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 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 JESSIE TRIM 
 
 ^ £iobzl 
 
 BY 
 
 B. L. FAEJEOlSr, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " BLADE-O'-GRASS," "GOLDEN GRAIIf," " BREAD-AND-CKEESE AND 
 
 KISSES," " GRiF," "London's heart," and "joshua marvel." 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 TINSLEY BEOTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND. 
 
 1874. 
 
 \_All Rights Reserved.']
 
 CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS^ 
 CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.
 
 8t5 
 
 fZSL 8 J 
 
 
 0OE"TEI^J"TS, 
 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 V 
 
 My Grandmother's Wedding 
 
 . •!] 
 
 
 
 •-1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 
 '^ I AM Frightened of my Shadow . . . .18 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ^. My Grandmother's Long Stocking . . .31 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 J ^ I Murder my Baby-Brother . . . .40 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 (i^ I Play the Part of Chief Mourner . . .52.'
 
 Yi CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 In which a Great Change in my Circumstances 
 
 TAKES Place 62 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 In which a Fairy in a Cotton-print Dress is 
 
 Introduced 74 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 A Postman's Knock 92" 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 Uncle Bryan Introduces Himself . . .115- 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 Our Kew Home 136 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 In which I TAKE PART IN SOME LAWLESS EXPEDITIONS 146 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A Singular Episode in our Quiet Life . . 163-
 
 CONTENTS. vii 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Sudden Shock 189 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 The World becomes Bright Again . . . 209 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Jessie's Rose-water Philosophy .... 222 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. ^ 
 
 The Stone Monkey Figure gives up its Treasures 240 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 "The True Story op Anthony Bullpit . . 251 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 ■Uncle Bryan co:\imences the Story of his Life 272
 
 JESSIE TKIM. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MY grandmother's WEDDIXG. 
 
 As my earliest remembrances are associated 
 with my grandmothers' wedding, it takes 
 natural precedence here of all other matter. 
 I was not there, of com^se, but I seem to 
 see it through a mist, and I have a distinct 
 impression of certain actors in the scene. 
 These are : a smoke-dried monkey of a man 
 in stone, my grandmother, my grandfather 
 (whom I never saw in the flesh), and a 
 man with a knob on the top of his head, 
 making a meal off his finger-nails. 
 
 Naturally, this man's head is bald. Natu- 
 rally, this man's nails are eaten down to the 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 quick. I am unable to state how I come to 
 the knowledge of these details, but I know 
 them, and am prepared to stand by them. 
 Sitting, as I see myself, in a very low arm- 
 chair — in which I am such an exact fit that 
 when I rise it rises with me, much to my 
 discomfort — I hear my grandmother say, 
 
 " He had a knob on the top of his head, 
 and he was always eating his nails." 
 
 Then a solemn pause ensues, broken by 
 my grandmother adding, in a dismal tone : 
 
 " And the last time I set eyes on him 
 was on my wedding-day." 
 
 The words are addressed not so much to 
 me as to the smoke-dried monkey of a man 
 in stone, which had occupied the place of 
 honour on the mantelpiece in my grand- 
 mother's house, and which she had brought 
 with her as a precious relic — (Jane Painter, 
 I remember, always called it a relict) — when 
 she came to live with us. The head of this 
 stone figure is loose, and wags upon the 
 slightest provocation. When something falls 
 in the room, when the door is slammed, when
 
 JESSIE TEIM. 
 
 a person walks sharply towards it, when it 
 is merely looked at, I sometimes fancy. I 
 am not prepossessed in its favour, and I 
 regard it with uneasy feelings, as probably 
 possessing a power for evil, like a male- 
 volently-inclined idol. But my grandmother, 
 for some mysterious reason, values it as a very 
 precious possession, and sits staring dumbly at 
 it for hours. I watch her and it until, in my 
 imagination, its monkey-face begins to twitch 
 and its monkey-lips to move. At a certain 
 point of my watch, I fancy that its eyes roll 
 and glare at me, and I cover mine with my 
 hands, to shut out the disturbing sight. But 
 I have not sufficient courage to remain blind 
 for more than a very few moments, and I 
 am soon fascinated into peeping at the figure 
 through the lattice of my fingers. My grand- 
 mother observes me, and says, 
 
 '' I see you, child 1 Take your fingers away." 
 I obey her timidly, and with many a 
 doubtful glance at the monkey-man, I ask, 
 " Does it see me, grandmother ? " 
 My grandmother regards it with a gloomy
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 
 
 air ; evidently she lias doubts. She does not 
 commit herself, however, but says, 
 
 *^ It will belong to you, child, when I am 
 gone. It must l)e kept always in the family." 
 
 The tone in which she utters these words 
 denotes that evil will fall upon the family 
 when this heirloom is lost sight of. I am 
 not grateful for the prospective gift. It has 
 abeady become a frightful incubus ; it weighs 
 me do^^TL, and is a future as well as a present 
 
 torment. I think it has lived long enough — 
 too long — and that when my grandmother 
 goes, she ought to take it with her. Hap- 
 pening to catch the eye of the figure 
 while this thought is in my mind, I am con- 
 vinced that it shows in its ugly face a con- 
 sciousness of my bad feeling towards it ; 
 its eyes and lips threaten me. It would 
 have terrified, but it would not have sur- 
 prised me to find it suddenly gifted with the 
 power of speech, and to hear it utter dreadful 
 words. But hapjDily for my peace of mind no 
 such miracle happens. I look at my grand- 
 mother, and I begin to fancy that she, from
 
 JESSIE TJRUL 
 
 long staring cat it, Ijears in her face a resem- 
 blance to the face of tlie monkey-man. For 
 how much lonsrer will she sit and stare at 
 it ? For how many more clays and weeks 
 and years ? She has frequently told me 
 that naughty boys were invariably "fetched 
 away " to a dismal place by Some One wearing 
 horns and a tail. She makes no mention of 
 naughty girls ; and sometimes when she has 
 been delightino^ me with these wholesome les- 
 sons, a sort of rebellion has possessed n\e that 
 I was not born a girl. Now, if Some One were 
 to come and " fetch " my grandmother away, it 
 would not grieve me ; I should rejoice. But 
 I dare not for my life give utterance to my 
 thought. Says my grandmother, with a nod 
 at the stone figure, which, suddenly animated 
 by a mysterious influence, returns the 
 nod, 
 
 '' I had it in my pocket on my wedding- 
 day." 
 
 The circumstance of its being a guest at 
 my grandmother's wedding invests it with an 
 additional claim to my protection when she
 
 JESSIE TEIM. 
 
 is gone. How liaj)pj I should be if it would 
 fiill into the fire-place, and break into a 
 thousand pieces I 
 
 " Grandmother !" 
 
 "Well, child." 
 
 " Was the man with the knob on the top of 
 his head " 
 
 My grandmother interrupts me. 
 
 ''You mean the gentleman, child." 
 
 '' Yes, I mean the gentleman — and who was. 
 always eating his nails — ^^vas he like that ? " 
 pointing to the stone monkey-figure. 
 
 " Like that, child ! How can such an idea 
 have entered your head ? No ; he was a 
 very handsome man." 
 
 A pure fiction, I am convinced, if nothing 
 worse. How could a man with a knob on 
 his head, and who was always eating his 
 nails, be handsome ? 
 
 "Your grandfather used to be very jealous 
 of him ; he was one of my sweethearts. I 
 had several, and nine proposals of marriage 
 before I was twenty years of age. Some 
 girls that I knew were ready to scratch
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 their eyes out with vexation. He proposed,, 
 and wished to run away with me, but my 
 family stepped in between us, and prevented 
 him. You can never be sufficiently grateful 
 to me, child ; for what would have become 
 of you if I had run away and married him, 
 goodness only knows ! " 
 
 The reflection which is thus forced upon 
 me involves such wild entanglements of pos- 
 sibilities that I am lost in the contemplation 
 of them. What tuould have become of me ? 
 Supposing it had occurred : should I ever 
 have been ? 
 
 " He told me," continues my grandmother, 
 revelling in these honey-sweet reminiscences, 
 " after I had accepted your grandfather, that 
 life was valueless without me, and that as 
 he had lost me, he would be sure to go to 
 the Devil. I don't know the end of him, 
 for I only saw him once after that ; but he 
 w^as a man of his word. He told me so in 
 Lover's Walk, where I happened to be 
 strolling one evening — quite by accident, 
 child, I assure you, for I burnt the letter I
 
 8 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 received from him in the morniiiP-, for fear 
 your grandfather should see it. Your grand- 
 father had a frightfully jealous disposition — 
 as if I could helj) the men looking at me ! 
 When we were first married he used to 
 smash a deal of crockery, with his quick 
 temper. I hope he is forgiven for it in the 
 place he has gone to. He v/as an auctioneer 
 and valuer ; he had an immense reputation 
 as a valuer. It was not undeserved ; he fell 
 in love with me. Oh, he was clever, child, 
 in his way ! " 
 
 Although I am positive that I never saw 
 my grandfather, I have, in some strange way, 
 a perfect remembrance of him as a little man, 
 very dapper, and very precisely dressed in 
 a snuff-coloured coat and black breeches and 
 stockings. Now, my grandmother was a 
 very large woman ; side by side they are, 
 to my mind, a ridiculous match. I have 
 grown quite curious concerning my grand- 
 mother's lover, and I venture to recall her 
 from a moody contemplation of the monkey- 
 figure in which she is falling.
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 " But about tlie man with tlie knob, 
 grandmother ? " I commence. 
 
 '' Child, you are disrespectful ! The man 
 with the knob, indeed ! " 
 
 " The gentleman, I mean, who wanted to 
 marry you. What was his name ? " 
 
 " BuUpit. He was connected with the 
 law, and might have become Lord Chancellor 
 if I hadn't blighted him." 
 
 " Did he behave himself at your wedding, 
 2frandmother ? " 
 
 ^SSave the child!" she exclaims. '^ You 
 
 don't suppose that Mr. Bullpit was at my 
 wedding, do you ? Why, there would have 
 been murder done ! Your grandfather and 
 he would have torn each other to pieces ! " 
 These latter words are spoken in a tone of 
 positive satisfaction, as adding immensely to 
 my grandmother's reputation. 
 
 " But I thought you said that the last 
 time you saw him was on your wedding- 
 day?" 
 
 " So I did, child ; but I didn't say he was 
 at the wedding. We were coming out of
 
 10 JESSIE TTiIM. 
 
 church Deaiy, deary me ! I can see it 
 
 as if it was only yesterday that it took pLace I 
 The church was scarcely three minutes' walk 
 from mother's house, and the expense would 
 not have been great, but your grandfather, 
 who was a very mean man, did not provide 
 carriages, and we had to go on foot. It was 
 the talk of the whole neio;hbourhood for 
 months afterwards. I never fors^ave him for 
 it, and I can't fors^et it, althouQ-h he is in 
 his OTave now, where all thino's ouoiit to 
 be forootten and foroiven. Eemember that, 
 child, and if you have anything to forget 
 and forgive, forget and forgive it. Animosity 
 is a bad thing." 
 
 My grandmother gives me time to remem- 
 ber if I have anything to forget and forgive. 
 I feel somewhat remorseful because of the 
 hard thoughts I have borne towards her, and 
 I mentally resolve that when she is in her 
 grave I will endeavour to forget and forgive. 
 
 " We walked," she continues, " from 
 mother s house to the church, and from the 
 church back again. It was like a procession.
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 11 
 
 There were fiYQ bridesmaids, and mother and 
 father, and your grandfather's mother and 
 father," — (I am a little confused here with 
 so many mothers and fathers, and, notwith- 
 standing my efforts to prevent it, they all 
 get jumbled up with one another) — " whom 
 we could very well have done without, and 
 the Best Man, who did not how to behave 
 himself, making the bridesmaids giggle as he 
 did, as if my wedding was a thing to be 
 laughed at I and a great number of guests 
 with white favours in their coats — all but 
 one, who ought to have known better, and 
 who was properly punished afterwards by 
 being jilted by Mary Morgan. Everybody 
 in the town came to see us walk to church, 
 and when the fatal knot was tied, the crowd 
 round the church door was so large that we 
 could scarcely make our way through it. 
 The Best Man misbehaved himself shame- 
 fully. He pretended to be overcome by grief, 
 and he sobbed in such a violent manner as 
 to make the mob laugh at him, and the 
 bridesmaids giggle more than ever. I knew
 
 12 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 what they did it for, the hussies ! They 
 thought he was a catch ; a nice husband he 
 turned out to be afterwards ! When we were 
 half way between the church and mother's 
 house, our procession met another procession, 
 and for a minute or two there was a stoppage 
 and great confusion, and several vulgar boys 
 hurrayed. What do you think that other 
 procession was, child ? " 
 
 I ponder deeply, but am unable to guess. 
 
 "That other procession, child, was made 
 up of policemen and riff-raff. And in the 
 middle of it, with handcuffs on, was Anthony 
 BuUpit. He had been arrested on a warrant 
 for forgery. What with the confusion and 
 the struggling, the processions got mixed up 
 together, and as I raised my eyes I saw the 
 eyes of Anthony Bullpit fixed upon me. 
 Such a shock as that look of his gave me I 
 shall never forQ-et — never 1 I knew the 
 meaning of it too well. It meant that all 
 this had occurred through me ; that life 
 without me was a mockery ; that he had 
 arranged everything so that we should meet
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 13. 
 
 immediately the fatal knot was tied ; and 
 
 that he was on his road to where he 
 
 said he would go." 
 
 *''He must have been a very wicked man, 
 grandmother." 
 
 " A Avicked man, child ! How dare you ! 
 He was as innocent as I was, and he did 
 it all to punish me. I fainted dead away 
 in the middle of the street, and had to be 
 carried home, and have hartshorn given to 
 me, and brown paper burnt under my nose. 
 When I came to, I looked more like a black- 
 amoor than a bride, and my wedding 
 dress was completely spoilt. And nothing 
 of all this would have occurred, child, 
 if it had not been for the meanness of 
 your grandfather. If he had provided 
 carriao^es tve should never have met. When 
 poor Mr. Bullpit was put upon his trial he 
 would not make any defence. Your grand- 
 father said the case w^as so clear that it would 
 only have aggravated it to defend it. But 
 I knew better. When he pleaded guilty, I 
 knew that he did it to spite me, and to prove
 
 14 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 tliat he was a man of liis word. I wanted 
 to go to the trial, but your grandf\ither 
 objected ; and when I said I ivould go, he 
 locked all the doors in the house, and took 
 the keys away with him. Your grandfather 
 has much to answer for. Mr. BuUpit was 
 transported for twenty-one years. Some 
 wicked people said it was a mercy he wasn't 
 hanged. If he had been, I should never 
 have survived it. Poor Anthony I " 
 
 I was too young to exercise a proper 
 judgment upon this incident in my grand- 
 mother's life, but it is imprinted indelibly 
 upon my memory. I knew very well that 
 I did not like my grandmother, and that I 
 did not feel happy in her society. Often 
 when I wished to go out into the sunshine 
 to play, she would say, 
 
 " Bring the boy in here, and let him keep 
 me company. It will do him more good 
 than running about in the dirt." 
 
 And her word being law in the house, I 
 used to be taken into the room where she 
 sat in her arm-chair, staring at the monkey-
 
 JESSIE TUIM. 15 
 
 man on the mantelshelf, and used to be 
 squeezed into my own little arm-chair, and 
 placed in the corner to keep her company 
 And for a certain sufficient reason I deemed 
 it advisable to be companionable ; for once 
 I had sulked, and was sullen and ill-tempered. 
 Then my grandmother had said, 
 
 " The child is unwell I He must have 
 some physic." 
 
 And herself prescribed the medicine — jalap, 
 which w^as my disgust and abhorrence — and 
 the dose, which was not a small one. Out 
 of that companionship sprang my knowledge 
 of the man with the knob on the top of his 
 head, and who was always eating his nails. 
 By some process of reasoning I associate 
 him with the smoke-dried monkey of a man 
 in stone, and I hate them both honestly. As 
 for Anthony BuUpit being innocent of the 
 •crime for which he was transported, I smile 
 scornfully at the idea. He is my model for 
 all that is disagreeable and bad, and I never 
 see a man whose nails are bitten down to 
 the quick without associating him — often
 
 IS JUSSIE TRIM. 
 
 unjustly, I am sure — with meanness and 
 trickery. 
 
 There was a reason for my being doomed 
 to the companionship of my grandmother, 
 and for my being made her victim as it 
 were. Our family circle comprised ^ve indi- 
 viduals : my grandmother, my father and 
 mother, myself, and a baby-brother. My 
 parents had, through no fault of their own, 
 drifted into that struggling-genteel class of 
 persons whose means never quite come up 
 to their efforts to make an appearance. We 
 had been a little better off once upon a time, 
 but unfortunately my father's health had 
 failed him, and at the period of which I am 
 writing he was confined to his bed, unable 
 to work. My mother, what with her anxiety 
 and her ignorance of the world, was to a 
 certain extent helpless. Therefore, when my 
 grandmother proposed to come and live with 
 us, and bring her servant, and pay so much 
 a week for board and lodging, her offer was 
 gladly accepted. It was a current belief that 
 my grandmother had a "long stocking'-' some-
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 17 
 
 where, with plenty of money in it, and to 
 this long stocking may be attributed much 
 of my unhappiness at that time. For it 
 had come to be recognised that I was to be 
 my grandmother's heir, and that her long 
 stocking would descend to me. It was, per- 
 haps, regarded as a fair arrangement that, 
 as my grandmother's property was to be 
 mine when she was dead, I was to be my 
 grandmother's property while she was alive ; 
 and I have no doubt that care was taKen 
 that her whims with respect to me should 
 be carefully attended to, so that my inheri- 
 tance might not be jeopardised. My mother 
 did not know that I was unhappy ; I was 
 as a child somewhat secretive by nature, and 
 I kept my thoughts and feelings much to 
 myself. Besides, I had an intuitive percep- 
 tion of the state of affairs at home, and I 
 felt that if I offended my grandmother my 
 parents might suffer. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 I AM FRIGHTENED OF MY SHADOW. 
 
 I HAVE already mentioned the name of the 
 servant whom my grandmother brought with 
 her to our house ; it was Jane Painter. She 
 had been with my grandmother for many 
 years, from girlhood I believe, and she was 
 now about thirty years of age. In appear- 
 ance she was a thin, sharp-featured, pale- 
 faced woman ; in manners she was a viciously- 
 minded creature, fond of pinching children 
 on the sly in tender places, assuming the 
 while, to deceive observers, an expression of 
 amiability, which intensified the malignity of 
 her conduct. From the moment she entered 
 our house she became the enemy of every 
 person in it, and waged open and secret war
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 19 
 
 upon all of us. Her service with my grand- 
 mother had been a very easy one, but 
 things were different when her mistress 
 changed her residence. She had to do double 
 the work she had been accustomed to, and 
 as we were the direct cause of this, she was 
 not slow in showing her resentment. My 
 mother, patient as she always was, made 
 light of the woman's infirmities of temper, 
 believing that she was necessary to my grand- 
 mother; Jane Painter, however, declined to 
 accept the olive-branch which my mother 
 held out to her, and would certainly not 
 have remained in the house but for one 
 inducement. This was made clear to us a 
 very few days after the change. My mother 
 had occasion to remonstrate with her for 
 some piece of impertinence, and Jane Painter 
 ran into my grandmother s room in a fury, 
 and demanded to know if she was to be 
 treated like a galley-slave. My mother stood 
 quietly by, listening to the servant's com- 
 plainings. Said my grandmother, 
 
 '^You must do what my daughter desires
 
 20 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 you to do, Jane. I told her you would 
 help her in the house." 
 
 " I won't be ordered about as if I was a 
 bit of dirt ! " exclaimed Jane Painter, gasping. 
 
 " Jane ! " remonstrated my mother. 
 
 " Don't ' Jane ' me ! " and then followed 
 the unreasoning argument, '' I'm flesh and 
 blood the same as you are ! " 
 
 " Jane," said my grandmother, *' I mustn't 
 be worried; my nerves won't stand it. I 
 sha'n't be here long, and you know what I 
 have promised you." 
 
 " Whose servant am I — yours or hers ? " 
 
 ''Mine, Jane, and a very good servant 
 you've been. I hope for your own sake you 
 are not going to be different now." 
 
 " Haven't I served you faithfully ? " asked 
 Jane Painter, sobbing herself into a quieter 
 emotional stage. 
 
 " Yes, Jane, yes ; and you shall be remem- 
 bered for it." 
 
 " Haven't I waited on you hand and foot ? " 
 
 " Yes, Jane, yes ; and you shall be remem- 
 bered."
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 21 
 
 " When you was took bad with the spasms," 
 blubbered Jane, " didn't I stop up with you 
 all night till I was fit to drop ? " 
 
 " Yes, Jane ; and I haven t forgotten you 
 for it. You shall be remembered, I tell 
 
 you." 
 
 By being remembered, my grandmother 
 meant that Jane Painter should be set down in 
 her will for a certain portion of the contents 
 of her long stocking ; and but for this in- 
 ducement it was pretty clear that Jane Painter 
 would have taken her departure. The war 
 she waged against us from this time was 
 passive, but bitter. I, as the recognised heir 
 to the long stocking, and as being likely, 
 therefore, to diminish her portion, came in 
 for the largest share of her ill-temper and 
 animosity, and she showed much ingenuity 
 in devising means to torment me. Parting 
 my hair on the wrong side, brushing it into 
 my eyes, rubbing the soap in my mouth and 
 only half- wiping my face after I was washed, 
 buttoning my clothes awry, running pins into 
 me, holding me suspended by one arm as we
 
 22 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 went down stairs ; these were tlie smallest 
 of my sufferings. An incident, laughable in 
 itself, but exceedingly painful in its effect 
 upon me, comes vividly to my remembrance 
 here; and it afforded Jane Painter an oppor- 
 tunity of inventing a new torture, and of 
 inflicting upon me the sharpest and most 
 terrible distress I ever experienced. It oc- 
 curred in this way : 
 
 Whether it was that the dull companion- 
 ship of a peevish old woman was having its 
 due effect upon me, or whether it sprang from 
 my natural constitution, I was growing to be 
 very nervous. I was frightened of being alone 
 in the dark ; a sudden noise startled me pain- 
 fully ; any unusual exhibition of tenderness 
 brought tears to my eyes. One bright summer 
 afternoon I was sitting with my grandmother. 
 Everything about me was very quiet ; my 
 grandmother had not spoken for a long time, 
 and I listened to the regular sound of her 
 breathing which told me she was asleep. I 
 tried all kinds of devices to while away the 
 time. I looked at the wall and traced the
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 23 
 
 pattern of the paper ; I tried to stare the 
 monkey-man on the mantelshelf out of coun- 
 tenance ; I closed my eyes and placed the 
 tips of my forefingers on them, and then 
 opened them to assure myself that the world 
 had not come to an end ; I counted the rise 
 and fall of my grandmother's capacious 
 bosom till I grew so confused that the billows 
 before me seemed to swell and fill the room. 
 There was no pleasure to be gained from 
 any of these tasks, and I felt weary and 
 dispirited. The sunshine streaming in at 
 the parlour- window seemed to say, *'Wliy 
 are you stopping in that dull room ? Come 
 out and play." I gazed wistfully at the 
 light,, and thought how nice it would be 
 outside. I felt that I should like to ^o. 
 But I knew from rueful experience how cross 
 my grandmother would be if I made a noise 
 and awoke her ; and I was so tightly fixed 
 in my little arm-chair that I could not 
 extricate myself without a struggle. I dared 
 not attempt to wrench myself free from its 
 embrace in the room ; it might fall to the
 
 24 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 ground. There was nothing for it but to 
 try and escape from the room with the chair 
 fixed to me. The sunshine grew brigrhter 
 and brighter, and more and more tempting. 
 My grandmother really seemed to be fast 
 asleep. I stretched out my hand and touched 
 her dress : she always dressed in silk, and 
 sat in state. Her steady breathing continued. 
 I coughed, and whispered, " Grandmother ! " 
 but she did not hear. I spoke more loudly. 
 " Grandmother ! " There was no response, 
 and then I thought I would venture. I rose, 
 with my chair attached to me — the firmest 
 and closest of friends — and crept slowly and 
 softly out of the room into the passage. 
 There I released myself, and then ran out 
 into the sunshine. In a glow of delight I 
 flitted about like a butterfly escaped from 
 prison. I was in the full height of my 
 enjoyment, when turning my head over my 
 shoulder, I saw my long ungainly shadow 
 followino: me, and in sudden unreasoninor 
 fright I ran away from it. I screamed in 
 terror as I saw it racing fast at my heels, as
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 25 
 
 if trying to leap upon me and seize me, 
 and my mother happening at that moment 
 to come to the street-door, I flew towards 
 her in a paroxysm of terror, and, clutching 
 tight hold of her, hid my face in her gown. 
 In that position my mother, with soothing 
 words, drew me into the house, and I was 
 only pacified by being assured that the 
 " black man " who had frightened me had 
 disappeared ; and certainly, when I was per- 
 suaded to look around I saw no trace, of 
 him. My grandmother, awakened by my 
 screams, did not fail to give me a solemn 
 lecture for my bad behaviour in stealing 
 from the room, and she improved the occa- 
 sion by making me tremble with new fears 
 by her dreadful prophecies as to what the 
 "black man" would do to me if I dared to 
 be naughty again. The incident had a 
 serious effect upon me, and I was ill for a 
 week afterwards. The doctor who was 
 attending my father said that I was of a 
 peculiarly sensitive temperament, and that 
 great care must be taken of me.
 
 26 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 " The nervousness," lie said, " which has 
 been the cause of his fright may, if not 
 counteracted, produce bad results by-and-by. 
 The lad's nature is essentially womanly and 
 delicate. None the worse for that — none 
 the worse for that." 
 
 He laid his hand upon my head in a very 
 kind manner, and tears rushed to my eyes. 
 Seeing these, he immediately removed his 
 hand, and gave my cheek a merry pinch. 
 
 '' He will grow out of it ? " questioned my 
 mother, anxiously. 
 
 '' Oh, yes," was the reply, cheerfully uttered, 
 ^' he will grow out of it ; but you must be 
 careful with him. Don't let him mope ; give 
 him plenty of exercise and fresh air." 
 
 '' I should like a pony," I said. 
 
 My mother's troubled eyes sought the floor. 
 If she could only have seen a magic pump- 
 kin there ! 
 
 *'Then," continued the doctor, "until he 
 is older and stronger I would fill his mind 
 with cheerful fancies. Tell him as many 
 stories as you please of fairies, and prin-
 
 JESSIE TEIM. 27 
 
 cesses, and flowers, and sucli like ; but 
 none about ghosts. You would like to 
 hear about beautiful fairies rising out of 
 flower-bells, and sailing in the clouds, and 
 floating on the water in lilies, would you not, 
 my lad ? '^ 
 
 I nodded gaily ; his bright manner was 
 better than all the medicine. 
 
 " Do they really do all these things, sir ? " 
 
 *' Surely ; for such as you, my boy." I 
 clapped my hands. *' You see ! " he said* to 
 my mother. 
 
 Many a time after this did my mother ran- 
 sack her mental store, and bring forth bright- 
 coloured fancies to make me glad. She told 
 Jane Painter what the doctor said, and asked 
 her to tell me the prettiest stories she knew. 
 Jane Painter replied with one of her sweetest 
 smiles. It was part of her duties to put me 
 to bed every night, and one night, soon after 
 I was well, she came into my room in the 
 dark, as I was lying half awake and half 
 asleep. She crept up the stairs and into the 
 room so stealthily that I had no conscious-
 
 28 JESSIE TniM. 
 
 ness of her presence until a sepulchral voice 
 stole upon my ears saying, — 
 
 "Ho! Mister Friar, Don't be so bold, For 
 fear you should make My 'eart's blood run 
 cold ! " 
 
 My heart's blood did run cold at these 
 dreadful words, and I uttered a cry of fright. 
 Then Jane Painter spoke in her natural tone. 
 
 ^* I knew a boy once, and his name was 
 Namby-Pamby. He was the greatest coward 
 that ever breathed, and he was always telling 
 tales. I know what happened to him at last. 
 Youre like him. Perhaps it'll happen to 
 you. A fine boy you are ! You ought to 
 have been born a rabbit. I suppose you'll 
 tell vour mother. All cowards do." Here 
 she must have put her head up the chimney, 
 for her voice sounded very hollow as she 
 repeated, " Ho ! Mister Friar, Don't be so 
 bold, For fear you should make My 'eart'a 
 blood run cold ! '* 
 
 I cannot describe my terror. I wrapped 
 the counterpane tightly round my head, and 
 lay all of a tremble until Jane Painter thought
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 29 
 
 fit to take lier departure. From that night 
 she inflicted the most dreadful tortures upon 
 me. The first thing she did after putting 
 me to bed was to blow out the candle ; then 
 she would calmly sit down and tell me 
 frightful stories of murders and ghosts. Blood 
 was her favourite theme ; she absolutely re- 
 velled in it, and to this day I cannot look 
 upon it without a shudder. She would 
 prowl about the room, muttering, 
 
 '^ I smell blood ! I smell blood ! " • 
 
 And then, 
 
 " Let him be alive. Or let him be dead, 
 I'll have his blood to make my wine, I'll 
 grind his bones to make my bread." 
 
 After that she would grind her teeth, and 
 make sounds as though she were drinking. 
 
 '^ Serve him right, too, the little coward ! 
 Grind his bones On two large stones. His 
 blood and brine I'll drink for wine." 
 
 I suffered this martyrdom in silence. I 
 would not tell my mother, as all cowards 
 did. What the effect on me would have been 
 if circumstances had allowed Jane Painter to
 
 30 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 continue her persecution I am afraid to 
 think ; but fortunately for me the event 
 occurred which she was waiting for. My 
 grandmother died very suddenly. The last 
 words she was heard to utter were, "Poor 
 Anthony ! '^ I was not sorry when she died. 
 I tried to look sad, as everybody else looked, 
 but I knew that I was a dreadful hypocrite.
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 MY grandmother's LONG STOCKING. 
 
 There was a friend of ttie family of whose- 
 name I have no remembrance, and whdm, 
 from a certain personal peculiarity, I must 
 denominate Snaggletooth. He was a large 
 man — very tall, and round in proportion — 
 with a glistening bald head, a smooth full- 
 fleshed face, and clear grey eyes. In repose, 
 and when he was not speaking, he was by 
 no means an unpleasant-looking man ; his 
 face was benignant, and his clear grey eyes 
 beamed kindly upon you. But directly he 
 smiled he became transformed, and his 
 features were made to assume an almost 
 fiendish expression by reason of a hideous 
 snaggle-tooth which thrust itself forward im-
 
 32 JESSIE TRIM, 
 
 mediately lie opened his mouth. It stuck 
 out like a horn, and the change it effected 
 in his appearance was something marvellous. 
 As the friend of the family, Snaggletooth 
 came forward and offered his assistance. My 
 father being confined to his bed by sickness, 
 there was no man in the house to look after 
 the funeral of my grandmother, and Snaggle- 
 tooth's services were gladly accepted. I 
 fancy that he was fond of funerals, from 
 the zealous manner in which he attended to 
 the details of this and a sadder one which 
 followed not long afterwards. Setting this 
 fancy aside, he proved himself a genuine 
 and disinterested friend. We had no near 
 relatives ; my mother was an only daughter, 
 and my father had but one brother, older 
 than he, whom I had never seen, and who 
 had disappeared from the place many years 
 ao^o. He was supposed to be dead ; and 
 from certain chance words which I must 
 have heard, I had gained a vague impression 
 that he was not a credit to the family. 
 It was a strange experience for me to sit
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 33 
 
 in my grandmotlier s room after lier death, 
 gazing at her empty arm-chair. I could not 
 keep away from the room ; I crept into it 
 at all hours of the day, and sat there trem- 
 bling. I mentally asked the stone monkey- 
 figure what it thought of my grandmother's 
 death, and I put my fingers in my ears 
 lest I should hear an answer. Jane Painter 
 found me there in the evening when she 
 came to put me to bed, and stated that 
 my grandmother's ghost w^as present, • and 
 that she was in communication with it. 
 She held imaginary conversations with the 
 ghost in the dusk, speaking very softly 
 and waiting for the answers. The effect 
 w^as ghastly and terrifying. These con- 
 versations related to nothing but poor me, 
 und the exquisite pain Jane Painter inflicted 
 upon me by these means may be easily 
 imagined. 
 
 The first thing Snaggietooth did after my 
 grandmother's funeral was to search for her 
 long stocking and the treasures it w^as 
 vsupposed to contain. Taking the w^ords in 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 JESSIE TIIIM. 
 
 their literal sense, I really thought that the 
 long stocking would be found hidden some- 
 where — under the bed, perhaps, or among 
 the feathers, or up the chimney — stuffed 
 with money, in shape resembling my grand- 
 mother's leg, which I knew, from actual 
 observation, to be a substantial one. 
 
 *^ Perhaj)s she made a will," observed 
 Snaggietooth to my mother. 
 
 Jane Painter was present, hovering about 
 us with hungry jealous eyes, lest she should 
 be cheated. 
 
 '^ She did make a will," said Jane Painter, 
 '^ and I'm down in it." 
 
 "Then we will find it," said Snaggietooth, 
 cheerfully. 
 
 My grandmother's desk was opened, and 
 every piece of paper in it was examined. 
 No will was there, nor a word relating 
 to it. Her trunk was searched with a like 
 result. 
 
 ''Never mind," said Snaggietooth, with a 
 genial smile, " we shall be sure to find the 
 old lady's long stocking."
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 35 
 
 And he set to work. But although a rigid 
 search was made, no long stocking could be 
 found. Snaggletooth became immensely ex- 
 cited. Very hot, very dusty and dirty, and 
 with his shirt sleeves tucked up to his 
 shoulders, he gazed at vacancy, and paused 
 to take breath. Disappointed as he was up 
 to this point, his faith in my grandmother's 
 long stocking v/as not shaken ; he had it 
 not, and yet he saw it in form as palpable 
 as the lisle-thread stockings of my giiand- 
 mother, which were scattered about the room. 
 A closer and more systematic search was 
 commenced. The hunt became more and 
 more exciting, and still not a glimpse of the 
 fox's tail could be seen. Under Snaggletooth's 
 instructions the bedstead was taken down, the 
 pillows and mattresses were ripped open (Snag- 
 gletooth beinef determined not to leave a 
 feather unturned), the posts were sounded, to 
 discover if they were hollow, and the strictest 
 examination was made of every vestige of my 
 grandmother's clothing, without a satisfactory 
 result. Dirtier and hotter than ever, and
 
 :36 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 covered with fluff and feathers, Snaggletooth 
 looked about him with an air of " What 
 next ? " His eye fell upon my grandmother's 
 arm-chair. Out came the stuffing. That it 
 contained, and nothing more. My grand- 
 mother's footstool : a like result. Her portly 
 pincushion : nothing but bran. Up came the 
 carpet, and almost blinded us with dust. And 
 then Snaggletooth sat down in the midst of 
 the wreck, and said disconsolately, 
 '^ I am afraid we must give it up." 
 So it was given up, and the mystery of my 
 
 grandmother's long stocking took honourable 
 place in the family records as an important 
 legend for ever afterwards. 
 
 Jane Painter passed through many stages of 
 emotion, and ended by being furious. She 
 vowed — no, she swore ; it is more appropriate 
 — that she had been robbed, and openly de- 
 clared that my mother had secreted my grand- 
 mother's long stocking, and had destroyed the 
 will. Nay, more ; she screamed that she had 
 seen the treasure, which consisted of new Bank 
 of England notes and a heap of gold, and that
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 37 
 
 in the will my grandmother had left her three 
 hundred pounds. 
 
 " Woman !" exclaimed Snaggletooth, rising 
 from the ruins, " be quiet I" 
 
 " Woman yourself!" screamed Jane Painter. 
 " You're in the plot to rob a poor girl, and I'll 
 have the law of you ; I'll have the law, I'll 
 have the law !" 
 
 " Take it and welcome," retorted Snaggle- 
 tooth. ''I hate it." 
 
 But he was no match for Jane Pamter, 
 and he retired from the contest discomfited ; 
 did not even stop to wash his face. 
 
 My mother was sad and puzzled. I did 
 not entirely realise at the time the cause of 
 her sadness, because I did not know how 
 poor she really was, but I learnt it afterwards. 
 She gathered sufficient courage to tell Jane 
 Painter that of course she could not stop in 
 the house after what she had said. 
 
 " If every hair in your head was a dia- 
 mond," gasped Jane Painter, " I wouldn't 
 stop ! No, not if you went down on your 
 bended knees ! I'll go to-morrow."
 
 38 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 Then she pounced upon two silk dresses 
 and some other articles of clothing, and said 
 that my grandmother had given them to her. 
 My mother submitted without a word, and 
 Jane Painter marched to her room and locked 
 them in her box. She did as much mischief 
 as she could on her last evening in our house ; 
 broke things purposely and revenged herself 
 grandly on poor little me. After undressing 
 and putting me to bed as usual, and after 
 smelling about the room, and under the bed, 
 and up the chimney for blood, she imparted 
 to me the cheerful intelligence that my grand- 
 mother's ghost would come and take me away 
 exactly at twelve o'clock that night. Near 
 to our house was a church, and many a night 
 had I lain awake waiting for the tolling of 
 the hour ; but I had never listened with such 
 intensity of purpose as I listened on this 
 niizht. As midnio'ht drew near, I clenched 
 my fists, I bit my lips, I drew my knees 
 almost up to my nose. I trembled and shook 
 in the darkness. I would not look, I thought ; 
 and when the hour tolled, every note was
 
 JESSIE TBUL 30 
 
 (charged with terrible meaning, and I .shut 
 my eyes tighter and held my breath under 
 the clothes. But when the bell had done 
 tolling, my state of horrible curiosity and 
 fear compelled me to peep out, and there in 
 the middle of the room stood a tall figure in 
 white. So loud and shrill were my hysterical 
 €ries that my mother ran into the room, there 
 to find Jane Painter in her night-dress. I 
 think the woman herself, fearful lest she had 
 gone too far, was glad to quit the house the 
 following day without being called to account 
 for her misdeeds. She did not leave without 
 a few parting words. She called us all a 
 parcel of thieves, and said that a judgment 
 would fall upon us one day for robbing a 
 poor servant of the money her dead mistress 
 had left her.
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 I MUEDER MY BABY-BROTHER. 
 
 Misfortunes never come singly, and they did 
 not come singly to ns. It was not for us 
 to give the lie to a proverb. Often in a 
 family death is in a hurry when it commences, 
 and takes one after another quickly ; then 
 pauses for a long breath. 
 
 In very truth, sorroAV in its deepest phase 
 had entered our house, and my mother s form 
 seemed to shrink and grow less from the day 
 she put on mom^ning for my grandmother. 
 But if my mother had her troubles, I am sure 
 I had mine ; and one was of such a strange 
 and terrible nature that, even at this distance 
 of time, and with a better comprehension of 
 things, a curiously-reluctant feeling comes
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 41 
 
 upon me as I prepare to narrate it. It is 
 summarised in a very few \Yords. I murdered 
 my baby-brother. 
 
 At least, such was my impression at the 
 time. For a long while I was afflicted by 
 secret remorse and by fear of discovery, and 
 never till now have I made confession. There 
 was only one witness of my crime : our cat. 
 I remember well that my father was said to 
 be sinking at the time, and my mother, having 
 her hands full, and her heart, too, poor dear ! 
 placed me and my baby-brother in the room in 
 which I used to sit with my grandmother. 
 My task was to take care of the little fellow, 
 and to amuse him. He was so young that he 
 could scarcely toddle, and we had great fun 
 with two oranges which my mother had given 
 us to play with. It required great strength of 
 mind not to eat them instead of playing with 
 them ; but the purpose for which they were 
 given to us had been plainly set down by my 
 mother. All that I could hope for, therefore, 
 was that they might burst their skins after 
 bein^ knocked about a little, when of course
 
 42 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 they would become lawful food. We played 
 ball with them ; my baby-brother rolling them 
 towards me, not being strong enough to throw 
 them, and I (secretly animated by the wish 
 that they would burst their skins) throwing 
 them u]) to him, with a little more force than 
 was actually necessary, and trying to- make 
 him catch them. I cannot tell how long we 
 played, for at this precise moment of my 
 history a mist steals upon such of my early 
 reminiscences as arc related in this and the 
 preceding chapters — a mist which divides, as 
 by a curtain, one part of my life from another. 
 My actual life will soon commence, the life that 
 is tangible to me, as it were, that stands out in 
 stronger colour and is distinct from the brief 
 prologue Avliich was acted in dreamland, and 
 which lies nestled deep among the days of my 
 childhood. Cloud-memories these ; most of us 
 have such. Some are wholly bright and 
 sweet, some wholly sad and bitter, some 
 parti-coloured. When the dreamland in 
 which these cloud-memories have birth has 
 faded, and we are in the summer or the
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 43 
 
 winter of our days, fighting tlie Battle, or, 
 having fought it, are waiting for the trumpet- 
 sound which proclaims the Grand Eetreat, 
 we can all remember where we received such 
 and such a wound, where such and such a 
 refreshing draught was given to us, at what 
 part of the fight such and such a scar was 
 gained, and at what part a spiritual vision 
 dawned upon our souls, captivating and 
 entrancing us with hopes too bright and 
 beautiful ever to be realised; and though 
 our blood be thin and poor, and the glory 
 of life seems to have waned with the wanins^ 
 of our strength, our pulses thrill and our 
 hearts beat Avith something of the old glow 
 as the remembrance of these pains and plea- 
 sures comes upon us ! 
 
 To return to my baby-brother. The dusk 
 steals upon us, and we are still playing 
 with the oranges. The cat is watching us, 
 and when an orange rolls in her direction, 
 she, half timidly, half sportively, stretches 
 out her paw towards it, and on one occasion 
 lies full length on her stomach, with an
 
 44 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 orange between the tips of her paws, and 
 her nose in a straight line with it. I hear 
 my baby-brother Laugh gleefully as I scramble 
 on all-fours after the orange. The dusk has 
 deepened, and my baby-brother's face grows 
 indistinct. I throw the orange towards him. 
 It hits him in the face, and his gleeful 
 laughter changes to a scream. I absolutely 
 never see my baby-brother again, and never 
 again hear his voice. All that afterwards refers 
 to him seems to be imparted to me when it is 
 dark, and, so strong is my impression of this 
 detail that in my memory I never see his 
 face with a light upon it. My baby-brother- 
 is taken suddenly ill, I am told. I go about 
 the house, always in the dark, stepping very 
 gently, and wondering whether my secret will 
 become known, and if it does, what will be 
 done to me. Still in the dark I hear that 
 my baby-brother is worse : that he is dan- 
 gerously ill. Then, without an interval as it 
 seems, comes the news that my baby-brother 
 is dead, and I learn in some undiscoverable 
 way that he has died of the croup. I know
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 45 
 
 l)etter. I know that I o-ave him his death- 
 blow with the orange, and I tremble for the 
 consequences. But no human being appears 
 to suspect me, and for my own sake I must 
 preserve silence. Even to assume an air of 
 grief at my baby-brother's death might be 
 dangerous ; it might look as if I were too 
 deeply interested in the event ; so I put on 
 my most indifferent air. There are, how- 
 'Cver, two things in the house that I am 
 frightened of. One is our old Dutch clcmk, 
 the significant ticking and the very ro^Des 
 and iron weights of which appear to me to 
 be pregnant with knowledge of my crime. 
 Five minutes before every hour the clock 
 gives vent to a whirring sound, and at that 
 sound, hitherto without significance, 1 tremble. 
 There is a warning in it, and with nervous 
 apprehension I count the seconds that inter- 
 vene between it and the striking of the hour, 
 believing that then the bell will proclaim 
 my guilt. It does proclaim it ; but no 
 person understands it, no one heeds it. I 
 lean against the passage wall, listening to
 
 46 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 the denunciation. Snaggletootli comes in 
 and stands by my side while the clock is 
 striking. I look np into his face with im- 
 ploring eyes and a sinking heart. He taps 
 my cheek kindly, and passes on. I breathe 
 more freely ; he does not know the language 
 of the bells. The other thing of which I am 
 frififhtened is our cat. I know that she 
 
 o 
 
 knows, and I am fearful lest, by some 
 mysterious means, she wdll denounce me. If 
 I meet her in the dark, her green eyes glare 
 at me. I try to win her over to my side 
 in a covert manner by stroking her coat ; 
 but as I smooth her fur skilfully and cun- 
 ningly, I am convinced that she arches 
 her back in a manner more sig^nificant than 
 usual, and that by that action she declines 
 to be a passive accessor}" to the fact. Her 
 very tail, as it curls beneath my fingers, 
 accuses me. But time goes on, and I am 
 not arrested and led away to be hanged. 
 When my baby-brother is in his coffin I am 
 taken to see him. The cat follows at my 
 heels ; I strive to push her away stealthily
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 47 
 
 with my foot, 1)ut she rubs her ear against 
 my leg, and will not leave me. I do not 
 see my baby-brother, because I shut my eyes, 
 and I sob and tremble so that they are 
 compelled to take me out of the room ; but 
 I have a vao-ue remembrance of flowers 
 about his coffin. I am a little relieved when 
 I hear that he is buried, but the night that 
 follows is a night of torture to me. The 
 Dutch clock ticks, '' I know ! I know ! " and 
 the cat purrs, "I know! I know!" and wlien 
 I am in bed the shade of Jane Painter steals 
 into the room, and after smelling about for 
 blood, whispers in a ghastly undertone that 
 she knows, and is going to tell. Of the 
 doctor, also, I begin to be frightened, for 
 after his visit to my father's sick-room, my 
 mother brings him to see me^ — being anxious 
 about me, I hear her say. He stops and 
 speaks to me, and when his fingers are on 
 my wrist, I fancy that the beating of my 
 pulse is revealing my crime to him. 
 
 But more weighty cares even than mine- 
 are stirring in our house, and making them-
 
 48 JESSIE TRIM, 
 
 selves felt. My father's last moments are 
 approacliing, and I liear that he cannot last 
 the day out. He lasts the day out, but 
 not the night. As the friend of the family, 
 Snaofs^letooth remains in the house to see 
 the end of his old comrade. He and 
 my father were schoolboys together, he tells 
 me. 
 
 " He was the cleverest boy in the school," 
 Snaggletooth says ; " the cleverest boy in the 
 school I He used to do my sums for me. 
 We went out birds' -nesting together ; and 
 many and many's the time we've stood 
 up against the whole school, snowballing. 
 A snowball, with a stone in it, hit him in 
 the face once, and knocked him flat down ; 
 but he was up in a minute, all bloody, and 
 rushed into the middle of our enemies, like 
 a young lion — like a young lion ! He was 
 the first and the cleverest of all of us — I was 
 a long way behind him. And now, think 
 of him lying there almost at his last breath, 
 and look at me ! " Snaggletooth straightens 
 himself as he walks ujDstairs, murmuring,
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 49 
 
 " The cleverest boy in the school ! And now 
 think of him, and look at me 1 " 
 
 Snaggletooth's wife is in the house, and 
 helps my mother in her trouble. In the 
 night this good creature and I sit together 
 in the kitchen — waiting. My mother comes 
 in softly two or three times ; once she draws 
 me out of the kitchen on to the dark land- 
 ing, and kneels down, and with her arms 
 around my neck, sobs quietly upon my 
 shoulder. She kisses me many times, a!id 
 whispers a prayer to me, which I repeat 
 after her. 
 
 " Be a good child always, Chris," she says. 
 
 '^ I will, mother." And the promise, given 
 at such a time, sinks into my heart with 
 the force of a sacred obligation. 
 
 Then my mother takes me into the kitchen, 
 and gives me into the charge of Snaggietooth's 
 wife, and steals away. Snaggletooth's wife 
 begins to prattle to amuse me, and in a few 
 minutes I ascertain that she in some way 
 resembles Jane Painter ; for — ^probably in- 
 fluenced by the appropriateness of the occasion 
 
 YOL. I. E
 
 ^0 JESSIE TRIAL 
 
 for such narrations — she tells me stories in a 
 low tone about the Ghost of the Eed Barn, 
 and the Cock Lane Ghost, and Old Mother 
 •Shipton. The old witch is a favourite theme 
 with Snaggletooth's wife, and I hear many- 
 strange things. She says, 
 
 ^^ One night Mother Shipton was in a 
 terrible rage, and she told the grasshopper 
 on the top of the Eojal Exchange to jump 
 ■over to the ball on St. Paul's Church steeple. 
 And so it did. Soon after that, London was 
 burnt to the ground." 
 
 I muse on this, and presently inquire, " Was 
 it an accident ? '' 
 
 " The fire ? No ; it was done on pur- 
 pose." 
 
 ''Was it because the grassho23per jumped 
 on to the steeple that London was set on 
 fire?" 
 
 '' Of course," is the reply. " That was 
 Mother Shipton's spite." 
 
 Snaggletooth's wife tells so many stories of 
 ghosts and witches that the air smells of 
 fire and brimstone, and I see the cat's tail
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 51 
 
 stiffen and its eyes glow fearfully. Then 
 I hear a cry from upstairs, and Snaggletooth's 
 wife rises hurriedly, and looks about her 
 with restless hands, and the whole house is 
 in a strange confusion. Snaggletooth himself 
 comes into the room, and as he whispers 
 some consoling words to me — only the import 
 of which I understand — his great tooth sticks 
 out like a horn. He looks like a fiend. 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 CHAPTER V. . 
 
 I PLAY THE PART OF CHIEF MOURNEK. 
 
 Notwithstanding lier limited means, my 
 mother had always managed to keep up 
 a respectable ap]3earance. Popular report 
 had settled it that my grandmother was a 
 woman of property and that my father 
 had money ; and the fact that my grand- 
 mother s long stocking had proved to be a 
 myth was most completely discredited. We 
 are supposed, therefore, to be well to do, and 
 the scandal would have been great if my 
 father had not received a respectable funeral. 
 Pul^lic opinion called for it. My mother 
 makes a great effort, and quite out of love, 
 I am sure, and not at all in deference to 
 public opinion, buries my father in a manner
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 53 
 
 SO respectable as to receive the entire approval 
 of our neighbours. Public opinion called for 
 mutes, and two mutes — one with a very long 
 face and one with a very square face — are at 
 our door, the objects of deep and attentive 
 contemplation on the part of the sundry and 
 several. Public opinion called for four black 
 horses, and there they stand, champing their 
 bits, with their mouths well soaped. Public 
 opinion called for plumes, and there they 
 wave, and bow, and bend, proud and graceful 
 attendants at the shrine of death. Public 
 opinion called for mock mourners, and they 
 are ready to parody grief, with very large feet, 
 ill-fitting black gloves, and red-rimmed eyes, 
 which suggest the idea that their eyelids 
 have been wept away by a long course of 
 salaried affliction. Never in all his life had 
 my father been so surrounded by pomps and 
 vanities ; but public opinion has decided that 
 on such solemn occasions grief is not grief 
 unless it is lacquered, and that common 
 decency would be outraged by following the 
 dead to the grave with simple humility.
 
 54 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 The interior of our house has an appear^ 
 ance generally suggestive of graves and coffins. 
 The company is assembled in the little parlour 
 facing the street — my grandmother's room — 
 and in her expiring attempt at respectability 
 my mother has provided sherry and biscuits. 
 The blinds are down although it is Ijroad 
 day ; a parody of a sunbeam flows through 
 a chink, but the motes within it are anything 
 but lively, and float ujd and down the slanting- 
 pillar in a sluggish and funereal manner, in 
 perfect sympathy with the occasion. The 
 cat peeps into the room, debating whether 
 she shall enter ; after a cautious scrutiny she 
 decides in the negative, and retires stealthily,, 
 to muse over the uncertainty of life in a more 
 retired spot. The company is not numerous. 
 Snaggletooth is present, and the doctor, and 
 two neighbours who approve of the sherry. 
 These latter invite Snaggletooth's attention to 
 the wine, and he pours out a glass and dis- 
 poses of it with a sadly resigned air ; saying 
 before he drinks it, with a tender reference 
 to my father as he holds it up to the light,
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 55 
 
 *' Ah ! If he could ! " Conversation is carried 
 on in a deadly-lively style. I think of my 
 baby-brother, and a wild temptation urges 
 me to fall upon my knees and make confes- 
 sion of the murder; but I resist it, and am 
 guiltily dumb. Snaggletooth, observing signs 
 of agitation in my face, pats me on the 
 shoulder, and says, '' Poor little fellow 1 " The 
 two neighbours follow suit, and poor-little- 
 fellow me in sympathising tones. After this, 
 they approached the decanter of sherry ^^th 
 one intention. There is but half a glass left, 
 which the first to reach the decanter pours 
 out and drinks, while the second regards him 
 reproachfully, with a look which asks. On 
 such an occasion should not self be sacrificed ? 
 Before the lid of the coffin is fastened down, 
 I am taken into the room by Snaggletooth 
 to look for the last time upon my father's 
 face. I see nothing but a figure in white 
 which inspires me with fear. I cling close 
 to Snaggletooth. He is immensely afi'ected, 
 and mutters, '' Good-bye, old schoolfellow 1 
 Ah, time ! time \" As I look up at him, his
 
 ^6 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 Laid head glistens as would a ball of wax, 
 and something glistens in his eyes. 
 
 When the cofEn is taken out of the house, 
 there is great excitement among the throng 
 of persons in the street. They peep over 
 each other's shoulders to catch a glimpse of 
 the coffin and of me. I cannot help feeling 
 that I am in an exalted position. A thrill 
 of pride stirs my heart. Am I not chief 
 mourner ? 
 
 I stand by the side of a narrow grave, dug 
 in a corner of the churchyard, and shaded 
 from the sun's glare by a triangular wall, the 
 top of which is covered with pieces of broken 
 bottles, arranged with cruel nicety and pre- 
 cision, so that their sharp and jagged ends 
 are uppermost. Standing also within the 
 shadow of the triangular wall are a number 
 of tombstones, some f^iir and white, others 
 yellow and crumbling from age, which I 
 regard with the air of one who has acquired 
 a vested interest in the property. I do not 
 understand the words the clergyman utters, 
 for he has an impediment in his speech.
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 But as the coffin is lowered, I am impelled 
 gently towards the grave, from which I shrink, 
 however, apprehensive lest I shall be thrust 
 into it, and buried beneath the earth which 
 is scattered on the coffin with a leaden miser- 
 able sound. "When the service is ended, I 
 hear Snaggletooth mutter, "Think of him 
 lying there, and look at me ! And we were 
 schoolfellows, and played snowball together I '' 
 Snaggletooth shows me my grandmother's 
 grave, and the grave of my baby-brother* I 
 dare not look upon the latter, knowing what 
 I know. Then Snaggletooth, still with head 
 uncovered, stands before a little grave over 
 which is a small marble tombstone, with 
 the inscription, '' He^^e Lieth our Beloved 
 Daughter." Seeing that his tears are falling 
 on the grave, I creep closer to him, and he 
 presses me gently to his side. I read the 
 inscription slowly, spelling the words, " Here 
 Lieth our Beloved Daughter," and I look at 
 him inquiringly. 
 
 " My daughter," he says ; " the sweetest 
 angel that ever breathed. She was three
 
 58 JESSIE TBIM. 
 
 years and one day old when slie died, nearly 
 five years ago. Poor darling ! Five years 
 ago ! Ah, time ! time ! " 
 
 As we pass out of the churchyard I notice 
 again the broken glass on the top of the 
 wall, and I say, '' Isn't that cruel ? " 
 
 " Why cruel ? " asks Snaggletooth. 
 
 "No one can get in without hurting 
 himself." 
 
 - Snaggletooth regards me with an eye of 
 curiosity. 
 
 " And who do you think wants to get 
 into such a place, my little fellow ? " 
 
 I do not answer, and Snaggletooth adds, 
 
 "The angels, perhaps. Good — good. But 
 they come in another way." 
 
 *' No one can get out without hurting 
 himself," I suggest. 
 
 '' That is a better thought ; but if they 
 live good lives " 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Stone walls covered with broken glass 
 won't hurt them." 
 
 Snaggletooth looks upwards contemplatively.
 
 JE88IE TBIM. 5^ 
 
 I look up also, and a sudden dizziness, 
 comes upon me and overpowers me. Snaggle- 
 tooth catches me as I am falling. 
 
 ''You are not well, my little fellow.'' 
 
 *' No, sir ; I feel very weak, but the doctor 
 says I shall get over it." 
 
 Snaggletooth lifts me in his arms, and I 
 fall asleep on his shoulder as he carries me 
 tenderly home. 
 
 Here we are, my mother and I, sitting 
 in the little parlour. My mother has been 
 crying over me, and perhaps over the sad 
 future that lies before us. Not a sound now 
 is to be heard. My condition is a strange 
 one. Everything about me is very unreal, 
 and I wonderingly consider if I shall ever 
 wake up. All my young experiences come 
 to me again. I see my grandmother and my- 
 self sitting together. There upon the mantel- 
 shelf is the figure of the smoke-dried monkey 
 of a man in stone, wagging his head at me ; 
 there is the man with the knob on the top of 
 his head — what is his name ? Anthony — 
 yes, Anthony BuUpit — making a meal off his
 
 CO JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 linger nails. In marches my grandmother's 
 long stocking, bulged out with money to the 
 shape of a very substantial leg, just as I had 
 fancied it — that makes me laugh ; but my 
 flesh creeps as I hear Jane Painter's voice 
 in the dark, telling of blood and murder. 
 The last word, as she dwells upon it, luings 
 up my baby-brother, and I hear the Dutch 
 clock tick: "I know! I know!" But it 
 ticks all these fancies into oblivion, and ticks 
 in the picture of the churchyard. I see the 
 graves and the tombstones, and I read the 
 inscription : " Here Lietli our Beloved 
 Daughter." How it must grieve her parents 
 to know that their beloved daughter is lying 
 shut up in the cold earth ! I raise a por- 
 trait of the child, with fair hair and laughing 
 eyes, and I wonder how she would look now 
 if she were dug up, and whether her parents 
 would know her again. Night surprises me 
 confined within the triangular wall of the 
 churchyard. The gates are closed, and I 
 cannot pass out. The moon shines down 
 icily. The cold air makes my fevered blood
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 61 
 
 hotter. I tnust get out ! I cannot stop con- 
 fined here for ever ! I dig my fingers into 
 the wall ; desperately I cling to it, and strive 
 to climb. Inch by inch I mount. With an 
 exquisite sense of relief I reach the top, but 
 as I place my hands upon it they are cut to 
 the bone by the broken glass, and with a 
 wild shudder I sink into darkness and 
 oblivion !
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 IN WHICH A GEEAT CHANGE IN MY 
 CIRCUMSTANCES TAKES PLACE. 
 
 When I recovered from the fever of which 
 the experiences just recorded were the prelude, 
 I found that we had removed from the house 
 in which I was born, and that we were 
 occupying apartments. We had removed 
 also from the neighbourhood ; the streets 
 were strange, the people were strange ; I saw 
 210 familiar faces. Hitherto we had been 
 living in Hertford, and many a time had I 
 watched the barges going lazily to and fro 
 on the Eiver Lea. The place we were in 
 now was nothing but a village ; my mother 
 told me it was called Chipping Barnet. I 
 cannot tell exactly what it was that restrained
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 63 
 
 me from asking why the change had been 
 made ; it must have been from an intuitive 
 consciousness that the subject was painful to 
 my mother. But when, after the lapse of a 
 year or so, we moved away from Chipping 
 Barnet, and began to live in very humble 
 fashion in two small rooms, I asked the 
 reason. 
 
 '' My dear," said my mother, '' we cannot 
 afford better.^' 
 
 I looked into her face ; it was pale and 
 cheerful. But I saw, although no signs of 
 repining were there, that care had made its 
 mark. She smiled at me. 
 
 " We are very poor, dear child,'' she said ; 
 and added quickly, with a light in her eyes, 
 "but that is no reason why we should not 
 be happy.'' 
 
 She did her best to make me so, and 
 poor as our home was, it contained many 
 sweet pleasures. By this time I had com- 
 pletely lost sight of Snaggletooth and all 
 our former friends and acquaintances. I did 
 not miss them ; I had my mother with me.
 
 64 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 and I wished for no one else. Already, my 
 former life and my former friends were 
 becoming to me things of long ago. My 
 mother often spoke of London, and of her 
 wish to go there. 
 
 " I think it would be better for us, 
 Chris,^' she said. 
 
 ^' Is London a very large place ? " I asked. 
 " As large as this ? " stretching out my arms 
 to gain an idea of its extent. 
 
 My mother told me what she knew of 
 London, which was not much, for she had 
 only been there once, for a couple of days, 
 and I said I was sure I should not like it ; 
 there were too many people in it. My idea 
 of perfect happiness was to live with my 
 mother in some pretty country place, where 
 there were fields and shady walks and turn- 
 stiles and narrow lanes, and perhaps a river. 
 I described the very place, and artistically 
 dotted it with lazy cattle listening for 
 mysterious signs in earth or air, or looking 
 with steady solemn eyes far into the horizon, 
 as if they were observing signs hidden from
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 65 
 
 liuman gaze. I also put some lazy barges 
 on the river : " Creeping, creeping, creeping," 
 I said, *' as if they were so tired ! " 
 
 '^And we would go and live in that very 
 place, my dear," said my mother, "if we 
 had money enough." 
 
 "When you get money enough, mother, 
 we luill go." 
 
 '^Yes, my dear." 
 
 Other changes were made, but not in the 
 direction I desired. Like a whirlpool, Lon- 
 don was drawing us nearer and nearer to its 
 depths, and by the time I was twelve years 
 of age we were nearly at the bottom of ' the 
 hill down which we had been steadily going. 
 My clothes ^yere very much patched and 
 mended now ; all our furniture was sold, 
 and we were living in one room, which 
 was rented to us ready furnished. The 
 knowledge of the struggle in which my 
 mother was engaged loomed gradually upon 
 me, and distressed me in a vague manner. 
 We were really now in London, although 
 not in the heart of the city ; and my mother, 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 m JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 whose needle brought us bread and very 
 little butter, often walked four miles to the 
 workshop and four miles back on a fruit- 
 less errand. Things were getting worse and 
 worse with us. My mother grew thinner 
 and paler, but she never looked at me 
 without a smile on her lips — a smile that 
 was often sad, but always tender. At night, 
 while she worked, she taught me to read 
 and write ; there was no free school near us, 
 and she could not afford to pay for my learn- 
 ino;. But no schoolmaster could have tauQ-ht 
 me as well as she did. She had a thin, 
 sweet voice, and often when I was in bed I 
 fell asleep while she was singing by my side. 
 I used to love to lie thus peacefully with 
 closed eyes, and float into dreamland upon 
 the wings of her sweet melodies. I woke up 
 sometimes late in the night, and saw her 
 dear face bending over her work. It was 
 always meek and cheerful ; I never saw 
 anger or bad passion in it. 
 
 " Mother," I said one night, after I had 
 lain and watched her for a long time.
 
 JESSIE TEIM. Q7 
 
 She gave a start. ''Dear child; I thought 
 jou were asleep/' 
 
 ''So I have been ; but I woke up, and 
 I've been watching you for a long, long 
 time. Mother, when I am a man I shall 
 work for you.'' 
 
 " That's right, dear. You give me plea- 
 sure and delight. I know my good boy 
 will try to be a good man." 
 
 " I will try to ; as good as you are. I 
 want to be like you. Could I not work liow, 
 mother ? " 
 
 " No, dear child ; you are not strong 
 enough yet." - 
 
 " I wish I could grow into a strong man 
 in a night," I thought. 
 
 My mother came to the bedside, and rested 
 her fingers upon my neck. What tenderness 
 dwells in a loving mother's touch ! I im- 
 prisoned her fingers in mine. She leant 
 towards me caressingly, and kissed me. Sleep 
 stole upon me in that kiss of love. 
 
 I saw a picture in a shop window of a 
 girl whose bright fresh face brought my
 
 G8 JESSIE TBUL 
 
 motlier's face before me. But the girl's face 
 was full of gladness, and lier cheeks were 
 glowing; my mothers cheeks were sunken 
 and wan. Still the likeness was unmistakably 
 there, and I thou2:ht how much I should love 
 to see my mother as bright as this bright 
 girl. I spoke to her about it, and she went 
 to see the picture, which was in the next 
 street to ours. She came back smiling. 
 
 " It is like me, Chris," she said ; " as I 
 was once." 
 
 "Then you must have been very, very 
 pretty," I said, stroking her cheek. 
 
 My mother laughed melodiously. 
 
 " When I was young, my dear," she said 
 with innocent vanity, blushing like a girl, " I 
 was thought not to be ugly." 
 
 " Ugly, indeed ! " I exclaimed, looking 
 around defiantly. "My mother couldnt be 
 
 " What do you call me now, Chris ? " 
 " You are beautiful — beautiful ! " with 
 another defiant look. My mother shook her 
 hand in mild remonstrance. " You are — you
 
 JESSIE TEUL m 
 
 are ! But you're pale and thin, and you've 
 got lines here — and here." I smoothed them 
 with my hand. *' And, mother, you're not 
 old ! " 
 
 "I'm forty, Chris." 
 
 '* That is not old. Tell me — -why did you 
 alter so ? " 
 
 " Time and trouble alter us, dear. We 
 can't be always bright." 
 
 I thought that I might be the trouble she 
 referred to, and I asked the question anxiously. 
 
 " You, my darling ! " she said, drawing me 
 to her side and petting me. " You are my 
 joy, my comfort ! I live only for you, 
 Chris — only for you ! " 
 
 I noticed something here, and with a touch 
 of that logical argumentativeness for which 
 I was afterwards not undistinguished, I said, 
 
 " If I am your joy and comfort, you ought 
 to be glad." 
 
 " And am I not glad ? What does my 
 little boy mean by his roundabouts ? " 
 
 " You cried when you said I was your joy 
 and comfort."
 
 70 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 " They were tears of pleasure, my dear — 
 tears that sprang from my love for my boy. 
 Then, perhaps, they sprang from the thought 
 — for we will be truthful always, Chris — that 
 I should like to buy my boy a new pair of 
 boots and some new clothes, and that I 
 couldn't because I hadn't money enough." 
 
 "You would buy them for me if you had 
 money ? " 
 
 " Ah ! what would I not buy for my darling 
 if I had money ! " 
 
 How delicious it was to nestle in her arms 
 as she poured out the love of her heart for 
 me ! How I worshipped her, and kissed her, 
 and patted her cheek, and smoothed her hair ! 
 
 " You are like a lover, my dear," she said. 
 
 " I am your lover," I replied, and murmured 
 softly to myself, " Wait till I am a man ! 
 wait till I am a man ! " 
 
 That night I coaxed my mother to talk 
 to me of the time when she was young, 
 and she did, with many a smile and many 
 a blush ; and in our one little room there 
 was much delight. She picked out the daisies.
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 71 
 
 of her life, and laid them before me to gladden 
 my heart. Simple and beautiful were they as 
 Nature's own sweet flower. She showed me a 
 picture of herself as a girl, and I saw its 
 likeness to the picture I had admired in the 
 shop window. She sang me to sleep with 
 her dear old songs, full of sweetness and 
 simplicity. How difl*erent are our modern 
 songs from those sweet old airs ! The charm 
 of simplicity is wanting — but, indeed, it is 
 wanting in other modern things as well. 
 The spirit of simplicity dwells not in crowded 
 places. 
 
 Then commenced my first conscious wor- 
 ship of woman. I held her in my heart as 
 a devotee holds a saint. How good was 
 this world which contained such goodness ! 
 How sweet this life which contained such 
 sweetness ! She was the flower of both. 
 Modesty, simplicity, and truth, were with 
 her invariably. To me she became the in- 
 carnation of purity. 
 
 Time went on, and low as we were we 
 were still going down hill steadily and
 
 72 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 surely. It is a long liill, and there are 
 many depths in it. Work grew slack, and 
 in the struggle to make both ends meet, my 
 mother was frequently worsted ; there was 
 often a great gap between. I do not won- 
 der that hearts sometimes crack in that en- 
 deavour. Yet my mother ("by hook and 
 by crook," as I have heard her say merrily) 
 generally managed in the course of the 
 week to scrape together some few coins 
 which, jealously watched and jealously spent, 
 sufficed in a poor way to keep body and 
 soul together. How it was managed is a 
 mystery to me. The winter came on : a hard 
 winter. Bread went up in price ; every 
 additional halfpenny on a four-pound loaf 
 was a dagger in my mother's breast. We 
 rubbed through this hard time somehow, 
 and Christmas glided by and the new year 
 came upon us. A cold spring set in, and 
 work, which had been getting slacker and 
 slacker, could not now be obtained. Still 
 my mother did not lie down and yield. She 
 tried other shops, and received a little work
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 73 
 
 — very little — at odd times. Then came a 
 very hard week, and my mother was much 
 distressed. On the Friday night I heard 
 her murmuring to herself in her sleep as I 
 thought, and I fancied I heard her sob. I 
 €alled to her, but she did not answer me. 
 Her breath rose and fell in regular rhythm. 
 Yes, she was asleep, and the sob I thought 
 I heard was born of my fancy. I was 
 thankful for that.
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 IN WHICH A FAIRY IN A COTTON-PRINT DRESS 
 IS INTRODUCED. 
 
 The next day was Saturday, and my motlier 
 went out early in tlie morning, and returned 
 at two o'clock with the saddest of faces. 
 
 " No work, mother ? " I asked. 
 
 '' No, my dear," she replied ; " but come,, 
 my child, you must be hungry." 
 
 There was little enough to eat, but my 
 boy's aj)petite, and the cunning way my 
 mother had of placing our humble fare before 
 me, made the plain food as sweet as the 
 best. 
 
 I noticed that she ate nothing, and I tried 
 to persuade her to eat. 
 
 "I have no appetite, my dear," she said.
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 75 
 
 and added in reply to my sorrowful look, 
 '^ My little boy doesn't know wliat I've had 
 while I was out this morning." 
 
 Deeper thought than usual seemed to 
 occupy her mind during the afternoon, and 
 she suddenly started up, and hurriedly threw 
 on her bonnet and shawl. 
 
 " Are you going to try again, mother ? " 
 " Yes, my darling ; I must try again." 
 It was late when she returned, and it 
 gladdened me inexpressibly to see a happy 
 change in her ; she was almost radiant as 
 she took my face between her two hands, 
 and said as she kissed me, 
 
 " Child, dear child 1 God bless those who 
 help the poor ! " 
 
 She did not bid me repeat the words ; but 
 some deep meaning in her voice impelled ma 
 to do so, and I said in a solemn tone, which 
 the words seemed to demand, 
 
 *' God bless those who help the poor ! " 
 She nodded pensively as she knelt before 
 me, and as I looked at her earnestly her face 
 flushed, and she rose and bustled about the
 
 76 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 room, putting things in order. I tliink she 
 tried to hide her face from me, and that her 
 bustling about was a pretence. 
 
 '^And now, Chris," she said presently, 
 drawing her breath quickly, as though she 
 had been running, "let us go out and get 
 something nice for supper, and for dinner to- 
 morrow. Put on your cap, dear ; you must 
 be hungry." 
 
 I was ; and I was glad, indeed, to hear the 
 good news, and to accompany her on such 
 an errand. She consulted me as to what 
 she should buy, and made me very proud 
 and happy with her " What do you say to 
 this, dear ? " and " Would you like this, my 
 darling ? " We returned home loaded with 
 meat, potatoes, and one or two little delicacies. 
 I was in a state of great satisfaction, and we 
 made quite merry over the trifling incident 
 of a few potatoes rolling out of my mother's 
 apron down the stairs in the dark. " Bump, 
 bump, bumping," I said, as I scrambled down 
 after them, "as if they knew their way in 
 the dark, and could see without a candle."
 
 JESSIE TRIM. n 
 
 ^^ Potatoes have eyes, my dear," said my 
 mother : and we laughed blithely over it. 
 
 My mother's mood changed after supper. 
 We always said a very simple grace after 
 meals. It was, ^' Thank God for a good 
 breakfast ! " " Thank God for a good dinner 1 " 
 or whatever meal it was of which we had 
 partaken. Our "Thank God for a good 
 supper ! " being said, most earnestly by my 
 mother, she cleared away the things, and 
 said, • 
 
 " Now we will see how rich we are." 
 
 We sat clown at the table, side by side, 
 and my mother took out of her pocket what 
 it contained. I thought that our all money 
 had been expended in our frugal purchases, 
 but I was agreeably mistaken. There were 
 still left two sixpences and a few coppers. 
 My mother selected a battered halfpenny, and 
 regarded it tenderly — so tenderly, and with 
 so much feeling, that her tears fell on it. I 
 wondered. A battered halfpenny, dented, 
 dirty, bruised ! I wondered more as she 
 kissed it, and held it to me to kiss.
 
 78 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 *^ Why, mother ? " I asked, as I kissed. 
 
 In reply, she told me a story. 
 
 "My dear, there lived in a great forest a 
 poor woman who had no friend in the world 
 but one — a bird that she loved with all her 
 heart and soul, and who, not being big enough 
 or strong enough to get food for himself, 
 depended, because he couldn't help it, upon 
 what this poor woman could provide for him. 
 There were other birds that in some way 
 resembled the bird that belonged to this poor 
 woman and that she loved so dearly, and 
 many of these were also compelled to wander 
 about the great forest in search of food ; but 
 they found it so difficult to obtain sufficient 
 to eat, and they met with so many sad 
 ■adventures in their search, that their wings 
 lost their strength, and their hearts the 
 brightness that was their proper heritage — 
 for they were young birds whose time for 
 battling with the world had not arrived. 
 The poor woman did not wish her dear bird 
 to meet with such sad experiences until he 
 was strong and able to cope with them. I
 
 . JESSIE TRIM. 79 
 
 can't tell you, my dear, how much she loved 
 her bird, and how thoroughly her whole 
 heart was wrapped up in her treasure. Once 
 she had friends who were good to her ; but 
 it was the will of God that she should lose 
 them, and she and her bird were left alone 
 in the world. She had many difficulties to 
 contend with, being a weak and foolish 
 woman " 
 
 I shook my head, and said, '' I am sure 
 she wasn't ; I am sure she wasn't ! " My 
 mother pressed me closer to her side, and 
 continued, her fingers caressing my neck, 
 
 ^'And the days were sometimes very 
 
 dark for her, or would have been but for 
 the joy she found in her only treasure. A 
 time came when her heart almost fainted 
 within her — for her bird was at home hungry, 
 and there was no food in the nest, and she 
 did not know which way to turn to get it. 
 She wandered about the forest with rebellious 
 thoughts in her mind — yes, my dear, she 
 did ! — and out of her blindness and wicked- 
 ness, she began almost to doubt the good-
 
 80 JESSIE TBIM. 
 
 ness of God. She tliought, foolish woman 
 that she was ! that there was no love in the 
 forest but the love which filled her breast ; 
 that pity, compassion, charity, had died out 
 of the world, and that she and her bird 
 were to be left to perish. But she received 
 such a lesson, my dear, as she Avill never 
 forget till her dying day. While these des- 
 pairing thoughts were in her mind, and 
 while her rebellious heart was crying against 
 the sweetest attributes with which God has 
 endowed His children, a fairy in a cotton- 
 print dress came to her side '' 
 
 " Mother ! " 
 
 " It is true, my dear. A fairy in a cotton- 
 print dress came to her side, and with a 
 sweet word and a sweeter look put into her 
 hand a talisman — call it a stone, my dear, if 
 you will — a common, almost valueless piece 
 of stone ; and the touch of the pretty little 
 fairy fingers to the poor woman's hand was 
 like the touch of Moses's rod to the rock, 
 when the waters came forth for the famished 
 people. And she prayed God to forgive her
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 81 
 
 for doubting His goodness, and the goodness 
 of those whom He made in the image of 
 Himself. Then, as she looked at the com, 
 mon piece of stone which the fairy had 
 given to her, she, saw in it the face of an 
 angel, and she kissed it again and again, as 
 I do this!" 
 
 After a little while my mother WTapped 
 the halfpenny in a piece of paper, and put 
 it by, saying she hoped she would never j^e 
 compelled to spend it. 
 
 During the whole of the following week 
 my mother was unsuccessful in obtaining 
 work. It was not from want of peirseverance 
 that she did not succeed, for she came home 
 every day w^eary and footsore. 
 
 " The sewing-machines are keeping many 
 poor women out of work," she said. 
 
 " Then they are bad things," I exclaimed ; 
 ** I wish they were all burnt I " 
 
 " No, my dear ; they are good things ; 
 they are blessings to many poor creatures. 
 Why, Chris, if I had one, we should be 
 quite rich 1 " 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 JESSIE TBIM. 
 
 But she did not have one, and her needles 
 were at a discount, so far as earning bread 
 for us was concerned. On the Saturday she 
 went out again early, and did not come home 
 until late at night. Good fortune had again 
 attended her, and she brouojht home a little 
 money. 
 
 " Have you seen the fairy in the cotton- 
 print dress ? " I asked gaily. 
 
 My mother nodded sorrowfully. 
 
 " Saturday's a lucky day, mother," I said, 
 rubbing my hands. 
 
 *' Yes, my child," she answered, with a 
 heavy sigh. 
 
 She added another halfpenny to the one 
 she had kissed and put by last week, and 
 we went out again to make our purchases. 
 Another week followed, and another, with 
 similar results and similar incidents. Then 
 my mother fell sick, and could not, although 
 she tried, keep the knowledge of her weak- 
 ness from me ; a sorrow of which I was not 
 a sharer was preying on her heart. I did 
 not know of it ; but I saw that my mother
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 83 
 
 was growing even paler and thinner, and 
 often, Avhen she did not think I was observing 
 her, I saw the tears roll down her cheek, and 
 her lips quiver piteously. Friday night found 
 us with a cupboard nearly empty, and with 
 but one halfpenny in our treasury — the first 
 battered and bruised halfpenny which my 
 mother hoped she would never be compelled 
 to spend. Those she had added to it had 
 gone during the week. She looked at it 
 wistfully : 
 
 " Must we spend it, Chris ? "' 
 
 " Is the angel's face there V 1 asked. 
 
 " Yes, I see it." And she kissed the bat- 
 tered coin again. 
 
 " Then we must keep it," I said stoutly. 
 
 When I awoke the next morning, my 
 mother was kneeling by my bedside, and 
 when she saw my eyes resting on her face, 
 she clasped me in her arms, and so we lay 
 for fully half an hour, without a word being 
 spoken. There was a little milk left for 
 breakflist, and this my mother made into very 
 weak milk-and-water. The bread she cut
 
 84 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 into four slices. One slie ate, two she gave 
 to me, and one she put into the cupboard. 
 She laid the battered halfpenny on the mantel- 
 shelf. 
 
 "Now, Chris," she said, as she put on her 
 poor worn bonnet, " when you are hungry 
 you can eat the slice of bread that's in the 
 cupboard ; and if I am not at home before 
 you are hungry again, you can buy some 
 bread with that halfpenny. Kiss me, dear 
 child." 
 
 " But, mother," I remonstrated, " you are 
 too ill to go out. You ought to stay at 
 home to-day." 
 
 " I dare not, child ; I must go out ! Why, 
 doesn't my Chris want his supper to-night, 
 and his dinner to-morrow ? And don't I 
 ivant my supper and dinner, too ? " 
 
 "Are you going to the workshop, mother?" 
 
 " I am going that way, child ? " 
 
 But I begged her to promise that she would 
 
 try and be home early, and she was compelled 
 
 to promise, to satisfy me. With faltering 
 
 steps she left the room, and walked slowly
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 85 
 
 down-stairs. I felt that there was something 
 AYrong, but I did not understand it, and 
 certainly would have been powerless to remedy 
 it. I Avas soon hungry enough to eat the 
 slice of bread ; and then I went out, and 
 strolled restlessly about the streets. It was 
 a cold day, and I was glad to get indoors 
 as^ain, althouo;h there Avas no fire. In the 
 afternoon I Avas hungry again, and mother 
 had not returned. Should I spend the haJL 
 penny ? I took it from the mantel-shelf 
 The gift of a fairy in a cotton-print dress ! 
 I turned it this Avay and that, in the endea- 
 vour to find some special charm in it. It 
 Avas as common a halfpenny as I had ever 
 looked upon. I saAv no angel's flice in it- 
 But my mother said there Avas, and that Avas 
 enough. No ; I could not spend it. Then 
 I thought that it Avas unkind of me to let 
 my mother, ill and weak as she Avas, go out 
 by herself. I reproached myself; I might 
 have helped her on. She promised to return 
 soon ; perhaps she Avas not strong enough to 
 return. These reproachful thoughts and my
 
 86 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 hunger grew upon me, and my uneasiness 
 increased, until I became very wretched in- 
 deed. As dusk was falling, I made up my 
 mind that a certain duty was before me. 
 I must walk into the city to the shop for 
 which my mother used to woik, and seek 
 for her. I had been to the place two or 
 three times to take work home, and I knew 
 my way pretty well. Perhaps I should meet 
 my mother on the road. Off I started on 
 my self-imposed task. My increasing hunger 
 made the distance appear twice as long as 
 it really was, and I could not help linger- 
 ing and longing for a little while at a fine 
 cookshop, the perfume which pervaded it 
 being more fragrant to me at the time than 
 all the perfumes of Arabia would have been. 
 When I arrived at the workshop, it was 
 closed. There was nothing for it but to turn 
 my face homeward. Weary, hungry, and 
 dispirited, I commenced my journey back ; 
 I was anxious to get home quickly now, to 
 lessen the chance of my mother returning 
 while I was absent. In my eagerness and
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 87 
 
 confusion I missed my way, and it was quite 
 ten o'clock at night wlien I found myself in 
 a street which was familiar to me, and which 
 I knew to be about two miles from the 
 street in which we lived. The neighbour- 
 hood in which I was now was a busy one ; a 
 kind of market was held there every Saturday 
 night, in which poor people could purchase 
 what they required a trifle cheaper than 
 they could be supplied at the regular shops. 
 There were a great glare of lights aifd a 
 great hurlyburly of noise which in my weak 
 condition confused and frightened me. I 
 staggered feebly on, and stumbled against a 
 man who was passing me in a great hurry. 
 He caught hold of my arm with such force 
 as to swing me round ; and without any 
 effort on my part to escape, for I was almost 
 unconscious, I slipped from his grasp and 
 fell to the Q-round. I think I heard the 
 words, " Unmanly brute !" uttered in a female 
 voice ; but my next distinct remembrance is 
 that I was standing on my feet, swaying 
 slightly, and held up hj the man I had run
 
 88 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 against. He spoke to me in sharp tones, 
 and demanded to know where I was runnins: 
 to. I begged his pardon humbly, but in 
 tones too faint to reach his ear, for he 
 inquired roughly if I had a tongue in my 
 head. There were a few persons standing 
 about us, and one or two women told the 
 man he ouoht to be ashamed of himself, and 
 asked him what he meant by it, and why he 
 didn't leave the boy alone. In sneering reply 
 he called them a parcel of wise women. 
 
 "Did you ever see a thief of his size?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " I am not a thief," I said, in a faint tone. 
 " Let me go. I want to get home." 
 
 I raised my eyes to his face as I spoke. 
 I could not distinguish his features, for 
 everything was dim before me, but he seemed 
 to see something in my face that occupied 
 his attention, for he looked at me long and 
 earnestly. 
 
 "Have you been ill?" 
 
 " I am tired and hungry. Let me go, 
 please," I implored.
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 8^ 
 
 He released his hold of me. Glad to be 
 free, and intent only on getting home as 
 soon as I could, I walked from him with, 
 uncertain steps. But I did not* know how 
 weak I really was ; and I was compelled to 
 cling to the shop-fronts for support. I must 
 have stumbled on in this way for fifty or 
 sixty ya^rds, when I stopped to rest myself. 
 Then, without raising my eyes, I knew that 
 the man ag^ainst whom I had stumbled was 
 standing by me again ; he must have followed 
 me out of his course, for when we first met 
 his road was difierent from mine. 
 
 *^Did you see me following you?'' he 
 asked. 
 
 I was frightened of him ; his voice seemed 
 to hurt me. I had scarcely a comprehension 
 of the meaninfy of his words ; and I was 
 fearful that, if I disputed anything he said, 
 I might arouse his anger, and that he would 
 detain me again. He repeated his question ; 
 and I answered, almost without knowino: 
 
 what I said, 
 
 "Yes, sir."
 
 90 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 My reply appeared to dissatisfy liim. 
 
 " Then yon have been shamming weak- 
 ness ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir." 
 
 I looked about me timidly and nervously 
 for a means of escape. Standing in the road, 
 close to the kerbstone, and facing a portion 
 of the pavement which was partly in shade, 
 was a beggar-woman, with her face hidden 
 •on her breast. One hand held her thin shawl 
 tightly in front of her ; the other hand was 
 held out supplicatingly. What it was that 
 caused me to fix my eyes on her I cannot 
 tell ; perhaps it was because I recognised in 
 her drooping form and humble attitude some- 
 thing kindred to my own pitiable condition. 
 As I gazed at her, a little girl, very poorly 
 dressed, and with a basket on her arm, 
 stopped before the woman, and put a coin 
 into her outstretched hand. The woman 
 curtseyed, and stooped and kissed the little 
 girl. As the child, her act of charity per- 
 formed, walked away, I saw her face ; and 
 it was so sweet and good, that my mother s
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 91 
 
 words witli reference to the battered half- 
 penny came to my mind : *' I see an angel's 
 face in it." I watched her until she was 
 lost in the throng ; and then I turned to 
 the beggar-woman again, and saw, as in a 
 flash of light, my mother ! Was it shame, 
 was it joy, that convulsed me, as crying, 
 " Mother ! mother 1 " I ran and fell senseless 
 at her feet ?
 
 CHAPTER VTII. 
 
 A POSTMAN S KNOCK. 
 
 It seemed as tlioiigii I had closed my eyes 
 and opened them with scarcely a moment's 
 interval ; and yet I was at home in our own 
 little room, and my mother was bending 
 over me tenderly. I could not immediately 
 realise the chano;e. The busv streets and 
 the glare in them, and my fear of the man 
 who had accused me of being a thief, were 
 still present to my mind. I clung closer to 
 my mother. 
 
 " What is my darling frightened of ? " 
 she said soothingly. "He is at home, and 
 safe in his mothers arms." 
 
 " At home ! " I looked around apprehen- 
 sively. '^ Where's the man ? "
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 93 
 
 " What man, dear cliilcl ? The man who 
 carried you home ? " 
 
 I had no remembrance of being carried 
 home. 
 
 " The man who carried me home ! '' I ex- 
 claimed ; and repeated wonderingly, " Carried 
 me home ! No, I don't know him/' 
 
 '^ There is no one here, dear child, but 
 you and I. Taste this." 
 
 She held a cup of tea to my lips, and I 
 drank gratefully ; and ate a slice of br^d- 
 and-butter she gave me. 
 
 " There, my dear ! My darling feels better, 
 does he not ?" 
 
 ''Yes." As I looked at her, the scene I 
 had witnessed, of which she had been the 
 principal figure, dawned upon me. I could 
 not check my sobs ; I felt as if my heart 
 would burst. " Oh, mother ! mother !" I cried. 
 "I remember now; I remember now!" 
 
 She held me in her arms, and caressed me, 
 and pressed me to her heart. My tears 
 flowed upon her faithful breast. 
 
 " How did you find me, dear child ? Un-
 
 94 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 kind mother that I am to leave my darling 
 hungry and alone all the day ! " 
 
 '^ Don't say that, mother. You mustn't ; 
 you mustn't 1 If anybody else said it, I 
 would kill him I" 
 
 *' Hush, dear child ! You must not excite 
 yourself. Come, you shall go to bed ; and 
 you shall tell me all in the morning, please 
 God." 
 
 " No, I want to tell you now ; I want to 
 talk to you now. I want to lie here, and 
 talk quietly, quietly ! Oh, but I am so 
 sorry ! so sorry ! " 
 
 "For what, dear child?" 
 
 Through my sobs I murmured, " That you 
 should have to stand in the cold, and beg 
 for me !" My arms were round her, and I 
 felt her shrink and tremble within them. 
 '•'Now I know what the poor woman in the 
 forest did when she went to look for food 
 for her bird. If any one saw you that 
 knew you, would you not be ashamed ? 
 Would you not run away?" 
 
 Sadly and tearfully she replied, " No, my
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 95 
 
 own darling, I do not tliink I should. Who- 
 would be so cruel as to say I ought to be 
 ashamed of doing what I do ?" 
 
 ''But, mother, you stand with your head 
 down, as if you wanted to hide your face !" 
 
 The blood rose to her face and forehead 
 pitifully. 
 
 " I cannot help it, dearest," she said with 
 trembling lips ; "it comes natural to me to 
 stand so. I do not think of it at the time. 
 And oh, Chris ! don't despise your p5or 
 mother now that you have discovered her 
 secret 1 '' 
 
 She would have fallen at my feet, but 
 that I, dimly divining her intention, held 
 her tightly to me. In the brief pause that 
 ensued before she spoke again, I closed my 
 eyes, and leant my head upon her shoulder, 
 the better to think of her goodness to me. 
 I saw all the details of the picture which 
 now • occupied my mind. I saw my mother 
 approach the spot where she had decided to 
 stand, to solicit charity for me ; I saw her 
 hesitate, and tremble, and look around warily
 
 96 JESSIE TBIM. 
 
 and timidly, as though she were about to 
 commit a crime ; and then I saw her glide 
 swiftly into the road and take her station 
 there, with her dear head drooping on her 
 breast from shame. Yes, from shame. And 
 it was for me she did this ! 
 
 "If I could get work to do," she pre- 
 sently said, in low meek tones, such as one 
 Avho was crushed and who despaired might 
 use if wrongfully accused, " I would not beg. 
 Heaven knows I have tried hard enough ; I 
 have implored, have almost gone on my 
 knees for it, in vain. What was I to do ? 
 We could not starve, and I would not go to 
 the parish ; I would not bring that shame 
 upon my darling's life, until everything else 
 in the world had failed. I did not intend 
 my child to know. I tried to keej) the 
 knowledge from him — I tried, I tried ! Oh, 
 my dear boy ! my heart is fit to break ! " 
 
 I listened in awe, and could say no -word 
 to comfort her. 
 
 "It is no shame to me to do as I have 
 done," she said half appealingly, half defiantly.
 
 JESSIE TEIM. 97 
 
 *^It is for bread for my dear child's life. I 
 should stand with my face open to the people, 
 if I had the courage. But I am a coward — 
 a coward ! and I shrink and tremble, with 
 terror in my heart, as though I were a thief ! " 
 
 She a coward ! Dear heart ! Brave soul I 
 Her voice grew softer. 
 
 " And oh, Cris, my child ! since I have 
 stood there I have learnt so much that I did 
 not know before. It has made me better — 
 humbler. Never again, never again ca^ I 
 doubt the goodness of God ! What good 
 there is in the world of which we are igno- 
 rant, until sorrow brings us to the knowledge 
 of it ! When I first stood there, the world 
 seemed to pass away from me, so dreadful a 
 feeling took possession of me. In my fancy, 
 harsh voices clamoured at me, cruel faces 
 mocked me from all sides ; I did not dare 
 raise my head. But in the midst of my 
 soul's agony soft fingers touched mine, and 
 the sweet voice of a child brought comfort to 
 my heart. And then poor women gave, and 
 I was ashamed to take. I held it out to 
 
 YOL. I. H
 
 98 JESSIE TBIM. 
 
 tlieni again, begging them with my eyes to 
 take it back again ; and they ran away, some 
 of them." 
 
 The floodgates of my mother's heart were 
 open, and she was talking now as much to 
 herself as to me, recalling what had touched 
 her most deeply. 
 
 "Two weeks ago a young woman came 
 and stood before me. God knows what she 
 was thinking of as she stood there in a way 
 it made my heart ache to see ! She was very, 
 very pretty ; very, very young ! She stood 
 looking at me so long in silence that I began 
 almost to be afraid. I dared not speak to 
 her first. I have never yet spoken unbidden 
 in that place ; I seem to myself to have no 
 right to speak. But, seeking to soften any 
 hard thought she may have had in her mind 
 for me or for herself, I returned her look, 
 kindly I hope, and pityingly too. ' I thought 
 I'd make you look at me,' she said in a hard 
 voice that I felt was not natural to her; 
 ' beggars like you haven't much to be proud 
 of, I should say. Thank the Lord I haven't
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 99 
 
 come to that yet ! ' I tried to shape an 
 answer, but the words wouldn't leave my 
 lips, and I could only look at her appealingly. 
 Poor girl ! she seemed to resent this, and 
 tossed her head, and went away singing. 
 But there was no singing in her heart. I 
 followed her with my eyes, and saw her stop 
 nt a public-house ; but she hesitated at the 
 door, and did not enter. No ; she came back, 
 ^nd stood before me again. ' What do you 
 come here for ? ' she asked, after a little pause. 
 ' For food,' I answered. She sneered at my 
 answer, and I waited in sorrow for her next 
 words. ' Have you got a husband ? ' ' No,' 
 I said, wondering why she asked. ' No more 
 have I,' she said. My thoughts wandered to 
 a happier time, and pictures of brighter days 
 which seem to have passed away for ever 
 came to my mind ; but the girl soon brought 
 me back to reality. ' Are you a mother ? ' she 
 asked. ' Oh, yes ! ' I answered, with a sob 
 of thankfulness, for the dear Lord has made 
 my boy a blessing to me. ' So am I,' she 
 said, with a little laugh that struck me like
 
 100 JESSIE TBIM. 
 
 a knife. * Here — take this ; I was going to 
 spend it in drink ;' and she put sixpence in 
 coppers into my hand, and ran away. But 
 I ran after her, and entreated her to take 
 the money back ; but she would not, and 
 grew sullen. I still entreated, and she said, 
 ' Very well ; give it to me ; I'll spend it in 
 oin.' What I said to her after this I do not 
 know, I was so grieved and sorry for her ; 
 but I told her I would keep the money, and 
 she thanked me for the promise, oh ! so 
 humbly and gratefully, and began to cry so 
 piteously and passionately, that my own 
 sorrows seemed light compared with hers. 
 I drew her away to a quiet street, and 
 kissed her and soothed her, and although 
 we had never met before, she clung to me, 
 and blessed me with broken words and sobs. 
 Then, when she was quieter, I asked her 
 where her little one was, and might I go 
 with her and see it ? She took me to her 
 room, and I saw her baby — such a pretty 
 little thing ! — and I nursed it till it fell 
 asleep, and then tidied up the room, and
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 101 
 
 put the bed straight. Ah, my darling ! I 
 could not repeat all that the poor girl said, 
 I went out and spent fourpence of the six- 
 pence she gave me in food for the baby, 
 and she was not angry with me for it. I 
 have been to see her and her baby twice 
 since that night, and my heart has ached 
 often when I have thought of them. If I 
 were not as poor as I am, I would try to 
 be a friend to them. But, alas ! what can I 
 do ? Yet there is not a night I have* stood 
 in that place that I have not lifted my 
 heart to God for the goodness that has been 
 shown to me. How beautiful a thing it is for 
 the poor to help the poor as they do I God 
 sweeten their lives for them I " 
 
 We were silent for a long time after this. 
 I broke the silence by whispering, 
 
 *' Mother, I didn't spend the halfpenny; 
 it is on the mantelshelf now." 
 
 " Dear child ! I am sorry and glad. It 
 is the first halfpenny I ever received in 
 charity, and it was given to me by a little 
 child."
 
 102 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 " Let me look at it, motlier." 
 
 She took it from the mantelshelf, and 
 placed it in my hands. 
 * ''I can see the angel's face now," I said. 
 "It is the fairy in a cotton-print dress." 
 
 My mother nodded with a sweet smile. 
 
 " And the fairy is a little girl ? 
 
 "Yes, dear." 
 
 " And she came every Saturday night 
 afterwards, with a basket on her arm, and 
 gave you a halfpenny." 
 
 "Yes, dear. How do you know?" 
 
 " I saw her to-night, and I guessed the 
 rest. I am so glad you kissed her 1 Mother, 
 we will never, never sj)end this halfpenny !" 
 
 " Very well, my darling ! but you haven't 
 told me yet how it was you found me 
 out." 
 
 I had barely finished my recital when a 
 knock came at our door. On opening it, 
 our landlady Avas discovered, puffing and 
 blowing. A great basket was hanging from 
 her hand. Benignant confidence in her 
 lodger reigned in her face ; curiosity dwelt
 
 JESSIE TBIM, 103 
 
 in lier eye. As she entered, the air became 
 spirituoiisly perfumed. 
 
 *^0h, them stairs!" she panted. ''They 
 ketch me in the side ! If you'll excuse me, 
 my dear ! " And she sat down, still retain- 
 ing her hold of the basket. She went through 
 many stages before she quite recovered her- 
 self, gazing at us the while with that im- 
 ploring look peculiar to women who are 
 liable to be " ketched in the side." Then 
 she brightened up, and spoke again. * "I 
 thought rd bring it up myself," she said ; 
 ''the stairs ain't been long cleaned, and the 
 boy's boots are that muddy that I told him 
 to wait in the passage for the basket. If 
 you'll empty it, I'll take it down to him. 
 Oh," she continued, seeing that my mother 
 was in doubt, "I don't mind the trouble the 
 least bit in the world ! If all lodgers was 
 as regular with their rent as you, my dear, 
 I shouldn't be put upon as I am ! " 
 
 Still my mother hesitated ; she did not 
 understand it. I saw that the basket was 
 well filled, for the lid bulged up. The land-
 
 104 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 lady, declaring that it was very lieavy, 
 placed it on the table, and was about to 
 lift the lid, when my mother's hand restrained 
 her. 
 
 " There is some mistake ; these things are 
 not for me." 
 
 *' Why, my dear creature ! " exclaimed the 
 landlady, growing exceedingly confidential, 
 *' didn't you order 'em?'' 
 
 "No, I haven't marketed yet. My poor 
 boy has been ill, and I haven't been able to 
 go out." 
 
 " Well, but there can't be any mistake, 
 my dear;" and the landlady, scenting a 
 mystery, became [very inquisitive indeed ; 
 " here's your name on a bit of paper." 
 
 The writing was plain enough, certainly : 
 " For Mrs. Carey. Paid for. Basket to be 
 returned." 
 
 "Do you know the boy who brought 
 them?" asked my mother. 
 
 "To be sure I do, my dear creature ! He 
 belongs to Mrs. Strangeways, the greengrocer 
 round the corner."
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 105 
 
 '' I should like to speak to him. May he 
 come up ? " 
 
 " Certainly, my dear soul ! " 
 
 And the landlady, in her eagerness to get 
 at the heart of the mystery, disregarded the 
 effect of muddy boots on clean stairs, and 
 called the hoy up. But he could throw no 
 light upon the matter. All that he knew 
 was that his mistress directed him to bring 
 the things round to Mrs. Carey's, and to make 
 haste back with the basket. "And pleaise, 
 will you look sharp about it?" he adjured 
 in a tone of injured innocence, digging his 
 knuckles into his eyes, and working them 
 round so forcibly that it was a wonder he 
 did not gouge out his eye-balls ; "if you 
 keep me here much^ lofiger, missis 11 swear 
 when I get back that IVe been stopping on 
 the road play to pitch and toss." 
 
 The landlady, whose curiosity had now 
 reached the highest point, protested that it 
 would be flying in the face of Providence to 
 hesitate another moment, and whipped open 
 the basket.
 
 106 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 *' Half a 23oiind of salt butter," she said, 
 calling out the things as she placed them on 
 the table ; " half a pound of tea ; sixpennorth 
 of eggs — they're Mrs. Chizlett's eggs, my 
 dear, sixteen a shilling — I know 'em by the 
 bag ; a pound of broAvn sugar ; a cabbage ; 
 taters — seven pound for tuppence, my dear ; 
 and a lovely shoulder of mutton — none of 
 your scrag ! There I " 
 
 My eyes glistened as I saw the good things, 
 and my mother was gratefully puzzled. The 
 garrulous landlady stoj^ped in the room for 
 a quarter of an hour, placing all kinds of 
 possible constructions u23on the mystery, and 
 inviting, in the most insinuating manner, the 
 confidence of my mother, whom she evidently 
 regarded as a very artful creature. It was 
 sufficient for me that the food was lawfully 
 ours, and I blessed the generous donor in my 
 heart. On the following day my mother took 
 me for a walk in the Park, and we arrived 
 home in time to get the baked dish from the 
 baker's, which my mother had prc23ared. We 
 had a grand dinner, and we fared tolerably
 
 JESSIE TEIM. 107 
 
 well clurinp: the week. On the Saturdav, 
 however, our cupboard and treasury were 
 bare, and my mother was once more racked 
 by those pin-and-needle anxieties which, in- 
 significant as they seem by the side of matters 
 of public interest, form the sum of the lives 
 of hundreds of thousands of our fellow crea- 
 tures. My mother watched me very nervously. 
 I knew what was in her mind. She was 
 striving to gather courage to bid me stop 
 at home while she went out to beg. My 
 heart was very full as, watching her furtively, 
 I saw her put on her bonnet and shawl. Then 
 she stood irresolutely by the mantelshelf. I 
 crept to the side. 
 
 '' Mother ! " 
 
 " My child ! " 
 
 *' Let me go with you," I implored. 
 
 "No, no, dear child I No, no !" she cried, 
 and she knelt before me, and twined her 
 arms around my neck. She Avas entreating 
 me in the tenderest manner to stop at home, 
 when the simplest thing in the world changed 
 the current of our lives. A postman's knock
 
 108 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 was heard at tlie street-door, and a minute 
 afterwards the landlady came running up- 
 stairs, almost breathless. My mother started 
 to her feet. In one hand the landlady held 
 a letter by the corner of her apron ; the 
 other hand was pressed to her side ; and she 
 panted as if her last moments had arrived. 
 
 " Oh, them stairs I" she exclaimed. '' They'll 
 be the death of me ! For you, my dear.'' 
 And she held the letter towards my mother. 
 
 A cuxumstance so unusual as the receipt 
 of a letter threw us all into a state of excite- 
 ment. It was certainly an event in my life. 
 My mother was very agitated as she looked 
 at the address, and the landlady took a seat, 
 and waited in the expectation of hearing the 
 news. But the letter was not opened until 
 that worthy woman had retired, which she 
 did in a very dignified, not to say offended, 
 manner, as a proof that she had not the 
 slightest wish — not she ! — to pry into our 
 private concerns. 
 
 *' There's no mistake, mother," I said. 
 
 "No, my dear; it is addressed to me."
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 109 
 
 Then, with, great care, she opened the 
 
 letter, and read aloud : 
 
 "14, Paradise Row, Windmill Street. 
 
 "Emma Cahey, — Personally you will have 
 not the slightest knowledge of me, for I do 
 not think you ever set eyes on me ; but you 
 will know my name. I was not aware until 
 a few days ago that your husband was dead. 
 I am poor, but not as poor as you are. I 
 offer you and your boy a home. You can 
 both come and live with me, if you like. 
 If you decide to come, you must not expect 
 much. I am not a pleasant character, and 
 my disposition is not amiable. But the pro- 
 bability is, if you accept my offer, that you 
 and your boy will have regular meals, such 
 as they are. I keep a shop ; you can help 
 me in it. You can come at once if you like 
 — this very day. I don't suppose it will 
 take you long to pack up. 
 
 *' Bryan Carey.'* 
 
 I started when I heard the name, for it 
 was our own. 
 
 "It is from your uncle Bryan,'' said my
 
 110 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 mother; ''your clear father's elder brother, 
 who disappeared many years ago." 
 
 "I thought he was dead, mother." 
 
 ''"We all supposed so, never having heard 
 from him." 
 
 "Was he nice, mother?" 
 
 " I have no idea, child ; I never saw him. 
 But he says that he is neither amiable nor 
 pleasant." 
 
 Two words in the letter had especially 
 attracted my attention. 
 
 ''Eegular meals," I murmured, somewhat 
 timidly. 
 
 My mother rose instantly. Unless she 
 accepted the offer, there was but one alter- 
 native before her ; and no one knew better 
 than I how her sensitive nature shrank from 
 it. It was the bitterest necessity only that 
 had driven her to beg. 
 
 " I will go at once and see your uncle, 
 my dear. I don't know where Paradise-row 
 is, but I shall be able to find it out. I 
 will be back as soon as possible. Keep in- 
 doors, there's a dear child ! "
 
 JESSIE TBIM. Ill 
 
 She was absent for nearly three hours. 
 
 "Well, mother?" I said, running to the 
 door as I heard her step on the stairs. 
 
 She drew me into the room, and sat down 
 with an assuring smile on her lips. 
 
 '^ We will go, dear," she said, and my 
 heart beat joyfully at the words. " It will 
 be a home for us. Situated as we are, what 
 would become of my dear child if I were 
 to fall really ill ? And I have been afraid 
 of it many times. Yes, we will go. Yo\ir 
 uncle Bryan keeps a grocer's shop. I told 
 him I should have to give a week's warning 
 here, and he gave me the money to pay 
 the rent, so that we might go to him at 
 once." 
 
 My mother looked about her regretfully. 
 It belonged to her nature to become attached 
 to everything with which she was associated, 
 and she could not help having a tender 
 feeling even for our one little room in 
 which we had seen so much trouble. 
 "Now, Chris, we will pack up.'' 
 
 As uncle Bryan predicted in his letter, it
 
 112 JESSIE TEIM. 
 
 did not take us long. Everything we pos- 
 sessed went into one small trunk, and there 
 was room for more when everything was in. 
 The smoke-dried monkey of a man in stone 
 — the precious relic I had inherited from my 
 grandmother — had been carefully taken care 
 of, and now lay at the bottom of the trunk. 
 It had not brought us much luck, and I 
 rec^arded it with somethino' like aversion. 
 
 O CD 
 
 From the inscrutable eye of a landlady 
 living in the house nothing can be concealed, 
 and 0U7' landlady hovered in the passage 
 divining (with that peculiar inspiration with 
 which all of her class are gifted) that some- 
 thing important was taking place. My 
 mother called her in, and paid her the week's 
 rent in lieu of a week's notice. She was 
 deeply moved, after the fashion of landladies 
 (living in the house), when lodgers who have 
 paid regularly take their departure. The 
 fear of another lodger not so punctual in 
 paying as the last harrows their souls. As 
 my mother did not enter into particulars, 
 not even mentioning to the landlady where
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 113 
 
 we were moving to, the inquisitive creature 
 invited confidence by producing from a 
 mysterious recess in her flannel petticoat a 
 bottle of gin and a glass. My mother, how- 
 ever, declined to be bribed, much to the 
 landlady's chagrin ; after this she evidently 
 regarded us with less favour. 
 
 " Uncle Bryan sent a boy with a wheel- 
 barrow, Chris,'' said my mother, "to wheel 
 your trunk home. He's waiting at the door 
 now." 
 
 ''With the wheelbarrow?" I asked gaily. 
 I was in high spirits at the better prospect 
 which lay before us. 
 
 ** Yes, dear. With the wheelbarrow." 
 
 I could not help laughing, it seemed to 
 me such a comical idea. 
 
 My mother cast an affectionate look at 
 the humble room we were leaving for ever, 
 and then we carried the trunk down to 
 the street door, the landlady not assisting. 
 There stood the boy with the wheel- 
 barrow. The trunk was lifted in, and we 
 marched away, the boy trundling the barrow, 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 we holding on in front, for fear the trunk 
 should fall into the road. All the neigh- 
 bours rushed into the street to look at the 
 procession.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 UNCLE BRYAN INTRODUCES HIMSELF. 
 
 The boy took no notice of the neighbours, 
 but wheeled straight through them, regard- 
 less of their legs. Neither did he take any 
 notice of ns, except by whistling in our 
 faces. But he trundled the wheelbarrow 
 cheerfully, and with an airy independence 
 most delightful to witness. It was a long 
 journey to Paradise Row, and it occupied a 
 long time ; but the .boy never flagged, never 
 stopped to rest, although in the course of 
 the journey he performed some eccentric 
 antics. He was not as old as I, but he was 
 much more strongly built. I envied him his 
 strong limbs and broad shoulders. It was a 
 cold day, and he was insufficiently clad ; his
 
 116 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 toes peeped out of his boots, and his hair 
 straggled through a hole in his cap, and a 
 glimpse of his bare chest could now and then 
 be seen through a rent in his waistcoat, 
 which was made to serve the purpose of a 
 jacket by being pinned at the throat ; 
 but the boy was not in the slightest 
 degree affected by these disadvantages. The 
 wind, which made me shiver, seemed to 
 warm him, and he took it to his bosom 
 literally with great contentment. His eyes 
 were dark and bright, his nose was a most 
 ostensible pug, and the curves of his large 
 well-shaped mouth and lips spoke of saucy 
 enjoyment. Indeed, he was full of life, 
 noting with eager curiosity everything about 
 him, and his dirty face sparkled with intelli- 
 gence. As he drove the barrow before him, 
 he whistled and sang without the slightest 
 regard to nerves, and if any street lad 
 accosted him jocosely or derisively, he re- 
 turned the salutation with spirited interest. 
 He appeared to be disposed to pause near 
 the first organ-grinder we approached ; but
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 117 
 
 he resisted the inclination, and after a short 
 but severe mental struggle, he compromised 
 matters by trundling the barrow three times 
 round the unfortunate Italian, making a wider 
 sweep each time. My mother remonstrated 
 with him ; but the boy, with the reins of 
 command in his hand, paid no other attention 
 to her remonstrance than was expressed in a 
 knowing cock of his eye, implying that it 
 was all right, and that he knew what he was 
 about. For the safety of our trunk we were 
 compelled to accompany him in his circular 
 wanderings, and I felt particularly foolish as 
 we swept round and roimd. But the third 
 circle completed, the boy drove straight along 
 again contentedly, whistling the last air the 
 organ-grinder had played with such force and 
 expression as to cause some of the passers-by 
 to put their fingers to their ears. This 
 manoeuvre the boy conscientiously repeated 
 with every organ-grinder we met on the 
 road ; repeated it also, very slowly and 
 lingeringly, at a Pun ch-and- Judy show, after- 
 wards conveying to the British public dis-
 
 118 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 corclant reminiscences through his nose of 
 the interview between Punch and the Devil ; 
 and with supreme audacity repeated it when 
 we came to a band of negro minstrels, proving 
 himself quite a match for them when they 
 threatened him with dreadful consequences 
 if he did not immediately put a stop to his 
 circular performance. Indeed, when one of 
 the band advanced towards him with menacing 
 gestures, he ran the wheelbarrow against the 
 opposing force with such an unmistakable 
 intention, that to save his legs the nigger 
 had to fly. In this manner we came at 
 length to the end of our journey. 
 
 I found Windmill Street to be a mere slit 
 in a busy and bustling neighbourhood, and 
 Paradise Eow, where uncle Bryan lived, a 
 distinct libel upon heaven, being, I fervently 
 hope, as little like a thoroughfare in Paradise 
 as can well be imagined. Uncle Bryan's 
 shop was at the corner of Windmill Street 
 and Paradise Eow, and uncle Bryan himself 
 stood at his street door, seemingly awaiting 
 our arrival.
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 119 
 
 " Been loitering, eh ? " was Uncle Bryan's 
 first salutation ; sharply spoken, not to ns, 
 but to the boy. 
 
 "Never stopped wheelin', so 'elp me!" 
 returned the boy, in a tone as sharp as my 
 uncle's, yet with a doubtful look at my 
 mother. " Never stopped to take a breath- 
 ful of air from the blessed minute we 
 started. Arks 'er." 
 
 My mother, being appealed to by uncle 
 Bryan, confirmed the boy's statement, which 
 was strictly correct, and, to his manifest 
 astonishment, made no reproachful reference 
 to his circular fli2:hts. His astonishment, 
 however, almost immediately assumed the 
 form of a satisfied leer. 
 
 " How much was it to be ? '^ asked uncle 
 Bryan, not at all satisfied with my mother's 
 assurance. 
 
 "Thrums," replied the boy, readily. By 
 which he meant threepence. 
 
 Uncle Bryan regarded him sourly. 
 
 " Say that again, and I'll take ofi* a penny." 
 
 "Well, tuppence, then. I got to pay a
 
 120 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 ha'penny for the barrer. What's a brown, 
 more or less ? " 
 
 The question was not addressed to any of 
 us in particular, so none of us answered it. 
 Uncle Bryan paid him twopence ; and the 
 boy, wdth never a " thank you," spun the 
 coins in the air, and caught them deftly ; 
 then, with a wink at my mother as a trust- 
 worthy conspirator, he walked away with 
 his empty barrow, whistling with all his 
 wind at mankind in general. 
 
 Now, when uncle Bryan first spoke, I 
 started. I thought it was not the first time 
 I had heard his voice. It sounded to me 
 like the voice of the man with whom I had 
 the adventure on the previous Saturday 
 night. The boy being out of sight, uncle 
 Bryan turned to me. 
 
 " Why did you start just now ? " 
 
 " I thought I knew your voice, sir," I said. 
 
 *' Call me uncle Bryan. Knew my voice t 
 It isn't possible, as you've never set eyes 
 on me, nor I on you, till this moment." 
 
 This was intended to settle the doubt, and
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 121 
 
 I never again referred to it, altliongh it re- 
 mained with me for a long while afterwards. 
 The trunk had been left on the door-step, 
 and uncle Bryan assisted us to carry it up- 
 stairs to the bedroom allotted to us. A little 
 bed for me — uncle Bryan made it over to 
 me in three words — was placed behind a 
 screen. 
 
 "I thought," he said to my mother, *'you 
 would like your boy to sleep in the same 
 room as yourself. The house is a small one, 
 but we can find another place for him if 
 you wish.'' 
 
 "Thank you, Bryan," replied my mother 
 simply, "I would like to have him v/ith me." 
 
 Uncle Bryan was evidently no waster of 
 words, and my mother entered readily into 
 his humour. 
 
 ''You must be tired," he said, as he was 
 about to leave the room ; " rest yourself a 
 bit. But the sooner you come down-stairs, 
 the better I shall be pleased." 
 
 My mother laid her hand on his arm, and 
 detained him.
 
 122 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 " Let me say a word to you, Bryan." 
 
 "You Avill never repeat it!" lie exclaimed, 
 with a quick apprehension of what she 
 wished to say. 
 
 " Never, without a strong necessity, Bryan." 
 
 He laughed ; but it Avas more like a dry 
 husky cough than a laugh. 
 
 " When a man locks the street-door," he 
 said, " trust a woman to see that the yard- 
 door's on the latch." 
 
 " I want to thank you, Bryan, for the 
 home you have offered me and my boy." 
 
 *^ Perhaps it won't suit you." 
 
 " It will suit us, Bryan, if it will suit 
 you to allow us to remain." 
 
 He seemed to chew the words, " allow 
 us to remain," silently, as if their flavour 
 were unpleasant to him ; but he said 
 aloud, 
 
 " "Wait and see, then." And although my 
 mother wished to continue the conversation, 
 he turned his back to us, and abruptly left 
 the room. 
 
 My mother sank into a chair; she must
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 123 
 
 have been verv tired, for she had walked 
 not less than twelve miles that day. 
 
 " You must be tired too, my dear," she 
 said, drawing me to her side. 
 
 "Not so tired as you, mother.'' 
 
 " I don't feel very, very tired, my dear." 
 
 I knew why she said so ; hope dwelt in 
 her heart. 
 
 " I think your uncle Bryan is a good man," 
 she said. 
 
 I did not express dissent ; but I mtist 
 have looked it. 
 
 " My dear," she said, answering my look, 
 *^you will find in your course through Hfe 
 that many sweet things have their home in 
 the roughest shells. Uncle Bryan has a 
 strange rough manner, but I think — nay, I 
 ^m sure — he is a good man. Do you know, 
 Chris, I believe those things that came home 
 for us last Saturday night were sent by him. 
 No, my dear, we will not ask him, or even 
 speak of it. He will be better pleased if it 
 is not referred to. And yet I wonder how 
 he found us out !"
 
 124 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 The room which was assigned to us was 
 a back-room, small, and commonly but cleanly 
 furnished. Immediately beneath the window 
 was the water-butt, and beyond it were 
 numbers of small back-yards — so many, in- 
 deed, that I wondered where the houses 
 could be that belonged to them. The 
 general prospect from this window, as I 
 very soon learned, was composed of sheets, 
 shirts, stockings, and the usual articles of 
 male and female attire in the process of 
 drying : of some other things also — of 
 washing-tubs, and women and little girls 
 wringing and washing, and up to their arm- 
 pits in soap-suds. Occasionally I saw men 
 also thus engaged. A variation in the prospect 
 was sometimes afforded by small children 
 being brought into the yards to be slapped 
 and then set upon the stones to cool, and 
 by other small children blowing soap-bubbles 
 out of fathers' pipes. The peculiarity of the 
 scene was that the clothes never appeared 
 to be dried. They were eternally hanging on 
 the lines, which intersected each other like
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 125 
 
 a Chinese puzzle, or were being skewered to 
 tliem in a damp condition. I can safely assert 
 that existence, as seen from our bed-room 
 window, was one interminable washing day. 
 
 When we went down-stairs uncle Bryan 
 was in the shop, weighing up his wares and 
 attending to occasional customers. Attached 
 to the shop were a parlour (in which the 
 meals were taken and which served as a 
 general sitting-room) and a smaller apartment 
 in the rear. My mother called me into the 
 smaller room. 
 
 " Do you see, Chris ? " she said, pointing 
 to some flowers on the window-sill. 
 
 There were two or three pots also, in 
 which seeds had evidently been newly planted. 
 In my mother's eyes, these were a strong 
 proof of my uncle's goodness. A rickety 
 flight of steps led to the basement of the 
 house, in which there was a gloomy kitchen 
 (very black-beetle-y), which could not have 
 been used for a considerable time. The 
 cobwebs were thick in the corners, and a 
 prosperous spider, a very alderman in its
 
 126 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 proportions, peeped out of its stronghold, 
 with an air of '' What is all this about ? '* 
 The appearance of a woman in that deserted 
 retreat did not please mj gentleman ; it was 
 a sign of progress. In the basement were 
 also two or three other gloomy recesses. 
 
 Our brief inspection ended, we ascended ta 
 the parlour. The fire was burning brightly, 
 and the kettle was on the hob. My mother 
 went to the door which led to the shop. 
 
 '^ At what time do you generally have tea, 
 Bryan?" she inquired. 
 
 " At half-past five,'' he replied. 
 
 It was a quarter-past five by an American 
 clock which stood in the centre of the mantel- 
 shelf. The clock was a common wooden one, 
 with a glass door in front, on which was 
 enOTaved a fio'ure of Father Time with a 
 
 o o 
 
 crack down his back. One of his eyes was 
 damaged, and his scythe also was mutilated ; 
 taking him altogether, as he was there repre- 
 sented, damaged and with cracks in him, old 
 Father Time seemed by his disconsolate 
 appearance to be of the opinion that it was
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 127 
 
 high time an end was made of him. With- 
 out more ado, my mother opened the cup- 
 board, and finding everything there she 
 wanted, laid the table, and prepared the meal. 
 Exactly at half-past five uncle Bryan came 
 in, and we had tea. He did not express the 
 slightest approval of my mother s quickness, 
 nor did she ask for it ; and when tea was 
 over, he went into the shop again, and my 
 mother cleared up the things. She asked 
 him about to-morrow's dinner, and took me 
 with her to market with the money he gave 
 her. While we were looking about us wo 
 came across the boy who had wheeled our 
 trunk in the barrow. He was standing 
 with others listening to a hymn which was 
 being sung by two men and a woman. One 
 of the men was blind, and he played on a 
 harmonium, while his companions sang. He 
 joined in also, having a powerful voice, 
 and I thought the performance a very fine 
 one. 
 
 The boy saw us ; approached my mother^ 
 and said in a tone of strong approval.
 
 128 JESSIE TBUL 
 
 " You're a brick. I say, we sold old Bryan, 
 didn't us ? " 
 
 My mother could not help smiling, which 
 heightened the favourable opinion he had of 
 her. 
 
 " What are you going to do ? " he asked. 
 
 My mother explained that she was going 
 to market. 
 
 '* rU show you the shops," he said ; and 
 his offer was accepted. 
 
 He proved useful, and took us to the best 
 and cheapest shops, and gave his candid 
 opinion (generally unfavourable) of the articles 
 my mother purchased. When the marketing 
 was finished, he volunteered to carry the 
 basket, and did not leave us until we were 
 within a yard or two of uncle Bryan's shop. 
 He enlivened the walk with many quaint and 
 original observations, and when he had nothing 
 to say he whistled. He took his departure 
 with good-humoured winks and nods. Upon 
 my mother counting out her purchases to 
 uncle Bryan, and returning him the few 
 coppers that were left, he said,
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 129 
 
 '* We'll settle things on Monday, Emma. 
 You'll have to take the entire charge of the 
 house, and to keep the expenses down, and 
 we'll arrange a certain sum, which must not 
 be exceeded. If anything is saved out of 
 it, you can put it by in this box," pointing 
 to a stone money-box shaped like an urn, 
 which was on a shelf. ^' You can do anything 
 you like to the place, but don't disturb my 
 flower-pots." 
 
 "What have you planted in the new pots, 
 Eryan ? " 
 
 *' Some of the new Japan lilies ; they'll 
 not flower till summer. Don't touch them ; 
 you don't understand them." 
 
 My mother was very busy that night, dust- 
 ing and cleaning, and I think I never saw 
 her in a happier mood. Now and then she 
 went into the shop, and stood quietly behind 
 the counter, noting how uncle Bryan attended 
 to his business. He took not the slio-htest 
 
 o 
 
 notice of her ; did not address a single 
 word to her. Once she came bustlino- 
 back, with an air of importance. '^ I've 
 
 YOL. I. K
 
 130 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 served a customer, Chris ! " she said glee- 
 fully. 
 
 Uncle Bryan's shop was stocked with small 
 supplies of everything in the grocery line, 
 and in addition to these he sold a few simple 
 medicines for clearing the blood — some of 
 them, I afterwards learned, of his own con- 
 coction and mixing. Friday was the day 
 fixed for the preparation and making-up of 
 these medicines, Saturday being the great 
 night for the sale of the mixtures to working- 
 people, who purchased them in halfpenny and 
 penny doses. I discovered that uncle Bryan's 
 pills were famous in the neighbourhood. I 
 calculated that on this Saturday night he 
 must have served at least fifty customers 
 with his medicines. The little parlour pre- 
 sented quite a difierent appearance when my 
 mother had finished cleaning and dusting. I, 
 not being quite satisfied with uncle Bryan's 
 seeming indifference to my mother's desire 
 to please him, looked for some expression of 
 approval in his face when he came in to 
 partake of a bread-and-cheese supper ; but I
 
 JESSIE TBUL 131 
 
 saw none. During the night my thoughts 
 wandered to the little girl who had given the 
 first halfpenny to my mother. I spoke about 
 her. 
 
 " Do you think she will be sorry or glad, 
 mother, because she will not see you to- 
 night ? " 
 
 " Sorry, I think, Chris ; she will fancy I 
 am ill." 
 
 " But this is a great deal better, mother." 
 
 '' Infinitely better, dear child ; and remem- 
 ber, we owe it all to uncle Bryan." 
 
 Neither my mother nor I felt at all strange 
 in our new home, and I slept as soundly as 
 if I had lived in the house for years. Before 
 we went to bed, we had a delicious ten 
 minutes' chat ; the storm in our lives which 
 had lasted so long, and which had threatened 
 to WTeck us, had cleared away, and a 
 delightful sense of rest stole into our hearts. 
 
 On the Sunday no business was done. 
 After breakfast, uncle Bryan brought his 
 nccount-book into the parlour, and busied 
 himself with his accounts, adding up the
 
 132 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 week's takings, and calculating what profit 
 was made. My mother asked him if he was 
 p'oino^ to church. 
 
 ''I never go to church/' was his reply. 
 
 My mother looked grieved, but she entered 
 into no argument with him. 
 
 " You have no . objection to our going ? " 
 she said timidly. 
 
 "What have I to do with it? I dictate 
 to no one. If you think it right to go to 
 church, go." 
 
 *^Is there one near, Bryan?" 
 
 '^Zion Chapel isn't two minutes' walk." 
 
 Uncle Bryan asked no questions when we 
 returned, and the day passed quietly. He 
 devoted the evening to smoking and reading. 
 My mother did not like the smoke at first, 
 but it was not long before she schooled her- 
 self to fill uncle Bryan's pipe for him. So, 
 with a pair of horn spectacles on his nose, 
 and his pipe in his mouth, uncle Bryan read 
 and enjoyed his leisure. Occasionally he 
 took his pipe from his mouth, and read a 
 few words aloud. At one time he became
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 133 
 
 deeply engrossed in a book which he took 
 from a shelf in the shop, and he read the 
 following passage aloud : 
 
 " That the consciousness of existence is 
 not dependent on the same form or the same 
 matter is demonstrated to our senses in the 
 works of the Creator, as far as our senses 
 are capable of receiving that demonstration. 
 A very numerous part of the animal creation 
 preaches to us, far better than Paul, the 
 belief in a life hereafter. Their little life 
 resembles an earth and a heaven, a present 
 and a future state ; and comprises, if it may 
 be so expressed, immortality in miniature." 
 
 "Immortality in miniature!" repeated my 
 mother, in a puzzled tone. '' What is that 
 from, Bryan ? " 
 
 " The ' Age of Eeason,' " he answered. 
 
 There was a long pause, broken again by 
 uncle Bryan's voice : 
 
 " If we consider the nature of our con- 
 dition here, we must see there is no occasion 
 for such a thing as revealed religion. What 
 is it we want to know ? Does not the
 
 134 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 creation, the universe we Leliolcl, preach to 
 us the existence of an Ahnighty Power, 
 that oroverns and re2:uLates the whole ? And 
 is not the evidence that this creation holds 
 out to our senses infinitely stronger than 
 anything we can read in a book that any 
 impostor might make and call the word of 
 God ? As for morality, the knowledge of it 
 exists in every man's conscience/' 
 
 Presently he laid the book aside, and my 
 mother took it up. Uncle Bryan stretched 
 forth his hand with the intention of keeping 
 it from her; but he was too late. He gazed 
 at her furtively from beneath his horn sj)ec- 
 tacles, as she turned over the pages. After 
 a few minutes' inspection of the book she 
 returned his gaze sadly, and, with a -pio- 
 tecting motion, drew me to her side. I had 
 not liked uncle Bryan's laugh, and I liked 
 it less now. 
 
 *' Chris, my dear child," said my mother, 
 in a tone of infinite tenderness, "go up- 
 stairs and bring down my Bible." 
 
 I did as she desired, and my mother
 
 JESSIE TBUL 135 
 
 caressed me close, with her arm round my 
 waist. Uncle Bryan sat on one side of the 
 fire-place, reading the ^'Age of Eeason"; my 
 mother sat on the other side, reading the 
 Bible.
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 OUR NEW HOME. 
 
 A DAY or two afterwards I surprised my 
 mother and uncle Bryan in the midst of a 
 conversation which I supposed had reference 
 to myself. My mother was in a very earnest 
 mood, but uncle Bryan, except that he 
 listened attentively to what she was saying, 
 seemed in no way stirred. In all my life's 
 experiences I never met or heard of a man 
 who was more thoroughly attentive to every 
 little detail that passed around him than was 
 uncle Bryan; but although he gave his 
 whole mind to the smallest matter for the 
 time being, he evinced no indication of it, 
 and persons who did not understand his 
 character might reasonably have supposed
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 137 
 
 him to be utterly indifferent to wliat was 
 going on. 
 
 " You will promise me, Bryan," my mother 
 said. 
 
 "I will promise nothing, Emma," he replied; 
 *^ I made a promise once in my life, and I 
 received a promise in return. I know what 
 came of it." He smiled bitterly, and added, 
 his words seeming to me to be prompted 
 more by inner consciousness than by the 
 signs of distress in my mother's face, "But 
 you can make your mind easy. It is not 
 in my nature to force my views upon any one. 
 Force ! as if it were any matter of mine ! 
 What comes to him must come as it has come 
 to me — through the light of experience." 
 
 "Do you not believe, Bryan " 
 
 He interrupted her, almost vehemently. 
 " I believe in nothing ! If that does not 
 content you, I cannot help it." 
 
 " If I could assist you, Bryan — if I could 
 in any way relieve you " 
 
 " You cannot. I am fixed. Life for me 
 is tasteless."
 
 138 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 Something of desolation was in his tone 
 as he said this, but its plaintiveness was not 
 designed by the speaker. Kather did he 
 intend to express defiance, and a renunciation 
 of sympathy. 
 
 " But, Bryan/' said my mother, with a 
 tender movement towards him 
 
 '' I must stop you," he said, " for fear you 
 should say something which would compel 
 an explanation from me. Let matters rest. 
 I am but one amono: hundreds of millions of 
 crawlers. Once I saw other than visible 
 signs — or fancied that I saw them, fool that 
 I was ! The time has gone, never to return ; 
 the power of comprehension has gone, never 
 to return. You must take me as you find 
 me. There is very little in the world that 
 I like or dislike ; but I can heartily despise 
 one thing : insincerity. Have you anything 
 more to say V 
 
 "No, Bryan;" and I could see that my 
 mother was both pained and relieved. 
 
 " I have ; two or three words. A question 
 first. You can be satisfied to remain here V*
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 139 
 
 " Yes, Bryan, if it satisfies you. I can 
 do no better." 
 
 A gleam came into his eyes. " That 
 is sincere," he said, with a pleasanter 
 smile than the last. " Very well, then ; it 
 does satisfy me. What I want to say now 
 is, that there must be no break. You must 
 not remain, and let me get accustomed to 
 you, and then leave me for a woman's 
 reason." 
 
 *'I will not, Bryan." 
 
 With that, the conversation ended. In the 
 night, when my mother and I were alone 
 in our bedroom, I said, 
 
 "Do you think uncle Bryan is a good 
 man now, mother ?" 
 
 "Is it not good of him, Chris, to give us 
 a home ? " 
 
 " Yes," I said ; but I was not quite satis- 
 fied with her answer. "His shell is very 
 rough, though." 
 
 My mother laughed. I loved to hear her 
 laugh ; it was so different from uncle Bryan's., 
 His laughter had no gladness in it.
 
 140 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 " We shall find a sweet place here and 
 there, Chris," she said. 
 
 She tried to, I am sure, and she brightened 
 the house with her pleasant ways. One night 
 we were sitting together as usual ; I was 
 doing a sum on a slate which uncle Bryan 
 had set for me ; he was reading ; my mother 
 was mending clothes. We had been sitting- 
 quiet for a long time, when my mother com- 
 menced to sing one of her simple songs, very 
 softly, as though she were singing to herself 
 In the midst of her sino^ino- she became aware 
 that uncle Bryan was present, and with a 
 rapid apprehensive glance at him she paused. 
 He looked up from his book at once. 
 " Why do you stop, Emma ?" he asked. 
 " I thought I might disturb you.'' 
 " You do not ; I like to hear you." 
 The charm, however, was broken for that 
 night, and my mother knew it, and sang but 
 little. Two or three nights afterwards, when 
 uncle Bryan was engrossed in his book, my 
 mother besran to sino- ao'ain over her work. 
 I knew every trick of her features, and I
 
 JESSIE TEIM. 141 
 
 think she was designing enough to watch 
 her opportunity, for there was never a more 
 jDerfect master than she of the delicate 
 cunning which kindness to rough and cross 
 iiatures often requires. It was with much 
 curiosity that I quietly observed uncle 
 Bryan's behaviour while my mother sang. 
 He held his book steadily before him, but 
 he did not turn a page ; and to my, per- 
 haps, too curious eyes there appeared to be, 
 in the very curve of his shoulders, a grateful 
 recognition of my mother s wish to please 
 him. I could not see his face, but I liked 
 him better at that time than I had ever 
 yet done. Truly, my mother was right ; 
 here at least was one sweet place found in 
 the rough shell. She continued her singing 
 in the same soft strains ; and often after- 
 wards sang when we three were sitting 
 together of an evening. 
 
 Exactly three weeks after we had taken 
 up our quarters Avith uncle Bryan, my mother 
 and I paid a visit to the neighbourhood in 
 which she had made the acquaintance of the
 
 142 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 fairy in the cotton-print dress ; but although 
 it was Saturday night we saw no trace of 
 the little girl. My mother was much dis- 
 appointed ; and then she went to the house 
 in which the young woman lived who had 
 given her sixpence, and learned that she 
 had moved, the landlady did not know 
 whither. I was glad to get away from the 
 neighbourhood, although I was almost as 
 much disappointed as my mother was at not 
 finding our little fairy. 
 
 Our new life, having thus fairly com- 
 menced, went on for a long time with but 
 little variation. Uncle Bryan allowed my 
 mother to do exactly as she pleased, and 
 she, without in the slightest way disturbing 
 his regular habits, made the house very 
 different from what it was when she first 
 entered it. Every room in it, down to the 
 basement, where she did the cooking, was 
 always sweet and clean. We also had flowers 
 on the sill of our bedroom window, and 
 their graceful forms and bright colours were 
 ■a refreshins: relief to the dark back wall.
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 143 
 
 It delights me to see the taste for groiving 
 flowers cultivated by the poor. Flowers are 
 purifiers ; they breed good thoughts. Quite 
 a rivalry was established between uncle 
 Bryan and my mother in the care and atten- 
 tion which they bestowed on their respec- 
 tive window-sills. It went on silently and 
 pleasantly, and my mother was not dis- 
 pleased because uncle Bryan was the victor. 
 He trained some creepers from the window 
 of his little back room to the window of our 
 bedroom, and my mother watched them 
 with intense interest creeping up, and up, 
 until they reached the sill. " They are like 
 a message of love from your uncle, my dear,'' 
 she said. It is by such small precious links 
 as these that heart is bound to heart. Yet 
 the feelings with which uncle Bryan inspired 
 me were by no means of a tender nature. 
 He made no effort to win my affection ; as 
 a general rule, his bearing towards me Avas 
 sufficiently cold to check tender impulse, 
 and the words, "I believe in nothing!" 
 which I had heard him address sternly to
 
 144 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 my mother, had impressed me very seriously. 
 I reo-arded him sometimes with fear and 
 aversion. 
 
 I was sent to a cheap school, a very few 
 pence a week being paid for my education. 
 My career in the -school is scarcely worthy 
 of record. All that was taught there were 
 readino*, Avritinjx, and arithmetic ; and when 
 these were learned our education was com- 
 pleted. The master never allowed himself 
 to be tripped up by his pupils. Arithmetic 
 was his strong point, and the rule-of-three 
 was his boundary. In that happy hunting- 
 o-round we bous^ht and sold the usual illi- 
 mitable quantities of eggs, and yards of 
 calico, and firkins of butter ; and there we 
 should have wallowed until we were old 
 men, had we remained long enough, with- 
 out ever reaching another heaven. My 
 principal reminiscences of those days are 
 connected with the bully of the school; 
 who, whenever we met in the streets out of 
 school-hours, compelled me to make three 
 very low and humble bows to him before he
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 145 
 
 would allow me to pass. I have not tlie 
 satisfaction of being able to record that he 
 met with the usual fate (in fiction) of school 
 bullies — that of being soundly licked, and 
 of being compelled to eat humble pie for 
 ever afterwards. He was a successful tyrant. 
 His position occasionally compelled him to 
 fight two boys at a time — one down, the 
 other come up — but he was never beaten. 
 A tyrant he was, and a tyrant he remained 
 until I lost sight of him. In his career, 
 virtue was never triumphant. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTEE XL 
 
 IX WHICH I TAKE PART IN SOME LAWLESS 
 EXPEDITIONS. 
 
 In his letter which offered us a home, uncle 
 Brjan had stated, truly enough, that he 
 was a poor man. Although he purchased 
 his stock in very small quantities, he often 
 had as much as he could do to pay his 
 monthly bills. I remember well a certain 
 occasion when he was seriously perplexed in 
 this way. My mother, who had been atten- 
 tively observant of him during the day, said 
 in the evening, 
 
 "You are troubled, Bryan." 
 
 "I am short of money, Emma," he replied; 
 and he went on to say that he had to pay 
 Messrs. So-and-So and So-and-So to-morrow,
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 147 
 
 and that his last week's takings were two 
 pounds less than he had reckoned upon. 
 " How much sh6rt are you, Bryan ? " 
 He adjusted his horn spectacles, and brought 
 forward his account-book, and his file of bills, 
 and every farthing the till contained. In a 
 few minutes he had his trouble staring him 
 in the face in black and white, in the shape 
 of a deficit of two pounds eighteen shillings 
 — a serious sum. My mother, with a grat^ul 
 look in her eyes, produced the stone money- 
 box, in which he had said she might put by 
 anything she was able to save out of the 
 money he gave her to keep house with. She 
 shook it ; what was in it rattled merrily. 
 It was a hard job to get the coins out, the 
 slit in the box was so narrow ; but it was 
 managed at last by means of the blade of 
 a knife, and a little pile of copper and silver 
 lay on the ■fe.ble. I think the three of us 
 seated round the table would not make a bad 
 picture ; but then you could not put in my 
 mother s delicious laugh. She had saved more 
 than three pounds. I could scarcely tell
 
 148 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 whether uncle Bryan was sorry or pleased. 
 He bit his lips very hard, but said never a 
 word ; and, taking the exact sum he requirecl, 
 he put the balance back into the box. 
 
 The chief difficulty uncle Bryan had to 
 contend with in keeping his stock properly 
 assorted was brown sugar. Indeed, brown 
 sugar may be said to have been the bane of 
 his life ; to me, it was a most hateful com- 
 modity, and I often wished there was not 
 such an article in the world. Uncle Bryan 
 had to pay ready money for sugar, and he 
 could not purchase at the warehouse less than 
 a bag at the time — about two hundred pounds 
 weight, I believe. Sometimes he had not the 
 money to go to the sugar market with, and 
 the stock on the shelves had dwindled down 
 almost to the last quarter of a pound. Then 
 commenced a series of lawless expeditions 
 which I remember with comical terror. One 
 of the first instructions given by uncle Bryan 
 to my mother had been, never, under any 
 pretext, to serve even the smallest quantity of 
 sugar to a strange customer unless he or she
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 149 
 
 purchased something else at the same time. 
 The reason for this was that there was no 
 profit on sugar; it was what was called a 
 leading article in the trade, and by some 
 mysterious trade machinations, arising pro- 
 bably out of the fever of competition, had 
 come to be sold by the large grocers at 
 exactly cost price. The small grocers, of 
 course, were compelled to follow in the wake 
 of the large ones ; if they had not, their cus- 
 tomers would have deserted them. Not only, 
 indeed, did the small grocers make no profit 
 on the sugar they sold, but, taking into con- 
 sideration the draught necessary to turn the 
 scale ever so little when weighing out quarter 
 and half pounds, there was an absolute loss ; 
 even the paper in the scale would not make 
 up for it, for it cost as much per pound as 
 the sugar. Hence the necessity for not 
 serving strangers with sugar by itself, and 
 hence it was that I not unnaturally came to 
 look upon it as a desperate crime for any 
 stranger to attempt to purchase sugar over 
 uncle Bryan's counter without asking at the
 
 150 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 same time for a proper quantity of tea or 
 coffee, or some other article upon which there 
 was a profit. My feelings, then, can be 
 imagined when uncle Bryan (being short of 
 sugar, and not having sufficient funds to 
 purchase a bag at the warehouse), bidding me 
 carry a fair-sized market basket, took me with 
 him one dark nis^ht — and often afterwards on 
 many other dark nights — to purchase brown 
 sugar, and nothing else, in pounds, half 
 pounds, and quarters. The plan of operation 
 was as follows : uncle Bryan, selecting a likely- 
 looking grocer's shop (an innocent looking fly, 
 he being the spider), would station me at some 
 distance from it, l^idding me wait until he 
 returned. Then he would enter the shop 
 boldly, and come out with the air of one 
 who resided in the neighbourhood, holding 
 in his hand a quarter or half pound of felo- 
 niously-acquired moist. This he would de- 
 posit in the basket (which had a cover to it, 
 to hide our villany), and we would wander 
 to another street, in which he pounced upon 
 another grocer's shop, where the operation
 
 JE88IE TRIM. 151 
 
 would be repeated. Thus we would wander, 
 often for two or three miles, until the basket 
 was filled with packages of sugar, with which 
 we would return stealthily, like burglars after 
 the successful accomplishment- of daring and 
 unlawful deeds. When the basket was too 
 heavy for me to carry, uncle Bryan carried 
 it, and would place me in a convenient 
 spot — always at the corner of two streets, so 
 that in case of pursuit we could make a ra^id 
 disappearance — with the basket on the ground. 
 While thus stationed, I have trembled at the 
 very shadow of a policeman, and have often 
 wondered that we were not marched off to 
 prison. Uncle Bryan was not always success- 
 ful. On occasions he would pause suddenly 
 in the middle of a street, and wheel sharply 
 round. " Can't go into that shop," he would 
 say ; " was turned out of it the week before 
 last;" or, "They know me there ; swore at me 
 when they served me the last time ; mustn't 
 show my face there for another month ; " or, 
 with a laugh, " Come away, Chris, quick ! 
 That woman wanted to know what I meant
 
 152 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 by imposing on a poor widow who was trying 
 to get an honest living/' These remarks, of 
 themselves, would have been sufficient to con- 
 vince me that we were committing an offence 
 against law and morality. At first I w^as a 
 passive accomplice in these unlawful opera- 
 tions, but in time I became an active agent. 
 
 "Chris, my boy,'' said uncle Bryan to me 
 one night, in an insinuating tone ; he was 
 out of spirits, having met with a number of 
 continuous failures ; " do you think you 
 could buy a quarter of a pound in that 
 shop ? " 
 
 " 111 try to, uncle," I said, with a sinking 
 heart, for I had long anticipated the dreaded 
 moment. 
 
 " Go into the shop in an off-hand way, 
 as if you were a regular customer. I'll wait 
 at the corner for you." 
 
 Go into the shop in an off-hand way ! 
 Why, if I had been the greatest criminal in 
 the world, I could not have been more im- 
 pressed with a sense of guilt. I showed it 
 in my face when I stepped tremblingly to
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 153 
 
 the counter, and I was instantly detected by 
 the shopkeeper. 
 
 ''Do you want anything else besides 
 sugar ? " he demanded sternly. 
 
 "N-no, sir," I managed to answer. 
 
 "Do you know, you young ruffian, that 
 there's a loss on sus^ar ? " I knew it well 
 enough — too well to convict myself by an- 
 swering. '' What do you say to two ounces 
 of our best mixed at two-and-eight," he t^en 
 inquired, with satirical inquisitiveness, " or 
 half a pound of our genuine mocha at one- 
 and-four ? " 
 
 As I did not know what to say except, 
 " Guilty, if you please, sir ! " and as I sus- 
 pected him of an intention to leap over the 
 counter and seize me by the throat, I fled 
 precipitately, with my heart in my mouth, 
 and the next minute was running away, 
 with uncle Bryan at my heels, as fast as my 
 legs would carry me. When we were well 
 out of danger's reach, uncle Bryan indulged 
 in the only genuine laugh I had heard from 
 him ; but he soon became serious, and we
 
 154 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 resumed our unlaA\'ful journey. This first 
 attempt was not tlie last; I tried again 
 aiid again ; but practice, which makes most 
 things perfect, never made me an adept in 
 the art. Dark nights were always chosen 
 for our expeditions, and sometimes so many 
 streets and thoroughfares were closed to uncle 
 Bryan, that he was at his wits' end which 
 way to turn to fill the basket. 
 
 Things went on with us in the same way 
 until I was fourteen years of age. Long 
 before this, I had learned all my school- 
 master had to teach me, and I was beginning 
 to be distressed by the thought that I was 
 doing a wrong thing by remaining idle. It 
 was time that I set to work, and tried to 
 help those who had been so good to me. I 
 spoke about it, and uncle Bryan approved 
 in a few curt words. 
 
 '' Fm afraid he's not strong enough," said 
 my mother. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " exclaimed uncle Bryan ; and 
 I supported him. 
 
 " I want to work," I said; " I should like to."
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 155 
 
 " A good trade would be the best thing," 
 said my mother. 
 
 Weeks passed, and I was still idle. My 
 mother had been busy enough in the mean- 
 while, but her eflforts were unsuccessful. She 
 learnt that a good trade for me meant a 
 good premium from my friends ; and that of 
 course was out of the question. It would 
 have been a hard matter to scrape together 
 even so small a sum as five pounds, and the 
 lowest premium asked was far above that 
 amount. I thought it behoved me to look 
 for myself; and I began to stroll about the 
 streets, and search in the shop windows for 
 some such announcement as, "Wanted an 
 apprentice to a good trade : no premium 
 required ; liberal wages ; " followed by a 
 description which fitted me exactly as the 
 sort of lad which would be preferred. But 
 no such announcement greeted my wistful 
 gaze. I saw bills, " Wanted this," " Wanted 
 that," and now and then I mustered suffi- 
 cient courage to go in and offer myself; but 
 at the end of a month's experience I could
 
 156 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 come to no other conclusion than that I was 
 fit for neither this nor that. My manner 
 was against me ; I was shy and timid, and 
 sometimes could scarcely find words suitable 
 for my application ; but I had that kind of 
 courage which lies in perseverance, and my 
 aspirations were not of an exalted nature ; I 
 was willing to accept anything in the shape 
 of work. I know now that I apj)lied for 
 many situations for which I was totally 
 unfitted, but I was not conscious of it at 
 the time ; and I know also that for a few 
 days I was absurdly and supremely reckless 
 in my estimate of my fitness for the employers 
 who made their wants public. It was during 
 this time that I found myself standing before 
 one of those exceedingly small ofiices which 
 squeeze themselves by the force of impudence 
 and ingenuity into the very midst of really 
 pretentious buildings, which frown them down, 
 but cannot take the impudence out of them. 
 In the front of this ofiice was a large black 
 board, on which were wafered, in the neatest 
 of round-hand, the most amazing temjDta-
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 157 
 
 tions to persons in search of situations. The 
 first temptation which assailed me was, 
 " Wanted a Gardener for a Gentleman's 
 Family. Must have an Unexceptionable 
 Moral Character. Apply Within." The 
 doubt I had with reference to this announce- 
 ment was not whether I would do for a 
 gardener (this was during my reckless days, 
 remember), but whether my moral character 
 was unexceptionable. I had never before 
 been called to answer a declaration of this 
 description, and now that it was put to me 
 in bold round-hand, I was stung by the 
 share I took in the lawless sugar ex- 
 peditions. Not being able to resolve the 
 doubt as to my moral character (although 
 sorely tempted by the exigencies of my 
 position to give myself the benefit of 
 it), I laid aside the gardener for future 
 consideration. The next temptation was, 
 "Wanted a Cook. High Church." I 
 discarded the cook. Eeckless as I was, it 
 exceeded the limits of my boldness to de- 
 clare myself a High-Church Cook. I was
 
 158 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 not even aware that I had ever tasted food 
 cooked in that way ; the very flavour was 
 a mystery to me. The next was, "Wanted 
 a Groom, Smart and Active. Seven Stone. 
 Apply within." I debated for some time 
 over seven stone before I decided that it 
 must apply to the weight of the groom. A 
 stone was fourteen pounds. Seven four- 
 teens were ninety-eight. (I did the sum 
 on a dead wall with a bit of brick I 
 picked uj) in the road.) That I was per- 
 fectly ignorant of the duties of a groom 
 did not affect me in the slightest degree ; 
 my only trouble was, did I weigh ninety- 
 eight pounds ? I immediately resolved to 
 ascertain. I strolled into a bye-street, and 
 discovering a mysterious-looking recess wherein 
 were exhibited a small j)ilG of coals and a 
 large pair of scales to weigh them in, I con- 
 sidered it a likely place to solve the problem. 
 I had two half-pennies in my pocket, and I 
 thought I might bargain to be weighed for 
 one of them. So I walked into the recess, and 
 tapping upon the scales with one of the coins,
 
 JESSIE TEIM. 159 
 
 as a proof that I meant business, waited for 
 the result. The result came in the shape of 
 a waddling woman with a coaly face and an 
 immense bonnet, who said, " Now then ? " 
 Timidly I replied, " I want to be weighed, 
 ma'am ; 111 give you a half-]3enny." I was 
 not prepared for the suddenness of what imme- 
 diately followed. Without the slightest warn- 
 ing the woman lifted me in her arms with 
 great ease, and laid me across the scales (which 
 were shaped like a scuttle) ^ with great 
 difficulty, although I tried honestly to suit 
 myself to the peculiarity of the case. Pre- 
 sently she threw me off as if I Avere a sack 
 of coals, and tossing the weights aside, one 
 after another, as if they were feathers, said, 
 " There you are ! '^ Her words did not en- 
 lighten me. ''Am I seven stone, ma'am?" 
 I asked, as I handed her the coin. '' About,'* 
 was her reply. I retired, dubious, in a very 
 grimy and gritty condition, and walking to 
 the little office where the black board was, 
 I boldly entered, and asked the young man 
 behind the counter (there was only room
 
 160 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 for him and me) if he wanted a groom. His 
 reply was, " Half a crown." This was per- 
 plexing, and I asked again, and received a 
 similar answer. I soon understood that I 
 should have to pay the sum down before I 
 could be accommodated with particulars, 
 and as a halfpenny was the whole of my 
 wealth, I was compelled to retire, much 
 disheartened. 
 
 However, I was successful at length. I 
 obtained a situation as errand-boy, sweeper, 
 and what-not, at a wood-engraver's, the 
 wages being three shillings a w^eek to com- 
 mence with. How delighted I was when I 
 told my mother, and with what pride I 
 brought home my first week's wages, and 
 placed them in her hand ! In the duties of 
 my new position, and in endeavouring, not 
 unsuccessfully, to pick up a knowledge of 
 the business, time passed rapidly. My steady 
 attention to everything that was set me to 
 do gradually attracted the notice of my em- 
 ployer, and he encouraged me in my efforts 
 to raise myself. I was fond of cleanliness
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 161 
 
 for its own sake, and my mother's chief 
 pleasure was to keep my clothes neat and 
 properly mended. I can see now the value 
 of the difference between my appearance and 
 that of other boys of my own age in the 
 same position of life as myself, and I can 
 more fully appreciate the beauty of a 
 mother's love when it is deep and abiding 
 — as my mother's love was for me. 
 
 And here I must say a word, lest I should 
 be misunderstood. Some kindly - hearted 
 readers may suppose that my life and its 
 surrounding circumstances call for pity and 
 commiseration. I declare that they are mis- 
 taken, and that I was perfectly happy, con- 
 tented in the present, hopeful in the future. 
 What more could I desire ? Poor as our 
 home was, it was decent and comfortable ; 
 the anxieties which invaded it wei'e not, I 
 apprehend, of a more bitter nature than the 
 anxieties which reign in the houses of really 
 w^ell-to-do and wealthy people. Well, I had 
 a home which contented and satisfied me ; 
 and dearer, holier, purer than all else, there 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 was slied upon me a love which brightened 
 my days and sweetened my labour. Life 
 was opening out to me its most delightful 
 pages. Already had I learned to love books 
 for the good that was in them ; I was also 
 learning to draw, and every hour's leisure 
 was an hour of profitable enjoyment. I 
 began to see things, not with the eyes of a 
 soured and discontented mind, but with the 
 eyes of a mind which had been, almost 
 unconsciously, trained to learn that sorrow 
 and adversity may bring forth much for 
 which we should be truly and sincerely 
 grateful, and which, but for these trials, 
 mio;ht be hidden from us. And all this was 
 due to the influence of Home, and of the 
 love which life's hard trials had strengthened. 
 Sweet indeed are the uses of adversity ! But 
 for it, the milk of human kindness would 
 taste like brackish water.
 
 CHAPTEK XII. 
 
 A SINGULAR EPISODE IN OUE QUIET LIFE. 
 
 At this point I am reminded tliat I Imve 
 not described uncle Bryan. A few words 
 will suffice. A tall spare man, strongly built, 
 witli no superfluity of flesh about him ; iron- 
 grey hair, thick and abundant ; eyebrows 
 overlapping most conspicuously, guarding his 
 eyes, as it were, which lurked in their 
 caverns, as animals might in their lairs, on 
 the watch. He wore no hair on his face, 
 his cheeks were furrowed, and his features 
 were large and well formed. He possessed 
 the power of keeping himself perfectly under 
 control ; but on rare occasions a nervous 
 twitching of his lips in one corner of his 
 mouth mastered him. This always occurred
 
 164 JESSIE TBIM. 
 
 when lie was in any way stirred to emotion, 
 and I knew perfectly well, although he tried 
 to disguise it from me, that it was one of 
 his greatest annoyances that he could not 
 conquer this physical symptom of mental 
 disturbance. He was not only scrujDulously 
 just in his dealings as a tradesman ; he exer- 
 cised this moral sentiment with almost painful 
 preciseness in his intercourse with my mother 
 and me. He had no intimates, and he deter- 
 minedly rejected all overtures of friendship. 
 His habits were regular, his desires few, his 
 tastes simple. He appeared to be contented 
 with everything, and grateful for nothing. 
 If love resided in his nature, it showed itself 
 in a fondness for flowers : in no other form. 
 
 I was nearly eighteen years of age, and 
 the days — garlanded with the sweet pleasures 
 which spring naturally from a mother's love 
 — followed one another calmly and tranquilly. 
 Nothing had occurred to disturb the peaceful 
 current of our lives. Uneventful as the small 
 circumstances of my past life were in the 
 light of surrounding things, each scene in
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 165 
 
 the simple drama which had thus far pro- 
 gressed was distinctly defined, and seemed 
 to have no connection with what preceded 
 it or followed it. The first, which had 
 occurred in the house where I was born, and 
 which ended with my father s death ; the 
 second, in which my mother had taken so 
 mournful a part, and which contained so 
 strange a mingling of joy and sorrow ; the 
 third, which was now being played, •and 
 which up to this period had been the least 
 eventful of all. A certain routine of duties 
 was got through with unvarying regularity. 
 Uncle Bryan's trade yielded, with careful 
 watching, sufficient profit for our wants ; 
 but I, also, Avas earning money now, and it 
 was with an honest feeling of pride that I 
 paid my mother so many shillings a week 
 — I am almost ashamed to say how few — 
 towards the expenses of my living. And so 
 the days rolled on. 
 
 But in the web of our lives a thread was 
 woven of which no sign had yet been seen, 
 and chance or destiny was drawing it to-
 
 166 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 "vvards us with firm hand — a thread which, 
 when it was linked to our hearts, was to 
 throw strong light and colour on the tranquil 
 days. 
 
 A very pleasant summer had set in, and 
 uncle Bryan's flowers were at their brightest. 
 It had grown into a custom with my mother 
 to come for me two or three times a week 
 during the fine weather, in the evening, 
 when my day's work was done. She would 
 wait at the corner of the street which led 
 to my place of business, and we generally 
 had a pleasant walk, arriving home at 
 about half-past nine o'clock, in time for 
 supper, a favourite meal with uncle Bryan. 
 Now my mother and I had been for some 
 time casting about for an opportunity to 
 present uncle Bryan with a token of our 
 afiection in the shape of a pipe and a 
 tobacco-jar ; he was so strange a character 
 that it was absolutely necessary we should 
 have a tangible excuse for the presentation. 
 My mother discovered the opportunity! With 
 great glee she informed me that she had
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 167 
 
 found out uncle Bryan s birthday, and that 
 the presentation should take the form of a 
 birthday gift. "It will be an unexpected 
 surprise to him, my dear," she said, " and 
 we will say nothing about it beforehand/' 
 On a fine morning in August I rose as usual 
 at half-past five, and made my breakfast in 
 the kitchen ; I slept now in the little back- 
 room on a line with the shop and parlour. 
 Eight o'clock was the hour for commencing 
 work, and I generally had a couple of hours' 
 delightful reading in the kitchen before I 
 started. Sometimes, however, when we 
 were busy, I was directed to be at the office 
 an hour or so earlier, and on this morning I 
 was due at seven o'clock. I always wished 
 my mother good-bye before I went to work. 
 Treading very softly, so as not to disturb 
 uncle Bryan, and with my dinner and tea 
 under my arm — invariably prepared the last 
 thing at night, and packed in a handker- 
 chief by my mother's careful hands — I crept 
 up-stairs to her room. She called me in, 
 and I sat by her bedside, chatting for a few
 
 168 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 minutes. This was the anniversary of uncle 
 Bryan's birthday, and our purchases were to 
 be made in the evening. 
 
 *' I must be off, mother," I said, starting 
 up ; "I shall have to run for it.'' 
 
 " Good-morning, dear child," she said ; 
 " I shall come for you exactly at eight 
 o'clock." 
 
 I kissed her, and ran off to work. My 
 mother was punctual in the evening, and we 
 set off at once on a pilgrimage to tobacco- 
 nists' windows. Any person observing us 
 as we stood at the windows, debating on the 
 shape of this pipe and the pattern of that 
 tobacco-jar, would at once have recognised the 
 importance of our proceedings. At length, 
 after much anxious deliberation, our purchases 
 were made, and we walked home to Paradise 
 Eow. My mother had suggested that I 
 should present uncle Bryan with the birthday 
 gifts, and in a vainful moment I had con- 
 sented, and had mentally rehearsed a fine 
 little speech, which I prided myself was per- 
 fect in its way. But, as is usual with the
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 169 
 
 amateur, and sometimes with the over-con- 
 fident, on such occasions, my fine little speech 
 flew clean out of my head when the critical 
 moment arrived, and resolved itself into about 
 a dozen stammering and perfectly incompre- 
 hensible words. Covered with confusion, I 
 pushed the pipe and tobacco-jar towards uncle 
 Bryan in a most ungraceful manner. My 
 mother saw my difficulty. 
 
 '' We have brought you a little birthd«.y 
 present, Bryan," she said, ^^ with our love." 
 
 He made a grimace at the last three words, 
 and I thouojht at first that he was about to 
 sweep the things from him; but if he had 
 any such intention, he relinquished it. 
 
 " How did you know it was my birthday ?" 
 
 '' I found it out." 
 
 " How ? " 
 
 '^ Oh," replied my mother, with a coquettish 
 movement of her head, which delighted me, 
 but did not find favour with uncle Bryan, 
 *' little birds come down the chimney to tell 
 me things." 
 
 " Psha ! " he muttered impatiently.
 
 170 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 '* Or perhaps I put this and that together, 
 and found it out that way. You can't hide 
 anything from a woman, you know." 
 
 Her gay manner met with no sympathetic 
 response from uncle Bryan. On the contrary, 
 he gazed at her for a moment almost sus- 
 piciously, but the look softened in the clear 
 light of my mother's eyes. Then, in a care- 
 less, unOTacious manner, he thanked us for 
 the present. I was hurt and indignant, and 
 I told my mother a few minutes afterwards, 
 when we were together in the kitchen, that 
 I was sorry we had taken any notice of uncle 
 Bryan's birthday. 
 
 " He would have been much better pleased 
 if we hadn't mentioned it," I said. 
 
 " No, my dear," said my mother, " you are 
 not quite right. Your uncle will grow very 
 fond of that pipe by-and-by." 
 
 My mother always won me over to her 
 way of thinking, and I thought the failure 
 might be due to the bungling manner in 
 which I had presented the birthday offerings. 
 I walked about the kitchen, and spoke to
 
 JESSIE TBIM, 171 
 
 myself tlie speech I had intended to make, 
 with the most beautiful effect. It was a 
 masterpiece of elegant phrasing, and every 
 sentence was beautifully rounded, and came 
 trippingly off the tongue. Of course I was 
 much annoyed that the opportunity of im- 
 pressing uncle Bryan with my eloquence was 
 lost. When we re-entered the room, uncle 
 Bryan's head was resting on his hand, and 
 there was an expression of weariness in Ms 
 face, which had grown pale and sad during 
 our brief absence. My mother's keen eyes 
 instantly detected the change. 
 
 " You are not well, Bryan," she said, in 
 a concerned tone, stepping to his side. 
 
 " There are two things that disagree with 
 me, Emma," he replied, with a grim and 
 unsuccessful attempt at humour ; " my own 
 medicine is one, memory is another. I've 
 been taking a dose of each. There, don't 
 bother me. I have a slight headache, that's 
 all." 
 
 But althoug^h he tried to turn it off thus 
 lightly, he was certainly far from well ; for
 
 172 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 he asked my mother to attend to the shop, 
 and leaning back in his chair, threw a hand- 
 kerchief over his face, and fell asleep. My 
 mother and I talked in whispers, so as not 
 to disturb him. Uncle Bryan was not a 
 supporter of the early- closing movement, 
 for he kept his shop open until eleven 
 o'clock every night. Very dismal it must 
 have looked from the outside in the long 
 winter nights, lighted up by only one tallow 
 candle ; but it had always a home appear- 
 ance for me, from the first day I entered 
 it. The shop-door which led into the 
 street was closed, and so was the door of 
 the parlour in which we were sitting. The 
 upper half of this door was glass, to enable 
 us to see into the shop. My mother's 
 hearing was generally very acute, and the 
 slightest tap on the counter was sufficient 
 to arouse her attention ; ., but the tapping 
 was seldom needed, for the shop-door, having 
 a complaining creak in its hinges, never 
 failed to announce the entrance of a customer. 
 On this night, customers were like angels'
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 173 
 
 visits, few and far between. It was ten 
 o'clock ; uncle Bryan was still sleeping ; my 
 mother, whose hands were never idle, was 
 working as usual ; I was reading a volume 
 of '' Chambers's Tracts for the People," from 
 which many a young mind has received 
 healthy nourishment. I was deep in the 
 touching story of " Picciola, or the Prison 
 Flower,'' when an amazing incident oc- 
 curred — ^heralded by a tap at the parlowr- 
 door. 
 
 Whoever it was that knocked must not 
 only have opened the street-door, but must 
 have silenced its watch-dog creak (by 
 bribery, perhaps) ; or else my mother's 
 hearing must have played her very false. 
 Again : it was necessary to lift the ledge of 
 the counter and creep under it, before the 
 parlour-door could be reached. 
 
 My mother started to her feet, and opened 
 the door. A young girl, with bonnet and 
 cloak on, stood before us. I thought imme- 
 diately of the fairy in the cotton-print dress; 
 but no, it was not she who had thus mys-
 
 174 JESSIE TEIM. 
 
 teriously appeared. The girl looked at us 
 in silence. 
 
 " You should have tapped on the counter, 
 my dear," said my mother. 
 
 "What for?" was the answer, in the most 
 musical voice I had ever heard. " I don't 
 want to buy anything." 
 
 This was a puzzling rejoinder. If she did 
 not want to buy anything, why was she here? 
 
 " This is Mr. Carey's ? " asked the girl. 
 
 "Yes, my dear." 
 
 " Who are you ? " 
 
 Now this was so manifestly a question 
 which should have come from us, and not 
 from her, that I gazed at her in some wonder, 
 and at the same time in admiration, for her 
 manner was very winning. She returned my 
 gaze frankly, and seemed to be pleased with 
 my look of admiration. Certainly a perfectly 
 self-possessed little creature in every respect. 
 Uncle Bryan still slept. 
 
 "Who are you?" repeated our visitor, to 
 my mother. - 
 
 "My name is Carey," said my mother.
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 175 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! " exclaimed the girl. " That 
 is nice. And who is he ? " indicating uncle 
 Bryan. 
 
 *' That is my brother-in-law, Bryan.'' 
 
 "Mr. Bryan Carey. I've come to see 
 him." And she made a movement towards 
 him. My mother's hand restrained her. 
 
 " Hush, my dear ! You must not disturb 
 him." 
 
 '' Oh, I am not in a hurry. But I think 
 you ought to help me in with my box." 
 This to me. "If I was a man, I wouldn't 
 ask you." 
 
 Her box ! Deeper and deeper the mystery 
 grew. When the girl thus directly addressed 
 me, my heart beat with a feeling of intense 
 pleasure. Hitherto I had been mortified that 
 she had evinced no interest in me. 
 
 "Come along!" she exclaimed imperiously. 
 
 I followed her to the door, like a slave, 
 and there was her box, almost similar in 
 appearance to the box we had brought with 
 us. It was altogether such an astounding 
 experience, and so entirely an innovation
 
 176 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 upon the regular routine of our days, that 
 I rubbed my eyes to be sure that I was 
 awake. My mother had closed the door of 
 the room in which uncle Bryan was sleeping, 
 and now stood by my side. I stooped to 
 lift the box, and found it heavy. 
 
 "What is in it?" I asked. 
 
 " Books and things," our visitor replied. 
 " 111 help you. Oh, I'm strong, though I 
 am a girl ! I wish I was you." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Then I should be a boy. There ! You 
 see I am almost as strong as you are." 
 
 The box was in the shop by this time. 
 My mother was perfectly bewildered, as I 
 myself was ; but mine was a delightful be- 
 wilderment. The adventure was so new, so 
 novel, so like an adventure, that I was filled 
 with excitement. 
 
 "How did the box come here?" I asked. 
 
 "Walked here, of course," she said some- 
 what scornfully. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " I exclaimed ; although if she 
 had persisted in her statement, I was quite
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 177 
 
 ready to believe it, as I would have believed 
 anything from her lips. 
 
 " Oh, you don't believe in things ! " 
 
 " Yes, I do ; but I don't believe that 
 thing. How did it come ? " 
 
 *^A boy carried it. A strong boy — not 
 like you. Isn't that candied lemon-peel in 
 the glass bottle ? " 
 
 ^^Yes." 
 
 "I should like some. I'm very fond' of 
 sweet things." 
 
 Quite as though the little girl were mistress 
 of the establishment, my mother went behind 
 the counter, and cut a slice of the lemon- 
 peel. 
 
 ''What a small piece!" exclaimed the girl, 
 sitting on the box, and biting the candy. '' I 
 could put it all in my mouth at once ; but I 
 like to linger over nice things." 
 
 And she did linger over it, while we looked 
 on. When she had finished she said, 
 
 " I suppose I am to sit here till he wakes." 
 
 " No, my dear," said my mother, who had 
 been regarding her child-like ways with ten- 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 JESSIE TEIM. 
 
 derness ; " you liad better come inside. It 
 will be more comfortable. But indeed, indeed, 
 you have bewildered me ! " 
 
 The girl laughed, soft and low, and my 
 mother's heart went out to her. The next 
 minute we were in the parlour again. My 
 mother motioned that she would have to be 
 very quiet, and pointed to a seat. Before 
 our visitor sat down she took off her bonnet 
 and mantle, and laid them aside. The pre- 
 sence of this slight graceful creature was like 
 a new revelation to me ; the common room 
 became idealised by a subtle charm. But how 
 was the adventure to end ? An hour ago she 
 was not here ; and I wondered how we could 
 have been happy and contented without her. 
 She was exceedingly pretty, and her face 
 was full of expression. That, indeed, was 
 one of her strongest charms. When she 
 spoke, it was not only her tongue that spoke. 
 Her eyes, her hands, the movements of her 
 head, put life and soul into her words, and 
 made them sparkle. Her hair was cut short, 
 and just touched her shoulders ; its colour
 
 JESSIE TBIM. vi79 
 
 was a light auburn. Her hands were small 
 and white ; I particularly noticed them as 
 'she took from the table the book I had been 
 reading. 
 
 " Are you fond of reading ? " she asked, 
 in a low tone. 
 
 " Yes," I answered. It really seemed to 
 me as if I had known her for years. " Are 
 you ? " 
 
 "I love it. I like to read in bed. Then 
 I don't care for anything." 
 
 Soon she was skimming through "Picciola;" 
 but, looking up, she noticed that my mother's 
 eyes were fixed admiringly upon her. She 
 laid the book aside, and approached my 
 mother, so that her words might not be lost. 
 
 " It makes it strong to cut it, does it 
 not ? " was the first question. 
 
 " Makes what strong ? " My mother did 
 not know to what it was our visitor referred. 
 I made a shrewd guess, mentally, and dis- 
 covered that I was right. 
 
 " The hair. To cut it when one is young, 
 as mine is cut, makes it strong ? "
 
 180 JESSIE TBIM. 
 
 " Yes, my dear. It will be all the better 
 for being cut." 
 
 ''Why do you call me your dear?" 
 
 My mother replied gently, Avith a slight 
 hesitancy : ''I won t if you don't like me 
 to." 
 
 " Oh, but I like it ! And it sounds nice 
 from you. It will be all the better for being 
 cut ! That's what / think. It was nearly 
 doAATi to my waist. Do you like it ? " 
 
 *' It is very pretty." 
 
 "And soft, is it not? Feel it. "When 
 I was little, it was much lighter — almost 
 like gold. I used to be glad to hear people 
 say, ' What beautiful hair that child has 
 got!'" 
 
 "It will get darker as you grow older." 
 
 "I don't want it to. I'll sit in the sun 
 as much as ever I can, so that it shan't 
 grow darker." 
 
 " Why, my " 
 
 "Dear. Say it, please!" 
 " My dear, have you been told that that 
 is the way to keep hair light ?"
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 181 
 
 " No, but I think it is. It must be the 
 best way." This with a positive air, as if 
 contradiction were out of the question. 
 
 " If you are so fond of your hair, what 
 made you say just now that you wished you 
 were a boy ? " 
 
 "Because I do wish it. I think it is a 
 shame. Persons ought to have their choice 
 before they're born, whether they would like 
 to be boys or girls." 
 
 '^My dear!" 
 
 " Yes, they ought to have, and you can t 
 help agreeing with me. Then I should have 
 been a boy, and things would have been 
 different. All that I should have wanted 
 would have been to grow tall and strong. 
 Men have no business to be little. But as 
 I am a girl, I must grow as pretty as I 
 can. 
 
 And she smoothed her hair from her fore- 
 head with her small white hands, and looked 
 at us, and smiled with her eyes and her lips. 
 All this was done with such an utter absence 
 of conscious vanity that it deepened my
 
 182 JESSIE TRUI. 
 
 admiration, and I was ready to take sides 
 with her against the world in any proposi- 
 tion she might choose to lay down. That 
 she saw this expressed in my face, and 
 that she, in an easy graceful way, received 
 the homage I paid her, as being naturally 
 her due, and did her best — again without 
 conscious artifice — to strengthen it, were as 
 plainly conveyed by her demeanour towards 
 me as though she had expressed it in so 
 many words. It struck me as strange that 
 my mother did not ask her any questions 
 concerning herself, not even her name, nor 
 where she lived, nor what was her errand ; 
 and although all of these questions, and 
 especially the first, were on the tip of my 
 tongue a dozen times, I did not have the 
 courage to shape them in words. My mother 
 not saying anything more to her, she turned 
 towards me. 
 
 " Are you generally rude to girls — I mean 
 to young ladies ?" 
 
 ''No," I protested warmly, ransacking my 
 mind for the clue.
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 183 
 
 '' You were to me just now. You said 
 tliat I spoke nonsense." 
 
 *^ I am very sorry," I stammered ; "I beg 
 your pardon ; but when you said your box 
 walked here ^" 
 
 ''You shouldn't have asked foolish ques- 
 tions. Never mind ; we are friends again." 
 She gave me her hand, quite as though we 
 had had a serious quarrel, which was now 
 made up. Then she came a little closer to 
 me, and proceeded with " Picciola." 
 
 Nothing further was said until the scene 
 assumed another aspect. I was looking over 
 the pages of the story with her, when, raising 
 my eyes, I saw that uncle Bryan was awake. 
 His eyes were fixed on the girl, with a sort 
 of bewilderment in his face as to whether 
 he was asleep or awake. He looked neither 
 at my mother nor me, but only at the girl. 
 Her head was bent over the book, and he 
 could not see her face. I plucked her dress 
 furtively under the table, and she looked up, 
 and met my uncle's gaze. Then I noticed his 
 usual sign of agitation, the twitching of his lips.
 
 184 JESSIE TBIM. 
 
 " What is this, Emma ?" he demanded, 
 presently, of my mother. 
 
 My mother had been waiting for him to 
 speak. " This young " 
 
 " Lady,'' added the girl quickly, as my 
 mother slightly hesitated, and rising with 
 great composure. " Say it. I like to hear 
 it. This young lady " 
 
 Completely dominated by the girl's gentle 
 imperiousness, my mother said, ^* This young 
 lady has come to see you." 
 
 He glanced at her uncovered head ; then 
 at her bonnet and mantle. A flush came 
 into her cheeks, and she exclaimed, 
 
 " Oh, I don't want to stop, if you're not 
 agreeable. I only like agreeable people. 
 I was told you would be sure to welcome 
 me in a nice manner. But if you turn me 
 out to-night I don't exactly know where to 
 go to ; and there's my box " 
 
 "Your box!" 
 
 " Yes, with all my things in. It's in the 
 shop. You can go and see if you don't 
 believe me. But if you do go, I shan't like
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 185 
 
 you. You liave no right to doubt my 
 word/^ 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears, and these and 
 the words of helplessness she had spoken 
 were sufficient for my mother. She drew the 
 girl to her side with a protecting motion. 
 
 '' Are you a stranger about here, my dear?" 
 
 " I don't know anything of the place,'' 
 replied the girl, in a more childlike tone 
 than she had yet used. " I have never been 
 in London before, and I have no idea where 
 I am — except that this is Paradise Eow. I 
 shouldn't like to wander about the streets at 
 this time of night." 
 
 '' There is no need, my dear, there is no 
 need. There, there ! don't cry." 
 
 " But of course," continued the girl, 
 striving to restrain the quivering of her lips, 
 *' I would sooner do that than stop where I am 
 not wanted." She would have said more, but I 
 saw that she was fearful of breaking down, 
 and thus showing signs of weakness. I looked 
 somewhat angrily towards uncle Bryan; my 
 mother's arm was still around the girl's waist.
 
 186 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 With a quick comprehension he seized all the 
 points of sentiment in the picture. 
 
 "Ah," he growled, 'Hhis is more like a 
 leaf out of a story-book than anything else. 
 You " — to the girl — ■'' are injured innocence ; 
 you " — to my mother — " are the good genius 
 of the oppressed; and I am the dragon 
 whom St. George here" — meaning me — 
 " would like to spit on his lance." 
 
 " I am sure, Bryan '^ commenced my 
 
 mother, in a tone of mild remonstrance ; but 
 uncle Bryan interrujoted her. 
 
 " Don't be sure of anything, Emma. Let 
 me understand matters first. How long- 
 have I been asleep — days, weeks, or years ?" 
 
 '' Nearly two hours, Bryan." 
 
 " So long ! There was a man once who, 
 at the bidding of a magician, but dipped 
 
 his head into a bucket of water " he 
 
 paused moodily. 
 
 "Yes, yes!" exclaimed the girl eagerly, 
 advancing a step towards him, with a desire 
 to propitiate him. "Go on. Tell me about 
 him. I'm fond of stories about magicians."
 
 JESSIE TEIM. 1S7 
 
 He stared at her. '^ Injured innocence/' 
 lie said, '' speak when you're spoken to/' 
 She tossed her head, and retreated, and 
 uncle Bryan again questioned my mother. 
 " How long has this little •" 
 
 " Young lady,'' interposed the girl, with 
 a comical assertion of independence. 
 
 "This little girl — how long has she been 
 here ?" 
 
 "About an hour, Bryan." 
 
 " Long enough, I see, to make herself 
 quite at home." He seemed to be at a loss 
 for words, and sat drumming his fingers on 
 the table, moving his lips as if he were 
 holding converse with them, and with his 
 eyes turned from us. 
 
 In the silence that ensued, the girl stole 
 towards him. My mother's footstool was 
 near his chair, and she sat upon it, and 
 resting her hand timidly on his knee, said, 
 in a sweet pleading voice, 
 
 " I wish you would be kind to me." 
 
 Her face was upturned to his. He looked 
 down upon it, and placing his hands on
 
 188 JESSIE TBUL 
 
 her shoulders, said in a tone whicli was 
 both low and bitter, which was harsh from 
 passion and tender from a softer emotion 
 which he could not control, 
 
 " For God's sake, child, tell me who you 
 are I What is your name ? " 
 
 *'My name is Jessie Trim."
 
 CHAPTEK XII I. 
 
 A SUDDEN SHOCK. 
 
 " Emma/' said my uncle, '^ can you find 
 something to do for a few minutes ? Chris 
 can shut up the shop." 
 
 We went out of the parlour together, and 
 I put up the shutters, and bolted them. 
 Then my mother and I went down-stairs to 
 the kitchen, and my mother set light to 
 the fire, and warmed up what remained of 
 the day's dinner. Our usual supper was 
 bread-and- cheese. 
 
 " She must be hungry," said my mother, 
 "and I think it will please your uncle." 
 
 "I am glad she is going to stay, mother. 
 Do you think she will stop altogether with 
 us?"
 
 190 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 " I have no idea, cliild." 
 
 " Jessie Trim ! It's a pretty name, isn't 
 it ? Jessie, Jessie ! Mother, why didn^t you 
 ask her her name when she came in ?" 
 
 " She came to see your uncle, Chris. We 
 must never forget one thing, my dear. This 
 is his house, and he has been very kind to 
 us." 
 
 " He would he angry if he heard jou say 
 so." 
 
 " That is his nature, and I should not 
 say it to him. The least we can do in 
 return for all his goodness is to study him 
 in every possible way in our power. To 
 have asked her all about herself miglit have 
 been like stealing into his confidence. He 
 may have secrets which he would not wish 
 us to know." 
 
 " Secrets ! Do you think sJie is one of 
 them?'' 
 
 " My dear, I know nothing. But let you 
 and me make up our minds, — I made up 
 my mind a long time ago, Chris — not to be 
 too curious concerning anything yom^ uncle
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 191 
 
 does. If lie wished us to know anytliing, 
 he would tell us of his own free will." 
 
 " I don't suppose he has anything to tell/' 
 I said, with not the slightest belief in my 
 own words. 
 
 ''Perhaps not. Anyhow, we'll not say 
 anything — eh, Chris ? " 
 
 ''Very well, mother. She is very pretty, 
 isn't she ? " 
 
 " Very, very pretty." 
 
 " Such beautiful hair — and such white 
 hands ! " 
 
 I was proceeding with my raptures, when 
 my mother tapped my cheek merrily, which 
 brought the blood into my face, strangely 
 enough. 
 
 "At all events," I said, "I hope she will 
 stay with us always." 
 
 " You stupid Chris ! What has got into 
 your head ? I really don't suppose she will 
 stay very long." 
 
 "But she has brought her box — and — 
 
 and- 
 
 My mother suddenly assumed a look of
 
 192 JESSIE TBIM. 
 
 perplexity. " Really, really now," she said,, 
 sitting down, and holding me in front of her, 
 *' I know every mark upon you. You have 
 a brown mole on your left side, and a little 
 red spot like a currant on the back of your 
 
 neck, and another one just here '' and 
 
 then she paused. 
 
 " Well, mother ? " 
 
 " Well, Chris, I really can?^^ remember 
 that I have ever seen a note of interrogation 
 anywhere about you. Have you got one, 
 my dear ? And where is it ? " 
 
 " But, mother," I said, laughing and kiss- 
 ing her, " I must be inquisitive^ and I must 
 ask questions.'' 
 
 " Only of me, dear child." 
 
 " Well, then, only of you. Now wouldn't 
 you grow quite fond of her?" 
 
 " I am sure I should, dear." 
 
 " Well, wouldn't it be too bad, directly you 
 got fond of her, for her to go away? Now 
 wouldn't it ? " 
 
 " But life is full of changes, my dear ! " 
 
 " That's not an answer, mother. You're
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 193 
 
 fond of me ; " — an endearing caress answered 
 me — " very, very fond, I know, and I am 
 of you. Now, supposing I was to go 
 away ! " 
 
 " Child, cliild ! " cried my mother, kneel- 
 ing suddenly before me and clasping me in 
 her arms. "If I were to lose you, my heart 
 would break ! " 
 
 I was frightened at the vehement passion 
 of her words, and at the white face upon 
 which my eyes rested ; but she grew more 
 composed presently. Then the voice of uncle 
 Bryan was heard at the top of the stairs, 
 calling to us to come up. 
 
 " What can we do with our visitor to-night, 
 Emma ? " he said, thus indicating that matters 
 had been arrano-ed durino^ our absence. 
 
 " She can sleep with me. You won't 
 mind, my dear ? " 
 
 "I shall like to,'' replied Jessie. '^He's 
 ever so much nicer than he was, although 
 I can't say that he's at all polite." This 
 referred to uncle Bryan, who made a grimace. 
 *' I couldn't help coming." 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 *' The least said/' observed "ancle Bryan, 
 
 with all his usual manner upon him, " the 
 
 soonest mended, young lady." 
 
 She pursed up her lips : " Young lady ! 
 
 That was all very well when we were distant. 
 
 You may call me something else now, if you 
 
 like.'' 
 
 '' Indeed ! Well, then. Miss Trim.'' 
 
 She laughed saucily. " How funny it 
 
 sounds as you say it ! Miss Trim ! I think 
 
 we are quite intimate enough for you to call 
 
 me Jessie." 
 
 " You think ! " retorted uncle Byran, with 
 
 some sense of enjoyment. "You are given 
 
 to thinking, I have no doubt." 
 *^ Oh, yes ; I think a good deal." 
 *'Upon my word! What about?" 
 *' All sorts of things that wouldn't interest 
 
 you. 
 
 ''I quite believe you, young lady." 
 '' Oh, if you like to call me that," she 
 said, with a shrug of her shoulders, ''you 
 can. But I think it's a pity when people
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 195 
 
 tiy to make tliemselves more disagreeable 
 than they naturally are/' 
 
 For the life of him, uncle Bryan could 
 not help laughing. This little play of words 
 was to him what the world is always looking 
 out for now-a-days — a new sensation. 
 
 *^Then I am naturally disagreeable, you 
 think ? " 
 
 She did not reply. 
 
 ''What else do you think about me?'' • 
 
 " I think it must be uncomfortable for the 
 others for you to go to sleep every night, 
 with a handkerchief over your face." 
 
 *' If I had known you were coming " 
 
 he said, with mock politeness ; but she in~ 
 terrupted him with wonderful quickness. 
 
 " Don't say unkind things. I feel when 
 they are coming ; my flesh begins to creep." 
 
 " Do you think anything else about me ?" 
 
 ''Yes; I think you might give me some 
 supper. You can't know how hungry I am ; 
 and I have always a good appetite." 
 
 My mother was so intent upon this un-
 
 196 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 usual dialogue, and was probably so lost in 
 wonder (as I myself was) at the appearance 
 ■of uncle Bryan in a new character, that she 
 had entirely forgotten the supper ; but at 
 Jessie Trim's mention of it she ran down- 
 stairs, and it was soon on the table. 
 
 "Ah,'' exclaimed Jessie, with approving 
 nods ; " that smells nice." 
 
 Uncle Bryan stared at the unexpected 
 fare. 
 
 *' You see what it is to be a young lady," 
 he said ; " hitherto we have always been 
 contented with bread-and- cheese." 
 
 "This is much nicer," said Jessie, begin- 
 ning to eat ; " are you not going to have 
 some f 
 
 " No. Give me some bread-and-cheese, 
 Emma." 
 
 The girl was too much occupied with her 
 supper to bandy words with him ; she ate 
 heartily, and when she had finished, asked 
 uncle Bryan if he did not feel in a better 
 humour. 
 
 " I always do," she remarked, " after meals.
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 197 
 
 There is only one thing I want now to make 
 me feel quite amiable." 
 
 " Then," seiid "imcle Bryan sententiously, 
 " all the trouble in the world would come to 
 an end." 
 
 She nodded acquiescently. 
 
 *' And that one thing is " he ques- 
 tioned. 
 
 "Something I shan't get. I see it in your 
 face; it is really too much to ask for." 
 
 *^ To put an end to all the trouble in the 
 world, I would make a sacrifice." 
 
 "No," she said, shaking her head, "I 
 really haven't courage to ask." 
 
 "What is it?" demanded uncle Bryan 
 impatiently. 
 
 Then ensued a perfect piece of comedy- 
 acting on the part of Jessie Trim; who, when 
 she had worked uncle Bryan almost into a 
 passion, made the prettiest of curtseys, and 
 said that the only thing she wanted to 
 make her feel quite amiable was a piece of 
 candied lemon-peeL 
 
 " I always," she added, with the oddest
 
 198 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 little twinkle in lier eyes, " like something 
 sweet to finish my meals with." 
 
 The expression on uncle Bryan's face Avas 
 so singular that I did not know if he was 
 going to laugh or storm. But Jessie got 
 her piece of candied lemon-peel, and chewed 
 it with great contentment, and with many 
 sly looks at uncle Bryan. 
 
 " Now, then,'' he cried, " it is time to go 
 to bed." 
 
 " It isn't healthy," observed Jessie, who 
 seemed determined to upset all the rules of 
 the house, "to go to bed the moment after 
 one has eaten a heavy supper." She spoke 
 with perfect gravity, and with the serious 
 authority of a grown-up woman. 
 
 " Then we are to sit up after our time 
 because you have over-eaten yourself" 
 
 *' I have not over-eaten myself I have 
 had just enough. I wish you wouldn't say 
 disagreeable things ; you would find it much 
 nicer not to. If you think I am not right 
 in what I say about going to bed imme- 
 diately after supper, of course I will go.
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 199 
 
 You are mucli older tlian I, and ought to 
 be much wiser/' 
 
 "But I think you are right/' he growled, 
 
 " Why do you make yourself disagree- 
 able then ? " she asked, sitting down on the 
 stool at his feet. 
 
 Not a word was spoken for half an hour; 
 at the end of which time our visitor rose, 
 just as if she were the mistress of the house, 
 and remarked that now she did think it 
 time we were all in bed. 
 
 " Good-night," she said, giving him her 
 hand ; "I hope I haven't vexed you." She 
 held up her face to him to be kissed, but 
 he did not avail himself of the invitation, 
 and retired to his room. 
 
 "He is a very strange man," she said to 
 us, " and I don't quite know whether I 
 like him or whether I don't. Good-night, 
 Chris." 
 
 " Good-night, Jessie." 
 
 My mind was full of her and her quaint 
 ways as I undressed myself, and I found 
 myself unconsciously repeating, " Good-night,
 
 200 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 Jessie ! Jessie ! Jessie ! " Her name was to 
 me the sweetest of morsels. "I am glad 
 slie has come," I thought; '^I hope she will 
 stop." I had not been in my room two 
 minutes before I heard her knocking at the 
 door of the room in which uncle Bryan 
 slept. I crept to the wall to listen. 
 
 " Do you hear me ? " she said. '' You 
 can't be asleep already." 
 
 But no response came from uncle Bryan. 
 
 '' Do answer me ! '' she continued. " If 
 you think I have been rude to you, I am 
 very sorry. I shall catch my death of cold if 
 I stand here long. Say, good-night, Jessie ! " 
 
 " Good-night." 
 
 " Jessie ! " she called out archly. 
 
 *' Good-night, Jessie. Now go to bed, like 
 a good — little girl." 
 
 And then the house was quiet, and I fell 
 asleep, and dreamt the strangest and sweetest 
 dreams about our new friend. 
 
 The following morning when I rose I 
 moved about very quietly, and I debated 
 with myself whether I ought to bid my
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 201 
 
 mother good- morning as usual. I stole 
 softly upstairs, and put my ear to the door. 
 
 " Good-morning, mother.^' 
 
 I almost whispered the words, but the 
 reply came instantly, in clear sweet tones, 
 
 " Good-morning, dear child." 
 
 She must have been listening for my step. 
 
 '' Is that you, Chris ? " inquired a voice 
 which, if I had not known the speaker, I 
 should have imagined had proceeded from a 
 little child. 
 
 "Yes, Jessie," I answered, with a thrill 
 of delight. 
 
 '' Where are you going ? " 
 
 '* I am going to work." 
 
 *' Good-morning." 
 
 '^ Good-morning." 
 
 I had never been so happy in my work 
 as I was during this day, and yet I wanted 
 the hours to fly so that I might be home 
 again. When eight o'clock struck, I whipjDcd 
 off my apron eagerly, and ran out of the 
 office. My mother was at the gate. 
 
 "I didn't expect you, mother."
 
 202 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 " No, , dear child. I wished to leave your 
 imcle and Jessie toQ-ether for a little while. 
 
 o 
 
 She wanted to come with me, but I thought 
 it best to leave her at home. Shall we take 
 a walk, my dear ? '' 
 
 " Yes, but not a long one. Mother, who 
 is she ? " 
 
 "1 do not know, my dear ; and your 
 uncle hasn't said a word — neither has she.'' 
 
 " Not a word ! Why, mother, she couldn't 
 keep quiet ! " 
 
 "I don't think she could, dear," said my 
 mother, with a smile. " I mean not a word 
 as to who she is. I think she gave your 
 uncle a letter, for he has been writing to- 
 day with one before him ; but I am not 
 sure." 
 
 '' I have been thinking about her all day, 
 and I can't make her out. Anyhow, I hope 
 she will stop with us. The house is quite 
 different with her in it. Don't you think 
 so ? She is as light-hearted and as sparkling 
 as a — a sunbeam." I thought it a very happy 
 simile. " She couldn't be anything else."
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 203 
 
 '^ Mj dear/' said my mother gravely, 
 *'she was sobbing in ber sleep last nigbt as 
 if ber beart would break." I looked so 
 grieved at tbis tbat my mother quickly 
 added, "But she has been talking to your 
 uncle to-day just as she did last night. She 
 is like an April day ; but then she is quite 
 a child." 
 
 " A child ! Why, mother, she must be — 
 how old should you think ? " 
 
 " About fifteen, I should sav, Chris." 
 
 " So how can she be quite a child ? And 
 she doesn't talk like a child." 
 
 " She does and she doesn't, my dear. I 
 shouldn't wonder," she said, with her sweet 
 laugh, " that because you are nearly eighteen, 
 you think yourself quite a man." 
 
 " I am growing, mother, am I not ? " And 
 I straightened myself stiffly up. ^^ Why, I 
 am taller than you ! " 
 
 "You will be as tall as your father was, 
 my dear." 
 
 "I am glad of that. She said men had 
 no business to be little."
 
 204 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 " She said ! " repeated my motlier, laugh- 
 ing ; and slie tapped my cheek merrily, as 
 she had done on the previous night, and 
 again I blushed. Jessie ran into the shop to- 
 welcome us when we arrived home. 
 
 The evening passed very happily with me^ 
 Jessie entertaining us with her light talk. 
 Her marvellous ingenuity, in twisting a few 
 simple words so as to make them bear 
 sparkling meanings, afforded me endless en- 
 joyment. Uncle Bryan said very little, and, 
 notwithstanding the many challenges she 
 slyly threw out to him, declined to be drawn 
 into battle ; but now and then she provoked 
 him to answer her. He needed all his skill 
 to hold his own against her, and he spoke 
 rather roughly to her once or twice. On 
 these occasions she became grave, and edged 
 closer to my mother, having already learned 
 that nothing but what was gentle could 
 emanate from her tender nature. When Jessie 
 went to bed with my mother, she did not 
 hold up her foce to be kissed, as she had 
 done on the previous night. I do not think
 
 JIJ8SIE TRIM. 205 
 
 she debated the point with herself, whether 
 she should do so ; she gave him a rapid look 
 when she wished him good-night, and decided 
 on the instant — as she would have decided 
 the other way had she seen anything in his 
 face to encourage her. A week passed, and 
 no word of explanation fell from uncle 
 Bryan's lips as to the connection that existed 
 between these two opposite beings ; but I 
 •could not help observing that he grew more 
 -and more reserved, more and more thought- 
 ful. In after days I recognised how strange 
 ^ household ours really was during this 
 period, but it did not strike me at the time, 
 so entirely was I wrapped up in the new 
 sense of happiness which Jessie Trim had 
 brought into my life. Of the four persons 
 who composed the household only Jessie and 
 I were really happy. My mother was dis- 
 tressed because of uncle Bryan's growing 
 naoroseness ; with unobtrusive gentleness she 
 strove, in a hundred little ways, to break 
 through the wall of silence and reserve 
 which he built around himself, as it were,
 
 206 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 but she could scarcely win a word from liis 
 lips. It did not trouble me ; my mind was 
 occupied only with Jessie. What Jessie did, 
 what Jessie said, how Jessie looked and felt 
 and thought — -that was the world in which 
 I moved now. A second week passed, 
 and there was still no chancre. One nio;ht 
 my mother said that she would come for me 
 on the following evening. 
 
 " And brino^ Jessie," I suo^orested, takins: 
 advantage of the opportunity which I had 
 been waiting for all the week ; "a walk 
 will do her good." 
 
 Jessie's eyes sparkled at the suggestion. 
 
 " I should like to come," she said, with 
 a grateful look ; "I haven't had a walk 
 since I came here. What are you thinking 
 about?" to my mother. 
 
 " I am thinking," replied my mother^ 
 '^ whether there will be any objection ta 
 it?" 
 
 "On whose ^^ivi"^.'' I asked. ''Uncle 
 Bryan's ? Why, what objection can he 
 have ?"
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 207 
 
 " I am sure," said Jessie, " he won't care, 
 one way or another ; he doesn't care about 
 anything, and especially about me. Why, 
 how many words do you think he has spoken 
 to me all this day, Chris ?" 
 . *^ I can't guess, Jessie." 
 
 She counted on her fingers. " One, two, 
 three — sixteen. * I don't know anything 
 about it ! Be quiet ! You're a magpie — 
 nothing but chatter, chatter, chatter !' and 
 he didn't speak them — he growled them. 
 So he can't care. I shall come, Chris," 
 — pressing close to my mother coaxingly — 
 '^and we'll take a nice long walk." 
 
 "Very well, my dear," said my mother, 
 with a smile ; ^^ but I must ask your uncle, 
 Chris." 
 
 I mapped out in my mind the pleasantest 
 walk I knew, and on the following night, 
 when work w^as over, I hastened into the 
 street ; but neither my mother nor Jessie 
 was there. I looked about for them, and 
 waited for a quarter of an hour, and then 
 raced home. Only my mother was in the house.
 
 i:08 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 *' Why didn't you come, motlier V 1 asked. 
 ^Tve been waiting ever so long. And 
 wliere's Jessie ?" 
 
 " My dear," replied my motlier, with lier 
 arm around my waist, ** Jessie has gone." 
 
 " Gone ! Oh, for a walk with uncle 
 Bryan, I suppose?" 
 
 ''No, my dear; she has gone away alto- 
 gether."
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE WORLD BECOMES BRIGHT AGAIN. 
 
 *'GoNE away altogether!" 
 
 I echoed the words, but the news was so 
 sudden and unexpected that for a few 
 moments I did not quite understand their 
 meaning. I had never, until the last fort- 
 night, had a friend so nearly of my own 
 age as Jessie ; and the companionship had 
 been to me so sweet and delightful, and so 
 altogether new, that to lose it now seemed 
 like losing the best part of my life. I released 
 myself from my mother's embrace, and . ran 
 up-stairs to her bed-room, to look for Jessie's 
 box. It was gone, and the room was in all 
 respects the same as it had been before 
 Jessie's arrival. Until that time it had 
 VOL. r. P
 
 210 JESSIE TEIM. 
 
 always worn a cheerful aspect in my eyes, 
 but now it looked cold and desolate ; the 
 happy experiences of the last two weeks 
 seemed to me like a dream — but a dream 
 which, now that it had passed away, filled 
 my heart with pain. 
 
 " Her box is gone," I said, with quivering 
 lips, when I rejoined my mother. 
 
 " It was taken away this morning, my 
 dear." 
 
 " That shows that she is not coming back ; 
 and I shall never, never see her again ! " 
 
 My mother did not reply. The feeling 
 that now stole upon me was one of resent- 
 ment towards uncle Bryan. Who was to 
 blame but he ? From the first he had be- 
 haved harshly towards her. He saw that 
 we Avere fond of her, and he was jealous of 
 her. He was always cold and unsympathetic 
 and unkind. Every unreasonable suggestion 
 that presented itself to me with reference to 
 him I welcomed and accepted as an argument 
 against him ; and to this cfiect I spoke hotly 
 and intemperately.
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 211 
 
 " Chris, Chris, mj dear," remonstrated my 
 mother, "you should not have hard thoughts 
 towards your uncle." 
 
 " I can't help it ; he almost asks for them. 
 He won't let us like him — he won't ! I don't 
 care if he hears me say so." 
 
 '' He can't hear you, my dear ; he went 
 away with Jessie this morning." 
 
 "Where to?" 
 
 " I have no idea, Chris; he did not tell me." 
 
 " And wouldn't, if you had asked," I said 
 bitterly. 
 
 My mother sighed, but said, with gentle 
 firmness, " I had no right to ask, my dear." 
 
 " Then we are alone in the house," I said 
 bitterly. 
 
 " Yes, my dear, for a little while. Sit 
 down, and I will tell you all about it." 
 
 I sat down, and my mother sat beside me, 
 and took my hand in hers. 
 
 " It came upon me as suddenly as it has 
 come upon you, my dear, and I am almost 
 as sorry as you are. But life is full of such 
 changes, my dear child."
 
 212 JESSIE TBUL 
 
 " Go on, mother." In my rebellious mood 
 lier gentle words brought no comfort to me. 
 
 " When I said last night that I would 
 come for you this evening, I had no idea 
 that anything would have prevented me. 
 I intended to bring Jessie, and I looked 
 forward with pleasure to the walk we in- 
 tended to take. I did not tell your uncle 
 that Jessie would come with me ; I thought 
 I would wait till tea-time. Lately I have 
 considered it more than ever my duty to 
 study him, because of the change that has 
 taken place in him — you must have noticed 
 it yourself — since Jessie came so strangely 
 among us. For it was strange, was it not, 
 my dear ? — almost as strange as her going 
 away so suddenly, and as unexpected too ; 
 for I am certain your uncle did not expect 
 her, and that he was as much surprised as 
 we were. He is not to blame, therefore, for 
 what has occurred now. It is not for us, 
 dear child, to find fault with him because 
 he is silent and reserved with us ; the only 
 feeling we ought to have towards him is one
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 213 
 
 of deep gratitude for his great kindness to 
 us. You don't forget our sad condition, my 
 darling, on the morning we received your 
 uncle's letter." 
 
 "No, mother, I don't forget," I said, some- 
 what softened towards uncle Bryan. 
 
 " He did not deceive us ; he spoke plainly 
 and honestly, and the brightest expectations 
 we could have entertained from his oflfer, 
 and the manner in which it was made, have 
 been more than realised. Is it not so, dear 
 child r' 
 
 In common honesty I was compelled to 
 admit that it was so. 
 
 " I shudder when I think what might 
 have become of my dear boy if it had not 
 been for this one friend — this one only 
 friend, my darling, in all the wide, wide 
 world 1 — ^who stepped forward so unselfishly 
 to save us. And we have been so happy 
 here, my darling, so very, very happy, all 
 these years ! If a cloud has come, have we 
 not still a little sunshine left ? There, there, 
 my dear ! " returning my kisses, and v/iping
 
 2U JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 her eyes ; "as I was saying " — (although, 
 she had said nothing of the kind ; but she 
 was flurried and nervous) — " and as I told 
 you once before, I think Jessie gave your 
 uncle a letter, and that I saw him, the day 
 after she came, writing, with this letter 
 before him. Every morning since then I 
 have observed him watch for the arrival of 
 the postman in the neighbourhood, and 
 every time the postman passed without 
 giving him the letter which I saw he 
 expected, he grew more aj:ixious. This morn- 
 ing he reminded me that I had some errands 
 to make ; I was away for nearly two hours, 
 and when I came home he and Jessie were 
 in the shop, dressed for walking. What 
 passed after that was so quick and rapid 
 that I was quite bewildered. Your uncle, 
 beckoning me into the parlour, said that he 
 and Jessie were going away, and that I was 
 to take care of the shop while he was 
 absent. ' I want you not to ask any ques- 
 tions,' he said, seeing, I suppose, that I 
 was about to ask some. ' I shall be away
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 215 
 
 for two or three days, perhaps longer. Do 
 the best you can. You had better wish 
 Jessie good-bye now."* I could not help 
 asking, ' Is she coming back with you ? ' 
 And he said, ' No.' I was so grieved, 
 Chris, that when I went into the shop, 
 where Jessie was waiting, I was crying. 
 "^ You are sorry I am going, then,' she said. 
 ' Indeed, indeed, I am, my dear,' I replied, 
 as I kissed her. She kissed me quite affec- 
 tionately, and said she was glad I was 
 sorry, and that I was to give her love to 
 
 you 
 
 " Did she say that, mother ? Did she ?" 
 " Yes, my dear. ' Give my love to Chris,' 
 she said, ' and say how sorry I am to go 
 away without seeing him.' And the next 
 minute she was gone. I thought of her box 
 then, and I ran upstairs, as you did just 
 now, and found that it had been taken 
 away while I was out. And that is all I 
 know, my dear." 
 
 "It is very strange," I said, after a long 
 pause. " Mother, what do you think of it ?"
 
 216 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 "My dear, I don't know what to think. 
 The more I think, the more I am confused. 
 And now, dear child " 
 
 " Yes, mother/* 
 
 "We must make ourselves happy in our 
 old way, and we must attend to the busi- 
 ness properly until your uncle returns." 
 
 Make ourselves happy in our old way t 
 How was that possible ? The light had 
 gone out of the house. The very room in 
 which we three — uncle- Bryan, my mother, 
 and I — had sjDent so many pleasant days 
 before Jessie came, looked cold and comfort- 
 less now. Even the figure of my dear 
 mother, bustling cheerfully about, and the 
 sweet considerate manner in which she 
 strove, in many tender ways, to soften my 
 sorrow, were not a recompense for the loss 
 of Jessie. I opened my book and pretended 
 to be occupied with it, and my mother, 
 with that rare wisdom which springs from 
 perfect unselfish love, did not disturb my 
 musings. The evening passed very quietly, 
 and directly the shop was shut, I went to bed.
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 217 
 
 I was in a very imliappy mood, and it was 
 past midnight before I fell asleep. I did 
 Lot think of my mother, or of the pain she 
 was suffering through me. My grief was 
 intensely selfish ; I had not the strength 
 which often comes from suffering, nor was I 
 blessed with such a nature as my mother's — 
 a nature which does not colour surrounding 
 circumstances with the melancholy hue o£ its 
 own sorrows. Unhappily, it falls to the lot 
 of few to be brought within the sweet in- 
 fluence of one whose mission on earth seems 
 to be to shed the light of peace and love 
 upon those among whom her lot is cast, 
 and to whom, unless we are ungratefully 
 forgetful, as I was on this night, we look 
 instinctively for comfort and consolation when 
 trouble comes to us. In the middle of the 
 night, I awoke suddenly, and found my 
 mother sitting by my bed ; she was in her 
 night-dress, and there was a light in the 
 room. 
 
 " Why, mother ! " I exclaimed, confused 
 for a moment.
 
 218 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 " Don't be alarmed, dear child," she said ; 
 " there's nothing the matter ; but I could 
 not sleep, knowing that you were unhappy. 
 You, too, my dear, were a long time before 
 you went to sleep." 
 
 Then I knew that she must have watched 
 and waited at my bed-room door until I 
 had blown out my candle. 
 
 "What time is it, mother?" 
 
 "It must be three o'clock, my dear." 
 
 "Oh, mother! And you awake at this time 
 of the night for me!" 
 
 She smiled softly. Something of worship 
 for that pure nature stole into my heart as 
 I looked into her dear eyes. But there was 
 grief in them, too, and I asked her the 
 reason. 
 
 "Do you know, my darling," she said, 
 with a wistful yearning look, and with a 
 sigh which she vainly strove to check, 
 "that you went to bed to-night without 
 kissing me ? For the first time in your life, 
 dear child ; for the first time in your life!" 
 
 In a passion of remorse I threw my arms
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 219 
 
 around lier neck, and kissed her again and 
 again, and asked lier forgiveness, and said, 
 *' How could I — how could I be so unloving 
 and unkind V But she stopped my self- 
 reproaches with her lips on my lips, and 
 with broken words of joy and thankfulness. 
 She folded me in her arms, and there was 
 silence between us for many minutes — 
 silence made sacred by love as pure^ and 
 faithful as ever dwelt in woman's breast. 
 Then I drew the clothes around her, and 
 she lay by my side, saying that she would 
 wait until I was asleep. 
 
 '^ This is like the old time, mother,'' I 
 whispered, '^when there was no one else but 
 you and me. But I love you more than I 
 did then, mother." 
 
 " My darling child 1" she whispered, in 
 return ; " how you comfort me ! But I 
 won't have my dear boy speak another word, 
 except good-night." 
 
 We looked out on the following day for 
 a letter from uncle Bryan, but none came, 
 nor any news of him. It was the same on
 
 220 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 the second day, and tlie third. My mother 
 bagan to grow uneasy. 
 
 "If he had only left word where he was 
 fifoinof to !'' she said. '' I am afraid he must 
 be ill." 
 
 The business went on very well without 
 him, thanks to my mother's care and atten- 
 tion, except that on Saturday night the supply 
 of " uncle Bryan's pills," as they had got to 
 be called in the neighbourhood, ran short, 
 which occasioned my mother much concern. 
 Sunday and Monday passed, and still no 
 tidings of him. On the Tuesday — I remem- 
 ber the day well ; we were very busy where 
 I was employed, and I did not come home 
 until past ten o'clock — the shop was shut — 
 a most unusual thing. I knocked at the 
 door hurriedly, and my mother, with happiness 
 in her face, opened it for me. 
 
 " Uncle Bryan has come home ! " I cried, 
 in a hearty tone. 
 
 She nodded gladly, and I ran in, and threw 
 my arms about him. I think he was pleased 
 with this spontaneous mark of affection ; but
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 221 
 
 he looked at me curiously too, I thought. 
 We sat down — the three of us — and a dead 
 silence ensued. We all looked at each other, 
 and spoke not a word. 
 
 *' What's the matter, mother ? " I asked, 
 for certainly so strange a silence needed 
 explanation. 
 
 A sweet laugh answered me, and my 
 heart almost leaped into my throat. I darted 
 behind the door, and there stood Jessie Trim, 
 bending forward, with eager face, and spark- 
 ling eyes, and hand uplifted to her ear. 
 But when she saw that she was discovered, 
 her manner changed instantly. She came 
 forward, quite demurely. 
 
 '^Are you glad?" she asked gravely, with 
 her hand in mine. 
 
 My looks were a sufficient answer. 
 
 *^ And now,'' she said, sitting down on the 
 stool, and resting her hands on her lap, "we 
 are going to live happily together for ever 
 afterwards."
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Jessie's eose-water philosophy. 
 
 Her voice was like music to my heart. 
 With Jessie on one side of me, and my 
 mother on the other, there was not a cloud 
 on my life, nor room for one. I sat between 
 them, now patting my mother's hand, now 
 turning restlessly to Jessie, and looking at 
 her in delight. But the change in the aspect 
 of things was so sudden and unexpected, 
 that it would not have much amazed me to 
 see Jessie melt into thin air. This must 
 have been expressed in my face, for Jessie, 
 who was a skilful interpreter of expression, 
 whispered, 
 
 "It is true ; I have really come back." 
 "I was doubting," I said, in a similar low 
 tone, "whether I was asleep or awake."
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 223 
 
 " Don't speak loud," she said mockingly, 
 "don't look at me too hard, and don't blow 
 on me, or you will find that you are only 
 dreaming. Shall I pinch you ? " 
 
 " No ; I am awake, I know. This is the 
 most famous thing that ever happened." 
 
 " You were sorry when I went away, 
 then ? " 
 
 " I can't tell you how sorry ; but you oi^e 
 not going away again ? " 
 
 "I suppose not ; I have no place to 
 go to." 
 
 There was a change in her manner ; she was 
 more thoughtful and sedate than usual, and 
 her face was pale ; but I noted these signs 
 only in a casual way. To be certain that 
 everything was right, I went out of the room 
 to see if her box had been brought back. It 
 was in its old place in my mother's bed-room. 
 My mother had followed me. 
 
 " So you are happy again, my dear," she 
 said, as we stood, like lovers, with our arms 
 around each other's waist. 
 
 " I am glad, mother," I replied, pressing
 
 224 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 lier fondly to me; "and so are you too, I 
 know. But tell me how it all happened." 
 
 "There is very little to tell, dear child. I 
 was as surprised as you were. I was having 
 tea when your uncle and Jessie came in 
 suddenly ; it gave me quite a tm^n, for Jessie, 
 as you see, is in mourning." (I had not 
 noticed it, and I wondered at my blindness.) 
 " Your uncle looked worn and anxious, and 
 they were both very tired, as if they had 
 come a long distance. ' I have not quite 
 deserted you, you see,' your uncle said. I 
 told him how glad I was he had returned, 
 and how anxious we had been about him. 
 ' And Jessie, too,' I said. ' I was afraid I 
 was not to see her again." 'You will see 
 a great deal of her for the future,' said your 
 uncle ; ' she will live with us now. She 
 must sleep with you, as there is no other 
 room in the house for her.' And that is 
 positively all I have to tell, Chris, except 
 that Jessie has been very quiet all the even- 
 ing, and only showed her old spirits when, 
 your knock was heard at the street-door."
 
 JESSIE TRIM. ^25 
 
 '* And Jessie has told you nothing, 
 mother ? " 
 
 "Nothing, dear child; and I have not 
 asked." 
 
 *' You don't even know whom she is in 
 mournino; for ? " 
 
 ^'ISTo, my dear." 
 
 Jessie was displaying more of her old 
 spirits when my mother and I went do\^ni- 
 stairs ; as we entered the room she was savins: 
 to uncle Bryan, 
 
 " I wish, you would tell me what I am to 
 call you. I can't call you Bryan, and I 
 don't like Mr. Carey. I could invent a name 
 certainly, if I wanted to be spiteful." 
 
 *' What name ? " he asked, in his rough 
 manner. 
 
 " Never mind. You'd like to know, so that 
 you could bark and fight. What shall I call 
 you ? " 
 
 " Call me what you please," he answered. 
 
 '' Well, then, I shall call you uncle Bryan, 
 as Chris does ; I daresay I shall get used to 
 it in time." 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 Soon after this point was settled I found 
 an opportunity to toucli Jessie's black dress, 
 and to press her hand sympathisingly. She 
 understood the meaning of the action, and 
 her lips quivered; she did not speak another 
 word until she went to bed. The events of 
 the evening had for a time driven from my 
 head news which I had to tell, and which 
 I knew would be received with pleasure. 
 My errand-running days were over. My 
 employer, whose name was Eden, satisfied 
 with the manner in which I had performed 
 my duties, had placed me on the footing of 
 a regular apprentice, and I was to learn the 
 art of wood- engraving in all its branches. 
 A fair career was therefore open to me. It 
 is needless for me to say how these good 
 tidings rejoiced my dear mother. 
 
 *' Mr. Eden," I said, '^ has often asked to 
 see my little sketches, and has been pleased 
 with them, I think. He told me that he 
 commenced in the same way himself, and he 
 has given me every encouragement. He says 
 that in three years I shall be able to earn
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 227 
 
 good wages. Who knows ? I may have a 
 business of my own one clay." 
 
 " And you have only yourself to thank 
 for it, my dear child/' said my mother, 
 casting looks of pride around. 
 
 " No, mother ; you are wrong. I have 
 kept the beist bit to the last. Mr. Eden has 
 spoken of you a good many times — he has 
 often seen you, you know, when you came 
 for me of an evening — and I have told him 
 all about you. When he called me into his 
 office this afternoon, he said that I had you 
 to thank for this promotion, and that I was 
 to tell you so, with his compliments." 
 
 " Why, my dear 1 " exclaimed my mother ; 
 *' Mr. Eden has never spoken one word to 
 me." 
 
 "But he has seen you," interrupted uncle 
 Bryan, the tone and meaning of his words 
 being strangely at variance, " and that is 
 "enough. Mr. Eden is right, Chris. What- 
 ever good fortune comes to you in life, you 
 have only one person in the world to thank 
 for it."
 
 228 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 ''1 think so too, uncle." His words soft- 
 ened me towards him, and I went to his 
 side, and said gratefully, " You have been 
 very good to me, sir, also." 
 
 " Psha ! " he said, with an impatient move- 
 ment of his head. " Emma, if you will fill 
 my pipe for me, I will smoke it.'*^ 
 
 The pipe we had presented to him on 
 his birthday had not yet been used, and 
 my mother took it from the mantelshelf,, 
 filled it, and handed it to him. He received 
 it with a kind of growl, implying that he 
 had been conquered unawares; but he smoked 
 it with much inward contentment never- 
 theless. 
 
 I was so excitedly happy when I went 
 to bed, that I was as long getting to sleep 
 as I was on the night of Jessie's sudden 
 disappearance. Here and there life is dotted 
 with sunny spots, the light of which is but 
 rarely entirely darkened, and had Jessie 
 never returned, she might have dwelt in 
 my mind as one of these ; or — so sur- 
 rounded with romance w\as her appearance
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 229 
 
 and disappearance — I might have grown to 
 wonder whether she was a creation of my 
 fancy, or had really belonged to my life. 
 But now that she was among ns again, and 
 was going to live with us, I felt as if a 
 bright clear stream were flowing within me, 
 invigorating and gladdening my pulses — a 
 sweet refreshing stream within the range of 
 which sadness or melancholy could find nt) 
 place. Eeason became the slave of creative 
 thought, and within my heart flowers were 
 blooming, the beautiful forms and colours of 
 which could never wither and fade. Jessie 
 had struck the key-note of my certain belief 
 when she said, *^And now we are going to 
 live happily together for ever afterwards." 
 
 Curious as I was to know why she had re- 
 turned to us in mourning, I held my tongue, 
 out of respect for my mother's wish that we 
 should ask no questions. Jessie's quieter mood 
 soon wore away ; little by little she introduced 
 colour into her dress, and in three months 
 she was out of mournin^r. I fancied now 
 and then, as these alterations in her dress
 
 230 JESSIE TBIM. 
 
 were made, that lier manner towards uncle 
 Bryan indicated an expectation that he would 
 speak to her on the subject. But he made 
 no remark, and noticed her the least when 
 most she invited notice. 
 
 She changed the entire aspect of our house. 
 It belonged to her to brighten, apparently 
 without conscious effort, everything which 
 came in contact with her. The contrast 
 between her and my mother was very great. 
 My mothers tastes, like her nature, were 
 quiet and unassuming. Her hair was always 
 plainly done, and, within my experience, 
 she had never worn cap or flower ; her dress 
 was always of one sober tint ; and her pale 
 face and almost noiseless step were in keeping 
 T\dth these. If she had had the slightest 
 reason to suppose that by placing a flower 
 in her hair, or by wearing a bit of bright 
 ribbon, or by any other innocently-attractive 
 device, she could have given me or uncle 
 Bryan pleasure, she would have done so 
 instantly ; but, out of her entire disregard 
 of self, no such thought ever entered her
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 231 
 
 mind. Now Jessie was fond of flowers and 
 ribbons, and was gifted with the rare faculty 
 of knowing where a bit of colour, and what 
 colour, would prove most attractive. From 
 the most simple means she produced the most 
 exquisite results. Her box was a perfect 
 Pandora's box in its inexhaustible supply of 
 adornments, and she was continually sur- 
 prising us with something new, or something 
 which she made to look like new. And she 
 was by no means disposed to hide her light 
 under a bushel. Everything she did must 
 be admired, and if admiration did not come 
 spontaneously, she was very prompt in ask- 
 ing or even begging for it. It was amusing 
 to watch the tricksy efforts by which she 
 strove to attract attention to anything she 
 was wearing for the first time, however 
 trifling it might be, or to the slightest change 
 in the arrangement of her dress. Then, when 
 her object was attained, she would ask, "And 
 do you really like it? Are you sure now?" 
 or ""Would it look better so?" or "What 
 do you think of its being this way — or that?"
 
 232 JESSIE TBBL 
 
 I was the person whom she consulted most 
 frequently ; Lut I could see nothing to find 
 fault with, and could never suggest any 
 improvement ; whereas uncle Bryan would 
 shrug his shoulders, and mutter disparaging 
 remarks, which never failed to provoke warm 
 replies from Jessie. Tlien he would smile 
 caustically, and hit her hard with words still 
 more spiteful, or retire into his shell, according 
 to his humour. 
 
 *' We will have a world made especially 
 for you, young lady," he said — whenever he 
 was disposed to be bitter, he called her 
 * 'young lady " — " a world full of ribbons and 
 flounces and flowers and silk dresses and 
 satin shoes, and everything else you crave for." 
 
 "That would be nice," she observed com- 
 l)lacently. 
 
 "And you shall live in it all alone, so that 
 your title to these nice things shall not be 
 disputed." 
 
 "That wouldn't do," she answered promptly; 
 " what is the use of having nice things un- 
 less you get people to admire them ? "
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 233 
 
 **'We will have people made to order for 
 you, then ; people who shall be always 
 admiring you and praising you and flattering 
 you." He rung changes on this theme 
 for five minutes or so, and when he paused, 
 she made a orimace, as if she had been 
 compelled to swallow a dose of medi- 
 cine. But this kind of warfare did not 
 alt<?r her nature. She coaxed my •mother 
 to buy a pair of pretty ornaments for the 
 mantelshelf; she coaxed uncle Bryan — how 
 she manasjed it, heaven onlv knows ! but 
 she was cunning, and she must have entrapped 
 him in an un^marded moment — to allow her 
 to buy a piece of oil-cloth for the table, and 
 she herself chose the pattern ; and in many 
 other ways she made it apparent that a new 
 spirit was at work in our household. She 
 made the bedi'oom in which she and my 
 mother slept the prettiest room in the house; 
 pictures were hung or pasted on the wall; 
 her own especial looking-glass was set in a 
 framework of white muslin, daintily edged 
 with blue ribbon. ** Blue is mv favourite
 
 234 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 colour," she said, as she stood, the fairest 
 object there, pointing out to me some 
 trifling improvement ; " it suits my com- 
 plexion." It is not difficult to understand 
 how popular she soon became in the neigh- 
 bourhood ; admiring eyes followed her when- 
 ever she appeared in the narrow streets 
 round about, and I would not have changed 
 places with an emperor when I walked out 
 with her by my side. If any one quality in 
 her could have made her more precious ta 
 me, it was her feeling towards my mother. 
 
 "No one can help loving her," said 
 Jessie to me, in one of our confidential con- 
 versations. "Is she ever angry with any 
 one f 
 
 " I think not," I replied. " Where another 
 person would be angry, she is sorry. There 
 isn't another mother in the world like mine." 
 
 " "Would you like me to be like her ? 
 Would it be better for me, do you think ? " 
 
 " I like you as you are, Jessie ; I shouldn't 
 like you to alter. There are different kinds 
 of good people, you know."
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 " I am not good." 
 
 '* Nonsense ! you not good ! " 
 
 " Your mother is, Chris ; she never goes 
 to bed without kneeling down and saying her 
 prayers." 
 
 " I know it, Jessie. And you ? " 
 
 " Oh, I often forget — always when I go to 
 bed before her. When we go together, I 
 kneel down, and shut my eyes ; but I cfon't 
 say anything. I see things." 
 
 On one occasion Jessie met me at the 
 street-door when I came home from work, 
 and led me with an air of importance into 
 the sitting room, where my mother sat in a 
 new dress and a cap with ribbons in it. 
 My mother blushed as I looked at her. 
 
 "She ivould make me do it, Chris," she 
 said apologetically. 
 
 '* Now doesn't she look prettier so ? " asked 
 Jessie. 
 
 There was no denying it ; I had never seen 
 my mother look so attractive, and I kissed 
 her and told her so. 
 
 *^ That makes it all right," cried Jessie,
 
 236 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 clapping her hands. " All the time I was 
 persuading her, she said, 'What will Chris 
 say ? ' and, ' Will not Chris think it strange ? "' 
 
 And Jessie pretended that something was 
 wrong with the cap, and spread out a ribbon 
 here and a ribbon there, and fluttered about 
 my mother in the prettiest way, and then fell 
 back to admire her handiwork. 
 
 " I want a new nightcap," growled uncle 
 Bryan, adding, mth a sarcastic laugh, '* but 
 the ribbons in it must suit my complexion.^' 
 
 The next night Jessie gravely presented him 
 with a nightcap gaily decorated with ribbons. 
 " It will become you beautifully," she said, 
 with a demure look. When he crossed lances 
 with her, he was generally vanquished. 
 
 Jessie explained to me the philosophy of 
 all this. 
 
 " I like everything about me to look nice," 
 she said ; '' what else are things for ? Every- 
 body ought to be nice to everybody. What 
 are people sent into the world for, I should 
 like to know — to make each other comfortable 
 or miserable ? "
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 237 
 
 I subscribed most heartily to this rose-water 
 philosophy. Certainly, if Jessie had had her 
 way, there would have been no heartaches in 
 the world, no poverty, no sickness, no rags, 
 no rainy days. The sun would have been 
 eternally shining where she moved, and every- 
 thing around her would have been eternally 
 bright. The world would have been a garden, 
 and she the prettiest flower in it. 
 
 In the meantime I was making rapid 
 progress in my business. My great ambition 
 was to become a good draughtsman ; and I 
 had learnt all that could be learnt in the 
 school of art, which I had attended regularly 
 for some time. 
 
 " Now sketch from nature," the master 
 said ; " I can do nothing more for you. You 
 have a talent for caricature, but before that 
 can be properly developed, you must learn 
 figure drawing from the life." 
 
 These words fired me, and I commenced 
 my studies in this direction with my mother, 
 who was always ready to stand in any un- 
 comfortable position for any length of time,
 
 238 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 wliile I laboured to reproduce her. Perhaps 
 I would come suddenly into the room while 
 she was stooping over the fire, or standing 
 on tip-toe to reach something from the top 
 shelf of the cupboard. "Stand still, mother/' 
 I would cry ; " don't move ! " x\nd the dear 
 mother would stand as immovable as a statue 
 imtil I released her ; and then, dropping her 
 arms, or rising from her stooping posture, 
 Avith a sigh of relief which she could not 
 suppress, she would fall into ecstasies with 
 my work, Avhether it were good or bad. 
 Uncle Bryan was a capital study for me, and 
 would smile cynically when I produced any 
 especially ill-favoured sketch of his face or 
 fiofure. It was but natural that I should 
 make the most careful studies of Jessie ; and 
 she, not at all unwilling, posed for me half 
 a dozen times a week, until my desk was 
 filled with sketches of her in scores of graceful 
 attitudes and positions. Her face was my 
 principal study ; and I sketched it with so 
 many different expressions upon it, that before 
 long I knew it by heart, and could see it
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 239 
 
 with my eyes shut — smiling, or pouting, or 
 looking demurely at me. Jessie inspected 
 every scrap of my work, and very promptly 
 tore into pieces anything that did not please 
 her, saying she did not want any ugly like- 
 nesses of herself lying about. I made studies 
 of her eyes, her lips, her ears, her hands ; 
 and we passed a great deal of time together 
 in this way, to our mutual satisfaction. We 
 were allowed full liberty ; but I sometimes 
 detected uncle Bryan observing us with a 
 euriously pondering expression on his face. 
 This did not trouble me however.
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 THE STONE MONKEY FIGURE GIVES UP ITS 
 TEEASUEES. 
 
 I HAD been for some time employed on a 
 large drawing of Jessie, in crayons. It was 
 my first ambitious attempt in colours ; and it 
 arose from Jessie's complaint that I could not 
 paint her as sbe was.^ 
 
 '' I am all black and white," she said ; '^ I 
 am tired of seeing myself so. Now, if you 
 
 could show me my eyes as they are What 
 
 colour are they, Chris ? " 
 
 Thereupon it was necessary that a close 
 investigation should be made, which was not 
 too rapidly concluded : these matters take a 
 long time to determine, especially when one 
 is an enthusiast in his art, as I was. The 
 next day I bought crayons, and practised
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 241 
 
 secretly ; and secretly also commenced the 
 sketch, of Jessie above mentioned. I was 
 never tired of contemplating my work, which 
 promised to be a success ; and one Sunday, 
 when it was nearly completed, I went to my 
 room to examine it. I kept it carefully 
 concealed in my box, and, after a long 
 examination, I was about to replace it, when 
 I was startled by Jessie's voice, asking me 
 what I was hiding. She had entered the 
 room softly and slyly, on purpose to surprise 
 me, she told me. 
 
 " I am certain," she said, " that you are 
 doing something secretly. For the last three 
 or four weeks you have shut yourself in here 
 night after night, for hours together. Now I 
 want to know all about it." 
 
 I did not wish her to see the sketch until 
 it was quite finished ; but as she knelt by my 
 side, and as my box was open, I could not 
 prevent her from discovering it. 
 
 " Oh, Chris 1 " she cried ; " it's beautiful ! " 
 
 And she expressed such praise of it that 
 my heart thrilled Avith delight. 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 •242 JESSIE TRIM, 
 
 " You think it's like you, then, Jessie ? " 
 
 " Like me ! It's m.e — me, myself ! Set it 
 on the box there ; I'll show you." 
 
 And with a rapid movement she altered 
 the fashion of her hair to suit my picture, 
 and assumed the exact expression I had 
 chosen. She looked very bewitching as she 
 stood before me, the living embodiment of 
 my work. Then she knelt before the box again, 
 and praised the picture still more warmly, 
 analysing it with exclamations of pleasure. 
 
 While she was talking and admiring her- 
 self, she was tossing over the contents of 
 my box, when she came upon the only 
 legacy my grandmother had left me — the 
 smoke-dried monkey of a man in stone, 
 which the old lady had solemnly confided to 
 my care. From the day I had entered 
 uncle Bryan's house it had lain in my box, 
 and by this time I had almost forgotten it ; 
 but as Jessie held it up and turned it about, 
 my mind was strangely stirred by those 
 reminiscences of my early life with which 
 it was inseparably connected.
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 243 
 
 "What a curious image 1" exclaimed Jessie. 
 " How long have you had it ? " 
 
 '^ All my life, Jessie. Put it away ; 
 it's the ugliest thing that ever was 
 seen.'' 
 
 " I don't think so. It's funny ; look at 
 it, wagging its head. Why, you seem quite 
 frightened of it ! Well, then, I shall take 
 it, and keep it in my room." 
 
 '^ No, I mustn't part with it. It was 
 given to me by my grandmother, and she 
 said that it must be kept always in the 
 family. Not that I think much of what 
 she said." 
 
 Jessie shifted her position, and seated 
 herself very comfortably upon the floor. 
 
 '' Now you've got something to tell me," 
 she said, pulling me down beside her. " I've 
 never heard of your grandmother before, and 
 you know how fond I am of stories." 
 
 "But mine is not a story, and there's 
 nothing interesting to tell." 
 
 " Oh, yes, there is ; there must be. Every- 
 body's life is full of stories."
 
 244 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 '' Yours, Jessie ? " I put the question some- 
 what timorously. 
 
 " Perhaps," she answered gravely ; and 
 added, after a short pause, '^ But we're not 
 speaking of me ; we're speaking of you. I 
 want to know everything." 
 
 But it was long before she could coax me 
 to speak of my early life. There was much 
 that I felt I should be ashamed for Jessie 
 to know ; and a burning blush came to my 
 cheeks as I thought of the time Avhen my 
 mother used to beg for our living. To escape 
 too searching an inquiry I began to tell her 
 of my grandmother, which led naturally to 
 the story of my grandmother's wedding. Of 
 course the man with the knob on the top of 
 his head, and who was always eating his nails, 
 was introduced, he being the principal figure 
 at the wedding. 
 
 '' There ! " cried Jessie. '' You said you 
 hadn't any story to tell. Why, you've told 
 me half a dozen already ! I can see your 
 grandmother as plain as plain can be ; and 
 that disagreeable man, too — I wonder what
 
 JESSIE TBI3I. 245 
 
 became of liirn, after all ? What was his 
 name, Chris ? " 
 
 "Anthony BuUpit." 
 
 " I hate the name of Anthony. Go on ; 
 I want to hear more." 
 
 I gave a description of Jane Painter, at 
 which Jessie laughed heartily, and clapped 
 her hands. 
 
 " I shall come into your bed-room one 
 night with a sheet over me, and frighten 
 you." 
 
 " I shouldn't be frightened of you, Jessie ; 
 besides, I am not a boy now, and I'm not 
 afraid of anything. Then your voice " 
 
 "Well!" 
 
 " Your voice is musical. How could you 
 frighten anybody with it ? " 
 
 Jessie edged a little closer to me. 
 
 " Go on, Chris. Anything more about 
 Jane Painter ? What a wretch she must have 
 been ! " 
 
 Then came an account of my grandmother's 
 death, and the legend of the long stocking, 
 in which Jessie was immensely interested.
 
 246 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 "And you never found any money after 
 all, Chris?" 
 
 " No ; and Fm sure we searched for it 
 everywhere. We looked up the chimney, 
 and ripped the bed open, and pulled the arm- 
 chair all to pieces/' 
 
 "Fd have had the cellar dug up," cried 
 Jessie excitedly ; " Fd have had the paper 
 taken off the walls, and the flooring taken 
 away bit by bit. I am certain the money 
 was hidden somewhere. '' 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 " Or Jane Painter stole it," she continued. 
 "I shaVt sleej) to-night for thinking of it. 
 I do so like to find out things ! And I'd 
 like to find out this thing more than any 
 other." 
 
 " Why, Jessie ? " 
 
 " Such a lot of money, Chris ! Hundreds 
 and hundreds of pounds there must have been, 
 hidden away, or stolen. Hundreds and 
 hundreds of pounds ! " 
 
 *' Would you like to be rich, Jessie ? " 
 
 '' Chris," she replied, looking at me seri-
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 247 
 
 ously, " I think I would do anything in the 
 world for money." 
 
 A miserable feeling came over me, and 
 for the first time in my life I repined at my 
 lot. What would I not have sacrificed at 
 that moment if I could have filled her lap 
 with money ! All this time Jessie had been 
 playing with the stone monkey figure, and 
 now she suddenly uttered an exclamation 
 of surprise. 
 
 " Look ! " she cried. " The head comes 
 off. It isn't broken ; here's the wire it hangs 
 upon. Why, Chris I " 
 
 She seized my hand in uncontrollable ex- 
 citement, and hid the figure in her lap. 
 
 " What's the matter, Jessie ? " 
 
 *' There's something inside. It's stuffed 
 full of paper. What if it should be your 
 grandmother's money ? " 
 
 The amazing suggestion almost took away 
 my breath. 
 
 " It's just the kind of place," continued 
 Jessie, panting, " she would have hidden it 
 in. She kept it all in large bank-notes,
 
 248 JESSIE ^BUL 
 
 and stuffed tliem in here, where nobody 
 could possibly suspect they were, and where 
 she could have them under her eye all 
 the day. Oh, Chris ! feel how my heart 
 beats ! '' 
 
 My excitement was now as great as her 
 own. 
 
 " Quick, Jessie ! Let us look ! " 
 
 "No," she cried, covering the figure with 
 both hands, ''let us wait a bit. This is the 
 best part of things : knowing that something 
 wonderful is coming, and waiting a little 
 before it comes. How much is it ? A 
 hundred pounds ! Five hundred pounds ! 
 It can't be less, for you say she always 
 wore silk dresses. What will you do with 
 it ? We'll all have new clothes. I know 
 where there's such a lovely blue barege, and 
 I saw a hat in a window yesterday, trimmed 
 with blue ribbon, and with lilies and forget- 
 me-nots in it, that I'd give my life for. 
 Oh, Chris I I can see myself in them 
 already." 
 
 So she went on for fully five minutes,
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 249 
 
 building her castles ; then with a long-drawn 
 breath she said, 
 
 "Now, Chris!" 
 
 The inside of the figure was certainly full 
 of paper, which I fished out very easily 
 with one of Jessie's hair-pins, and amid a 
 little cloud of dust — emblematical of Jessie's 
 castles, for the paper was utterly valueless. 
 She refused to believe me at first, and wheif 
 she was convinced, her disappointment took 
 the form of anger against my grandmother; 
 she declared that the old lady had done it on 
 purpose, and that she was a spiteful, wicked, 
 deceitful old creature. I was quite as dis- 
 appointed as Jessie was, more for her feike 
 than my own, and I tried to talk her into 
 a better mood. Thinking there might be 
 writing on some of the paper, I smoothed it 
 out, piece by piece; but there was nothing 
 written or printed on any of it with the ex- 
 ception of one long slip, which was evidently 
 a cutting from a newspaper. It was headed, 
 *' Eemarkable Discovery of a Forger by the 
 Celebrated Detective, Mr. Vinnicombe." And
 
 250 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 glancing dowTO. the column, the name of 
 Anthony BuUpit attracted my attention. I 
 became interested immediately. 
 
 " Here^s something, at all events," I said ; 
 *' something about my grandmother's nail- 
 eating lover. Listen, Jessie." 
 
 " I don't want to hear anything about 
 him," replied Jessie, in a pet, leaving the 
 room. 
 
 So I read this " Remarkable Discovery " 
 quietly by myself. It ran as follows :
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE TRUE STORY OF ANTHONY BULLPIT. 
 
 • 
 
 "Among the cases tried at the late assizes 
 was one not only of local interest, but ex- 
 ceedingly remarkable, because of the extra- 
 ordinary circumstances attendant upon the 
 arrest of the prisoner, who, after the com- 
 mission of his crime, had absconded. We 
 throw the particulars of this case into the 
 form of a narrative, as being likely to prove 
 more interesting to our readers. The three 
 principal characters in the story are Mr. 
 James Pardon, a solicitor; Mr. Anthony 
 Bullpit, his confidential clerk ; and Mr. Vin- 
 nicombe, a detective. These terse definitions 
 would be sufficient for dramatic purposes, but 
 a more comprehensive description is necessary
 
 252 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 here for the purposes of our story. Mr. James 
 Pardon is the head of the well-known and 
 highly-respected firm of solicitors in High- 
 street,, and to his care is intrusted a vast 
 amount of important business. Not only 
 as a solicitor, but as a man and a church- 
 warden his name commands universal respect. 
 He employs a large staff of clerks, con- 
 spicuous among whom was Anthony Bullpit, 
 who had been in his service from boyhood, 
 and whose face is familiar to most of our 
 townsmen. Mr. Vinnicombe, we need scarcely 
 say, is the name of the celebrated detective 
 whose unerring instinct, in conjunction with 
 a powerful and keen intellect, has been the 
 means of bringing many a criminal to justice. 
 In his profession, Mr. Vinnicombe is facile 
 jprinceps. There is a fourth character, who 
 plays a minor but important part, and whom 
 it will be sufficiently explicit to describe as 
 Mr. Vinnicombe's friend. Now for the story, 
 "To all outward appearance trustworthy and 
 attentive to his duties, Anthony Bullpit rose 
 step by step in the office of Mr. James Pardon
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 253 
 
 until he had arrived at the position of head 
 clerk ; his manners were civil and plausible, 
 and not the slightest suspicion was enter- 
 tained of his honesty. He had access to the 
 safe and cheque-book of the firm, and was 
 intrusted with much confidential business. 
 On the twenty-first of last month Mr. James 
 Pardon had occasion to go to London on a 
 matter of great importance ; he expected tor 
 be absent for at least three weeks, and 
 Anthony BuUpit was left to superintend the 
 affairs of the firm. It fortunately happened 
 that Mr. Pardon's business in London was 
 transacted more rapidly than he had antici- 
 pated, and he returned to Hertford, without 
 warning, after an absence of fourteen days 
 only. His confidential clerk was absent; and 
 to his astonishment he was informed that, 
 three days before his return, Anthony BuUpit 
 had stated in the office that he had received 
 a letter from Mr. Pardon, desiring his imme- 
 diate attendance in London, to render assist- 
 ance in the matter on which Mr. Pardon 
 was engao'ed. As Mr. Pardon had sent no 
 
 ~ o
 
 254 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 such letter to Anthony BuUpit, his suspicion's 
 that all was not as it should be were naturally- 
 aroused, and he at once made an examination 
 of the affairs of the business. A very slight 
 inquiry was sufficient to justify his suspicions: 
 not only had all the money which had been 
 received during his absence been abstracted, 
 but a cheque for seven hundred pounds, taken 
 from his cheque-book, and purporting to be 
 signed by James Pardon, had been presented 
 at the bank, and cashed without hesitation. 
 The signature was a most skilful imitation, 
 and Mr. Pardon acknowledges that any person 
 might have been deceived by it. Thus far 
 the story is, unhapjDily, but an ordinary one 
 in the history of crime ; but now come the 
 extraordinary incidents w^hich elevate it almost 
 into the sphere of romance. Mr. Pardon's 
 indignation was extreme, and being deter- 
 mined to bring the delinquent to justice, he 
 went at once to the police-court, and laid 
 his charge. While it was being taken down 
 a person, who did not appear to be particu- 
 larly interested in the narration, was sitting
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 255 
 
 by the fire, apparently deeply engaged in a 
 newspaper which he held in his hand. When 
 Mr. Pardon had finished, he gave expression 
 to his indio^nation, and to his determination 
 to inflict upon the forger the utmost punish- 
 ment of the law. The person who was 
 reading by the fire said aloud, ' First catch 
 your hare, then cook it.' Mr. Pardon, not 
 being aware whether the stranger was quoting 
 from the paper he was reading or was making 
 an independent observation, asked, in his 
 quick manner, whether the words were ad- 
 dressed to him. 'To any one,' answered 
 
 the stranger. * And you said ' prompted 
 
 Mr. Pardon. ' I said,' repeated the stranger, 
 'first catch your hare, then cook it. You 
 see,' added the stranger, ' the first thing 
 you have to do is to catch your clerk ; then, 
 you can cook him — not before. Now how 
 are you going to do it ? ' Mr. Pardon 
 confessed that he did not know how it 
 was to be done, but he supposed that 
 
 the police The stranger interrupted 
 
 him. 'This clerk, Anthony Bullpit, is more
 
 256 JUSSIE TRIM. 
 
 than a matcli for the police. You acknow- 
 ledge that your name was so skilfully forged 
 that you might have been taken in by it 
 yourself. Now, the skill which enabled 
 Anthony Bullpit to write your name in such 
 a way as might deceive even you, was not 
 acquired in an hour or a day. He has 
 been secretly practising your signature for 
 years, and has been secretly practising, I 
 don't doubt, many other things you're not 
 acquainted with, which might come useful 
 to him one day or another. What does 
 this imply ? That Anthony Bullpit is a 
 shallow bungling sort of criminal, or an 
 artful, scheming, designing sort of criminal V 
 Mr. Pardon, himself the shrewdest of lawyers, 
 was struck by the shrewd intelligence of the 
 stranger, and admitted that it was clear 
 that Anthony Bullpit was a scheming, artful, 
 designing scoundrel. ^ But he had a quiet 
 way with him,' said Mr. Pardon, ' that any 
 person might have been taken in by.' The 
 stranger smiled. * One of your sneaking- 
 kind,' he said ; ' I know them. They're the
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 257 
 
 most difficult to deal with, and the most 
 difficult to catch. The chances are that 
 Anthony BuUpit had all his plans well laid 
 beforehand. And don't forget that he's got 
 three days' start. Why, you don't even 
 know what road he has taken!' Mr. Pardon 
 acknowledged the reasonableness of these 
 observations. 'May I ask/ he said, 'with 
 whom I have the pleasure of conversing ? * 
 'My name is Yinnicombe,' replied the 
 stranger, rising. ' Mr. Yinnicombe, the 
 famous detective ! ' exclaimed Mr. Pardon. 
 ' The same,' was the answer. Mr. Pardon 
 immediately made a proposition to Mr. Yinni- 
 combe, and the result was that, within an 
 hour, Mr. Yinnicombe presented himself at 
 Mr. Pardon's office, saying that he was 
 ready to take the case in hand at once. 
 What follows is from the eminent detective's 
 own lips, verbatim et literatim, taken down 
 in our own office by the editor of this 
 paper : *"' 
 
 * It is evident, from the manner in which he jDresented 
 his report of the case to his readers, that " the editor of 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 " ^ The first tiling Mr. Pardon wanted me 
 to do/ said Mr. Vinnicombe, Svas to trace 
 the notes;' but I said, 'No; the thief first, 
 the property afterwards.' If I could trace 
 him by the property, all right ; but there 
 was no time to lose in ascertainins; what 
 road he had taken, and where he was bound 
 to. In a very short time I discovered by 
 what means and by what road Anthony 
 BuUpit had left the town. The road did 
 not lead to Liverpool, and immediately I 
 learnt this, I decided that Liverpool was the 
 port which he intended to reach. Why 
 port ? you ask. Well, it wasn't likely that 
 a cunning card like this BuUpit was going 
 to remain in England. I picked up a bit 
 of gossip concerning him, and I found out 
 that he had had a love affair with a young 
 
 this paper " was in advance of his times ; he would hav3 
 made an admirable descriptive reporter in these days. 
 Mr. Yinnicombe also, as is apparent from the style of 
 the narrative, was an advanced detective ; but the qualities 
 which are necessary for the making of a good detective, 
 and the spirit which animates the class, do not differ, 
 "whatever the year. — Author,
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 259 
 
 lady — I mention no names, and I only men- 
 tion it professionally — and that her family, 
 not liking his sneaking ways, had shut their 
 doors on him ; I found out also that this 
 young lady was soon to be married to a 
 gentleman who was more worthy of her. 
 That was one reason why it wasn't likely 
 he was going to remain in England ; having 
 filled his pockets with another man's moni^y 
 was another reason. But there were stronger 
 reasons than these. He had peculiar marks 
 about him, and if he wasn't found out to-day 
 by these marks, he would be to-morrow ; 
 and he knew it. So what he had to do 
 was to get out of the country as quick as he 
 could. Now, there's only two ports in 
 England from where a man as wants to go 
 can go to all parts of the world, civilised 
 and uncivilised. These ports are London 
 and Liverpool. 
 
 '' ' BuUpit wouldn't go to London. Why ? 
 Mr. Pardon was there. He'd go naturally 
 to Liverpool, because Mr. Pardon was not 
 there. Now, I'll tell you about these peculiar
 
 260 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 marks of his. First, he had a knob on the 
 top of his head. But the knob couldn't be 
 seen, youll say, because he had a bushy head 
 of hair. That's right enough, but it don't 
 do away with the knob ; he had it, and that 
 was enough for me. I don't know as ever 
 I had any business in connection with a man 
 as had a knob on his head, and that circum- 
 stance made the case interesting to me. I 
 like to do with all sorts. Second, he had a 
 peculiarity with his teeth. The two middle 
 ones in the top jaw — I hope you don't think 
 I'm going to swear or use bad language ; but 
 jaw's a word, and when a word's got to be 
 used, I use it — the two middle teeth in his 
 top jaw had a slit between 'em, a slit as 
 you could see daylight through, if there was 
 such a thino' in his mouth. That slit ain't 
 
 o 
 
 much, you'll say. All right. Third, he had 
 a habit of biting his nails. Well, now, that 
 ain't a crime, you say. I don't say it is, but 
 he had it, and that was enough for me. 
 These peculiarities and a general description 
 of Bullpit — as to how tall he was (a man
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 261 
 
 can't alter that), how stout (nor that), what 
 kind of complexion, and other personal de- 
 tails — were all I had to go upon. I tracked 
 him, without ever making a miss, in the con- 
 trary direction of Liverpool, and then back 
 again by another road, in the direction of Liver- 
 pool, and there I lost sight of him completely. 
 But I knew he must be there, and that was 
 enough for me. I had travelled faster than he 
 had, and I reckoned I had gained a day and a 
 half on him. According to my calculation, he 
 hadn't had time to get away yet ; he could 
 only have been in Liverpool two days, and 
 as Mr. Pardon wasn't expected home for a 
 week after he left, there was no need for 
 him to put on any show of hurry ; it might 
 look suspicious. Now what should I do ? 
 BuUpit would be sure to disguise himself — 
 clap on a pair of false whiskers and coloured 
 spectacles perhaps, cut his hair short, wear 
 a wig ; he would certainly not walk about 
 in the clothes he run away in. Thinking 
 of these things I felt that BuUpit might 
 prove more than a match for me. There was
 
 262 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 the knob on his head certainly ; but I couldn't 
 go up to every suspicious-looking stranger, 
 pull off his hat, and feel for the knob ; 
 people might resent it as a liberty, and treat 
 it accordingly. There was his habit of biting 
 his nails ; but he would be sure to restrain 
 himself, though it is about the most difficult 
 thing in the world for a man to keep from,, 
 when he's been accustomed to it all his life. 
 I don't see what there is in nails except 
 dirt to make people fond of 'em. They 
 ain't sweet, and they ain't tasty. Well, but 
 Bullpit. He'd be cunning enough to restrain 
 /wmself from biting his nails, knowing it. 
 was a mark to go by ; still, nails don't grow 
 in a day, and they'd be short on his fingers 
 naturally. But he'd wear gloves. Then the 
 slit between his teeth. Well, that couldn't be 
 altered ; but he could keep his mouth shut. 
 Now if I was to tell you everything I did in 
 the first two days I was in Liverpool, it would 
 fill a book, and that's what you don't 
 want ; what you do want is for me to come 
 to the point, and that I'll do in a jiffey. I
 
 JU8SIE TRIM. 263 
 
 went down to the clocks, and took up iny 
 lodgings near there ; I didn't stop in any 
 particular place, but shifted from one eating- 
 house to another, and mixed with the cus- 
 tomers, and talked to the waiters ; no ship 
 sailed out of the Mersey without my being 
 on it at the last minute, with my eyes wide 
 open ; I communicated with the captains and 
 the ship-agents ; I watched every new arri\ial 
 at the eating-houses, and drank with them, 
 and did a hundred other things — and at 
 the end of the fourth day I was as far off 
 as ever ; I hadn't picked up a link. Now, 
 that nettled me ; it did — it nettled me. I 
 had set my heart on catching this Bullpit ; 
 he was worth catching, he was such a sly 
 cunning customer ; I looked upon it as a 
 match between us, and I wanted to win, 
 and here was I four days in Liverpool, Avith 
 never a link in my hands for my pains. 
 On the fifth day I met — quite by accident 
 — a professional friend, who had come down 
 to Liverpool to say good-bye to a relative 
 of his who was going to America. The ship
 
 264 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 was to sail that afternoon ; it Avas called 
 the Prairie Bird. We had a bit of dinner 
 too^ether in the coffee-room, where other 
 men were dining. Over dinner I told my 
 friend what had brought me to Liverpool ; I 
 spoke in a low tone, so as not to be over- 
 heard, and I was not sorry when the man 
 who was eating at the next table to ours went 
 away in the middle of my story ; he was 
 a little too close to us. Well, we finished 
 dinner ; my friend insisted on paying the 
 reckoning, and I moved a step or two 
 towards the next table, where the man who 
 went away in the middle of my story had 
 been dining. The waiter was clearing the 
 table, when I saw something that set me on 
 fire. Now, what do you think it was ? You 
 can't guess. I should think you couldn't, if 
 you tried for a week. What do you say to 
 a piece of bread ? You laugh ! Well, but 
 that piece of bread was enough for me. It 
 wasn't a link. It was the chain itself. In 
 what way ? I'll tell you. You see, that 
 piece of bread was partly eaten, and the
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 265 
 
 man who had been dining had put it down 
 after taking his last bite at it. The marks 
 of his teeth were in it, but the only mark I 
 saw was a little ridge in the centre of the 
 bite — just such a ridge as would be left by 
 a man who had a slit between two of his 
 upper teeth, as Anthony BuUpit had. Would 
 that little mark have been enough for you ? 
 " 'Now I had seen this man a dozen time^; 
 a most respectable-looking man he was, with 
 leg-of-mutton whiskers, and most respectably 
 dressed, something like a clergyman ; and I 
 knew he was a passenger by the Prairie Bird. 
 I had never for one moment suspected him. 
 Anthony BuUpit was a pale-faced man ; this 
 man had a high colour. There was nothing 
 particular in Anthony BuUpit's walk ; this 
 man dragged one leg behind the other slightly. 
 Anthony Bullpit's hair was black ; this man's 
 hair was sandy. Anthony BuUpit had good 
 eyebrows ; this man had no eyebrows at all 
 to speak of. Ah, he's a cunning rascal is 
 Anthony BuUpit, and was worth catching. 
 I put things together very quickly in my
 
 266 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 mind, and I settled it — if it wanted settling- 
 after the first sight of that piece of bread — 
 that this man, and no other, was the man I 
 wanted. There was only one thing that 
 puzzled me, and that was his nails ; they were 
 long. However, I wasn't going to let that stop 
 me, so I laid a little plot with my professional 
 friend, and we went aboard the Prairie 
 Bird — not in company, because of the little 
 plot I laid, but one a minute after the other. 
 There was my res]3ectable customer, standing 
 by himself; I was puzzled even then as I 
 looked at him, he was so well disguised; 
 but his height was there, and his bulk was 
 there, with a little added to it, which might 
 be padding. Well, while I stood a little 
 distance away, with my eye on him, but 
 not in an open way, my professional friend 
 walks up to him from behind, until he gets 
 close, and this is what my professional friend 
 whispers to him : ' Don't start/ whispers 
 my professional friend, most confidentially ; 
 * don't turn your head, or it might attract 
 notice. My name's Simpson, and I cashed
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 267 
 
 the cheque for seven hundred pounds for you 
 in the Hertford Bank. I was in the bank 
 for six years, and I've done a little bit of 
 business on my own account, and have got 
 clear away. Twelve hundred pounds IVe 
 got about me, and I'm a fellow passenger of 
 yours ; when the Prairie Bird gets to 
 America, what's to hinder you and me 
 going partners and making our fortunes I 
 Two such heads as ours '11 be sure to make 
 a big one. I sha'n't speak another word to 
 you till we're safely off, but I'm glad I've 
 got a friend on board.' With that, my pro- 
 fessional friend slips quietly away. Now, 
 if my respectable-looking customer hadn't 
 been the man I wanted, he would have 
 turned round on my professional friend, and 
 hit him in the eye perhaps ; at all events^ 
 he would have kicked up a row. But he 
 listened to every word, with his eyes looking 
 down on the deck, and the only movement 
 he made was a kind of twitching with his. 
 fingers, and a rising of them to his lips, as 
 if he wanted to set to work on his nails.
 
 268 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 He didn't get so far as his month with them; 
 he had himself too well in hand ; bnt I was 
 sure of my man — his own cunning was the 
 trap in Avliich he was caught. I waited 
 until the last minute, until those who weren't 
 going to the other side of the Atlantic in 
 the Prairie Bird were scrambling away lest 
 they should be taken by mistake ; and I saw 
 my respectable friend give one triumphant 
 look around, being sure then he was safe. 
 At the same moment, as if he couldn't stand 
 it any longer, up went his fingers to his lips ; 
 his longing to get at those nails of his must 
 have been somethins; dreadful. Then I 
 stepped up to him suddenly, and before he 
 knew where he was I had the handcuffs on 
 him. 'It's no use making a noise about 
 it,' I said ; ' I want you, Anthony BuUpit. 
 Here's the warrant.' And quick as light- 
 ning I passed my hand over his head, and 
 felt the knob. He saw it was all over with 
 him, and I could see that he turned deadly 
 white, for all his false colour. ' You sha'n't 
 be done out of a voyage across the sea,' I
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 269 
 
 said ; ' but it'll be a longer voyage than the 
 one to America. Botany Bay 11 be the 
 place as '11 suit you best, I should think.' 
 He never spoke a word ; I got his trunk, 
 and found the money in it — all changed into 
 gold it was, the cunning one. Well, every- 
 thing was comfortably arranged, and I was 
 about to guide him down the ladder to the 
 boat, when he whispered to me, ^ There'^ 
 another man on board as you'd like to have. 
 He's a better prize than I am. If you'll 
 make it easier for me, I'll tell you who it 
 is.' ' What man ? ' I asked, with a quiet 
 chuckle. * A man as has robbed the bank 
 of twelve hundred pound.' Just then my 
 professional friend came to my side. ' That's 
 him,' said Anthony BuUpit. ' And you and 
 him's going partners when you get safe 
 across,' I said, with a wink at my pro- 
 fessional friend; he cashed that cheque for 
 you, didn't he ? Lord ! you're not half as 
 clever as I took you to be ! ' He was clever 
 enough to understand it all without another 
 word, for he only gave a scowl ; and when
 
 270 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 me and liim and my professional friend was 
 in the boat, he fell-to on his nails without 
 restraint, and before the day was out he had 
 eaten them down to the quick. He only 
 asked one question, and that was how I had 
 discovered him. I pulled the piece of bread 
 from my pocket, and pointed to the marks 
 of his teeth in it, and to the ridge the slit 
 in his teeth had left. I brought my man 
 safely back, and you know what has become 
 of him. If I live till Fm a hundred — which 
 isn't likely — I shall never forget the feeling 
 that came over me when I saw that piece of 
 bread with the rido-e in it that brouoiit 
 Anthony BuUpit to justice.' 
 
 " We have only to add to Mr. Yinnicombe's 
 statement that Anthony BuUpit, when placed 
 in the dock, pleaded guilty, and was sentenced 
 to twenty-one years' transportation. The 
 sentence would have been for life, but for 
 Mr. Pardon's intercession, who pleaded for 
 miercy for the infamous scoundrel who had 
 abused his trust. We have occupied more 
 space than we otherwise should have done
 
 JE88IE TBIM. 271 
 
 with the details of this case, for the purpose 
 of pointing out how often the most trivial 
 circumstance will lead to the detection and 
 punishment of the most cunning criminals." 
 
 Apart from the circumstance of this 
 Anthony BuUpit being one of my grand- 
 mother's lovers, the narrative was interesting 
 to me from the really remarkable manner yi 
 which the forger was discovered. I refolded 
 the printed paper carefully, and replaced it 
 in the interior of the stone figure ; and in 
 the course of a couple of days I made a 
 drawing of Anthony Bullpit, as I imagined 
 him to be, a sneaking hang-dog figure of a 
 man, with a hypocritical face, gnawing his 
 finger-nails.
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 UNCLE BRYAN COMMENCES THE STOEY OF 
 HIS LIFE. 
 
 " Chris is growing quite a man," observed 
 my motlier one evening to uncle Bryan. 
 
 Her Avords attracted uncle Bryan's atten- 
 tion, and he regarded me with more interest 
 than he usually evinced. We three were 
 alone. Jessie was spending the evening with 
 some neighbours, and was not expected home 
 before ten o'clock. The family she visited 
 was named West. I did not know them 
 personally, but I was curious about them, 
 not only because Jessie's visits to their house 
 had lately grown very frequent, but because 
 they were a theatrical family. They were, 
 in a certain sense, famous in the neighbour-
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 273 
 
 liood because of their vocation, which lifted 
 them out of the humdrum ordinary course of 
 common affairs. During the whole time we 
 had lived in Paradise-row, I had made no 
 friends among our neighbours. It was dif- 
 ferent with Jessie : before she had been with 
 us six months, she knew and was known by 
 nearly every person in the locality. She in- 
 formed me that she was fond of company, 
 and she accepted invitations to tea from one 
 and another. But lately she had confined 
 her intimacy to the Wests, and whenever I 
 came home, and she was absent, I was told 
 she was spending an hour at their house. 
 Many weeks before the observation which 
 commences this chapter was made, Jessie 
 and I had had a conversation about the 
 "Wests. She introduced their name, and after 
 informing me that she was going to have 
 tea with them on the following evening, 
 asked me if I would come for her at nine 
 o'clock and bring her home. But I demurred 
 to this, as being likely to be considered an 
 intrusion. 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 " What nonsense you talk ! " she exclaimed. 
 ** They are the most delightful persons in 
 the Avorld.'^ 
 
 " Your friendships are quickly made, 
 Jessie," I said with a jealous pang. 
 
 "Directly I see persons I know whether 
 I like them or not. Don't you ? " 
 
 '' 1 can't say," I replied sententiously ; ^^I 
 have never considered it." 
 
 ''Well, consider it now. Don't be dis- 
 agreeable. Directly you saw me, didn't you 
 like me ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 " Very well, then ; that shows you do 
 make up your mind properly about these 
 thino^s, as a man ouo:lit to do." 
 
 I thrilled with pleasure at this cunning 
 ^.ompliment. 
 
 " But you are different, Jessie, from any 
 one else." (What I really wanted to say 
 was, "You are different in my eyes from 
 any one else ; " but the most important 
 words oozed away, from my want of 
 courage.)
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 275 
 
 " Am I ? '^ she cried softly and compla- 
 cently, as was her way when she felt she 
 was about to be flattered. " How different ? 
 In what way ? Tell me." 
 
 ^' You are prettier and nicer. There's no 
 one in the world like you." 
 
 "That's what vou think." 
 
 '^ That's what everybody must think." 
 
 *' Why, Chris ! " she exclaimed, making a 
 telescope with her two hands, and peeping 
 at me through them, " I declare your mous- 
 tachios are coming." 
 
 I blushed scarlet, " Are they ? " I inquired, 
 with an effort at unconsciousness, notwith- 
 standing that I had already many times 
 secretly contemplated in my looking glass, 
 with the most intense interest, these coming 
 signs of manliness. "But never mind them, 
 Jessie ; tell me about the AVests." 
 
 "They are the most wonderful people, 
 and the most delightful. I'm in love with 
 
 all of them." 
 
 My blushes died away ; jealous pangs 
 
 assailed me again.
 
 276 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 *'Are there many of them?" I asked 
 gloomily. 
 
 " Ever so many ; but you must see for 
 yourself. You will come for me, then ? 
 You mustn't knock at the door and say, 
 ' Tell Miss Trim I am waiting for her ; ' you 
 must come right into the house.'' 
 
 But being angry with the Wests, and 
 beginning to hate them because Jessie was 
 so fond of them, I insisted that it would 
 not be proper, because I had never been 
 invited; and after a little quarrel, in which 
 I deemed it necessary, as an assertion of 
 manliness, to become more and more obstinate 
 in my refusal, Jessie said with a pout, " Oh, 
 very well ; if you're determined to stand 
 upon your dignity, you'll see that other 
 people can do so as well as you." Thus it 
 fell about that it became a point almost of 
 honour with me not to go to the Wests, 
 nor to express any desire to go ; but I 
 suffered agonies in consequence, and was 
 tempted many times to humble myself 
 Jessie knew as well as possible what was
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 277 
 
 going on in my mind; but she was offended 
 with me on the subject, and would not 
 assist me — ^would not even give me an 
 opportunity of humbling myself 
 
 But all this while I have left uncle Bryan 
 regarding me, as I have said, with more 
 than usual interest. From me he turned 
 his attention to the wall, upon which hung 
 the picture of Jessie, in crayons, whicK I 
 had finished. I said nothing, but proceeded 
 with my work. 
 
 " What are you drawing now, Chris ? " 
 ^sked my uncle. 
 
 Of course it was a sketch of Jessie. I 
 murmured some words to the effect that it 
 was nothing particular, and was about to 
 put it in my desk, when uncle Bryan ex- 
 pressed a wish to see it. I could not refuse, 
 and I handed it to him. It happened to be 
 one of my happiest efforts ; it would have 
 been difficult to find a more winsome face 
 than that which uncle Bryan gazed upon. 
 He contemplated it for a long time without 
 speaking — for so long a time that I asked
 
 278 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 him if he liked it, so as to break the awk- 
 ward silence. He did not answer me. With 
 the sketch still in his hand he said to my 
 mother, 
 
 " Emma, I have not treated you fairly." 
 
 My mother looked up from her work in 
 surprise. Uncle Bryan continued : 
 
 '^ What I am about to tell you ought to 
 have been told before ; but probably no 
 better time than this could be chosen. By 
 the time I have finished, you will perhaps, 
 understand my motive for saying so ; but 
 whether you do or not, it is due to you 
 that I should clear away some part of the 
 mystery which hangs around Jessie." 
 
 Although I was burning with curiosity, I 
 rose to leave the room, thinking from his. 
 manner that what he was about to say was 
 intended only for my mother's ears. 
 
 " Nay, Chris," he said, " you can stay. 
 You are almost a man, as your mother says, 
 and you may learn something from my- 
 words. I am about to read some pages in 
 my life."
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 279- 
 
 He turned from us, so that we could not 
 see his face ; and full five minutes elapsed 
 before he spoke. I was awaiting to hear 
 with so much eagerness what he had to 
 tell, that the ^ye minutes seemed an hour. 
 With his face still averted, he addressed mj 
 mother. 
 
 '^ Emma, you know the house in which I 
 was born ? " 
 
 "Yes, Bryan." 
 
 " And you knew my family — my father 
 and mother ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 *' They are not alive ? " 
 
 I could scarcely restrain an exclamation 
 of surprise at such a question from the lips 
 of a son concerning his parents. My mother's 
 tone was soft and pitiful as she replied, 
 
 ''They have been dead many years, Bryan. 
 They died within a year of my marriage with 
 your brother." 
 
 " During the time you and my brother 
 courted, and afterwards, indeed, my name 
 must have been occasionally mentioned."
 
 280 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 . "It was, Bryan.'' 
 
 " In what terms ? '' 
 
 He paused for a reply, but my motlier 
 held her tongue. 
 
 " Be frank and candid with me, Emma ; 
 it will not hurt me. What you heard was 
 not to my credit ? " 
 
 He was determined that the subject should 
 not be evaded ; and my mother was wise 
 enough not to thwart him. 
 
 '' It was said that you had a violent 
 temper." , 
 
 " It was doubtless true ; but," said uncle 
 Bryan somewhat grimly, " time must have 
 softened it. No one now can accuse me 
 justly — if there is such a thing as justice in 
 the world — of showing violence, in the 
 ordinary meaning of the word." 
 
 "I can bear witness to that, Bryan." 
 
 "Go on; there was more." 
 
 " And that it was impossible to agree with 
 you, or your opinions." 
 
 ''My opinions! That is one of the 
 things I wanted to arrive at. Eemember,
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 281 
 
 Emma, that after I left home, I held no 
 communication with my parents ; that I was 
 as one dead, to them. What was said of my 
 opinions ? Nay, nay ; you hurt me more by 
 your silence than you can possibly do by 
 anything you can say." 
 
 '' I heard that, as a boy, you associated 
 yourself with a society of Freethinkers, who 
 openly boasted of their infidelity." • 
 
 '^ I can guess the rest ;• I was wanting in 
 respect to my elders, and in obedience and 
 duty. They did not spare me, evidently. 
 "When I left home I was seventeen years of 
 age ; I ran away — no, I walked away, in 
 fact, for they did not care to stop me — as 
 much displeased with the narrow-minded 
 views of those Vv^ho were nearest to me in 
 blood, as they were doubtless with my violent 
 temper and my independent expression of 
 opinion. A free exercise of the reasoning 
 powers with which we are endowed was, in 
 their eyes, a distinct crime. Still, when I was 
 fairly gone, they might have let me rest. 
 Of my after career they had no knowledge."
 
 282 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 These last ^yords he did not put as a 
 question, but as a satisfactory reflection. The 
 simplest assent from my mother would have 
 contented him ; but she was too truthful to 
 give utterance to it, and all his susj)icions 
 were aroused by her silence. 
 
 " I repeat — of my after career they had 
 no knowledge." 
 
 She would have spared him, but he would 
 not allow her to do so. 
 
 '^They had 1" he exclaimed, his rapid 
 breathing showing how deeply he was moved. 
 *'What did they know?" 
 
 "The rumour was very vague, Bryan " 
 
 "But discreditable. To what effect?" 
 
 " I really cannot explain, nor could they 
 have done so, I believe." My mother was 
 much distressed. " If Chris were not here — " 
 
 " Say no more." I could not see his face, 
 but his tone indicated that he had recovered 
 his composure. " I can fill up the blanks. 
 Chris is older than I was when I threw my- 
 self upon the world, and it will be best 
 for him to hear the story I shall relate."
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 283 
 
 *^ Whatever impression I might have 
 gained," said my mother, solicitously, " from 
 the vague rumours I heard has been entirely 
 obliterated since I have known you. Be- 
 lieve me that this is so, dear Bryan." 
 
 *^ Thank you for saying so much. But I 
 doubt whether my parents would ever have 
 believed that I was not the blackest of black 
 sheep. They were hard and intolerant to 
 me from the fnst, and I have no pleasurable 
 recollections of even my earliest days. I do 
 not know if it was the same when you were 
 first introduced into it as it is in my re- 
 membrance, but the home in which I was 
 born and reared was ruled by cold and 
 formal laws, and by a cold and formal 
 master. How it came about is a mystery 
 I have never tried to solve, but it is a plain 
 fact that I was not a favourite with my 
 parents. My brother — your husband — was ; 
 he was much younger than I, but I saw it 
 clearly. His nature was a more pliable one 
 than mine ; he could be easily led, not be- 
 cause he was weak, but because he was.
 
 284 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 sympathetic and amiable. I was neither. 
 Perhaps I imbibed some drops of gall with 
 my mother's milk ; but I don't pretend to 
 account for my cross grain. My parents 
 might have loved me after their fashion, 
 but their mode of showing their love de- 
 prived it of all tenderness. It is a blessing 
 to a man to be able to think of his mother 
 with affection and veneration when she 
 has passed away from him. Such a feeling, 
 and the roads he must have trodden to acquire 
 it, are a counterfoil to much that may be 
 bad in his own nature ; but this feeling is 
 not mine. My mother was a weak-minded 
 woman, entirely dominated by the strong 
 mind of her husband. She had no will of 
 her own ; she followed the current of his 
 likes and dislikes, of his opinions, of his com- 
 mands, without question and without inquiry, 
 as a spaniel follows its master. Many per- 
 sons would see a kind of virtue in this 
 submission ; I do not. My father was dog- 
 matic and stern ; I could have forgiven him 
 that, if he had been honest-minded. But he
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 was a hypocrite, and I knew it, and he knew 
 that I knew it. With great appearance of 
 candour, he, when conversing with acquain- 
 tances in the presence of my mother and 
 myself, would give expression to sentiments 
 in which he did not believe ; then, when we 
 were alone, he would take off his mask of 
 dissimulation, and go over the ground again 
 according to his own conviction, and justify 
 his deceit. If my mother ever thought of 
 these things, she must have been bewildered ; 
 I did think of them, and I was indignant. 
 Most especially was he a hypocrite in reli- 
 gious matters ; his prayers and his practice 
 were utterly at variance. I could not respect 
 one who professed to believe that charity was 
 a good thing, and who declined to practise 
 it. He was intolerant to a degree; his was 
 the only right way — all others were ^vrong. 
 It was my evil fortune — I suppose I must 
 call it so — to possess a mind which led me 
 to sift things for myself; I could not accept 
 established doctrines, and this, in my father's 
 eyes, was not only a great presumption but
 
 286 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 a great crime. It is not necessary for me to 
 state liow, little by little, I became es- 
 tranged from such parental affection as 
 mio^bt liave been bestowed on me had 
 I been docile and obedient — as might have 
 been mine if I had tried to win it. I sought 
 for congenial companionship away from the 
 social circle in Avhich my parents moved ; it 
 is true that I found associates among men 
 who, doubtless with more reason than myself, 
 were dissatisfied with things as they were, 
 and that I identified myself — being, as a 
 youth, proud of the connection — with a body 
 of so-called Freethinkers, whose chief crime 
 was that they were groping to find truth by 
 the light of reason. My father, hearing of 
 this connection, sternly commanded me to 
 relinquish it, and when I refused, threatened 
 me. He declared he would drive the evil spirit 
 out of me, and he tried to do so by blows ; 
 but he hurt only my body — my spirit he 
 strenofthened. About this time a circumstance 
 occurred which for ever destroyed all chance 
 of peace between us. We had a servant at
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 287 
 
 Jiome, a poor half-witted creature — an orphan 
 without a friend in the world. One would 
 have supposed that my father, being so fond 
 of his prayers, would have been kind to this 
 servant because of her utterly dependent con- 
 dition, and because she performed her work 
 as well and as faithfully as her dull wits 
 allowed her. Had this been so, I think I 
 might have been inclined to waver in my 
 estimate of him ; but the contrary was the 
 case. My father, through his unvarying 
 harshness tow^ards the poor girl, made her 
 life a torture to her. I constituted myself 
 her champion, and stepped between her and 
 his blow^s many a time. Boy as I was, he 
 -chose to place misconstruction upon my 
 championship, and each became more em- 
 bittered against the other. I fed my bitter- 
 ness by contemplation of the girl's misery, 
 -and the unhappy war went on until it was 
 terminated by a tragic circumstance. One day 
 the servant was missing ; the next, her body 
 was found in the river. The idea fixed itself 
 firmly in my mind that my father was ac-
 
 288 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 countable for her death ; I even hinted as. 
 much to him when my blood was boiling 
 with a new injustice inflicted upon myself. 
 What passed between us after that, it will 
 be as well not to recall ; the result was that 
 I left my home, and no hand was held out 
 to stay me. I never saw my parents from 
 that day, nor have I ever mentioned them 
 until this evening. Whether I have done 
 them injustice cannot now be decided ; but 
 I have no doubt, if the world were to judge 
 between us, the verdict would be against 
 me. 
 
 '^I retained my name because, in my 
 opinion, I had done nothing to disgrace it, 
 and because I abhor deceit. I was neither 
 elated nor depressed at the step I had 
 taken. It is said that the spring-time of 
 life is bright with sunshine. The spring- 
 time of my life was joyless and gloomy. I 
 had no hope in anything, no belief in any- 
 thing, no faith in anything. I had no 
 special ambition and no desire to become 
 rich ; all that I desired was to earn a decent
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 289 
 
 living by the labour of my hands and the 
 exercise of my abilities. I determined to 
 make no friendships, and to live only in 
 myself and by myself. Although I had no 
 thought of it at the time^ I can see now 
 that the rules I laid down for myself were 
 just the rules, with fair opportunities, to 
 lead to success in life. 
 
 '' In my determination to sever myse!f 
 entirely from my family, I wandered away 
 from my native place until I was distant 
 from it hundreds of miles. Then, a stranger 
 among strangers, I applied myself to the 
 task of obtaining a situation. I could read, 
 I could write, and I was a fair bookkeeper; 
 but these qualifications did not avail me, 
 and I was driven to hard shifts. Had I 
 been shipwrecked on a lonely land I should 
 have fared better. I did nothing dishonest, 
 nor would I have done it to save my life ; 
 and I shrunk from nothing that was not dis- 
 honourable to earn a few pence. I accepted 
 employment in whatever shape it was offered ; 
 no toil was too low for me, so long as it 
 
 YOL. I. U
 
 21)0 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 Avould buy me bread. The liardsliips wbicli 
 the world dealt out to me did not dishearten 
 me, did not humble me ; I bore them with 
 pride, and in my bitter frame of mind I found 
 a certain pleasure, even in misery. My un- 
 merited sufferings were arguments to convince 
 me that I was right in my estimate of things. 
 Look where I would, I could nowhere find 
 morality and humanity exercised in their 
 larger sense; where charity was most due, 
 it was least given ; virtue and goodness 
 were terms ; all over the civilised world re- 
 ligious precepts were being preached ; all over 
 the civilised world religious precepts were 
 being violated ; what was good in the Bible 
 was turned to bad account — its power was 
 so used as to teach people to fear, not to 
 love. During these days I used to creep 
 into the churches and laugh at the moralities 
 there laid down. It was a hard, bitterly- 
 sweet time. I did not repine ; in my pride 
 I exulted in my condition. Many q ?iight 
 did I walk the streets homeless and nungry, 
 laughing at my sufferings. Life had no
 
 JESSIE TBIM. 291 
 
 attractions for me, and I did not desire to 
 live. But I was part of a scheme — I re- 
 cognised that, although I could not solve 
 the problem — and I would do nothing to 
 myself; I would simply wait. From men 
 and women in as miserable a position as 
 myself I rejected all overtures of friendship ; 
 I had nothing in common with them. But 
 on a starless nis^ht I met one to whom 1 
 was drawn by humanity, if you like to 
 call it by that name. A woman this, a 
 girl indeed, homeless as I was, friendless 
 as I was. Nay, you may listen, Emma. I 
 became like a brother to her, and she like 
 a sister to me. Neither knew how the other 
 lived, neither asked ; and when we were 
 specially unfortunate we wandered by instinct 
 to a certain street, and met by premeditated 
 chance. Then we would talk together for 
 hours, or sit in silence in the shadow of a 
 friendly refuge. She told me her story — a 
 pitiful story, but common : it hardened me 
 the more. I never saw her face by daylight ; 
 a dark shadow encompassed her and her
 
 292 JESSIE TRIM. 
 
 history. ' I am so tired of life I ' she said 
 to me ; ' these stones must be happier than I, 
 for they cannot feel. AVould it be wrong to 
 die?' I drove the thought from her mind. 
 ' Be brave, and play your part/ I said aloud, 
 and added mentally, ' It will not be for long.' 
 I can hear now the faint echo of her dreary 
 laugh at my words, and the strangely-pitiful 
 tone in which she repeated, ' Be brave, and 
 play my part ! ' I knew she would not live 
 long ; a desperate cold had settled on her 
 lungs, and her cough, as we walked the 
 desolate streets or sat in them after mid- 
 night, was a sound to cause the stars to 
 weep. She died in my arms during one of 
 these wanderings. I had no special fore- 
 boding of her death, nor had she, I believe ; 
 she was seized with a violent fit of cough- 
 ing, and she clung to me, as she had often 
 done, for support, then suddenly she fell to 
 the ground, and I saw blood coming from 
 her mouth. 'Don't leave me,' she sighed, 
 almost with her last breath; 'you can do me 
 no 2:ood. Thank God it is over ! ' An in-
 
 JESSIE TRIM. 293 
 
 •quest was held, and I gave evidence. Neces- 
 sarily some particulars concerning my own 
 mode of life came out, and after the inquest 
 a man offered me money. I rejected it ; I 
 had resolved never to accept charity. The 
 man was surprised ; questioned me ; and 
 learning that I was willing to work, offered 
 me employment. I remained with him long 
 enough to clothe myself decently and to sare 
 a, little money, and then I turned my back 
 upon a place which had become hateful to 
 me. It must have been a rumour of my 
 •connection with the poor girl who died in 
 my arms that was twisted to my discredit 
 in my native town, and it was your mention 
 of it that has caused me to drift into details 
 which, when I commenced, I had no inten- 
 tion of relating." 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
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