo kind of fashion.
"I always thought it was too young for an engage-
ment; you're hardly eighteen now, and gals of eighteen
can't know their own minds  much less seventeen,
such as you were, my girl," said Mrs. Cutcheld, when
Mary was composed a little; "but it's all happened for
the best  it always does, my dear  how it works
itself round now! The best for you and him, and your
duty to tell him that he was too old for you  that
that you love some one better, perhaps."
"No, no!not that!" cried Mary, turning deathly
white. "I never implied that  it is false  every
bit false! I love him more than my life, as I have al-
ways loved him  but  but I can never make him
happy!"
"How's that?"
"Because his love's so di'erent to mine  because
## p. 253 (#263) ############################################
OWEN. 253
he loved me out of charity, and knew too well my
heart was his before he asked for it."
"I don't believe a word of it, my girl!"
"Because"  in an excited whisper  "he loved
another years ago  one more tting for him in every
way than I; and she is free to become his wife now,
and make his whole life different."
"John Dell's niece?" '
"Yes."
"Where have you larut all this?  who told
you?"
"I have gathered part from friends, part from in-
spiration, and I know every word to be true!"
Mrs. Cutcheld and Mary sat down side by side.
Mary was calm and patient now. She had unbosomed
her story to her oldest friend  one who could reason
with her as with a loved daughter.
"Knowing this to be true, and yet that Owen would
keep his word and marry me knowing how happy I
should be all my life, and yet what a barrier between
him and his brightest thoughts! -l knowing that now
by a word which sinks me down so deeply, I can raise
him and his hopes  what would you do?"
"Give him up!"
"I am so glad you think so! It will strengthen me
in the purpose I have formed."
"It won't be so very hard a task for us, Mary,"
said Mrs. Cutcheld, adopting the plural, as more com-
forting  "we'll soon be used to the change, and all
the better for it. There is too much thinking of our
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254 owns.'
earthly comforts, and too little of the t'other; it's well
we have a balk to the rst, I'm inclined to consider.
It will all belong to the old days soon, like the school-
days, child, and the blackberry-gatherings  and we
may afford even to laugh at -this. And there's as good
sh in the sea, my child;'and if we haven't all his
heart, why, we're a sight too good for him  and so
let him go a-courting somewhere else!"
Mary Chickney returned to the great house, pre-
pared to delay no longer the day of separation. What
was there to wait for?  and was not every day making
it a more difcult task? Why not put herself and him
out of misery at once? There was no lengthy expla-
nation required; she felt that he would understand,
and in his heart thank her for dissolving the engage-
ment. .
She could see no reason for delay. Every day
might be of moment to her guardian, and there was no
occasion to wait till he returned sorrowfully and regret-
fully to Oaklands to play the part that had for so long
a time deceived her. He loved Ruth Glindon as he
had loved Ruth Dell; separated from her by her mar-
riage he had chosen his ward out of charity, repeated
Mary, with a swelling chest; and now death had made
Ruth a widow, and two old lovers might be united.
Mary Chickney made no doubt that they had been
lovers once  everybody must love her Owen - and
that Ruth was so much more tting to be Owen's wife.
She was older, and had had more worldly experience;
she could comfort him in his trials better than herself;
## p. 255 (#265) ############################################
owns. 255
she was a pious, gentle, yet rm woman, whose words
would encourage him onwards, and whose love would
make Owen's life bright.
And only she  his little ward  stood in the
way. And he had been so faithful a guardianthink-
ing and planning for her, educating her and working
for her, till the days when Mrs. Cherbury took her as
a prote'ge'e. He had done so much for her, and she for
him so little! She would hesitate no longer!
## p. 256 (#266) ############################################
256 owns.
CHAPTER II.
Owen and Mary.
Two months had passed since the mother's death
at the branch establishment of "Owen's Help." Life
was proceeding quietly with our friends at Lambeth, if
a little monotonously. There'had burst a heavy storm
over their heads, but the shock had been sustained,
and calm weather appeared to have set in. Given time
and faith to work their usual changes, and the sun
would shine, and the doctrine of resignation be learned.
Owen was trying hard to learn his part, but there
were many difculties in the way. He had much, as
we have already implied, wherewith to reproach him-
self. Meeting the sad face of Ruth occasionally -
noting the dark weeds and the sign of her widowhood
he felt he had been an agent to her grief.
More kindly feeling one to another, a little expla-
nation on the day he and Glindon exchanged erce
words together, might have moderated Glindon's pas-
sions, and led him to seek his wife instead of proceeding
to Oaklands. But his pride had been humbled that
day, and death had been busy therein, and all had
been against him. No, God forgive him, not all against
him!  for he had seen at last his mistake, and it
would lead him to a better life.
Owen sat in his room one winter's afternoon, think-
## p. 257 (#267) ############################################
owns. 257
ing of these things  wondering if it were right to
seek the world yet, and his happiness in it; for his
heart strangely yearned to his betrothed! All his future
happiness lay in Mary, but was it just to the memory
of the past to dash greedily at it? Had he thought
enough of that past, or atoned sufciently?
He was inclined to make one step into a brighter
atmosphere; to cease letter-writing  strange, gloomy,
unloverlike letter-writing it had been  and proceed to
Oaklands in search of consolation. The new year had
begun, and at any time he might claim her for his
wife. Surely his sorrow had been a little selsh, and
he had pained her much by his penitential absence?
He had not considered how his absence might affect
Mary, but had wrapped himself in his griefs and regrets,
and thought  even then  but of /zilnselfl
Owen drew the desk towards him, and proceeded
to indite a few lines to Mary; and whilst his pen tra-
velled over the paper, she was advancing towards him.
A knock at the door, and then the landlady's en-
trance arrested his hand.
"If you please, sir, a lady wishes to speak with
"A lady  what sort of lady?"
"Miss Chickney."
Owen was surprised, but he was not a man to
betray himself to his landlady.
"Will you show her in, please?" said he, tuming
to his desk.
As the landlady departed, Owen endeavoured to
Owen:  A Wuif. ll. 17
you
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258 owns.
dene a reason for Mary's sudden appearance at his
apartments. He connected trouble with it in some in-
denite shape and form; he had become accustomed
to trouble, and expected a long train of punishments
for past omissions. He thought more of God's justice
even vengeance  than His mercy!
Mary entered, and stood hesitating at the door.
She was in deep mourning for his mother  for his
griefs were hers  and her black dress touched his
heart.
"Mary, you have not come alone?" he said, rising,
and taking, for a moment, both her hands in his.
"No, Owen. Mrs. Cuteheld is downstairs."
"Will she not come up? Has anything happened
at Oaklands?"
"No, she will wait for me. Nothing has hap-
pened; but I have some  something very particular
to say  that which ought to have been said long
since, Owen; but which you must pardon me for de-
ferring. I have not liked to intrude upon your dis-
tress earlier."
"Sit down, Mary, and take your time over the
revelation. You are agitated."
"No  not particularly."
She took the chair that Owen had placed for her,
and Owen went back to his desk, and feigned to con-
tinue his letter, that she might gather rmness to
proceed. He was quick at conclusions, for he had
already surmised the object of her coming - he had
expected some such blow to end all hopes at once.
## p. 259 (#269) ############################################
owns. 259
Mary sat and watched his thoughtful face  thought
how cool he was over her sudden appearance in his
room, and how little it affected him. He was changed
too, his face appeared to have become more aged and
stern, and she could fancy there were a few grey
threads in his dark hair. But he was a grim statue,
whom nothing could affect. He might be grateful to
her in his heart, but he would never own it. He sat
there a mystery to her, and she thought it was for the
best that she parted from one whose inner nature she
might have never comprehended, and whose deep
thoughts would have been always beyond her. "How
the best works itself round!" had Mrs. Cutcheld said
but yesterday.
Still it was a struggle to imitate that enviable calm-
ness of her guardian. If she could only keep rm,
and tell him all without a wavering voice. She made
the effort after a while, and gathered courage slowly
to confront  the best.
"I have been thinking lately, guardian, how -
how very unsuited we are to each other, and what a
strange engagement it has been. I  I have been
thinking that your life would be better without me 
that your chance of happiness would be much more
sure."
"And yours, Mary?" he inquired. "Your happi-
ness, of course, would be enhanced by this step."
Mary hesitated. She was a truthful girl, but she
was thinking of Owen's happiness alone. She was
willing to sacrice everything for that, and to speak
17*
## p. 260 (#270) ############################################
260 owns.
of her own despair was to urge a claim upon him not
to take her at her word. She knew his was a generous
heart that would sacrice much in its turn, and she
wished to prove to him how expedient the annulment
of their engagement was.
"And mine, of course," she said, in answer to
Owen's slowly, carefully uttered sentence.
Owen turned to the desk and scrawled a few
hasty, meaningless lines on the paper before him. He
had thought all his old pride gone till then; but it
was a deep stab, and touched to the quick.
"You gave me one year to consider, Owen. You
would not accept me unconditionally till then," she
continued, "and I have thought it just, and fair, and
honourable, to say that we had better end our foolish
engagement.
"Very well."
"We should have never been happy, Owen."
"It is possible," he answered.
He did not look towards her, though she was pray-
ing for one glance. His voice grew more hard, and
had a metallic ring in it, that seemed to make the room
vibrate. If he would but express sorrow, some little
regret  say some kind words that she might re-
member when that day was a cruel retrospect!
And what could he have said in the rst bitter
moments of his disappointment? She had told him,
almost calmly, that they would have never been
happy, and he did not know she meant only himself.
He fancied that the woman's thoughts were at variance
## p. 261 (#271) ############################################
OWEN. 261
with the child's, and she had awakened to the true
knowledge of her affections. A sister's love was dif-
ferent from a wife's, and she had only loved him like
a sister, as was natural, considering her youth.
"The new year has brought you wiser thoughts,
Mary," he said, after a pause; "you accepted me
hastily  you have a right to decline my love in the
same manner. I left you free to act, and you have
acted rightly."
"I am sorry  I am very sorry - at such a
time as this to speak of our separation, Owen, but
time was drawing on, and you were not free."
"True."
A longer silence than before. Owen sitting at the
desk, his head supported by his hand, his earnest gaze
directed beyond her at the window, where the wintry
sky  dull and leaden like his heart - looked in
upon them.
Mary glanced wistfully towards him  why
wouldn't he speak to her?  look at her again? Did
he conclude the interview at an end, and wish her to
go away like that?
"Are you angry with me, guardian?" she asked at
last.
Owen started.
"God forbid, my child!"
The words were uttered earnestly, and affected
Mary. Timidly she stole to the side of the grave
man, and laid her little hands on his arm.
"Owen, dear?"
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262 owns.
He shuddered.
"You will resume your old post of guardian, and
be my watcher, counsellor. I shall want your advice
in everything  I wish to be the child, to be ruled
by you, to feel you are the old guardian whom I loved
and reverenced so much. In all my future steps of
life  whithersoever they lead me  I will come to
you to ask if you approve."
"The tie can never be again. You are your own
mistress, Mary  I am not tted to advise you."
"You must not throw me off because I  I have
wished the marriage we talked of once to be no longer
thought of ?" implored Mary; "try and remember the
days before that  even to the very far-away days
when I was a little child, and my mother lived! Say
I am your ward again, Owen. I cannot lose you
altogether."
He might have guessed all then, but he was dead
to any thought of sacrice on her part. Her earnest-
ness moved him, even confused him, but he advanced
no nearer to the truth. He held her hands in his,
and looked down upon her, as he might have looked
upon the little dark-haired child of Hannah Street.
"My ward!" he murmured:
They were his last words  he released her hands
and looked towards the door, as though he wished her
gone from him; and Mary drew down her veil and
went trembling away.
It was all over; there were to come never again
the rosy hues of life; the frost had set in, and the
## p. 263 (#273) ############################################
owns. 263
owers and fancies were frozen to the death. This
was real prosaic human life now  the true world
wherein men and women suffer, and give way or keep
strong. She had o'ered this disruption of the engage-
ment, and he had coldly accepted it, and scarce ex-
pressed a regret.
Had there been lurking at the bottom of that
enigma, a woma.n' heart, some dreamy hopes that she
had been deceived, and that Owen would not take her
at her word?
For in the face of all dangerous truths  even of
all sure conviction  true woman hopes on to the last.
## p. 264 (#274) ############################################
264 Owen.
CHAPTER III.
A Forlorn ;Hope.
So let it be. He accepted it as his further punish-
ment, and bowed his head. He could have made no
effort to avoid the blow ' he was unprepared, and it
fell. It was all on which his trust had been centred
and now it was gone, and he was standing alone in the
world, with a keen north-caster blowing. Perhaps it
was for the best, as she had said; it prevented him
thinking too much of the things of this life, and kept
his thoughts to the one point, beyond where his duty
lay. The outcast mother had prayed for a better life
than her own  he would answer it by living better!
Such were a few of Owen's thoughts after the en-
gagement was ended. He looked his disappointment
in the face, and met it bravely. It was the most acute
he had known, but though it rendered him more grave
and silent, it did not harden him, as in the past, when
the world alone offered its consolation for the blows
that had fallen. From that day, as though Mary's
presence had brought some counterbalance to his former
asceticism, he softened and became strangely humble.
He mixed more with the poor of his parish, tried the
power of kind words as well as good deeds at a dis-
tance, and sought more often John Dell's advice in
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owns. 265
matters in which his friend's greater Christian know-
ledge could assist him.
"With such a partner as Owen," Dell said to his
widowed niece one night, six months after Glindon's
death, "I ought to be a happy man. He's all that can
he wished, and yet I'm discontented."
"You discontented, uncle!" answered Ruth.
"Because I'm dissatised with the fellow. I'm
sorry to see him with so little cheerfulness  just as
if his heart was heavy for its work. I think it was a
mighty pity he never married Mary Chickney."
"He would have made her a good husband."
"What's man or woman alone in the world, after
all?here's the right man in one place, and the right
woman in the other, and yet they never meet, and only
half of life's comforts fall to their share. If the right
woman could only meet Owen now!"
He looked askance at his niece as he spoke, but
Ruth did not comprehend him. She could not imagine
her uncle to be thinking of any one save Mary Chick-
ney of Oaklands. She was a widow mourning for a
husband, whose virtues were great now, and whose
faults were very few in her memory  she had loved
him, and she was but living now for his boy. Owen
was her brother, and would ever remain so.
"Why, uncle  where is the practice on your
side, to give force to this preaching?"
Dell looked abashed for an instant, for Ruth had
never known his love-story.
"Ah! the right woman never came within arms'
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266 owns.
length, and it's too late to look for her now. I shall
see after my young friends instead."
So John Dell turned a manoeuvring match-maker
in his latter days, and did his best to bring Ruth and
Owen together  but the result was not exhilarating,
and like a sensible man he gave up the attempt after
a time. 
"That fellow will drop into a seedy bachelor like
me," said Dell; "and there's before him the desolate
age common to all old fogies  no children to love,
no wife to nurse him, and a snuffy old woman to tuck
one up when bedridden. Dashed if I don't set him an
example, and marry some one myself!"
And John Dell reected on that matter, but
whether no one would have him, or he was a trie
too particular, his rm assertion came to nothing 
which was a little remarkable in a man who prided
himself upon always keeping his word.
Owen saw Mary occasionally. It was natural he
should not pay very frequent visits to Oaklands; but
in his old capacity of guardian he intruded on the
Cherburys once or twice in three months. The Cher-
burys, mother and son, always offered him a hearty
welcome, but never once alluded to the tie that had
formerly brought him there so often.
Owen found it more difcult to drift back to the
old part of guardian than he had believed; and in seek-
ing to return to the post he had quitted, he went too
far beyond, and was never his past self. Strive how
he would, he found it impossible. He was more cold
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owrm. 267
and reserved; and if he attempted the cheerful vein, it
seemed to him like a satire on good fellowship. He
detected no difference in Mary; and he envied her self-' .
command, or the ready tact with which, the period of
engagement overleaped, she stood once more on the
ground vacated at his wish one summer evening. But
then it :had been her desire to revive the past, he
thought, and she had had less to lose than himself. Of
course, like all "those selsh creatures,"  "the men,
my dears"he never gave her credit for one struggle;
and he could not dream of the late hours in. her cham-
ber, wherein she prayed for strength to ght the battle
lying before her. Only strength for a little while
longer - till Owen married Ruth - his rst and only
love  and began with her that happy life which he
deserved.
Therefore, for reasons here alleged, Owen was not
often a guest at Oaklands; and time went on with
him, and made him and Mary no better friends.
Owen kept the secret from Tarby for several
months after the engagement was broken. He had
doubted the effect of the revelation on one who had so
set his heart on the match. He did not know if
Tarby were strong enough to bear the disappointment
whether even his old habit of drinking might not
set in, in consequence; and therefore it was some time
before Tarby learned that there was never a chance of
Mary marrying Owen. Tarby had made up his mind
to break the revelation of his parentage on Owen's
## p. 268 (#278) ############################################
268 OWEN.
wedding-day, and the sad news of a disruption took
his breath away and unnerved him.
"So it's come to that, Owey, lad?" said he, with a
half-groan.
"Yes."
"It's hard," and Tarby looked gloomily down at
Owen's carpet.
"She and I have taught ourselves to believe it for
the best, Tarby," said Owen. "Disparity of years "
"Rubbish!"
"Dissimilarity of pursuits, then; and, moreover, her
doubts of being happy with me, have caused the
separation  we must call it for the best," said Owen.
"Surely, Tarby, you would not have had her marry
me against her will?"
"I can't make it out  it's a settler!"
"She was but a school-girl when I was rash enough
to betray my affection for her  a girl of seventeen,
Tarby." '
"She had known you all her life," reasoned Tarby;
"she must have known that she could trust that life
with you. There's something more you're keeping back
from a chap."
"Nothing more, on my honour."
"Then it's an odd affair, and Mary's a precious
sight more partikler than her mother was. I suppose
you're sorry it is broken off?"
"Yes."
"You didn't grow tired of her, and let her see it?"
said Tarby, suspiciously.
## p. 269 (#279) ############################################
own-. 269
"I was looking forward to my marriage with her as
to the one bright spot in my life  she stepped between,
and shut the light away."
Tarby sat twisting his hat round in his hands, the
very picture of misery.
"I wonder which is disappointed the most  you
or I, now?"
"You or I!" echoed Owen, indignantly.
"Ay, you or I," repeated Tarby; "you've
gumption to carry your thoughts all manner of
ways, I've only one thought worth anything. You're
the young twig that will bend easily  I'm the old
tree!"
"Tarby, I am sorry  can I say more?"
"No," said Tarby, moodily  "there's no more to
say, that I know on. There's an end to my bit of real
sunshine; the pleasure of seeing her now and then,
and hearing her, just now and then  not too often
to worry you, and make myself a nuisance  say
Father! I feared it less and less, Owey, till it growed
to be a hope that she would not despise me very much,
for her mother's sake, if not for mine  and see how
it all ends!"
"Why ends?" asked Owen; "why not seek her out
now? She is the most gentle, the most affectionate of
women."
"I don't doubt her, but I won't blacken her after-
life for my own whims," said Tarby; "say she owns me
. presently there comes a grand fellow to marry her,
and I'm a disgrace to her,circle and a horror to him.
## p. 270 (#280) ############################################
270 owns.
It will ooze out amongst her set that I'm a convict who
has served his time, and he turns some day on Mary
with it, and crushes her. Hang it, Owen!  that
shan't be!"
"Perhaps you're right," assented Owen.
"But with you, what a different picter," said Tarby;
"you're a friend who wouldn't have turned his back
upon me, but have screened me, or have took my part,
as things happened, and never a word to ing in her
face would have come from your lips. And then her,
too,"  and Tarby passed his rough hand across
his eyes  "she'll never call me father now  it's
all up!"
"You will -hear the disappointment manfully,
Tarby?"
"I hope so."
"Not like a coward  surely not at the eleventh
hour like a coward?"
"Well  no."
"We are both su'erers by this accident of life 
let us look the future in the face, Tarby. Something
may be in store for us yet."
"Ah!  who knows?"
And Tarby brightened at the sight of Owen's forced
cheerfulness, and thought things might take a turn.
He would not build upon it  for Owen had begged
him not  but things might!
He was not quite so sanguine the next day, and
the day following he was despondent. If it had de-
pended on Owen it might be altered, but it depended
## p. 271 (#281) ############################################
owns. 27 1-
on Mary Chickney, concerning whom he knew so little.
He became poor society to his partner in business, to
whom he had communicated his trouble, and who had
offered his opinion in many a long-winded sentence, to
which Tarby paid no heed.
Tarby became subject to meditative ts, that per-
plexed 92, who, nding advice no good, took to moral
lectures and warnings.
"You're a-turning, Tarby  you're a-thinking of the
loose again!"
"No, I ain't."
"What do you sit chumping your pipe in a corner
for, and saying nothing for hours, and staring at the
re as if it was full of red-hot ghosts?"
"I can't help thinking  you can't stop a fellow's
thoughts."
"It's a bad sign. It's not your usual way, and so
it makes a perplexibus matter of it. Supposing, now,
you were to take to drinking and hitting people on the
head again  hard. You'd be tied for life, and my
inuence at the police-court wouldn't be of much use
to you."
"I suppose not," said Tarby, drily.
"I might have given you a turn if I had been on
duty and buttoned tight  but all my old pals in the
force are nowhere. Don't think so much, man!  let's
shut up an hour earlier, and go for a walk on the
bridge."
"I don't mind," said Tarby, listlessly.
The shop was closed, and the two partners, with
## p. 272 (#282) ############################################
272 ownn.
whom there was an odd but genuine affection, went into
the streets, and were all the better for the walk and
each other's society.
Still Tarby's meditative ts would interfere with the
business, and keep 92 on the alert, and Tarby would
fall deeper into thought every day.
"I don't like to give it up without one attempt,"
said Tarby, suddenly one day, to the amazement of 92,
"and so here goes!"
"Where are you off to ?"
"To Oaklands, to see Mary."
"Lord bless the man!  what a mess he's going to
'make of it now."
"It's been a troubling me, 92, for months, ever
since he up and told me all about it. It's been my one
idea that there's a blunder somewhere, and it only
wants a word. If she's her mother's girl, it only wants
a word!"
"You'd better let me take care of you. Let me do
the head-work and the argufying, Tarby."
"Leave it to me."
"You'll let out who you are."
"Not I."
"You'll offend Owen by taking his part  you,
who know no more than a babby what the row's been
about."
, "I'll tell her what Owen told me as his friend 
then I shall see by her manners, her answer, where the
. mistake lies. 92, old fellow," cried Tarby, "if I could
## p. 273 (#283) ############################################
owns. 273
just be the means of their making it up now, I wouldn't
mind a-dying for it!"
"You haven't got the head-work," said 92, morbidly,
not to say conceitedly.
"I think I see my way."
"Well, you're obstinacious, and there's no pulling
you by the collar. I shan't try to stop you."
"All right," said Tarby, rapidly brushing his hat
the wrong way, "I'm of. Don't tell anybody which
road I've gone  especially that Owen, if he should
by any accident look in."
Tarby started on his expedition. He had no settled
plan, no set speeches, no excuse ready for his appear-
ance before Mary, not even a great deal of hope in his
heart to encourage him in his venture. But he had
broodcd so long over the separation between Owen
and his ward, their marriage had become so much a
part of his own after-happiness, that he grew desperate,
and resolved to sound to the depths.
"There can't be much harm done; and if Owen
nds it out, and is very much offended with me, why
he'll come round in time, for the sake of the old man
who's lost so much by the quarrel."
And consoling himself with this belief, Tarby
Chickney started on his forlorn hope.
Owen:  A Wnif. II. 18
## p. 274 (#284) ############################################
274 OWEN. '
GHAPLTER IV.
Tau-by's Mission.'
TARBY arriving in the neighbourhood of Ansted,
made direct for the lodge at Oaklands. He would
pay his rst visit to Mrs. Cutcheld, a communicative
old lady, who had nursed his little Mary. She was a
shrewd woman in her way, and might give him an idea
as to the best method of procedure. If she were Mary's
friend she might know more of the state of Mary's
heart than any at the great house.
The handle of Tarby's walking-stick was rattling
against the panels of the lodge door, and Mrs. Cutch-
e1d's withered, yet still genial, face an instant after-
wards made its appearance at the window.
"Oh, it's you, is it!" she said, after a careful survey
of the new comer. "I was having my afternoon nap,
or you wouldn't have found the door shut."
Mrs. Cutcheld having left her post of observation,
opened the door to admit Tarby.
"You brought good news last time, Mr. Van Demon.
I hope you deal always in the same goods?"
"As often as I can."
"Come in and sit down then. You're Mr. Owen's
friend?"
"Yes  thank God!"
"I don't see what there is to thank God in that,"
said the old woman, shocked at his seeming irreverence.
## p. 275 (#285) ############################################
owuu. 275
"Because he's a good and true friend, and the ar-
ticle':-1 scarce, marm."
"That's something to be grateful for certainly,
although people don't thank God for their friends very
often. And how is that true friend of yours, Mr. Van
Demon?" '
"You needn't call me that name any more  my
name's Brown."
"It is the name you called yourself when you rst
came here. What did you give a false name for?"
Tarby stammered out, "That he thought the name
of Brown might confuse her," at which Mrs. Cutcheld
laughed ironically.
"Brown was a friend of Owen's, you see," Tarby
hastened to explain, "and Owen might have wrote
about me in his letters; and so coming suddenly with
news, I might have scare the dear girl."
"You're rather free, young man."
"It's my way," said Tarby  "that's all. And I
have long since seen what a dear girl she is; she used
to come with Owen to our shop in the Westminster
Road, now and then. Lord, how she brightened it!"
"Sit down, young man, and make yourself at home.
You're a man of sense, and can speak your mind
honestly. Brightened it!" she cried, echoing Tarby's
last words  "she brightens everything, and everything
takes to loving her, as is natural and right. There
isn't a man, woman, or child on the estate that she has
ever said a word to, but who wouldn't go through re
and water for her. And yet she's altered."
18*
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276 ownn.
"Altered!"
"She's lost most of her sperrits, Mr. Brown Demon,"
continued Mrs. Cutcheld; "there isn't the old lightness
that used to make one want to dance at looking at her.
She's turned more quiet in her way."
"So's Owen."
"That'll do, young man."
"What will do ?" asked Tarby.
"Any talk about that friend of yours is rather dis-
agreeable to me  I can't help it, but it raises the
bile, which isn't good for one of my years," said Mrs.
Cutcheld.
"Ah! you're mistook in him," said Tarby.
"I was  awfully!" was the sententious answer.
"Everybody's mistook in him that thinks as you
do."
"How do you know what I'm thinking on?" sharply
inquired Mrs. Cutcheld. "What's the use of your
sitting there, with your greasy head against my wall,
and telling me that I'm mistook?"
"You don't think Owen treated Ma Miss Chickney
well; you know you don't?" urged Tarby, who was
anxious to keep the subject alive, as well as interested
in his friend's defence.
"When I rst knew Mr. Owen," began Mrs. Cutch-
eld, with much emphatic action of one nger of her
hand in the palm of the other, "I took to him. For
much that he has done I respects him, but for the last
action of his life  it will be his bitterest some day
I can't like him any longer, and you may tell him so."
## p. 277 (#287) ############################################
owns. 277
"He has done nothing."
"He growed tired of the sweetest, dearest girl in
the world; and she saw it soon enough, and ashed up
a sperrit, and gave him up according. Very right and
proper of her, and very mean of him to take her at
her word, knowing how she was bound up in him,
heart and soul. And yet he didn't care for her, only
as her guardian, and it was right not to keep up the
match  but oh! it was mortal hard, and I shan't
abide the sight of the man ever any more. But you
haven't come here on purpose to worry me?"
"No.77
"Then why don't you say what you've come for?"
said Mrs. Cutcheld, "and not delude me  a woman
of few wordsto going on about business that doesn't
concern me. Did Mr. Owen send you here?"
"No  I came of my own accord."
"I hope your news is fresher than the last."
"Well, it is  you'll hardly believe it."
"VVhat  what is it?" And, with some inkling of
the truth, the old woman leaned forward eagerly.
"I want to tell anyone who cares to hear, that
there has been a little too much hurry in breaking off
the match; that Owen feels it more than he cares to
own; and that seeing in him  my best friend  but
a disappinted man, I thought I'd come to break the ice,
or make all clear. He'1l never know it  he must
never know it  mind you."
"You're a-going on nicely  you are!"
"He told me a little while ago  when I pressed
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278 owns.
him  that he found the separation between him and
Mary hard to bear, but that it had been Mary's wish,
and he had no right to interfere."
"He  he told you so?"
"Yes; so there's a mistake, and perhaps you and I
might set it right between us, and make the couple of
'em happy."
"You're a humble friend of Mr. Owen's, I take it
just as I am of that girl's but it's a task beyond
the pair of us. Who's to believe you now?"
"Eh?"
"Mary Chickney wouldn't no more believe you
than Mr. Owen would be likely to think very much of
all I said," observed Mrs. Cutcheld; "I don't see you
can prove anything  whether, now it's all over, it
mayn't be very easy to talk!"
"I'm here to do my best."
"You don't mean to 
"See her, and just tell the truth!"
"Do you know how it will trouble her?"
"She knows me very well now  and I won't say
much, and I'm very anxious about this."
"So it seems  you're looking pale enough."
"Am I?"
"And I can't make you out exactly. You're a
singular man."
"A single manof course," said Tarby, intentionally
77
mistaking her; "and time's wasting hereand I must
see her."
""""'"T"
## p. 279 (#289) ############################################
owrm. 279
"You must go up to the house, then  shc's at
home."
"Won't she call here this afternoon  this even-
ing?"
"She was here this morning  I don't think it
likely."
"Then I'll go up at onceI'm not afeared," cried
Tarby, buttoning his coat in an excited manner.
"You'd better leave it for me."
"No."
"You'll mind what you're about. She's not so
strong as she used to be."
"I'll take care," said Tarby, making for the carriage
drive; "wish us luck, old lady - I'm off."
Mrs. Cutcheld wished him luck, whilst standing
at the lodge gate, watching his receding gure.
"What a pace he do go at, to be sure," she soli-
loquized; "and what an odd man he is. No," return-
ing suddenly to her former doubts, and shaking her
head vigorously, "I can't make him out exactly."
Meanwhile, the man who could not be made out
put his long legs to the right purpose, and strode
rapidly towards Oaklands. He would not allow him-
self time to think; he shut out reection on the coming
interview, lest it should unnerve him; he would chance
saying the right word in the right place, rather than
study his part and sink in the rehearsal. What she
would think  what Owen would say  he left to
the future. He had only one object then.
"I wish to see Miss Chickney," was his rst
## p. 280 (#290) ############################################
280 owns.
address to the servant who answered his heavy single
knock.
"I think she's engaged," responded the footman,
after a critical examination of Tarby's attire. The
functionary in waiting was more puzzled with Tarby
than Mrs. Cutcheld had been  he had a vague idea
that it was a respectable beggar, who had eluded Mrs.
Cutcheld's vigilance, or an agent soliciting orders for
a new establishment in Ansted.
"I can wait. Tell her it's Mr. Brown, from the
Westminster Road, and  and look sharp, will you?"
Tarby was excited, and not particularly civil. He
had proceeded thus far, and was not inclined to be
balked by a unkey in livery. Ho stepped into the
hall, and the servant departed with the message, and
returned a few moments afterwards.
"Will you follow me, if you please, sir?" he said,
politely.
Across the hall, to the drawing-room of the Cher-
bury's, which was vacant, and wherein Tarby had to
wait the coming of his daughter. The servant closed
the door upon him, and Tarby, on the edge of the
chair, looked round him and took a survey of the
apartment.
Possibly at that time nothing could have tended
more to sober him than a few minutes' patient waiting
in that handsomely furnished room. To have met her
suddenly might have been to betray his secret, and
cause much future mortication. For his blood had
## p. 281 (#291) ############################################
owns. 281
become warm, and his powers of self-command more
weak in consequence.
The drawing-room of the Cherburys brought him
to a lower temperature. The costly furniture, the
evidence throughout of wealth and taste, proved to
him the immeasurable distance between his'daughter
and him. She was a lady of rened manners and
education now, and he was a shopkeeper, and had
worked in a penal settlement. It was beyond his '
hopes to dream of ever calling her his child, and if
She never married Owen, why it was better for him.
Her entrance into the room put an end to his
reverie. She came with a faint smile towards him,
and extended her hand. She was calm and ladylike,
and perfectly at her case  it would be a hard task,
unless he dashed through it rapidly. He saw that she
was pale, and her face had lost some of its past
brightness, and that alone gave him the hope that she
might be touched by his defence of Owen.
"Have you come from my guardian, Mr. Brown?"
"No, Miss."
"Pray be seated," said Mary, for Tarby had risen
to shake hands with her. She took a seat near him,
and waited for an explanation of his visit. His anxious
steadfast look towards her made her heart beat faster,
though her face betrayed no outward emotion.
"I haven't come from Mr. Owen," said he, "and
yet I've come to speak about him."
"Not ill!"
"No, Miss Chickney  pretty well, considering."
## p. 282 (#292) ############################################
282 owns.
"Pray go on, then," said Mary, a little im-
patiently.
"Miss Chickney, I'm a plain man  a very plain
and ignorant man, who didn't know his letters till he
was nigh on forty years of age  you won't expect
much ceremony with me?"
"I object to ceremony, Mr. Brown." -
"I've a little to say  I want to say it well and
' plain, for much depends upon the proper way," he
continued; "p'raps if I speak as I think, it will be the
best way of managing it, Miss. I've come to speak of
that old friend of mine  you and he were sweet-
hearts eight or nine months ago."
"Sir!"
"A plain man," said Tarby, apologetically; "there
are other words for it  that's the honestest. Don't
nd fault with my words, Miss, they're coming
straight enough, but they'll be wus if you interfere
with them." '
"But what reason  what right have you to come
hither to make this statement?" said Mary, tremblingly;
"I  I do not understand you."
"One minute, Miss," said Tarby, "all plain as
noonday in a minute, if you only will sit still! He's
an old friend, as I said; there isn't in the world one
like him, or one who has been such a true and faith-
ful friend to me  and, honouring him as I do, I
don't like to see him fretting. I know it ain't my
place to come here; I know that he would re up to
hear of it. I was sure I should offend you  a
## p. 283 (#293) ############################################
owns. 283
I
young lady unused to such rough customers  and
yet I come, because I saw more of the truth than both
of you. You and he of your own accords broke the
promise made to marry each other  and you broke
his heart at the same time, that's all!"
"Explain - explain!"
Mary was deathly white now, and spoke with dif-
culty. The man's excitement had spread to herself,
and something in her throat seemed choking her.
What could he mean by all these wild, earnest words
what was possible at so late an hour?
"The plain fact is, that you wished the thing
broken up, and that he thought it was so much your
wish  for he's a proud man  that he let it go to
shivers, and said nothing! But he loved you, Ma
Miss Chickney before the world and all living in it 
I have heard it from his own lips."
"No  no  no! You are mistaken!"
"I pledge my soul upon it!" cried Tarby, vehe-
mently; "and that's a thing I've larned to value, too.
When he broke the news to me  that is, just men-
tioned it one day  he told me that you took the
only brightness of his life away, and left him in the
darkness. His words, Miss Chickney, as near as I can
x 'em." '
"My God!  what have I done!"  and Mary
buried her face in her hands, and rocked herself to
and fro.
Tarby saw that she was moved. Could he push
## p. 284 (#294) ############################################
284 owns.
\
too far his advantage, he thought. He left his chair,
and came close to her side. ,
"Will you, for my old friend's sake, go to him in
his misery, and tell him what a mistake it was? -
he only wants one true word from you, I know."
"What  what does he think of me?" she mur-
mured.
"That you were tired of him  that you feared
trusting-like your happiness to him altogether  that
you hardly knew your mind  which you did, my
dear  didn't you?" he asked, with intense eagerness.
"I would have died for him!" she cried; "It was
his happiness, not mine. I had no faith in  but 
but Mrs. Glindon  he must love her, sir?"
"What!  before you?  damned nonsense!"
Mary was brought to herself by this rejoinder.
She began to think that she had betrayed too much
of her secret in this man's presence  so eccentric
and so rough a man to be Owen's friend. And he, in
his desire to see Owen happy, might have exaggerated
matters, and given a false colouring to some common-
place conversation that had taken place between them.
And yet he was earnest, and had come a long dis-
tance, on his own responsibility, to relate the truth.
Owen would no more have dreamed of this man, as
ambassador of peace between them, than she would
have thought of it ve minutes before their meeting.
And, after all, what did it matter? The words
had been spoken; time that changes so many things
had raised its barriers in the way; there had been
## p. 285 (#295) ############################################
owrm. 285
spring owers and summer fruits since then, and her
heart had been sorely tried in many ways, concerning
which this well-meaning friend knew nothing. If he
had only stood there at her side three months - even
three days ago!
"You are very kind to take so much interest in
Owen's welfare."
"And in yours, Miss  pray think that!"
"And in mine, then," she continued; "but for any
good that might follow such an effort, it is too late
sir!"
"Not too late, Miss Chickney  it can't be!"
"Other duties  perhaps, other wishes  have
arisen since I thought it best to annul my engagement
with my guardian," she said, sadly.
"There can't be anything in the way big enough
to stop the love between you boththere oughtn't be,
by rights. Miss Chickney, I shall tell all to Owen
and leave him to act. All that I have heard to-day
will bring him new life." .
"You must tell him nothing!" cried Mary.
"I know what is best!"
"It will only add to his misery now," said Mary,
sadly; "for before this Mr. Cherbury has seen him."
"Seen him?  what of that?"
And Tarby gasped for breath as he looked into
her face. It was still very pale; but therelwas rm-
ness thereon  rmness to bear all and complain not.
There was but a moment's hesitation after Tarby's in-
quiry  then she said:
## p. 286 (#296) ############################################
286 owns.
"Well, you will see how expedient it is to keep
this interview a secret from Mr. Owen. Mr. Cherbury
has asked me to become his wife!"
"And you  and you?"
"Leave such matters to my guardian!" said she,
icily. "If he give his consent, I will obey him."
Tarby sunk back into his chair. It was the last
blow  the cruel blow that he had seen impending so
long, and not prepared against. There was an end to
more fair hopes than Owen's!
"I will go now," said he, as he rose unsteadily;
"I see that ends it! I wasn't prepared  he won't be
prepared  for quite such awful news. That's another
wrong step, Miss Chickney."
"I am the best judge," was the answer.
"I say it's wrong!"
"Have you a right to express an opinion?" she
asked with some haughtiness; "or are you not even
exceeding the privileged ofciousness of a friend?"
"Right  right!"
And, thus checked, Tarby went with his downcast
head, across the room, as some animal chided by its
harsh master might have done. He lingered at the
door, as if anxious to say more; but Mary, struggling
to be calm to the last, opened the French window and
passed into the garden. Tarby went his way, without
another word.
## p. 287 (#297) ############################################
OWEN. 287
CHAPTER V.
" Coup de Theatre."
Yes, Mr. Cherbury had asked Mary Chickney to
become his wife. For so many years a bachelor, dead
apparently to all the blandishments of the sex; and
then suddenly evincing a desire to gather the fairest
ower he had met with in his pilgrimage and wear it
in his breast. Fifty years and more a bachelor 
time enough to have wedded and had children of
Mary's age around him  and then in the autumn of
his life to feel a passion for his mother's prote'ge'e. But
such things have happened before, will happen again
love is not limited to fty years, and December will
attempt the conquest of May, often with more success
in life than in three-volume story-books.
He had been timid in his wooing, and kept much
in the background. He had won Mary's condence by
these means, and then he had very plainly, in a very
matter-of-fact way, offered her his hand, stated his pro-
spects, spoken just a little of the great happiness to
him that would ensue from such a marriage. He knew
the match was at an end between Owen and her, and
he stepped forward to propose.
This occurred a week before Tarby's visit to Oak-
lands, and a very miserable week it had been for poor
Mary. Mr. Cherbury did not require an answer till the
## p. 288 (#298) ############################################
288 owns.
week had expiredhe left her to consider the alliance
in all its varied aspects, previous to committing herself
to a reply. In that week Mrs. Cherbury took his case
in hand, and pleaded both directly and indirectly for
her son.
Such a marriage between the two whom she loved
best in the world, lay naturally next Mrs. Chcrbury's
heart. The engagement was dissolved between the
guardian and ward; there was no ingratitude to Owen
in seeking to provide Mary with a rich and an affec-
tionate husband.
She pleaded very earnestly for her Isaac  spoke
of the great improvement in his manners, the absence
of his old hypochondriacal ts, and of that morbidity
naturally allied to themthe inuence that Mary had
exercised to rouse him to a life that was as different
from that of six years ago, as six years ago was
different from his youth.
"If you had only known him in the past, Mary,"
Mrs. Cherbury said-, "and could but see the change
you have effected, you would be proud of your work.
You have made him more of a son to me  you have
always been to this' house a blessing. And, Mary
dear," she argued, "if you would but think seriously
of his offer, you would lighten my heart so much. I
don't ask you  he don't ask you  to marry him at
once; but to give yourself time  a long time if you
wish  before you become his wife. Take him on
probation, and turn him off at a moment's notice, if
your heart fail you, not studying his happiness or my
## p. 289 (#299) ############################################
OWEN. 289
own. I know he is not a romantic lover for a girl of
your age  but what is romance, but a fussy state of
things sober folk are better without. But, Mary, I am
sure he will make you one of the best of husbands;
that he will not be an exacting man, expecting too
much affection from you; that yours will be a quiet
peaceful life, and will bring much of peace and con-
tent to every one allied to you. Why, my dear,
dear Mary, you will be my own daughter then in
earnest!"
"I  I will think of it."
"And don't judge hastily  take the full week to
consider  remember, however much I wish it, your
happiness stands rst of all. If you fear to trust it
with Isaac, why there's an end of it, and of all my
dreams, which I had even before I thought Mr. Owen
had dispelled them for ever."
Mary took the full week to consider, and asked no
advice of the world. Neither Owen nor Mrs. Cutch-
eld guessed what was troubling her. Owen would
know in good time - to Owen she would leave the
nal decision respecting it, and be guided by him
entirely  she had only now to consider what she
should do if the consent of her guardian were given
to the engagement. He had said at one time, "for
once and ever No," to such a match; but then he loved
her then, or fancied that he did so! He had only to
say "No," after all, again. She did not dislike Mr.
Cherbury; he had always been kind and respectful,
and interested in her;' she had every reason to believe
Owen:  A ww. n. 19
## p. 290 (#300) ############################################
290 owns.
that he would do his best to make her happy; that not
a wish of her life, which love or money could procure,
would remain ungratied. She never hoped to love
any one like Owen again  she would tell whoever
might be her husband that disagreeable fact  but
she felt she could be a good and faithful wife to one
who would be kind to her. She was at an age when
the rst romance  or the rst fussy state of things,
as Mrs. Cherbury phrased it  had been dashed from
her path, and in the re-action she felt inclined to re-
gard things a little too prosaically. It was a more
question of making other people happy  she had
given up thinking for herself.
Then came the question, who most deserved the
sacrice of her life, and whom could she most greatly
benet? All Mrs. Cherbury's arguments returned with
extra force in this emergency  for Mrs. Cherbury
had raised her from a humble station to a high posi-
tion, been a mother to her, lavished upon her all a
mother's love. She had spared no pains to bring her
up a lady, tted to grace any circle; she had made no
mystery of the fact, even to Isaac Cherbury, that all
the money she had to leave in the world would be-
come Ma-ry's at her death. So much a'ection for her,
and interest in her future, had long since won upon
Mary's gentle heart, and here was an opportunity to
-evince her gratitude.
Well, perhaps the romance of Mary's life had not
all died away, and there was something romantic, if
morbid, in the sacrice she contemplated. It was al-
## p. 291 (#301) ############################################
owns. 291
most like a heroine to take Isaac Cherbury, out of love
for his mother, and set herself the hard task of obeying
and honouring a man of fty years of age. Surely a
shade of romance lingered in her thoughts, when she
pictured Owen and Ruth marrying, and their meeting
her some day as Mrs. Cherbury,  little thinking she
had chosen that fate in preference to dividing two such
faithful lovers!
Yes, she would think for others  for all who had
been kind and generous to her  and she would ac-
cept Mr. Cherbury under certain conditions, which she
made known to him that morning previous to Tarby's
visit. Oh! if she had had but a friend as earnest in
her defence in the times that had vanished for ever!
"Mr. Cherbury," said she, in answer to his great
question of a week ago, "I must refer you to my
guardian; in his hands I leave the disposal of my
future. If he consent to an engagement between us, I
am willing; but you will not press me to end that en-
gagement too readily  you will give me time to
regard my future position as your wife. This is a
poor reserved reply to make to an offer of your hand,
sir  will you be content with it?"
"Miss Chickney, you alter my whole life," said
Mr. Cherbury, warmly; "I have never expected 
never deserved  such happiness."
And Mr. Cherbury, for the rst time in the
reader's experience of him, really looked happy. There
was hardly a crease in his forehead, and his naturally
19*
## p. 292 (#302) ############################################
292 owns.
heavy head felt so light, that he was doubtful whether
it was on his shoulders or not.
"My dear mother, it's a new existence," said he,
when he and Mrs. Cherbury were together; "I don't\
feel the same man."
"I'm sure you're not."
"I want everybody to be shaking hands and con-
gratulating me," said he; "it's a stroke of good fortune
never anticipated."
"Ah! and it's as well you didn't marry earlier.
How I used to worry you about it, Isaac."
"Yes  didn't you. And I used to make out my
head was twice as bad as it was, in order to keep you
quiet."
"It's going back thirty years."
"No  don't say that," he said, quickly; "all the
past we live down. Haven't I just said it's a new
existence?"
"My dear Isaac  you're too buoyant."
"I must see or write to Mr. Owen at once  how
surprised he will be!"
"Yes."
"Perhaps sorry?" suggested Isaac, with a doubtful
look towards his mother.
"Not if it be all true that people talk about," said
Mrs. Cherbury; "for if he's going to marry Mrs. Glin-
don presently, why, he will be glad to resign his trust
to your hands. It will be a great relief to him to see
a chance of her settling comfortably in life."
## p. 293 (#303) ############################################
owrm. 293
"Yees," said Isaac, still doubtfully; "if he were
not such a strange man, perhaps it would be."
Isaac Cherbury remembered an interview in the
past, when Owen's stern, decisive manner startled him,
even touched him  and he was a hard man at that
time. What a change since then!  the man of
wealth thinking timidly of an anxious conference with
the youth he had suspected of dishonesty  the youth
to have the power, by a word, to mar his future hopes.
It took him two hours' deliberation as to the best
method of procedure  he began a letter to Owen,
soliciting an interview on important business, and
asking him to t a day; then he relinquished that
idea, and resolved to start at once in search of him.
He would strike whilst the iron was hot, and decide
everything at once.
So the train that took Tarby to Ansted passed the
train bearing the 'new lover to London. Two men full
of thoughts concerning Mary Chickney went different
ways  each thinking he knew what was best for
her!
Mr. Cherhury was inclined to have an attack of
headache when he neared Owen's private apartments.
There was a mere matter-of-fact routine to go through;
but, considering all things just at that moment, he
would have preferred breaking the ice by letter, he
thought. The guardian was a strange young man -
had such awkwardly piercing eyes  and his answer
was doubtful! What if he had loved Mary Chickney
after all, and had never thought of Mrs. Glindon 
## p. 294 (#304) ############################################
294 owns.
'what if he were cherishing the idea of renewing the
engagement? And then, again, between this Mr. Owen
and himself, there had always been a certain amount
of coolness. He had tried to break it down long since,
but the young man, though he thawed at times, as
quickly congealed again, as though ashamed of his
weakness. Was it possible that Owen had never for-
given the past suspicions of him, and would resent
it at such a time  and in such a way?
It made him pause to reect on the matter; in
younger days he might have acted so himself, and
ung back the scorn on him who had humiliated him;
but still he did not believe any revengeful feeling
would inuence Owen in his answer. He felt relieved,
however, to hear from the servant that Mr. Owen was
still at business  it gave him more time to consider.
He thought of waiting quietly in Mr. Owen's apartments
for our hero's return, until the landlady apprised him
that they were very busy at the factory, and Mr. Owen
seldom returned till late in the evening.
Mr. Cherbury obtained the address, and sauntered
slowly on his way thither. There was no occasion for
hurry now  Owen was at his business, he would be
sure to meet him. He could not understand what made
him so singularly nervous about this interview. A few
years back and he had been a stoic that nothing could
move. And a girl of eighteen had worked the miracle
in him, or made a fool of him, he was somewhat doubt-
ful which.
Presently he caught himself leaning against a post
## p. 295 (#305) ############################################
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a few yards from the factory of Messrs. Dell and Co.,
and surveying the gates with a rueful expression of
countenance. And his head?  good heavens, how it
was going it under his hat! And that hat!  it must
have weighed seven or eight pounds. Memorandum
to change his hat-maker directly he went to the West
End.
Mr. Isaac Cherbury mustered courage, and rang the
great bell-handle. He was startled by the face of a
porter who had once been in his own service.
"Is Mr. Owen within?"
"Yes, Mr. Cherbury."
"Will you present my card to him, and say that I
am anxious for a few minutes private conversation, on
business of importance."
The man touched his hat and withdrew, leaving
Mr. Cherbury in the great paved yard.
It was like the old times to stand in such a place
of business, and hear the hammers ringing on the iron,
and see, from half-opened doors, the glare of furnace
res, and note, from further down the yard, the pre-
parations for hoisting a large engine on its truck. He
seemed to stand apart from stirring life, to have waxed
very old, and left money-making and engineering to
younger heads and hands. But he had retired from
business, the old rm had degenerated, and this new
and thriving one was the creation of two of his former
servants.
Round goes the world and the, pigmies on its sur-
face, and every revolution makes a change. Here was
## p. 296 (#306) ############################################
296 owns.
the master coming to the servant to ask permission to
marry  the master who was more than fty years
of age!
The porter returned.
"Please to step this way, Mr. Cherbury."
The die was cast, and there was no retreating. Mr.
Cherbury put a bold face on the matter, or rather his
old stolid-looking countenance thereon; he. could assume
it at will, it appeared. He followed the man through
the counting-house to the private room of the partners
grim and wooden-visaged looked he; far more like a
man going to be hanged than be married.
His colour changed, and his looks betrayed he was
not at his case, when he found himself in the private
room, wherein sat John Dell as well as Owen. A
heap of papers was on the table, and Dell, with his
hair very rough and his eyes very protuberant, sat
with a plan before him, poring earnestly into its details.
Owen stood at the back, and had been evidently study-
ing the plan also over the shoulder of the senior
partner.
Mr. Cherbury extended his hand and shook that of
Owen's. John Dell did not look up from the plan,
despite the intent gaze directed to him by his former
master.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Owen. I thought you might
possibly spare me a few minutes private conversation,"
said Mr. Cherbury; "ahem  good afternoon, Mr.
Dell."
Dell muttered something in reply  it might be a
## p. 297 (#307) ############################################
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recognition of the salutation; but it sounded more like
a canine growl before "feeding time."
"You may speak here with perfect condence, sir,"
said Owen.
"Yes  I have no doubt of that, but "
"Shall I go?" was the abrupt inquiry of the senior
partner, as he turned halfway in his seat to look Owen
in the face.
"Keep your seat; we need not disturb your plans,
that I can see. Mr. Cherbury, I repeat that you may
speak here with perfect condence; there is not a secret
in my life that I have not shared with this valued
friend."
"Thank you, Owen  thank you!" muttered Dell.
"Oh! I have no doubt of that," said Mr. Cherbury,
politely; "but  but the fact is, I have not come on
business  not strictly business."
"I thought it was business of an important na-
ture."
"Exactly; but not business of this sort"  and he
gave a general sweep with his hand, implying engineer-
ing business, etc.
"If it be important, this is our only private room
the counting-house is occupied by the clerks, and
the premises are somewhat small. Will you allow me
to call at Oaklands this evening Mr. Cherbury?"
"Yes!" was the eager response.
Owen considered the business settled; asked a few
questions concerning the health of his ward and Mrs.
Cherbury; glanced over the shoulder of Dell at the
## p. 298 (#308) ############################################
298 owns.
diagrams  a signicant hint that Mr. Cherbury was
not disposed to take.
Owen was conscious of being cold, almost repellent
to this visitor. Against his will, it seemed as if he
must be distant in his manner towards him. He strove
to be courteous and at his case; but a feeling of dis-
trust, as to the motive that had brought Mr. Cherbury
from Ansted, gathered strength with every instant.
Still, he was Mrs. Cherbury's son, and Mrs. Cherbury
had been Mary's friend, and both mother and son had
always received him graciously at Oaklands.
"I  I think it will be hardly necessary to take
you so much out of your way," said Mr. Cherbury,
after a long pause; "if you will do me the favour of
a private interview. My business concerns your 
your ward."
"Then, Mr. Cherbury, I ask my partner, as a favour,
to allow me to be present at that interview!" said Dell,
sternly  "to advise him, if it be necessary, upon
many difcult points which may arise."
"But, sir "
"I leave it to Owen!"
And John Dell turned to his plans. Owen was
somewhat perplexed at Dell's manner  it was new
and striking. He could not attribute idle curiosity to
his partner, and he could see no valid reason for his
absence.
"Mr. Cherbury, there is nothing that you can say
to me concerning my ward in which Mr. Dell  her
friend as well as ours  will not be interested."
## p. 299 (#309) ############################################
OWEN. 299
"Very well."
Mr. Cherbury had some spirit of his own, and
Owen's persistence brought it to the surface. There
was nothing of which he had to be ashamed, and John
Dell might sit there a listener if he liked, and his
partner could see no breach of etiquette in pressing a
third person into the conference. Something unpleasant
might even transpire  for that Dell was an eccentric
person, as well as Mr. Owen. Dell had served his
father and him many years; and then, in deance of a
contract, the strict reading of which Mr. Cherbury had
not insisted upon, had thrown up his engagement at a
moment's notice, and without a word of explanation,
save what might be gathered from the following angry
words:
"I won't do a stroke more of work in a house that
bears your name!"
Cher-bury had set it down as a protest against his
conduct respecting Owen, and pocketed the inconveni-
ence of suddenly losing a good foreman.
Still he would make his statement now; he had a
right, he thought, to have his proposal fairly en-
tertained.
"Mr. Owen," he began, with a perspicacity that
was singularly in contrast to his former hesitation,
"the simple matter is, that I love your ward. An old
lover, you may say  one who has beaten about the
world a great deal, and is too hard and phlegmatic a
suitor for one so young as Miss Chickney; but still,
believe me, Mr. Owen, one who will do his very best
## p. 300 (#310) ############################################
300 owe-.
to make her life a happy one. Aware that Mary con-
des in you, and is governed by your wishes, I come
to solicit your consent to pay my addresses to her."
Owen's brow contracted, and as he leaned against
the mantelpiece Mr. Cherbury could see his hands clutch
the shelf ercely.
"I am aware," he hastened to add, "that such a
topic is painful to you, and that it might have been
better discussed between us without "
"No, no!  best as it is, sir!" interrupted Owen.
"I am aware, of course, of the old relations that
have existed between you and Miss Chickney, and how
it adds to the pain of this discussion," he continued;
"but I could not spare you, without laying myself
open to the charge of working against you in the dark.
Frankly I communicated the state of my feelings to
your wardfrankly I have come to you."
"Thank you," answered Owen.
John Dell was rolling up his plans with a ferocious
expression of visage; but neither Mr. Cherbury nor
Owen immediately noticed this movement.
"May I ask," said Owen, after a pause, "if my
ward has referred you to me?"
"She has."
"And that, having obtained my consent, she is pre-
pared to look upon you as her future husband?"
"She is."
"Dell," turning to his friend with a curling lip,
"do you understand these women's ways? They are
a mystery to me."
## p. 301 (#311) ############################################
~ owns. 301
Dell shrugged his shoulders, and rolled his plans
together tighter than ever.
"I will speak presently," he said.
Mr. Cherbury gave one startled look in his direc-
tion, and then addressed himself to Owen.
"She will trust her life to my care; she will gladden
mine, which has been a desolate one hitherto, such as
no man need envy. Mr. Owen, may I ask your an-
swer?"
"I will not stand in your way, sir."
"Owen!" cried Dell, leaping up; but Owen caught
his arm.
"Patience," said Owen, "you have no voice here,
or in this matter. I am jealous of my guardianship,
and I have a little more to say."
"Go on."
And Dell leaned against the mantelpiece also, keep-
ing his eyes on Mr. Cherbury.
"I may think this an unwise step  a premature
one on the part of my ward  but I considered her,
nearly two years since, capable of judging for herself
in my favour  I cannot consistently interfere in yours.
My guardianship, at the best, is merely nominal. At
her wish she retains the name of ward; but I have no
right to interfere with any step in life she may consider
leads her nearer to content. I believe you will do your
best to make her happy?"
"I will." .
"Were I a more conceited man I might feel ag-
grieved at this new engagementit is so great a con-
## p. 302 (#312) ############################################
302 owns.
trast to that which she so mysteriously broke in my
case. I might think my youth to be preferred before
your mature years, my love before that weak ame
which must exhibit itself in the heart of a man of the
world; but I have given up woman's study. I say
again, it is beyond my comprehensive powers."
"I regret to hear you speak so bitterly," said Mr.
Cherbury; "it is scarcely fair to your ward."
"You are right  I stand reproved."
"Owen!" cried Dell, "you love Mary still  you
have always loved her?"
"What of that?"
"You don't deny it?"
'(N0-77
"And yet you give your consent to that man taking
her for his wifeyou!"
"I have no real voice in the matterMiss Chick-
ney thinks she will be happy with him. Mr.\Cherbury,"
turning to that gentleman, "there's my hand to the
bargain."
Mr. Cherbury stepped forward to take Owen's hand
their hands had scarcely met, when Dell struck
them apart with his own.
"Not yet!"
Cherbury and Owen both looked towards him in-
dignantly.
"Man of self, don't you hear this partner of mine
say that he loves her?  cannot you imagine that some
mistake, which a word might rectify, has led to this
unhappy entanglement ? "
## p. 303 (#313) ############################################
owns. 303
"Mr. Owen has not asked me to resign in his
favour. It cannot be expected "
"No matter  no matter," interrupted Dell, impe-
tuously; "it was not for that reason I wished to stay
and offer my advice. Mr. Cherbury, give her up."
"Sir?"
"Ask your own conscience if you are worthy of so
pure and innocent a girl's affection  if the match be
not more frightfully disproportionate in morals than in
years. Man, I knew your heart and all its workings
eight years since  and ung away from you in dis-
gust. Shall I unmask you here?"
Cherbury had turned pale, but he still preserved
his calmness.
"Say on, sir. To what you know or may have
heard of me, I may offer a defence, or give the lie."
"You will claim Owen's ward?"
"Yes."
"You stand his rival," pointing to Owen "he has
owned it!"
"I cannot help it."
"You are the rival of your own son!"
"Dell!" cried two voices in his ears.
"Between him and his happiness, as between her
and her chance of heaven you stand. It is a tting
end to a life such as yours, sir."
"Dell, what does this mean?" Owen almost
shrieked; "are you in your senses?how is that man
my father?"
## p. 304 (#314) ############################################
304' owns.
"He was the man who ruined a trusting woman
and brought her to the streets  she told me the name
the day before you went to Australia, Owen; and the
story of her wrongs drove her back to drink that night,
when I thought in my blind egotism that I had touched
her heart a little deeper. Thirty years ago in Mark-
shire he led your mother to ruin, and the sin starts
again in judgment before him."
Mr. Cherbury sank into a chair and buried his face
in his hands. It was the whole truth, long set aside
and attempted to be forgotten, and now in that night
rising sternly before him. 'He had sinned, and in his
way he had repented long since; he had not thought
of his "early indiscretions"  that was the ne name
he gave them  till some years back, when her face
rose before him in all its haggardness and horror, and
he knew how much of it was his work. It had changed
and aged him, and rendered him a nervous manbut
it had been ed from, not sought out in a repentant
spirit. His victim was clamouring at his own factory
gates one day, demanding to see her son  "a young
thief from the cradle, called Owen"  but he had not
guessed Owen's mother to have been his own victim.
He had been told of the visit by his clerks, and
rendered- suspicious of a faithful servant, whose life he
might have marred like the mother's. But the mother
and he, since his desertion of her, had never spoken a
word  had only once crossed each other's path when
she had been too drunk to recognize her betrayer.
## p. 305 (#315) ############################################
ownn. 305
Still the sin had haunted him  he had tried to live
it down, and now in that hour it had arisen more
awful than ever.
"Your false name did not screen you," said Dell;
"years back, when her son was attempting her re-
pentance  on the day I learned her story  she had
discovered the clue to her seducer's real name and po-
sition, and the old wrongs stirring within her, made
her y back to the night. I left your service the next
day  you may guess the reason now."
"And her end?" moaned Cherbury.
"Was peace."
"God be thanked  I am less a miserable man!"
He had not uncovered his face yet, and Dell, whose
excitement was subsiding, felt for the man's agony of
mind. Cherbury had wrecked all his hopes, but Dell
was an unrevengeful man and a Christian, and any
sign of a contrite spirit naturally touched him.
"I think I would go now," he suggested, in a
milder tone; "your presence is painful  here  very
painful." '
"Yes  I will go."
"Think of all that has happened to-night, and what
is best," said Dell.
Cherbury rose, and went towards the door.
"Be grateful to your God that this son, unre-
cognized, unknown, uncared for by you, was saved
from the mother's life by Mary Chickney's mother, and
has lived to prosper in this world, and has faith in a
higher! Go."
Owen:  A Waif. ll. 20
## p. 306 (#316) ############################################
306 owns.
"You are a hard man."
"You do me an injustice."
He stood at the door, looking at Owen  looking
so wistfully towards the son! He passed from the
room, but only to hastily return.
"Owen, will you shake hands with me?"
"Yes." -
And the hands of father and son were clasped to-
gether for a moment, before Isaac Cherbury hurried
from the room.
## p. 307 (#317) ############################################
owns. 307
CHAPTER VI.
Clears the Stage.
OWEN did no more work that day. Early in the
evening, before the gas-lamps were lighted in the
streets, he,sat in his room pondering over the events of
the day. A day of much bewilderment and mystery,
leaving behind a night not easy to penetrate.
He could not see, he could not guess what lay
beyond the boundary of that day; the shock of his
father's revelation appeared to have utterly benumbed
his feelings. He sat by the open window looking into
the Kennington Road, and let his thoughts run riot,
and inextricably confuse his judgment. There was an
uncomfortable pulsation at his temples that he could
not free himself from, and that interfered with sober
reasoning. .
His landlady knocked once or twice at the door, to
know if he would have the lamp lighted, and he had
said "No, he was not busy  leave him to himself."
The night air stole into the room; darkness settled in
the streets; clocks in the neighbourhood chimed in vain
for him, and told him of time's waste  the stream of
workers, pleasure-seekers, castaways and waifs owed
on beneath his window  the policeman stopped more
than once to look suspiciously towards him.
The gure of a man stood at the iron gate, staring
20*
## p. 308 (#318) ############################################
308 owns.
up at the window, about nine o'clock, as puzzled as
the policeman had been at the darkened room in the
rst oor, and the man's face there now very dimly
seen. The watcher opened the gate, and came on
to the little patch of turf, to observe things more
closely.
"Is that you, Owen?" he called twice, before the
thoughtful face looked down upon him.
"Who's below there?" inquired a deep voice.
"Tarby."
"I am tired to-night will you come to-morrow?"
"No, I must speak to you now," said Tarby,
rmly.
"Come up, then."
Tarby knocked at the door, was admitted by the
landlady, went upstairs into Owen's room.
"What are you sitting in the dark for?" he asked.
"Short of work, Tarby. Sit down, if you can nd
a -chain":
"Will you have the lamp now, Owen?" in-
quired the landlady, who had followed Tarby into the
room.
"Oh! the lamp again!" said Owen, peevishly;
"bring it if you like."
Both men looked instinctively towards each other
when the bright oil lamp was brought into the room
each saw a very white and haggard face. Owen started
to see Tarby so changed, and a fear of a relapse made '
him ejaculate, as the door closed,
"What's wrong, Tarby?"
## p. 309 (#319) ############################################
owns. 309
"Everything":-1 wrong, so far as we're concerned,
Owen."
"What makes you think so?"
"It's all up with my hopes  and with yours, per-
haps," said he. "You've been and seen Mr. Cherbury,
I suppose?"
"Yes."
"And he has asked to marry Mary, and you've
said 'Yes'?" Tarby asked, quickly.
"How did you learn all this?"
"Never mind, just now  is it the truth?"
"The plain truth, Tarby."
"It must be stopped  I say it shall be stopped.
It isn't fair, or right, to Mary and yourself"
"I don't know how it will end don't weary me."
"Owen, I saw the blessed girl to-day. I couldn't
stand it any longer, so I went to Oaklands."
"You!"
Tarby nodded.
"Go on."
"And I spoke of you, and how hard it had been
on you this last "
"Tarby, you're a fool!" shouted Owen. "By what
right dare you seek her out? What right have you to
thrust yourself before me, and pain that innocent girl,
by mentioning my name? You are a meddler and a
spy!"
"By the right of a father and a friend, if you must
know," said Tarby, with a quiet dignity, that disarmed
Owen at once  "by the wish to see the daughter
## p. 310 (#320) ############################################
310 owns.
happy, and not selling herself for a grand house and a
carriage! Haven't I the right to take an interest in
you both?"
"Yes. Pardon me, old friend  I am in the
wrong," said Owen, offering his hand. "I am always
in the wrong. It's my fate!"
Tarby held Owen's hand rmly in his, whilst he
said,
"You were in the wrong when you took her at her
word. You let her go, and her heart was all yours,
Owen. She only feared your happiness  not her
own "
"Folly!"
"She owned as much."
"She did!" cried Owen, trembling strangely. "Go
on!"
"She thought, or heard, that you had, all your
lifetime, loved Dell's niece  and she was free, and
you were unhappy!"
"Yes  I see it all!"
Owen walked to the window, and then resumed
his old post. He was suocating in that room, and the
cool night air brought but faint relief. He saw it all then
what he had missed, and all that he had been mis-
taken in. How by a word the error which had de-
ceived Mary might have been set straight, and her
heart spared many bitter pangs. She was impetuous,
and he was proud , and so they had drifted apart,
and a wild sea of doubt and misconstruction separated
## p. 311 (#321) ############################################
owns. 311
them farther from each other every day. He sprang
to his feet again.
"Tarby, I shall go to Oaklands at once!"
"Well said  I'll go with you."
"If I have no hope how this may end, I will at
least do Mary justice, and assure her that there was no
pitying element in my affection. I cannot stay here a
moment longer."
"Better not, p'raps."
"What is the time?"
"Half-past nine."
"lVe shall not be at Oaklands till close on eleven,
and they'll all be a-bed," added Tarby; "still, we
shall be near them in the morning, and can begin
early."
"Come on!"
Owen would have done anything that night for
action. Sitting still was to wait for madness to steal ,
on him. Leaving the lamp for his landlady to extin-
guish, Owen ran down-stairs, followed by Tarby. The
' door was closed behind them, and they were in the
forecourt, when t\vo gures stopped at the gatethat
of a man and woman.
"This can't be, surely!" said Tarby; "and yet -
yet it is!" '
Owen stood endeavouring to collect his thoughts,
as the gate opened, and Mr. Cherbury, with Mary on
his arm, advanced towards him.
"What does this mean?" he gasped.
## p. 312 (#322) ############################################
312 OWEN-
"Owen, she knows all, and has been very anxious
to see you. Am I right in bringing her?"
"Yes! "  then he opened his arms wide, and
Mary leaped into them, and cried and trembled
there.
"I think you and I can afford to leave this young
couple to themselves a bit?" suggested Tarby to Mr.
Cherbury.
"I think so."
Tarby ran up the steps, and speedily brought the
landlady to the door by his incessant knocking.
"Mr. Owen's altered his mind  stand out of the
way, marm! he and his young lady are going up-
stairs!"
Tarby was in an ecstasy of delight; he jumped.
down the ight of steps again, and pulled Owen by
the arm.
"Talk it over for a minute or two, and get the
agony over! I'll attend to this old cove!" said he.
"Owen, my lad', I'm a younger man by twenty
years!"
Owen took Tarby's hint, and Tarby was left in the
forecourt with Mr. Cherbury  a gentleman whom he
had not before had the pleasure of seeing. They
were two fathers, each ignorant of the other's rela-
tionship.
"It's a mercy they're together at last!" said
Tarby.
"Yes."
## p. 313 (#323) ############################################
owns. 313
"It was very kind of you to help to bring them
so  I take it!" said Tarby; "to give her up when
you might have married her yourself!"
"Not for the past back again in my hands!"
"Eh?"
"Nothing  nothing  how frightfully my head
aches!"
"Nothing like cold water for the headache, sir!"
"I never tried it."
"There's a pump at the 'Hercules'  come and
have a turn now, and I'll work the handle. It will
pass away the time a bit."
But whether Mr. Cherbury availed himself of Tar-
by's liberal offer, appears not in the chronicle of
Owen's history.
And Owen and Mary? Is it fair to the great body
of novel-readers to skip so ne an opportunity for a
love-scene?  to pass over but with a few comments
a reconciliation of lovers  an event dear to actors
and audience? And yet it is so easily imagined -
and love-scenes are so very much alike, and happen
every day! In the life without, as well as in the life
in books, heart speaks to heart, and the imsy veils of
disguise, misconception, reserve, are oated away by
the strong winds of true passion. Still we linger with
them and at their side. There are some old subjects
that are always new, and that years hence as to-day
will be ever undying. It was ever a new subject to
Owen and Mary  when they had children clustering
round their knees, and they were becoming peaceful
## p. 314 (#324) ############################################
314 owns.
heads of a large family, the story of that reconciliation
made them young again. They lived it over anew.
The autumn night, the lamp upon the table, the half-
opened window whence the stars were seen, were the
still life of the photograph  the slight gure pressed
to the breast of the strong man, and both talking of
forgiveness and pride and error, and each anxious to
take all the blame, and both so happy, were the real
throbbing existence of the picture. Close in the ear,
as they seemed ever vibrating in the heart, sounded
the vows to be true henceforth, and have no doubt of
each other. To love for ever and be happy ever after-
wards  life to end like the pleasant old fairy-books.
Life to begin, too, full of faith in each other, with
courage for this world, and a hope for the next  for-
getting not, amidst their present contentment, the
Ruling Hand that had steered them on to the haven.
Before the pen drops, one more picture. A church
in the Waterloo Road; a crowd of men, women, and
children from the streets adjacent hanging round the
smoke-begrimed portico; the little knot of characters
who have had life within this book, or to whom we
have attempted to impart some semblance of existence,
gathered before the altar. Owen and Mary, John Dell
and his niece, Oherbury and his mother, Tarby and 92,
honest Mrs. Cutcheld, are all there. To the words,
"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"
Owen makes a sign to Tarby, and Tarby, confused
yet happy, obeys the signal, and,, to Mary's surprise,
tremblingly places her hand in Owen's.
## p. 315 (#325) ############################################
owmz. 315
After the marriage, and before they pass down the
broad aisle to the carriages waiting to take them back
to Oaklands  to the wedding-feast given by the fa-
ther who has begged so hard to call Owen his son 
Owen passes with Mary through a side door in the
Vestry to the churchyard; Tarby, struggling with his
breath, follows slowly behind them the weights that
had been chained to his feet in times past seem there
again!
Standing by the grave of Mary Chickney late of
Hannah Street, Owen in a few words throws light
upon the mother's story, and points to the man so wist-
fully regarding them. Mary turns and ings herself
upon his neck, and Tarby holds her to his heart as he
held her when she cried to go there nineteen years
ago! He would have knelt to kiss the hem of her gar-
ment if Owen had allowed it!
"God bless you both!" he murmurs.
And with that blessing the wedding-bells peal forth,
and life lies fair before them.
THE END.