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 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 ^%7

 
 DICK'S FAIRY.
 
 J'ront 
 
 What is it?" asked Dick.— p. 4
 
 DICK'S FAIRY: 
 
 A TALE OF THE STREETS. 
 
 %\\)i fiibcr Stories. 
 
 SILAS K. HOCKING, F.R.H.S., 
 
 Author of " Her Benny," " Sea-wai/," " Izy" etc., etc. 
 
 That was the proudest evening of Dick's life. — p. 23 
 
 LONDON: 
 FREDERICK WARNE AND CO., 
 
 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND.
 
 DICK'S FAIRY: 
 
 A TALE OF THE STREETS. 
 
 %\\is 0tljc,r Stories. 
 
 BY 
 
 SILAS K. HOCKING, F.R.H.S., 
 
 " ,,i^o r,c-vx,-.r " " eiT- . ,,• » I.:. " " 
 
 AUTHOR OF HER BENNY, SEA-WAIFj IVY, ETC., ETC. 
 
 WITH ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 mm 
 
 LONDON: 
 FREDERICK WARNE AND CO., 
 
 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND.
 
 HmoL 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 JLN sending on its mission another story of Street 
 ^ Life, I have the fact before me of the ready 
 welcome that has been accorded to all my previous 
 tales of the same character. 
 
 During the last five years one hundred and fifty 
 thousand of the volumes have been disposed of, 
 and the sale is still unabated. This, I think, is in- 
 dicative of a deep and, I trust, growing interest in 
 the lives of the poorer classes of society, and espe- 
 cially of the waifs and strays of our large towns and 
 cities. 
 
 For several years past I have been brought into 
 intimate contact with the Arab population of some 
 of our great northern centres, more especially of 
 Liverpool and Manchester, so that the descriptions 
 of street life and the characters themselves are 
 drawn from life. Indeed, facts — many of them 
 
 1733072
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 strange and startling — arc so abundant that one 
 has little need to draw, to any great extent, upon 
 his imagination. 
 
 That "Dick's Fairy" may contribute something 
 towards the spread of that kingdom which is 
 righteousness and peace is my chief desire. 
 
 SILAS K. HOCKING. 
 
 Southport, 
 
 November \st, 1883.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 jtk'$ ^nlvt^. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. THE LITTLE RUNAWAY 
 
 n. Luther's quest 
 
 in. dick's gluepot 
 
 IV. lost, stolen, or strayed 
 
 V. LUTHER AS A PRIVATE DETECTIV 
 
 VI. GATHERING CLOUDS 
 
 VII. " MISSING " 
 
 VIII. A DISCOVERY 
 
 IX. SUSPENSE . 
 
 X. A FRESH CLUE 
 
 XI. AN ACCIDENT 
 
 XII. EXPLANATIONS 
 
 XIII. AT LAST . 
 
 XIV. WELCOME HOME 
 XV. LIGHT IN DARKNESS 
 
 XVI. CHANGES . 
 
 XVII, AND LAST . 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 lO 
 
 ^9 
 
 28 
 
 37 
 46 
 
 55 
 
 65 
 76 
 
 86 
 
 98 
 
 III 
 
 124 
 
 136 
 
 146 
 
 159 
 169
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER ^^'^^^^ S^^BB^ 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. HOSEA HIMSELF l8l 
 
 II. hosea's adventure 
 
 Qttt uf l^m|iiitli0tt. 
 
 I. ' HOO WAS A GRADELY NICE LASS ! " 
 
 II. "grace's medicine" 
 
 ijj«$itt l[ritnlit 
 
 194 
 
 III. hosea's conversion ..... 206 
 
 . 215 
 
 224 
 III. D Ada's little hetty 234 

 
 w 
 
 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE LITTLE RUNAWAY. 
 
 HEIR meeting was a strange one. 
 They were both running at full 
 speed, and in opposite directions. 
 He tattered, hungry, and cold ; she 
 gaudily dressed, hot, and excited. 
 He was running with a careless 
 swing and a heart that was light in 
 spite of his poverty and rags ; she was bounding on 
 like a hunted hare, with every sense keenly awake 
 and eyes ready to start out of their sockets. He 
 was running towards his home ; she away from 
 hers. He was anxious to get warm ; she to get out 
 of sight. 
 
 1
 
 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 " Ye 're terrible ragged," she said, with engaging 
 frankness ; " my clothes is ever so much nicer." 
 
 " Gals' clothes is cheap, I specks," he answered ; 
 "an' then mother ain't able to do no mendin' scarce. 
 But what 's the hodds 'bout a few ribbons ? besides, 
 wentilation is good, so folks say ; and when I gets 
 to be a gentleman I '11 smarten up a mite." 
 
 " Are ye goin' to be a gentleman some day ? " 
 
 *'Mos' likely— no knowin' — nothin'sartin — nothin' 
 like hopin', anyhow." 
 
 This conversation was carried on while running 
 side by side through a narrow and badly-lighted 
 street. At length she drew back suddenly with a 
 little cry of fear. They had reached the end of the 
 narrow street, and were about to cross a broad and 
 well-lighted thoroughfare. 
 
 "What is it ?" asked Dick, in some alarm, when 
 his companion drew back so suddenly. 
 
 " Mrs. Limber," she gasped. " She 's after me. 
 Oh, what shall I do if she sees me ? " 
 
 " Don't you never fear," said Dick, stoutly. " Is 
 that her wi' the red shawl ? " 
 
 "Ay, that's her." 
 
 " Oh, well, she ain't seen us," was the reassuring 
 answer ; " an' she '11 soon be out of sight. You just 
 stand behind me till I give the word, then bolt 
 across like greased lightnin'."
 
 THE LITTLE RUNAWAY. 
 
 In a few minutes the glaring thoroughfare was 
 safely crossed, and they were in comparative dark- 
 ness once more. For some distance they hurried 
 on in silence. Then she looked up in his face with 
 the question, *' Where are ye a-takin' me to ? " 
 
 " Dunno yet. I '11 call on Luther first, an' ax him 
 what he thinks." 
 
 "Who's Luther.?" 
 
 " Oh, he 's an old cove 'as lives in next street to 
 
 ourn." 
 
 " Is he nice ? " 
 
 "No, not very. He's a curious owd blade, but 
 he 's mighty knovvin', an' he 's good at bottom, 
 though you wouldn't think so to hear 'im talk." 
 
 " What does he do ? " 
 
 " Oh, he mends shoes mostly, when he ain't 
 makin' new ones, which ain't very often." 
 
 " He 's got a queer name, anyhow." 
 
 " Oh, Luther 's only part of his name ; his proper 
 name 's Luther Cob. That 's 'cause he 's a cobbler, 
 don't 'e see } " 
 
 " Not very well, an' I don't want to see him." 
 
 " You needn't fear," was the reply, " he ain't haaf 
 a bad sort when you git to know 'im. He 's queer, 
 awful queer, but you mustn't take no notice. You 
 jist trust yourself to me, an' I '11 take care of ye, 
 never fear."
 
 6 DICK'S FAIRY, 
 
 " You don't think he '11 take me to Mrs. Limber, 
 do ye ? " 
 
 "Sartin he won't, so keep your heart up, little 
 gal, for 'ere we are," and Dick raised the latch of 
 Luther's door without ceremony, and marched 
 boldly in, closely followed by the little girl. 
 
 There was no one in the outer room, which an- 
 swered the double purpose of workshop and show- 
 room. On the little counter an oil lamp was burn- 
 ing dimly, revealing a number of shoe-lasts, tips, 
 and scraps of leather, while before the window, on 
 a slanting shelf, was a curious assortment of second- 
 hand boots and shoes exposed for sale. These, 
 during the day, were carried outside the window, 
 to be examined and bargained for by those who 
 wanted something cheap in shoe-leather, and were 
 not particular about the fit. 
 
 "Luther's finished work for the day, I 'spect," 
 Dick whispered to his companion, " so you 'd better 
 stay 'ere a bit, and I '11 go inter the back room an' 
 'ave a crack wi' him about what 's to be done." 
 
 It was not without considerable misgiving, how- 
 ever, that Dick obtruded himself upon Luther's 
 presence. He knew that the old man was no lover 
 of children, and that he hated to be disturbed, es- 
 pecially in the evenings, when his day's work was 
 done. For nearly forty years Luther had lived
 
 THE LITTLE BUN AWAY. 
 
 alone. It is said that in his young days he had 
 seriously contemplated marriage, and would in all 
 probability have taken a wife had not the young 
 woman of his choice got married to another man. 
 Since then Luther had lived almost a hermit's life. 
 Two or three times a week an old woman came in 
 to tidy up his home, but Luther always seemed ill 
 at ease when she was about, and was always glad 
 to be alone again. Dick had known Luther ever 
 since he could remember, and was about the only 
 lad in the neighbourhood that could be considered 
 to be on friendly terms with the old man. Indeed, 
 most of the lads were Luther's avowed enemies, 
 and rarely lost an opportunity of showing their 
 dislike. 
 
 " I wonder what the owd bloke will say ? " was 
 Dick's reflection, as he slowly pushed open the door 
 that separated the shop from the living-room. He 
 felt somehow as if he had come on a fool's errand. 
 What business had he to take up with a runaway 
 child, and encourage her in trying to hide from her 
 friends ? How did he know that she had told him 
 the truth "> Was not her running away the stupid 
 freak of a wayward child, that ought not to be 
 encouraged for a moment ? And was it not more 
 than likely that Mrs. Limber was her own mother, 
 and was now, perhaps, almost distracted at her
 
 8 DIGK'B FAIRY. 
 
 absence ? These thoughts rushed through Dick's 
 mind with h'ghtning speed, and almost staggered 
 him for a moment. It was only for a moment, 
 however. There was something about this little 
 waif that touched his heart strangely. There was 
 such a look of terror in her eyes when she stumbled 
 across him, such a ring of sincerity in the tones of 
 her voice when she spoke, such evident dread of 
 going back again, that Dick couldn't help but 
 believe that her story was true. " She 's been badly 
 used, 'as the little gal," was his reflection, " an' I '11 
 help her all I can," and he marched boldly into 
 Luther's presence. The room was full of the warm 
 glow of the firelight, for Luther believed in making 
 himself comfortable when his day's work was over, 
 and was now seated in a large easy chair, with a 
 clay pipe between his fingers, from which he pulled 
 deep whiffs at rather long intervals. 
 
 " Well, lad, what 's thy business .? " he said, look- 
 ing up as Dick entered. 
 
 " I wanted a word wi' you," said Dick, somewhat 
 uneasily. 
 
 " A word wi' me ! What about ? " 
 
 " About a little gal as is waiting here in the shop." 
 
 " A little girl ^ Whose girl ? What does she 
 want ? " And Luther glared at Dick in a way that 
 was anything but reassuring.
 
 THE LITTLE RUNAWAY. 9 
 
 "She ain't got no parents," stammered Dick, 
 "and the people who keeps her abuses her, and 
 she 's runned away, an' she ain't no place to go to, 
 and I meets her all alone in the street " 
 
 "And you brought her here for me to keep?" 
 snarled Luther. "Take her away this minute." 
 And Luther got up from his chair and clenched his 
 fist in a threatening attitude. " Do you think I '11 
 harbour runaway children ? Take her back to her 
 home, and if she gets a hiding, sarves her right." 
 
 " But— but " began Dick. 
 
 " No, not a * but,' " snarled Luthur. " Be gone 
 this minute, or " 
 
 But Dick did not wait to hear the end of the 
 sentence ; with a quick gesture he left the room 
 and slammed the door behind him.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 LUTHER'S QUEST. 
 
 j^ EFORE Dick had time to open the 
 Jy>- shop door and get — with his httle 
 
 companion — into the street, Luther 
 had thrown open the middle door, 
 and was calling him back. 
 
 "What's the use o' coming back ? " 
 retorted Dick, who had his full 
 snare of spirit, and was highly indignant at the sum- 
 mary way in which he had been dismissed. 
 
 ** Never mind what's the use," answered Luther; 
 " you just do what I tell yen" 
 
 "There ain't no time to be wasted," Dick answered. 
 " It 's gettin' late, an' the little gal ain't no place to 
 go to yet." 
 
 " Then come here, and bring the gal with you," 
 snarled Luther ; " an' don't waste no more time in 
 chaffering." 
 
 " What shall we do ? " said Dick, in a whisper, 
 turning to his companion. " Shall we go back ? " 
 
 10
 
 LUTHER'S QUEST. 11 
 
 " What ! to Mrs. Limber ? " she asked, in affright. 
 " No, never. I '11 go anywhere sooner than I '11 go 
 back again." 
 
 " I didn't mean that," he answered quickly. " I 
 mean, shall we go into the room, as he wants ? " 
 
 " I dunno," she said ; " but I '11 go anywhere wi' 
 you." 
 
 " Come along, then," he answered. " He '11 not 
 eat us, an' the owd dog's bark is wus nor his bite 
 any day," Saying which, he marched in after 
 Luther, leading his companion by the hand. 
 
 " You can sit down here," said the old man, in 
 kindlier tones than he had before used, at the same 
 time drawing up a large sofa in front of the fire. 
 He then fetched the lamp from the shop, and placed 
 it on the table. This done, he seated himself once 
 
 * 
 
 more in his easy chair, and looked at the little girl 
 for several seconds without speaking. 
 
 " Blamed if you 're not a pretty little gal, any- 
 how," he said at length. " What 's yer name .-* " 
 
 But a burst of tears was the only answer he 
 got. 
 
 " Come, come, little gal, don't cry," he said in 
 tones of distress. " I ain't used to seein' folks cry, 
 and it boggles me somewhat. There, there, dry 
 yer eyes. I 'U not do 'e any harm if I knows it, 
 so don't be skeared."
 
 12 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 " I 'm not skeared very much," she answered very 
 dubiously, getting closer to Dick, whom she evi- 
 dently regarded as her friend and champion. 
 
 "Well, well, I 'm a bit of an old bear, I daresay," 
 said Luther, "and I ain't no special love for children 
 I admit, and I don't want to get inter trouble har- 
 bouring runaway brats ; but 't ain't fair maybe to 
 judge ye unheard, so dry yer eyes, little woman, an' 
 tell us yer name." 
 
 " Fairy, sir," came the answer in timid tones. 
 
 " Fairy, eh ? Fairy w^hat ? " 
 
 " Not anything else, sir." 
 
 " Nothing but Fairy ? Well, that 's queer. Where 
 d' ye live > " 
 
 " Dunno, sir." 
 
 " Don't know .-* Come, come, ye must know," 
 said Luther somewhat sternly. 
 
 "We shifts about so from place to place," said 
 Fairy. " Sometimes I sleeps in the van, and some- 
 times in the tent. We 're after the fairs mostly." 
 
 " Do ye belong to a show, then, or what ? " asked 
 Luther. 
 
 " Ay," said Fairy, brightening. " I 'm the fairy. 
 I dances on the stage, and on the tight-rope, and 
 acts Red Riding Hood, an' lots of things." Then 
 her eyes filled with tears again. " But Mrs. Limber 
 beats me awful when I don't do right ; an' cause I
 
 LUTHER'S QUEST. 13 
 
 tumbled off the rope to-night she kicked me, an* 
 said I should get it worse before I slept, and so I 
 slipped out under the canvas when nobody was 
 lookin' and runned away." 
 
 "And so Mrs. Limber's yer mother, is she?" 
 questioned Luther. 
 
 " Oh, no, she ain't," said Fairy, quickly. " She 
 keeps a-tellin' me I 'm a orphan brat. She says my 
 mother 's in the ground, and my father too." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! " said Luther, " She 's yer 
 mother right enough, and you '11 have to go back 
 to her." 
 
 " Oh, no, I won't," said Fairy, her eyes dilating 
 with fright. " She ain't my mother. If I calls her 
 mother she tells me to shut up, an' says I 'm a 
 orphan brat that she 's the keeping of. Oh, no, no ! 
 I '11 never go back." 
 
 " But ain't there any Mr. Limber ? " asked Luther. 
 
 " Ay, but he 's mostly sick, an' is getting old, an' 
 she serves him awful bad too sometimes. I like 
 Mr. Limber very well. He talks nice to me when 
 she ain't about, an' reads out o' the good book about 
 God, an' all that." 
 
 " Bah ! " said Luther ; " but let that pass." And 
 he got up and walked to the street door and opened 
 it, and stood for some time looking out into the 
 wintry night.
 
 14 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 " Queer owd bloke, ain't he ? " whispered Dick 
 
 "Ay," she answered, placing her little hand in 
 his. " P'r'aps he don't mean bad, though." 
 
 " No ; he 's right at bottom," Dick answered, 
 "but he's curious ways wi' him. I wonder what 
 he 's a-thinkin' on standin' there i' t' cold ? " 
 
 Luther came back after a bit, and carefully shut 
 the middle door. Dick and Fairy watched him 
 narrowly for several seconds, wondering what was 
 to be the next move. 
 
 " Look here," he said at length, " the night ain't 
 fit to turn a dog out o' doors, and it 's snowin' like 
 ■ — like — well, like — I 'm blamed if I can find a word 
 — well, it's snowin' like— like anything, there, now. 
 And if I ain't a saint I ain't a brute. So, little gal, 
 you can stay here wi' me for the night, and sleep on 
 the sofa, and ye '11 be as warm as a kitten, I war- 
 rant, and nobody shall harm ye, there, now ; an' 
 to-morrow I '11 inquire into the matter, blamed if 
 I don't. Now, Dick, get thee home to thy mother, 
 or she '11 be thinkin' thou 'rt lost." 
 
 "Is Dick goin' away?" asked Fairy in alarm. 
 
 " Ay," said Luther. " He 's got a mother to look 
 after ; but don't ye fear, nobody '11 harm thee, little 
 gal." 
 
 "But he'll come to see me again.-*" asked Fairy. 
 
 " Never fear," said Dick. " I '11 be here to-mor-
 
 LUTHER'S QUEST. 15 
 
 row mornin' as soon 's anybody 's stirring. So keep 
 yer heart up, Fairy, an' Mrs. Limber '11 never catch 
 ye cgain if I can 'elp it." And the next moment 
 he was gone. 
 
 It was but a short distance to his own poor home. 
 Before the merest glimmer of a fire, and by the 
 light of a tallow candle, sat a thin pale woman, 
 stitching away for dear life. This was Dick's 
 mother. Since early morning she had sat in almost 
 the same position, plying her needle unceasingly, 
 and when her day's work is done she will have 
 barely earned a shilling. Since morning Dick had 
 been in the streets, ready to turn his hand to any- 
 thing, or earn a penny by any honest means. 
 
 " Well, Dick, my boy," she said, looking up from 
 her work with a smile, " you are late to-night." 
 
 " Ay, mother," he answered, going up to her and 
 kissing her. " I ain't had very good luck, an' I 
 waited for anything as might turn up, an' then I 
 waited to help a little gal as tumbled down in the 
 street, an' " 
 
 "I'm not complainin'," broke in the mother, "an' 
 I 'm glad you helped the little girl. You '11 never 
 lose anything by bein' kind, but it 's quite time we 
 had our bit of supper an' got to bed." 
 
 " Well, I '11 be glad of some'at to eat, anyhow," 
 said Dick, " for I 'm near clemmed."
 
 16 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 *' Then blow the fire a bit while I get the herrin'," 
 said the mother ; and soon after the herring was 
 sputtering on the coals, and Dick was smacking his 
 lips over the savoury smell. 
 
 There was very little said during the meal, for 
 neither mother nor son was in the mood for con- 
 versation. She was tired, and sad, and anxious to 
 forget her toil and pain and poverty, in sleep. He 
 was full of thoughts of Fairy. If his mother had 
 given him any encouragement to talk, he would 
 have told her all about the little waif that he had 
 protected ; but she was evidently too tired to be 
 troubled with the troubles of any one else, and he 
 was not sorry to be quiet. 
 
 For long after he had crept into his poor bed he 
 lay awake listening to the wind, and thinking of 
 Fairy ; and she, on Luther's big sofa, lay thinking 
 of him, and wondering what the end of her adven- 
 ture would be. 
 
 Almost as soon as it was day, he started for 
 Luthur's house. The old man was busy cooking 
 his breakfast, and Fairy, looking as fresh and pretty 
 as a spring flower, was watching his operations with 
 evident interest. 
 
 " Had owt to eat, lad ? " was Luther's greeting. 
 
 " Not yet," said Dick. " Mother 's havin' a hextra 
 nap this mornin'. She were fair beat last night."
 
 LUTHER'S QUEST. 17 
 
 ^ "Well, never mind," said Luther, " there 's 'nough 
 here for three on us. So ye 're welcome to a 
 snack." 
 
 " Well," says Dick, with a broad grin, " I 'm not 
 such a fool as to say no to a good hinvitation, so 
 I '11 stop." 
 
 " I 'm glad you 's goin' to have breakfas' here," 
 said Fairy. "It'll be fine altogether." 
 
 "Ay," said Dick; "an' don't that bacon jist smell 
 tip-top ! Bother my buttons if one didn't ought to 
 'ave a piece of bread to eat wi' it." 
 
 " Now, look here," said Luther, when breakfast 
 was over, " and hearken to what I 'm a-goin' to say. 
 I 'm goin' out to make inquiries 'bout this little gal. 
 You hear. Fairy ? " 
 
 She nodded her head. 
 
 " I 'm goin' to ferret it out, if there 's sich a thing 
 as doin' it, blamed if I don't ; an' if that Mrs. 
 Limber's a right to the gal, if she's a relation, or 
 guardian, or owt of that sort, well, back the gal '11 
 have to go. A nice mess I shall get into if I 'm 
 found out harbouring a gal as ought to be returned 
 to her friends ! There 's been no wrong done yet, 
 an' I ain't a-goin' to git into trouble for anybody if 
 I knows it. Do ye understand } " 
 
 Both Dick and Fairy nodded their heads. 
 
 " Well, then, till I 've ferreted out this business 
 
 2
 
 18 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 nobody must know the gal 's here. Did anybody 
 see yer come ? " 
 
 "No, nobody," said Dick. 
 
 "So much the better," went on Luther. "But 
 have you told yer mother ? " 
 
 " No, she didn't give me the chance /' 
 
 "Then don't tell her — don't tell anybody; keep 
 dark till I 'vc got to th' bottom of it. Now, Dick, 
 thee be off 'bout thy business, and Fairy '11 have to 
 keep upstairs till I come back, and not even show 
 her face at winder." 
 
 A few minutes later Fairy was alone, and Dick 
 and Luther were tracking the wintry streets. 
 
 Both children were in a state of great excitement 
 all the day, and were longing, yet dreading, to know 
 the result of Luther's quest.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 dick's gluepot. 
 
 Y dark, or a little after, Dick had 
 succeeded in earning a shilling, an 
 achievement he had never before 
 accomplished, and, as a conse- 
 quence, he was greatly elated. 
 Ninepence he had earned during 
 the early part of the day in sweep- 
 ing the snow from people's doorsteps and garden 
 paths ; the other threepence was profit on the sale 
 of evening papers. Besides this, a lady, taking 
 compassion on his hungry looks, had given him a 
 great piece of bread and cheese, which made him 
 an excellent dinner ; while another lady, touched 
 by the sight of his rags, had given him an old suit 
 of clothes that would serve him all the winter. 
 
 Dick felt that if he was not set up for life he was 
 next door to it. In all his experience he had never 
 done such a stroke of business. In his hand were 
 
 10 2 — 2
 
 20 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 twelve copper coins. What might they not repre- 
 sent ! What vast possibiHties might they not con- 
 tain ! One much-coveted and long-hoped-for trea- 
 sure, at least, was within his reach, and should be 
 his before he slept. That treasure was a gluepot. 
 He knew where there was one that could be pur- 
 chased for fivepence — second-hand, it is true, but 
 almost as good as new. 
 
 So off he started, when his last paper had been 
 disposed of, for the lumber-shop where the gluepot 
 was to be had. He was in a fever of fear lest it 
 should have been sold. No, thank goodness ! it 
 vi^as in the window still, and Dick marched boldly 
 into the shop. 
 
 " What '11 yer take for that owd gluepot there ? " 
 he asked of the woman in charge of the shop. 
 
 Without speaking she unhooked it and looked at 
 the bottom, and then at Dick. 
 
 " Well, what '11 yer take for 't ? " he demanded. 
 
 " Fivepence," was the answer. 
 
 " Hope ye '11 get it, I reckon ; but I '11 give yer 
 threepence for 't." 
 
 " You hope you '// get it, I reckon," she snapped, 
 proceeding to hang it up again. 
 
 " Bother yer buttons!" he ejaculated, "ye needn't 
 be in sich a tearing hurry. Let's look at it." 
 
 " Well," he said, after examining it carefully for
 
 DICK'S GLUEPOT. 21 
 
 seme time, " I '11 tell yer what I '11 do : I '11 give yer 
 fourpence for it. There, now, I can't afiford no 
 more." 
 
 There was considerable objection to this at first, 
 but Dick persevered, and at last walked ofif with 
 his long-coveted treasure in triumph. 
 
 His next purchase was twopennyworth of glue, 
 and then he turned his face towards home, eager to 
 communicate to his mother his good fortune ; and 
 yet, eager as he was, he could not resist the impulse 
 that led him round by Luther's house, for he was 
 burning to know the fate of Fairy. There was no 
 light, however, in Luther's window, and when he 
 tried the door he found it fast, so with a sigh he 
 turned away, and once more directed his steps 
 towards Tinker's Row. 
 
 " Now, mother, I 've made my fortin at last," was 
 his greeting ; and the tired woman looked up from 
 her work with a wan smile, but did not reply. 
 
 " I see yer don't believe it," went on Dick, " but 
 look at these 'ere togs ; an' better 'n all the togs in 
 the world, I 've got the gluepot at last." 
 
 " I 'm afraid you 've been spendin' yer money 
 foolishly," sighed the mother. 
 
 " Not a bit of it," said Dick. " Wi' perseverance, 
 cork, an' glue I 'm goin' to make my fortin." 
 
 " My poor boy, you '11 find out that fortius are
 
 22 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 not so easily made. There 's no chance i' this world 
 for folks as is poor, so you 'd better be content to 
 struggle on as you are." And Mrs. Dugdale went 
 on again with her sewing. 
 
 Nothing discouraged, however, Dick set his glue- 
 pot on the fire and commenced operations. His 
 idea was to model a church with bits of cork glued 
 together. He had seen such a model once in a 
 shop window under a glass case, and was told that 
 the price of it was five pounds. 
 
 " Moses, what a fortin ! " was his exclamation. 
 And though he never hoped or expected that he 
 could accomplish anything half so perfect, yet if he 
 could make a toy church, and get five shillings for 
 it, it would be a great thing. 
 
 A great thing ! Who could tell how great ? It 
 would be a new start in life, with boundless possi- 
 bilities on ahead. Once started, what might it not 
 lead to .'' Dick had only to close his eyes, and won- 
 •derful visions floated before him. But, alas ! alas ! 
 where was he to get the gluepot ? For months and 
 months he had been gathering up bits of cork in 
 dust-heaps and in the sweepings of warehouses, 
 and these he had cut into shape with an old pocket- 
 knife that was once his father's, but so far all his 
 efforts had been fruitless for lack of glue. " If I 'd 
 on'y a gluepot," he had sighed a hundred times
 
 DICK'S GLUEPOT. 23 
 
 over, " there 'd be a chance for a chap — but there, 
 it won't come by worriting." 
 
 It may sound prosaic that all Dick's dreams of 
 fame and fortune should be associated with any- 
 thing so humble and mean as a gluepot, but it is 
 quite true nevertheless. T/iai with him was to be 
 the magic wand that should change his rags into 
 scarlet and fine linen, that should transmute the 
 base metal of earth into shining gold. It was his 
 last wish ere he dropped asleep at night, his first 
 when he awoke in the morning, " If I on'y had a 
 gluepot." 
 
 Now, however, his dream was realized. He had 
 purchased the long-coveted treasure with his own 
 money, and felt justified in the transaction. While 
 •he had earned only threepence or fourpence in a 
 day, he felt in duty bound to bring it all home 
 to his mother. But "circumstances alter cases." 
 Having earned a whole shilling, there was no longer 
 any reason why he should deny himself ; and at last 
 before his eyes was the melted glue, and the church 
 rising into shape. 
 
 That was the proudest evening of Dick's life. So 
 happy was he, and so completely absorbed in his 
 work, that he forgot the flight of time — forgot even 
 Fairy, who, even then, perhaps, was sitting all alone, 
 anxiously waiting to know her fate.
 
 24 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 The frugal supper was placed on the table at last, 
 but Dick had not noticed his mother getting it 
 ready ; he had eyes for nothing but the cork and 
 glue ; he never felt the gnawings of hunger. The 
 longer he worked the more rapidly the visions passed 
 before his eyes, and the more beautiful they became. 
 The gluepot had become a magic wand already. 
 Even now the poverty-stricken cottage had given 
 place to a beautiful mansion, and in his imagination 
 he was dwelling amid affluence and beauty. 
 
 His mother's sad, almost querulous voice dissi- 
 pated his airy castles at length. 
 
 " I want no supper," he said. 
 
 "You silly lad," she answered. " Come at once." 
 
 Very reluctantly Dick obeyed, and bolted his 
 supper in silence, then turned to his work again. 
 
 " No, no," said his mother ; " I 'm going to have 
 no more of that nonsense to-night. Do you know 
 what time it is .'' " 
 
 " It 's not nonsense, mother," he said, without 
 heeding her question ; "an' you'll say so yet." 
 
 " Well, well, it 's bed-time, anyhow," she said. 
 " It 's after ten o'clock." 
 
 " After ten } " he questioned in a tone of sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " Ay," she said. " I 'd no idea 't was so late till 
 I got up to git supper ready."
 
 DIGICS GLUE POT. 25 
 
 But he did not heed what she was sayhig. He 
 was thinking of Fairy. What had become of the 
 Httle waif? he wondered. Here he had been all the 
 evening, selfishly enjoying himself, and forgetting 
 the child he had promised to defend. Perhaps 
 Luther had already taken her back to Mrs. Lim- 
 ber ; and if so, he should never see her face again. 
 And what would she think of him, leaving her to 
 her fate in that way, when he had vowed in her 
 hearing that Mrs. Limber should never get hold of 
 her again if he could help it ? Poor Dick was quite 
 distressed. If it had been an hour earlier — half- 
 past nine instead of half-past ten — he would still 
 have ventured on paying a visit to Luther ; but it 
 was too late now. The old man was such an early 
 bird that it would be folly to go at this hour. 
 
 Dick's sleep was very much troubled that night, 
 and his dreams considerably mixed. Now he was 
 flying across the country in a wild chase after Mrs. 
 Limber, who had got possession of Fairy, and 
 was going to subject her to unheard-of tortures : 
 and now, as a gallant gentleman, he was floun- 
 dering in a lake of liquid glue, and hopelessly 
 struggling to save Fairy, who was drowning in the 
 same ; now Fairy had been changed into cork, and 
 he was fixing her in a niche in a great tower he 
 was building ; and now she had fallen to pieces,
 
 26 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 and he was glueing her together again, and finding 
 infinite difficulty in getting the pieces to fit. 
 
 Dick was thankful when at last the night was 
 over, and the grey dawn of the clear December 
 day began to struggle through the grimy window. 
 Slipping quietly out of bed, he proceeded to dress 
 himself in the clothes that had been given him the 
 day before. 
 
 " It 's a odd lot, any way," was his reflection. 
 "An' the weskit fits me a mite too much. But 
 what 's the odds ? I '11 be as warm as Nebichad- 
 neezer, King o' the Jews, wi' his cast-iron stockin's 
 an' timber shoes." And with this reflection he 
 lifted the door-latch quietly and passed swiftly into 
 the street. 
 
 " Owd Luther 's sure to be up," was his reflection. 
 ** He allers goes in for the top o' the mornin'. But 
 I do hope he ain't a-given up the little gal." 
 
 It did not take him many minutes to reach 
 Luther's dwelling, but a glance at the shuttered 
 window showed him that the old man was not 
 stirring yet. 
 
 " Mighty queer," said Dick to himself, scratching 
 his head. " I can't make it up no road. The owd 
 bloke' s allers stirring wi' the first peep o' th' mornin'. 
 There 's summat i' th' wind, I fear." 
 
 Half an hour later Dick returned again, but the
 
 DICICS GLUEPOT. 27 
 
 shutter had not been taken down from the window, 
 and the door was still locked. 
 
 What could it mean ? There was a mystery 
 somewhere that he could not unravel ; and after 
 loitering in the street for what seemed to him the 
 best part of an hour, he reluctantly, and with a 
 heavy heart, turned away, and bent his steps to- 
 wards the city.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LOST, STOLEN, OR STRAYED. 
 
 O Fairy, that first day in Luther's 
 ^ house was an intensely trying one. 
 Hour after hour she sat alone in the 
 silent house waiting for Luther's re- 
 turn, and yet almost dreading his 
 coming. She could not quite under- 
 stand the old man yet, and did not 
 seem at all certain whether to regard him as a friend 
 or a foe. 
 
 The little she had seen of him had perplexed her 
 greatly. One moment he would smile upon her, 
 the next he would frown. Now he would speak in 
 tones that were gentle and tender, and now, as if 
 to remove any impression of gentleness, he would 
 speak in tones that were sharp and stern. 
 
 That he meant to do what he considered right 
 there could be no doubt. But what might seem 
 right to him might be the cruellest wrong to her. 
 Should she wait there for his return, or should she 
 
 28
 
 LO^T, STOLEN, OR STRAYED. 29 
 
 slip quietly out of the house and make off, and trust 
 to chance, or to that Providence that old Mr. Lim- 
 ber sometimes had spoken to her about when his 
 vixen wife was out of the way ? 
 
 It seemed a difficult question for her to decide. 
 It was awfully lonely sitting in that strange house 
 with no one to speak to, and debarred even the small 
 comfort of looking out of the wandow. It was 
 scarcely better than being exposed to Mrs. Limber's 
 fury, and very likely if she waited till Luther's re- 
 turn, he would take her back to the old life from 
 which she had tried to escape, and which v/ould be 
 worse to her than death. 
 
 On the other hand, if she stole off while Luther 
 was out she would forfeit Dick's friendship, and 
 perhaps not effect her escape after all. For where 
 was she to go to, and how was she to get food and 
 a place to sleep in ? And if the police found her 
 wandering about, they would be certain to take her 
 back to Mrs. Limber, as they had done before. 
 
 She was not quite six, and little for her age, but 
 she was shrewd beyond her years. The wandering 
 life she had led almost since she could remember 
 had quickened all her faculties, and made her old 
 in speech and thought. 
 
 She decided, after a while, to stay where she was, 
 and risk the consequences.
 
 30 DIGK'S FAIRY. 
 
 Soon after dark Luther came in without a word, 
 and set to work at once to get the supper ready. 
 Poor little Fairy was in an agony of fear, and 
 eagerly scanned his face, if by that means she could 
 learn the result of his quest. But Luther's rugged 
 face was not easy to read, and with a sigh that was 
 almost a sob she coiled herself up in the corner of 
 the sofa and waited till he should speak. She 
 longed to break the silence herself, yet did not dare. 
 This strange man was an object of fear to her yet. 
 
 " You must be hunger'd, little gal," he said to her 
 when the meal was ready. 
 
 " No, not very much," was the timid answer, and 
 then the meal proceeded in silence. 
 
 After supper he betook himself to his easy chair, 
 and lighted his pipe, and Fairy watched him from 
 the corner of the sofa without a word. 
 
 " I ain't found out nothing yet," he said at length. 
 " So yer safe for another night, little gal." 
 
 Fairy did not speak. Her little heart was too 
 full just then, but she slipped off the sofa and came 
 and stood beside his chair, and began, in a timid 
 fearful way, to smooth his hard wrinkled hand with 
 her little white palm. 
 
 He did not notice her for awhile, but went on 
 smoking as usual. At length he looked up at her 
 with a start. He had felt a hot scalding tear fall
 
 LOST, STOLEN, OB STRAYED. 31 
 
 upon his hand, and it seemed to touch him to the 
 quick. 
 
 " Don't cry, little gal," he said huskily. " I won't 
 harm yer, if I knows it. I 'd rather do ye good." 
 
 She began to cry in earnest now. Hiding her 
 face in his shoulder, she sobbed as though her heart 
 were breaking. All the day's pent-up dread and 
 anxiety and grief found vent now in easeful tears, 
 and the more he tried to soothe her the more she 
 sobbed. 
 
 Luther got quite distressed at length. He knew 
 nothing about children or their ways, and he was 
 utterly at a loss to account for such violent 
 v/eeping. 
 
 " Are you so very miserable. Fairy ? " he said, 
 smoothing her bright silken hair with his horny 
 hand. 
 
 " Oh, no," she said between her sobs ; " but I 've 
 been so lonely all the day, an' I can't help it now 
 you 've come." 
 
 " And ye 're glad I 'm comed home, are ye ? " he 
 said. 
 
 "Ch, yes, very glad, now I know you are not 
 going to take me back to Mrs. Limber." 
 , " Not to-night, that is," he answered, taking her 
 up in his arms. 
 
 And now Fairy's last fear vanished. She felt
 
 32 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 somehow that Luther was her friend now, and was 
 afraid of him no longer. 
 
 " I 'm not 'fraid of yer a bit now, Mr. Luther," she 
 said at length, nestling closer to him. 
 
 " No ? " he said, in a questioning tone. And then 
 silence fell between them. 
 
 Into Luther's dim c}'es there came a far-away 
 look, as though the old man's thoughts were back 
 in the distant years — in the green and sunny paths 
 of youth. He forgot his pipe in his dreams of what 
 might have been. This fair young head nestled 
 against his breast had awakened longings that never 
 could be realized now. How lonely his life had 
 been ! How empty of all the things that make life 
 sweet ! If— if— oh, that " If" ! And yet he could 
 but think if little children had grown around his 
 knee, and s/ie of other years — but who was sleeping 
 in the green grave now — had shared his lot, he had 
 been a better man to-day, and might not have lost 
 his faith in man and God as now was the case. 
 
 Oh, blessed children ! Tiresome as ye are some- 
 times, yet surely are ye ministers of God to weary 
 men. How dark would home be without the patter 
 of your little feet ! And how lonely life, without 
 your noisy laughter and happy songs ! 
 
 When Luther got back from his dreams he found 
 that his pipe was out, and Fairy was fast asleep in
 
 LOST, STOLEN, OR STRAYED. 33 
 
 his arms ; so he laid her gently on the sofa, and 
 tucked her in warm for the night, and then betook 
 himself to rest. But he did not sleep for many an 
 hour. Emotions had been stirred that night that 
 had lain dormant for many years. Memories of the 
 past had been awakened, and would not be lulled 
 to sleep again. One sentence kept ringing in his 
 ears all the while, — 
 
 "And a little child shall lead them." 
 Where had he seen these words ? What did they 
 mean .-• What reference could they have to himself? 
 Had he gone astray, and was this little child sent 
 to lead him right ? 
 
 Bah ! He remembered where the words were to 
 be found now. He had read them in the Bible — a 
 book he had long since discarded as an idle tale. 
 They had some connection with lions and bears. 
 But what was that to him ? He didn't believe in 
 the Bible — so he said : did not believe in God or 
 devil, hell or heaven : had no faith in men or angels. 
 And yet, for all that, the words haunted him, and 
 they brought to his memory other words from the 
 same old Book. Then an old question came back 
 to him that he thought he had settled thirty years 
 before: "Was there a Providence after all?" Had 
 this child come to him by mere chance? Was it 
 simply an event in the chapter of accidents ? Or 
 
 3
 
 34 DIGK'B FAIRY. 
 
 was there some arrangement in the plan of the 
 child's life and of his? 
 
 He was vexed with himself for allowing such 
 a question to trouble him. He called himself "a 
 Freethinker," but that did not mean that he was 
 free to think or believe anything. Oh, no 1 A Free- 
 thinker is only allowed to think along the Free- 
 thinker's lines, and believe the Freethinker's creed. 
 If a Freethinker — so called — should happen to 
 think that there may be a Providence, or to believe 
 in an Omnipotent God, he may as well change his 
 sect and his title first as last. 
 
 Luther was astonished at himself that he should 
 actually be found debating a question that his fra- 
 ternity had relegated to the limbo of exploded 
 superstitions. Certainly he was not so settled in 
 his belief as he had imagined. 
 
 He fell asleep, however, at length, and with the 
 first glimmer of dawn he was off again, locking the 
 door behind him. He had told Fairy that he would 
 be back as soon as possible, and with that she was 
 fain to be content. She heard some one try the 
 door a little later, and, guessing it was Dick, called 
 out for him to come round to the back ; but he did 
 not hear her, and so went away troubled, as we 
 have seen. 
 
 Soon after noon Luther came back flushed and 
 excited.
 
 LOST, STOLEN, OR STRAYED. 35 
 
 " I shall have to give yer up, little gal, I fear," he 
 said. 
 
 " Give me up ? " she asked, in a questioning tone. 
 " What do yer mean, Mr. Luther ? " 
 
 "I mean I shall have to hand ye over to Mrs. 
 Limber," he said. 
 
 "Oh, no, no, Mr. Luther ! " she said. "Ye '11 never 
 do that, will ye ? Oh, say ye '11 never do that ! Oh, 
 Mr. Luther, she 'd kill me if she got me back again !" 
 And the child crouched at his feet in an agony of 
 terror. 
 
 " Well, listen to this," said Luther, and he pulled 
 a handbill out of his pocket and began to. read : — 
 
 . '* * Lost, stolen, or strayed, a little girl of about six 
 years of age, called Fairy, small for her years, and 
 exceedingly intelligent. When last seen was dressed 
 in a inixticre of calico and tulle, set off by pink ribbon. 
 Had on pink and white stockings, and white kid boots. 
 Any one giving such information at the Police Sta- 
 tion, Cross Street, as shall lead to her recovery shall 
 be Jiandsomely rewarded by her distracted parents' 
 
 " It 's those last words as settles the matter," said 
 Luther, after a pause. " Distracted parents ! If 
 they 're yer parents, ye '11 have to go back." 
 
 3—3
 
 36 
 
 DICK'B FAIRY. 
 
 " But they 're not my parents," said Fairy indig- 
 nantly ; " an' I '11 never go back ! " 
 
 "You can't prove it, my child," said Luther kindly, 
 "nor I either; that's where the pinch comes in." 
 
 " But I '11 run away from here," said Fairy. 
 
 "And the police 'ud pick ye up in five minutes," 
 said Luther. "No, my child, there's no help for it, 
 as I can see. Ye '11 have to go back." 
 
 Poor little Fairy felt that these words were true, 
 and buried her face in the sofa in an agony of grief.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LUTHER AS A PRIVATE DETECTIVE. 
 
 T 's very strange," thought Luther, as 
 he sat on the sofa by the sobbing 
 child, stroking her glossy hair, " very 
 strange how this little gal 's got hold 
 of my heart. She 's like a bit of 
 sunshine in this old house, an' it 
 sadly goes agin the grain to send her 
 back to that woman to be kicked an' abused. I 
 shall be always thinkin' about her, ay, an' pitying 
 her too, I wish something could be done for the 
 little lass to save her from sich a life. 
 
 " Come, come, little gal," he said at length, " don't 
 cry any more. I '11 not send ye back to-night I '11 
 take a bit more time to think it over, any way." 
 
 " Oh, you good Mr. Luther ! " said the child im- 
 pulsively; and before the old man was aware the 
 little arms were around his neck, and the child's 
 soft face pressed close to his. 
 
 37
 
 38 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 Later in the day Dick came in, bringing his 
 model church, and Luther left the two to play to- 
 gether, while he smoked in silence by the fireside. 
 Dick was delighted beyond bounds at finding Fairy 
 still with the old man. 
 
 " Is he goin' to send yer away ? " Dick whispered 
 to her at length. 
 
 " I 's 'fraid so," she answered, her eyes filling. 
 *' But he ain't sure. He 's goin' to think 'bout it till 
 
 mornin'." 
 
 "Oh, then don't trouble," said Dick encouragingly. 
 *' He 's mighty knowin', an' if there 's a hole out o' 
 the bizness anywheres, he 's sartin to find it." 
 
 Fairy was delighted with Dick's church, but Luther 
 did not condescend to notice it. He was too busy 
 with his own thoughts — too anxious about Fairy. 
 
 Luther scarcely slept a wink that night, but 
 before morning he had formed a daring resolution, 
 and directly after breakfast set off to execute it. 
 
 Fairy hardly recognized Luther in his Sunday 
 best clothes, his hands encased in brown kid gloves, 
 and a respectable wideawake hat upon his head. 
 
 "Why, Mr. Luther," she said, with her usual 
 frankness, " you look like a gentleman." 
 
 " Keep dark, little gal, till I come back," he said, 
 and he went out, locking the door behind him. At 
 the police station he found out Mrs. Limber's where-
 
 ^^^/^ 
 
 " I m a private detective." — p. ^9
 
 LUTHER AS A PRIVATE DETECTIVE. 39 
 
 abouts, and then made straight for the "fair-ground." 
 There were not many caravans about, so he easily 
 discovered which belonged to the Limbers. Mrs. 
 Limber was washing the steps when he came up. 
 She was a coarse hard-featured woman of some 
 five-and-forty years of age. 
 
 " You are Mrs. Limber, I presume ? " said Luther, 
 speaking as pompously as possible, and using his 
 very best English. 
 
 " Yah, I be," she answered. "An' who are yow ? " 
 
 "Do not talk so loud, my good woman," said 
 Luther. "I'm come about the little gal you 've lost." 
 
 "An' what 'ave yow to do wi' her?" she snarled. 
 
 " Well," he said, " if you must know, I 'm a private 
 detective." Our readers will think he was a very 
 private one. 
 
 "Oh, indeed," said the woman, rather taken aback, 
 and dropping her voice to a whisper. " I thowt 
 detectives were allers younger men." 
 
 " There you are mistaken," he said. "Age brings 
 experience, and experience makes fools wise. But 
 now about the gal, for men of our class have no 
 time to waste. You say her name is Fairy. Fairy 
 what ? " 
 
 " Dunno," said Mrs. Limber, taken off her guard. 
 " There, there, what a fool I be ! Fairy Limber, in 
 course."
 
 40 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 " Come, come, Mrs. Limber, this won't do. We 
 may as well fling up the case if we can't get truth- 
 ful answers. What 's the child's surname ? " 
 
 " Limber," snarled the woman. 
 
 " Woman," said Luther sternly, " do you take us 
 detectives to be fools ? You have no children, you 
 know — never had — so what 's the use o' lying ? " 
 
 " How'd you get to know that?" 
 
 " How ? " said Luther scornfully. " We get to 
 know everything. You wonder, I suppose, how I 
 got to know you stole the child ? " 
 
 This was a random shot of Luther's, but it took 
 immensely. The woman turned deadly pale, and 
 seemed for a moment ready to fall. 
 
 " Now, look here," said Luther, following up his 
 advantage. " I 'm not so young as I once were, and 
 don't feel so disposed to be hard on folks as I used 
 to do. We 've found the child, and got her safe in 
 a private asylum. But we 've found out also she 's 
 not your child, you 're no relation of hers — have no 
 claim to her. In a court of law it 'ud go hard with 
 you. However, we feel disposed to deal easy with 
 you. We give you three hours' grace. If you 're 
 not cleared out by then you '11 have to take the 
 consequences. That 's all I 've got to say, Mrs. 
 Limber. Good mornin'." 
 
 Mrs. Limber by this time was completely cowed.
 
 LUTHER AS A PRIVATE DETECTIVE. 41 
 
 Luther had played his part splendidly. From a 
 little distance — keeping well out of sight — he 
 watched the effect of his words, and had the satis- 
 faction of seeing — in less than an hour — the van, 
 tents, and all the show trappings on the move. 
 
 " Blest if that ain't a caution," he chuckled to 
 himself, as he turned his face homewards. "An' 
 won't the little gal be set up, that 's all .'* " 
 
 At length he stopped short in the street. " Hang 
 me if I know what I 'm to do wi' her now I Ve got 
 her," he said to himself. " New clothes '11 have to 
 be got for her, an' a bed, an' what else goodness 
 knows — I don't." 
 
 He soon found out, however, what was wanted, 
 and from that day he seemed a changed man. He 
 never forgot the hugging he received when he got 
 home, nor the happy, thankful tears little Fairy shed. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Luther, I do love yer ! " she said, kiss- 
 ing him again and again ; and that evening, as he 
 sat in his easy chair with Fairy on his knee, there 
 came back to him long-forgotten words, that haunted 
 him all through the evening, and weaved themselves 
 into his dreams when he slept : " Inasmuch as ye 
 have done it unto one of the least of these my little 
 ones, ye have done it unto me." 
 
 Strange, how this little waif that he had befriended 
 brought back to him memories of the past, and
 
 42 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 stirred his heart with emotions deep and strange. 
 Strange, how words that best expressed his thoughts 
 and feehngs were to be found in that discarded 
 book the Bible. Strange, too, that her presence 
 continually made him think of things that did not 
 belong to the physical realm, but were in their very 
 nature spiritual, and because spiritual, perhaps 
 eternal. 
 
 Luther thought it best that his neighbours should 
 not know of Fairy's presence for another week, and 
 in the meanwhile it got bruited abroad amongst 
 them that " Owd Luther Cob were goin* to have 
 some relation's orphan gal to live wi' 'im." So that 
 when Fairy at length made her appearance in 
 Luther's shop her presence occasioned no surprise. 
 
 " I tell yer she 's an amazin' 'andy little critter," 
 said Luther one day, in reply to some remark 
 about her being a great trouble, " and ain't a bit o' 
 trouble. She looks arter the house like a little 
 woman, and dusts and shines the things so, till I 
 don't know 'em sca'ce." 
 
 Luther seemed to grow almost young again under 
 Fairy's influence. Life to him had a new meaning, 
 ay, and a new responsibility. He had something 
 to live for now. His day's toil grew light with 
 Fairy prattling around him, and his evening's leisure 
 was infinitely sweeter, because she was nigh. The
 
 LUTHER AS A PRIVATE DETECTIVE. 43 
 
 better part of his nature had never sprung into Hfe, 
 nor blossomed into beauty, for lack of sunshine. 
 But now the sunshine had come, and that soul of 
 gentleness and kindness that had lain dormant so 
 long began to awake into life, and out of the hard 
 crust of his former life a new man was coming 
 forth. 
 
 " I thinks it were God as brought me here, don't 
 you, Mr. Luther .'' " Fairy said to him one evening 
 when they were sitting alone. 
 
 Luther almost started from his seat. It was the 
 very question that he at that moment was debating, 
 almost unconsciously, with himself. 
 
 " What put that into your head, Fairy ? " Luther 
 said at length. 
 
 " I were thinkin' o' Mr. Limber," she said. " He 
 used to say sometimes as 'ow the Great God 'ud 
 make things right for us if we were good." 
 
 Luther made no reply to this. He had no reply 
 to make. He felt it would be cruel to shake the 
 child's faith with his own doubts. He did not know 
 then that his doubts were not so strong as her faith, 
 but he found it out afterwards. 
 
 " I wish I were twenty year younger," Luther said 
 to himself one evening, while smoking leisurely in 
 his easy chair. " I seem to have a bit o' interest in 
 life now, an' summat to live for."
 
 44 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 Suddenly he started up, as though some one had 
 spoken to him. 
 
 " He that findeth his life shall lose it, and he that 
 loseth his life for my sake shall find it." 
 
 " Were that you speakin,' Fairy ? " he asked. 
 
 " No," she answered. 
 
 " Nor you, Dick .? " 
 
 " No, we were neither on us speaking. We 're too 
 busy over th' new church," Dick replied. 
 
 " Queer ! " said Luther to himself, sitting down 
 again. " Mighty queer how these things do flash 
 through one's brain, like. Seems to be a great deal 
 of truth in that Book too, if one had only eyes to 
 see it. Here I Ve been findin' my life all my life, 
 an' missin' it all th' while ; an' now, d'rectly I begins 
 to lose my life as it were for this little gal, I begins 
 to find it. I '11 have a crack at that Book again some 
 o' these days, for I were but a young man when I 
 flinged it up ; an' there seems a good bit o' what 
 our chaps calls philosophy in it, after all." 
 
 Luther's reflections were interrupted at this point 
 by a question from Fairy. 
 
 " Uncle Luther," she said, "what is churches for .-' " 
 
 "For parsons to preach in, an' folks to sit an' 
 listen," he answered. 
 
 " What 's to preach ? " she asked. 
 
 " Oh, talk to folks."
 
 LUTHER AS A PRIVATE DETECTIVE. 45 
 
 ♦' What do they talk to 'em about ? " 
 
 " Oh, lots o' things." 
 
 " But what thhigs ? " Fairy persisted. 
 
 " Why, 'bout Jesus Christ, an' God, an' their sins, 
 and heaven, an' them things." 
 
 " Oh," said Fairy reflectively, while Luther was 
 started on a new train of thought, which he pursued 
 far on into the night. 
 
 And so unconsciously the child was leading the 
 man into new paths, and unconsciously he was 
 following.
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 GATHERING CLOUDS. 
 
 RCHITECTURALLY speaking, 
 Dick's first eftbrt at church-building 
 was a failure. When Luther at 
 length condescended to notice it, 
 he laughed immoderately. 
 " What yer call it ? " he said. 
 "Why, a church, to be sure," 
 said Dick, ruefully. 
 
 " Then you 'd better write on a label, * This is a 
 Chitrchl an' stick it on to the bottom," said Luther, 
 *' or nobody '11 never know." 
 
 " It ain't so bad 's that, I 'm sartin," said Dick, 
 with tears in his eyes. 
 
 " But what 's it for ? " said Luther, without a 
 touch of pity. 
 
 " For folks to buy, to be sure," said Dick. 
 " Buy?" said Luther. " Why, folks no more wants 
 a thing like that than a toad wants side-pockets 1 
 
 46
 
 GATHERING CLOUDS. 47 
 
 Why, boy, it 's neither wittles nor drink, ornament 
 nor use ; so what 's the good on it ? " 
 
 But here Fairy came to the rescue. " It 's too bad 
 to larf at Dick so, when he 's tried so hard, " she 
 said. " An I 'm sure it 's very nice." 
 
 Luther relented after that. " Well, well, boy," he 
 said, " as a ornament it ain't no account, that 's 
 sartin ; but p'r'aps it might be made useful, after 
 all." 
 
 " Which way .-' " said Dick, brightening up. 
 
 " Well, come again to-morrow evenin', an' I '11 get 
 some catgut by then, and we '11 see if we can't make 
 a weather-glass on it." 
 
 "A weather-glass !" said Dick, in surprise : "which 
 way?" While Fairy looked as curious as Dick, 
 though she said nothing. 
 
 "Well," said Luther, "some sorts o' catgut shrinks 
 up or swells out accordin' as the weather 's wet or 
 dry, don't ye see ? An' so we can fix it so as a 
 sodger can come up on top o' th' tower when it's 
 wet, an' a gal come out o' th' church door when it 's 
 dry. That '11 be a new kind o' dodge, an' '11 take 
 amazin' with country folks, I 'm thinkin', and old 
 Billy Beel as goes round buying rags 'II be able to 
 sell any amount." 
 
 This prediction of Luther's proved to be correct. 
 
 Billy Beel parted with Dick's first church and
 
 48 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 weather-glass combined for eighteen pence in hard 
 cash and a shillingsworth of rags and bones ; and 
 so much was it admired in the village, that Billy got 
 orders for a dozen more, and during the next fort- 
 night there was a general hunt for rags, in order to 
 pay for the novel toy when Billy should come round 
 again. 
 
 When Dick received two silver shillings from 
 Billy, and an order for " twelve church weather- 
 glasses at two bob apiece," he felt that all the bright 
 and beautiful dreams of his life had come true at 
 last. 
 
 " Oh, mother ! " he cried, flinging open the door, 
 and nearly frightening the poor woman out of her 
 wits, " I 'm a gent at last ! I 've made my fortin, as 
 I told yer I should ! Hurrah ! I 'm fit to bust ! " 
 And Dick described a cart-wheel revolution round 
 the little apartment to save himself from such a 
 disaster ; while old Mrs. Podger, who lived in the 
 room above, hurried downstairs to learn the cause 
 of such commotion. " Look here, Mrs. Podger," 
 said Dick, flinging up the two shillings and catching 
 them in his hands ; " talk about riches ! An' this 
 are only the beginnin'. There's twenty- four more 
 on 'em to come. Hurrah ! hurrah ! I '11 bust right 
 up unless I shout ! " 
 
 Dick's mother smiled feebly at the lad's enthu-
 
 GATHERING CLOUDS. 49 
 
 siasm. She was too weary, too weak, too near the 
 bound of time to take much interest in anything. 
 She kissed him affectionately when he had cooled 
 down a little, and called him a good lad ; then she 
 went on with her work. Perhaps she knew she 
 could not do very much more, and so was eager to 
 get done. She was employed by a large wholesale 
 outfitting establishment in making articles at so 
 much per dozen, and find her own needles and 
 thread. They were cruel, zuicked terms. People 
 who are so eager to purchase cheap ready-made 
 articles of apparel do not always know where they 
 are made, or how. Perhaps it would be well some- 
 times if they did. 
 
 " I cannot bear the smell of the glue — it makes 
 me sick," Dick's mother said to him the following, 
 day; and Dick had to give up his work, and go in 
 search of Luther for advice. 
 
 " Oh, ye needn't trouble on that score," said the 
 old man, kindly. "My shop 's big enough for both, 
 and will serve for show-room as well. So bring your 
 traps here, my lad, an' work '11 be all t' sweeter for 
 company." 
 
 So Dick gave up going into the streets to earn 
 his bread — gave up sweeping doorsteps, carrying 
 bundles, and selling newspapers — and settled down 
 as toy-maker in right good earnest, feeling that 
 
 4
 
 50 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 he had now found the proper business of his hfe. 
 Nobody had ever dreamed that Dick was the 
 genius that he afterwards proved himself to be. 
 He was ahvays clever with his pocket-knife in carv- 
 ing little things, but no one thought anything of 
 that. But now that the opportunity was given, and 
 his genius had room in which to develop itself, the 
 latent powers of the lad sprang into life as it were, 
 and people wondered at the variety of toys which 
 he planned and manufactured. 
 
 It was well that he was now able to earn a re- 
 spectable sum week by week, for his mother fell ill 
 directly after, or, more correctly, she became so 
 much worse that she could work no longer, and so 
 Dick had to maintain both himself and her. 
 
 In those dark days of sickness and anxiety, old 
 Mrs. Podger, who occupied the second floor, proved 
 herself to be a real friend. She waited upon the 
 sick woman with unremitting care and attention, 
 asking for no pay or thanks — glad only, it seemed, 
 that she was allowed to render help. 
 
 But behind this there was a secret reason, which 
 we must hasten to explain. Years before, when she 
 used to go out with a little basket of tapes and pins 
 — a respectable method of begging — she found she 
 could ahvays do best if she had a child in her arms. 
 A child's sunny smile or tearful eyes would often
 
 GATHERING CLOUDS. 51 
 
 win a penny or a crust, where, otherwise, the door 
 would be slammed in her face. 
 
 Now in those days Mrs. Dugdale had a little girl 
 — born about a month after her husband's death — 
 and it was a relief to her sometimes to let Mrs. 
 Podger take the child for a day, for she knew the 
 woman had a kind heart, and would exercise the 
 greatest care. 
 
 When little Florence — or Florrle as they called 
 her — was about fifteen months old, poor Mrs. Dug- 
 dale was smitten down with rheumatic fever, and in 
 those days she felt truly thankful to Mrs. Podger 
 for taking charge of the child day after day. 
 
 One day. however, she returned without the child. 
 She was in a state of the wildest grief imaginable. 
 Her story was that she went into a public house to 
 have a pint of beer ; that she set the child down on 
 a chair while she found her purse and drank the 
 beer. There were many people before the counter 
 — she said — and she stood talking for a few minutes 
 — she could not say how many — with her back to- 
 wards the child. When, however, she turned round, 
 the child was gone. No one had seen the child run 
 away; no one had seen any person take her; hence, 
 what had become of her was a mystery. The streets 
 were searched in all directions, inquiries were insti- 
 tuted far and wide, but all without avail. Poor Mrs. 
 
 4 — 2
 
 52 BIGK'^ FAIRY. 
 
 Dugdale was heartbroken, and Mrs. Podger nearly 
 went off her head. 
 
 About a fornight later the body of a child was 
 found in the canal, but almost unrecognizable. Poor 
 Mrs. Dugdale was still unable to leave her bed, so 
 Mrs. Podger went to view the body. 
 
 " It 's little Florrie, sure enough," she said, on her 
 return. "The hair's hers; I could swear to the 
 hair. I never seen a child 'ave hair like it but 
 Florrie, and I 've cut off a lock an' brought it for 
 you to see. Tender little darlin', I wish it wur me 
 as was drownded instead." And the woman sat down 
 and burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 Mrs. Dugdale looked at the lock of hair lon^ and 
 earnestly, and then she too began to cry. 
 
 " Oh, my darlin,' my darhn' ! " she wailed. And 
 poor Mrs. Podger had no word of comfort to give. 
 But ever after that she felt she could never do 
 enough for the woman who— through her— had been 
 so terribly stricken. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 As the days passed on, Mrs. Dugdale got worse 
 instead of better, and when at length the parish 
 doctor came, he gave no hope. Poor woman ! she 
 had worked herself to death to save her life.
 
 GATHERING GLOOM. 53 
 
 Dick had seen his mother ill so many times that 
 he never thought of her dying. He knew that she 
 was worn out with hard work, and thought that a 
 week or two of rest in bed would set her up again ; 
 and in his heart he resolved that she should never 
 work so hard again as she had been in the habit of 
 doing. 
 
 " I can 'arn enough for both on us now," he said 
 to himself, somewhat proudly ; " an' mother shall 
 take it easy for the rest o' her life." 
 
 Now and then Fairy went in to see Mrs. Dugdale, 
 but not very often, for the poor woman was unable 
 to bear the least excitement. She took a wonderful 
 fancy to Fairy, however, and stroked the child's 
 silken hair with her wasted hand, in a manner that 
 was quite pathetic in its tenderness. Perhaps she 
 thought of her own little child, that had been so 
 cruelly taken from her, and who would have been 
 about Fairy's age had she lived. 
 
 So the dark days of that dreary winter passed on, 
 and Mrs. Dugdale got gradually worse. Dick worked 
 early and late to get little delicacies to tempt her 
 appetite, and wondered how it was that, having 
 rested so long, she was not completely rested and 
 able to get about again. 
 
 She knew herself she would never get better, and 
 one Saturday evening — feeling, perhaps, that the
 
 54 BIGirS FAIRY. 
 
 end was drawing nigh — she called Dick to her bed- 
 side, and, kissing him tenderly, said to him, — 
 " I shall soon be gone from you now, my child." 
 For a moment he looked at her in utter bewilder- 
 ment, then all the truth burst upon him, and hiding 
 his face in the bedclothes, he began to cry. 
 
 " No, no, my boy, do not cry," she said. " It is 
 best as it is. But I have something I want to say 
 to you to-night, something that has been upon my 
 mind all the day, an' has been growin' there for 
 days. Now dry your eyes, my child, an' listen."
 
 CHAPTER VII, 
 
 " MISSING." 
 
 THINK it must ha' been little Fairy 
 Cob/' she said — speaking in a low 
 tone of voice — " that's made me 
 think so much about it. She's a 
 purty little creature. I never took 
 so to a strange child before ; but all 
 my heart goes out to that little 
 gal, somehow. P'r'aps it 's because little Florrie 'ud 
 ha' been just like her if she 'ad lived." And the 
 poor woman sighed, and was silent for a moment or 
 two. Then she went on again, — 
 
 " P'r'aps it 's very foolish on me to think any- 
 thing 'bout it, but yer mind, Dick, I was ill with the 
 rheumatiz, an' couldn't go mysel'. Mrs. Podger 
 brought back a lock o' her hair, an' she seemed 
 quite sartin as 't was little Florrie's body. I dare- 
 say it were, but there was nothin' but the hair to 
 swear by ; 'an she might ha' been mistaken. If she 
 could only ha' seen the marks "
 
 56 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 " What marks ? " said Dick quickly. 
 
 "That's just what I were a-goin' to tell yen 
 So that if ye ever hear anything, or see anything in 
 the papers 'bout a little gal bein' found wi' those 
 marks But there, there, it 's very foolish, I dare- 
 say." 
 
 " But you ain't told me what marks," persisted 
 Dick. 
 
 " Oh, well," sighed the poor woman, " little Florrie 
 had a mark on her left arm, just below the shoulder, 
 for all the world like a bunch of purple grapes, an' 
 on her left foot was a mark made by a burn. Poor 
 little gal ! she had a bad foot, too ! But when 
 it healed, it left a mark just like a button — a flat, 
 double-eyed button. Poor little gal ! I never could 
 make out 'ow she got into the canal." 
 
 "It were mighty queer," said Dick ; " but it ain't 
 no use frettin' 'bout it now, mother She 's better 
 off, likely." 
 
 "Oh, yes! she's better off. She's gone to the 
 good place, an' p'raps I '11 see her again. I ain't 
 been able to go to church nor chapel for many 
 years ; but I think, for all that, the good Lord '11 let 
 me in." 
 
 Dick made no reply to this. He had no reply to 
 make. 
 
 "Ye 've always been a good boy, Dick," she went
 
 ''MISSING J' 57 
 
 on at length, her eyes growing moist while she 
 spoke — " always a good boy. I hope ye 'II never 
 grow bad " 
 
 But here a fit of coughing came on, and she was 
 able to say no more for several minutes. 
 
 " I 'd like to see Fairy in the mornin', Dick," she 
 gasped at length. And then the cough came on 
 again. 
 
 "Ye man talk no more to-night," said Mrs. Pod- 
 ger, coming into the room. " An' it 's time, Dick, 
 thee were in thy bed." 
 
 An hour later all three were fast asleep, and the 
 silence was unbroken save for the ticking of the old 
 Dutch clock. And then there came into the room 
 a messenger whom no one saw or heard ; but he 
 touched the heart of the sleeping woman, and it grew 
 gently still. There was no struggle — scarcely a* 
 sigh. The wheels of life had been revolving slowly 
 for many a day, and still the pace slackened as the 
 hours went on, until, without a wrench or jar, they 
 quietly stopped. She sleeping — died — nor heard 
 the summons, nor felt the chill. She lay her down 
 and slept, and awoke to other scenes and to a better 
 life. 
 
 It was pitiful to see Dick's grief in the morning, 
 when she would not heed his call. He could not, 
 would not, believe that she was dead. He tried at
 
 58 DIGK'S FAIRY. 
 
 length to open her death-sealed eyes ; then started 
 back in affright, and rushed out of the house to call 
 Luther. For a week he seemed almost demented. 
 After the funeral Luther offered to share with him 
 his bed-room, but he would not hear of it : while he 
 could afford to keep the little room he would keep 
 it — so he told the old man. 
 
 Mrs. Podger was glad for him to stay, and pro- 
 mised to take his mother's place all she could, and 
 in this the old woman made good her promise. As 
 the spring advanced Dick recovered his usual cheer- 
 fulness, and worked at his toys with a will. He 
 never had very much money to spare, as he was 
 always wanting new tools, and some of these were 
 very expensive. Still he was paving the way — if 
 slowly, yet surely— to future success. Luther was 
 a constant help to him. Dick had the genius and 
 Luther the experience, and so between them they 
 managed well, while little Fairy supplied inspiration 
 to both. * 
 
 The long evenings they spent together were not 
 only times of pleasure but of profit to all. Luther 
 found them books and taught them to read, while 
 they in turn plied him with questions that set him 
 on trains of thought that proved a blessing to him 
 in many ways. 
 
 The long-discarded Bible became a text-book in
 
 ''MISSING." 59 
 
 time, and Luther became a student of that Book of 
 books, and found in it food for his hungry spirit 
 and healing for his wounded heart. Not that he 
 admitted this, even to himself. " He was still a 
 ' freethinker,' " he said, " and read the Book to 
 please the children ;" and with this little fiction he 
 was fain to be content. In truth he was afraid to 
 inquire too closely into the matter, lest he should 
 discover that his once much-boasted scepticism had 
 taken flight. Indeed, he had a strong suspicion 
 that this was so, and hence preferred to let things 
 drift. He was very happy ; at least, he was hap- 
 pier than he had been for forty years. Fairy was 
 a constant source of interest and joy to him. It 
 was a joy to anticipate her wants, a joy to plan 
 some little surprise, a joy to answer her many 
 questions. 
 
 So the days sped on on feet of down, and spring 
 began to bloom into glorious summer. The evenings 
 were now given to rambling in the parks and ex- 
 cursions into the country. Sometimes Luther ac- 
 companied Dick and Fairy ; sometimes they went 
 alone. It all depended on the distance. 
 
 These were the proudest hours of Dick's life, when , 
 he felt that he was Fairy's champion, and that it 
 was his especial business to see that no harm befell 
 her. Some of Dick's old companions got small
 
 60 DICKS FAIRY. 
 
 courtesy when they tried to obtrude themselves upon 
 his — and Fairy's — attention. 
 
 Once a big lad tried to pull Fairy's hair. His 
 object was to tease Dick, and he quickly discovered 
 that this was the easiest way of accomplishing his 
 purpose. 
 
 "Now look 'ere," said Dick, "ye '11 be gittin' me 
 riled d'rectly. So ye 'd better hook it." 
 
 " I shall hook it when I like," was the answer ; 
 for Dick had never been a fighting lad, and so his 
 threats were very little feared. 
 
 "Then don't pull Fairy's hair again," Dick an- 
 swered, " or I '11 knock yer inter the middle o' next 
 week." 
 
 " Oh, yer will, will yer ? " said the lad, squaring 
 up. " Two ken play at that game. So ye 'd better 
 try it on." 
 
 " Pull Fairy's hair again, an' ye '11 see if I don't 
 try it on, an' feel it too." 
 
 " Ye thinks I 's afeard, I s'pose .-• " said the lad, 
 running up to Fairy, and giving her hair a vigorous 
 tug. The next moment he saw more stars than 
 Newton ever discovered. For Dick had pounced 
 I upon him with all the suddenness of a panther, and 
 dealt him a blow between the eyes that fairly stunned 
 him. He soon recovered himself, however, and 
 returned the compliment, and then ensued a stand-
 
 ''MISSING." 61 
 
 up fight, much to the dehght of a dozen or twenty 
 lads that were soon on the scene. 
 
 The contest was short, sharp, and decisive, and 
 Dick came off with flying colours in more senses 
 than one. The prevailing colour, however, was crim- 
 son, and both combatants returned to their homes 
 with banners flying and streamers gaily flaunting 
 in the wind. 
 
 Dick's attempts to get into his clothes next morn- 
 ing were perfectly ludicrous. " Bother my buttons 
 if I ain't got more pockets than pence ! " he so- 
 liloquized, as, sitting on the side of the bed, he 
 patiently endeavoured to find a way into his un- 
 mentionables, and only succeeded with every attempt 
 in finding a way out of them. 
 
 Dick, however, was not much troubled at a few 
 rags. It was what he had been used to ever since 
 he could remember, and plenty of ventilation during 
 summer-time, according to his idea, was rather a 
 matter of thankfulness than of regret. 
 
 Dick's fight was not without its good results. 
 Up to that time he had occasionally been called a 
 coward, but he never was after. Nor did any lad at- 
 tempt to molest Fairy again when Dick was about. 
 "He's a reg'lar bruiser when 'is blood's up," said 
 the lads to each other, and so prudently avoided 
 giving him offence.
 
 62 mCK'S FAIRY. 
 
 On Sundays Fairy and Dick visited all the 
 churches and chapels within a mile of Tinker's 
 Row. In this matter they certainly were not bigots. 
 Their object, they informed Luther, " was to find 
 out the place where they 'ad the best singin', and 
 the chap as could talk the fastest, an' then to go 
 there reg'lar." 
 
 It was great amusement to Luther to hear them 
 discussing matters on their return. Sometimes it 
 was the singing that was discussed, sometimes it 
 was the sermon. Fairy, however, generally came 
 out best in the discussion, for Dick would rather 
 give up his opinion than give her pain. She was 
 all the world to him now, since his mother was 
 taken away. And no sacrifice he would consider 
 too great if Fairy might be made happy thereby. 
 
 So the pleasant peaceful days sped on. In 
 Luther's workshop there was laughter and singing 
 all day long, for neither dreamt of evil, or saw the 
 ominous cloud that was rising above the horizon 
 and threatening to overspread all their sky. 
 
 It was a calm peaceful evening, early in Sepiem- 
 bcr, that there came to Luther and Dick the first 
 thought of evil. Fairy had gone down into the city 
 on an errand for Luther, and had not returned. 
 
 "Fairy's been a long time, ain't she, Dick.'"' said 
 Luther, looking up from his work.
 
 "MISSING." 63 
 
 " She 's loiterin', lookin' at the winders, I spect," 
 said Dick, with no thought of evil or danger. 
 
 For another half- hour the work went on in 
 silence; then Luther threw down the shoe he had 
 been mending. 
 
 "I wish the little gal was home, anyhow," he said. 
 " I 'm gettin' quite fidgety 'bout her." 
 
 " I don't think there 's any cause," said Dick. 
 " She 's been out later nor this lots o' times." 
 
 "But she's been more'n two hours away," said 
 Luther ; " an' it 's quite dark." 
 
 " But she knows the way very well," said Dick, 
 who was not disposed, as a rule, to go to meet 
 trouble. 
 
 For another quarter of an hour there was silence. 
 Then Luther donned his hat and went forth to meet 
 her, while Dick, busy with his work, did not notice 
 how time fled. 
 
 Luther did not return for fully an hour, and then 
 he came alone. 
 
 "Ain't Fairy turned up?" was his first exclama- 
 tion. 
 
 " No, said Dick, getting up quickly from his 
 work. " Ain't ye found her ? " 
 
 But Luther was silent. He was too agitated to 
 speak. He had been to the shop where he had sent 
 her, and discovered that early in the evening she
 
 64 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 had called and got the errand he had sent her for, 
 and that she had then started at once for home. 
 
 " V/hat 's us to do ? " said Dick, at length, seeing 
 how agitated the old man was. 
 
 "Do, boy?" said Luther, in a hard unnatural 
 voice, " I dunno what we 's to do. I 'm fair boggled. 
 Maybe she 's got run over. Don't believe it, though, 
 blamed if I do ; she 's too nimble for that. I fear 
 she 's been kidnapped." 
 
 " Kidnapped ? " said Dick inquiringly. 
 
 "Ay, boy. Shewas a fortin to that woman Limber. 
 Think o' that." 
 
 Dick did think of it for awhile, and then shook 
 his head. 
 
 " No," he said ; " I don't think that woman 'ud 
 dare show up hereabouts. We 'd better wait a bit 
 longer. She may be turning up d'rectly." 
 
 So they waited in silence and in fear; waited until 
 the streets grew silent and the evening deepened 
 into night. Waited till they could wait no longer. 
 Then they started to their feet, and each asked the 
 other, " What shall we do > " 

 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A DISCOVERY. 
 
 O stay longer In the house was an 
 impossibility, so they went out into 
 the street, and stood for some time 
 before the open door, watching and 
 listening. The clocks all over the 
 city had just sounded the hour of 
 midnight, and Luther and Dick were 
 looking dumbly and hopelessly at each other when 
 they were startled by a footstep. For a moment 
 hope brightened their faces, then as quickly van- 
 ished. The footsteps were heavy and slow. 
 " It 's only a Bobby," said Dick ruefully. 
 Still the footsteps came nearer, till the heavy 
 form of a policeman loomed into sight. 
 
 " He may ha' heard something," said Luther. 
 *' Anyhow there can be no harm in axing him." 
 
 " Ay, there ken be no 'arm," said Dick, in a tone 
 that indicated that he thought there could neither 
 be any good.
 
 66 IJIOK'S FAIRY. 
 
 "If yer please," said Luther, advancing to meet the 
 policeman, " we 've lost a little gal, and we thought 
 maybe yc might ha' heard summat about 'er." 
 
 *' Lost a little gal ? " said the policeman, bright- 
 ening up instantly. " When did it 'appen ? where 
 did it 'appen ? and 'ow did it 'appen ? " And he 
 pulled out his note-book and pencil, and struck an 
 attitude. 
 
 " Ye ain't a-heard nothin' 'bout her, then ? " said 
 Luther, in a disappointed tone of voice. 
 
 " In course not," said the policeman. " How was 
 we goin' to 'ear anythink about 'er till we knowed 
 she were lost ? But if you '11 favour me with all 
 perticklers, we'll soon find out what's become o' her." 
 
 " P'r'aps ye 'd better come inside a bit, then," said 
 Luther, " for it 's a longish story, an' I 've got mj; 
 own notion what 's become o' her, though of course 
 I may be mistaken." 
 
 "Very good," said the policeman. "Any sus- 
 picion o' yours '11 'ave due consideration." And he 
 followed Luther into the house. 
 
 Here Luther, whether wisely or unwisely — he was 
 not certain himself which — told the policeman all 
 the story of Fairy from beginning to end. 
 
 " Humph," said the policeman, rubbing his chin 
 and looking wise, "the case is more complicated 
 than I at first supposed. Howsomever, you've hacted
 
 A DISCOVERY. 67 
 
 wise in bein' so circumstanshul. I think it not on- 
 likely that your view is the kerrect one, in which 
 case, supposin' the said Mrs. Limber, in the first 
 person a-hactin' on her own jurisdicshun, have wil- ; 
 fully and in her right mind, or by hagents hinstigated 
 by the said Mrs. Limber, have knowin'ly detained 
 or otherwise pervented, with or without vi'lence, and 
 against her will and hinterests, to coax, persuade, 
 or otherwise waylay in hopposition to all legal 
 jewsamprudence, and by virtue of hacts known, un- 
 known, or circumstanshul, have in the fust person 
 of the said Mrs. Limber unlawfully kidnapped, de- 
 tained, or caused to be hindered, detained, or kid- 
 napped, in the case of one of the Queen's sub- 
 jeks " 
 
 " Oh, lor ! " said Luther, at length, utterly aghast. 
 "What in the name o' thunder are 'e a-drivin' at? 
 for I 'm blamed if I can make head or tail on it ! " 
 
 " Excuse me," said the policeman, not in the least 
 abashed. "I forgot for a moment who I was a- 
 talkin' to. Havin' so much to do wi' the law, we get 
 into the way of usin' legal terms, you see. Well, as 
 I were a-goin' to say, you seem to 'ave no more 
 claim on the gal than Mrs. Limber, supposin' she 's 
 got hold o' her again." 
 
 " But I tell yer I 'ave," said Luther. 
 
 " How so ? " said the policeman. 
 
 5—2
 
 68 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 " Why, that Limber woman stole her, an' I didn't. 
 She kept the httle gal 'gainst her will, and I kept 
 her 'cause she wanted to stay. That makes all the 
 difference," said Luther triumphantly. 
 
 " Anyhow, we can test it," was the reply. " Mean- 
 while we may have to hadvertise a description o' her. 
 Will yer furnish me wi' perticklers ? " 
 
 "Hi, gladly," said Luther. And he gave a aetailed 
 account of her appearance and dress. 
 
 " There 's nothin' you wish to hadd to this, I 
 s'pose ? " said the policeman at length, reading over 
 the description. 
 
 "Well, I hardly know," said Luther, "I'm a- 
 debatin' in my mind about it." 
 
 " About what ? " asked the policeman. 
 
 " Well," said Luther, speaking slowly, " the little 
 gal had a couple o' marks on her." 
 
 At this, Dick, who had paid little heed to the 
 conversation up to this point, suddenly sprang to 
 his feet, and pressed eagerly forward to listen. 
 
 "On her left arm," went on Luther, "just below 
 the shoulder, was a dark patch, for all the world 
 like a bunch o' grapes, and on her left foot was a 
 mark the size o' a shilling, that might ha' been a 
 burn as had healed up." 
 
 " Oh, I know ! I know ! " said Dick, excitedly. 
 " It's her, safe enough. Mother told me all 'bout it
 
 A DISCOVERY. 69 
 
 the night she died. Goodness gracious ! what a fool 
 I 've been never to think of it afore ! " 
 
 "Think o'vvhat afore?" said the policeman. "What 
 does the boy mean ? " 
 
 " Blamed if 1 know," said Luther. " What is it, 
 Dick ? What is it yer drivin' at } Don't stand 
 blinkin' there like a 'witched owl in the moon- 
 light." 
 
 " It 's Florrie," said Dick — " our Florrie — her as 
 was drownded, or they thought as were. Don't you 
 mind, Luther, how Mrs. Podger took 'er out an' lost 
 her ? Mother told me the night as she were took 
 that she wern't sartin as how she were dead, an' she 
 told me 'bout the marks as she could be swear'd to 
 by." 
 
 "What does all this mean .-' " said the policeman. 
 *' I can't make head or tail on it yet." 
 
 By dint of a little cross-examination, however, 
 Dick's meaning was made clear enough, and then 
 poor old Mrs. Podger was called out of her bed to 
 come and give her version of the case. 
 
 " I 'd rather the little gal were livin' than be made 
 Queen," said the old woman, trembling from head 
 to foot with excitement. 
 
 " But I thought," said the policeman, " that you 
 identified the body as was found in the canal ? " 
 
 " Nobody could be sartin," said Mrs. Podger,
 
 70 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 *' the body were that far gone. I thought it were 
 her by the hair ; there were no chance o' seein' the 
 marks. But if Mr. Luther says as Fairy 'ad them 
 marks, then it's Florrie, and she were never 
 drownded at all, but stolen." 
 
 " I b'lieve mother had a kind o' feelin' as she 
 were Florrie," said Dick, " for she axed me per- 
 tickler to let Fairy come in next mornin', but by 
 mornin' she were gone, and that knocked it all out 
 o' my noddle." 
 
 " Well, well," said the policeman, " all this puts 
 a new face on it. I will communicate perticklers 
 to the chief detective at once." Saying which, he 
 strode off to execute his mission. 
 
 Nothing, however, came of it. The detectives 
 did their duty, no doubt. They questioned and 
 cross-questioned Luther, Dick, and Mrs. Podger, 
 until the trio were at their wits' end. They insti- 
 tuted inquiries far and wide ; they sent telegrams 
 to places distant and near ; but not a single clue 
 could they obtain of the missing child. 
 
 Luther was almost demented, while Dick was 
 broken-hearted. For the first week they felt certain 
 the police would discover her whereabouts. After 
 that they grew less hopeful, and at last they yielded 
 to despair. 
 
 Day after day Luther and Dick searched the
 
 A DISCOVERY, 71 
 
 great city in all directions, and each evening they 
 returned weary and sad of heart. There was not 
 a gipsy encampment for miles around, not a travel- 
 hng show or circus, they did not visit. Every place 
 likely and unlikely they searched, but all in vain. 
 Neither Luther nor Dick thought of work. Time 
 with them was no object, and what money they 
 had was freely spent in prosecuting their search, 
 and when they returned at night they sat moody 
 and silent, caring neither to eat or sleep. 
 
 Out of the house all the sunshine had gone, as 
 though the sun of their life had been suddenly 
 eclipsed ; all music and laughter had ceased. On 
 the willows they had hung their harps, and Dick at 
 least mingled his bread with his tears. His grief 
 would have been great under any circumstances, 
 but the discovery that Fairy was his long-lost sister 
 made it doubly so. 
 
 " On'y to think, Mr. Luther," he said one evening 
 in quaint paradox, the tears the while streaming 
 down his cheeks, "on'y to think that I didn't find 
 her till arter I 'd lost her. Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! " 
 
 " Ay," said Luther, " it 's mighty queer. I a'most 
 thought once, boy, that there might ha' been a Pro- 
 vidence as led her here, to lead me p'r'aps inter 
 better ways, for that bit out o' the Bible kept ringin' 
 in my head for days an' days — ' And a little child
 
 72 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 shall lead 'em.' But I 've got to give that up 
 now ; she can't lead me if she ain't here, that 's 
 sartin." 
 
 " P'r'aps she 's took away 'cause yer wouldn't 
 follow," said Dick, dolefully. " What 's the use o' 
 the Lord 'lowin' her to waste her time on yer, if ye 
 wouldn't be led ? " 
 
 " Blame it, boy, what 's put that into thy noddle .'' " 
 said Luther tartly. 
 
 "Dunno," said Dick ; "it just corned in while ye 
 were a-talkin'. But p'r'aps she's leadin' yer now, 
 without yer knowin'." 
 
 " Ay, sure enough she 's leadin' us both a pretty 
 chase, and without her knowin', most likely. Poor 
 little gal ! I wish I could get one more sight o' her. 
 I wouldn't lose her again, I warrant." 
 
 " Ay," said Dick, dolefully, " if wishin' 'ud bring 
 her back she 'd be here now." 
 
 There was little doubt in the mind of either of 
 them what had become of the child. That Mrs. 
 Limber had got hold of her again seemed a moral 
 certainty, and as they thought of the life their little 
 Fairy would have to lead, and the sufferings she 
 would have to endure, their grief and indignation 
 seemed more than they could bear. 
 
 For whole nights Dick would sometimes lie awake 
 thinking about her, and in his vivid imagination he
 
 A DISCOVERY. 73 
 
 would picture her lying awake and calling in vain 
 for help, suffering from blows and stripes, and with 
 no one near to comfort — compelled to do what was 
 hateful to her, and with no chance of deliverance ; 
 wishing to die, but with no chance even of that 
 release. And when he slept, it was only to dream 
 of Fairy. Often he would start up in his sleep, 
 fancying he heard her calling, and sometimes the 
 impression was so vivid that he would open the 
 door and look out into the street, and call softly, 
 " Fairy, Fairy." But no answer came to him out of 
 the darkness, and with a sigh he would shut the 
 door, and seek his lonely bed again. 
 
 It was no matter of surprise that Mrs. Limber 
 should have discovered Fairy's whereabouts, for 
 tramps are ever on the move, carrying news from 
 one to another, and so conveying it to all parts of 
 the country. But that Mrs. Limber should remain 
 undiscovered by the police, notwithstanding all the 
 efforts they had made, seemed almost incredible. 
 
 Whether she had waylaid Fairy herself, or 
 whether she had got a stranger to entice the unsus- 
 pecting child while she herself kept out of sight, of 
 course neither Dick nor Luther knew, but they 
 thought the latter the most likely. That Mrs. 
 Limber had got her they had not the least shadow 
 of a doubt ; but how to find Mrs. Limber, and through
 
 74 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 her to get possession of Fairy, were questions for 
 which they could find no answer. 
 
 One day, however, nearly a month after Fairy's 
 disappearance, both Dick and Luther thought they 
 had discovered a clue. It came about in this way. 
 Billy Beel — who still purchased all the " weather- 
 glasses" that Dick could manufacture, and who 
 called to give an order for another dozen, "cork 
 ones if possible, but cardboard rather than none " — 
 spoke to Luther and Dick something after this 
 fashion : — 
 
 " I dunno ef yer ken mak' owt on it, but it ma' 
 be a true scent for a' that. But Tom Joss tow'd 
 me as 'ow Jim Sykes tow'd him as 'ow Joe Wilks 
 heerd Matt Lane a-tellin' Bob Lark as 'ow he'd 
 seen, on th' Crewe roid, a van the very picter o' 
 Limber's, an' a braw lump o' a lass spearin' through 
 th' winder, th' image o' Fairy Cob." 
 
 Before this long speech was fairly out of Billy's 
 mouth, Dick had donned his cap, picked up his 
 walking-stick, and was ready for the march. 
 
 " Nay, nay," said Luther, " not to-night, lad. 
 Wait till mornin'." 
 
 Neither of them, however, slept much that night, 
 and with the first streak of dawn Dick was on the 
 march. The day seemed a long one to Luther, and 
 the second longer than the first, and the third longer
 
 A DISCOVERY. 75 
 
 than cither ; but when a week had passed, and no 
 tidings came from Dick, the old man began to feel 
 anxious, and as the days passed on his anxiety- 
 deepened and his fears increased. And so a fort- 
 night came and went, and still there was no news 
 of the wanderer, nor sign of his coming.
 
 CHAPTER IX, 
 
 SUSPENSE. 
 
 HE weather was cold and winterly, for 
 autumn had vanished early this year, 
 and by the middle of October all the 
 country was covered with a mantle of 
 snow. Luther, standing in the open 
 doorway watching the swirling snow- 
 flakes coming down, heaved a great 
 sigh ; and if it was not a prayer that rose to his lips 
 at the same time, it was something very near akin 
 to it. 
 
 He was feeling very desolate and lonely. Why 
 he should feel so lonely he hardly knew. Before 
 little Fairy came he had lived by himself for forty 
 years, and he had rarely, if ever, sighed for company, 
 or thought his life particularly hard or cheerless. 
 Why, then, should he feel so lonely now? or why 
 should his home seem so utterly cheerless ? He had 
 only gone back to the normal state of things, and 
 
 7G
 
 SUSPENSE. 77 
 
 taken up the old life again that he had accustomed 
 himself to through so many years. 
 
 Yet it was not the same : something had been 
 given and taken, and life could never be again to 
 him what it was before. 
 
 " I 'm like a man," he said to himself, " as was 
 born blind, and lived i' darkness for fifty year, and 
 then got his sight for ten or 'Icven short months, 
 an' then got blind again. His blindness 'ud never 
 be the same again ; those months o' seein' 'ud make 
 all the difference, an' make the second blindness all 
 the harder to bear." 
 
 Luther's figure of speech was quite to the point. 
 Into his dark and cheerless life Fairy had come 
 like a ray of sunshine. F'or nearly a year she had 
 cheered him with her presence, warming and sup- 
 porting those tendrils of sympathy and affection in 
 his nature that were all but dead, lighting up the 
 deepest recesses of his nature, and revealing to him 
 possibilities that he did not know existed before. 
 And now that she had gone life could never be the 
 same again. 
 
 Winter never seemed so cold and cheerless till 
 he had seen and felt the beautiful summer. Would 
 it not have been better, then, if summer had never 
 come at all ? Would it not have been better for 
 him if he had never seen the fairy child that had
 
 78 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 gladdened his poor life for one brief year ? Better 
 if the fountain of his affections had never been 
 opened, if the chord of his sympathy had never 
 been touched by those little fingers ? 
 
 No ! no ! Luther would not admit of that — 
 
 " Better to have loved and lost 
 Than never to have loved at all." 
 
 That chord of sympathy that little Fairy had struck 
 in his nature was vibrating still, vibrating almost in 
 pain, yet the pain was almost sweet, and he would 
 not have it cease. He would not go back to the 
 old life again if he could. Though anxiety and 
 longing had been awakened with his affection and 
 sympathy, yet the longing and anxiety had their 
 compensation somehow or somewhere — he hardly 
 knew how or in what way. 
 
 Before Fairy came he had lived selfishly. Every 
 thought of his had been for himself. And yet his 
 selfishness had brought no gladness into his life, 
 had flung no single ray of blessed sunshine across 
 his path. " In saving his life he had lost it." But 
 the last year had been one of sacrifice — sacrifice of 
 time and money. He had planned, and laboured, 
 and thought, for another's sake. And yet labour 
 was sweeter than ever it had been before, while the 
 sacrifices he had made were as benedictions, and
 
 SUSPENSE. 79 
 
 seemed no sacrifices at all. "Truly it was more 
 blessed to give than to receive." 
 
 He thoudit of all this as he stood in the open 
 doorway, watching the snow coming down — and 
 wondering where Dick and Fairy might be. Thought 
 of the great Master whose words touched his heart 
 so strangely, and expressed his deepest thoughts 
 and feelings as no words of his own could do. And 
 as the evening faded into darkness there rose up 
 into his heart a great longing for some friend 
 greater and stronger than himself, for a heart that 
 was more than human in its sympathy and love, for 
 an arm upon which he could lean in his helpless- 
 ness and trouble. 
 
 Somebody has said that prayer is an instinct, that 
 in moments of great trouble or imminent danger 
 we unconsciously cry out to God for help. Per- 
 haps that is the reason why Luther prayed. Dick 
 had been gone fifteen days now, and no message 
 had come from him since he went, and as Luther 
 watched the eddying snowflakes dancing down, and 
 saw another day rapidly closing in, there rose in 
 his heart a great fear that evil had befallen the lad. 
 In truth, he was more troubled about Dick now 
 than about Fairy. What could have become of the 
 boy during all these weary days and nights ? That 
 his quest had not been successful was now a ccr-
 
 80 DIGK'S FAIRY. 
 
 tainty, or he would have returned long ere this. 
 Perhaps, worn out with hunger and weariness, he 
 had lain down under a hedge somewhere, and was 
 frozen to death. 
 
 " Lord help him ! " he said aloud ; and then he 
 started at his own words : they had passed his lips 
 before he was aware. 
 
 " Good job none o' our Freethinkers heard me," 
 he said to himself, " or I 'd never heard the last on 
 it ;" and with that he closed the door, and shut out 
 the night, and betook himself to his easy chair, his 
 pipe, and reflection. " That prayer must ha' been 
 in my heart afore it shaped itself into words," he 
 said to himself. " I can't make myself up no 
 road." 
 
 Luther's pipe did not draw very well that even- 
 ing, his thoughts were too many and too serious ; 
 so he laid it aside at length, and sat staring dumbly 
 into the fire. 
 
 How solemn and still the house was ! And the 
 loud ticking of the clock echoed through it as though 
 it had been a church. Outside every sound was 
 muffled by the thick carpet of snow, while the wind 
 only moaned occasionally ; it never raved or roared. 
 Now and then a low moaning came up from some- 
 where, then gently died away again in the distance. 
 " Lord help us all ! " No sooner did the words
 
 SUSPENSE. 81 
 
 escape his lips that Luther sprang to his feet as 
 though some one had shot him. 
 
 " I dunno what 's come to me tonight," he said 
 to himself, " I feel as narvous as a baby, an' here I 
 be a-prayin' as though I was a Christian. I almost 
 wish I was. But there, there, what be I a-thinkin' 
 on ? " And Luther set to work to mend the fire, 
 which was beginning to burn low. 
 
 " I 've got a kind of feelin' as though summat was 
 goin' to happen," he soliloquized, " and I shouldn't 
 be a bit surprised to see that boy walk in any 
 minnit." 
 
 Having mended the fire to his satisfaction, he 
 went and o-pened the door and looked out into the 
 wintry street. Nothing was to be seen, however ; 
 the snow was still falling in large thin flakes. 
 
 ''This snow ain't a-goin' to last," he said to him- 
 self — " never does so early in th' year ; but I wish 
 that boy 'ud come." Saying which he closed the 
 door again, and walked leisurely back through the 
 shop into the living-room. 
 
 The fire was burning brightly by this time. So 
 Luther seated himself in his easy chair once more, 
 and gazed steadily into the glowing grate. What 
 pictures did he see in the fire that fastened his gaze 
 so intently ? Of what was he thinking that he sat 
 so motionless and still ? Wc cannot tell ; but he 
 
 6
 
 82 DIGITS FAIRY. 
 
 started to his feet at length with an exclamation of 
 surprise. 
 
 Was that a knock — a moan — a feeble cry for 
 help? Or was it the wind moaning round the house? 
 Or was it simply his fancy playing him tricks ? He 
 held his breath to listen, but no sound broke the 
 stillness save the ticking of the clock. 
 
 " I 'm gettin' as narvous as a baby," he said to 
 himself again. " But I shan't be a bit surprised if 
 that boy don't turn up yet." And once more he 
 went to the door and opened it. 
 
 Nothing was to be seen, however. But, stop ! 
 On the doorstep was a bundle of rags half hidden 
 by the snow. 
 
 *' Hullo ! " said Luther, " what 's this ? " bending 
 low to examine the bundle. The next moment he 
 had it in his arms, and was rushing swiftly into the 
 house. "Thowt he would turn up somehow," he 
 chuckled, as he laid the unconscious lad on the sofa 
 before the fire. " But, dear, dear ! I didn't expect 
 him in this state." 
 
 It was Dick, sure enough — but, oh ! such a bundle 
 of rags and dirt, and so emaciated as scarcely to be 
 recognizable. 
 
 Poor lad ! He had tramped from village to vil- 
 lage, and from town to town, always buoyed up 
 v/ith the hope of finding his Fairy, yet ever doomed
 
 iP-iiii 
 
 The next moment he Iiatl it in his arms.— p. 82
 
 SUSPENSE. 8S 
 
 to disappointment. He had walked his shoes com- 
 pletely off his feet, he had torn his clothes into 
 ribbons. By day he had begged a crust here and 
 there to keep him from starving, and at night he 
 slept in outhouses, in hay-ricks, in empty carts or 
 casks — anywhere or in any place that offered shelter, 
 and where, during the hours of darkness, he might 
 hide his heartache and disappointment. 
 
 At last he gave up hope. Besides, he was so 
 completely exhausted that he felt he could prose- 
 cute the search no further, and so he turned his face 
 towards home. How he ever reached his home he 
 never know. For two days and a night he tramped 
 incessantly — indeed, some part of the distance he 
 literally crawled ; but he felt that he dared not stop, 
 that if he once yielded to his weakness and weari- 
 ness it would be all over with him. He knew when 
 he reached Luther's door, and with one feeble knock 
 he fell senseless to the ground. 
 
 When he came to, Luther was bathing his cut 
 and bleeding feet in warm water, great tears running 
 down his wrinkled cheek all the while. 
 
 " I 'm glad I 'm got home, Mr. Luther," said the 
 boy, when he was able to speak. 
 
 " And I 'm glad too," answered the old man, and 
 that was all that was spoken for some time. Luther 
 did not ask him about his search. He knew that 
 
 6—2
 
 84 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 it had been unsuccessful, and he would not by any 
 words of his add to his pain. 
 
 Dick lay in Fairy's bed that night, and for many 
 a day and night after, while old Mrs. Podger nursed 
 him as though she had been his mother. At one 
 time it seemed as if the lad was too far exhausted 
 ever to recover again. But he had youth on his 
 side and a strong constitution. Besides, he had a 
 purpose in life which he felt he must fulfil ere he 
 died. " I '11 never die," he said to himself resolutely, 
 "till I 've found Fairy." 
 
 By Christmas he was quite recovered, and was 
 once more busy at his work. Indeed, he never worked 
 so resolutely as now. But it was not for himself, 
 but for Fairy. Any day he might hear of her, and 
 he would need money to seek her and bring her 
 home. So early and late he was at his labour, and 
 the thought of his lost sister seemed to inspire his 
 genius and give strength and skill to his hands. 
 
 During these days he invented a new mechanical 
 toy, which had a great run until some one stole the 
 idea from him and patented it as his own. That 
 transaction, however, taught Dick a lesson. He 
 described it himself " as a reg'lar eye-opener," and 
 the next discovery of his genius he patented himself, 
 and so reaped himself the harvest of his brain. 
 
 So time wore on. The days gradually lengthened
 
 SUSPENSE. 85 
 
 into weeks and the weeks into months, and people 
 began to prepare for Christmas once more. That 
 is to say, November was drawing to its close, when 
 Dick discovered, or fancied he had, a new clue to 
 Fairy's whereabouts. What that clue was, and what 
 the end of it, must be reserved for another chapter.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A FRESH CLUE. 
 
 ,^ UTHER and Dick were both busily 
 engaged in the workshop that was 
 now common to both — Luther on an 
 old pair of shoes, that most people 
 would have regarded as past mend- 
 ing, Dick on a new mechanical toy, 
 from which he was expecting great 
 things. It was nearly noon, and scarcely a word 
 had passed between them since morning. But that 
 was no uncommon circumstance, Luther was natu- 
 rally a quiet man ; and having lived alone so many 
 years, it was the most natural thing in the world 
 that he should remain self-absorbed hour after hour, 
 forgetful of the presence of his companion. 
 
 Dick knew well the old man's disposition, and 
 did not care to disturb him ; moreover, he was 
 often so busy with his own thoughts as to be in no 
 
 86
 
 A FEESH CLUE. 87 
 
 humour for conversation, even if Luther should feel 
 inclined to talk. 
 
 The day in question was cheerless and depress- 
 ing in the extreme. From a leaden sky the rain 
 had poured unceasingly since daybreak, and there 
 was no sign of it ceasing; on the contrary, it seemed 
 to pour faster and faster as the day advanced, while 
 the wind threatened to blow a gale ere nightfall. 
 Now and then Dick or Luther would look up from 
 his work for a moment, as the raindrops were pelted 
 against the window-panes by a sudden gust of 
 wind, but no remark was made. Each was busy 
 with his own thoughts, and neither cared to start 
 a conversation. 
 
 That their thoughts should travel on much the 
 same lines was not to be wondered at. Never a 
 day passed over their heads, scarcely an hour, but 
 they thought of Fairy, and wondered what had 
 become of her. 
 
 Every day they hoped — almost against hope — 
 that some tidings might reach them as to her 
 whereabouts ; but the days closed as they had 
 opened, except that their hearts grew more and 
 more sick with hope deferred. 
 
 During the first few months of her absence they 
 scarcely spoke to each other of anything else ; but 
 as time passed on they grew more and more reti-
 
 88 DICK'S FAIRY, 
 
 cent. What had they to say that had not been 
 said fifty — ay, a hundred — times over? It seemed 
 almost childish to be always saying the same 
 things ; and so, little by little, the subject was 
 dropped, except on rare occasions. But if they 
 spoke less they thought the more, while day by 
 day the burden of suspense became heavier to be 
 borne. 
 
 Several days had now passed since P'airy's aame 
 had passed their lips, yet both were thinking of her, 
 both hoping that she was safe, and one at least was 
 praying that the Great Father in heaven would keep 
 the child from harm. 
 
 When a neighbouring clock struck the hour of 
 noon, Luther got up from his stool and retired to 
 the living-room to get dinner ready. Half an hour 
 later he called to Dick. 
 
 " Come, boy," he said, " dinner 's quite ready, so 
 you 'd better come an' get it while 't is warm." 
 
 " All right," said Dick ; *' I 'm as ready as the 
 dinner is." And a (e\v minutes later he was doing 
 full justice to Luther's plain though substantial fare. 
 
 For several minutes the meal proceeded in silence, 
 then, as a fierce gust of wind shook the house, and 
 dashed the big raindrops against the window-pane 
 as it went roaring past, Luther raised his head and 
 remarked, —
 
 A FBESH CLUE. 89 
 
 " Dreadful weather, ain't it ? " 
 
 " Horrid ! " was Dick's reply. 
 
 " Folks as is compelled to be out a day like this 
 is to be pitied," said Luther. 
 
 "Ay," said Dick. "I hope little Fairy's snug 
 an' warm somewheres." 
 
 " I hope so too," Luther answered, after a pause. 
 " I 've not been able to keep the little gal out o' my 
 noddle all the blessed mornin'." 
 
 " Nor I," said Dick ; " an' I 'm fair losin' all pa- 
 tience. I don't think I ken stand it much longer, 
 an' if yer get up some mornin', Mr. Luther, an' find 
 1 'm missin', yer may guess I 'm off in search o' her," 
 
 " But what 'ud be the use o' that ? " said Luther. 
 " We '11 have to wait till we get some kind o' clue 
 to her whereabouts. To start out on a search wi' 
 nothin' to guide yer 'ud be a fool's arrant, 'cause 
 while yer were goin' north she might be goin' 
 south." 
 
 " Ay, I 've thought o' that too," said Dick. " An' 
 yet it seems to me the longer we wait the less 
 chance we have of findin' her; we may stay 'ere 
 till we 're dead an' buried, an' never find out nothin' 
 'bout the little gal. An' I tell 'ee what, Mr. Luther, 
 I can't stand it." 
 
 " But ye '11 have to stand it, if ye can't find her," 
 said Luther. " I 'm as anxious 'bout her as ye are,
 
 90 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 but till we get some clue we '11 'ave to bide, an' bide 
 in patience." 
 
 " I 'm wearied o' waitin' for clues," said Dick ; 
 " an' if I don't 'ear summat soon, I 'm off." 
 
 " What, wi' nothin' to guide ye ? " 
 
 " Ay ! We 've waited a whole year for a clue, 
 an' none 's come, so what 's the use ? I 'm goin' to 
 search for a clue some o' these days, an' if I 've to 
 tramp the world over I '11 find her." 
 
 " The world 's a bigger place than ye thinks," said 
 Luther, with a shake of his head; 
 
 " Can't help that," answered Dick. " She 's my 
 sister, you know — my own sister, On'y think o' it. 
 Here be I, snug, an' warm, an' comfortable, an' my 
 own little Fairy a-sufferin' nobody knows what. I 
 tell 'ee, Mr. Luther, it fair drives me mad sometimes. 
 I lies awake at nights a-listenin' to the wind a-roarin' 
 an' moanin' round the 'ouse, till for all the world it 
 sounds like little Fairy out in the darkness crying 
 for somebody to come an' take her in ; an' I tell 'ee, 
 Mr. Luther, I can't stand it much longer." 
 
 " I wouldn't put a straw in yer way," said Luther; 
 " an' I 'd be willin' to spend the last copper I has 
 in the world in tryin' to find her. But yer knows, 
 Dick, last year ye nearly killed yerself, an' did no 
 good. An' what chance is there of your doin' better 
 if ye tried again ? "
 
 A FRESH CLUE. 91 
 
 " I dunno," said Dick ; " on'y I 've been axin' the 
 Lord pretty 'ard lately to put me in the way o' 
 findin' her, an' I 've got a kind o' feelin', somehow, 
 as if I started out He 'd put me in the right track." 
 
 To this Luther made no reply. If he had no 
 faith in Providence himself, he had not the heart 
 to shake the faith of the boy. Moreover, his own 
 feelings had undergone a wonderful change of late, 
 and just at present he did not know what he be- 
 lieved. That he was no longer an avowed sceptic 
 was quite certain. He had given up attending any 
 of the meetings of the " Freethinkers," for their 
 creed no longer satisfied his intellect or his heart. 
 He had also found much in the New Testament 
 that just suited his need, and responded to the 
 deepest yearnings of his nature. In short, Luther 
 had become in matters of belief a little child, and 
 was anxious to be led into the path that was right 
 and true. So he made no reply to Dick, yet the 
 lad's words set him thinking again. And so silence 
 fell between them ; and Dick picked up a page of 
 an old newspaper that was lying on the floor, and 
 began to spell out a paragraph, the heading of 
 which attracted his attention. This was rather a 
 slow process, and by the time he had thoroughly 
 mastered its meaning Luther was fast asleep. 
 
 The paragraph that had attracted Dick's atten-
 
 92 DICIVB FAIRY. 
 
 tion was headed with the words, " Serious Circus 
 Accident," and went on to state that during an 
 entertainment given by a travelHng circus in Bir- 
 mingham, one of the tight-rope dancers, that went 
 by the name of " The Flying Fairy," missed her 
 footing, and fell from a great height. She was 
 picked up insensible, and conveyed at once to the 
 hospital, where her injuries, which were understood 
 to be very serious, were at once attended to. 
 
 *' Flying Fairy," mused Dick to himself. " I wonder 
 now if it's our Fairy? Oh, dear ! I do hope it ain't 
 our Fairy as is hurt. An' yet" (scratching his 
 head), " and yet, if it are her, I may be able to find 
 her — that 's if she 's livin'. Oh, dear ! I 'm sadly 
 boggled. I '11 ax Luther what he thinks on it." 
 
 But a snore from the old man testified that he 
 was fast asleep. Not wishing to disturb him, Dick 
 read through the paragraph again, then turned to 
 the date of the paper, and discovered that the acci- 
 dent happened at least two months before. 
 
 This fact decided him what to do. " There ain't 
 no time to be lost," he said to himself " If she 
 ain't dead she '11 be well by this, an' ready to leave, 
 if they ain't already took her away. I '11 go at once 
 — this very day ! " 
 
 And up he started, and in a very few minutes 
 had changed his clothes, thrust into his pocket all
 
 A FRESH CLUE. 93 
 
 his little hoard of money, and was ready to be off. 
 Still Luther slept on ; and Dick was at first un- 
 decided whether or not he should acquaint him with 
 his intentions. 
 
 " I Ve half a mind to let him sleep," he said to 
 himself; " for if I don't, as likely as not he '11 try to 
 stop me from goin'." But a little more reflection 
 convinced him that such a course would be unfair 
 to the old man, who was Fairy's true friend as well 
 as his own. 
 
 " Mr, Luther," said he, touching the old man 
 lightly on the shoulder ; " I 'm off." 
 
 "Off! off!" said the old man, starting up. 
 "V/ho'soff.? what's off.?" 
 
 " I ain't got no time to explain now," said Dick. 
 " But here 's the paper. You can read all about it. 
 I 'm off to Birmingham to find out." 
 
 "Not to-day, surely," said Luther, rubbing his 
 eyes. " Why, it 's near two o'clock. You 'd better 
 wait till to-morrow mornin'." 
 
 " No ! I 've made up my mind to go right away," 
 said Dick. "An' don't expect me back again till 
 yer sees me. I 've got money 'nough to last me a 
 week or two, wi' care. So don't worrit 'bout me. 
 If I don't find Fairy in Birmingham, I '11 start some- 
 wheres else. I 'm bound to find her somewheres." 
 
 "Well, good luck to 'ee, my lad," said Luther.
 
 94 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 "An' I hope I '11 be seein' yer back soon, an' little 
 Fairy along with yer," 
 
 " I '11 be back by Christmas, any road, if I 'm 
 livin'," said Dick. And the next moment he was 
 gone. 
 
 The rain was still coming down as persistently as 
 ever, while the wind was blowing half a gale, as 
 Dick pushed his way through the almost deserted 
 streets towards London Road Station. 
 
 *'Any train to Birmingham?" said Dick, rushing 
 up to the first porter he caught sight of. 
 
 "Ay, ay. You're just in time for the two -ten 
 express," was the answer. " Have you got your 
 ticket?" 
 
 " What ticket ? " said Dick. 
 
 " Why, your railway ticket, to be sure," laughed 
 the porter. 
 
 " Have I to get a ticket ? " said Dick, in some 
 bewilderment. " Yer see, I 've never been in a train 
 yet." 
 
 " I s'pose you 've got money enough ? " said the 
 porter. 
 
 " Oh, aye, I guess so," said Dick. " How much 
 will it be?" 
 
 " Six an' 'Icvenpence ha'penny," was the answer. 
 " But you get in and give me the money, and I '11 
 run and get your ticket, for there's no time to lose."
 
 A FRESH CLUE. 95 
 
 A few minutes later, amid the banging of doors 
 and the shrieking of the engine, the train glided 
 slowly out of the station. On past houses, houses 
 on every side, with their roofs shining in the pelting 
 rain. Still on, but swifter now, till glimpses of 
 country, bare and sodden, stretched away hither 
 and thither, and swollen rivers wound in and out, 
 and patches of wood on desolate hill-sides looked 
 black and forbidding in the dismal rain. 
 
 Yet Dick enjoyed it all immensely. It was a 
 new sensation to him to be whirled through the 
 country at the rate of forty miles an hour. It gave 
 to him a sense of exhilaration, and made him for- 
 getful of the anxiety that had been pressing upon 
 his heart so long. 
 
 Poor boy I He did not know where night would 
 find him, nor how his search would end. It was 
 well for him that he did not. Had he known, he 
 would not have whistled so gleefully as the train 
 went • hurrying past. 
 
 Meanwhile Luther was working away very indus- 
 triously at his mending. Yet somehow he was 
 restless and ill at ease. He was conscious all the 
 while that he was alone, and somehow loneliness 
 was not so congenial to his feelings now as it used 
 to be. He felt as if he wanted some one to talk to. 
 He had worked away all the morning in silence,
 
 96 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 exchanging no word with his young companion. 
 He had no wish to talk — had nothing to say. No 
 sooner, however, did he find himself alone than all 
 this was changed. The silence got almost oppres- 
 sive, and the desire for conversation seemed almost 
 more than he could bear. 
 
 " Dear, dear ! " he said to himself, " what queer 
 comical critters we be, to be sure. We never val'ee 
 what we 've got till we lose it, an' are everlasting 
 a-hankering after things as are out o' reach. When 
 I 've got some one to talk to I 'm as silent as a church- 
 yard, and d'rectly I 'm left alone I 'm ready to burst 
 up for want o' somebody to have a crack wi'. I 'm 
 fair moithered to know what 's come to me lately. 
 If I 'd been threescore years younger I should be- 
 lieve I 'd got changed at nuss — I should for sure." 
 
 The old man smiled at the idea for a brief mo- 
 ment, and the next moment he was stitching away 
 more vigorously than ever. 
 
 " It 's that blessed little gal that has done it all," 
 he said to himself, stopping suddenly short. " She 
 set me on another track somehow — stirred up this 
 old heart in sich a way that I '11 never be the same 
 man again. Ay, an' I never want to be, that's 
 more. Oh, dear ! I 'd give all I 've got to have the 
 little Fairy back again. The Lord prosper the 
 boy."
 
 A FEESH CLUE. 97 
 
 Here Luther started from his stool as though 
 something had stung him. 
 
 " I wish I could find out the right o' this," he said 
 to himself after awhile, sitting down again. " I 'm 
 all at sea, some road. Sometimes I b'lieve a bit, 
 and then again I don't b'lieve nothin'. I wish the 
 little gal 'ud come back ; for all the while it keeps 
 runnin' in my noddle, * An' a little child shall lead 
 'em.' An' if ever I 'm led out o' this uncertainty, I 
 guess the little Fairy '11 do it." 
 
 So the old man mused with himself hour after 
 hour, and thoughts came and went, and questions 
 perplexed him for which he could find no answer. 
 Yet surely the darkness was slowly passing away, 
 and he unconsciously was nearing the kingdom, 
 though with feeble and faltering steps.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 AN ACCIDENT. 
 
 ARKNESS had blotted out all the 
 landscape long before Dick reached 
 Birmingham, but the rain had ceased, 
 md though the wind was blowing a 
 gale, he did not mind that in the 
 least — on the whole, he rather liked 
 it. He was young and strong, and 
 there was something exhilarating in fighting the 
 fierce wind that made the telegraph-wires above his 
 head " ling " again, and almost drown the roar of 
 traffic. 
 
 Every one he inquired of knew the hospital he 
 was in search of, so he hurried on without v/aste of 
 time, except an occasional pause to inquire if he 
 was on the right track. As he neared the building 
 in which so many sick and suffering lay, his excite- 
 ment became intense. It seemed to him as if all 
 the trouble and anxiety and suspense of the past 
 
 98
 
 AN ACCIDENT. 99 
 
 year were crowding themselves into a single mo- 
 ment, and the weight of them seemed almost more 
 than he could bear. His heart thumped against his 
 side as though it would leap out of its socket. His 
 breath came in quick, short gasps, while his legs 
 trembled so that he had to lean against a lamp-post 
 for support. 
 
 Before him rose the great stone building, with 
 its many windows, and a low light burning in each, 
 and as he paused for awhile, that his legs might 
 cease their trembling, a dozen questions rushed 
 through his mind, which he found impossible to put 
 aside. 
 
 " Was it likely that the little circus dancer that 
 had got hurt was his Fairy .'' And if so, what then ? 
 Perhaps she was dead ! — dead and buried ; or 
 perhaps she had recovered, and Mrs. Limber had 
 taken her away ! Or if she were still in the hos- 
 pital, would he be allowed to see her and take her 
 away .'' Was it not too late in the day for visitors 
 to be admitted ? and if so, where should he spend 
 the night ? " 
 
 These questions, and a dozen others, crowded 
 into his mind as he stood with one arm around the 
 lamp-post, watching the twinkling lights in the tall 
 building and trembling in every limb. He longed 
 to know the best or the worst, as the case might 
 
 7—2
 
 100 BIGK'B FAIRY. 
 
 be ; and yet somehow, now that he had reached the 
 end of his journey, he felt that he had not courage 
 to go and ask the question on which hung all the 
 hopes of his life. 
 
 " I didn't think I wur sich a softy," he said to 
 himself at length, trying to steady himself in the 
 fierce wind that roared up the street. " I 'm wus 
 nor a baby." And with that he tried to put a bold 
 face on the matter, and made a rush across the street. 
 
 Was it the wind that caught him, or did the 
 trembling in his legs come on again, or did he get 
 bewildered by the shouts that fell on his ear, " Keb! 
 Keb ! " Certain it is that he made a sudden stop 
 in the middle of the street, then made a spring to 
 escape a cab that was full upon him, without no- 
 ticing another cab that was being driven at full 
 speed in the opposite direction. Then followed a 
 moment of confusion, a sudden blow, a flash of 
 light, a Babel of voices, a trampling of hoofs, a swift 
 rush of darkness, and then — oblivion ! 
 
 Both cabs pulled up suddenly. The fares jumped 
 into the street with the question, " Hullo, what 's 
 up ? " A crowd of people gathered quickly ; and 
 last upon the scene came a policeman, who elbowed 
 his way through the crowd, and shouted in stento- 
 rian tones, " Now, out of the way, can't yer ! what 
 yer crowdin' on ? "
 
 AN ACCIDENT. 101 
 
 At the bidding of P.C. 87 the crowd gave way. 
 and poor Dick, mud-bespattered and wholly uncon- 
 scious, was dragged from underneath the car. 
 
 To hurry with him across the street to the ad- 
 joining hospital was the work of a few minutes only, 
 and then the policeman returned to his beat, and 
 the crowd dispersed as quickly as it had gathered. 
 The traffic of the street rolled on as swiftly as be- 
 fore, and Dick was forgotten. Was there a Provi- 
 dence in this ? Who shall say ? 
 
 " Is it a serious case ? " asked one of the nurses, 
 after the doctor had examined the unconscious 
 lad. 
 
 " It is impossible to say just yet," was the answer. 
 "So far I can find no other injury than the broken 
 arm, though this long coma would seem to indicate 
 something more serious." 
 
 All that night Dick lay quite unconscious, with 
 closed eyes and pallid lips. He might be dead, he 
 lay so still and looked so white. But as the morn- 
 ing dawned a change came over him, but whether 
 a change for the better or the worse it was difficult 
 to say. 
 
 The first sign of a change was a rapid twitching 
 of the eyelids. Then he opened his eyes quite 
 wide, and stared around him, but there was no look 
 of intelligence in his eyes, and when at length he
 
 102 DIGK'^ FAIRY. 
 
 began to speak, his words were thick and inco- 
 herent. 
 
 Later in the forenoon, however, ho began to put 
 sentences together ; but the nurse declared she 
 could make no sense of what he said. He talked 
 about weather-glasses, and shoes, and gluepots, 
 and Luther ; but what Martin Luther had to do 
 with shoes and gluepots she could not make 
 out. 
 
 After a while he became silent again, and closed 
 his eyes as if in sleep, and lay tlius for a couple of 
 hours. Then, without opening his eyes, he began 
 to talk again. 
 
 " Don't stop me, Mr. Luther," he said ; " I'm 
 a-goin' to find her if I has to go the world over. 
 She 's my sister, ye knows — my sister Fairy." 
 
 At this point a look of interest came into the 
 nurse's face, and she pulled a chair to the bedside 
 and sat down to listen. But Dick started off again 
 to talk about cork, and glue, and pasteboard. He 
 soon, however, came back again to the one engross- 
 ing thought of his life — the fate of Fairy. 
 
 " I dunno where she is," he went on, " but I mun 
 find her. She 's got a mark on her arm like a bunch 
 o' grapes, an' a burn-mark on her foot for all the 
 world like a button " 
 
 " What 's that, poor boy .? " said the nurse, leaning
 
 AN ACCIDENT. 103 
 
 forward and placing her soft hand upon his fore- 
 head. But he did not heed her. 
 
 "Let her go, please," he said, after some rambling 
 talk about shoe-strings and glue. "Let her go; 
 you 's not her mother ; you stole her when she wur 
 a little 'un ; you 're a bad 'un, you are ; let her go, 
 she 's my sister Fairy. I 've tramped all this way 
 to fetch her home." 
 
 Then for the next half-hour he rambled on about 
 Mrs. Podger, and Tinker's Row, and model churches, 
 and Luther, in a way that was quite laughable were 
 it not so sad. But true as a needle to the pole, he 
 always came back to Fairy. 
 
 " Fairy dead ? " he said, opening his eyes wide 
 and staring round him. " Killed in the circus, was 
 she ? Oh, Fairy, Fairy, Fairy ! wake up an' say 
 ye 're better. Oh, no, ye mustn't die ! Ye must get 
 better. Fairy, and Mrs. Limber shall never have ye 
 no more. Mr. Luther '11 'ave a big fire for us 'gainst 
 we come back ; an' won't it be jolly ! " 
 
 So he rambled on hour after hour, till, utterly 
 exhausted, he fell into a profound sleep. 
 
 ■X- -Sf -Jf 4f * 
 
 Meanwhile in another wing of the same building 
 was the very object of his search — his own loved 
 Fairy. She was sitting in a low rocking - chair
 
 104 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 nursing a doll, though in a very quiet and listless 
 fashion. 
 
 She has greatly altered since last we .saw her. 
 See, she rises as we approach, and now we-ca'n look 
 at her and mark the change. How tall she has 
 grown ! and how pale she is, and thin ! and what a 
 look of suffering there is about her mouth ! Such 
 an expression of patient endurance is scarcely 
 natural on the face of one so young. It surely 
 speaks of much suffering in the past — of days and 
 nights of agony. 
 
 " Fairy ! " 
 
 How she starts at the sound of our voice, and 
 stretches out her hands blindly, and turns full upon 
 us her great glorious eyes ! 
 
 And now it is our turn to start. " What ! " we 
 exclaim. " Is it possible ? Do you not " 
 
 " No," she answers in low, sad, musical tones, " I 
 do not see you. I am quite blind." 
 
 " Oh, Fairy ! Fairy ! what will Dick say when he 
 knows ? But perhaps he will never recover ; then 
 he will never know, for surely it will break his heart 
 to find his Fairy bliruV 
 
 ^ * -x- * * 
 
 Her blindness was quite a puzzle to the doctors. 
 She had sustained some slight injury to the spine
 
 AN ACCIDENT. 105 
 
 in her fall from the rope ; but whether the blindness 
 was the result of this, or whether it was produced 
 by the shock to her nervous system, or whether both 
 these causes combined had produced the blindness, 
 it was impossible to say. One thing alone was cer- 
 tain, and that was that she was quite blind, and it 
 almost appeared now as if hopelessly so. At first 
 the doctors thought that the loss of sight was only 
 temporary, but as the days passed on and grew into 
 weeks, and the weeks into months, and there was 
 no glimmer of returning sight, they shook their 
 heads ominously, and expressed their fears that she 
 would never see again. 
 
 It was a sad awaking from those hours of obli- 
 vion that succeeded her fall. 
 
 " Oh, where am I .■' " she cried, stretching out her 
 hands into the darkness. And the nurse came 
 instantly to her bedside and tried to soothe her. 
 
 "You are in the hospital," she said. "You fell 
 from the rope, don't you remember? but you'll 
 soon be better again if you keep quiet." 
 
 "But why have you no light?" asked Fairy. 
 " Why do you keep the place so dark ? " 
 
 " But there is a light, lovey," said the nurse ten- 
 derly. " The gas is burning low, but there 's quite 
 light enough." 
 
 " The gas ! " said Fairy. " Where is the gas ? "
 
 106 DIGK'B FAIRY. 
 
 "Why, there, above your head, my child," said 
 the nurse. 
 
 " But there is no gas," persisted Fairy. " I can- 
 not see you. I cannot see my hand," she said, pass- 
 ing it again and again before her eyes. 
 
 "Not see your hand?" said the nurse in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " No ; I see nothing," said Fairy. " All is dark, 
 dark, dark ! " 
 
 " My poor child ! " said the nurse kindly, " your 
 eyes have got hurt. We did not know that. But 
 I '11 tell the doctor, and he'll soon make you better. 
 Now don't fret, for that will make your eyes worse. 
 If you can sleep it will be all the better." 
 
 "Will the doctor take away the darkness?" asked 
 Fairy eagerly. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; no doubt he will, if you will have 
 patience," said the nurse soothingly ; and with that 
 assurance Fairy closed her eyes, and soon after was 
 calmly sleeping. But when she awoke again to dark- 
 ness, her grief was pitiful to see. 
 
 " I want the day to come," she cried. " It 's so 
 very dark, an' its been dark so long. Oh, do drive 
 away the darkness an' let me see." 
 
 "We cannot make you better all at once," was 
 the answer. " You're badly hurt, you know; and you 
 must stay in bed for many days ^"
 
 AN ACCIDENT. 107 
 
 "And may I have no light?" eagerly asked Fairy. 
 
 " Not yet, my child," was the answer. " Now try 
 to be patient." 
 
 Poor little Fairy ! she did try to be patient, but 
 it was a hard task. Day by day the doctor and 
 nurse encouraged her with words of hope, and after 
 awhile she seemed to grow reconciled. The dark- 
 ness did not terrify her as at first. And slowly she 
 learned that the darkness was in herself ; that what 
 was dark to her was light to others. In other words, 
 she learned that she was blind. 
 
 It was a sad lesson for one so young to learn, but 
 she did not lose heart or hope. Moreover, her very 
 blindness brought her some compensation. She 
 could not go back to the hated life she had left — to 
 the cruelty and misery and fear —until she recovered 
 her sight, and sometimes she felt as if she would 
 rather remain blind than go back again. 
 
 Sometimes kind ladies visited her, and read to 
 her out of the Book of books, and talked to her of 
 the love and wisdom of the Saviour. And now and 
 then, when the nurse had a few minutes to spare, 
 she would sit by Fairy's side, and speak to her brave, 
 hopeful words. 
 
 " Your loss of sight, Fairy, may be the greatest 
 mercy that could ever come to you," said the nurse 
 one day.
 
 108 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 " How do you think that ? " Fairy asked. 
 
 "Because it may save you from a worse fate," 
 was the reply. 
 
 " But yer don't know how hard it is not bein' able 
 to see," Fairy sighed. 
 
 "No, that is true," said the nurse. "And yet I 
 am sure it is better to be blind than to be wicked ; 
 and who can tell what you might grow to be if you 
 stayed in the circus?" 
 
 " If I were only sure I should see again some 
 time," she said one day, after weeks had passed, and 
 still all was dark, " I think I could bear it better." 
 
 "But you must not lose heart. Fairy," was the 
 answer. " The doctors are puzzled, but they 're not 
 in despair about it." 
 
 So day by day helpful, hopeful words fell upon 
 her ears and entered into her heart, and though the 
 outside world was dark to her, within it was grow- 
 ing light. In her affliction she was learning lessons 
 of patience, and resignation, and trust, that she 
 might never have learned had she not been afflicted 
 — lessons that would abide in her heart, whatever 
 might be the future, and that could hardly fail to be 
 helpful in the race and battle of life. 
 
 Mrs, Limber came to see Fairy two or three 
 times during the first week of her illness, but find- 
 ing that the child was not likely to be again a source
 
 AN ACCIDENT. 109 
 
 of profit to her, she determined that if possible she 
 should not be a source of expense, and so one night 
 the Limber caravan moved quietly out of Birming- 
 ham, and since then the authorities had not been 
 able to find her. 
 
 To speak correctly, the " Limber " caravan was 
 no longer in existence, and had not been for more 
 than a year. Indeed, it was soon after Fairy found 
 a home with Luther Cob that poor old Mr. Limber 
 passed out into the silent land, and soon after Mrs. 
 Limber married Mr. Adolphus Boozer, the principal 
 acrobat of the company. And so while the detec- 
 tives were making inquiries here and there and 
 everywhere for " John Limber's Circus," Mrs. Lim- 
 ber (now Mrs. Boozer) was laughing in her sleeve, 
 and thinking how nicely she had outwitted them 
 all, while little Fairy was wearing her heart out with 
 grief and anxiety, and wondering why it was Luther 
 and Dick never came to rescue her from the hateful 
 life she was forced to lead. 
 
 Now, however, the long bondage had come to an 
 end. Her deliverance had been effected at last, 
 but how differently to what she had hoped and 
 dreamed ! Night after night, in the noisy dirty 
 circus, she had scanned the upturned faces, in the 
 hope that Dick or Luther might be among the 
 number, and though they never came, she never
 
 110 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 wholly lost hope. Each day she said to herself, 
 " Perhaps I shall see them to-night." And it was 
 this one hope that sustained her week after week 
 and month after month. Without it she could not 
 have borne the vulgar gaze of the noisy unwashed 
 crowd ; without it she would have pined herself to 
 death. 
 
 Now, however, that hope was taken away. If 
 Luther and Dick searched every circus in the land, 
 they would not find her now, while she might never 
 look upon their face again if they came within her 
 reach.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 EXPLANATIONS. 
 
 URING the day on which Dick — hurt 
 and unconscious — was admitted into 
 the hospital, Fairy and the nurse had 
 a long conversation together. The 
 nurse began it by asking Fairy if 
 she did not think it strange that her 
 mother should forsake her in such a 
 heartless manner. 
 
 "No," Fairy answered quietly; "I ain't at all 
 s'prised at it." 
 
 " Not surprised ^ " questioned the nurse in won- 
 dering tones. "Not surprised at your mother 
 leaving you ? " 
 
 " But she ain't my mother," said Fairy. 
 "Come, come, Fairy," said the nurse with a smile, 
 "you are joking now." 
 
 •' No, I 's not joking," said Fairy, raising her sight- 
 ill
 
 112 DIGK'B FAIRY. 
 
 less, pathetic eyes to the nurse. " She 's told me 
 lots an' lots of times she ain't my mother. She 
 always stuck to it I was a orphan, an' she used to 
 beat me cruel bad." 
 
 " Beat you, my child ? " 
 
 " Ay, that she did when I didn't please her, an' 
 kick me too ; and so I runned away." 
 
 " And how far did you run, Fairy .'' " asked the 
 nurse, with a smile. 
 
 " Well, not very far the first time," answered 
 Fairy. " A policeman soon picked me up an' took 
 me back again. An' didn't I get it just ! I thought 
 she would a-killed me." 
 
 " My poor child," said the nurse, kindly, stroking 
 her soft hair the while. 
 
 " But the next time I runned away," went on 
 Fairy, " it was quite dark, an' I runned right agin 
 a lad in turnin' round a corner, a big strong lad he 
 were too, an' so back I goes on the ground ; but, 
 bless you, he picks me up in a minute, he were that 
 strong. But he were the raggedest lad I ever did 
 see in all my days ; but his face ! oh, he had a fine 
 face, had Dick ! " 
 
 " Was that his name ? " asked the nurse. 
 
 " Ay, Dick Dugdale were his name, an' he lived 
 in Tinker's Row. That 's in Manchester, you know. 
 Well, he were kind to me, were Dick. His mother
 
 " My poor child," said the nurse, kindly. — p. 112
 
 EXPLANA TIONS. 1 1 3 
 
 were sick an' very poor. That 's the reason he were 
 so ragged, he told me. So you see he couldn't take 
 me home wi' him. So what ye think he did .-' " 
 
 "Well, I have not the remotest idea, Fairy-," 
 answered the nurse, 
 
 "No, I guess ye ain't," Fairy answered, with a 
 smile, " so I '11 jest tell yer. Near by where Dick 
 lived was an old man called Luther Cob ; he used 
 to mend shoes an' sichlike, and lived all by himsel'. 
 He had curious ways wi' him, had ^^Ir. Luther ; but 
 bless yer — as Dick always said — he were good at 
 bottom. So Dick took me to his house. At first 
 he wouldn't speak to me, an' seemed awful mad, 
 but he comed round after a bit, an' when I told him 
 all 'bout myself, he said I should stay wi' him till 
 he 'd found out all 'bout me." 
 
 "And did he find out .' " asked the nurse. 
 
 " Ay, that he did," said Fairy eagerly. " He found 
 out that Mrs. Limber stole me when I were a little 
 thing, an' he told her so, and he told her, too, that 
 if she didn't clear out o' :\Ianchester right away, 
 he 'd set the pleece on her." 
 
 " And did she leave ? " 
 
 " I guess she did," said Fairy, her face brighten- 
 ing. "I mind how Mr. Luther comed home as 
 pleased as Punch, an' said we shouldn't be troubled 
 wi' Mrs. Limber any more, and wern't I just glad, 
 
 8
 
 114 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 that 's all ? Bless yer, I were fair ready to fly; and 
 Dick were as pleased as Mr. Luther ; and after that 
 didn't we have grand times ! " 
 
 " And did you live with Mr. Luther, as you call 
 him, after that ? " 
 
 "Ay, that I did," said Fairy. "Why, bless you, 
 all the folks thought as 'ow I were a relation of Mr. 
 Luther's, an' called me Fairy Cob ; and wern't I 
 happy, that 's all ! Why, we had ever sich a nice 
 house, an' a great big sofa, an' sich roarin' fires when 
 the nights were cold. An' then Dick took to makin' 
 toys an' weather-glasses, an' sichlike; and Mr, 
 Luther 'lowed him to work in his shop. An' I used 
 to help to melt the glue an' put the bits of cork 
 together ; an' in the evenings when 'twas fine Dick 
 an' I used to go into the park, an' on Sundays we 
 went to church an' chapel, an' to the ragged-school 
 besides. Oh, dear, those were grand times ! " 
 
 "But how did you come to leave?" asked the nurse. 
 
 *'I didn't leave at all," said Fairy. "I were jist 
 stole. Mrs. Limber got a man to steal me ; an' 
 afore I knowed a'most, I were back again in the 
 old circus." 
 
 " But if your friends were so kind, I wonder they 
 did not fetch you back again," said the nurse. 
 
 " I 'spect they did search as much as they could 
 'ford," said Fairy, sadly. " But, ye see, the circus
 
 EXPLANA TIONS. 1 15 
 
 had a new name, poor old Mr. Limber were dead, 
 an' Mr. Boozer were the master ; an' so you see they 
 wouldn't think of searchin' for Boozer's circus." 
 
 " Ah, yes ; that will explain it, very likely," said 
 the nurse ; "so we 'd better inform Mr. Luther that 
 you 're here." 
 
 " Oh, if yer would ! " said Fairy, clasping her 
 hands, and turning upon the nurse her sightless 
 eyes. " Oh, if yer would I should be so happy ! " 
 
 "Then we will do so most certainly," said the 
 nurse. " If you had only told me before, he might 
 have been written to long since." 
 
 Fairy did not reply to this. She might have said 
 that she never before had an opportunity, but she 
 did not say so. Moreover her blindness had made 
 her reticent. She could not see the faces of those 
 around her, and often she did not know whether 
 only one person or many persons were near ; and 
 so, not knowing who might be listening, she was 
 often silent when she longed to speak. 
 
 " What did you say Mr. Luther Cobb's address 
 was ? " said the nurse, coming towards Fairy with 
 pencil and paper. 
 
 " Manchester,^' said Fairy eagerly. 
 
 " Yes, but what is the number and name of the 
 street ? " said the nurse. " Manchester is a very big 
 place, you know." 
 
 8—2
 
 116 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 Instantly Fairy's eyes fell. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know that," she said. ** I never 
 thought of askin'. I know Dick Dugdale lived at 
 Fourteen Tinkers' Row, an' Mr. Luther's wern't far 
 away." 
 
 " But in what part of the city is Tinkers' Row ? " 
 asked the nurse. 
 
 " I don't know that it were in any part pertickler," 
 said Fairy; "it were jist in Manchester." 
 
 " It 's a very vague address," said the nurse ; " I 'm 
 afraid it will find neither of them." 
 
 " Oh ! I reckon it will," said Fairy eagerly, " I 
 could find it as easy as anything, if I were there 
 an' had my eyes." 
 
 "Very likely," said the nurse, with a smile. "But 
 there, I 'm wanted. Anyhow, Fairy, we will do our 
 best to find your friends, so don't be down-hearted." 
 And with that she was gone. 
 
 It was the nurse who had been waiting on Dick 
 that wanted her. 
 
 " I say, Janet," she commenced, " is not that little 
 blind girl to whom you have been talking called 
 Fairy .? " 
 
 " Yes," was the answer. " Why do you ask ? " 
 
 " Another question first. Has she got a mark on 
 her arm like a bunch of grapes ? " 
 
 " Yes, she has."
 
 EXPLANATIONS. 117 
 
 " An' a burn-mark on one of her feet ? " 
 
 " Yes ; a round scar, nearly the size of a shilling," 
 was the reply. 
 
 " Then it must be her," said the first speaker. 
 
 " But what do you mean, Frances ? " the other 
 asked. 
 
 " Why, that poor boy that was run over last night 
 has been rambling on nearly ever since about his 
 sister Fairy. How some Mrs. Limber stole her, and 
 how she has a mark on her arm, and another on 
 her foot, such as you have described. All this has 
 been mixed up with wild talk about cork and glue 
 and Martin Luther, that I have not been able to 
 make much sense of it. But it seems very clear that 
 the lad has come to Birmingham in search of his 
 sister." 
 
 " Well, this is strange ! " said the other, and she 
 proceeded to narrate her conversation with Fairy, 
 and the conclusion they both came to in the end 
 was that the lad was none other than Fairy's friend, 
 Dick Dugdale. 
 
 This matter was set at rest early next morning. 
 After a long and refreshing sleep, Dick awoke fully 
 conscious, and stared around him with wondering 
 eyes. 
 
 " Bother my buttons," he soliloquized, " what 's 
 the meanin' o' this^ an' where in the name o' Judas
 
 118 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 Hiscarlot 'ave I got to?" and with that he attempted 
 to scratch his head, but a sharp twinge of pain 
 made him pause and grind his teeth. " Hello," he 
 soliloquized, " this are a pretty kettle o' fish, an' no 
 mistake : timber on my arm, an' calico round my 
 yed. If this aren't a caution, my name 's not Dick 
 Dugdale." A little reflection, however, made 
 matters more clear, 
 
 " Hi ! that's it, you may depend," he said to him- 
 self. " I got spilled by that keb, that 's sartin clear. 
 I mind tryin' to clear it, but missed it, I s'pose. It 
 didn't miss me, any'ow. And then ? — Well, now, I 
 can't make it up no road after that. All my senses 
 got knocked out o' me, I 'spect. Well, there wern't 
 much on 'em to start wi', so that were a small Job. 
 An' so I got brought here. That's it, as sure as 
 Moses. This is the hospital, I '11 be bound. I 
 wonder, now, if Fairy 's here ? " 
 
 Just then the nurse came up to his bedside. 
 
 " If you please, marm, is this the hospital ? " he 
 asked, without giving her time to speak. 
 
 "Yes, my lad," she answered ; "are you better V 
 
 "Ay, I reckon I'm pretty middlin'," he replied. 
 " 'Ave I been a bit out o' shape ^ " 
 
 " You were run over by a cab the night before 
 last," she answered. 
 
 " Ay, I guessed as much/' was the reply. " I 've
 
 EXPLANATIONS. 119 
 
 been tryin' to reckon it up this hour or so, an' I 'd 
 about come to that way o' thinkin'." 
 
 "I 'm glad you are so much better," she answered. 
 "And now, would you mind telling me your 
 name ? " 
 
 " Oh, ay," he answered quickly. " My name s 
 Dick Dugdale, an' I come from Manchester. I seen 
 in a newspaper how a little girl called Fairy 'd got 
 hurt in a circus, an' was took to the hospital ; an 
 I thought, maybe, it were my sister Fairy, who 'd 
 got stole, an' so I comed off right away. Were this 
 the hospital she were took to ? " 
 
 " There was a little girl who had got hurt in a 
 circus brought here some time ago," the nurse 
 answered. 
 
 "An' is she here still ? " Dick questioned eagerly. 
 
 " Yes, my lad, she is here yet ; but I do not see 
 how she can be your sister, for this little girl has no 
 brother." 
 
 " Oh, but Fairy didn't know as how I were her 
 brother when she got stole," Dick answered, " an' I 
 didn't find it out till after she were gone." 
 
 And Dick proceeded to tell all the story with 
 which the reader is already acquainted. 
 
 " Well, certainly that puts another face on the 
 matter," said the nurse when Dick had finished. 
 "Anyhow, when you get a little better you shall be
 
 120 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 taken to see this little girl, and then you will know 
 whether she is your sister or not." 
 
 " But can't I go an' see her to-day ? " Dick asked 
 rather fretfully. " I 'm sure if she 's Fairy she '11 be 
 mighty glad to see me, an' I 'm a'most starved for 
 wantin' to see her." 
 
 "My poor boy," said the nurse kindly, "I'm 
 afraid you will not be able to get out of bed for 
 many a day yet, so you must try to be patient. No 
 one will run away with the little girl, I can assure 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, dear ! " sighed Dick ; " them 's very hard 
 lines after waitin' so long." 
 
 "Well," said the nurse, "we must hear what the 
 doctor says first, and as soon as he gives permis- 
 sion you shall see her." 
 
 So with this assurance Dick had to be content. 
 It was near noon when the doctor visited him, and 
 poor Dick thought the forenoon the longest he had 
 ever spent. It was a dark, depressing day, without 
 a single gleam of sunshine, and scarcely, indeed, 
 any daylight. Hour after hour he lay there with 
 closed eyes, rolling his head from side to side, and 
 thinking only of Fairy. His own fate never seemed 
 to trouble him, except in so far as it had to do with 
 his sister. He manifested no surprise on the dis- 
 covery that his arm was broken, and very little
 
 EXPLANATIONS. 121 
 
 concern about it. If he had found Fairy, that would 
 satisfy his heart, and he would not mind a few 
 bruises and broken bones. 
 
 Dick submitted to the doctor's examination with- 
 out a moan, though it taxed to the very utmost his 
 power of endurance. Once or twice he could have 
 shrieked with pain, but he set his teeth firmly to- 
 g-ether, and was silent. If he had to suffer, he had 
 made up his mind he would suffer like a man. He 
 had never been a coward yet, and he was not going 
 to begin now. 
 
 " You are a brave lad ! " said the doctor when he 
 had completed his examination, " a very brave lad ; 
 and now I think we have found out the extent of 
 the injury." 
 
 " And can I get out of bed to-day ? " Dick asked 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Well, hardly, I think," the doctor said, with a 
 smile ; " but what do you think about it yourself? " 
 
 "Well, I'm mighty sore," said Dick; "but I 
 wouldn't mind a bit o' sufferin' if I could only see 
 Fairy." 
 
 " Ah, well ! " said the doctor, who had been let 
 into the secret, " as you cannot go to see the little 
 girl, why, she must come to you. There can be no 
 harm in that, so I will mention the matter to the 
 nurse directly."
 
 122 DIGK'B FAIRY. 
 
 " And shall I see her to-day ? " Dick asked, the 
 tears welling up in his eyes. 
 
 "Yes, my lad, you shall see her this afternoon. 
 Why not ? " 
 
 "Oh! then," said Dick impulsively, " you 're the 
 best doctor I ever heerd tell on, an' I 'm mighty 
 'bliged to yer ! " 
 
 " Now, don't get exciting yourself about the 
 matter," said the doctor, " or I may countermand 
 the order." And with that he was gone. 
 
 "He's a brick, anyhow!" said Dick to himself> 
 when the doctor had left him. " An' now I wonder 
 how long it will be before Fairy is here ? " 
 
 From bed to bed he watched the doctor pass, up 
 one side of the long ward and down the other, and 
 when at length he passed out of the door Dick 
 heaved a great sigh of relief. 
 
 " He '11 tell the nurse now," he said to himself 
 ' an' Fairy '11 soon be here." 
 
 It was easy enough for the doctor to tell him 
 not to get excited, but to carry out the advice 
 was a very different matter. For more than a 
 year his heart had been hungering for news of his 
 sister and for a sight of her face, and now the in- 
 tense longing and suspense had reached its climax. 
 In a few minutes now and they would be brought 
 face to face. And yet there was one agonizing
 
 EXPLANATIONS. 
 
 123 
 
 doubt — she might not be his sister, /as Fairy, after 
 all. 
 
 And so he lay with his eyes fixed upon the door^ 
 and listening for the welcome footfall that should 
 tell of his Fairy's approach.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 AT LAST. 
 
 HAVE something to tell you, Fairy, 
 which I think will interest you very 
 much." 
 
 The child was sitting in her low 
 rocking-chair, fingering her doll in a 
 listless fashion, and rolling about her 
 beautiful sightless eyes, as though 
 searching in the dark void around her for a single 
 ray of light. Upon her pale thin face was a wistful 
 pleading expression that had become habitual of 
 late, as though the hard lesson she was learning 
 was not mastered yet, nor, indeed, ever could be. 
 
 She brightened up instantly, however, at the 
 nurse's words, and greeted the speaker with a smile 
 though she made no reply. 
 
 " You remember hearing of the lad that was run 
 over in the street the night before last?" went on 
 the nurse. 
 
 124
 
 AT LAST. 125 
 
 "Oh, yes, poor lad! " said Fairy. " Is he better?" 
 
 " Yes, he 's very much better ; the broken arm is 
 the only serious matter, and that will soon be right 
 again." 
 
 " I 'm very glad," Fairy answered. " Have they 
 found out who he is yet } " 
 
 "Well, Fairy, that's just what I Ve come to talk 
 to you about. He says he comes from Manchester, 
 and that he 's on the search for a little sister of his 
 who was stolen away from her home more than a 
 year ago." 
 
 Fairy was upon her feet by this time, her eyes 
 dilated, her lips trembling, her breath coming in 
 quick short gasps. 
 
 " Is it Dick ? " she cried out at length. " Is it 
 Dick Dugdale ? Do tell me this very minute." 
 
 "'Come, come, Fairy, don't excite yourself, my 
 love," said the nurse. "It h Dick, and what do you 
 think " 
 
 " Oh ! let me go to him this very minute," she 
 cried, without heeding the nurse's question. 
 
 "Yes, my dear, you shall go to him, only I wanted 
 to tell you that he has discovered that you are his 
 sister : you were stolen away when you were little 
 more than a baby. Now, what do you think of 
 that?" 
 
 " Oh, that 2S delightful ! " she cried, her face
 
 126 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 beaming with pleasure. " Then Dick is my bro- 
 ther ! Oh, isn't it jolly to have a grand brother 
 like him ? Now let 's go to him at once." And 
 taking hold of nurse's hand, she marched away 
 with quick, eager steps. 
 
 By some strange oversight no one had told Dick 
 of Fairy's blindness, and so he had to learn the sad 
 truth from her own lips. It was well, perhaps, that 
 it was so. With every sense keenly awake as he 
 lay with his eyes fixed upon the door, he heard the 
 double footfalls along the corridor, saw the door 
 slowly open, and then held his breath. The nurse 
 entered first, and then came Fairy holding her 
 hand. 
 
 ** Could it be Fairy.!'" was the thought that flashed 
 through his mind. " So tall, and pale, and thin ! " 
 With eyes almost starting out of their sockets, he 
 raised himself in the bed, forgetful of bruises and 
 broken arm, searched her face eagerly for another 
 brief moment, and then burst out, to the astonish- 
 ment of every other inmate in the ward, 
 " Glory ! an' it 's Fairy after all ! " 
 Fairy started at these words, as though struck 
 with sudden pain. The next moment she had let 
 go the nurse's hand, and was rushing swiftly and 
 blindly towards the bed. Fortunately nothing 
 stood in the way, and in another momemt her arms
 
 AT LAST. 127 
 
 were around her brother's neck and she was crying 
 softly, her face pressed close to his, 
 
 " Oh, Fairy ! Fairy ! " he cried, and for several 
 minutes no other word was spoken. Dick did not 
 try to check her tears, while he felt that if he 
 attempted to say anything more the words would 
 choke him. Fairy was the first to break the silence. 
 
 *' You are so good to come," she said. " I 'd 
 a'most given up hopin'." 
 
 " An' it 's by a mighty queer fluke I did get here 
 at all," he said, trying to speak cheerfully. 
 
 " Oh, ay," said Fairy ; " I 'd a'most forgot you 'd 
 been hurt. I 'm so sorry, Dick." 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind that a bit," he replied, " now 
 I Ve found you. But you have altered. Fairy ; I 
 hardly knowed for a moment if 't were you, yer so 
 tall an' thin." 
 
 " Be I ? " she said sadly. " An' you, Dick, be you 
 altered ? " 
 
 " Well, what do you think ? " he said. " You can 
 tell best." 
 
 " Oh, Dick ! Dick ! " she cried, "do ye not know ? 
 Don't you see ? Ain't they a-told you ? " 
 
 " Told me what.''"he said, lifting up her face with 
 his hand and looking at her. 
 
 " Oh, Dick ! I cannot see you," she said : " I 'm 
 blind, quite blind ! "
 
 128 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 For a few moments he seemed as though he were 
 struck dumb, then he wailed out, " Oh, no, Fairy, 
 don't say that ! oh, no, don't ! I couldn't bear it." 
 
 "We must bear it, Dick," she said simply. " It 's 
 been all dark ever since I corned here." 
 
 " An' can't yer see me, Fairy ? " he moaned, as if 
 unable to realize the truth of her words. 
 
 " No, Dick, I cannot see yer," she said, " but I 
 know ye 're here." 
 
 " Then I don't want to get better," he said, 
 dropping his head back upon the pillow ; " I 'd 
 rather die. We 'd better die, both on us, Fairy ; 
 better die an' be buried in the ground." 
 
 "I said that first 'long," she answered, "but not 
 now. I don't mind anything now for you '11 take 
 care of me, won't yer, Dick } " 
 
 " Take care o' yer. Fairy ! " he said slowly, and 
 his whole countenance underwent a change as he 
 spoke. " Ta^e care d yer ! " The thought seemed 
 like a new revelation to him. He had something 
 indeed to live for now. 
 
 ** Look here," he said, starting up on his elbow. 
 " I didn't mean that what I said just now. I take 
 back them words 'bout wanting to die. I ain't a 
 coward, Fairy, an' I take 'em back. Do'e hear, 
 Fairy ? I take 'em back. I don't want to die, an' I 
 ain't a-goin' to die either, if I knows it. Take care
 
 AT LAST. 129 
 
 o' ye, Fairy! that's jist what I'm a-goin' to do. 
 Won't I work when my arm gets right again, that 's 
 all ! An' we '11 go into the park in the evenin's as 
 we used to do, and my eyes shall serve for both on 
 us. An' I'll tell ye about the flowers an' them 
 things in words so good that ye '11 think ye sees 
 them yourself. Fairy." 
 
 "I know yer will, Dick," she said simply. "An' 
 Mrs. Boozer '11 never steal me no more, now I 'm 
 blind." 
 
 " Mrs. Boozer ! who 's she } " he asked. 
 
 " Mrs. Limber as was," she answered ; and then 
 Fairy went on to tell some of her experiences, while 
 Dick closed his eyes to listen. 
 
 A little later Fairy's hand sought his face, and 
 slowly and carefully the soft fingers traced each 
 lineament of those features she knew and loved so 
 well. This pathetic action enabled Dick to realise 
 more fully than he had yet done the sad truth that 
 his Fairy was quite blind. And it was only by a 
 strong effort of will that he kept himself from 
 sobbing outright ; yet for her sake he repressed his 
 tears, lest her soft fingers should find them on his 
 cheek, and she be troubled in consequence. But 
 when at length the nurse returned and took Fairy 
 away, he let his grief have vent, for it would no 
 longer be stayed. Hour after hour, with his face 
 
 9
 
 130 niGK'S FAIRY. 
 
 buried in the pillow, he sobbed as though his heart 
 would break. It seemed such a cruel fate, that now 
 he had found his Fairy she could not see him. 
 What a strange meeting theirs had been — he help- 
 less and she blind ! and was this the answer to all 
 his prayers and tears ? 
 
 But he grew more reconciled at last, and tried to 
 think that all might be for the best, though he 
 could not see how. If Fairy did not murmur, surely 
 /le ought not to do so. If s/ie was patient, /le had 
 no right to give way to despair. On the contrary, 
 it was his business now to cheer her all he could, 
 and not to depress her with his own grief. So when 
 she came again next day to sit with him for a while, 
 she found him full of hope and cheerfulness. He 
 only made one direct allusion to her blindness, and 
 then it was to say that she might get better in time 
 and recover her sight. Not that he had much faith 
 in his own words. " For there was no Christ now," 
 he thought, sadly, " to walk in human form among 
 the sick and blind of earth, and with a word or 
 touch to make them whole." And somehow he had 
 got the impression that blind people never recovered 
 their sight, except by a miracle or something very 
 little short of it. 
 
 . Fairy made no reply to Dick's hopeful words, for 
 she did not expect now that they would ever come
 
 AT LAST. 131 
 
 true. Moreover, she did not want to-day to talk 
 about herself. She wanted to hear about Luther, 
 and all that had happened since she left. And he 
 was quite ready to answer all her questions and 
 tell her all she cared to know. 
 
 Sitting there by his bedside, with her little hand 
 in his, and the well-known tones of his voice in her 
 ears, all the past came vividly before her. She saw 
 the little workshop, and the living-room behind, 
 with its big sofa and cheerful fire. She saw Luther 
 in his easy chair, with his pipe between his fingers^ 
 and Dick at work in the lamplight with his bits of 
 cork and pot of glue. She almost saw herself 
 standing on a chair to set the tea-things, while 
 Luther smiled, well pleased, to see how handy she 
 had grown. 
 
 Several times the tears came into her eyes as she 
 thought that only in fancy might she see those 
 things again, or in dreams of the night. But with 
 a hasty hand she brushed away the wilful tears and 
 tried her best to be cheerful, and on the whole 
 succeeded well. 
 
 Poor Dick had to lie in bed much longer than 
 was at first anticipated, and though now and then 
 he grew terribly impatient, no one ever heard him 
 complain, and when Fairy was with him he was as 
 cheerful as any one could wish. 
 
 9—2
 
 132 DIGK'S FAIRY. 
 
 So the days passed on, and if Dick's recovery 
 was slow it was also sure ; while Fairy seemed like 
 another child after her brother's advent. The look 
 of melancholy passed away from her face as if by 
 magic, the colour came back to her pale cheeks 
 once more, and her whole demeanour was marked 
 by cheerfulness and content. 
 
 At Dick's request no communication had been 
 sent to Luther. " He '11 not worrit," he said. " He 
 thinks I 'm big enough to take care o' myself, an' 
 he knows I 've got a bit o' money, an' I told him 
 afore I left that if I didn't find Fairy, I shouldn't 
 come back till Christmas Eve, so it '11 be all right." 
 
 " My ! but won't he be glad to see us .-* " said 
 Fairy, clapping her hands and smiling brightly. 
 
 " That 's just it," said Dick. " We '11 give the owd 
 chap a right good surprise, an' won't he grin ? My 
 stars an' stockin's! I think I see him now a-scratch- 
 in' his pate an' laughin' all over his face." 
 
 " It will be jolly," said Fairy, her face all aglow 
 with anticipation. 
 
 " Ay, Fairy ; there 's on'y one thing as '11 make 
 him sorry." 
 
 " But he '11 soon get used to that," said Fairy 
 cheerfully. "When he sees as I don't mind so very 
 much, he '11 not mind either, I reckon." 
 
 " He '11 not be able to help mindin' a little," said
 
 AT LAST. 133 
 
 Dick. " We can't none o' us help mindin' at bottom, 
 though yer know, Fairy, it may be all for the best. 
 So there ain't a mite o' use in worritin', is there ? " 
 
 "Not a bit," she answered. "An' I '11 be able to 
 find my way 'bout the house, as well a'most as if 
 I could see ; for you knows, Dick, I know where 
 everything's kept." 
 
 " Oh, ay," he said, " you '11 manage famously, and 
 we '11 all be as happy as ducks in a thunder-storm, 
 .see if we ain't." 
 
 Fairy was quite ready to assent to this view of 
 the case, and there the talk ended for the time. 
 
 As the day drew near when the doctor thought 
 it would be safe for them to take their departure, 
 their excitement and enthusiasm became conta- 
 gious. Not the smallest objection v/as raised by 
 the authorities to Dick's taking charge of the little 
 blind girl. The evidence that Fairy was his sister 
 was so straightforward and conclusive that no one 
 even thought of raising a doubt on the question, 
 and so at length it was fixed that on the Twentieth 
 of December Dick and Fairy should leave. 
 
 During the three months that Fairy had been in 
 the hospital she had won the sympathy and affec- 
 tion of most if not all the ladies who visited that 
 institution from time to time, and when at length 
 her somewhat romantic story was whispered abroad,
 
 134 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 the interest manifested in her visibly deepened. 
 Dick was also raised to the rank of a small hero, 
 and received a share of public attention that was 
 almost distressing to him. 
 
 But the attention in some instances was accom- 
 panied by very tangible gifts, the last received 
 being two first-class railway tickets from Birming- 
 ham to Manchester. 
 
 These kindnesses were very grateful to both Dick 
 and Fairy, and in their simple way they thanked 
 their benefactors as well as they knew how. 
 
 At length the Twentieth dawned cold and grey, 
 but as the morning advanced the weather brightened 
 a little, and by noon there were actually a few 
 gleams of sunshine. But neither Dick nor Fairy 
 troubled about the weather — their hearts were too 
 full of other things for either rain or cold to influ- 
 ence them. 
 
 A little before noon they were helped into a cab 
 at the door of the hospital, and were driven quickly 
 away to the station ; but they neither of them felt 
 that they were fairly on their way to Manchester 
 till they heard the whistle shriek and felt the train 
 gliding smoothly out of the station. 
 
 " Hoorah ! " shouted .Dick in his excitement. 
 "We're fair off now, Fairy. Won't Luther cut a 
 caper when he sees us .-' "
 
 AT LAST. 135 
 
 But Fairy's only reply was a squeeze of his 
 hand ; her heart just then was too full for speech. 
 
 "But my stars 1" said Dick, who could not keep 
 quiet anyhow, "we're like gentry, riding in a first- 
 class carriage. Ain't we swells, just?" 
 
 So he chattered nearly all the way, with an 
 occasional snatch of a comic song, while Fairy 
 nestled close to his side with one of her hands 
 clasped in his, and waited anxiously for the end of 
 the journey.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 WELCOME HOME. 
 
 E AN WHILE Luther, looking anxious 
 and troubled, was seated in his little 
 shop, engaged in his usual occupa- 
 tion. Of late he had not given 
 himself much time for rest and 
 reflection. He had found that work 
 was the best antidote against the 
 anxiety that was beginning to prey upon his mind. 
 When Dick said that " Mr. Luther would not 
 worrit about him " he made a mistake. He evidently 
 had not sounded the depth of the old man's nature 
 yet ; for Luther did not carry his heart upon his 
 sleeve, and much as Dick had discovered of his 
 kindness and sympathy, he had not discovered all. 
 Every day of the lad's absence had been to Luther 
 one long anxiety. Dick was his first thought when 
 he got up in the morning, his last ere he dropped 
 
 136
 
 WELCOME HOME. 137 
 
 off to sleep ; and sometimes he felt positively- 
 annoyed that he who had lived all his life for him- 
 self and by himself, having no one to care for him 
 and no one to care for, should now in his old age 
 be worrited half to death by these two orphan 
 children, who had not the remotest claim upon 
 him, and for whom he was not expected to feel the 
 smallest concern. 
 
 But whether expected or no, he zuas concerned. 
 That was just the rub : the problem he could not 
 solve. If they had been his own children he could 
 not feel more anxiety respecting their whereabouts, 
 or more earnestly long for their return. 
 
 Sometimes he thought he must be getting into 
 second childhood. This was first suggested to him 
 by one of the fraternity of " Freethinkers," and 
 had stuck to him like a burr ever since. Luther 
 had been so long absent from the meetings and 
 debates of the " Freethinkers," that one of their 
 members came to see him, to ascertain the reason 
 of his long absence. 
 
 " Fact is," said Luther, " I 'm growin' sceptical." 
 
 " Growing sceptical ? " said the other in surprise. 
 " What does the man mean ? " 
 
 " Why, I mean that we're a narrow, bigoted sect," 
 said Luther. 
 
 The other gave a scornful laugh at this.
 
 138 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 "You can laugh as much as you like," went on 
 Luther, "but it's fact for all that — we think our 
 creed contains all the truth in the univarse." 
 
 " Why, man," said the other, " we ain't got a 
 creed ; we 're above creeds." 
 
 " Bah ! " said Luther, " don't talk rubbish. We 've 
 got a creed as much as any Baptist or Methody or 
 Churchman, an' the first article in the creed is this: 
 * I believe that there is no God. ' " 
 
 "Well, you accept that, don't you?" said the 
 other. 
 
 " No, I don't," said Luther stoutly. 
 
 "Then you are no longer a Freethinker," was the 
 somewhat angry reply. 
 
 " Humph ! " said Luther : " that 's just where you 
 make a mistake. I be free now, an' I 'm not going 
 to tie myself down to your creed any longer. I 'm 
 going to search for myself; and that which agrees 
 wi' my reason an' finds an echo in my own heart, 
 that, God helpin' me, I 'm going to hold to." 
 
 "God helping you, ch?" said the other, with a 
 sneer. "Why, man, you are getting into second 
 childhood, so it's useless further debating the ques- 
 tion with you. Good night." 
 
 "Good night," said Luther; and once more he 
 found himself alone, but with the sting of the man's 
 sneer rankling in his heart.
 
 WELCOME HOME. 139 
 
 It was not very pleasant to think that perhaps he 
 was growing childish, that his mind was failing with 
 his body ; and yet if it were so, he could hardly 
 wish it otherwise, since the last two years of his life 
 had been the best and holiest — ay, holiest — since he 
 he had left hh first childhood so far away in the past. 
 
 Some such thoughts as these were passing through 
 Luther's mind on the afternoon in guestion, when he 
 was startled by the rattle of a cab along the street. 
 This was such a rare occurrence that Luther lifted 
 up his head in astonishment, and peered eagerly 
 out of the window, to ascertain, if possible, what it 
 might mean. Hand-carts were common enough, and 
 occasionally a rickety machine drawn by a donkey 
 might be seen ; but so rarely did Luther or his 
 neighbours indulge in the luxury of a cab, that the 
 appearance of a four-wheeler in the neighbourhood 
 was quite an event. 
 
 On came the cab, however, at a rattling pace, and 
 then pulled up suddenly in front of Luther's shop^ 
 
 "Gracious!" exclaimed the old man, springing to 
 his feet. " What on earth is up } " 
 
 Before he had time to open the door, however, he 
 heard Dick's voice shouting, " Here we are, Mr. 
 Luther ! Look alive ! Didn't I say I would find 
 her if I had to search the world over ? " 
 
 " Mercy on us !" said Luther, tugging hard at the
 
 140 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 door, and forgetting in his excitement to lift up 
 the latch, "if it ain't Dick!" 
 
 Fortunately the cabman was not so excited, and 
 lifted the latch from the outside, and Luther was in 
 time to sec Dick help Fairy out of the cab. For a 
 moment or two he stood stock-still, bewildered and 
 speechless. He recognized Fairy in a moment, not- 
 withstanding the change that had come over her ; 
 recognized also the other fact that she was blind. 
 The manner in which she groped with he^r hands 
 and rolled about her beautiful but sightless eyes 
 was only too conclusive evidence of the sad cala- 
 mity that had befallen her. In anothe-r moment 
 he had rushed forward and caught her in his 
 arms. 
 
 " Oh, my little Fairy !" he said huskily, " an' have 
 you come home like this?" 
 
 " Never mind. Uncle Luther, " she said cheerily, 
 " you '11 soon get used to it." 
 
 He made no reply to this ; he only kissed her 
 gently, not daring to trust himself to speak, 
 
 "Oh, this old sofa is jolly!" she said as soon as 
 Luther had laid her down. " 'T is fine to get back 
 again, and shan't we be happy all together ! " 
 
 "Will yer be happy .•*" he said, kissing her again. 
 
 "Oh, ay, ever so happy!" she answered. "Won't 
 you, uncle ? "
 
 WELCOME HOME. 141 
 
 "I don't know," he said huskily. "It's very 
 hard." 
 
 "It ain't nothin' so hard as it was," she said; "an' 
 I expect it 's all for the best." 
 
 " Do you think so, Fairy ? " he asked simply. 
 
 "Ay," she answered. "They all of 'em said that 
 very likely the good God sent the blindness to save 
 me from something worse." 
 
 " I don't understand it," he said humbly. 
 
 " No more do I," she said ; " but I guess it 's all 
 right." 
 
 "What makes my little Fairy think so?" he 
 asked tenderly. 
 
 " I don't think so," she said ; " I feel so. I didn't 
 feel so first 'long, but I do now." 
 
 " It 's beyond me," he said, more to himself than 
 to her, " beyond me altogether." And then Dick 
 appeared upon the scene, having had a long dispute 
 with the cabman about the fare. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Luther, didn't I tell yer I could find 
 her ? " said Dick in his boisterous fashion. 
 
 "Ay," said the old man quietly. "I'm very 
 thankful to have yer both back." But there was a 
 touch of inexpressible sadness in his voice — Fairy's 
 blindness had evidently touched him to the quick. 
 
 "Yer don't talk very cheerful, anyhow," said 
 Dick.
 
 142 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 "P'raps not," he answered in a low tone; "Fairy 
 not being able to see troubles me above a bit." 
 
 " Ay," said Dick, in a lower tone, " it 's a bad job, 
 but we '11 have to make the best on it," 
 
 " If you get fretting you '11 make me sorry," said 
 Fairy, " so I hope you '11 not talk that way," And 
 with that she slipped off the sofa and began groping 
 round the house, "I want to find where everything 
 is kept," she said, " an' then I '11 sqon be as handy 
 as I used to be." 
 
 Luther watched her with eyes that were very dim, 
 notwithstanding he continually brushed his hard 
 hands across them, but the mist would gather in 
 spite of himself. Had she been sad he would have 
 done his best to cheer her, but her very cheerfulness 
 smote his heart as nothing had ever done before. 
 
 It was soon whispered abroad in the neighbour- 
 hood that Dick had returned, bringing Fairy with 
 him, and that the latter was quite blind. Poor old 
 Mrs. Podger, who rarely ventured out now, was one 
 of the last to hear of it ; but when the news was 
 conveyed to her, she rushed downstairs at a rate 
 that was no less astonishing than it was perilous, 
 and rushing into Luther's house, she caught Fairy 
 in her arms and had almost smothered her wath 
 kisses before Fairy could well understand what it 
 all meant.
 
 WELCOME HOME. 143 
 
 " Ye '11 allow Mrs. Podger to put yer to bed 
 to-night, won't yer?" said the old woman at 
 length. 
 
 " Oh, ay, if you wish," said Fairy brightly. 
 
 " Ye '11 need a little help first 'long," said the old 
 woman, " an' I '11 be very thankful if ye '11 let me 
 be eyes for ye now an' then." 
 
 " I '11 be very thankful too," said Fairy, and so it 
 was settled. 
 
 After Fairy had gone to bed that night Mrs. 
 Podger came downstairs with a face beaming with 
 pleasure. 
 
 " It 's her, safe enough," she said. 
 
 " Of course it 's her," said Luther. 
 
 " I mean it 's Florrie," said Mrs. Podger, " Florrie 
 Dugdale — bless 'er little heart ! I 'd rather seen 
 what I have this blessed day than I 'd have a 
 hundred pound ! " 
 
 " An' yer look it," said Dick. 
 
 "Do I ? " said the old woman brightly. " Well, 
 I 'spect I does. That blessed little gal have been 
 like a big stone on my heart these seven years, an' 
 I've fretted no end over my carelessness. But, 
 thank the good Lord, it 's her, safe enough." 
 
 " In course it 's her," laughed Dick. " Nobody 
 ever said 't wern't her." 
 
 " But I wanted to see the marks wi' my own een,"
 
 144 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 said the old woman, " an' I Ve seen 'em, an' I tell 'e 
 what, I 'm fain ready to fly." 
 
 " Oh, lor' ! " laughed Dick. " On'y think on it, 
 Mr. Luther— Mrs. Podger a-flyin' ! V/ouldn't she 
 cut a purty figure ? I should imagin'— we 'd like to 
 see yer make a start, Mrs. Podger." 
 
 " Don't make fun on an ould woman," she said, 
 trying to look hurt. 
 
 But Dick only laughed the more. Not so Luther, 
 however ; his heart was too heavy, his regret too 
 keen, for mirth. In all his long and cheerless life 
 nothing had ever so affected him as the blindness 
 of this little child. 
 
 He never slept a wink that night. He could only 
 think of Fairy and wonder at the strange Providence 
 that had sent her such a sad affliction. Like the 
 refrain of a familiar song, Fairy's words haunted 
 him through all these silent, sleepless hours — 
 "Likely the good God sent the blindness to save me 
 from something worse." But was it likely.? that 
 was the question he debated with himself " Did 
 God send the blindness } and if so, might He not 
 also restore her to sight ? Ah, if Pie only would ! " 
 And Luther thought of the man that was born 
 blind, and of Christ, the marvellous healer, who 
 restored to him his sight. " Oh, if He would but 
 come again and heal this little child!" was th^
 
 WELCOME HOME. 145 
 
 thought that rose in his mind. But, alas ! He had 
 gone away from earth long ages ago, and there was 
 no Christ to dwell among men to-day. 
 
 No Christ to-day? How did he know that? 
 Did not this very Christ say that though He went 
 away in bodily form, He would come again in spirit 
 to abide with His people for ever? And if that 
 were so, was not this very Christ still dwelling on 
 earth } Was He not present to heal and save ? 
 
 " Oh, dear ! if I were only certain about it ! " 
 sighed Luther. But, alas ! he was not certain. He 
 was still in the borderland of doubt and uncertainty. 
 Before him he saw the promises arching the dark 
 horizon of his life like a rainbow of light and beauty, 
 something as yet afar off, and that could not be 
 touched by a human hand. 
 
 Yet that glorious bow was nearer to him now 
 than when first he saw its light. Unconsciously 
 the old antagonism of his nature had broken down, 
 and he was being led by a hand he did not see into 
 that kingdom which is righteousness and peace. 
 
 10
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 
 
 F Luther did not get reconciled to 
 Fairy's blindness, he soon grew 
 familiar with the fact, and after a 
 few days, her pathetic groping in 
 the dark ceased to pain him as at 
 first. In a few days, also, she got 
 so handy, and so easily found her 
 way about the house, and was withal so cheerful 
 and content, that Luther felt he had no right to be 
 melancholy — on the contrary, that he ought to do 
 all he possibly could to cheer the child, who was 
 evidently doing all she could to cheer him and her 
 brother Dick. 
 
 If Christmas was not characterized by any very 
 boisterous mirth, it was on the whole a very plea- 
 sant time — very different to the sad Christmas of 
 
 In the morning both Dick 
 
 twelve months before. 
 
 146
 
 LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 147 
 
 and Fairy went to church, and in the evening the 
 latter repeated to Luther all that she could remem- 
 ber of the sermon, to which the old man listened 
 with evident interest and pleasure. 
 
 By the new year Dick had quite recovered, and 
 set about his work with an earnestness and zest 
 that he had never before known. He had plenty of 
 orders on hand, to which he gave his undivided 
 attention from dawn to dark. But the evening of 
 each day was given up to making experiments in 
 . new toys, or in improving previous inventions. In 
 this work he laboured quite alone, for neither Fairy 
 nor Luther could render him any assistance. Luther 
 could mend a shoe as neatly as anybody, but when 
 it came to a matter of invention he was nowhere. 
 So while Dick was taxing to the utmost his inven- 
 tive faculty, Luther would be frequently sitting in 
 his easy chair, with Fairy on his knee, reading to 
 her out of the New Testament — the only book in 
 the house that would bear reading twice over. 
 
 Fairy's favourite portion was St. John's Gospel, 
 and the old man, always ready to humour her wish, 
 read to her as often as she asked him, and the 
 portions she liked the best. He had no thoughts 
 of himself in this — never stopped to ask himself 
 what influence the reading of that book might 
 have upon his own life. It was enough for him that 
 
 10 — 2
 
 148 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 it was Fairy's wish, and to deny her anything that 
 she might desire was not to be thought of. And 
 so evening after evening he read to her those 
 wonderful words that for centuries have been 
 sweeping over dead spirits Hkc a breath of Hfc. 
 He rarely made any comments of his own. Now 
 and then Fairy would ask him for his opinion, and 
 set him thinking ; but in the answers he gave he 
 was always careful not to weaken the child's faith 
 by speaking of his own doubts. 
 
 So time passed on. Winter gave place to spring, 
 and spring blossomed into glorious summer, and 
 now Dick redeemed his promise made to Fairy in 
 the hospital. Evening after evening, when the 
 weather was fine, he took her into the park or into 
 the quiet country lanes, away from the strife of the 
 noisy city. Leaning on her brother's arm, she 
 walked firmly and fearlessly by his side, and many 
 of the people they met from time to time had no 
 suspicion she was blind. 
 
 On those occasions Dick did nearly all the talk- 
 ing. He never forgot that while beautiful things 
 were all around him, all was dark to her, and so he 
 told her of everything they passed, and gathered 
 wild flowers for her, that she might enjoy their 
 fragrance if she could not see their beauty. 
 
 To Fairy these were blissful times. She loved
 
 LIGHT IN DABKNESS. 149 
 
 to hear her brother talk, for on the whole he could 
 talk well, and by the aid of her imagination she 
 could easily realize all that was passing around her. 
 Sometimes, too, he spoke to her of his hopes and 
 dreams for the future. He was already in comfort- 
 able circumstances, and had saved a little money, 
 while one of his pet toys was nearly completed, 
 and he was anticipating for it a great run when it 
 got fairly known. And while he spoke, Fairy — 
 with both hands within his arm — would turn up 
 her sweet patient face to his, as if she could see the 
 play of his features and the sparkle of his eye. 
 
 No girl was ever prouder of her brother than she 
 was of Dick, and, hugging his strong arm, her face 
 would glow with pleasure, while he unfolded to her 
 his beautiful dream of hope. 
 
 " You know. Fairy," he said, speaking of his new 
 mechanical toy, " I 'm goin' to take out a patent 
 for it when it 's finished." 
 
 " What 's a patent, Dick ? " she asked. 
 . "Well, I ken hardly make it clear," he said. 
 " But it 's gettin' the right of it made fast to one's 
 self, if you ken make that out." 
 
 " No," she said, " I can't make it out very 
 well." 
 
 " Well, it 's this way," he said. " If I get a patent, 
 nobody '11 be able to copy it, or have the right to
 
 150 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 make one like it ; or, if they do, they '11 have to pay 
 me something for every one they make." 
 
 " Oh, I see now," she answered. 
 
 "Yer see, Fairy, the last good one I made I got 
 nothin' by it, for one of those big makers copied it, 
 and then took out a patent for 't as his own. An' 
 now I can't make my own toy without payin' him. 
 But I ain't goin' to be sold a second time, I can 
 tell yer." 
 
 " I wouldn't if I was you," she said, encourag- 
 ingly. "An' won't they be sold when they find 
 you 've got all the right ? " 
 
 " I guess they will," he said, his face glowing with 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 Poor Dick was very much disappointed, though, 
 when in September he sought to take out the patent 
 for his now completed toy. He had no idea that it 
 would cost so much money, or that there was such 
 a ridiculous law in existence, the only object of 
 which seemed to be to cripple genius and put a 
 stop to invention. 
 
 But Dick was not to be discouraged. He calcu- 
 lated that with care and economy he would be able 
 to save sufficient money in another year, and he 
 could afford to wait that time, or for two years if 
 needs be. So he schooled himself to patience, and 
 as he had no new invention to occupy his attention
 
 LIGHT IN DABKNES8. 151 
 
 he gave the evenings of the following winter to 
 work of another kind. 
 
 He was already able to read very well, but in 
 • writing and arithmetic he was sadly deficient. So 
 he set himself with all diligence to learn. 
 
 Luther, who had always been something of a 
 student, and was far better informed on most ques- 
 tions than people would have given him credit for, 
 undertook to be Dick's teacher, and v/as very soon 
 surprised at the ease and rapidity with which Dick 
 mastered the subjects that were set before him. 
 He committed the muliplication table to memory 
 in an incredibly short space of time, and was into 
 the compound rules, as Luther said, before one 
 had time to look round. 
 
 And so the days passed on, and winter gave 
 place to summer, and summer to winter again, and 
 winter once more was being chased away by breezy 
 spring, before Dick's hope was realized. During all 
 those long months he had worked as he had never 
 worked before, never losing sight of the one purpose 
 of his life, never bating one jot of heart or hope, 
 cheered all the while by his blind sister, who was 
 always patient and ever ready with a word of sym- 
 pathy and encouragement. 
 
 "It's neck or nothin'," said Dick, on his return, 
 after securing the patent. " I 've spent every penny 
 I 've got in the world."
 
 152 DIGK'S FAIRY. 
 
 " It '11 be a case if it misses fire," said Luther. 
 
 "Ay, it'll be a bad job," said Dick; "but I'm 
 prepared for the worst, and if I lose all, why, I '11 
 start again. I told dear old mammy, when she 
 was livin', that wi' 'perseverance, cork, an' glue,' I'd 
 make my fortune, an' I 'm goin' to do it yet." 
 
 "Ay, that you will," said Fairy impulsively; "an' 
 it's time enough to talk about losin' all when you 
 are certain all 's lost." 
 
 This sage remark was hailed with a loud " Hear, 
 hear" from Dick, while Luther smoothed her shiny 
 hair with his hard rough hand, and declared she was 
 quite a philosopher. 
 
 Dick did not lose all his money, however. He 
 was soon able to make liberal terms with a large 
 toymaker for the manufacture of his favourite, 
 and before the year was out found himself in pos- 
 session of an income that exceeded his fondest 
 dreams. 
 
 "Misfortunes never come singly" is an old say- 
 ing, which, however, is quite as true of successes. 
 Before that summer was over there came a joy into 
 their hearts and home that no money could pur- 
 chase. And that joy arose from the fact that Fairy 
 could once more see. For a long time she had been 
 able to distinguish light from darkness, and for 
 several months past the light had been growing
 
 LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 153 
 
 brighter, but she had kept the knowledge to herself, 
 afraid to buoy up the others with hopes that might 
 never be realized. 
 
 Now, however, the dark cloud that had obscured 
 everything so long, and which for months past had 
 been growing thinner and thinner, had at last 
 actually broken, and she was able to distinguish 
 objects passing before her — not clearly — oh, no ! 
 Still there was the dim outline, the blurred shape 
 figured upon her vision. 
 
 She was in Luther's shop when she made the dis- 
 covery. It was a bright fine day, and she had 
 turned her face toward the window, as she loved to 
 do when the sun was shining. For a long time she 
 kept her eyes steadily fixed on one spot. At length 
 she said, speaking very quietly, 
 
 " Is there anything hangin' before the window, 
 uncle?" 
 
 "Hanging before the window?" he said, looking 
 up in surprise. " No, Fairy, there 's nothing hang- 
 ing there. Why d' ye ask ? " 
 
 " Well," she said, speaking very slowly, "it's like 
 a bright cloud there," pointing to the window — "all 
 but one square place nearly in the middle." 
 
 In a moment Luther had sprung to his feet, as 
 though something had stung him. 
 
 "It's right, Fairy!" he exclaimed excitedly.
 
 154 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 " One o' the panes is gone, an' I 've stopped the 
 square with leather." 
 
 " Oh, then, Uncle Luther, I can see," she said, her 
 face beaming. 
 
 " My darlin' ! " he cried, and he caught her up in 
 his arms, " are ye certain ? " 
 
 " I think I be," she said quietly, " unless I 'm 
 dreamin'." 
 
 " Bless the Lord, then, ye 're not dreamin' ! " he 
 said, setting her on her feet again. " But try some 
 other place." And he held up his hand before her. 
 " There, Fairy, d' ye see anything now ? " 
 
 "Ay," she answered, "something as covers nearly 
 all the window, like a big hand." 
 
 "That's it ! that's it !" he cried excitedly. "Ye 're 
 getting round, for certain. But let 's go to Dr. 
 Benson, he 's clever about eyes." 
 
 And so to the doctor's they went, leaving house 
 and shop to take care of themselves ; for Dick was 
 away, and was not expected back till evening. 
 
 "It's not a case for medicine this, or the surgeon's 
 knife," said the doctor. " The injury that produced 
 the blindness is beyond the reach of either. But 
 evidently Dame Nature is repairing the injury, and 
 so her sight is returning. ' Remove the cause and 
 the effect will disappear.' " 
 
 "And you think her sight'll come back all right?" 
 aid Luther eagerly.
 
 LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 155 
 
 " I should think it is hkely," said the doctor. 
 
 " That '11 do," said Luther. " I 'd rather that than 
 a thousand pounds." And he and Fairy started off 
 home again. 
 
 Two strange things happened that evening. The 
 first was, Fairy was heard to sing again. During 
 the years of her blindness she had been quite 
 cheerful and seemingly content. Now and then 
 she laughed, and laughed right heartily, but no 
 note of song ever escaped her lips. This evening, 
 however, the fountain of her joy burst forth into 
 singing. Luther listened in astonishment, while in 
 clear sweet notes part of an old hymn she had 
 learnt at the ragged school were warbled forth, 
 filling all the room with melody : — 
 
 Away, my needless fears, 
 
 And doubts no longer mine : 
 A ray of heavenly light appears — 
 A messenger divine. 
 
 " Thrice-comfortable hope, 
 
 That calms my stormy breast : 
 My Father's hand prepares the cup, 
 And what He wills is best." 
 
 It was well Fairy could not see Luther's trem- 
 bling lip while she sang, or she might have stopped ; 
 but, all unconscious of the old man's emotion, she 
 sang on, pouring out her gladness and gratitude in
 
 156 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 notes of praise. When the shignig ceased, however, 
 he stole quietly upstairs, and dropped on his knees 
 by the bedside and began to pray. That was the 
 second strange thing that happened. "Oh, Lord!" 
 he said, " I can't help it. My heart 's near bustin' 
 up for very thankfulness. Thou hast done it all. I 
 see Thy goodness, an' I praise Thee for it. I thank 
 Thee for her blindness now. It's been a blessing 
 to us all, but chiefly to me. Her coming to me was 
 good, her goin' away was good, her blindness was 
 good, an' now that she can see again, that is best of 
 all. I believe now that Thou didst send her to lead 
 a poor blind old sinner like me to Thyself. And 
 now. Lord, I thank Thee — not that there's any 
 merit in my thanks, for I can't help it. But if Thou 
 wilt help me for the future, I '11 do my best to serve 
 Thee." 
 
 Dick returned just as Luther came downstairs, 
 with his eyes still moist, and his wrinkled face 
 radiant with pleasure and gratitude. 
 
 "Hi, Mr. Luther! what's up.?" said Dick. "Ye 
 look as 'appy as a duck up a pear-tree." 
 
 "That's cause I be happy, boy," said Luther. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Dick, stopping short in the middle 
 of the room. " Owt happened .-* " 
 
 " Ay," said Luther, triumphantly. " Fairy can 
 see again."
 
 LIGHT IN DARKNESS. 157 
 
 In a moment Dick's hat had struck the ceih'ng-, 
 while he himself gave a spring that astonished 
 Luther. 
 
 "Hold, boy!" he cried, " or ye '11 be goin' through." 
 
 " Never mind that," said Dick ; " but where 's 
 Fairy ? " 
 
 " Here I be," exclaimed Fairy, coming out of the 
 httle pantry. 
 
 " An' can ye see ? " he cried, throwing his arms 
 around her neck and kissing her again and again. 
 
 "Just a httle, Dick," she said, and then she began 
 to tell how for weeks the darkness had been getting 
 thinner and thinner. 
 
 "Well, that's right down good of Him," said 
 Dick, when Fairy had finished. 
 
 " Good of who ? " asked Luther. 
 
 " Why, the Lord, to be sure," said Dick. " I 've 
 axed Him every day since I knowed Fairy was 
 blind to let her see again some time, an' He 's done 
 it, you see." 
 
 "Ay," said Luther solemnly. "I didn't believe 
 in Him once, nor in Providence, nor in heaven, nor 
 any of them things, but I believe now. I 've been 
 like Fairy. I 've been blind, an' blind more years 
 than she. But the Lord has opened the eyes of 
 both on us now, an' we ought to be very thankful." 
 
 " Well, I guess we be," said Dick.
 
 158 
 
 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 Ay, I hope so," said Luther. "An' now for our 
 supper, which Fairy 's got ready, an' by then — why, 
 I guess it '11 be time for bed."
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 CHANGES. 
 
 AIRY recovered her sight more 
 rapidly than any one ever antici- 
 pated ; and by Christmas she could 
 see almost as well as ever she could 
 in her life. Three happier people 
 in all Manchester, ay, in all Eng- 
 land, could not be found than were 
 Luther, Dick, and Fairy that Christmas ; and as 
 Dick was now comparatively well off — indeed, he 
 considered himself rich — there was no lack of good 
 cheer. 
 
 Since Fairy had recovered her sight Luther had 
 always said grace at table, but this Christmas Day 
 they sang it. Fairy started the tune in her clear 
 rich treble, Dick piped a bit of tenor, while Luther 
 brought up the rear in a cracked and quavering 
 bass, and then they set to work not only with good 
 
 159
 
 ]60 DIGK'S FAIRY. 
 
 appetites, but also with thankful hearts, to enjoy 
 the good things that had been provided. 
 
 Dick declared at the close that it was the best 
 dinner he had ever had in his life. 
 
 "That 's because I cooked it," said Fairy. 
 
 " I reckon it 's because we 're all happy an' thank- 
 ful," said Luther ; " for there 's nothing like thank- 
 fulness for making things taste nice." 
 
 "Oh, well," said Dick, "I wish, any road, I 'd a 
 bit more room for that puddin', but I ain't, so I 'd 
 as well give over fust as last." 
 
 Had any one looked into that humble home that 
 Christmas evening, he would have seen a pretty pic- 
 ture. On the big roomy sofa sat Dick and Fairy, 
 the latter holding her brother's hand, her eyes spark- 
 ling, her face aglow with pleasure ; while in his easy 
 chair was Luther, with a light on his wrinkled old 
 face that scarcely seemed of earth. He had been 
 telling them how happy he was in his old age, and 
 how good God had been to him in leading him out 
 of the darkness in which he had so long dwelt, into 
 the clear light of faith and love. 
 
 " Never you bother yourself with them Free- 
 thinkers," he said to Dick. "There's no comfort in 
 it, my lad, nor hope. It 's all, ' Nay, nay,' from first 
 to last. It's all a-puUin' down, an' buildin' nothin' 
 up. If ye ask for bread, they give 'e a stone, an' if
 
 CHANGES. 161 
 
 ye ask for a fish they give 'e a serpent. They call 
 themselves ' Freethinkers/ but that 's all nothin'. 
 I 'm a freer thinker now than ever I was, I'm free 
 now to accept the truth as satisfies the hunger of 
 my soul. 'T ain't a question of proving always: 
 there 's lots of things one can't prove, an' yet he 
 knows somehow that they 're quite true. They fit 
 his nature an' his need, an' satisfies him altogether. 
 Stick to that, lad, which satisfies yer heart's yearnin' 
 an' meets yer hope of a future life. Stick to that 
 which teaches ye to be honest, an' pure, an' true. 
 Ay, stick to that, an' ye '11 not ail much." 
 
 Much more to the same effect he said, but we 
 have not space for any more of his reflections. 
 Suffice it that they made a deep impression on 
 Dick's mind, and helped in no small degree in 
 leading him into the fold of Christ. 
 
 Before retiring that night they had what Luther 
 called a "tryo." Fairy commenced by singing a 
 hymn or carol she had heard that morning in a 
 neighbouring chapel : — 
 
 *' Hark ! the glad sound, the Saviour comes, 
 The Saviour promised long. 
 Let every heart prepare Him room, 
 And every voice a song." 
 
 Luther listened with closed eyes while she sang, 
 and happy grateful tears, that would not be stayed, 
 
 11
 
 162 DIGICS FAIRY. 
 
 welled up into his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. 
 When she had finished, Dick took up the New 
 Testament, and read the second chapter of St. 
 Matthew's Gospel, and then Luther wound up the 
 "tryo" by offering prayer. So ended that first 
 Christmas Day after Fairy had recovered her sight. 
 
 Three days after, Dick made an announcement, 
 " The cottage next door," he said, " comes empty 
 this week, so I have taken it for workshops — that 
 is, the downstairs rooms. We shall want the 
 upstairs rooms for bed-rooms. Fairy must go to 
 school with the new year. I 'm going to make a 
 lady of her. You needn't laugh. Fairy, I mean it," 
 he said, turning to her. " We ain't going to live in 
 this place always, either; an' you'll have to learn to 
 play the piano, an' knit fancy things, an' all that. 
 We'll have a woman to do the work of the house. 
 I 've nearly settled it all, an' it 's too late now to 
 object." 
 
 Nobody, however, thought of objecting, and so it 
 was settled. 
 
 What need is there that we should linger over 
 this period of their lives ? Fairy Avas as eager to 
 learn as ever her brother was, and so she threw all 
 the energy of her nature into her lessons, and, as 
 might be expected, made rapid progress. True — ■' 
 for her age — she was at the bottom of the school,
 
 CHANGES. 163 
 
 but no one taunted her with that, for all her school- 
 mates knew how she had once been blind. 
 
 So four years passed away — happy, peaceful' 
 prosperous years. Fairy, growing in mind and 
 beauty, was blooming into womanhood As for 
 Dick, he considered he had been a man for many 
 years past, and certainly the " down " upon his 
 upper lip testified that he was no longer a boy. 
 " Happy years," we said. And in truth they were. 
 During the winter evenings Dick and Fairy pursued 
 their studies together, by their own fireside ; but 
 when summer came they strolled, as had always 
 been their custom when the weather was fine, into 
 the park or into the country lanes. And people 
 that passed them in their rambles often remarked, 
 " What a nice-looking young couple." 
 
 Fairy was always particular about her dress. Her 
 early circus training may have had something to do 
 with it. Be that as it may, she seemed to know by 
 instinct what suited her, and so she always dressed 
 with taste. Dick, however, had no such gift. He 
 never seemed to trouble what he had on, and so 
 Fairy undertook the care of his wardrobe, and made 
 him dress as s/ie pleased. The consequence was, 
 Dick's personal appearance underwent a surprising 
 transformation. They had many a laugh and many 
 a joke over the matter. 
 
 11 — 2
 
 164 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 " You were the raggedest boy when wc first met," 
 she said, " that I ever saw in my Kfe." 
 
 "Ay, I suppose so," he said, laughing; '"but }'ou 
 were ahvays up to the knocker, Fairy." 
 
 "And if it hadn't been for me vou would go in 
 rags now," she went on. 
 
 " Aloas likely," he drawled with becoming gravit}'. 
 
 " But I 'vc made a gentleman of you," she con- 
 tinued. 
 
 "Not the least doubt of it. Under your care I've 
 bloomed into a howling swell." 
 
 " No you 've not, but you do look respectable." 
 
 " My sweet sister, I sit corrected." 
 
 " Now don't look that way, Dick, you spoil your 
 face." 
 
 " From such a calamity may the good fairies 
 spare me." And with mock gravity he would seize 
 his hat and march away. And Fairy, with beaming 
 face, would watch him till he was out of sight, 
 proud of the handsome young fellow she called her 
 brother. 
 
 At the end of four years Dick planned another 
 change. In the first place, the neighbourhood of 
 Tinker's Row might do very well for workshops, 
 but it was not very desirable as a place of residence. 
 In the second place, he wanted more room to meet 
 the demands of his increasing business ; and in the
 
 CHANGES. 165 
 
 third place, Luther's health had begun to fail, and 
 the old man seemed to pine for the fresh air of the 
 country. So a house a few miles out of Manchester 
 was resolved upon, and at length one was found 
 about a stone's throw from Buckley Station. 
 
 It was the beginning of June when they took 
 possession, and the first thing on which Fairy's eye 
 lighted when she got into the house was a new 
 cottage piano. And so great was her delight that 
 the only way she could express it was to sit down 
 and have a good cry. This performance provoked 
 Dick into such unseemly laughter that she got up 
 at length and boxed his ears, and then kissed the 
 place to make it well, after which all went merry as 
 marriage bells. Luther was delighted with ever)^- 
 thing. The house with its neat new furniture and 
 cheerful carpets ; the garden all abloom with 
 flowers ; the hedge white with hawthorn ; the fields 
 dressed in living green ; the valley below sleeping 
 in a golden haze. 
 
 "I feel better already," said Luther; "I shall 
 renew my youth like the eagles." 
 
 They had been settled in their new home about 
 a fortnight when Dick received a visit that caused 
 him quite a little flutter of excitement. Most of 
 his neighbours had called and seemed disposed to 
 be friendly, so that there was not much likelihood
 
 166 VICICS FAIRY. 
 
 of Fairy or Luther being dull if they cared for 
 company. 
 
 On the evening in question, Fairy was seated a'; 
 the piano playing some dreamy voluntary, while 
 Dick and Luther, under the pretence of reading, 
 were both listening to the music, when the servant 
 announced : " Mr. and Mrs. Robert Baker." 
 
 Dick laid down his book and strode toward the 
 door at once, and in another minute had grasped 
 the hand of his visitor in his usual hearty fashion. 
 
 " Good evening, Mr. Baker," he said, " I am very 
 
 pleased " Then stopped suddenly short, looked 
 
 at his visitor curiously for a moment, hesitated, then 
 burst out : " Excuse me if I 'm mistaken, but you 
 are not * Chips,' are you ? " 
 
 " Ay," said Chips, laughing all over his broad, 
 homely face; "all that's left of him, at any rate." 
 
 *' Well, there 's a good deal left, anyhow," said 
 Dick. " But come in ; I am delighted to see you. 
 And this is your wife ? " 
 
 " Ay," said Chips, blushing, " we should have 
 called sooner, only, to tell you the truth, we only 
 returned yesterday from our wedding tour." 
 
 "Well, I am delighted to see you," repeated 
 Dick. " This is my sister Fairy. You never knew 
 her, I reckon ; but Mr. Luther, here, you must have 
 known very well."
 
 CHANGES. 167 
 
 *'I should think so," said Chips, "most of us lads 
 knew him." 
 
 Then followed a long chat about old times, and 
 early struggles with want and poverty. 
 
 "I am a good bit older than you," said Chips, 
 " but I remember you as well as anything." 
 
 " And how is Ebenezer now .'' " asked Dick at 
 length. 
 
 " Better than ever he was," said Chips. " Indeed 
 he says he grows younger every year. And as for 
 Joe Wigley, he 's my right-hand man. You re- 
 member Joe ? " 
 
 " I don't think I do," answered Dick. 
 
 " Well, you must come over and see us, and 
 you '11 like Joe, I 'm certain. Jenny and I would 
 never have had time to get married but for Joe." 
 
 " Don't talk nonsense. Bob," said Jenny, blushing; 
 "but Mr. Dugdale knows you, that's a comfort." 
 
 "Ay, but he don't know you," said Chips, with a 
 broad grin. "But do you know, Dick, Jenny and 
 I fell in love with each other at first sight ? " 
 
 "No; I didn't know," said Dick, with a twinkle 
 in his eye. 
 
 " Oh, what a cram, Bob ! " said Jenny. " But Miss 
 Dugdale won't believe you, I know." 
 
 " That I won't," said Fairy, laughing. 
 
 Chips' joke, however, had the effect of setting
 
 168 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 them all at their ease, and the rest of the evening 
 passed away in the most delightful fashion. 
 
 Fairy was delighted with our old friend Jenny 
 Pearson, now Mrs. Robert Baker. And Dick was 
 pleased beyond measure to find under such happy 
 auspices an old companion in tribulation. During 
 the bright summer evenings that followed many 
 similar visits were paid and returned. And some- 
 times of a morning Luther would start off down the 
 lane towards Fern Cottage, to have " a crack " with 
 Ebenezer, or a smoke in the shade of the poplars. 
 
 So the bright summer months passed away like 
 a dream. Luther declared he had never been so 
 happy before in his life. He spent nearly all his 
 days out of doors. He loved to watch the cloud 
 shadows on the fields, and the flowers in the garden 
 unfolding their beauties to the sun. Nature, to 
 him, was a constant miracle, and a never-ending 
 revelation of God's wisdom and power and love. 
 
 He used to say, sometimes, that if he had always 
 lived in the country, he thought he would never 
 have lost his faith in God. " But in the big towns, 
 nearly every trace of God's finger," he said, "is 
 blotted out."
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 AND LAST. 
 
 O the sunny days sped on, and no one 
 noted the change that was surely 
 coming. Luther declared that he 
 had taken a new lease of life ; yet a 
 close observer, even in those days, 
 would have noted that the old man 
 was not what he once was ; there 
 was an undefinable something in his manner and 
 appearance, that too surely betokened the coming 
 end. 
 
 But when autumn came, and the chill wind 
 moaned solemnly in the trees, and the brown leaves 
 fluttered silently and sadly to the earth ; when the 
 flowers in the garden began to droop their heads, 
 and the evening air was touched with frost, then 
 Luther began to droop and fail. 
 
 He would not acknowledge it to himself at first, 
 
 169
 
 IVO DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 yet his walks got shorter and his step moved slower 
 with each returning day, till he gave up his ramble 
 altogether, and sat idly in his chair from morning 
 till eve. 
 
 So gradual was the change that Fairy scarcely 
 noticed it, and when she did she was not troubled. 
 " He 's used to sitting all day long," she said to 
 herself, " an' it 's natural he should stay indoors 
 now the weather has got chill." 
 
 But Dick, who saw less of the old man, was 
 quick to mark the change, though he said nothing 
 about it to Fairy. He thought it better that she 
 should discover the fact herself. 
 
 For many weeks Luther made no allusion to the 
 matter, but when his appetite suddenly failed him, 
 the truth became evident even to him. 
 
 One afternoon he said to Fairy, " I should like 
 you to sing to me to-day, if it's not too much 
 trouble." 
 
 " Trouble ? oh, no, uncle," said Fairy brightly. 
 " It 's no trouble at all, it 's a pleasure. What shall 
 I sing to you ? " 
 
 "Sing the 'Better Land,'" he said quietly. "I'm 
 only a child, Fairy ; an old man in years, I know, 
 yet only a child." 
 
 So Fairy seated herself at the piano, and sang in 
 her rich treble voice the song the old man loved.
 
 CONCLUSION. 171 
 
 When she had done he thanked her in low 
 earnest words, and then repeated to himself the last 
 lines over and over again : — 
 
 "Dreams cannot picture a world so fair ; 
 Sorrow and death may not enter there ; 
 Time doth not breathe on its fadeless b!oom 
 For beyond the cloud and beneath the tomb, 
 It is there, my child." 
 
 "You are a beautiful singer, Fairy," he said at 
 length. 
 
 "Do you think so, uncle?" she said, looking 
 pleased. 
 
 " Yes, you are a beautiful singer, and I love to 
 hear you. But nothing lasts here, Fairy." 
 
 " No," she said quietly. 
 
 " No, nothing lasts," he repeated. " The flowers 
 were very beautiful all through the summer, but 
 they are all gone. Fairy, and the trees are nearly 
 bare." 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "winter is coming again." 
 
 " Yes," he said, " winter is coming. But there '11 
 be no winter in heaven. Fairy. I Ve thought a 
 great deal about it lately. The flowers don't die 
 there, and I shall die no more when I get there." 
 
 "But why do you talk of dying, uncle?" she 
 asked. " You will not die yet for many a year." 
 
 He shook his head sadly, and then answered :
 
 172 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 " You must not be deceived, my child, for I 'm 
 nearly done." 
 
 " Oh, no, uncle," she said, getting off the music 
 stool and coming and standing by his chair. " You 
 are not ill, and when spring comes again you will 
 be as bright as ever." 
 
 "My Fairy," he said, and he smoothed her shining 
 hair with his wrinkled hand, "when spring comes 
 again I shall not be here. The flowers will bloom 
 again, but I shall not see them, and the birds will 
 sing in the trees, but I shall not hear them. I shall 
 be in a better country, Fairy, far away from all pain 
 and sorrow." 
 
 Oh, no, uncle ! do not talk in that way," she said. 
 " I cannot bear to think of your dying." 
 
 " It 's best you should know," he said gently, 
 " though it grieves me to give you pain, for I think 
 I 've never loved anything in the world as I love 
 you. God sent you to me, my Fairy, to lead me 
 back to Himself" 
 
 "I'm sure I have only been a trouble and anxiety 
 to you," she said, wiping away the wilful tears that 
 had started in her eyes. 
 
 " Trouble .-* No, not in the sense you mean. 
 Anxiety .'' Yes. But that was because you were 
 so dear to me, and I loved you so. But no act 
 or word of yours, my child, has ever given me a
 
 CONCLUSION. 173 
 
 moment's pain. No, Fairy, you 'vc been the light 
 an' sunshine of my decHning years." 
 
 " I 'm glad I 've been a comfort to you," she said, 
 and. she began to cry in earnest now. 
 
 " Nay, don't cry," he said, stroking her hair, 
 " don't cry, my Fairy, It will only be for a little 
 while, and then we shall meet again. Once I 
 thought that I should die like a dog : simply go 
 out into everlasting forgetfulness. But to you, m.y 
 Fairy, under God, I owe the hope that now cheers 
 me on. I see the darkness and the grave, but I do 
 not fear, for beyond I see the light, for God is with 
 me holding my hand." 
 
 " Oh, uncle, uncle ! " she sobbed, " but I couldn't 
 bear for you to go away." 
 
 " He will help you," answered the old man, a 
 bright smile lighting up his wrinkled face. " He 
 will help you, as He is helping me ; and if any of 
 my old mates ask after me, tell them it was my last 
 prayer that I might die a Christian. Oh, what 
 should I do now, child, now that the shadows are 
 growing deeper every moment, if I were as I used 
 to be, ere you came to lead me into the light ? " 
 
 " Oh, I do not know, uncle," she wailed ; " I do 
 not know." 
 
 "But it's almost easy dying now," he went on; 
 "and though the thought of leaving you gives me
 
 174 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 pain, yet I know Dick will care for you. He 's a 
 noble young fellow, is Dick, and God will watch 
 over you both." 
 
 He paused a moment, but Fairy did not speak, 
 Then he went on again. 
 
 " I 've saved a b't of money, Fairy, and I 've 
 willed it you. I know you will use it wisely. It 's 
 not very much, but you '11 think of it as an expres- 
 sion of an old man's love. And don't put me in a 
 brick grave, Fairy ; let the warm, soft earth come 
 close around me — it's a childish fancy, but I think 
 1 '11 sleep the better, close pressed by the arms of 
 Mother Earth. I don't care for tombstones, P""airy, 
 but if you wish to put up anything of the sort, I 'd 
 like it to say that I died in the faith of the Gospel, 
 and underneath let these words be : — 
 
 "And a little child shall lead them." 
 
 Fairy was sobbing now with her arms about his 
 neck, so he ceased speaking, and for a long time 
 only her sobs broke the stillness of the room. 
 
 On Dick's return in the evening Luther bright- 
 ened up wonderfully, and chatted away about the 
 ordinary events of life with all his old interest and 
 zest. 
 
 Before retiring, Fairy sang, as she often did, 
 Luther's favourite hymn, ending with the verse —
 
 CONCLUSION. 175 
 
 " Fixed on this ground will I remain. 
 Though my heart fail and flesh decay ; 
 
 This anchor shall my soul sustain, 
 "When earth's foundations melt away ; 
 
 Mercy's full power I then shall prove. 
 Loved with an everlasting love." 
 
 Then Dick read a Psalm, and Luther prayed. It 
 was a very simple prayer, in which he thanked God 
 for the mercies of the day, and then commended 
 them all to the mercy and care that are infinite. 
 His " Good night," was more than usually hearty, 
 and his smile as cheery as ever. But when in the 
 morning they knocked at his bed-room door, they 
 got no answer. Getting alarmed at length, Dick 
 opened the door and entered, and found him 
 apparently fast asleep, but, on coming closer, he 
 saw that it was the sleep of death. He must have 
 died without a struggle. He lay on his side with 
 his head upon his arm, his eyes closed, his lips just 
 a little apart. Indeed, he never knew the agony of 
 dying. He closed his eyes and slept, and woke to 
 the light of another morning than ours, and to the 
 joy that is eternal. 
 
 Dick and Fairy mourned their old friend's de- 
 parture with genuine grief, for he had seemed as a 
 father to them ; indeed, to Fairy he was the only 
 father she had ever known. But time, the great
 
 176 DICK'S FAIRY. 
 
 healer, softened their grief at length, and life's 
 many duties left them no time for needless regret. 
 
 ****** 
 
 And now, what need is there that we should say- 
 more? We have no story of love to tell. Such 
 love as there is in our story has been already told. 
 Dick has never seen any one that — in his eyes — is 
 half so fair as Fairy, and he thinks she grows more 
 beautiful every day ; while Fairy thinks that there 
 is no man in the world to be compared to her 
 brother, and so is quite happy in his love. What 
 the future may bring, of course, we cannot tell ; that 
 we must leave. 
 
 Every year Dick brings out some new invention, 
 or adds some novelty to the many that have gone 
 before, and every year his business increases. His 
 home is a perfect little bower of peace and content- 
 ment, presided over by the angel of his life — his 
 Fairy. 
 
 All Dick's acquaintances know that he is a 
 prosperous man. They all know that he is a genius. 
 They all know that he possesses an amount of 
 dogged perseverance that would succeed anywhere. 
 But none of them knew — not even " Dick's Fairy" 
 — till last year, that he is a poet.
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 177 
 
 Last year Dick built a new workshop, or manu- 
 factory, not far from his own dwelling. He wanted 
 to be nearer home, and moreover, the old shops 
 were wanted by the Improvement Committee, and 
 he was under notice to quit So he prepared This 
 plans and set to work, and last year the building 
 was completed, and pronounced by competent 
 judges to be a model of its kind. The walls are of 
 brick, but conspicuous over the main entrance is a 
 large stone with an inscription on which his fame 
 as a poet rests. The inscription we give in full : — 
 
 liS
 
 HOSEA BEGG. 
 
 12—2
 
 HOSEA BEGG 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 HOSEA HIMSELF. 
 
 OSEA BEGG sat in his private office 
 £)) alone. It was Saturday afternoon, 
 and he was busy over some private 
 accounts. He was a spare man of 
 some sixty years of age, with a stoop 
 in the shoulders, and a thin cadaverous 
 face. Just at present he was rubbing 
 his chin complacently, while around the corners of 
 his somewhat wide mouth lurked what, for want of 
 a better term, we must call a self-complacent smile 
 — not a pleasant smile, by any means. Indeed, 
 Hosea had not a pleasant face ; children were never 
 attracted to him ; and older people preferred, as a 
 rule, to keep out of his way. 
 
 181
 
 182 HOSE A BEGG. 
 
 Yet Hosea had once been a class -leader ; and 
 even now his name remained on a local preachers' 
 plan. To be strictly correct, Hosea was a class- 
 leader still, in name ; he had his class-book, and 
 quarter by quarter he wrote his name on the top of 
 the page, but he had no following. One by one the 
 members of his class had removed or died, and no 
 new members had come to take their place. Year 
 by year he had seen the list of names grow shorter, 
 till only he and Tommy Clark remained ; and four 
 years ago Tommy went over to the majority, and 
 Hosea was left alone, a leader without a class, a 
 shepherd without a flock. 
 
 Hosea did not seem greatly troubled about this. 
 He had still a seat in the leaders' meeting, and a 
 voice in the counsels of the Church ; while now and 
 then he was permitted to " hold forth " in the pulpit, 
 to his own evident satisfaction. 
 
 A shrewd man was Hosea — " cunning," perhaps, 
 would be the more correct description. In business 
 he had prospered, and was now reputed to be very 
 rich. He described himself as being "a careful man." 
 Certain it is he never wasted anything, nor was he 
 ever known to be extravagant in his charities. In 
 his contributions to the Church he was "systematic," 
 and never fell below the average of thirty years. 
 But the moral quality on which Hosea most prided
 
 ROSEA HIMSELF. 183 
 
 himself was "justice." " Catch me doing wrong out 
 of pity ! " Hosea once remarked. " Never, sir, never !" 
 And it was quite true. If ever he was led astray, it 
 was not pity that led him. Other people, lacking 
 what Hosea called his moral fibre, might yield to 
 the call of sympathy, and deny themselves some 
 anticipated pleasure for the sake of a suffering 
 neighbour ; but Hosea was made of sterner stuff. 
 "Justice, sir, justice, though the heavens fall ! " was 
 a frequent remark of his. " Why should a man 
 give up his rights because somebody asks him to 
 do so ? No, sir ! pay and be paid to the farthing, 
 that's justice; and justice is right, sir, and any 
 departure from it is wrong ; and wrong is a sin, sir, 
 and sin, sir, is — is — why, yes, of course, sin, sir, is 
 sin. What can be plainer than that ? " 
 
 To Hosea nothing could be plainer ; and so he 
 went on his way, if not actually rejoicing, yet highly 
 satisfied with himself, and with the very flattering 
 reflection that he was much more "just" than his 
 neighbours. 
 
 It wanted but two days to Christmas, for Christ- 
 mas Day this year fell on a Monday. In Hosea 
 Begg's outer office sat William Wilkins, clerk and 
 general factotum, waiting patiently till his master 
 should call him in to receive his weekly wage. 
 William was a feeble patient-eyed man, who looked
 
 184 HOSE A BEGG. 
 
 as though he had been worsted in the battle of life, 
 and was trying hard to be resigned to his fate. 
 
 He had finished his work some time ago, and 
 after carefully wiping his pen and putting the cheer- 
 less and comfortless office in order, he perched him- 
 self on the high stool, where he had sat ever since, 
 motionless as a statue, with a far-away look in his 
 eyes and a sadly resigned expression upon his face. 
 
 It was a bitterly cold afternoon, with a keen north- 
 east wind that threatened snow, and which found 
 its way everywhere. But William did not seem to 
 heed it. Perhaps he was too busy with his thoughts 
 or too eagerly waiting the call of his master. 
 
 It came at length, and with an alacrity that seemed 
 incredible, he slipped off his perch and stood before 
 his master. 
 
 " You will not have forgotten, Wilkins, that on 
 Tuesday you did not put in an appearance till 
 noon } " was Hosea's greeting. 
 
 " No, sir ; I was very poorly, as I told you at 
 the time," said Wilkins, dreamily. " We cannot be 
 agin sickness, sir." 
 
 " Of course not — of course not. We must take 
 what a merciful Providence sends us without com- 
 plaining, though it makes it very awkward for me," 
 went on Hosea; "but I just mention the matter 
 lest it should have slipped your memory."
 
 HOSEA HIMSELF. 185 
 
 Wilkins only heaved a sigh at this, and Hosea 
 went on again, — 
 
 " And on Thursday you will remember that you 
 left directly after dinner, and did not put in an 
 appearance again during the day." 
 
 " But you know the reason, sir," said Wilkins, 
 ruefully. " You know how Mary brought me word 
 that little Sam had fallen downstairs and broken 
 his arm. Oh, dear ! it seems sometimes as if every- 
 thing were agin me." 
 
 " I 'm not complaining at your being away," said 
 Hosea, "I only wanted to point out that you have 
 been absent this week two half-days, and, according 
 to my arithmetic, two half-days will make a whole 
 one. In other words, you have worked five days 
 instead of six, and so your wageswill be twenty shil- 
 lings and tenpence instead of twenty-five shillings." 
 
 " But surely, sir," said Wilkins pathetically, " you 
 will not dock me for loss of time, and it being 
 Christmas too, and me having so much sickness in 
 the house ? " 
 
 " I did not bring the sickness upon you," said 
 Hosea, " and why should I suffer for it ? " 
 
 " And why should I suffer, sir .-' " said Wilkins 
 meekly. 
 
 " If God wills it, you should be patient." said 
 Hosea.
 
 186 HOSEA BEGG. 
 
 " Still, sir, I think you might allow me my full 
 wage under the circumstances," said Wilkins. " In- 
 deed, I thought perhaps you might give me a little 
 extra, it being Christmas, and seeing we need it so 
 very much." 
 
 This proposition was so astounding that it took 
 Hosea several seconds to recover himself. 
 
 " You thought I should pay you what you have 
 never worked for } " he said at length, in his severest 
 tones. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir," said Wilkins humbly, 
 " I meant no offence ; but we 're awfully put to just 
 at present, and what with sickness, and doctors' 
 bills, and extras of one sort and another, I don't 
 know what we 're going to do." 
 
 " That ^s your business, Wilkins, not mine," said 
 Hosea stiffly. 
 
 "But you oughtn't to be hard on a man," said 
 Wilkins, with a feeble attempt at a smile ; " and 
 really, sir, I have tried during the week to make up 
 for the two half-days I 've been away." 
 
 " Time once lost can never be regained," said 
 Hosea. "You've heard me say that before; and 
 why should I pay you what you 've not earned ? 
 No, Wilkins, I believe in being just before I 'm 
 generous." 
 
 " But don't you think you might be both, just for
 
 HOSEA HIMSELF. 187 
 
 once ? " And Wilkins looked appealingly into his 
 master's face. 
 
 For a moment Hosea smiled in a superior kind 
 of way, as if he pitied such stupendous ignorance, 
 then blandly remarked, — 
 
 " Y^Du never did understand logic, Wilkins — you 
 never will. I ought not to blame you for what you 
 can't help, and I won't. Only when you find that 
 you can be in two places at the same time, we '11 
 discuss your proposition. Now be off with you. 
 I '11 lock the office myself to-night." 
 
 Wilkins did not attempt to press his request any 
 further. He knew it was of no use. So with a 
 heavy heart, and eyes dim with unbidden tears, he 
 picked up the sovereign, the sixpence, and the four 
 coppers, and silently left the room. 
 
 A moment later Hosea called after him, " Good 
 night, Wilkins, and a merry Christmas." 
 
 But he got no answer. Such a wish seemed an 
 insult to the heavy-hearted man, and so, without 
 reply, he went forth into the winterly street, and 
 directed his steps towards home. 
 
 After he had gone, Hosea raked the embers of his 
 fire together, and sat down to reflect. He was in no 
 hurry to go to his home. Why should he be ? If 
 his wife had been alive, or if his daughter were still 
 with him, it would have been different. But he had
 
 188 HOSEA BEGG. 
 
 been a widower these ten years past, while his 
 daughter had dared, in spite of his threats, seven 
 years ago, to marry a penniless clerk for — to him — 
 the ridiculously absurd reason that she loved him. 
 
 The day after her marriage Hosea burnt his will, 
 and got his lawyer to draw up another, in which he 
 left all his property to a nephew he had never seen. 
 
 " Never expect any help from me," he wrote to 
 his daughter a week later. " I have disinherited 
 you, and I disown you. You are no longer a 
 daughter of mine. I gave you fair warning, and 
 you have defied me ; now you must take the conse- 
 quences. I am a just man, as you know. Justice 
 has been the ruling principle of my life. So don't 
 imagine that any circumstance will ever induce me 
 to give up what I have cherished so long." 
 
 Up to within a week ago his daughter had never 
 troubled him. She had found a good husband, and 
 was happy in his love. If she met her father in the 
 street, she saluted him with a pleasant " Good 
 morning, father," or " Good evening, father," as the 
 case might be. But a slight inclination of the head 
 was the only recognition he ever extended to her. 
 
 But a week ago he received from her a pitiful 
 letter. " For three months," she said, " her husband 
 had been prostrate with low fever. All their little 
 savings had been swallowed up, and they were in
 
 HO SEA HIMSELF. 189 
 
 great need. She would have come to him herself, 
 but her little baby was scarcely more than a week 
 old, and so she could not venture out. But if he 
 would send just a little help, they would be so 
 thankful. Her husband, who was the best man in 
 the world, would repay him again when he got well. 
 But just at present he needed many delicacies, and 
 alas ! they were almost lacking bread." 
 
 To this appeal Hosea sent no reply. He just 
 placed the letter in another envelope, and returned 
 it to his daughter. He was not sorry the opportu- 
 nity had come when he could take his revenge — 
 exhibit his justice, he called it, but it amounted to 
 the same thing. 
 
 Somehow Hosea's reflections, on the afternoon 
 in question, were not very comforting. He had 
 thought poor Wilkins a fool for asking if he could 
 not be both just and generous at the same time. 
 Yet now, as he came to reflect on the simple ques- 
 tion, it did not seem so very foolish after all. Sup- 
 pose he had given Wilkins his full week's wage, 
 where would the injustice have been ? 
 
 This question haunted him so persistently that 
 he got quite irritable after a while. 
 
 "Strange," he said to himself, "that I can't get 
 that idiot's face and words out of my mind. I 
 think I 'd better go home,"
 
 190 ROSEA BEGG. 
 
 And suiting the action to the word, he donned 
 his top-coat, pressed his tall hat down over his small 
 head, and sauntered forth into the street. 
 
 It was dark by this time, and intensely cold, and 
 Hosea hurried on at a quick pace to keep up the 
 circulation. He had not gone far when a little 
 ragged, shivering, barefooted lad ran up to him and 
 jerked out the words between his chattering teeth, 
 " Evenin' paper, sir, third edeeshun ? " 
 
 " No ! no ! " said Hosea, sternly. 
 
 " Oh, do buy a paper," wailed the boy ; " I 'm a- 
 most starved." 
 
 " Get out of my way, you brat ! " snarled Hosea, 
 raising his stick in a threatening attitude ; and with 
 a great sob the little fellow slunk out of sight. 
 
 For the rest of the distance Hosea pursued his 
 way unmolested. 
 
 After tea he informed his housekeeper that h.c 
 wanted to be alone, as he had to preach on the 
 following morning, and that he should be very cross 
 if he were disturbed. 
 
 " You needn't be frightened," said the old lady, 
 with dignity ; " nobody wants to disturb you ;" and 
 instantly marched out of the room. 
 
 Hosea had only just succeeded in alighting upon 
 a suitable text when the door-bell rang, and a few 
 moments later he heard a childish voice in the
 
 "Then I 'm afraid you are a bad, wicked man."— p. 191
 
 EOSEA HIMSELF. 191 
 
 passage saying to his housekeeper, " Ma says I mns^ 
 see him, and I imistl' 
 
 This was repeated several times over with in- 
 creasing vehemence, till at length the door was 
 thrown open, and Hosea, looking up, saw advancing 
 toward him a little girl of some six years of age. 
 
 " Well," said he, " who are you, and what do you 
 want here?" though there was not the least necessity 
 that he should have asked either of the questions. 
 
 " I am Mrs. Grafton's little girl," replied the child, 
 shaking the snow out of her long hair, " and ma sent 
 me here. Pa is ill, and baby we fear is dying, and 
 we have nothing to eat, and hardly a bit of fire." 
 
 " And your ma sent you here, did she ? " said 
 Hosea, in a mocking tone. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said the child. '* Ma is in great trouble, 
 and she said to me, ' Go and tell your grandpa, for 
 the love of God, to send us help, or we shall die.' " 
 
 " Then go and tell your ma," said Hosea, mock- 
 ingly, "that if she wants help she can go to the 
 workhouse. We pay rates to maintain paupers." 
 
 "And won't you give us anything?" said the 
 child, in surprise. 
 
 "No," said Hosea, "I will not." 
 
 " Then I 'm afraid you are a bad, wicked man," 
 said the child, impulsively, and ran out of the room. 
 
 " Saucy, impudent child ! " said Hosea to himself,
 
 192 HOSEA BEGG. 
 
 almost white with passion. " I '11 teach her a lesson, 
 and her mother too." 
 
 This little incident knocked both text and sermon 
 completely out of Hosea's head for the time being ; 
 and fully an hour had elapsed before he — with feet 
 on the fender and his little body far back in his easy 
 chair — could settle down comfortably to work out 
 the text : — 
 
 " If any man have not the Spirit of Christ, he is 
 none of His." 
 
 " Let me see now," said Hosea, pressing the tips 
 of his fingers tightly together, and knitting his fore- 
 head into countless wrinkles. 
 
 "First and foremost, Christ manifested the spirit 
 of forgiveness. That's a good point. 'If ye forgive 
 not men their trespasses,' &c. Yes, yes ; I '11 work 
 out that at some length. 
 
 " Secondly. Christ manifested the spirit of un- 
 selfishness. ' For your sakes,' * Gave Himself 
 * Went about doing good,' &c. That '11 do nicely. 
 
 " Thirdly. Let me see now — ' Charity ; ' yes, 
 that '11 do nicely. Christ was wonderfully charitable. 
 ' Charity suffereth long, and is kind.' We must be 
 kind. ' Love your enemies,' &c. Good point that. 
 
 "■ Foiirtldy. Now I must stop at this; I never 
 like to have more than four heads. Let me see, now. 
 I '11 have to bring in several points under this head.
 
 HOSEA HIMSELF. 193 
 
 He was merciful and 7neek — nice alliteration that ; 
 tender and true — good again ; gentle and generous. 
 Capital ! I 'm getting quite poetic. Now for the 
 application. We must be all this if we would be 
 Christ's. Forgiving, unselfish, charitable, merciful, 
 meek, tender, true, gentle, generous. 
 
 " This '11 require a bit of working out, and '11 have 
 to be illustrated and enforced. Capital skeleton, if 
 I can only think out proper clothes for it. Well, 
 I '11 try, anyhow." 
 
 And Hosea settled himself firmly into his deep 
 easy chair, and closed his eyes in deep reflection. 
 
 X3
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 hosea's adventure. 
 
 OR obvious reasons Hosea grew quite 
 uncomfortable after awhile under 
 his own reflections, and notwith- 
 standing the night was intensely 
 cold, and his fire sadly wanted re- 
 plenishing, he grew so hot every 
 now and then that the perspiration 
 stood in drops upon his forehead. 
 
 Hosea, however, was not the man to be carried 
 away by his feelings, and by dint of a little mental 
 manoeuvering he succeeded at last in restoring his 
 equanimity, and began to picture, with no small 
 pleasure, the effect his sermon would have on the 
 morrow on certain individuals of his acquaintance, 
 whom he considered to be no better than they 
 ought to be. 
 
 So the evening wore away. Mrs. Blake the house- 
 keeper and the servant girl betook themselves early 
 
 191
 
 HOSEA'S ADVENTURE. 195 
 
 to bed, and* left Hosea alo.ie to silence and his own 
 reflections. Outside the wind howled and sobbed, 
 and dashed the snow against the window-panes, 
 while in the street every sound was muffled by 
 the thick white carpet that was being so softly 
 laid. 
 
 Hosea was startled at length by a sharp rat-tat-tat 
 on the door, and springing to his feet with unusual 
 alacrity, he said to himself, " I wonder who it can 
 be at this time of night ? Why, bless me if it isn't 
 nearly eleven o'clock ! " 
 
 He waited for some seconds, but finding that no 
 one went to open the door, he concluded rightly 
 that "the womenkind," as he termed them, had 
 gone to bed, and that he would have to open the 
 door himself. 
 
 He did not relish this very much ; but still there 
 was no help for it, so he had to submit with the best 
 possible grace. 
 
 On the door being opened two men stood before 
 him. Hosea started back involuntarily: they were 
 so white with the thickly falling snow that for the 
 moment he thought they must be ghosts. He 
 was soon, however, reassured, though scarcely less 
 startled, when he received the request, amounting 
 almost to a command, that he would put on his hat 
 and coat and follow them without delay. 
 
 13 — 2
 
 196 ROSEA BEGG. 
 
 " Follow you!" said H(.sea in astonishment; "and 
 where to, I pray ? " 
 
 " To St Paul's vestry ; we are holding a leaders' 
 meeting, and it is important that you be there." 
 
 "A leaders' meeting on a Saturday night at eleven 
 o'clock ? " exclaimed Hosea. " Ridiculous ! " 
 
 " The case to be decided is urgent, and specially 
 concerns you," was the answer. 
 
 " Me ! In what way, I pray ? " said Hosea. 
 
 " Certain very serious charges are to be preferred 
 against you, and we want to hear your defence." 
 
 " Charges against me!" exclaimed Hosea, aghast. 
 "Then I won't go. It's illegal. I 've not had notice." 
 
 " The object of the meeting is to prevent you 
 taking your appointment to-morrow morning. It 
 is generally considered that you are totally unfit, 
 and therefore ought not to be allowed to preach." 
 
 " Totally unfit and ought not to be allowed, eh }" 
 said Hosea, now thoroughly aroused. "Wait a 
 minute — I '11 be with you. Where 's my hat .'' 
 Where's my coat? Totally unfit, eh ? Where's my 
 stick ? Ought not to be allowed, eh ? I '11 teach 
 'em a lesson when I get there. Prevent me from 
 preaching, will they ? We '11 see who 's master in 
 this little game." And Hosea hobbled out of the 
 house, slamming the door behind him. 
 
 Once in the street, there was little chance for con-
 
 HOSEA'S ADVENTURE. 197 
 
 versation, even if Hosea had been in the humour, 
 for the wind was swirhng the snow about in blind- 
 ing drifts, and almost threatening now and then to 
 lift them off their feet. 
 
 After the cold and storm, the warmth and quiet 
 of the vestry were truly grateful. Quite a number 
 of people had assembled, much to Hosea's surprise. 
 At the head of the table sat the minister, looking 
 grave and troubled, and all around the room sat 
 the members of the meeting in expectant attitudes. 
 
 Hosea was the first to speak. Declining the chair 
 that was offered him, he marched boldly up to the 
 table and addressed the chairman. 
 
 " I wonder what you mean," he said, " dragging a 
 man through the cold and snow at this unearthly 
 hour? I hear that charges are to be preferred 
 against me. Let me tell you then that this whole 
 business is illegal, and I '11 make some of you suffer 
 for it yet. You ought to have served me with a 
 notice, specifying the number and nature of the 
 charges, and you '11 rue this business yet. I don't 
 care a button-top for the whole lot of you, and I '11 
 defy every spiteful cur in this room " 
 
 " Stop, stop, Mr. Begg ! not so fast ! " said the 
 chairman. "Your language is most unmanly. Still, 
 in the painful circumstances under which you have 
 come, some allowance must be made."
 
 198 HOSEA BEGG. 
 
 *' I should think so ! " said Hosea. 
 
 "The object of this meeting is to ascertain whether 
 you arc — well, whether you ought to preach to- 
 morrow morning. Those — and they are many — 
 who pressed me to call this meeting think that you 
 are not — well, to use a mild term — qualified in all 
 respects to preach." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Hosea, a contemptuous smile 
 overspreading his face. "I tell you what: I '11 preach 
 with any man here for his best coat." 
 
 " We do not preach for coats, or wagers of any 
 kind," said the chairman severely. " And if your 
 lauguage in the pulpit is not more choice than what 
 you have used to-night, I shall be forced to concur 
 in the generally expressed opinion of those present." 
 
 "You are mighty squeamish to-night," said Hosea, 
 somewhat taken aback ; " but that you may judge 
 of my fitness, I '11 give you an outline of the sermon 
 I was working out when summoned to this meeting." 
 And he gave the heads of the discourse seriatiw, 
 and with great deliberation. 
 
 "The question is not one of ability," said the 
 chairman, when Hosea had done, "but of moral 
 fitness. The outline you have given is a very good 
 one, and may help us somewhat this evening — in- 
 deed, you may be safely tried and judged by the 
 standard of your own sermon. You say that for a
 
 HOSEA'S ADVENTURE. 199 
 
 man to be a Christian he must have the spirit of 
 Christ. Is that so ? 
 
 " Undoubtedly," said Hosea. 
 
 " And that if a man have not the Spirit of Christ, 
 he is not a Christian ? " 
 
 " Most assuredly." 
 
 "And, if not a Christian, therefore not fit to 
 preach ? " 
 
 " Quite right." 
 
 " You say, first and foremost, Christ was forgiv- 
 ing, and that we must be forgiving if we would be 
 Christ's. Is that so ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, then, the first charge brought against you 
 is that you have not this spirit. Seven years ago 
 your only daughter married against your wish, and 
 you have never forgiven her to this day. Is that 
 so?" 
 
 Hosea was silent. 
 
 " Take the second point in your sermon," said the 
 chairman. " Unselfishness. Are you unselfish } Did 
 you ever sacrifice anything for any one ? One of 
 the charges laid against you is that you are utterly 
 selfish, and that your treatment to-day of William 
 Wilkins abundantly proves it. 
 
 "You say in your third point that we must be 
 kind, as Christ was. Were you, I ask, kind to Wil-
 
 200 ROSEA BEGG. 
 
 kins ? Were you kind to the little boy that wanted 
 to sell you a paper ? Were you kind to your little 
 granddaughter ? Or to your own child and her hus- 
 band ? What have you to say to these charges ? " 
 
 But Hosea was still silent. 
 
 " Under the fourth head of your sermon," went 
 on the chairman, after a pause, " you say that if we 
 would be Christ's, we must be merciful and meek. 
 I ask, are you either > Have you been merciful to 
 your own child ^ Have you been meek in your 
 behaviour before this meeting? Tender and true 
 are other terms you use. Are you tender ? Were 
 you tender to the little ragged child in the street, 
 or to your daughter's child that came to you through 
 the cold and snow seeking help ? " 
 
 " But I 'm true," said Hosea stoutly ; " and no- 
 body can deny that." 
 
 "True?" questioned the chairman severely; "true 
 to what "i To what principle in the Gospel have 
 you been true t Don't you think rather that your 
 whole life has been a falsehood? Have you not 
 been professing for thirty years what in heart and 
 life you have not been ? Talk no more about truth 
 until your life shall harmonize with your profes- 
 sions. 
 
 "And as to your last points, 'gentleness' and 
 * generosity,' you are a stranger to both. If you had
 
 HOSEA'S ADVENTURE. 201 
 
 a particle of generosity in your nature, you would 
 have paid poor William Wilkins his full week's 
 wage, for you know well enough that he well earned 
 it, and you would have given him a five-pound note 
 besides to make merry during Christmas. You 
 would also have visited your son-in-law in his afflic- 
 tion, and have helped him and his in their need. 
 As it is, your whole life has been mean, selfish, and 
 unchristian. And now I ask you if you still think 
 you are fit to preach the Gospel ? If you have any 
 defence to make, make it now, and we will listen, 
 and listen with patience." 
 
 But Hosea did not speak. He made an effort 
 once or twice, but the words died in his throat. He 
 seemed under the influence of some overmastering 
 spell, from which he could not get free. He heard 
 the questfon put to the meeting, " Those who think 
 Hosea Begg fit to preach the Gospel to-morrow 
 morning signify it by show of hands ; " and he saw 
 that no hand was held up. " Those who think he 
 is not fit ; " and Hosea looked timidly round the 
 room, and every hand was held up. He heard in 
 an indistinct kind of way the minister addressing 
 him and urging him to bring forth fruits meet for 
 repentance, and telling him that there might be yet 
 a useful life before him. 
 
 Then came a swift rush of darkness and cold, and
 
 202 HOSEA BEGG. 
 
 he found himself in the wintry street, with his left 
 hand firmly held in that of a policeman. 
 
 Hosea was too astonished to speak, or to offer 
 any resistance. Through street after street he 
 walked by the policeman's side in silence ; then 
 suddenly halted before a door, the knocker of which 
 the policeman raised high, and let it fall with a 
 bang. 
 
 The door was opened instantly, and without a 
 word they entered, passed quickly up a narrow 
 flight of stairs, and into a dim and poorly-furnished 
 room. There was no one in the room as far as 
 Hosea could see, and he began to wonder why the 
 policeman had brought him there. 
 
 The next moment the light was turned full on, 
 and on the bed he discovered two figures sharply 
 outlined under the single sheet. 
 
 " Come here," said the policeman, and, trembling 
 now from head to foot, Hosea obeyed. 
 
 " You see this man and child ? " the policeman 
 asked. 
 
 " I do," Hosea gasped. 
 
 " You see that they are both dead ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; let me get away." 
 
 " You know this man is your son-in-law," went 
 on the policeman, without heeding Hosea's remark; 
 "and this "—pointing to the baby— "is his child.
 
 HOSEA'S ADVENTURE. 203 
 
 They have died through lack of proper nourish- 
 ment, and you, sir, will answer for their death. 
 Come with me." 
 
 There was something in the tones of this man's 
 voice, something so imperative in his command, that 
 Hosea dared not but obey. 
 
 At the foot of the stairs they paused at a door, 
 and listened. It was the cry of a despairing and 
 broken-hearted woman they heard. 
 
 " Oh, my husband ! oh, my child ! " 
 
 " It 's my daughter," gasped Hosea ; " let me go 
 to her." 
 
 "Not now," said the policeman. "You can do 
 her no good. You cannot bring back to her her 
 husband ; you cannot bring back her child. If you 
 had gone to her when she sought your help, you 
 could have saved them both; now, sir, it is too late. 
 Come with me." 
 
 And again they were in the wintry street, battling 
 with the snow. All the shops were closed now save 
 the public houses and pawn-shops, and as they 
 passed in front of one of the latter, a pale haggard 
 man came out, and hurried swiftly away into the 
 darkness. 
 
 " You know that man } " said the policeman, in a 
 questioning tone. 
 
 " It looked like Wilkins," said Hosea.
 
 204 HOSEA BEGG. 
 
 "You are quite right," said the policeman ; "you 
 have driven him out this wild night ; he has been 
 to pawn his overcoat to provide for the wants of his 
 sick child." 
 
 " This is avv^ful ! " groaned Hosea. 
 
 A little farther on they left the main street, and 
 turned up a dark narrow entry, the policeman using 
 his lantern to light the way. After many twists 
 and turns they reached a darker corner than any 
 they had passed. 
 
 *' Do you see anything there ? " said the police- 
 man, flashing the light into the corner. 
 
 " Only a heap of snow," said Hosea. 
 
 " Then pull away those newspapers." 
 
 Hosea had no sooner complied than he started 
 back. Crouched on the floor was a little boy, his 
 head thrown back against the wall, and two tear- 
 drops on his cheek frozen into ice. The eyes were 
 wide open, but there was no light in them. The 
 child was quite dead. He had tried to screen him- 
 self from the snow and cold by spreading his unsold 
 newspapers over him ; but the cold had touched his 
 heart and stopped its beating for evermore. 
 > "That child appealed to you for help this even- 
 ing," said the policeman, "and you spurned him. 
 I do not say you only are to blame for his death, 
 but your share of it you will have to bear. But
 
 HOSEA'S ADVENTURE. 205 
 
 come, we have not much farther to go." And once 
 more they were crunching the snow beneath their 
 feet. 
 
 They now stood before a ponderous door thickly 
 studded with iron nails. " You know this place ? " 
 said the policeman. 
 
 Hosea nodded assent. 
 
 " Then say good bye to the world, for those who 
 have committed murder do not leave this place 
 again." 
 
 Hosea tried to protest, but his tongue cleaved to 
 the roof of his mouth, 
 
 " This is your cell," said the policeman at length, 
 opening a door, and thrusting him in. "Good night, 
 and a merry Christmas." , 
 
 " The wretch ! what a mockery ! " was Hosea's 
 reflection, as the door closed with a bang, and he 
 found himself in darkness and alone. 
 
 " Good heavens ! " he moaned, sinking to the 
 ground. " This is the strangest adventure man ever 
 had. What can it all mean, and how will it end ? "
 
 CHAPTER III. . 
 hosea's conversion. 
 
 O describe the horror of that night, as 
 Hosea sat there alone, his teeth 
 chattering with fear and cold, were 
 impossible. But it came to an end 
 at last, and when the first rays of 
 the morning struggled through the 
 window, and smote his half-closed 
 eyes, he sprang to his feet and stared around him in 
 bewilderment. 
 
 Was this a prison cell ? No, it was his own room ; 
 he had risen from his own chair. But what of the 
 Church meeting? What of his dead son-in-law 
 and grandchild, and the agony and despair of his 
 daughter ? What of the dead news-boy, and the 
 prison cell into which he had been thrust ? Had 
 he dreamed it all ? Was it all some horrible night- 
 mare from which now he had been wholly delivered? 
 
 206
 
 HOSE A' S CONVEESIOK 207 
 
 No, it could not be ! It was all too vivid for a 
 dream. And yet — and yet ! And Hosea sat down 
 in his chair again to think. "Have I dreamed it all, 
 or am I dreaming now .■' " he said. 
 
 At length he slipped off the chair and fell upon 
 his knees. " O God in heaven ! " he groaned, " I 'm 
 a bad wicked sinner, and in a vision to-night Thou 
 hast shown me myself. But if in Thy mercy " 
 
 But here he suddenly stopped, as though the 
 mere sound of the word "mercy" had stung him. 
 Springing to his feet, he muttered to himself, 
 "What right have I to ask for mercy until I show 
 it?" 
 
 And in less than half an hour he was standing at 
 his daughter's door with a big basket on his arm, 
 which he had stripped his own larder to fill. 
 
 " God grant that James and the child be not 
 dead ! " he moaned to himself while waiting for the 
 opening of the door. It was opened at length, and 
 in the dim light of the morning he saw his daughter, 
 pale and haggard, standing before him. Hosea was 
 the first to speak. 
 
 "Oh, Mary," he gasped, "am I too late.? Is 
 James living — and the baby ? What of the baby — 
 are they both living ? " 
 
 But he got no answer just then. So great was 
 his daughter's surprise that she could not speak.
 
 208 HOSEA BEGG. 
 
 She could only throw herself upon his neck in a 
 passion of tears. 
 
 " Then I 'm too late ! " he moaned ; " too late ! 
 God have mercy on my soul ! " 
 
 " Oh, no, my father, not too late," she said at last, 
 controlling her sobs by a great effort, " James is 
 slowly recovering, and baby, I think, is no worse." 
 
 For a moment it seemed as if Hosea would have 
 fallen to the ground. Then, with a low murmur, 
 " Thank God ! thank God ! " he dropped heavily 
 upon one of the lobby chairs, and hid his face in his 
 hands. 
 
 For several seconds his daughter watched him in 
 silent surprise, then placing her hand upon his 
 shoulder, she said, " Won't you come upstairs and 
 see James, father ^ " 
 
 " No, no ! not now ! " he said, looking up with a 
 start. " I 've had a dream, Mary, a terrible dream 
 — a vision, perhaps— God only knows. But I 'm 
 unmanned just now, and could not bear to see him. 
 I '11 come again to-morrow. I Ve brought a few 
 things in this basket, and anything else you want, 
 send for it, Mary ; but I must be off now. Good 
 morning, Mary — I '11 come again to-morrow." And 
 before his daughter could reply he was gone. 
 
 Half an hour later poor William Wilkins' heart 
 was gladdened by the chink of three golden 90ve-
 
 HOSEA'S CONVERSION. 209 
 
 reigns in his hand. And almost before he could 
 answer the hurried inquiry about little Sam, with 
 the assurance that he was doing nicely, Hosea had 
 disappeared again. 
 
 He did not preach that day. He felt that he 
 could not stand up in the pulpit and pronounce his 
 own condemnation. For fully two hours he was 
 wandering from place to place in search of a supply. 
 That accomplished, he hurried home and went to 
 bed, and for the next few days had to be nursed 
 through a violent cold. He did not get to see his 
 daughter and son-in-law on Christmas Day as he 
 had promised, but he sent the wherewithal to make 
 them happy, while he himself, though confined to 
 his room, was happier than he had been for many 
 a day. 
 
 Three days after Christmas Mrs. Blake, his house- 
 keeper, gave him a month's notice. 
 
 " I don't believe in being ordered out of the room 
 by anybody ! " she said. 
 
 Hosea was in great trouble. He got plenty of 
 applications for the vacant post, but none of them 
 seemed to suit. At last he begged his daughter to 
 come with her husband and children and look after 
 the house for a week or two until he could get 
 suited. This request was yielded to at length, 
 though somewhat reluctantly. And then Hosea
 
 210 HOSEA BEGG. 
 
 withdrew the advertisement from the paper, and 
 quietly informed every chance inquirer that her 
 appHcation was too late, as he had got suited. 
 
 " It 's all the same," he said, when his daughter 
 and son-in-law protested against this arrangement. 
 "If you don't stay here, I shall go and live with 
 you ; and as this is the bigger house, I think we 'd 
 better live here." So after awhile it was settled. 
 
 " I like to hear the children romping about the 
 house," he said, "Bless 'em ! their happy ways does 
 my old heart good; and I 'm happier than I 've ever 
 been before since 'mother' died." 
 
 Hosea's business is carried on now under the 
 title of " Begg and Grafton," and is a much more 
 extensive concern than it was formerly. Wilkins 
 rejoices in the title of " head clerk," with a consider- 
 ably augmented salary ; while if Jack, the office 
 boy, is not the once barefooted lad that sold papers 
 in the streets, then Hosea is very much mistaken. 
 
 Hosea did not preach again for twelve months 
 after that memorable night of which we have spoken, 
 and then he told his congregation that " he was a 
 converted man," a statement that no one attempted 
 to dispute. For one brief night he had seen him- 
 self as others saw him, and so appalled was he by 
 the sight, that he felt he could never be the same 
 again.
 
 HosEA's gonvebsion: 
 
 211 
 
 In agony and tears he prayed for help and pardon, 
 and when, after his week's illness, he went forth into 
 the world again, others felt as well as himself that 
 he was a changed man. And to-day he is known 
 to be a disciple of Christ, because in his words and 
 in his actions he daily manifests the spirit of the 
 Master. 
 
 U-
 
 OUT OF TEMPTATION.
 
 OUT OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "hoo was a gradely nice lass!" 
 
 f/^{ HEN John Gregson and Grace Allen 
 were married, everybody predicted 
 for them a happy and prosperous 
 future. Those who knew them best 
 said that no two young people could 
 have been better mated. They were 
 both members of the same Church, 
 teachers in the sam.e Sunday-school, and had known 
 each other from childhood. John was a handsome 
 young fellow, clever at his trade, and had already 
 risen to be foreman in the joinery establishment 
 where he had served his apprenticeship. While 
 Grace was the belle of the little circle in which she 
 moved, nobody would have called her clever or 
 
 215
 
 216 OUT OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 strong-minded. If she had had a little more firm- 
 ness and force of character she would have been 
 none the worse. But she was a pretty, brown-eyed, 
 merry-faced girl, notwithstanding ; and those who 
 knew her best were loudest in their praises of her 
 many good qualities. 
 
 Certainly she looked very pretty as she stood by 
 her lover's side on the morning of the wedding, 
 smiling up at him through happy tears ; and those 
 who came to witness the ceremony declared, " Hoo 
 was a gradely nice lass ! " and that John Gregson 
 was worthy of her. 
 
 Old Noah Allen, Grace's father, made the longest 
 speech he had ever been known to make over the 
 breakfast-table that morning. 
 
 " I 'm main sorry to lose her," he said, "for there 
 ain't a bonnier lass in Lancashire than our Grace ; 
 and it comes all the harder, her being the only lass 
 I have. liowever, I 'm going to take a sensible 
 view on it, and think that I have not lost my gal, 
 but only found another son ; and so I have two 
 sons now, Joe and John, and Grace into the bar- 
 gain, and so here 's health and happiness to all three 
 on 'em both together." 
 
 Of course, great laughter and cheers greeted this 
 wind-up of Noah's speech ; and then John Gregson 
 got up, and made a neat and fitting reply, while
 
 "HOO JFAS A GRADELY NICE LASS!" 217 
 
 Grace blushed and smiled alternately ; and so the 
 breakfast passed off in the happiest manner, and 
 good wishes poured in on the bride and bridegroom 
 from every side. 
 
 By six o'clock John and Grace were on their way 
 to Blackpool, where they spent a very happy fort- 
 night ; and then returned to take possession of the 
 little home that John, with loving hands, had fitted 
 up for the reception of his bride. 
 
 To watch Grace's face as she went from room to 
 room was one of the greatest pleasures of John's 
 life. Grace quite expected that the little house 
 would be very nice, for she knew that John had an 
 artist's eye for neatness and beauty, but she never 
 expected such a little palace as she found ; and 
 when she had completed her survey of the rooms, 
 her heart was almost too full for utterance, but she 
 came up to her husband, and, throwing her arms 
 about his neck, exclaimed, — 
 
 " Oh, Jack ! you are good," and then burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " I 'm glad my little Gracie is pleased," John said, 
 with just a little shake in his voice. 
 
 " Pleased ! Oh, Jack ! I 'm more than pleased ; 
 I can't tell you how happy I am ! " 
 
 Then, arm-in-arm, they went through all the 
 rooms again, while Grace admired at her leisure the
 
 218 OUT OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 evidences of her husband's forethought and care. 
 On the Sunday following, they went together to the 
 dear old sanctuary in which they had worshipped 
 since they were children ; and never to John did 
 the service seem so full of meaning as it did that 
 day. The first hymn that was sung, commencing — 
 
 " Praise ye the Lord, 'tis good to raise 
 Your hearts and voices in His praise," 
 
 seemed selected especially for him, and he fancied 
 that for the first time in his life he was able to "sing 
 with the spirit and with the understanding also." 
 And when in his sermon the preacher spoke of the 
 unmerited favour and mercy of God, and asked the 
 congregation to think of the way in which God had 
 led them, and of the numberless benefits He had 
 heaped upon their lives, John thought of the loving 
 little wife who sat by his side, her face expressive 
 of deep content, and how she was rightly named 
 " Grace." For was she not an unmerited favour to 
 him, a mercy undeserved } And if Grace did not 
 enter so fully into the spirit of the service as did her 
 husband, she v/as nevertheless very grateful and 
 supremely happy ; and while they knelt in prayer, 
 she asked God for strength that she might be a 
 dutiful and faithful wife, and that she might become 
 more and more worthy of her husband.
 
 "EOO WAS A GBADELY NICE LASS!" 219 
 
 During the following week a number of their old 
 friends were invited to the house-warming. Three 
 evenings were devoted to this entertainment, for 
 their friends were so numerous that the house was 
 not large enough to hold them all at one gathering. 
 Grace acted the part of hostess to perfection, and 
 won golden opinions among her guests. Those whose 
 privilege it was to be invited were unanimous in 
 declaring that John Gregson was a lucky fellow in 
 getting such a wife ; and several of his bachelor 
 friends were heard to avow that if all the women 
 were like Grace Gregson they would be more than 
 half disposed to venture on the uncertain sea of 
 matrimony themselves. 
 
 So all went merry as wedding bells. John Greg- 
 son was fully persuaded in his own mind that there 
 was not another man in Grayburn as happy as he, 
 and as the days sped on and lengthened into weeks 
 and months, his peace and contentment grew and 
 deepened. Grace was all and more than all he had 
 ever expected a wife to be. She anticipated his 
 every want, and seemed to know as if by instinct 
 what would please him best. Scarcely a week 
 passed away but she would plan for him some little 
 surprise, and win from him an extra kiss. So twelve 
 happy months passed away, and then a new joy was 
 given to brighten John's life. He thought his cup
 
 220 OUT OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 of joy was full before; but when the old nurse 
 placed his little infant daughter in his arms, it 
 seemed to run over. He could hardly see the wee 
 bit of humanity for happy thankful tears, and all 
 the rest of the day he kept repeating to himself the 
 well-known words, "The lines have fallen to me in 
 pleasant places, and I have a goodly heritage." He 
 almost feared at tim^es that his joy was too great to 
 last, and wondered how people could speak of the 
 world as a " howling wilderness." To him it was a 
 veritable Canaan, and life " a glad sweet song." 
 
 If there was any discord at all among the 
 harmonies of his life, it arose from a circumstance 
 that most people would have regarded as of little 
 moment, and indeed John was sometimes disposed 
 to call himself "narrow" and prejudiced for think- 
 ing of the matter at all. It arose in this way, A 
 few days after little Mary was born the nurse 
 declared, and the doctor was of the same opinion, 
 that Grace needed a few bottles of "old port" to 
 help to get up her strength, and in fact that she 
 would never get on as she ought to get on without 
 it. John raised no objection to this, though privately 
 he was of opinion that intoxicants were neither 
 food nor physic, and ought not to be used in any 
 way; but when the nurse also declared "That it 
 was of no sort of use ; that she could not a-gct on
 
 "HOO JFAS A GEADELY NICE LASS!" 221 
 
 nohow with teetotal people ; and that unless a 
 couple dozen of bitter ale was got for her to help 
 down her victuals, she would either have to starve 
 or leave Mrs. Gregson to get on without her," John 
 was a little bit troubled. To yield in this matter 
 also was to go in direct opposition to his often- 
 avowed and deeply-rooted principles, and yet if he 
 were not to yield he saw that the old nurse would 
 make it very uncomfortable both for himself and 
 Grace. He tried reasoning with her at first, but 
 soon discovered that arguments w^ere lost on Mrs. 
 Winter. 
 
 " I ain't got no patience with no sich nonsents," 
 she said, indignantly. " I 've always been used to 
 my bitters, and if I can't have it you must get some 
 other leddy to nuss Mrs. Gregson." 
 
 So John yielded, and satisfied his conscience with 
 a mental protest, and in a few days almost forgot 
 the matter, as the bitters were always kept out of 
 his sight. But the drink difficulty was not to end 
 here. Grace was very much troubled with sleepless- 
 ness, and was obliged to take a glass of gin and 
 water every night before she could sleep at all. 
 John did not discover this until many weeks after, 
 when it had become a habit with Grace, and, as she 
 thought, a necessity. 
 
 John was delighted to have Grace downstairs
 
 222 OUT OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 again, for the little sitting-room had seemed very- 
 strange without her. She looked very pale and 
 fragile, he thought, and told the doctor so the next 
 time he called. 
 
 " Well, yes," the doctor said, rubbing his hands 
 complacently, "the fact is, she wants a little stimu- 
 lant, and something with a little body in it. You 
 see, the baby is a strong healthy child, and as your 
 wife insists upon nursing it, which no doubt is the 
 proper thing for mothers to do — only between you 
 and me they do not always see it — why, you see, 
 Mrs, Gregson wants something to keep up h'^-' 
 strength. Get in a small barrel of home-brewed ale, 
 and she '11 manage all right, and soon look as well 
 as ever." 
 
 " Of course," said John, somewhat dubiously, " it 
 you think it absolutely necessary, she must have 
 it." 
 
 " Well, I do think it necessary," said the doctor, 
 "or I should not recommend it. I never recom- 
 mend unnecessary things." 
 
 So the barrel of " home-brewed " was brought 
 into the house, John wondering the meanwhile 
 whether he was not losing faith in his own prin- 
 ciples, and what answer he should give to his tee- 
 total friends, should they take him to task on the 
 matter.
 
 "JTOO JVAS A GBADELY NICE LASS!" 223 
 
 At the first Grace declared that of all the medi- 
 cine she ever took ale was the nastiest, but in a few 
 days she ceased to pull wry faces over it, and be- 
 fore many Vv^eeks had passed she looked for it as 
 regularly as for her nightly glass of gin and water. 
 
 John soon got used to "Grade's medicine," as he 
 playfully called it, and as Grace was positive that it 
 " did her a world of good," he was half inclined to 
 modify some of the extreme opinions that he had 
 been wont to cherish. The few twinges of con- 
 science he had at the first soon passed away, and 
 the discordant note ceased to vibrate among the 
 harmonies of his life. His Eden was all beautiful 
 again, spite the serpent that had crept into it, and 
 in his heart there was peace and deep content.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " grace's medicine." 
 
 IX years passed away. John Greg- 
 son has left Grayburn and the cosy 
 little home in which the happiest 
 hours of his life had been spent, and 
 had taken up his abode in Leeds. 
 People who had known John Greg- 
 son seven years before would scarcely 
 have recognized him now. His step was listless, 
 his face careworn, almost haggard, while in his hair 
 stray threads of silver shimmered in the light. But 
 in his home even greater and more painful changes 
 were manifest. What those changes were, and how 
 they came about, must now be told. It is an old 
 story, and one that has a thousand parallels to-day. 
 What Grace Gregson began to take as a medicine 
 she soon after took as a beverage. She never knew 
 exactly when she began to like it, or how. It was 
 
 224
 
 <■■' GRACE'S medicine:' 225 
 
 her husband who at length opened her eyes to the 
 fact that she did Hke it. Week by week, and month 
 by month, the " doses " grew larger, though uncon- 
 sciously to Grace. She somehow forgot, when 
 drinking two or three glasses of beer, that for a long 
 while she only took half a glass at a time. But the 
 half-glass had grown into a whole one, and the one 
 glass into two, and the two into three, while her 
 nightly spoonful of gin had been doubled and trebled 
 and quadrupled, and somehow Grace was uncon- 
 scious of the fact. But John began to find out after 
 a year or so that "Grace's medicine" was becoming 
 an increasingly important item in the household 
 expenditure. But when he mentioned the matter 
 to her, she said she was sure he must be mistaken. 
 
 " I only take my usual dose," she said, laughing. 
 
 " But don't you think it is time you gave up 
 taking medicine ? " said John, thoughtfully. " It 
 will be gett'ng a habit with you if you are not care- 
 ful." 
 
 "Oh, nonsense," she said, taking his face between 
 her hands and kissing him, "but if you really wish 
 me to do without it, why, I will give it up." 
 
 "Well, I don't know that I would break off 
 suddenly, but suppose you begin by reducing the 
 dose by one-half .'' " he said. 
 
 *' Oh, I am quite v/illing to do anything you sug- 
 
 15
 
 226 OUT OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 gest, Jack," she said, cheerfully. And there the 
 matter seemed to end. After thinking about the 
 matter, Grace resolved to give it up altogether, but 
 when she made the attempt she made a discovery 
 at the same time. Before the day was over she 
 was positively longing for her usual dose, and so in- 
 tense became the craving after a while, that she 
 thought it prudent to adopt her husband's sugges- 
 tion, and commence by reducing the dose by one- 
 half But somehow one glass did not satisfy her, 
 nor even two, and so restless was she that night that 
 she required a second glass of gin and water before 
 she could sleep at all. It seemed very strange to 
 her, but the more she resolved to give up the drink 
 the more intense the craving after it became. Before 
 she resolved to give it up altogether, she never felt 
 the craving after it she did now, but that craving 
 was now so incessant and so strong that it banished 
 everything else from her thoughts. 
 
 Grace trembled before the might of this appetite 
 that had imperceptibly grown upon her, and, though 
 day by day for several weeks she tried to conquer 
 it, every evening brought defeat, till by-and-bye she 
 lost all faith in herself, and gave up trying. 
 
 " It 's not a bit of use making resolutions," she 
 said to herself, a little bit sadly, " for I know I shall 
 break them, so I may as well go on as before ; for,
 
 "GRACE'S MEDICINE." 227 
 
 after all, I know it does me good." So the battle 
 ceased, and the habit grew, till two years had passed 
 away, and little Frank was born. Now there was 
 some excuse again for an extra glass of " home- 
 brewed," and a stronger glass of grog, for Frank was 
 a healthy boy, with an enormous appetite, and she 
 must have something to keep up her strength. 
 
 But John began to complain again after a while. 
 The publican's bill sent in on the first of every 
 month grew very perceptibly larger, and John was 
 getting pinched for money. He had spent nothing 
 on himself now for many a month, and yet he found 
 the greatest difficulty in making both ends meet. 
 
 Grace cried when he mentioned the matter to her 
 —for she was able to shed tears very freely in those 
 days. "It 's no use. Jack," she sobbed, " some days 
 when I do try to go without it I 'm ready to sink 
 through the floor before evening, and then you know 
 Frank is such a hungry boy." 
 
 " But I really cannot afford it," said John. " You 
 know, Grace, my best clothes are getting very 
 shabby, and when or how to get new is more than 
 I can tell." 
 
 At this Grace burst into such a torrent of tears, 
 that John thought he had better say no more about 
 it, or at any rate not just then. 
 
 A few days later Grace was rather surprised, in 
 
 15—2
 
 228 OUT OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 going to the grocer's shop, to see one of the windows 
 frosted, and figuring in black letters on the white 
 ground such words as " Bass's Pale Ale," " Dublin 
 Stout," " Genuine Burton Ale," while on the sign- 
 board was the announcement, " Licensed to sell Ale 
 and Spirits not to be Consumed on the Premises." 
 
 " What 's the meaning of this ? " said Grace, who 
 was well known to the grocer. 
 
 " I've taken advantage of the new Act," said the 
 grocer. 
 
 " What Act .'' " asked Grace, who had heard 
 nothing of the — perhaps — well-intentioned though 
 mischievous bill that had been passed through 
 Parliament. 
 
 So the grocer proceeded to explain the provisions 
 of the Act, and to inform Grace that it was for the 
 purpose of enabling respectable people who did not 
 like to be seen going to a public house to get their 
 dinner beer or their wine where they get their gro- 
 ceries. He even went so far as to hint that ladies 
 who did not care for their husbands to know of 
 every drop they took, would now be able— if they 
 so wished — to indulge a little without their lords 
 and masters being any the wiser. 
 
 Grace had never deceived her husband up to this 
 time, but she began to do so now, deliberately and 
 systematically. John was pleased to see that the
 
 ''GRACE'S MEDICINE." 229 
 
 publican's monthly bill did not increase in amount, 
 and was not without hope that when Frank was 
 weaned he would be able to persuade Grace to 
 give up the drink altogether ; but the amount of 
 groceries consumed became, after a time, quite per- 
 plexing. Grace endeavoured to explain the mystery 
 by saying that many of the articles in- daily use 
 had very much gone up in price, while the children 
 ate a great deal more than formerly. 
 
 John was only half satisfied with the explanation 
 given, and for many weeks he went about his work 
 with a troubled and perplexed feeling at his heart, 
 A great fear haunted him that he dared not put 
 into words, it was too horrible. It seemed to him, 
 sometimes, as if the world were slipping from be- 
 neath him, as if hope, and joy, and love were all 
 passing away. He seemed to know what was 
 coming, and yet tried to persuade himself that he 
 did not know. But one evening, on returning from 
 his work, he found all his worst fears realized. 
 Prostrate on the floor lay his wife — his own loved 
 Grace, his " unmerited favour," his gift of God. At 
 first he thought she was dead, or had fallen down 
 in a fit ; but on attempting to move her he discovered 
 that she was not dead, but only drunk — only drunk. 
 Poor John ! He would a thousand times sooner 
 have seen her in her coffin. For a moment he
 
 230 OUT OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 seemed bereft of all power. Then he raised her in 
 his strong arms, and laid her gently on the sofa, 
 and for a while stood gazing at her, with folded 
 arms, but with such a look of agony upon his face 
 as no pen can describe. Mary and Frank were 
 both crying on the floor, but he did not heed them. 
 Over his soul there surged such bitter waves of 
 anguish that he was oblivious to all else. Life 
 was no longer life to him ; the world had grown 
 suddenly dark, and hope and joy were dead. 
 
 He heard the wailing of his children at length, 
 and drawing a chair near the fireless grate, he took 
 them one upon each knee, and tried to dry their 
 tears. After a while he lighted a fire, gave them 
 their supper, and carried them upstairs to bed ; 
 then waited till his wife was sufficiently recovered 
 to be helped to bed also. This done, and seeing 
 her once more fast asleep, he went forth into the 
 night, locking the door behind him. On, on he 
 went, till the town was far behind him, and all 
 around him lay the quiet fields, hushed and still. 
 Here he wandered to and fro, hour after hour, 
 battling with his grief and agony. How much he 
 suffered that night no words can tell, but he grew 
 calmer as the night wore away, and when the dawn 
 began to creep up into the eastern sky, he returned 
 to the home that never could be the same to him
 
 ''GB AGE'S MEDIGINE." 231 
 
 again. Grace was awake, and wondering that he 
 was not by her side. But when he came into the 
 room, she saw, by the look upon his face, that he 
 knew all. He did not reproach her there was 
 no passion in his voice, for his heart was almost 
 broken, but he spoke to her in low, earnest tones 
 of entreaty, and she hid her face while he spoke, 
 for very shame. 
 
 After that day Grace seemed to lose her self- 
 respect. John had seen her drunk, — that was the 
 bitterest drop in her cup of grief He could never 
 love her and respect her again, as once he did, 
 hence what did it matter what became of her ? 
 She was disgraced for ever. She ! Grace Gregson, 
 who once stood so high in the estimation of her 
 husband and friends. " Oh^ I wish I were dead!" 
 she moaned ; and then she flew to the bottle to 
 drown remorse. She seemed to have lost all power 
 of resistance by this time. All the tears, and 
 pleadings, and entreaties of her husband availed 
 nothing. It is true she promised to amend her 
 ways again and again : promised on oath, and with 
 many tears, but she never kept her vows. Day by 
 day she grew worse, and by the time little Hetty was 
 born, and when Mary was scarce turned four years 
 of age, Grace Gregson was a confirmed drunkard. 
 People shook their heads sadly when they spoke of
 
 232 OUT OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 John Gregson. " Poor fellow," they said, " his heart 's 
 broke," and they were not far wrong. Everybody 
 sympathized with him, and their sympathy seemed 
 more than he could bear. 
 
 " I cannot stay in Grayburn," he said, "I must get 
 away somewhere where I am not known." 
 
 He hung his head with shame as he walked 
 through the streets. He had no longer any decent 
 clothes to go to the Sunday-school or the house of 
 prayer. His home was cold and cheerless ; his chil- 
 dren neglected and in rags ; his wife the talk of the 
 town. 
 
 Hence it was that he removed to Leeds, where 
 he had obtained a situation through the influence 
 of his old master. Grace raised no objection to the 
 change. The only remark she made was, " If you 
 could take me out of temptation, somewhere where 
 I should never see the drink, and never have the 
 chance of tasting it, I should be very glad. I 
 want to be better, but I 'm afraid I never shall be 
 with drink all around m2." 
 
 " I hope you '11 make a fresh start when we get 
 to Leeds," John replied, "you will be where nobody 
 knows you, and I hope, for the children's sake, as 
 well as for your own and mine, that you '11 not give 
 way again." 
 
 To this Grace made no answer; she had promised
 
 "GRACE'S MEDICINE." 233 
 
 so many times, that she had no courage to promise 
 again. Yet in her heart she meant to do better, if 
 she could. Little Hetty was not strong, like Mary 
 and Frank, and perhaps it was for this reason she 
 seemed dearer to her than either of the others. 
 She was such a winning little creature, with such 
 sunny eyes, and such a happy smile. She seemed 
 sometimes to John Gregson like a little angel sent 
 down from heaven to lead her mother away from 
 sin ; and as occasionally he watched Grace, fondling 
 and almost smothering with kisses her youngest 
 born, he felt as if hope for the mother lay in the 
 child ; that it was to be through little Hetty that 
 the mother would be saved from the curse of 
 drink.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 DADA'S little HETTY. 
 
 ARCH had come in wild and cold. 
 All the day a sharp Nor'easter had 
 swept through the streets, in biting 
 blasts, chilling people to the very 
 marrow, and when at length the 
 sun had gone down, in an angry- 
 looking sky, the cold became more 
 intense than ever.. In John Gregson's poor home 
 Mary and Frank crouched before a feebly smoulder- 
 ing fire, the former nursing little Hetty upon her 
 knee, and rocking her gently to and fro, the latter 
 moaning that he was very hungry, and entreating 
 Mary to give him something to eat. 
 
 Hetty was evidently very ill, though Mary 
 thought she must be much better, because she lay 
 so still, never opening her eyes, and only feebly 
 moaning, as she struggled for her breath. They 
 
 231,
 
 DADA'S LITTLE HETTY. 235 
 
 had not seen their mother since morning, and now 
 the afternoon was fast wearing away. 
 
 Grace Gregson's course, since she came to Leeds, 
 had been still downward. For the first six months, 
 it is true, John hoped that she was slowly recovering 
 from the fearful infatuation that had overtaken 
 her. but too soon, alas! his hopes proved groundless. 
 No sooner had she got sufficiently well known to 
 secure credit at the public house or grocer's shop, 
 than the old habit returned with tenfold force. 
 
 It was in vain that John talked to her — in vain 
 that he pointed to their untidy home and to their 
 ragged and neglected children — in vain that he 
 spoke of that bright morning, not seven years ago, 
 when they promised to be true to each other until 
 death should part — in vain that little Hetty, her 
 best-loved child, clung to her skirts, and begged her 
 not to go out — in vain all the arguments John could 
 urge. She would moan and weep, and say that she 
 was the most miserable woman on earth, and that 
 she wished she was dead. 
 
 And, indeed, her mental distress at such times 
 seemed to be very great — so great that it was 
 evidently a relief to her to drown her misery in 
 drink. 
 
 She had long since given up all hope of ever being 
 any better. She felt herself a fallen and degraded
 
 236 OVT OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 woman, and the only escape from the intolerable 
 misery that haunted her during her sober moments 
 was in flying to the cup. Sometimes she would say 
 to her husband, " I know and feel the truth of all 
 you say to me, but it's of no use. If I didn't drink, 
 the memory of the past and the misery of the 
 present would drive me mad." 
 
 On the afternoon in question John Gregson came 
 home from his work earlier than usual. Hetty had 
 been ill for more than a week, but that morning 
 when he left home she was so much worse that he 
 felt anxious about her all the day. 
 
 "And how is Dada's little Hetty.?" he said, 
 coming up to the children crouched before the 
 almost empty grate ; but Hetty did not speak ; she 
 only smiled a feeble welcome, then closed her eyes 
 
 agam. 
 
 "I think she is better," Mary said ; "she has 
 been very quiet for a long time, only she seems very 
 sleepy." 
 
 " Give her to me," said John, seeing at a glance 
 how ill she was ; "and now go, Mary, and ask Dr. 
 Dale to come at once, and then fetch your mother 
 home, if you can find her. Tell her that Hetty is 
 much worse." 
 
 " May I go also ? " Frank asked. 
 
 " Yes, go together ; and make haste, there's good 
 children."
 
 DADA'S LITTLE HETTY. 237 
 
 When John was left alone he pressed passionate 
 kisses upon the forehead of the little child he held 
 so tenderly in his arms, and called her name softly, 
 though in a voice broken with emotion, for it needed 
 no doctor to tell him his child was dying. 
 
 Slowly the blue eyes opened again, and a smile 
 of content lit up her face 
 
 "Cannot his little Hetty speak to him?" heasked 
 in a choking voice. 
 
 The words came in gasps, " Hetty — loves — her — 
 dada — dearly ! " 
 
 The doctor came and went. " There is no hope," 
 was the verdict, " the child is dying." 
 
 So John sat in his desolate home nursing his 
 dying child ; with no sound to break the stillness, 
 save the little invalid's laboured breathing and the 
 solemn ticking of the clock. 
 
 Meanwhile Mary and Frank were going from 
 street to street, and from one public house to an- 
 other, in search of their mother. John Gregson 
 would gladly have saved them from such scenes as 
 they witnessed, but there was no help for it, and 
 alac ! such occupation was no new experience to 
 them. 
 
 After a while they espied their mother coming 
 out of a public house. She seemed to be quite 
 drunk, for she staggered against a window for sup-
 
 238 OUT OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 port. In a iew minutes they were by her side. 
 Taking hold of her arm, Mary cried out very pite- 
 ously, — 
 
 " Oh, come home, mother, please ; do come home. 
 Hetty is very much worse, and we 've been for the 
 doctor, and 'da wants you home at once." 
 
 For a moment she looked at them stupidly, and 
 with bleared eyes : then, motioning with her hand, 
 she said, — 
 
 " Go home with you, and don't bawl after me. I 
 say go home." 
 
 " But Hetty is worse — dying, maybe," pleaded 
 Mary, " and 'da wants you home at once ; please do 
 come home, mother." 
 
 At this she burst into a mocking laugh. " Now 
 don't try to fool me," she said at length, " but go 
 home, and I '11 be after you in a minute." 
 
 It was a sad picture. Two poorly-clad children 
 shivering with fear and cold, pleading with their 
 drunken mother to come home; and she, scarcely 
 turned thirty yet, and good-looking still, with hair 
 unkempt and garments coarse and torn, with shawl 
 awry and bonnet hanging down her back — but a 
 common picture, alas ! 
 
 It was nearly midnight when she returned. Mary 
 and Frank had sobbed themselves to sleep. Hetty 
 had gone to dwell among the angels, and John had
 
 DADA'S LITTLE HETTY. 239 
 
 just returned from the undertaker's, where he had 
 been to order a coffin for his Httle child. His wife 
 was too drunk to understand anything, so John got 
 her to bed as soon as possible, and then sat down 
 to watch by his dead child. His grief was very 
 great, and yet there were moments when he felt 
 thankful that his little pet was gone. Better to die, 
 he thought, than live in such a home as his. 
 
 By daylight the coffin was brought, and with his 
 own hands he laid his child in it— -his little Hetty, 
 whose blue eyes would never more beam welcome 
 upon him, and whose artless prattle would never 
 again help to lighten the burden of his life ! 
 
 Grace Gregson slept on till nearly noon, and when 
 she came downstairs she seemed much surprised to 
 find her husband at home. 
 
 " What are you doing here .-* " she said sharply. 
 
 " You will find out soon enough," he answered 
 sadly. 
 
 "Don't talk in riddles," she said. "But where 's 
 Hetty?" 
 
 "A lot you care about Hetty !" he answered. 
 
 " But I didn't mean to leave her yesterday," she 
 said humbly ; " but where is she ?" 
 
 Without replying, John led her into the next 
 room, and pointed to the coffin with little Hetty 
 asleep in it. For a moment she gazed in speechless
 
 240 OUT OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 agony — then, with a wild, despairing shriek, she fell 
 senseless to the ground. 
 
 For six weeks Grace Gregson raved in the de- 
 lirium of brain fever, and during most of that time 
 her life trembled in the balance; and when at length 
 consciousness returned, several days elapsed before 
 she could recollect what had happened, but when 
 she did so her distress was pitiful to see. All her 
 cry was for her little Hetty — little neglected Hetty, 
 
 She grew composed at length, yet her recovery 
 was very slow, so much so that the docter was quite 
 puzzled about it, but the secret lay in the fact that 
 she did not want to get better. 
 
 " Oh, Jack," she said to her husband one evening, 
 as he sat by her bedside holding her wasted hand, 
 " I don't want to get better. It would be better for 
 you and the children that I should die ; you would 
 all get on better without me. I 've been a curse to 
 you all." 
 
 " But when you get better you will start afresh }" 
 he said, hopefully. 
 
 " I don't know," she answered sadly. " I 've tried 
 lots of times and I have always failed, and I 've no 
 courage nor confidence nor hope left. Oh, Jack, if 
 you could take me out of temptation — take me 
 somewhere where I could not see the drink, where 
 I could have no chance of getting it — I might yet
 
 DADA'S LITTLE HETTY. 241 
 
 be a good wife to you, as I once was, and a good 
 mother to the children. But oh, Jack ! I dread 
 getting better." 
 
 All that night John Gregson lay awake, ponder- 
 ing over his wife's words : " Oh, Jack, if you could 
 take me out of temptation ! " came as a refrain to all 
 his thoughts. But where in all England could he 
 take his wife " out of temptation "? He knew of no 
 place. Public houses were sprinkled over the land 
 in disgraceful profusion, and, as if they did not 
 furnish temptation enough, spirit licences had been 
 granted to grocers, to confectioners, to butchers, and 
 to bakers. 
 
 "And is there no hope?" he said to himself, in 
 bitterness of spirit ; and it seemed to him as if there 
 were none. 
 
 Then a thought struck him. In America such a 
 place might be found. He knew several men who 
 with their families where going to Nebraska. There 
 he might get his wife out of temptation. He had 
 spent his early life on the farm, so he could easily 
 turn farmer. He had no money, it was true, bat 
 Grace's father was well off, and he might advance 
 him some. 
 
 Next day John found himself once more in Gray- 
 burn. Noah Allen readily advanced him two hun- 
 dred pounds, and wished him all success. A month 
 
 IG
 
 242 OUT OF TEMPTATION. 
 
 later John and his family were upon their way to 
 their Western home. 
 
 ***** 
 
 That was five years ago, and from a letter re- 
 ceived from John Gregson, bearing date " Xmas, 
 1882," we make the following extract : 
 
 " Once more we are happy and prosperous. Our 
 house is roughly built, but it is a cosy little home, 
 as you would say could you see it. The country is 
 very beautiful hereabouts, and the land very fertile, 
 so that we have done well with our farm. We might 
 find it dull, only that we have so much to do ; as it 
 is we don't find it dull at all. Our nearest neigh- 
 bour lives two miles away, and there is not a drink- 
 shop within forty miles, Grace has quite recovered 
 her health and spirits, and the old craving for drink, 
 she says, has entirely passed away, Mary and 
 Frank have grown so much that you would hardly 
 know them. You see, we have no factory smoke 
 nor bad drains here. Our little Hetty (No, 2), born 
 a year ago, is the bonniest little creature in the 
 world. So we are very happy and very thankful, 
 and every day of our lives Grace and I praise God 
 that there was left one spot on earth where I could 
 take her 
 
 OUT OF TEMPTATION!"
 
 COUSIN FRANK. 
 
 2JS I3_,
 
 COUSIN FRANK. 
 
 j^jg/ ELL, Mary, there 's no help for it, so 
 wliat's the use of worriting? It's 
 the only course open to us, that is 
 the only right course ; so we must 
 make the best of it, and welcome 
 the lad as though he were our own." 
 And Farmer Hodge edged his chair 
 nearer the fire, and pushed his hands into his 
 pockets in a manner that seemed to imply that, as 
 far as he was concerned, the question was settled 
 once and for all. 
 
 " Well, I don't know about that, John," replied 
 Mrs. Hodge, fretfully; "and as for welcoming the 
 boy as my own, I 'm sure I never shall, for I can't 
 endure these town children ; they are always so 
 stuck up and impudent, and it really seems too bad 
 
 245
 
 246 COUSIN FRANK. 
 
 that we should be burdened with other people's 
 children " 
 
 "There's only one," broke in Farmer Hodge, 
 lustily, "and he's your own sister's child, and as for 
 his keep — why, we shan't feel the difference." 
 
 " Shan't we ? " broke in his wife ; " a lot you 
 know about housekeeping, John. Another hungry 
 boy t-o be fed and clothed, to wash and mend for, 
 will make all the difference. And you know, what 
 with bad harvests, and having to keep the boys at 
 boarding school, that we are pinched enough al- 
 ready." 
 
 " But surely, Mary," said her husband, with a tone 
 of reproach in his voice, " you would not leave you,r 
 own sister's child to starve on the streets ? " 
 
 " Fanny was only my step-sister, John, you know 
 that very well," said Mrs, Hodge, peevishly, "and 
 was never any credit to us, running away and 
 marrying a penniless painter " 
 
 " But " began her husband. 
 
 "Wait till I have had my say, John, please. And 
 I say again it 's too bad that we should have to take 
 the boy. There are plenty of charities in London, 
 and he might be got into an orphan home some- 
 where, and not be a bother to us." 
 
 " But you know, Mary," said her husband quietly, 
 "that there are a hundred applications for every
 
 COUSIN FBANK. 247 
 
 vacancy, and it just means our taking the boy, or 
 letting him drift to ruin on the streets." 
 
 "If he were a good lad I would not mind so 
 much," was the pettish answer, " but I 'm sure he 's 
 a bad boy." 
 
 "Why, Mary, you are sure of no such a thing," 
 said her husband, "for you have never seen him or 
 heard anything about him." 
 
 "1 don't care anything about that," was the 
 reply, " I know he 's a bad lad ; all those city chil- 
 dren are, and I tremble to think of the mischief 
 he '11 make when he comes, for I daresay you will 
 have your own way." 
 
 . " Mary ! Mary ! " said her husband reproachfully, 
 " I never heard you talk so unreasonably before ; 
 what can have come to you ? One would have 
 thought that poor Fanny's letter would have touched 
 your heart, written as it is with her own hand, when 
 told that she must die, asking us to take care of her 
 only child ; and yet kept back seemingly in the 
 hope that she might get better, and only posted 
 after her death by a friendly neighbour. Evidently 
 she did not want to be a burden to us." 
 
 "Ah, well," said Mrs. Hodge, sighing heavily, "I 
 suppose I shall have to endure it. I wonder if there 
 is another poor woman pestered as I am ? " 
 
 The next morning John Hodge went up to
 
 248 COUSIN FRANK. 
 
 London alone, to be in time for the funeral of poor 
 Fanny May. His wife said she was not equal to 
 the journey, and that it would upset her to look 
 upon her step-sister in the sleep of death ; she 
 would rather remember her as when she went away 
 twelve years before. 
 
 She shed a few tears after her husband had gone, 
 but all trace of grief had been removed by the time 
 he returned on the following evening, bringing little 
 Frank May with him. 
 
 The girls, Grace and Jane, were on the tiptoe of 
 expectation, and were quite prepared to give their 
 cousin a freezing reception ; for their mother had 
 talked very freely to them during the day, and in- 
 formed them that Frank May was certain to be a 
 bad lad, and that they had better keep out of his 
 company as much as possible. She also informed 
 them that he was no better than a pauper, and it 
 was hardly to be expected that they should treat 
 him as if he were their equal, and much more to 
 the same effect. 
 
 Grace, who was twelve years of age, and Jane, 
 who was two years younger, were quite ready to 
 take their mother's advice, and to believe that 
 Frank May was the embodiment of all wickedness. 
 They were rather surprised, however, not to say 
 disappointed, when at length Frank put in an
 
 COUSIN FRANK. 249 
 
 appearance, accompanied by their father. He was 
 not the dark, low-browed, evil-looking boy that 
 they had expected to see. On the contrary, he 
 was fair, and had blue eyes and soft flaxen hair, 
 and a sweet sensitive mouth ; neither was he boast- 
 ful or impudent in his speech, but was gentle and 
 modest, and even shy in his manner, 
 
 " Could he be the bad boy their mother said he 
 was ? " was their thought. They took, however, 
 their cue from their mother, and gave him a very 
 chilling reception. 
 
 But Bob, the baby, a sturdy little fellow of three, 
 quite atoned for the coolness of the girls. He took 
 to the new cousin at once, and kissed Frank's pale 
 cheek in his hearty childish way again and again. 
 The mother frowned and the girls simpered, but 
 Bob was not to be moved. Clambering upon his 
 cousin's knees, he asked him all sorts of questions, 
 which Frank readily answered, and finished up by 
 telling a long story which even the girls, who could 
 not help listening, declared afterwards was about 
 the best story they ever heard in their life. 
 
 For many weeks Frank felt very strange and shy 
 and but for the genuine sympathy of little Bob, he 
 would have fretted himself to death. He could 
 not help feeling that he was looked upon by his 
 aunt and the girls as an interloper. It was very
 
 250 COUSIN FRANk. 
 
 strange, too, after the noise of London streets, to be 
 away in the quiet country, and among strangers ; 
 and do what he would, he could not shake off the 
 feeling of strangeness and loneliness that had been 
 his companion ever since he came. 
 
 He did his best to be on friendly terms with 
 Grace and Jane ; but they evidently shunned him, 
 and he was too sensitive to push himself where he 
 felt he was not wanted. Once or twice he asked 
 permission to take little Bob with him in his ram- 
 bles in the quiet lanes, but Mrs, Hodge would not 
 consent to this. And when he asked if he could 
 not help in the farmyard or in the house, he was 
 quietly told that his room would be preferable to 
 his company. And so he was driven to the necessity 
 of spending his time alone. Farmer Hodge was 
 too busy to take much notice of him, and he could 
 have Bob's company only when he was in the house. 
 Hence it is not to be wondered at that he grew 
 moody and silent, and pined for the dear old days 
 that had gone for ever. 
 
 "Well, Mary," said Farmer Hodge to his wife 
 one morning, about a month after Frank's arrival, 
 " I don't think you find him such a bad lad, after 
 all." 
 
 "Well, no, not ^(^<a? exactly," she replied, "but I'm 
 sure he 's a very selfish child."
 
 COUSIN FBANK. 251 
 
 " No, no, Mary, you mistake the boy again. It 
 seems to me that he is always ready to do anything 
 that he is able, there does not seem to be a bit of 
 selfishness about him." 
 
 " Of course you will defend him, John, but did 
 you ever know such a little coward? Wh}^, j^ester- 
 day you should have seen him running out of the 
 field because the brown yearling shook his head at 
 him." 
 
 " You should remember, Mary," was the answer, 
 " that the boy has been brought up in London, and 
 that he is only about ten, and small for his age. 
 He'll not be afraid of the cattle when he gets to 
 understand their ways and temper. The boy is 
 cautious, but I don't think he is a coward." 
 
 " Dear me, John ! you '11 be saying next that he 
 isn't a pauper." 
 
 "Very likely," he answered, with a twinkle of his 
 eye. And then the subject dropped. 
 
 John Hodge thought it would be best for Frank's 
 health to let him run wild in the fields — as he 
 termed it — for a month or two, so no attempt was 
 made to send him to school or to check his actions 
 in any way. 
 
 So the days glided on, and to Frank they were 
 dull and monotonous in the extreme. But one 
 afternoon the quiet homestead was thrown into a
 
 252 COUSIN FRANK. 
 
 state of considerable excitement. Little Bob v/as 
 found to be missing, and a diligent search made for 
 him in every likely and unlikely place proved to be 
 unavailing. It was a bright April day, and he had 
 been allowed to play alone in the garden, from 
 whence he had strayed away, no one knew whither. 
 
 " I expect he is somewhere with Frank," said 
 Farmer Hodge, who had been summoned in from 
 the fields to help in the search. 
 
 " I wish I could think so," said his wife, " but 
 Frank went away by himself directly after dinner, 
 and it was nearly three o'clock before I let Bob go 
 out into the garden." 
 
 "Then I only hope he hasn't fallen into the 
 river," was the reply. 
 
 And with anxious faces the entire household 
 commenced anew the search. Slowly the after- 
 noon wore away, and not only was there no sign of 
 the missing child, but Frank failed to put in an 
 appearance at the usual time, thus increasing the 
 perplexity of the already over-anxious household. 
 
 Frank had taken a book with him after dinner, 
 and had gone down by the river close to the bridge 
 to read. How long he had been there he had no 
 idea when he was startled by a cry, followed im- 
 mediately by a splash, and a moment later he saw 
 little Bob's frightened face come to the surface of
 
 COUSIN FRANK. 253 
 
 the water. To plunge in after him was the work of 
 a moment, but what happened after that Frank 
 could never distinctly remember. He had a vague 
 idea of being carried down with the current and 
 then coming to a sudden stop. Somehow he re- 
 gained his feet, and found that the water was up 
 to his armpits, while a strong branch of a tree 
 kept him from being carried farther down the 
 stream. He was still holding Bob in his arms, but 
 whether the little fellow were living or dead he 
 could not tell ; he managed, however, to get the 
 child on to the branch of the tree and to hold him 
 there, and then to call as loud as he was able for 
 help. 
 
 Would help never come? he wondered. Every 
 moment seemed to him an age, and he grew hoarse 
 at length with calling for help. By-and-bye Bob 
 began to cry and to ask to be taken home, and this 
 added to his perplexity, though he was thankful 
 for the assurance that Bob was alive. Once or 
 twice he had almost resolved to try and carry him 
 across to the bank ; but the fear lest the current 
 should prove too strong when away from the friendly 
 bough prevented him. Yet he was sadly perplexed. 
 Bob kept crying from fear and cold, and he felt 
 hiqiself growing numb all over with being so long 
 in the water. Unless help came soon he felt that
 
 254 COUSIN FRANK. 
 
 it would be all over with them ; but for Bob's sake 
 he would hold on as long as he could. 
 
 Was daylight dying, or was it only a mist gather- 
 ing over his eyes ? He could not tell. There was 
 also a great noise in his ears, as if the river had 
 swollen into a great torrent. He fancied he heard 
 Bob cry out " Dada ! Dada ! " but he was not 
 certain. He knew that the darkness had deepened 
 into midnight, and that his strength had failed. 
 Higher and higher it seemed to him the waters 
 rose till they swept over his head, and then he knew 
 no more. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Spring had merged into summer, and all hands 
 were busy with the hay before Frank could ven- 
 ture form into the fields again; during all the inter- 
 vening weeks he had been battling with a low fever. 
 For several days his life was despaired of ; but he 
 rallied as the weather got warm, and by July was 
 able to be out in the fields once more. Bob seemed 
 little the worse for his ducking and exposure. In 
 a couple of days he was as right as ever. 
 
 Mary Hodge took Frank to her heart that 
 evening when he was brought home unconscious, 
 and was told that he was the rescuer of her child. 
 Through the weeks of his illness she nursed him as
 
 COUSIN FRANK. 255 
 
 tenderly as though he were her own. "No, John," 
 she said, in reply to a question from her husband, 
 " he is no coward ; he is a little hero. It is I who 
 have been the coward." 
 
 Grace and Jane, who always secretly liked their 
 cousin, seemed as if they could not make enough of 
 him when he got well again. Out in the hay-field 
 they gave themselves up to his pleasure entirely. 
 They ran races with him, piled little pyramids of 
 hay upon him, and laughingly submitted to be 
 buried themselves. 
 
 As the summer wore away roses came for the 
 first time to Frank's pale cheeks, and ere winter 
 came he seemed better than ever he had been in 
 his life before. 
 
 John Hodge's rent-day was on the First of 
 December, and as that time drew near he began to 
 look anxious and worried. The corn-yield had not 
 come up by a long way to his expectation, while 
 the mangold and turnip crop had been almost a 
 complete failure. Whether he should be able to 
 continue with the farm or not was a problem he 
 could not solve. 
 
 One evening, late in November, Farmer Hodge 
 and his wife were talking the matter over as they 
 sat before the fire. Grace and Jane were in the 
 kitchen, and Bob was asleep in bed, and Frank in a
 
 256 COUSIN FRANK. 
 
 corner of the room intent upon a book was not 
 noticed by them. 
 
 Frank was so interested in his book that he had 
 not heeded the conversation, till suddenly Farmer 
 Hodge started to his feet, and said in a loud voice, 
 " If I only had a hundred pounds or so, it would set 
 me on my legs," No sooner were the words out of 
 his mouth than he caught sight of Frank's wonder- 
 ing eyes fixed upon him. 
 
 " Pardon me, uncle," said Frank, blushing, " but 
 I 've not been listening, though I could not help 
 hearing what you said last. I don't know that I 'm 
 sorry, either, for now I know what 's been troubling 
 you lately. If you want some money, uncle, you 
 can have some of mine. You have been very good 
 to me, and I 'm sure I don't want the money. Do 
 use it, uncle, if you need it." 
 
 " No, lad, I won't touch a penny of your money, 
 if I can help it." 
 
 " But you s/ia//, uncle, if you need it. I shall be 
 very unhappy if you don't. Do use it." 
 
 But John Hodge only shook his head. 
 
 " Say you will, uncle," said Frank, placing his 
 little white hand on that of his uncle's, and looking 
 at him with beseeching eyes. " Only say you will^ 
 and I shall be happier than I 've been for a long 
 time."
 
 COUSIN FEANK. 25? 
 
 " You are a good lad, but I don't like to do it," 
 replied the farmer. 
 
 " But can't I lend it to you ?" said Frank, as if a 
 new idea had struck him. 
 
 "But I might not be able to pay it back," said his 
 uncle, 
 
 " Oh, yes, you will," said Frank, cheerfully, " so 
 that's settled." 
 
 Mrs. Hodge had listened to this conversation in 
 amazed silence ; but when Frank was gone to bed, 
 she turned to her husband, and said, " John, what 
 does it mean ? " 
 
 " Why, it means," was the reply, " that Fanny did 
 not marry a 'penniless painter,' as you always de- 
 clared ; but her husband was a steady industrious 
 member of his profession, who not only saved a 
 little money while he lived, but, like a sensible 
 man, insured his life for five hundred pounds, so 
 that when he died Fanny was not left penniless. 
 Indeed, what with his pictures which she has since 
 sold, the money he saved, and the life assurance, she 
 was left tolerably well off. The money is well in- 
 vested, too, with the exception of about a hundred 
 and fifty pounds which is in the bank. So, Mary, 
 you see how wrong you have been in your judg- 
 ment — or shall I say in your prejudices ? — all the 
 way through. And you will be satisfied also by this 
 
 17
 
 258 
 
 COUSIN FRANK. 
 
 time, that little Frank is not only neither selfish 
 nor a coward, but that neither is he a pauper." 
 
 For a while Mary Hodge hung her head with 
 shame ; then, lifting up her face, she said, " Don't 
 taunt me any more, John ; I have learned a lesson 
 I shall never forget." 
 
 At Frank's urgent entreaty, John Hodge borrow- 
 ed of him a hundred pounds, and in five years had 
 paid it back, principal and interest. 
 
 Frank is a young man now, and is rapidly win- 
 ning his way in the world. Every summer he runs 
 down from the great city to spend a week or two at 
 the farm, and never could son or brother receive a 
 warmer welcome. Indeed, for weeks before hvj 
 arrival preparations are made to give a right royal 
 welcome to Cousin Frank.
 
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 The Silver Cup ; or, True Heroism. 
 St. George's Key. By W. E. Coghlan, 
 Washed Ashore. By W. H. G. Kingston. 
 Adrift in a Boat. Ditto. 
 
 The Silver Lake. By R. M. Ballantyne. 
 Jack Hazard and his Fortunes. By J. T. Trowbridge. 
 Jarwin and Cuffy. By R. M. Ballantyne. 
 Brave Days of Old. By Mrs. Valentine. 
 Daring and Doing. 15y Mrs. Valentine. 
 The Way to Win. By C. A. Beach. 
 Too Good for Anything. Ditto. 
 Doing his Best. By J. T. Trowbridge. 
 Uncle Tom's Cabin. By H. B. Stowe. 
 Walter's Escape. By J. B. De Lif.fde. 
 Behind the Hedges. By Madame De Witt. 
 
 In crown 8vo, cloth gilt. 
 
 1. The Little Castle Maiden. By Hon. Mrs. Greene. 
 
 2. The Boy and the Constellations. By Julia Goddard. 
 
 3. Nursery Tales. A New Version. 
 
 4. Legends from Fairyland. By Holme Lee. 
 
 7. Dreamland ; or, ChiMren's Fairy Stories. 
 
 8. Andersen's Tales for the Young. 
 
 9. Six Little Princesses. 
 
 ID. The Three Magic Wands, 
 
 13. The Silver Trumpet. 
 
 14. Daisy and her Friends. 
 
 Imperial i6mo, price \s., picture wrapper ; or cloth gilt, ■zs. 
 
 OUR FAVOURITE NURSERY RHYMES. 
 
 With 100 Illustrations. 
 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below.