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diff --git a/43190.txt b/43190.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4431cb0..0000000 --- a/43190.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,16992 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and -Cheese and Kisses., by B. L. (Benjamin Leopold) Farjeon - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and Bread and Cheese and Kisses. - -Author: B. L. (Benjamin Leopold) Farjeon - -Release Date: July 10, 2013 [EBook #43190] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLADE-O'-GRASS. GOLDEN *** - - - - -Produced by Transcribed by Charles Bowen from page images -provided by Google Books (Oxford University) - - - - - - - - - - - -Transcriber's Notes: - - 1. Page scan provided by: - Google Books: http://books.google.com/books?id=ycsBAAAAQAAJ - (Oxford University) - - 2. The diphthong ae is represented by [ae]. - - 3. Table of Contents added by Transcriber. - - - - - -CONTENTS. - - -BLADE-O'-GRASS. - -INTRODUCTION. - - STONEY-ALLEY. - - - -PART I. - - A STRANGE EVENT OCCURS IN STONEY-ALLEY. - - HOW SHE ACQUIRED THE NAME OF BLADE-O'-GRASS. - - THE LEGEND OF THE TIGER. - - THE BATTLE OF LIFE. - - MR. MERRYWHISTLE RELIEVES HIMSELF ON THE SUBJECT OF - INDISCRIMINATE CHARITY. - - MRS. SILVER'S HOME. - - MR. MERRYWHISTLE MEETS THE QUEER LITTLE OLD MAN. - - JIMMY VIRTUE INTRODUCES MR. MERRYWHISTLE TO HIS PLACE - OF BUSINESS. - - THE STRANGE IDEA OF HALLELUJAH ENTERTAINED BY BLADE-O'-GRASS. - - THE INTERLUDE. - - - -PART II. - - THE PRISON WALL. - - ONE OF MANY HAPPY NIGHTS. - - FACE TO FACE--SO LIKE, YET SO UNLIKE. - - ROBERT TRUEFIT ALLOWS HIS FEELINGS TO MASTER HIM. - - TOO LATE. - - HELP THE POOR. - - - - -GOLDEN GRAIN. - - - I. THROUGH COUNTRY ROADS TO SOME GREEN PLEASANT SPOT. - - II. THANK GOD FOR A GOOD BREAKFAST! - - III. THEY LISTENED WITH ALMOST BREATHLESS ATTENTION TO EVERY WORD - THAT FELL FROM HER LIPS. - - IV. FOR MERCY'S SAKE, TELL ME! WHOSE VOICE WAS IT I HEARD JUST NOW? - - V. YOU'RE A PARSON, SIR, AND I PUT IT TO YOU. WHAT DO _YOU_ SAY TO - PARTING MOTHER AND CHILD? - - VI. FOR THESE AND SUCH AS THESE. - - VII. HEALTHY BODY MAKES HEALTHY MIND. - - VIII. THIS 'ERE FREE AND 'LIGHTENED COUNTRY OF OUR'N'S CRAMMED FULL - O' TEMPLES O' LIBERTY. - - IX. OPEN YOUR EYES, BABY! SPEAK TO ME! LOOK AT MOTHER, MY LIFE! - - X. NO, NO! BORN IN LOVE! IN LOVE! - - XI. ONCE UPON A TIME THERE LIVED ON AN ISLAND---- - - XII. IN THE DIM TWILIGHT OF THAT HOLY DAY. - - XIII. HIS SOUL IS IN YOUR HANDS TO SAVE AND PURIFY! - - XIV. IT IS SUNRISE. A GOLDEN MIST IS RISING FROM THE WATERS. - - XV. FAIRHAVEN. - - - - -BREAD AND CHEESE AND KISSES. - -Introduction. - -PART I. - - COME AND SHOW YOUR FACE, LIKE A MAN! - - AND SO THE LAD GOES ON WITH HIS BESSIE AND HIS BESSIE, UNTIL ONE - WOULD THINK HE HAS NEVER A MOTHER IN THE WORLD. - - YOU WORE ROSES THEN, MOTHER. - - IF I DID NOT LOVE HER, I WOULD NOT GO AWAY. - - WITH THE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR, BEGIN A NEW LIFE. - - DEAR LOVE, GOOD-BYE. - - TOTTIE IS READY TO TEAR OLD BEN SPARROW LIMB FROM LIMB. - - HERE AND THERE ARE FORGET-ME-NOTS. - - BATTLEDOOR AND SHUTTLECOCK. - - TOTTIE'S DREAM. - - I CAN SEE YOU NOW, KISSING HER LITTLE TOES. - - ONE KISS FOR HOPE, ONE FOR FAITH, AND ONE FOR LOVE. - - YOU ALONE, AND MY MOTHER, ARE TRUE; ALL THE REST OF THE - WORLD IS FALSE. - - - -PART II. - - THEY SAW, UPON ONE OF THE NEAREST PEAKS, A MAN STANDING, WITH - SUNSET COLOURS ALL AROUND HIM. - - MORE PRECIOUS THAN GOLD, PURER THAN DIAMONDS, ARE THESE SWEET - AND DELICATE WAYS. - - -PART III. - - I HAVE COME TO RETURN YOU SOMETHING. - - WELL, MOTHER, DO YOU WANT ANY WASHING DONE? - - THE MAN IN POSSESSION. - - SOFTLY, SWEETLY, PROCEEDS THE HYMN OF HOME. - - - - - - - -[Frontispiece: "She grew to love these emerald leaves."] - - - - - - - _CHRISTMAS STORIES_. - - * * * * * - - - BLADE-O'-GRASS. GOLDEN GRAIN. - - AND - - BREAD AND CHEESE AND KISSES. - - BY - - B. L. FARJEON, - AUTHOR OF - "GRIF," "JOSHUA MARVEL," AND "LONDON'S HEART." - - * * * * * - - - - - LONDON: - TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND. - 1874. - [_All Rights reserved_.] - - - - - - - BLADE-O'-GRASS. - - By B. L. FARJEON, - AUTHOR OF 'GRIF' and 'JOSHUA MARVEL.' - - -[Illustration] - - - INTRODUCTION. - - STONEY-ALLEY. - - - -[Illustration] - - -In the heart of a very maze of courts and lanes Stoney-alley proclaims -itself. It is one of multitude of deformed thoroughfares, which are -huddled together--by whim, or caprice, or in mockery--in a populous -part of the City, in utter defiance of all architectural rules. It is -regarded as an incontrovertible law, that everything must have a -beginning; and Stoney-alley could not have been an exception to this -law. It is certain that the alley and its surrounding courts and lanes -must once upon a time have been a space where houses were not; where, -perhaps, trees grew, and grass, and flowers. But it is difficult to -imagine; more difficult still to imagine how they were commenced, and -by what gradual means one wretched thoroughfare was added to another, -until they presented themselves to the world in the shapes and forms -they now bear; resembling an ungainly body with numerous limbs, every -one of which is twisted and deformed. Easier to fancy that they and -all the life they bear sprang up suddenly and secretly one dark night, -when Nature was in a sullen mood; and that being where they are, -firmly rooted, they have remained, unchangeable and unchanging, from -generation to generation. Records exist of fair islands rising from -the sea, clothed with verdure and replete with animal fife; but this -is the bright aspect of phenomena which are regarded as delusions by -many sober persons. Putting imagination aside, therefore, as a thing -of small account in these days (if only for the purpose of satisfying -unbelievers), and coming to plain matter of fact, it is not to be -doubted that Stoney-alley and its fellows grew upon earth's surface, -and did sot spring up, ready-made, from below--although, truth to -tell, it was worthy of such a creation. In the natural course of -things, the neighbourhood must have had architects and builders; but -no record of them is extant, and none is necessary for the purposes of -this story. Sufficient that Stoney-alley rears its ugly body--though -lowly withal--in the very heart of London, and that it may be seen any -day in the week in its worst aspect. It has no other: it is always at -its worst. - -Out of it crawl, from sunrise until midnight, men and women, who, when -they emerge into the wide thoroughfare which may be regarded as its -parent, not uncommonly pause for a few moments, or shade their eyes -with their hands, or look about them strangely, as if they have -received a surprise, or as if the different world in which they find -themselves requires consideration. Into it crawl, from sunrise until -midnight, the same men and women, who, it may be observed, draw their -breath more freely when they are away from the wide thoroughfares, and -who plunge into Stoney-alley as dusty, heat-worn travellers might -plunge into a refreshing bath, where the cool waters bring relief to -the parched skin. What special comfort these men and women find there, -would be matter for amazement to hundreds of thousands of other men -and women whose ways of life, happily, lie in pleasanter places. But -Stoney-alley, to these crawlers, is Home. - -Its houses could never have been bright; its pavements and roads--for -it has those, though rough specimens, like their treaders--could never -have been fresh. Worn-out stones and bricks, having served their time -elsewhere and been cashiered, were probably brought into requisition -here to commence a new and unclean life. No cart had ever been seen in -Stoney-alley: it was too narrow for one. A horse had once lived -there--a spare sad blind horse belonging to a costermonger, who worked -his patient servant sixteen hours a-day, and fed it upon Heaven knows -what. It was a poor patient creature; and as it trudged along, with -its head down, it seemed by its demeanour to express an understanding -of its meanness. That it was blind may have been a merciful -dispensation; for, inasmuch as we do not know for certain whether such -beasts can draw comparisons as well as carts, it may have been spared -the pangs of envy and bitterness, which it might have experienced at -the sight of the well-fed horses that passed it on the road. It was as -thin as a live horse well could be--so thin, that a cat might have -been forgiven for looking at it with contempt, as being likely to -serve no useful purpose after its worldly trudgings were ended. Its -mane was the raggedest mane that ever was seen; and it had no tail. -What of its hair had not been appropriated by its master the -costermonger, had been plucked out ruthlessly, from time to time, by -sundry boys and girls in Stoney-alley--being incited thereto by an -ingenious youth, who plaited the horsehair into watchguards, and who -paid his young thieves in weak liquorice-water, at the rate of a -teaspoonful for every dozen hairs--long ones--from the unfortunate -horse's tail. For years had this poor beast been wont to stumble over -the stones in Stoney-alley when its day's work was over, and wait like -a human being before its master's house for the door to open--rubbing -its nose gently up and down the panels when a longer delay than usual -occurred. The door being opened, it used to enter the narrow passage, -and fill the house with thunderous sound as it walked into a little -dirty yard, where a few charred boards (filched from a fire) had been -tacked together in the form of a shed, which offered large hospitality -to wind and rain. In this shed the wretched beast took its ease and -enjoyed its leisure, and died one night so quietly and unexpectedly, -that the costermonger, when he learnt the fact in the morning, cursed -it for an ungrateful 'warmint,' and declared that if his dumb servant -had yesterday shown any stronger symptoms of dying than it had usually -exhibited, he would have sold it for 'two-pun-ten to Jimmy the -Tinman.' So deeply was he impressed by the ingratitude of the animal, -that he swore he would have nothing more to do with the breed; and he -bought a donkey--a donkey with such a vicious temper, and such an -obstinate disposition, that the costermonger, in his endeavours to -render it submissive, became as fond of it as if it were one of his -own kindred, and soon grew to treat it in exactly the same manner as -he treated his wife. It would have been difficult, indeed, to decide -which was the more important creature of the two--the wife or the -donkey; for on two distinct occasions the costermonger was summoned -before magistrate--once for ill-treating his wife, and once for -ill-treating his donkey--and the sentence pronounced on each occasion -was precisely the same. It may be noted as a curious contrast -(affording no useful lesson that I am aware of), that when the -costermonger came out of prison for ill-treating his wife, he went -home and beat the poor creature unmercifully, who sat sobbing her -heart out in a corner the while; and that when he came out of prison -for ill-treating his donkey, he went into the rickety shed in his -back-yard and belaboured the obstinate brute with a heavy stick. But -the donkey, cunning after its kind, watched its opportunity, and gave -the costermonger such a spiteful kick, that he walked lame for three -months afterwards. - -It would be unfair to the costermonger not to state, that he was not -the only husband in those thoroughfares who was in the habit of -beating his wife. He was but one of a very numerous Brute family, in -whose breasts mercy finds no dwelling-place, and who marry and bring -up children in their own form and likeness, morally as well as -physically. It is to be lamented that, when the inhumanity of the -members of this prolific family is brought before the majesty of the -law for judgment--as is done every day of our lives--the punishment -meted out is generally light and insignificant as compared to the -offence. Yet it may be answered, that these wife-beaters and general -Brutes were children once; and the question may be asked, Whether, -taking into consideration that no opportunity was offered to them of -acquiring a knowledge of a better condition of things, they are fully -responsible for their actions now that they are men? We wage war -against savage beasts for our own protection. But how about savage -men, who might have been taught better--who might have been humanised? -We press our thumb upon them, and make laws to punish the exercise of -their lawless passions. But have they no case against us? Is all the -right on our side, and all the wrong on theirs? That the problem is an -old one, is the more to be lamented; every year, nay, every hour, its -roots are striking deeper and deeper into the social stratum. The -proverb, 'when things are quiet, let them be quiet,' is a bad proverb, -like many others which are accepted as wisdom's essence. Not by a -man's quiet face, but by his busy brain and heart, do we judge him. If -there be benevolence in statesmanship, the problem should be -considered in its entirety, without delay. By and by it may be too -late. - - - - - PART I. - - - - - A STRANGE EVENT OCCURS IN STONEY-ALLEY. - - -Delicate feather-flakes of snow were floating gently down over all the -City. In some parts the snow fell white and pure, and so remained for -many hours. In other parts, no sooner did it reach the ground than it -was converted into slush--losing its purity, and becoming instantly -defiled. This was its fate in Stoney-alley; yet even there, as it -rested upon the roofs and eaves, it was fresh and beautiful for a -time. In which contrasted aspects a possible suggestion might arise of -the capability of certain things for grace and holiness, if they are -not trodden into the mire. - -An event had just occurred in Stoney-alley which was the occasion of -much excitement. This was nothing more or less than the birth of -twin-girls in one of the meanest houses in the alley. The mother, a -poor sickly woman, whose husband had deserted her, was so weakened and -prostrated by her confinement, and by the want of nourishing food, -that she lived but a dozen days after the birth of her babes. No one -knew where the father was; he and his wife had not lived long in the -neighbourhood, and what was known of him was not to his credit, -although with a certain class he was not unpopular. He was lazy, surly -fellow, who passed his waking hours in snarling at the better -condition of things by which he was surrounded. The sight of carriage -made his blood boil with envy; notwithstanding which he took delight -in walking in the better thoroughfares of the City, and feeding his -soul with the bitter sight of well-dressed people and smiling faces. -Then he would come back to his proper home, and snarl at society to -pot-house audiences, and in his own humble room would make his unhappy -wife unhappier by his reviling and discontent He called himself -working-man, but had as much right to the title as the vagabond-beggar -who, dressed in broadcloth, is wheeled about in an easy-chair, in the -West-end of London, and who (keeping a sharp look-out for the police -the while) exhibits placard proclaiming himself to be a respectable -commercial traveller, who has lost the use of his limbs. He traded -upon the title, however, and made some little money out of it, hoping -by and by to make more, when he had become sufficiently notorious as a -public agitator. In the mean time, he (perhaps out of revenge upon -society) deserted his wife when she was near her confinement, and left -her to the mercy of strangers. She could not very well have fared -worse than she did in that tender charge. She bore two babes, and died -without a sign. - -The mother was buried the day before Christmas, and the babes were -left to chance charity. There were many women lodgers in the house in -which the twin-girls had been born; but not one of them was rich -enough to take upon herself the encumbrance of two such serious -responsibilities. The station-house was spoken of, the Foundling, the -workhouse; but not a soul was daring enough to carry out one of the -suggestions. This arose from a fear of consequences--in the shape -perhaps of an acknowledged personal responsibility, which might prove -troublesome in the event of the station-house, the workhouse, or the -Foundling refusing to take charge of the infants. Moses in the -bulrushes was not in a worse plight than these unfortunate babes in -Stoney-alley. - -What on earth was to be done with them? Every person in the house -might get into trouble, if they were left to die. The house, small as -it was, accommodated five or six distinct families--each occupying -room--in addition to two bachelors--one a vagrant, the other hawker in -cheap glassware. These last could not be expected to assume the -slightest shadow of responsibility. At length, a bright idea struck a -charitable woman in the house. Armed only with calico apron with a -large bib and an immense pocket in front (like stomacher), the -charitable soul went about to solicit contributions in aid of the -infants. As she walked round and about the narrow alleys and courts, -soliciting from everybody, she made quite a stir in the neighbourhood -by the vigorous manner in which she rattled the coppers in her -capacious pocket. A great many gave, farthings and halfpence being in -the ascendant--the largest contribution being given by the bachelor -vagrant above mentioned, who gave twopence with the air of a -gentleman--better still, with the true spirit of one; for he gave more -than he could afford, and took no glory to himself for the action. -Attracted by the rattle of the coppers, a singular-looking little man, -with a shrivelled face, came to the door of his shop, and was -instantly accosted by the kindhearted soul. - -'_You'll_ give a copper or two, I know, Mr. Virtue,' said the woman. - -'Then you know more than I do,' replied the man. 'I don't give. I -lend.' - -'What'll you lend on 'em, then?' asked the woman good-humouredly. - -'Lend on what?' - -'On the poor little twins that was born in our house a fortnight ago?' - -'O, that's what you're up to,' exclaimed the man, whose eyes were the -most extraordinary pair that ever were seen in human face--for one was -as mild as London milk, and the other glared like fury. 'That's what -you're up to. Collectin' for them brats afore they learn to tell lies -for theirselves.' - -'They're as sweet a pair as ever you see,' said the woman. 'Just give -it a thought, Mr. Virtue; you're a man o' sense----' - -'Yah!' from the man, in the most contemptuous of tones, and with the -fiercest of glares from his furious eye. - -'There they are, without mother, as 'elpless as 'elpless can be,' -persisted the woman, with wonderful display of cheerfulness. 'Come, -now, you'll give a copper although you _do_ look so grumpy.' - -The cynic turned into his dark shop at this last appeal, but as he -turned a penny dropped from his pocket. The woman picked it up with a -pleasant laugh, and adding it to her store proceeded on her charitable -mission. But industrious and assiduous as she was, the sum-total -collected was very small; about sufficient to keep the infants for -half a week. The kindhearted woman took the babes, and nursed them -_pro tem_. She had a family of dirty children of her own, who were -bringing themselves up in the gutters; for she could not attend to -them, so fully was her time occupied in other ways. She could not, -therefore, be expected to take permanent charge of the motherless -babes. And so her husband told her, grumblingly, when he came home -from his work on Christmas-eve. All that she said was, 'Poor little -things!' and fell to--rough as she was--detecting imaginary beauties -in the babies' faces--a common trick of mothers, which no man can -afford to be cross with, especially in his own wife, and the woman who -has borne him children. - -'Can't put 'em out in the cold, the pretty dears!' said the woman -tenderly. - -'We've got enough of our own,' responded her husband not unkindly, and -yet with a certain firmness; 'and there's more coming--worse luck!' -But these last two words he said beneath his breath, and his wife did -not hear them. - -'All the more reason for being kind to these,' said the woman. -'They'll be handsome girls when they grow up. Look'ee here, Sam, this -one's got a dimple, just like--like----' Her voice trailed off softly, -and her husband knew that she was thinking of their first-born, that -had lived but a few weeks. - -I am aware that it is the fashion with a large class to regard the -portrayal of sentiment among very common people as fanciful and untrue -to nature. I differ from this class, I am glad to say. True love for -women, and true tenderness for children, are common to all of us, -whether high or low. Cynics cannot alter what is natural--in others. - -The man felt kindly towards his wife and the babes, but he was not at -all inclined to saddle himself with a couple of ready-made infants. He -saw, however, that his wife was in a foolishly tender mood, and he let -the subject drop for the present. - -It may have been eight o'clock in the white night, and the bright snow -was still falling like feathers from angels' wings, when at the door -of the house in which the twins had been born and the mother had died, -a lady and gentleman stopped, and, obtaining entrance, asked for the -landlady. Unmistakably lady and gentleman, though plainly dressed. Not -highly born, but as truly lady and gentleman as the best in the land. -They were strangers to the landlady of the house; but she rose the -instant they entered her apartment, and remained standing during the -interview. - -'We have to apologise for this intrusion,' commenced the lady, in a -gentle voice; 'but although we are strangers to you, we are not here -out of rudeness.' - -'I'm sure of that, ma'am,' replied the landlady, dusting two chairs -with her apron. 'Will you and the gentleman take a seat?' - -'This is my husband,' said the lady, seating herself. 'Every year, on -the anniversary of this evening, with the exception of last year, we -have been in the habit of coming to some such place as this, where -only poor people live----' - -'Ah, you may say that, ma'am! The poorest!' - -----'It is so, unfortunately. God help them! Every year until the last -we have been in the habit of coming to some such place in furtherance -of a scheme--a whim, perhaps, you'll call it--the development of which -gives us the chief pleasure of our lives. We have no family of our -own, no children that can properly call me mother and my husband -father; so every year we adopt one and bring it up. We have six now, -as many as we have been able to keep; for last year we lost part of -our means through unwise speculation, for which I and my husband were -equally to blame----' - -'I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am,' interposed the landlady -sympathisingly, standing in an attentive attitude, with the corner of -her apron between her fingers. - -'And having as many little responsibilities on us as our means would -enable us to take proper care of, we were unable to add another to our -family of little ones. But this year a fortunate thing has occurred to -us. A kind friend has placed a small sum at our disposal, which will -enable us to take a seventh child, and rear it in comfort and -respectability.' - -'And a lucky child that seventh 'ull be,' remarked the landlady. 'I'm -a seventh child myself, and so was my mother before me, and we was -both born on a 7th.' - -The lady smiled, and continued, - -'Every child we have is an orphan, without father or mother, which we -believe to be necessary for the proper furtherance of our scheme. We -feed them and nourish them properly--indeed, as if they were really -our own--and when they are old enough, they will be put to some -respectable occupation, which will render them independent of the -world. Among the many poor children round about here, do you know of -one who, having no natural protectors, would be bettered by coming -under our charge? These letters will satisfy you of our fitness for -the task, and that we are in earnest.' - -'Lord bless me!' exclaimed the landlady, impelled to that exclamation -by sudden thought of the twins upstairs, and not casting a glance at -the papers which were placed in her hands. 'You don't mean what you -say?' - -'Indeed, we do. You will be kind enough to understand that we do not -desire to take a child who has parents living, but one whom hard -circumstance has placed in the world friendless and alone. These poor -courts and alleys abound in children----' - -'Ah, that they do; and a nice pest they are, a many on 'em. They're as -thick as fleas.' - -----'And at this season it is good to think of them, and to try to do -some little thing in their behalf. It is but little that we can -do--very, very little. Do you know of such a child as we seek for -now?' - -'A girl? - -'A girl or boy.' - -'God Almighty bless you, ma'am!' cried the landlady. 'Stop here -minute, and I'll let you know.' - - -[Illustration] - - -She ran in haste upstairs to where her kind-hearted lodger was nursing -the twins. - -'I beg you a thousand pardons, Mrs. Manning,' she said, panting, 'and -you too, Mr. Manning, and I wish you a merry Christmas, and many on -'em! I'm that out of breath and that astonished, that I don't know if -I'm on my head or my heels. Stay a minute, my good souls; I'll be back -in a jiffey.' - -With that, she ran out of the room and downstairs, to assure herself -that her visitors had not flown, or that she had not been dreaming. -Having satisfied herself she ran upstairs again, and sat down, in -more panting state than before. - -'I thought I was dreaming, and that they was apparitions.' she gasped. - -Mr. Manning, being one of those Englishmen who look upon their -habitations as their castles, was inclined to resent these intrusions. -Unconsciously throwing a large amount of aggressiveness in his tone -and manner, he asked his landlady if he owed her any rent, and -received for answer, No, that he didn't, and the expression of a wish -that everybody was like him in this respect. - -'Very well, then,' said Mr. Manning, not at all mollified by the -landlady's compliment, and speaking so surlily that (as the landlady -afterwards said, in relating the circumstance) if it had not been for -her being out of breath and for thinking of those two precious babes, -he would have 'put her back up' there and then; 'if I don't owe you -anything, what do you mean by coming bouncing into my room in this -manner?' - -'I asks your pardon,' said the landlady, with dignity; but instantly -softening as she thought of her visitors down-stairs; 'but you've got -a 'art in your bosom, and you've got the feelings of a father. The -long and the short of it is'----and here she proceeded to explain the -visit she had had, and the object of her visitors. 'Ah, Mr. Manning,' -she continued, following the direction of his eyes towards the two -babes lying in his wife's lap, 'you've got the same idea as I had in -coming up here. Here's these two blessed babes, with no mother, and no -father to speak of; for I don't believe he'll ever turn up. What's to -become of 'em? Who's to take care of 'em? I'm sure you can't.' - -'No, that I can't; and don't intend to.' - -'And no one expects you, sir. You've got a big-enough family of your -own. Well, here's this lady and gentleman setting downstairs this -blessed minute as wants a child, and as'll do what's right and proper -by it.' - -'But there's a pair of 'em. Won't they take the two?' - -'One they said, and one they mean. They can't hardly afford that, they -said. And I'm as certain as I am that I'm setting here, that if they -knew there was two of 'em, they wouldn't part 'em for the world. No, -they'd go somewhere else; and the chance 'd be lost.' - -'But they want a child that ain't got no father nor mother. Now, these -young uns have a father; and that you know.' - -'No, I don't; I don't know nothing of the kind. 'Taint the first story -I've told by a many,' said the landlady, in answer to Mr. Manning's -look of astonishment; 'and I don't mind telling this one to do a -little baby good.' - -'What's to become of the other? 'We'll look after her between us. - -One'll take her one day, and one another. Lord bless you, Mr. -Manning, we shall be able to manage.' - -'And if the father comes back?' - -'I'll get the lady's address, and give it to him; and then he can do -as he likes.' - -'It's the best thing that can be done; said Mr. Manning; 'though I've -nothing to do with it, mind you; it's none of my business. I've got -troubles enough of my own. But it ain't every young un that gets such -a chance.' - -'No, that it ain't;' and the landlady pulled her chair close to that -of Mrs. Manning. 'Which shall it be, my dear?' - -This proved to be a very difficult question to answer. First they -decided that it was to be this one, then that; then soft-hearted Mrs. -Manning began to cry, and said it was a sin to part them. And the -babes lay sleeping unconsciously the while this momentous point was -being discussed, the decision of which might condemn one to want and -dirt and misery--to crime perhaps--and the other to a career where -good opportunity might produce a happy and virtuous life. At length it -was decided, and one was chosen; but when the landlady prepared to -take the child, she found that the fingers of the babes were tightly -interlaced; so she left them in Mrs. Manning's lap, with instructions -to get the chosen one ready, and went down to her visitors. - -'Poor child!' said the lady, at the conclusion of the landlady's -recital; 'and the mother was only buried yesterday!' - -'Only yesterday, ma'am,' responded the landlady; 'and the dear little -thing is left without a friend. There's not one of us that wouldn't be -glad to take care of it; but we're too poor, ma'am; and that's the -fact.' - -'The child's younger than we could have wished,' mused the lady, with -a glance at her husband; 'but it would seem like a cruel desertion, -now that we have heard its sad story.' - -Her husband nodded, and the landlady, keenly watchful, said eagerly: - -'I'll bring it down to you, ma'am. One of the lodgers is nursing it; -but her husband's grumbling at her, and making her miserable about it -He says he's got enough of his own; and so he has.' - -By this time Mrs. Manning had the baby ready--she had dressed the -child in some old baby-clothes of her own--and before she let it go -out of her arms, she said, as if the little thing could understand: - -'Kiss sister, baby. You'll never see her again, perhaps; and if you -do, you won't know her.' - -She placed their lips close together; and at that moment they opened -their eyes, and smiled prettily on one another. The man and the two -women stood by, gazing earnestly at the babes. Tears were in Mrs. -Manning's eyes, as she witnessed the strange parting; the landlady was -silent and pensive; and the man, with his hands behind him, seemed to -be suddenly engrossed in the consideration of some social problem, -which he found too perplexing for him. His wife raised the fortunate -babe to his face. - -'A happy New-year to you, little un,' said the not unkindly man, as he -kissed the child. - -'Suppose they were our'n, Sam,' said his wife, softly and tearfully; -'we shouldn't like this to happen.' - -'But they're not our'n,' replied her husband; 'and that makes all the -difference.' - -And yet there was a wistful expression on his face, as the landlady -took the baby out of the room. - -'I've kept the prettiest one,' his wife whispered to him--'the one -with the dimple.' - - -The lady and gentleman--she with her new charge wrapped in her warm -shawl, and pressed closely to her bosom--walked briskly through the -cold air towards their home, which lay in a square, about a mile -from Stoney-alley. In the centre of the square was a garden, the -wood-growth in which, though bare of leaves, looked as beautiful in -their white mantle as ever they had done in their brightest summer. -The snow-lined trees stood out boldly, yet gracefully, and their every -branch, fringed in purest white, was an emblem of loveliness. They -gleamed grandly in the moon's light, mute witnesses of the greatness -of Him whose lightest work is an evidence of perfect wisdom and -goodness. - - - - HOW SHE ACQUIRED THE NAME OF BLADE-O'-GRASS. - - -Thus, whilst one little babe was tended and watched by benevolent -hands and eyes, the fate of the other--the prettier one, she with the -unfortunate dimple--was intrusted to the shapeless hands of chance. To -such tender care as had happily fallen to its lot, the fortunate one -may be left for a time. Turn we to the other, and watch its strange -bringing-up. - -Proverbially, too many cooks spoil the broth; and this forlorn babe -was left to the care of too many cooks, who, however, in this -instance, did not spoil the broth by meddling with it, but by almost -utterly neglecting it. The landlady's declaration that 'We'll look -after her between us; one'll take her one day, and one another,' -although uttered in all sincerity, turned out badly in its -application. What is everybody's business is nobody's business, and -for the most part the babe was left to take care of herself. For a -little while Mrs. Manning was the child's only friend; but in the -course of a couple of months she fulfilled her husband's apprehension, -and added another bantling to his already overstocked quiver. This new -arrival (which, it must be confessed, was not received with gratitude -by its father) was so fractious, and so besieged by a complication of -infantile disorders, that all Mrs. Manning's spare moments were fully -occupied, and she had none to devote to other people's children. The -motherless child threatened to fare badly indeed. But now and again a -mother who had lost her offspring came to the little stranger and -suckled her; so that she drew life from many bosoms, and may be said -to have had at least a score of wet-nurses. And thus she grew up -almost literally in the gutters, no one owning her, no one really -caring for her; and yet she throve, as weeds thrive--while her sister, -not a mile away, throve, in the care of kind friends, as flowers -thrive. Born in equality, with the same instincts for good and evil, -with the same capacity for good and evil, equally likely to turn out -good or bad, should it have been left entirely to chance that one -might live to prove a blessing, and the other a curse, to society? But -so it was. - -One of the most curious circumstances connected with the little -outcast was, that she was not known by any settled name. It grew to be -a fashion to call her by all sorts of names--now Polly, now Sally, now -Young Hussy, now Little Slut, and by a dozen others, not one of which -remained to her for any length of time. But when she was three years -of age, an event occurred which played the part of godmothers and -godfathers to her, and which caused her to receive a title by which -she was always afterwards known. - -There was not a garden in Stoney-alley. Not within the memory of -living man had a flower been known to bloom there. There were many -poor patches of ground, crowded as the neighbourhood was, which might -have been devoted to the cultivation of a few bright petals; but they -were allowed to lie fallow, festering in the sun. Thought of graceful -form and colour had never found expression there. Strange, therefore, -that one year, when Summer was treading close upon the heel of Spring, -sending warm sweet winds to herald her coming, there should spring up, -in one of the dirtiest of all the backyards in Stoney-alley, two or -three Blades of Grass. How they came there, was a mystery. No human -hand was accountable for their presence. It may be that a bird, flying -over the place, had mercifully dropped a seed; or that a kind wind had -borne it to the spot. But however they came, there they were, these -Blades of Grass, peeping up from the ground shyly and wonderingly, and -giving promise of bright colour, even in the midst of the unwholesome -surroundings. Our little castaway--she was no better--now three years -of age, was sprawling in this dirty backyard with a few other -children, all of them regular students of Dirt College. Attracted by -the little bit of colour, she crawled to the spot where it shone in -the light, and straightway fell to watching it and inhaling, quite -unconsciously, whatever of grace it possessed. Once or twice she -touched the tender blades, and seemed to be pleased to find them soft -and pliant. The other children, delighted at having the monopoly of a -gutter, that ran through the yard, did not disturb her; and so she -remained during the day, watching and wondering; and fell asleep by -the side of the Blades of Grass, and dreamed perhaps of brighter -colours and more graceful forms than had ever yet found place in her -young imagination. The next day she made her way again to the spot, -and seeing that the blades had grown a little, wondered and wondered, -and unconsciously exercised that innate sense of worship of the -beautiful which is implanted in every nature, and which causes the -merest babes to rejoice at light, and shapes of beauty, and harmony of -sound. What is more wonderful, in the eyes of a babe, than vivid -colour or light, however kindled? what more sweet to its senses than -that perfect harmony of sound which falls upon its ears as the mother -sings softly and lulls her darling to sleep? This latter blessing had -never fallen to the lot of our child; but colour and light were given -to her, and she was grateful for them. She grew to love these emerald -leaves, and watched them day after day, until the women round about -observed and commented upon her strange infatuation. But one evening, -when the leaves were at their brightest and strongest, a man, running -hastily through the yard, crushed the blades of grass beneath his -heel, and tore them from the earth. The grief of the child was -intense. She cast a passionate yet bewildered look at the man, and -picking up the torn soiled blades, put them in the breast of her -ragged frock, in the belief that warmth would bring them back to life. -She went to bed with the mangled leaves in her hot hand, and when she -looked at them the next morning, they bore no resemblance to the -bright leaves which had been such a delight to her. She went to the -spot where they had grown, and cried without knowing why; and the man -who had destroyed the leaves happening to pass at the time, she struck -at him with her little fists. He pushed her aside rather roughly with -his foot, and Mrs. Manning, seeing this, and having also seen the -destruction of the leaves, and the child's worship of them, blew him -up for his unkindness. He merely laughed, and said he wouldn't have -done it if he had looked where he was going, and that it was a good -job for the child that she wasn't a Blade-o'-Grass herself, or she -might have been trodden down with the others. The story got about the -alley, and one and another, at first in fun or derision, began to call -the child Little Blade-o'-Grass, until, in course of time, it came to -be recognised as her regular name, and she was known by it all over -the neighbourhood. So, being thus strangely christened, Little -Blade-o'-Grass grew in years and in ignorance, and became a worthy -member of Dirt College, in which school she was matriculated for the -battle of life. - - - - THE LEGEND OF THE TIGER. - - -At a very early age indeed was Blade-o'-Grass compelled to begin the -battle of life. Her greatest misfortune was that, as she grew in -years, she grew strong. Had she been a weakly little thing, some one -might have taken pity on her, and assumed the responsibility of -maintaining her. The contingency was a remote one; but all chance of -benefiting by it was utterly destroyed, because she was strong and -hardy. She may be said to have had some sort of a home up to the time -that she attained the age of nine years; for a corner for her to sleep -in was always found in the house in which she was born. But about that -time certain important changes took place, which materially affected -her, although she had no hand in them. The landlady gave up the house, -and some one else took it, and turned it into a shop. The lodgers all -received notice to leave, and went elsewhere to live. A great slice of -luck fell to the share of Mr. Manning. An uncle whom he had never seen -died in a distant land, and left his money to his relatives; and a -shrewd lawyer made good pickings by hunting up nephews and nieces of -the deceased. Among the rest, he hunted up Mr. Manning, and one day he -handed his client a small sum of money. Mr. Manning put his suddenly -acquired wealth to a good purpose--he got passage in a government -emigrant ship, and with his wife and large family, bade good-bye for -ever to Stoney-alley. He left the country, as hundreds and thousands -of others have done, with a bitter feeling in his heart because he was -not able to stop in it, and earn a decent livelihood; but, as hundreds -and thousands of others have done, he lived this feeling down, and in -his new home, with better prospects and better surroundings, talked of -his native land--meaning Stoney-alley--as the 'old country,' in terms -of affection and as if he had been treated well in it. It will be -easily understood that when Blade-o'-Grass lost Mrs. Manning, she lost -her best friend. - -To say that she passed an easy life up to this point of her career -would be to state what is false. The child was in continual disgrace, -and scarcely a day passed that was not watered with her tears. Blows, -smacks, and harsh words were administered to her freely, until she -grew accustomed to them, and they lost their moral force. She deserved -them, for she was the very reverse of a good little girl. In a great -measure her necessities made her what she was, and no counteracting -influence for good approached her. If she were sent for beer, she -would stop at corners, and taste and sip, and bring home short -measure. There was something fearful in her enjoyment; but she had no -power nor desire to resist the temptation. No tragedy queen, before -the consummation of the final horror, ever looked round with more -watchful, wary, fearsome gaze than did Blade-o'-Grass, when, having -nerved her soul to take a sip of beer, she stopped at a convenient -corner, or in the shadow of a dark doorway, to put her desire into -execution. And then she was always breaking things. The mugs she let -fall would have paved Stoney-alley. But there was a greater temptation -than beer: Bread. If she were sent for a half-quartern loaf, she -would not fail to dig out with liberal fingers the soft portions -between the crusts, and eagerly devour them. Even if she had not been -hungry--which would have been a white-letter day in her existence--she -would have done from habit what she almost invariably was urged to do -by the cravings of her stomach. And about that unfortunate stomach of -hers, calumnies were circulated and believed in. So persistent an -eater was Blade-o'-Grass, so conscientious a devourer of anything -that, legitimately or otherwise, came in her way--quality being not of -the slightest object--that a story got about that she had 'something' -in her inside, some living creature of a ravenous nature, that waited -for the food as she swallowed it, and instantly devoured it for its -own sustenance. Such things had been known of. At some remote period a -girl in the neighbourhood--whose personality was never traced, but -whom everybody believed in--had had such an animal--a few called it a -'wolf,' but the majority insisted that it was a 'tiger'--growing -inside of her, and this animal, so the story went, grew and grew, and -fed upon the girl's life till it killed her. The 'tiger' had been -found alive after the girl's death, and having been purchased of some -one for a fabulous price, was embalmed in a bottle in a great museum, -of which nobody knew the name or the whereabouts. As an allegory, this -'tiger' might have served to illustrate the mournful story of the -lives of Blade-o'-Grass and thousands of her comrades--it might have -served, indeed, to point a bitter moral; but there was nothing -allegorical about the inhabitants of Stoney-alley. They only dealt in -hard matter-of-fact, and the mythical story was fully believed in; and -being applied to the case of Blade-o'-Grass, became a great terror to -her. Many persons found delight in tormenting the helpless child about -her 'tiger,' and for a long time the slightest allusion to it was -sufficient to cause her the most exquisite anguish, in consequence of -certain malevolent declarations, that she ought to be cut open -and have the tiger taken out of her. Indeed, one miserable old -fellow, who kept a rag-shop, and who had in his window two or three -dust-coated bottles containing common-place reptiles preserved in -spirits-of-wine, took a malicious pleasure in declaring that the -operation ought to be really performed upon Blade-o'-Grass, and that, -in the interests of science, she ought not to be allowed to live. It -was the cruelest of sport thus to torture the poor child; for the -simple fact was, that Blade-o'-Grass was nearly always hungry. It was -nature tugging at her stomach--not a tiger. - -The very first night of Mrs. Manning's departure, Blade-o'-Grass found -herself without a bed. With a weary wretched sense of desolation upon -her, she lingered about the old spot where she used to sleep, and even -ventured to enter at the back of the house, when the sharp 'Come, get -out o' this!' of the new proprietor sent her flying away. She belonged -to nobody, and nobody cared for her; so she wandered and lingered -about until all the lights in the shops and houses were out. She had -gleaned some small pleasure in watching these lights; she had found -comfort in them; and when they were all extinguished and she was in -darkness, she trembled under the impulse of a vague terror. She did -not cry; it was not often now that she called upon the well of tender -feeling where tears lay; but she was terrified. There was not a star -in the sky to comfort her. She was in deep darkness, body and soul. -How many others are there at this present moment in the same terrible -condition? - - -[Illustration] - - -Too full of fear to stand upright, she crept along the ground slowly, -feeling her way by the walls, stopping every now and then to gather -fresh courage, at which time she tried to shut out her fears by -cowering close to the flagstones and hiding her face in her ragged -frock. She had a purpose in view. She had thought of a refuge where -she would find some relief from the terrible shadows. Towards that -refuge she was creeping now. It was a long, long time before she -reached her haven--a crazy old lamp-post, the dim light of which was -in keeping with the general poverty of its surroundings. At the foot -of this lamp-post, clasping it as if it were the symbol of a sacred -refuge, Blade-o'-Grass looked up at the light in agony of speechless -gratitude, and then, wearied almost to a state of unconsciousness, -coiled herself up into a ball, like a hedgehog, and soon was fast -asleep. - - - - THE BATTLE OF LIFE. - - -What followed? Remorseless Time pursued his way, and the minutes, -light to some, heavy to some, leaving in their track a train of woe -and joy, and grief and happiness; the leaden minutes, the golden -minutes, flew by until daylight came and woke the sleeping child. -Unwashed--but that was her chronic condition, and did not affect -her--forlorn, uncared-for, Blade-o'-Grass looked round upon her world, -and rubbed her eyes, and yawned; then, after a time, rose to her feet, -and cast quick eager glances about her. The tiger in her stomach was -awake and stirring, and Blade-o'-Grass had no food to give it to -satisfy its cravings. She prowled up and down, and round and about the -dirty courts, in search of something to eat; anything would have more -than contented her--mouldy crust, refuse food; but the stones of -Stoney-alley and its fellows were merciless, and no manna fell from -heaven to bless the famished child. She would have puzzled the wisest -philosopher in social problems, if he were not utterly blinded by -theory; for, looking at her from every aspect, and taking into -account, not only that she was endowed with mental, moral, and -physical faculties, but that she was a human being with a soul 'to be -saved,' he could have produced but one result from her--a yearning for -food. He could have struck no other kind of fire from out of this -piece of flint. What resemblance did Blade-o'-Grass bear to that -poetical image which declared her to be noble in reason, infinite in -faculty, express and admirable in form and bearing; like an angel in -action; like a god in apprehension? The beauty of the world! the -paragon of animals! Perhaps it will be best for us not to examine too -curiously, for there is shame in the picture of this child-girl -prowling about for food. Poor Blade-o'-Grass! with every minute the -tiger in her stomach grew more rabid, and tore at her vitals -tigerishly. In the afternoon she found a rotten apple in the gutter, -and she stooped and picked it up, joy glistening in her eyes. It was a -large apple, fortunately, and she devoured it eagerly, and afterwards -chewed the stalk. That was all the food she got that day; and when -night came, and she had watched the lights out, she coiled herself up -into a ball by the side of her lamp-post again and slept, and awoke in -the morning, sick with craving. Yesterday's experience whispered to -her not to look about for food in Stoney-alley; and she walked, with -painful steps into the wider thoroughfare, and stopped for a few -minutes to recover herself from her astonishment at the vast world in -which she found herself. She would have been content to stop there all -the day, but that the tiger cried for food, and she cried for food in -sympathy with the tiger. Keeping her eyes fixed upon the ground, and -never once raising her pitiful face to the faces that flashed past -her, hither and thither, she faltered onwards for a hundred yards or -so, and then, in a frightened manner, retraced her steps, so that she -should not lose herself. 'Give me food!' cried the tiger, and 'Give me -food!' cried Blade-o'-Grass from the innermost depths of her soul. At -about ten o'clock in the morning, her cry was answered; she saw a -cats'-meat man with a basket full of skewered meat hanging upon his -arm. Instinctively she followed him, and watched the cats running to -the doors at the sound of his voice, and waiting with arched backs and -dilating eyes for his approach. Blade-o'-Grass wished with all her -heart and soul that _she_ were a cat, so that she might receive her -portion upon a skewer; but no such happiness was hers. She followed -the man wistfully and hungeringly, until he stopped at the door of a -house where there were evidently arrears of account to be settled. He -placed his basket upon the doorstep, and went into the passage to give -some change to the woman of the house. Here was an opportunity for -Blade-o'-Grass. She crept stealthily and fearfully towards the basket, -and snatching up two portions of cats'-meat, ran for her life, with -her stolen food hidden in her tattered frock--ran until she reached -Stoney-alley, where she sank to the ground with her heart leaping at -her throat, and where, after recovering her breath, she devoured her -ill-gotten meat with unbounded satisfaction. She had no idea that she -had done a wrong thing. She was hungry, and had simply taken food when -the opportunity presented itself. The fear by which she had been -impressed had not sprung from any moral sense, but partly from the -thought that the man would hurt her if he caught her taking his -property, and partly from the thought (more agonising than the other) -that she might be prevented from carrying out her design. The next day -she watched for and followed the cats'-meat man again, and again was -successful in obtaining a meal; and so on for a day or two afterwards. -But the food was not over nice, and the tiger whispered to her that a -change would be agreeable. Success made her bold, and she looked about -her for other prey. Her first venture, after the cats'-meat man lost -her patronage, was an old woman who kept an apple-stall, and who went -to sleep as regularly as clockwork every afternoon at three o'clock -and woke at five. But even in her sleep this old apple-woman seemed to -be wary, and now and then would mumble out with drowsy energy, 'Ah, -would yer? I sees yer!' as if the knowledge that she was surrounded by -suspicious characters whose mouths watered for her fruit had eaten -into her soul. But as these exclamations to terrify poachers were -mumbled out when the old woman really was in an unconscious state, she -fell an easy victim to Blade-o'-Grass. She was a great treasure to the -little girl, for she dealt in nuts and oranges as well as apples. Then -there was a woman who sold a kind of cake designated 'jumbles,'--a -wonderful luxury, price four a penny. She also fell a victim, and -between one and another Blade-o'-Grass managed to pick up a precarious -living, and in a few months became as nimble and expert a little thief -as the sharpest policeman would wish to make an example of. She was -found out, of course, sometimes, and was cuffed and beaten; but she -was never given in charge. The persons from whom she stole seemed to -be aware of the hapless condition of the child, and had mercy upon -her; indeed, many of them had at one time or another of their lives -known what it was to suffer the pangs of hunger. - -Incredible as it may sound, Blade-o'-Grass still had one friend -left. His name was Tom Beadle. He was some five years older than -Blade-o'-Grass, but looked so delicate and sickly, and was of such -small proportions, that they might have been taken for pretty nearly -the same age. Delicate and sickly as he looked, he was as sharp as a -weasel. He had a mother and a father, who, when they were not in -prison, lived in Stoney-alley, but they--being a drunken and dissolute -pair--did not trouble themselves about their son. So he had to shift -for himself, and in course of time became cunningest of the cunning. -Between him and Blade-o'-Grass there had grown a closer intimacy than -she had contracted with any other of her associates, and whenever they -met they stopped to have a chat Blade-o'-Grass had a genuine affection -for him, for he had often given her a copper, and quite as often had -shared his meal with her. - -A few months after the change for the worse in the prospects of -Blade-o'-Grass, Tom Beadle, lounging about in an idle humour, saw -her sitting on the kerb-stone with her eyes fixed upon the old -apple-woman, who had begun to nod. There was something in the gaze of -Blade-o'-Grass that attracted Tom Beadle's attention, and he set -himself to watch. Presently the girl shifted a little nearer to the -fruit-stall--a little nearer--nearer, until she was quite close. Her -hand stole slowly towards the fruit, and a pear was taken, then -another. Tom Beadle laughed; but looked serious immediately -afterwards, for Blade-o'-Grass was running away as fast as her legs -could carry her. Assuring himself that there was no cause for alarm, -Tom Beadle ran after her, and placed his hand heavily on her shoulder. -She had heard the step behind her, and her heart almost leaped out of -her throat; but when she felt the hand upon her shoulder, she threw -away the stolen fruit, and fell to the ground in an agony of fear. - -'Git up, you little fool,' exclaimed Tom Beadle. 'What are you -frightened at?' Before he said this, however, he picked up the pears -and put them in his pocket. - -'O, Tom!' cried Blade-o'-Grass, the familiar tones falling upon her -ears like sweetest music; 'I thought it was somebody after me.' - -Then Tom told her that he ran after her to stop _her_ running, and -instructed her that it was the very worst of policy, after she had -'prigged' anything, to run away when nobody was looking. And this was -the first practical lesson in morals that Blade-o'-Grass had received. - -'But, I say, Bladergrass,' observed Tom, 'I didn't know as you'd taken -to prig.' - -'I can't help it, Tom. The tiger's always at me.' - -Tom implicitly believed in the tiger story. - -'Well, that's all right,' said Tom; 'only take care--and don't you run -away agin when nobody's a-lookin'.' - -Months passed, and Blade-o'-Grass lived literally from hand to mouth. -But times grew very dull; her hunting-ground was nearly worked out, -and she was more often hungry than not. One day she hadn't been able -to pick up a morsel of food, and had had insufficient for many -previous days. The day before she had had but one scanty meal, so that -it is not difficult to imagine her miserable condition. Her guardian -angel, Tom Beadle, discovered her crouching against a wall, with fear -and despair in her face and eyes. He knew well enough what was the -matter, but he asked her for form's sake, and she returned him the -usual answer, while the large tears rolled down her cheeks into her -mouth. - -It so happened that Tom Beadle had been out of luck that day. He -hadn't a copper in his pocket. He felt about for one, nevertheless, -and finding none, whistled--curiously enough, the 'Rogues' -March'--more in perplexity than from surprise. - -'Ain't yer had _any_think to eat, Bladergrass?' - -'Not a blessed bite,' was the answer. - -It was about five o'clock in the evening; there were at least a couple -of hours to sunset. An inspiration fell upon Tom Beadle, and his -countenance brightened. - -'Come along o' me,' he said. - -Blade-o'-Grass placed her hand unhesitatingly in his, and they walked -towards the wealthier part of the City, until they came to a large -space surrounded by great stone buildings. In the centre of the space -was a statue. Blade-o'-Grass had never been so far from her native -place as this. The crowds of people hurrying hither and thither, as if -a moment's hesitation would produce, a fatal result; the apparently -interminable strings of carts and cabs and wagons and omnibuses -issuing from half-a-dozen thoroughfares, and so filling the roads with -moving lines and curves and angles, that it seemed to be nothing less -than miraculous how a general and disastrous crash was avoided, -utterly bewildered little Blade-o'-Grass, and caused her for a moment -to be oblivious of the cravings of the tiger in her stomach. - -'Now, look 'ere, Bladergrass,' whispered Tom Beadle: 'you keep tight -'old of my 'and; if anybody arks yer, I'm yer brother a-dyin' of -consumption. I'm a-dyin' by inches, I am.' - -Forthwith he called into his face such an expression of utter, -helpless woe and misery, that Blade-o'-Grass cried out in terror, - -'O, what's up, Tom? O, don't, Tom, don't!' really believing that her -companion had been suddenly stricken. - -'Don't be stoopid!' remonstrated Tom, smiling at her to reassure her, -and then resuming his wobegone expression; 'I'm only a-shammin'.' - -With that he sank upon the bottom of a grand flight of stone steps, -dragging Blade-o'-Grass down beside him. There they remained, silent, -for a few moments, and perhaps one in a hundred of the eager bustling -throng turned to give the strange pair a second glance; but before -sympathy had time to assume practical expression, a policeman came up -to them, and bade them move on. Tom rose to his feet, wearily and -painfully, and slowly moved away: a snail in its last minutes of life -could scarcely have moved more slowly, if it had moved at all. He took -good care to keep tight hold of the hand of Blade-o'-Grass, lest she -should be pushed from him and be lost in the crowd. A notable contrast -were these two outcasts--she, notwithstanding her fright and the pangs -of hunger by which she was tormented, strong-limbed and sturdy for her -age; and he drooping, tottering, with a death-look upon his face, as -if every moment would be his last. You would have supposed that his -mind was a blank to all but despair, and that he was praying for -death; but the cunning and hypocrisy of Tom Beadle were not to be -measured by an ordinary standard. He was as wide awake as a weasel, -and although his eyes were to the ground, he saw everything that -surged around him, and was as ready to take advantage of an -opportunity as the sharpest rascal in London. As he and his companion -made their way through the busy throng, they attracted the attention -of two men--both of them elderly men, of some sixty years of age; one, -well-dressed, with a bright eye and a benevolent face; the other, -poorly but not shabbily dressed, and with a face out of which every -drop of the milk of human kindness seemed to have been squeezed when -he was a young man. When he looked at you, it appeared as if you were -undergoing the scrutiny of two men; for one of his eyes had a -dreadfully fixed and glassy stare in it, and the other might have been -on fire, it was so fiercely watchful. - -Now, overpowered as Tom Beadle might have been supposed to be in his -own special ills and cares, he saw both these men, as he saw -everything else about him, and a sly gleam of recognition passed from -his eyes to the face of the odd-looking and poorly-dressed stranger; -it met with no response, however. The next moment Tom raised his white -imploring face to that of the better-dressed man, whose tender heart -was stirred by pity at the mute appeal. He put his hand in his pocket, -but seemed to be restrained from giving; some impulse within him -whispered, 'Don't!' while his heart prompted him to give. But the -struggle was not of long duration. The words, 'Indiscriminate charity -again,' fell from his lips, and looking round cautiously as if he were -about to commit a felony, he hastily approached close to the two -children, and, with an air of guilt, slipped a shilling in Tom -Beadle's hand. After which desperate deed, he turned to fly from the -spot, when he saw something in the face of the odd-looking man (who -had been watching the comedy with curious interest) which made him -first doubtful, then angry. Although they were strangers, he was -impelled to speak, and his kind nature made him speak in a polite -tone. - -'Dreadful sight, sir, dreadful sight,' he said, pointing to the -creeping forms of Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass. 'A penny can't be -thrown away there, eh?' - -The odd-looking man shrugged his shoulders. The shrug conveyed to the -benevolent stranger this meaning: 'You are an imbecile; you are an old -fool; you are not fit to be trusted alone.' It was the most expressive -of shrugs. - -'I suppose you mean to say I've been imposed upon,' exclaimed the -benevolent stranger hotly. - -The odd-looking man chuckled enjoyably, and perked up his head at the -questioner in curiosity, as a magpie with its eye in a blaze might -have done. But he said nothing. His silence exasperated the benevolent -almsgiver, who exclaimed, 'You've no humanity, sir; no humanity;' and -turned on his heel. But turned round again immediately and said, 'I've -no right to say that, sir--no right, and I beg your pardon. But d'ye -mean to tell me that that lad is an impostor, sir? If you do, I deny -it, sir, I deny it! D'ye mean to say that I've been taken in, and that -those two children are not--not HUNGRY, sir?' - -Some words seemed to be rising to the odd-looking man's lips, but he -restrained the utterance of them, and closed his lips with a snap. He -touched his shabby cap with an air of amusement, and turned away, -chuckling quietly; and the next minute the two men were struggling in -different directions with the human tide that spread itself over all -the City. - -In the mean time, Tom Beadle, keeping up the fiction of 'dyin' by -inches,' crept slowly away. He had not seen the coin which had been -slipped into his hand, but he knew well enough by the feel that it was -a shilling. 'A regular slice o' luck,' he muttered to himself, beneath -his breath. When they had crept on some fifty yards, he quickened his -steps, and Blade-o'-Grass tried to keep up with him. But all at once -her hands grew quite cold, and a strong trembling took possession of -her. - -'Come along, Bladergrass,' urged Tom, in his anxiety to get safely -away; ''ow you creep!' - -The child made another effort, but, as if by magic, the streets and -the roar in them vanished from her sight and hearing, and she would -have fallen to the ground, but for Tom's arm thrown promptly round her -poor fainting form. - -Near to them was a quiet court--so still and peaceful that it might -have hidden in a country-place where Nature was queen--and Tom Beadle, -who knew every inch of the ground, bore her thither. His heart grew -cold as he gazed upon her white face. - -'I wish I may die,' he muttered to himself, in a troubled voice, 'if -she don't look as if she was dead. Bladergrass! Bladergrass!' he -called.' - -She did not answer him. Not a soul was near them. Had it not been that -he liked the child, and that, little villain as he was, he had some -humanity in him--for her at least--he would have run away. He stood -quiet for a few moments, debating within himself what he had best do. -He knelt over her, and put his lips to hers, and whispered coaxingly, -'Come along, Bladergrass. Don't be a little fool. Open your eyes, and -call Tom.' - -The warmth of his face and lips restored her to consciousness. She -murmured, 'Don't--don't! Let me be!' - -'What's the matter, Bladergrass?' he whispered. 'It's me--Tom! Don't -you know me?' - -'O, let me be, Tom!' implored Blade-o'-Grass. 'Let me be! The tiger's -a-eatin' the inside out o' me, and I'm a-dyin'.' - -She closed her eyes again, and the sense of infinite peace that stole -upon her, as she lay in this quiet court, was like heaven to her, -after the wild roar of steps and sounds in which a little while since -she had been engulfed. Had she died at that moment, it would have been -happier for her; but at whose door could her death have been laid? - -Tom Beadle, whispering hurriedly and anxiously, and certainly quite -superfluously, 'Lay still, Bladergrass! I'll be back in a minute,' ran -off to buy food, and soon returned with it. He had a little difficulty -in rousing her, but when she began to taste the food, and, opening her -eyes, saw the store which Tom had brought, she tore at it almost -deliriously, crying out of thankfulness, as she ate. Tom was -sufficiently rewarded by seeing the colour return to her cheeks; -before long, Blade-o'-Grass was herself again, and was laughing with -Tom. - -'But I thought you _was_ a-dyin', Bladergrass,' said Tom, somewhat -solemnly, in the midst of the merriment. - -'No, it was you that was a-dyin', Tom!' exclaimed Blade-o'-Grass, -clapping her hands. 'A-dyin' by inches, you know!' - -Gratified vanity gleamed in Tom Beadle's eyes, and when Blade-o'-Grass -added, 'But, O Tom, how you frightened me at first!' his triumph was -complete, and he enjoyed an artist's sweetest pleasure. Then he -gloated over the imposition he had practised upon the benevolent -stranger, and cried in glee, - -'Wasn't he green, Bladergrass? _He_ thought I was dyin' by inches, as -well as you. O, O, O!' and laughed and danced, to the admiration of -Blade-o'-Grass, without feeling a particle of gratitude for the -benevolent instinct which had saved his companion from starvation. - - -[Illustration] - - -After this fashion did Blade-o'-Grass learn life's lessons, and learn -to fight its battles. Deprived of wholesome teaching and wholesome -example; believing, from very necessity, that bad was good; without -any knowledge of God and His infinite goodness, she, almost a -baby-child, went out into the world, in obedience to the law of -nature, in search of food. A slice of bread-and-butter was more to her -than all the virtues, the exercise of which, as we are taught, bestows -the light of eternal happiness. And yet, if earnest men are to be -believed, and if there be truth in newspaper columns, the vast -machinery around her was quick with sympathy for her, as one of a -class whom it is man's duty to lift from the dust. Such struggles for -the amelioration (fine word!) of the human race were being made by -earnest natures, that it was among the most awful mysteries of the -time, how Blade-o'-Grass was allowed to grow up in the ignorance which -deprives crime of responsibility; how she was forced to be dead to the -knowledge of virtue; how she was compelled to earn the condemnation of -men, and to make sorrowful the heart of the Supreme! - - - - MR. MERRYWHISTLE RELIEVES HIMSELF ON THE SUBJECT OF - INDISCRIMINATE CHARITY. - - -The name of the man who gave Tom Beadle the shilling was Merrywhistle. -He was a bachelor, and he lived in the eastern part of the City, in -Buttercup-square, next door to his best friends, the Silvers. Although -Buttercup-square was in the east of the City, where the greatest -poverty is to be found, and where people crowd upon each other -unhealthfully, it was as pretty and comfortable a square as could be -found anywhere; and you might live in any house in it and fancy -yourself in the country, when you looked out of window. The trees in -the square were full of birds' nests, and the singing of the birds of -a summer morning was very sweet to the ear. - -Mr. Merrywhistle had no trade or profession. When the last census was -taken, and the paper was given to him to fill-in, he set himself down -as 'Nothing Particular,' and this eccentric definition of himself -coming under the eyes of his landlady--who, like every other landlady, -was mighty curious about the age, religion, and occupation of her -lodgers, and whether they were single, widowed, or divorced men--was -retailed by her to her friends. As a necessary consequence, _her_ -friends retailed the information to _their_ friends; and for some -little time afterwards, they used to ask of the landlady and of each -other, jocosely, how Nothing Particular was getting along, and whether -he had lately done Anything Particular; and so on. But this mildest of -jokes soon died out, and never reached Mr. Merrywhistle's ears. He had -an income more than sufficient for his personal wants; but at the -year's end not a shilling remained of his year's income. A pale face, -a look of distress, a poor woman with a baby in arms, a person looking -hungrily in a cook-shop window--any one of these sights was sufficient -to melt his benevolent heart, and to draw copper or silver from -his pocket. It was said of him that his hands were always in his -pockets--a saying which was the occasion of a piece of sarcasm, which -grew into a kind of proverb. A lady-resident of Buttercup-square, -whose husband was of the parsimonious breed, when speaking of Mr. -Merrywhistle's benevolence, said, with a sigh, 'My husband is just -like Mr. Merrywhistle; his hands are always in his pockets.' 'Yes, -ma'am,' said an ill-natured friend, 'but there the similarity ends. -Your husband's hands _never come out_.' Which produced a lifelong -breach between the parties. - -Mr. Merrywhistle was in a very disturbed mood this evening. He was -haunted by the face of the old man who had been amused, because he had -given a poor child, a shilling. The thought of this old man proved the -most obstinate of tenants to Mr. Merrywhistle; having got into his -mind, it refused to be dislodged. He had never seen this man before, -and here, in the most unaccountable manner, he being haunted and -distressed by a face which presented itself to his imagination with a -mocking expression upon it, because he had been guilty of a charitable -act. 'I should like to meet him again,' said Mr. Merrywhistle to -himself; 'I'd talk to him!' Which mild determination, hotly expressed, -was intended to convey an exceedingly severe meaning. As he could not -dislodge the thought of the man from his mind, Mr. Merrywhistle -resolved to go to his friends next door, the Silvers, and take tea -with them. He went in, and found them, as he expected, just sitting -down to tea. Only two of them, husband and wife. - -'I am glad you have come in,' said Mrs. Silver to him. Her voice might -surely have suggested her name, it was so mild and gentle. But -everything about her was the same. Her dress, her quiet manner, her -delicate face, her hands, her eyes, where purity dwelt, breathed peace -and goodness. She and her sisters (and there are many, thank God!) are -the human pearls of the world which is so often called 'erring.' - -'How are the youngsters?' asked Mr. Merrywhistle, stirring his tea. - -'All well,' answered Mr. Silver; 'you'll stay and see them?' - -Mr. Merrywhistle nodded, and proceeded with his tea. The meal being -nearly over, Mrs. Silver said, 'Now, friend, tell us your trouble.' - -'You see it in my face,' responded Mr. Merrywhistle. - -'Yes; I saw it when you entered.' - -'You have the gift of divination.' - -'Say, the gift of sympathy for those I love.' - -Mr. Merrywhistle held out his hand, and she grasped it cordially. Then -he told them of the occurrence that took place on the Royal Exchange, -and of the singular manner in which he was haunted by the mocking face -of the old man who had watched him. - -'You have an instinct, perhaps,' said Mrs. Silver, 'that he was one of -the men who might have preached at you, if he had had the opportunity, -against indiscriminate charity?' - -'No, I don't know, I don't know, I really don't know,' replied Mr. -Merrywhistle excitedly. 'I think he rather enjoyed it; he seemed to -look upon it as an amusing exhibition, for he was almost convulsed by -laughter. Laughter! It wasn't laughter. It was a series of demoniac -chuckles, that's what it was--demoniac chuckles. But I can't exactly -describe what it was that set my blood boiling. It wasn't his demoniac -chuckling alone, it was everything about him; his manner, his -expression, his extraordinary eyes; one of which looked like the eye -of an infuriated bull, as if it were half inclined to fly out of -its head at you, and the other as if it were the rightful property -of the meekest and mildest of baa-lambs. Then his eye-brows--lapping -over as if they were precipices, and as thick as blacking-brushes. -Then his face, like a little sour and withered apple. Your -pro-indiscriminate-charity men would not have behaved as he did. They -would have asked me. How dare I--how dare I?--yes, that is what they -would have said--How dare I encourage pauperism by giving money to -little boys and girls and ragged men and women, whom I have never seen -in my life before, whom I have never heard of in my life before? This -fellow wasn't one of _them_. No, no--no, I say, he wasn't one of -_them_. I wouldn't swear that he wasn't drunk--no, I won't say that; -tipsy, perhaps--no, nor that either. Uncharitable of me--very. Don't -laugh at me. You wouldn't have laughed at the poor little boy if you -had seen him.' - -'I am sure we should not.' - -'That's like me again,' cried the impetuous old bachelor remorsefully; -'throwing in the teeth of my best friends an accusation of -inhumanity--yes, inhumanity--positive inhumanity. Forgive me--I am -truly sorry. But that indiscriminate-charity question cropped up again -to-day, and that, as well as this affair, has set my nerves in a -jingle. A gentleman called upon me this morning, and asked me for a -subscription towards the funds of an institution--a worthy -institution, as I believe. I hadn't much to spare--I am so -selfishly extravagant that my purse is always low--and I gave him -half-a-sovereign. He took it, and looked at it and at me -reproachfully. "I was given to understand," he said in the meekest of -voices, so meek, indeed, that I could hot possibly take offence--"I -was given to understand that from Mr. Merrywhistle, and in aid of -_such_ an institution as ours, I should have received a much larger -contribution."' - -'That savoured of impertinence,' observed Mr. Silver. - -'I daresay, Silver, I daresay. Another man might have thought -so; but I couldn't possibly be angry with him, his manner was so -humble--reproachfully humble. I explained to him that at present I -couldn't afford more, and that, somehow or other, my money melted away -most surprisingly. "I hope, sir," he then said, "that what I was told -of you is not true, and that you are not in the habit of giving away -money indiscriminately." I could not deny it--no, indeed, I could not -deny it--and I commenced to say, hesitatingly (feeling very guilty), -that now and then---- But he interrupted me with, "Now and then, -sir!--now and then! You will pardon my saying so, Mr. Merrywhistle, -but it may not have struck you before that those persons who give away -money indiscriminately are making criminals for us--are filling our -prisons--are blowing a cold blast on manly self-endeavour--are -crippling industry--are paying premiums to idleness, which is the -offspring of the----hem!" And continued in this strain for more than -five minutes. When he went away, my hair stood on end, and I felt as -if sentence ought to be pronounced upon me at once. And here, this -very afternoon, am I caught again by a pitiful face--you should -have seen it! I thought the poor boy would have died as I looked at -him--and I give away a shilling, indiscriminately. Then comes this -strange old fellow staring at me--sneering at me, shrugging -his shoulders at me, and walking away with the unmistakable -declaration--though he didn't declare it in words--that I wasn't fit -to be trusted alone. As perhaps I'm not,--as perhaps I'm not!' And Mr. -Merrywhistle blew his nose violently. - -His friends knew him too well to interrupt him. The tea-things had -been quietly cleared away, while he was relieving his feelings. He had -by this time got rid of a great portion of his excitement; and now, in -his cooler mood, he looked round and smiled. At that moment a lad of -about fifteen years of age entered the room. All their countenances -brightened, as also did his, as he entered. - -'Well, Charley,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, as the lad, with frank face, -stood before him, 'been knocking anything into "pie" to-day?' - -'No, sir,' replied Charley. 'I'm past that now; I'm getting along -handsomely, the overseer said.' - -'That's right, my boy; that's right. You'll be overseer yourself, some -day.' - -Charley blushed; his ambition had not yet reached that height of -desire, and it seemed almost presumption to him to look so far ahead. -The overseer in the printing-office where Charley was apprenticed was -a great man in Charley's eyes; his word was law to fifty men and boys. -The lad turned to Mr. Silver, and said in a pleased tone: - -'A new apprentice came in today, and swept out the office instead of -me.' - -'So you are no longer knight of the broom? - -'No, sir, and I'm not sorry for it; and there's something else. Dick -Trueman, you know, sir--' - -'You told us, Charley; he was out of his time last week, and they gave -him a frame as a regular journeyman.' - -'Yes, sir; and he earnt thirty-four shillings last week--full wages. -And what do you think he did today, sir?' And Charley's bright eyes -sparkled more brightly. These small items of office-news were of vast -importance to Charley--almost as important as veritable history. 'But -you couldn't guess,' he continued, in an eager tone. 'He asked for -three hours' holiday--from eleven till two--and he went out and got -married!' - -'Bless my soul!' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle, 'he can't be much more -than twenty-one years of age.' - -'Only a few weeks more, sir. But he's a man now. Well, he came back at -two o'clock, in a new suit of clothes, and a flower in his coat. All -the men knew, directly they saw him, that he had asked for the -three hours' holiday to get married in. And they set up such a -clattering--rattling on their cases with their sticks, and on the -stone with the mallets and planers--that you couldn't hear your own -voice for five minutes; for every one of us likes Dick Trueman. You -should have seen Dick blush, when he heard the salute! He tried to -make them believe that he didn't know what all the clattering was -about. But they kept it up so long, that he was obliged to come to the -stone and bob his head at us. It makes me laugh only to think of it. -And then the overseer shook hands with him, and Dick sent for three -cans of beer, and all the men drank his health and good luck to him.' -Charley paused to take breath. The simple story, as he told it in his -eager way, was a pleasant story to hear. Now came the most important -part of it Charley's eyes grew larger as he said, with much -importance, 'I saw her.' - -'Who?' they asked. - -'Dick's wife; she was waiting at the corner of the street for him--and -O, she's Beautiful!' - -'Quite a day of excitement, Charley,' said Mr. Silver. - -'There's something more, sir.' - -'What is it, Charley?' - -'Our wayz-goose comes off next week, sir.' - -'Yes, Charley.' - -'Only two of the apprentices are asked, and I'm one of them,' said -Charley, with a ring of pardonable pride in his voice. 'May I go? - -'Certainly, my boy,' said Mr. Silver. And Mrs. Silver smiled -approvingly, and told Charley to run and wash himself and have tea; -and Charley gave them all a bright look, and went out of the room as -happy a boy as any in all London. - -Then said Mr. Merrywhistle: - -'Charley's a good lad.' - -'He's our first and eldest,' said Mrs. Silver, bringing forward a -basket filled with socks and stockings wanting repair; 'he will be a -bright man.' - -Mr. Merrywhistle nodded, and they talked of various subjects until the -sound of children's happy voices interrupted them. 'Here are our -youngsters,' he said, rubbing his hands joyously; and as he spoke a -troop of children came into the room. - - - - MRS. SILVER'S HOME. - - -There were five of them, as follows: - -The eldest, Charles, the printer's apprentice, fifteen years of -age--with a good honest face and a bright manner. The picture of a -happy boy. - -Then Mary, fourteen years. She looked older than Charley, and, young -as she was, seemed to have assumed a kind of matronship over the -younger branches. That the position was a pleasing one to her and all -of them was evident by the trustful looks that passed between them. - -Then Richard, twelve years; with dancing eyes, open mouth, and quick, -impetuous, sparkling manner--filled with electricity--never still for -a moment together; hands, eyes, and every limb imbued with -restlessness. - -Then Rachel, eleven years; with pale face and eyes--so strangely -watchful of every sound, that it might almost have been supposed she -listened with them. She was blind, and unless her attention were -aroused, stood like a statue waiting for the spark of life. - -Lastly, Ruth. A full-faced, round-eyed child, the prettiest of the -group. Slightly wilful, but of a most affectionate disposition. - -Rachel inclined her head. - -'There's some one here,' she said. - -'Who, my dear?' asked Mrs. Silver, holding up a warning finger to Mr. -Merrywhistle, so that he should not speak. - -Rachel heard his light breathing. - -'Mr. Merrywhistle,' she said, and went near to him. He kissed her, and -she went back to her station by the side of Ruth. - -They were a pleasant bunch of human flowers to gaze at, and so Mr. and -Mrs. Silver and Mr. Merrywhistle thought, for their eyes glistened at -the healthful sight. Ruth and Rachel stood hand in hand, and it was -easily to be seen that they were necessary to each other. But pleasant -as the children were to the sight, a stranger would have been struck -with amazement at their unlikeness to one another. Brothers and -sisters they surely could not be, although their presence there and -their bearing to each other betokened no less close a relationship. -They were not indeed related by blood, neither to one another, nor to -Mr. and Mrs. Silver. They were Mrs. Silver's foundlings--children of -her love, whom she had taken, one by one, to rear as her own, whom she -had snatched from the lap of Destitution. - -Her marriage was one of purest affection, but she was barren; and -after a time, no children coming, she felt a want in her home. Her -husband was secretary in a sound assurance office, and they possessed -means to rear a family. Before their marriage, they had both dwelt in -thought upon the delight and pure pleasure in store for them, and -after their marriage she saw baby-faces in her dreams. She mused: 'My -husband's son will be a good man, like his father, and we shall train -him well, and he will be a pride to us.' And he: 'In my baby daughter -I shall see my wife from her infancy, and I shall watch her grow to -girlhood, to pure womanhood, and shall take delight in her, for that -she is ours, the offspring of our love.' But these were dreams. No -children came; and his wife still dreamt of her shadow-baby, and -yearned to clasp it to her bosom. Years went on--they had married when -they were young--and her yearning was unsatisfied. Pain entered into -her life; a dull envy tormented her, when she thought of homes made -happy by children's prattle, and her tears flowed easily at the sight -of children. Her husband, engrossed all the day in the duties and -anxieties of his business, had less time to brood over the -deprivation, although he mourned it in his leisure hours; but she, -being always at home, and having no stern labour to divert her -thoughts from the sad channel in which they seemed quite naturally to -run, mourned with so intense a grief, that it took possession of her -soul and threatened to make her life utterly unhappy. One day he awoke -to this, and quietly watched her; saw the wistful looks she cast about -her, unaware that she was being observed; felt tears flowing from her -eyes at night. He questioned her, and learnt that her grief and -disappointment were eating into her heart; that, strive as she would, -her life was unhappy in its loneliness while he was away, and that the -sweetest light of home was wanting. - -'I see baby-faces in my dreams,' she said to him one night, 'and hear -baby-voices--so sweet, O, so sweet!' She pressed him in her arms, and -laid his head upon her breast. 'And when I wake, I grieve.' - -'Dear love,' he said, all the tenderness of his nature going out in -his words, 'God wills it so.' - -'I know, I know, my love,' she answered, her tears still flowing. - -'How can I fill up the void in her life?' he thought, and gave -expression to his thought. - -Then she reproached herself, and asked his forgiveness, and cried, in -remorse, 'How could she, how could she grieve him with her sorrow?' - -'I have a right to it,' he answered. 'It is not all yours, my dear. -Promise me, you in whom all my life's cares and joys are bound, never -to conceal another of your griefs from me.' - -She promised, and was somewhat comforted. This was within a couple of -months of Christmas. A few nights before Christmas, as he was walking -home, having been detained later than usual at his office, he came -upon a throng of people talking eagerly with one another, and crowding -round something that was hidden from his sight. It was bitterly cold, -and the snow lay deep. He knew that nothing of less import than a -human cause could have drawn that concourse together, and could have -kept them bound together on such a night, and while the snow was -falling heavily. He pushed his way through the crowd to the front, and -saw a policeman gazing stupidly upon two forms lying on the ground. -One was a man--dead; the other a baby--alive in the dead man's arms. -He had them--the living and the dead--conveyed to the station-house; -inquiries were set afoot; an inquest was held. Nothing was learnt of -the man; no one knew anything of him; no one remembered having ever -seen him before; and the mystery of his life was sealed by his death. -He told his wife the sad story, and kept her informed of the progress, -or rather the non-progress, of the inquiry. The man was buried, and -was forgotten by all but the Silvers. Only one person attended the -parish funeral as mourner, and that was Mr. Silver, who was urged to -the act by a feeling of humanity. - -'The poor baby? said Mrs. Silver, when he came from the funeral--'what -will become of it?' - -In the middle of the night she told her husband that she had dreamt of -the baby. 'It stretched out its little arms to me.' - -Her husband made no reply; but a few nights afterwards, having -arranged with the parish authorities, he brought home the child, and -placed it in his wife's arms. Her heart warmed to it immediately. A -new delight took possession of her; the maternal instinct, though not -fully satisfied, was brought into play. During the evening she said, -'How many helpless orphans are there round about us, and we are -childless!' And then again, looking up tenderly from the babe in her -lap to her husband's face, 'Perhaps this is the reason why God has -given us no children.' - - -[Illustration] - - -From this incident sprang the idea of helping the helpless; and year -after year an orphan child was adopted, until they had six, when their -means were lessened, and they found they could take no more. Then Mr. -Merrywhistle stepped in, and gave sufficient to lift another babe from -Desolation's lap. This last was twin-sister to Blade-o'-Grass, and -they named her Ruth. From this brief record we pass to the present -evening, when all the children are assembled in Mrs. Silver's house in -Buttercup-square. - -Some little time is spent in merry chat--much questioning of the -children by Mr. Merrywhistle, who is a great favourite with them, and -to whom such moments as these are the sweetest in his life. Charley -tells over again the stirring incidents of the day, and they nod their -heads, and laugh, and clap their hands, and cluster round him. Charley -is their king. - -'Come, children, sit down,' presently says Mr. Silver. - -They sit round the table, Charley at the head, next to Mrs. Silver; -then come Ruth and Rachel, with hands clasped beneath the tablecloth; -then Mary and Richard. Mr. Silver produces a book; they hold their -breaths. The blind girl knows that the book is on the table, and her -fingers tighten upon Ruth's, and all her ears are in her eyes. It is a -study to watch the varying shades of expression upon her face. As Mr. -Silver opens the book you might hear a pin drop. Ruth nestles closer -to Rachel, and Charley rises in his excitement. Mr. Merrywhistle sits -in the armchair, and as he looks round upon the happy group, is as -happy as the happiest among them. It is the custom every evening -(unless pressing duties intervene) to read a chapter of a good work of -fiction, and the reading-hour is looked forward to with eager delight -by all the children. Last week they finished the _Vicar of Wakefield_, -and this week they are introduced to the tender romance of _Paul and -Virginia_. The selection of proper books is a grave task, and is -always left to Mrs. Silver, who sometimes herself reads aloud. - -'Where did we leave off last night, children?' asks Mr. Silver. - -'Where Madame de la Tour receives a letter from her aunt,' answers -Mary. - -'Yes, from her spiteful old aunt,' adds Richard, 'and where Paul -stamps his feet and wants to know who it is that has made Virginia's -mother unhappy.' - -A 'Hush-sh-sh!' runs round the table; and Mr. Silver commences the -beautiful chapter where Virginia gives food to the poor slave woman, -and induces her master to pardon her. With what eagerness do the -children listen to how Paul and Virginia are lost in the woods! They -gather cresses with the young lovers, and they help Paul set fire to -the palm-tree, and they see the Three Peaks in the distance. Then they -come to the famous part where Paul and Virginia stand by the banks of -a river, the waters of which roll foaming over a bed of rocks. 'The -noise of the water frightened Virginia, and she durst not wade through -the stream; Paul therefore took her up in his arms, and went thus -loaded over the slippery rocks, which formed the bed of the river, -careless of the tumultuous noise of its waters.' [Thinks Richard, 'O, -how I wish that I were Paul, carrying Virginia over the river!'] '"Do -not be afraid," cried Paul to Virginia; "I feel very strong with you. -If the inhabitant of the Black River had refused you the pardon of his -slave, I would have fought with him."' ['And so would I,' thinks -Richard, clenching his fists.] Night comes, and the lovers are almost -despairing. Profound silence reigns in the awful solitudes. Will they -escape? Can they escape? Paul climbs to the top of a tree, and cries, -'Come, come to the help of Virginia!' But only the echoes answer him, -and the faint sound of 'Virginia, Virginia!' wanders through the -forest. Despairing, they try to comfort each other, and seek for -solace in prayer. Hark! they hear the barking of a dog. 'Surely,' says -Virginia, 'it is Fidele, our own dog. Yes, I know his voice. Are we, -then, so near home? At the foot of our own mountain?' So they are -rescued, and this night's reading ends happily. The delight of the -children, the intense interest with which they hang upon every word, -cannot be described. Their attention is so thoroughly engrossed, that -the figures of the young lovers might be living and moving before -them. When Mr. Silver shuts the book, a sigh comes from the youthful -audience. A pause ensues, and then the children talk unreservedly -about the story, and what the end will be--all but Ruth, who is too -young yet to form opinions. It is of course this and of course that -with them all, and not one of them guesses the truth, or has any idea -of the tragic ending of the story. - -'Charley,' says little Ruth, 'you are like Paul.' - -They all clap their hands in acquiescence. - -'But where's my Virginia?' asks Charley. - -'_I'll_ be Virginia,' cries Ruth somewhat precociously; 'and you can -carry me about where you like.' - -They all laugh at this, and Ruth is quite proud, believing that she -has distinguished herself. It is strange to hear the blind girl say, -'I can see Paul with Virginia in his arms.' And no doubt she can, -better than the others who are blessed with sight. The three grown-up -persons listen and talk among themselves, and now and then join in the -conversation. The clock strikes--nine. It is a cuckoo-clock, and the -children listen to the measured 'Cuckoo! Cuck-oo!' until the soulless -bird, having, with an egregious excess of vanity, asserted itself nine -times as the great 'I am' of all the birds in town or country, retires -into its nest, and sleeps for an hour. Then a chapter from the Bible -and prayers, and in the prayers a few words to the memory of two--a -brother and a sister--who have gone from among them. For last year -they were seven; now they are five. Their faces grow sad as the memory -of their dear brother and sister comes upon them in their prayers, and -'Poor Archie!' 'Poor Lizzie!' hang upon their lips. The night's -pleasures and duties being ended, the three youngest children go to -bed, the last kind nod and smile being given to Ruth, sister to poor -Blade-o'-Grass, who lingers a moment behind the others, and with her -arm round Rachel's neck, cries 'Cuck-oo! Cuck-oo!' as her final -good-night. But the proud bird in the clock takes no notice, and -preserves a disdainful silence, although Ruth, as her custom is, waits -a moment or two, and listens for the reply that does not come. Charley -and Mary stop up an hour later than the others, reading; but before -that hour expires, Mr. Merrywhistle bids his friends good-night, and -retires. - - - - MR. MERRYWHISTLE MEETS THE QUEER LITTLE OLD MAN. - - -But not to his bed. He was restless, and, the night being a fine one, -he strolled out of Buttercup-square into the quiet streets. It was a -favourite custom of his to walk along the streets of a night with no -companions but his thoughts. Almost invariably he chose the quiet -streets, for there are streets in London--north and south and east and -west--which never sleep; streets which are healthy with traffic in the -day, and diseased with traffic in the night. - -Mr. Merrywhistle walked along and mused, in no unhappy frame of mind. -A visit to the Silvers always soothed and comforted him; and on this -occasion the sweet face of Mrs. Silver, and the happy faces and voices -of the children, rested upon him like a peaceful cloud. So engrossed -was he, that he did not heed the pattering of a small urchin at his -side, and it was many moments before he awoke from his walking dream, -and became conscious of the importunate intruder. - -'If you please, sir!' said the small urchin, for the twentieth time, -in a voice of weak pleading. - -Mr. Merrywhistle looked down, and saw a face that he fancied he had -seen before. But the memory of the happy group in Buttercup-square -still lingered upon him. What he really saw as he looked down was a -little boy without a cap, large-eyed, white-faced, and bare-footed. No -other than Tom Beadle in fact, making hay, or trying to make it, not -while the sun, but while the moon shone. - -'If you please, sir!' repeated the boy, 'will you give me a copper to -buy a bit o' bread?' - -Then the dawn of faint suspicion loomed upon Mr. Merrywhistle. He -placed his hand lightly upon Tom Beadle's shoulder, and said in a -troubled voice, 'My boy, haven't I seen you before to-day?' - -'No, sir,' boldly answered Tom Beadle, having no suspicion of the -truth; for when the shilling was slipped into his hand, his eyes were -towards the ground, and he did not see Mr. Merrywhistle's face. - -'Were you not on the Royal Exchange with a little girl, and didn't I -give you a--a shilling?' - -For a moment Tom Beadle winced, and he had it in his mind to twist his -shoulder from Mr. Merrywhistle's grasp and run away. For a moment -only: natural cunning and his inclination kept him where he was. To -tell the honest truth, a lie was a sweet morsel to Tom Beadle, and he -absolutely gloried in 'taking people in.' So, on this occasion, he -sent one sharp glance at Mr. Merrywhistle--which, rapid as it was, had -all the effect of a sun-picture upon him--and whined piteously, 'Me -'ave a shillin' guv to me! Never 'ad sich a bit o' luck in all my born -days. It was some other boy, sir, some cove who didn't want it. They -allus gits the luck of it. And as for a little gal and the Royal -Igschange, I wish I may die if I've been near the place for a week!' - -'And you are hungry?' questioned Mr. Merrywhistle, fighting with his -doubts. - -''Aven't 'ad a ounce o' bread in my mouth this blessed day;' and two -large tears gathered in Tom Beadle's eyes. He took care that Mr. -Merrywhistle should see them. - -Mr. Merrywhistle sighed, and with a feeling of positive pain gave -twopence to Tom Beadle, who slipped his shoulder from Mr. -Merrywhistle's hand with the facility of an eel, and scudded away in -an exultant frame of mind. - -Mr. Merrywhistle walked a few steps, hesitated, and then turned in the -direction that Tom Beadle had taken. - -'Now, I wonder,' he thought, 'whether the collector was right this -morning, and whether I have been assisting in making criminals today.' - -Truly this proved to be a night of coincidences to Mr. Merrywhistle; -for he had not walked a mile before he came upon the queer little old -man, whom he had met on the Royal Exchange. The old fellow was leaning -against a lamp-post, smoking a pipe, and seemed to be as much at home -in the wide street as he would have been in his own parlour. He looked -surly and ill-grained, and his eyebrows were very precipitous. His -mild eye was towards Mr. Merrywhistle, as that gentleman approached -him, and when Mr. Merrywhistle slowly passed him, his fierce eye came -in view and lighted upon the stroller. Before he had left the old man -three yards behind him, Mr. Merrywhistle fancied he heard a chuckle. -He would have dearly liked to turn back and accost the old man, but a -feeling of awkwardness was upon him, and he could not muster -sufficient courage. Chance, however, brought about an interview. Not -far from him was a building that might have been a palace, it was so -grand and light. It was a triumph of architecture, with its beautiful -pillars, and its elaborate stonework. Great windows, higher than a -man's height, gilt framed, and blazing with a light that threw -everything around them in the shade, tempted the passer-by to stop and -admire. There were three pictures in the windows, and these pictures -were so cunningly surrounded by jets of light, that they could not -fail to attract the eye. Awful satires were these pictures. Two of -them represented the figure of a man under different aspects. On the -left, this man was represented with a miserably-attenuated face, every -line in which expressed woe and destitution; his clothes were so -ragged that his flesh peeped through; his cheeks were thin, his lips -were drawn in, his eyes were sunken; his lean hands seemed to tremble -beneath a weight of misery: at the foot of this picture was an -inscription, to the effect that it was the portrait of a man who did -_not_ drink So-and-so's gin and So-and-so's stout, both of which -life's elixirs were to be obtained within. On the right, this same man -was represented with full-fleshed face, with jovial eyes, with -handsome mouth and teeth, with plump cheeks, with fat hands--his -clothes and everything about him betokening worldly prosperity and -happiness: at the foot of this picture was an inscription, to the -effect that it was the portrait of the same man who (having, it is to -be presumed, seen the error of his ways) _did_ drink So-and-so's gin -and So-and-so's stout. A glance inside this palace, crowded with -Misery, would have been sufficient to show what a bitter satire these -pictures were. But the centre picture, in addition to being a bitter -satire, was awfully suggestive. It was this: - - -[Illustration] - - -Whether to the artist or to the manufacturer was due the credit of -ingeniously parading 'Old Tom' in a coffin, cannot (through the -ignorance of the writer) here be recorded. But there it shone--an -ominous advertisement. As Mr. Merrywhistle halted for a moment before -these pictures, there issued from the Laboratory of Crime and Disease -a man and a woman: he, blotched and bloated; she, worn-eyed and -weary--both of them in rags. The woman, clinging to his arm, was -begging him to come home--for his sake; for hers; for the children's; -for God's! With his disengaged hand he struck at her, and she fell to -the ground, bleeding. She rose, however, and wiped her face with her -apron, and implored him again and again to come home--and again he -struck at her: this time with cruel effect, for she lay in the dust, -helpless for a while. A crowd gathered quickly, and a hubbub ensued. -In the midst of the Babel of voices, Mr. Merrywhistle, looking down -saw the strange old man standing by his side. The same surly, sneering -expression was on the old man's countenance, and Mr. Merrywhistle felt -half inclined to quarrel with him for it. But before he had time to -speak, the old man took the pipe out of his mouth, and pointing the -stem in the direction of the chief actors in the scene, said, 'I knew -them two when they was youngsters.' - -'Indeed,' replied Mr. Merrywhistle, interested immediately, and -delighted at the opportunity of opening up the conversation. - -'She was a han'some gal; you'd scarce believe it to look at her now. -She 'ad eyes like sloes; though whether sloes is bird, beast, or fish, -I couldn't tell ye, but I've heard the sayin' a 'undred times. -Anyways, she 'ad bright black eyes, and was a good gal too; but she -fell in love'--(in a tone of intense scorn)--with that feller, and -married him, the fool!' - -'What has brought them to this?' - -'Gin!' said the old man, expelling the word as if it were a bullet, -and bringing his fierce eye to bear with all its force upon Mr. -Merrywhistle. - -Short as was the time occupied by this dialogue, it was long enough to -put an end to the scene before them. The woman was raised to her feet -by other women, many of whom urged her to 'Give him in charge, the -brute!' but she shook her head, and staggered away in pain. Very -quickly after her disappearance the crowd dissolved, by far the -greater part of it finding its way through the swing-doors of the -gin-palace, to talk of the event over So-and-so's gin and So-and-so's -stout. Not that there was anything new or novel in the occurrence. It -was but a scene in a drama of real life that had been played many -hundred times in that locality. Presently the street was quite clear, -and Mr. Merrywhistle and the old man were standing side by side, -alone. A handy lamp-post served as a resting-place for the old man, -who continued to smoke his pipe, and to chuckle between whiles, as if -he knew that Mr. Merrywhistle wanted to get up a conversation, and did -not know how to commence. As he saw that the old man was determined -not to assist him, and as every moment added to the awkwardness of the -situation, Mr. Merrywhistle made a desperate plunge. - -'When I was on the Royal Exchange to-day----' he commenced. - -The old man took his pipe out of his mouth, and expelled a cloud and a -chuckle at the same moment. - -'I thought you was a-comin' to that,' he said. 'You owe me a bob.' - -'What for?' - -'I made a bet with you--_to_ myself--that the first thing you'd speak -about was the Royal Exchange. I bet you a bob--_to_ myself--and I won -it.' - -Without hesitation Mr. Merrywhistle took a shilling from his pocket, -and offered it to the old man, who eyed it with his fierce eye for a -moment, doubtingly and with curiosity, and then calmly took possession -of it, and put it in his waistcoat-pocket. - -'When you was, on the Royal Exchange to-day,' he said, repeating Mr. -Merrywhistle's words, 'you sor a boy and a girl a-beggin'.' - -'No,' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle warmly; 'they were _not_ begging.' - -'_You_ may call it what you like,' said the old man; 'but _I_ call it -beggin'; and so would that identical boy, if I was to ask him. He -wouldn't tell _you_ so, though. The boy he looked as if he was goin' -to die, and you give him a copper or a bit of silver; and you wasn't -pleased because I laughed at you for it. Now, then, fire away.' - -'Was that boy starving? Was he as ill as he looked? Was I----' - -'Took in?' added the old man, as Mr. Merrywhistle hesitated to express -the doubt 'Why? D'ye want your money back? Lord! he's a smart little -chap, is Tom Beadle!' - -'You know him, then?' - -'Know him!' replied the old man, with a contemptuous snort; 'I'd like -to be told who it is about 'ere I don't know. And I'd like to know who -_you_ are. I'm almost as fond of askin' questions as I am of answering -'em. What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. If you expect -Jimmy Wirtue to answer your questions, you must make up your mind to -answer his'n.' - -'You're Mr. Virtue, then?' - -'You're at it agin. No, I'm not Mr. Virtue' (he had to struggle with -the 'V' before it would pass his lips), 'but Jimmy Wirtue--and that's -not Jimmy Wice. What's your'n?' - -'Merrywhistle,' replied that gentleman shortly. - -Jimmy Virtue was pleased at the quick answer. - -'Merrywhistle!' he exclaimed. 'That's a rum name--rummer than mine. -What more would you like to know? What am I? I keep a leavin'-shop. -Where do I live? In Stoney-alley. Now, what are you; and where do -_you_ live? Are you a Methody parson, or a penny-a-liner, or a -detective, or a cove that goes about studyin' human nater, or a -feelanthrofist. We've lots o' _them_ knockin' about 'ere.' - -Mr. Merrywhistle was constrained to reply, but found himself -unexpectedly in a quandary. - -'I'm a--a--O, I'm Nothing Particular,' blurting it out almost in -desperation. - -'You look like it,' chuckled Jimmy Virtue, so tickled by his smart -retort as to be satisfied with Mr. Merrywhistle's vague definition -of his calling. 'We've lots of _your_ sort, too, knockin' about -here--more than the feelanthrofists, I shouldn't wonder. But I don't -think there's any 'arm in you. Jimmy Wirtue's not a bad judge of a -face; and he can tell you every one of your organs. 'Ere's -Benevolence--you've got that large; 'ere's Ideality--not much o' that; -'ere's Language--shut your eyes; 'ere's Causality--no, it ain't; you -'aven't got it. I can't see your back bumps, nor the bumps atop o' -your 'ead; but I could ferret out every one of 'em, if I 'ad my -fingers there.' - -At this moment an individual approached them who would have attracted -the attention of the most unobservant. Mr. Merrywhistle did not see -his face; but the gait of the man was so singular, that his eyes -wandered immediately in the direction of the man. At every three steps -the singular figure paused, and puffed, as if he were a steam-engine, -and was blowing off steam. One--two--three; puff. One--two--three; -puff. One--two--three; puff. - -'What on earth is the matter with the man?' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle -to Jimmy Virtue. - -'Nothing that I knows of,' replied Jimmy Virtue; 'he's been goin' on -that way for the last twenty year. If you're lookin' out for -characters, you'll get plenty of 'em 'ere. Perhaps you're a artist for -one of the rubbishy picter-papers--one of the fellers who sees a -murder done in a Whitechapel court one day, and takes a picter of it -on the spot from nater; and who sees a shipwreck in the Atlantic the -next day, and takes a picter of _that_ on the spot from nater. That -there man's worth his ten 'undred golden sovereigns a-year, if he's -worth a penny; and he lives on tuppence a-day. The girls and boys -about here calls him Three-Steps-and-a-Puff. If you was to go and -offer him a ha'penny, he'd take it.' - -By the time that Three-Steps-and-a-Puff was out of sight, the tobacco -in Jimmy Virtue's pipe had turned to dust and smoke, and he prepared -to depart also. But seeing that Mr. Merrywhistle was inclined for -further conversation, he said: - - -[Illustration] - - -'Perhaps you'd like to come down and see my place?' - -Mr. Merrywhistle said that he _would_ very much like to come down and -see Jimmy Virtue's place. - -'Come along, then,' said Jimmy Virtue, but paused, and said, 'Stop a -bit; perhaps you wouldn't mind buyin' a penn'orth o' baked taters -first.' - -A baked-potato can, with a man attached to it, being near them, Mr. -Merrywhistle invested a penny, thinking that Jimmy Virtue intended the -potatoes for supper. - -'Did you ever consider,' said the eccentric old man, as they turned -down the narrowest of lanes, 'that a big city was like a theaytre?' - -'No, it never struck me.' - -'It is, though I there's stalls, and dress-circle, and pit, and -gallery, in a big city like London. The west, that's the stalls and -private boxes; the north, that's the dress-circle; the south, that's -the pit; the east, that's the gallery. This is the penny-gallery of -the theaytre; 'taint a nice place to lay in.' - -He stopped before the forms of two children--a boy and a girl--who, -huddled in each other's arms, were fast asleep in a gateway. He -stirred them gently with his foot; and the boy started to his feet -instantaneously, wide awake, and on the alert for his natural enemies, -the police. Mr. Merrywhistle was standing in the abutment of the -gateway, and the boy couldn't see his face; but the well-known form of -Jimmy Virtue was instantly recognised; and as the boy sank to the -ground, he muttered: - -'What's the good of waking us up just as we was a-gettin' warm? You -wouldn't like it yourself, Mr. Wirtue, you wouldn't.' - -Then he crept closer to his companion, and said sleepily: - -'Come along, Bladergrass; let's turn in agin.' - -The girl, who had been regarding the two dark shadows with a -half-frightened, half-imploring look, as if she dreaded that they were -about to turn her out of her miserable shelter, nestled in the lad's -arms, and the next minute they were asleep again. All blessings were -not denied to them. - -'I know that lad,' said Mr. Merrywhistle. - -'You ought to; it's Tom Beadle.' - -'And he was at the Royal Exchange to-day with that poor little girl?' - -'Yes, that was him. You thought he was dyin'. What do you think now? - -Jimmy Virtue seemed to take positive pleasure in putting the affair in -the worst light. - -Mr. Merrywhistle did not answer the question, but said, in a sad tone, -'He begged of me again to-night.' - -'Did he, though!' exclaimed Jimmy Virtue admiringly. - -'And when I asked him if any one had given him a--a shilling on the -Royal Exchange to-day, he took an oath that he hadn't been near the -Royal Exchange for a month, and that he had never had a shilling given -to him in all his life.' - -'And did you believe him, and give him anythin'?' - -'Yes' (hesitatingly), 'I gave him a trifle.' - -Jimmy Virtue stopped by a post, and held his sides. When he had had -his laugh out, he said: - -'Tom's a smart little thief. But you're not the first gent he's taken -in twice in one day. Come, now, he's taken you in twice with your eyes -shut; let him take you in once more with your eyes open.' - -'I don't understand.' - -'Them baked taters--' - -'Well?' - -'It wouldn't be a bad thing--like returnin' good for evil, as the -preachers say--if you was to go and put them taters in the little -girl's lap.' - -'No--no--no!' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle, a little violently, and -pausing between each negative, 'it'll be paying a premium for -dishonesty and lies.' - -The good fellow's heart was filled with pain as he uttered these -words, which, hotly spoken, served as fuel to flame; for Jimmy Virtue -turned upon him almost savagely, and snarled: - -'You're a nice article, you are, a-givin' and repentin'! I've been -took in by you, I 'ave. If I 'ad my fingers on the back o' your 'ead, -I'd find something that would do away with your bumps o' benevolence. -Dishonesty and lies! What'd you want, you and the likes? The boy's got -to live, ain't he? The boy's got to eat, ain't he? If he can't work -and don't beg, what's he to do? Steal? Yah! D'you think he's got money -in the bank? D'you think, if he 'ad his pockets full, he'd sleep in -the open air, in a gateway?' - -'Stop, stop, my good friend!' implored Mr. Merrywhistle, overcome by -remorse at his hard-heartedness. He ran quickly to where the children -were lying, and deposited the baked potatoes, and a few coppers as -well, in the girl's lap and hands. When he came back to where Jimmy -Virtue was standing, he found that worthy only half mollified. - -'A-givin' and repentin',' muttered the old man, as he walked towards -Stoney-alley, 'that's a nice kind o' charity!' Impelled by a sudden -thought, he turned back to the gateway, and kneeling by the side of -Blade-o'-Grass, opened her hot hand in which the pence were. - -'He's not a bad chap, after all,' he murmured, as he retraced his -steps, 'but it's enough to rile a feller and put a feller's back up, -when a man gives and repents.' - - - - JIMMY VIRTUE INTRODUCES MR. MERRYWHISTLE TO HIS PLACE - OF BUSINESS. - - -The moment Mr. Merrywhistle entered the habitation of Jimmy Virtue he -felt as if he were mildewed, and an impression stole upon him that he -had been lying on a musty shelf for a dozen years at least, and had -not been washed during the whole of the time. The place was dark when -they entered, and as Mr. Merrywhistle advanced cautiously, he came in -contact with soft bundles, from which a mouldy smell proceeded, and -which so encompassed him on all sides, that he was frightened at every -step he moved, lest he should bring confusion on himself. When Jimmy -Virtue lighted two melancholy wicks--tallow twelves--Mr. Merrywhistle -looked about him in wonder. It was the queerest and the dirtiest of -shops, and was filled with bundles of rags. Pocket-handkerchiefs, -trousers, coats, waistcoats, and underclothing of every description -met his eye whichever way he turned; faded dresses and dirty -petticoats (many with mud still on them, as if they had been taken off -in the streets in bad weather) so choked the shelves, that some of -them were in danger of bursting out; old boots hung from the ceiling; -old crinolines loomed upon him from the unlikeliest of places, and, as -he looked timorously up at them, yawned to ingulf him. One, hanging -behind the parlour-door, in the gloomiest corner, was so disposed, -that Mr. Merrywhistle's disturbed fancy added the lines of a woman's -form hanging in it; and the fancy grew so strong upon him, that -although he turned his back to the spot immediately, he could not -dismiss the figure of the hanging woman from his imagination. There -was an apartment behind the shop which Jimmy Virtue called his -parlour; but that was almost as full of rubbish as the shop. Neither -in shop or parlour was there fairly room to turn round in; if you -wanted to perform that movement, you had to tack for it. - -'And this is your dwelling,' Observed Mr. Merrywhistle, feeling it -incumbent upon him to speak, as Jimmy Virtue led the way into the -parlour, and motioned him to a seat. - -'I don't call it by that name myself,' replied Jimmy Virtue, in a not -over-polite tone. 'It's where I live and gets my livin', and I don't -give you more than a quarter of an hour.' - -By which Mr. Merrywhistle understood, that beyond a quarter of an hour -it would not be politeness for him to stay. - -'Ever been in a leavin'-shop before?' asked the old man. - -'No,' replied Mr. Merrywhistle; 'not that I am aware of. May I ask you -what a leaving-shop is?' - -'This is,' said Jimmy. 'All them things you see in the shop and in the -parlour--all them crinolines and peddicuts, and boots and dresses-- -belongs to poor people round about 'ere. I lend 'em a trifle on 'em, -and takes care of 'em; and charges 'em a trifle when they take 'em -out.' - -'They don't seem worth much,' observed Mr. Merrywhistle reflectively. - -'Perhaps not--to you. But they're worth a deal to them they belongs -to. There's a many o' them crinolines and peddicuts that comes in and -out like a Jack-in-a-box. Their movements are as regular as clockwork. -Monday afternoon in, Sunday mornin' out.' - -Here, to Mr. Merrywhistle's consternation, Jimmy Virtue took out his -mild eye--it being a glass one--and with the laconic remark, 'A damp -night makes it clammy,' wiped it calmly, and put it in again. The -effect of this upon Mr. Merrywhistle was appalling. To see that mild -eye--knowing that it was a glass one, and that a damp night made it -clammy--side by side with that fierce eye which, as he had described, -seemed inclined to fly out of its owner's head at you, was almost too -much for human endurance. And as Mr. Merrywhistle looked at them--he -could not help doing so, there was such a fascination in them--_both_ -eyes seemed to glare at him, and the glare of the glass was more -dreadful and overpowering than the glare of the flesh. Jimmy Virtue, -whose one organ of sight was as potent as if he were Argus-eyed, -remarked Mr. Merrywhistle's perturbation, and quietly enjoyed it; he -did not refer to the subject, however, but considerately treated Mr. -Merrywhistle to as much of his glass eye as he could conveniently -bestow upon him. - -'Speakin' of crinolines and peddicuts,' observed Jimmy, recurring to -his stock, 'they're not the only women's things that's left. We're in -the fashion down 'ere, I can tell you. In that box that you're -a-settin' on, there's a matter of seven chinons, that I takes care of -regularly a week-days--real 'air three of 'em are; them as belongs to -'em I do believe would sooner go without their stockin's a Sundays -than without their chinons. And now, jumpin' from one thing to -another, I should like to know whether you've got over your repentin' -fit, and whether you think Tom Beadle ought to be put in quod for -takin' your shillin' to-day.' - -'No; I've no doubt he did it out of necessity. But I wish he hadn't -told me----' - -'Lies. Don't stop at the word. Out of necessity! Ay, I should think -he did, the clever little thief. And necessity's the mother of -invention--consequently, necessity's the mother o' lies. You want a -friend o' mine to talk to you. He'd argue with you; but I fly into a -passion, and ain't got the patience that he's got. He'd talk to you -about Tom Beadle and little Blade-o'-Grass, and put things in a way -that ud stun you to 'ear.' - -'Little what?' - -'Blade-o'-Grass--the little girl that's sleepin' with Tom Beadle in -the gateway.' - -'What a singular name!--has she a mother and father?' - -'No mother; I can't say about father. I remember _him_ before the -young uns was born. He lived in this alley, and used to come into the -shop and leave his wife's things, and talk about the rights of man. -The rights of man! I tell you what he thought of them: a little while -before his wife was brought to bed, he cut away and left her. She was -brought to bed with twins--girls--and after that, she died.' - -'Then Blade-o'-Grass has a sister?' - -'Who said she 'as? I didn't. No, she ain't got a sister. I don't know -what came o' the other; but that don't matter to Blade-o'-Grass. Here -_she_ is, poor little devil, and that's enough for her, and more than -enough, I'll take my davy on. Time's up.' - -This was an intimation that it was time for Mr. Merrywhistle -to take his departure. Wishing to stand well in the eyes of Jimmy -Virtue--notwithstanding the dreadful effect the glass eye had upon -him--he rose, and said that he hoped they would meet again; to which -Jimmy Virtue said, that _he_ had no objection. - -'What do you say, now,' suggested Mr. Merrywhistle, 'to you and your -friend that you would like to talk to me coming to take a cup of tea -or a bit of dinner with me?' - -'Which?' asked Jimmy Virtue. 'Tea I don't care for.' - -'Dinner, then.' - -'A good dinner?' - -'Yes.' - -'Wine?' - -'Yes.' - -Something very like a twinkle shone in the old man's fierce eye. He -rubbed his hand over his chin, and said, - -'It's worth considerin' on.--When?' - -'Next Saturday; any time in the afternoon you like to name.' - -'That ud suit my friend,' said Jimmy Virtue, evidently impressed by -the prospect of a good dinner; 'he leaves off work a Saturdays at two -o'clock----' - -'Then we'll consider it settled,' said Mr. Merrywhistle eagerly. - -'----But I don't know that it ud suit _me_,' continued Jimmy, the -twinkle vanishing, and a calculating look taking its place. 'There's -the shop. I'd 'ave to shut it up--and then what would the customers -do? To be sure, I could put up a notice sayin' that it ud be open at -nine o'clock. I keep open till twelve Saturday night.' - -'Very well; manage it that way.' - -'I think you told me that you was Nothink Particular when I asked you -what you was, and bein' Nothink Particular, time's no account to you. -Now it _is_ some account to me--it's money.' Here he turned his blind -eye to Mr. Merrywhistle. 'If you want me to shut up my shop for six -hours, say, you must make it up to me. If you want Jimmy Wirtue's -company, you must pay for Jimmy Wirtue's time.' - -'That's fair enough,' said Mr. Merrywhistle readily, scarcely hearing -the suppressed chuckle to which Jimmy Virtue gave vent at the answer. -'What do you value your time at? - -'Sixpence an hour--three shillings for the six hours. Then there's the -disappointment to the customers, and the injury to the business; but -I'll throw them in.' - -Without a word, Mr. Merrywhistle took three shillings from his pocket -and placed them on the table. Still keeping his blind side to Mr. -Merrywhistle, Jimmy Virtue tried the coins with his teeth, and said, -'Done!' - -Whether he meant that he had 'done' Mr. Merrywhistle, or that the word -referred to the binding of the invitation to dinner, he did not stop -to explain, but asked, - -'Where?' - -'At the Three Jolly Butcher Boys, Cannon-street,' replied Mr. -Merrywhistle, not being confident that the resources of his -establishment in Buttercup-square would be sufficient to satisfy his -new and eccentric acquaintance. - -'That's settled, then,' said Jimmy, 'and I'll bring my friend at four -o'clock. And now, if you don't mind takin' a bit of advice, take -this--never you go talkin' to strangers agin at such a time o' night -as this, and never you accept another invitation to visit a man you -don't know nothin' of.' - -'But I knew I could trust you,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, smiling. - -'Did you!' exclaimed Jimmy. 'Then I wouldn't give the snuff of a -candle for your judgment. I'll see you out of this, if you please.' - -So saying, he led his visitor out of the shop. Mr. Merrywhistle could -not, for the life of him, help casting a hurried glance over his -shoulder in the direction of the special crinoline which had so -distressed him; and again the fancy came upon him, that he saw a woman -hanging behind the door. When he was in the open, however, this fancy -vanished, and he breathed more freely. They stopped to look at the -sleeping forms of Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass in the gateway. The -children were fast locked in each other's arms, and were sleeping -soundly. - -In the wider thoroughfare, Jimmy Virtue bade Mr. Merrywhistle -'good-night,' and as he walked back to his shop in Stoney-alley, amused -himself by polishing his glass eye with a dirty pocket-handkerchief, and -chuckling over the remembrances of the night. - -In the mean time, Mr. Merrywhistle made his way to Buttercup-square, -not ill pleased with his adventure. But in the night he was tormented -by singular dreams, the most striking one of which contained the -horrible incident of Jimmy Virtue glaring at him with his glass eye, -and swallowing at one gulp a huge baked potato, with Tom Beadle and -Blade-o'-Grass sticking in the middle of it. - - - - THE STRANGE IDEA OF HALLELUJAH ENTERTAINED BY BLADE-O'-GRASS. - - -Punctually at four o'clock oh Saturday, Jimmy Virtue, accompanied by -his friend, presented himself to Mr. Merrywhistle at the Three Jolly -Butcher Boys. It might reasonably have been expected, that Jimmy would -have made some change for the better in his appearance, in honour of -the occasion; but Mr. Merrywhistle fancied that, out of defiance, -Jimmy had allowed the accumulated dust of days to lie thick upon his -clothes, and that he had purposely neglected to brush them. Indeed, he -almost asserted as much by his manner: You saw what I was, and you -forced yourself upon me; you invited me and my friend to dinner, and -you must take the consequences. His only eye, as it blazed at Mr. -Merrywhistle from under its precipice of bushy hair, seemed to be -asking of that gentleman how he liked its owner's appearance: and it -softened somewhat in the kindly glances from Mr. Merrywhistle, whose -countenance was beaming with amiability and good-nature. - -'This is my friend that I spoke of,' said Jimmy Virtue; 'his name is -Truefit, Robert Truefit. Truefit by name, and Truefit by nature. This -is Mr. Merrywhistle, who sometimes gives and repents.' - -Robert Truefit came forward, with a manly bow, and, when Mr. -Merrywhistle offered his hand, shook it cordially. - -'My friend, Mr. Virtue, here--' he said, and was about to proceed, -when the old man struck in with, - -'Now, I won't have it. Bob; I won't have it. None of your misters -because we're before company. It's Jimmy Wirtue when we are alone, and -it's Jimmy Wirtue now; and if you're a-goin' to say anythin' in -apology for me, don't. I don't want apologies made for me, and I won't -'ave 'em.' - -Robert Truefit laughed, and said, 'We must let old Jimmy have his way, -sir, so I won't say what I was going to say.' Robert Truefit was about -thirty years of age, and was a stonemason by trade. He had a shrewd -intelligent face and clear brown eyes, which, young as he was, already -showed the signs of much thought. He was as manly a fellow as you -would wish to look upon, and in his speech and manner there was a -straightforwardness which at once won for him the good opinion of -those with whom he came in contact. So conspicuous was this -straightforwardness of speech and manner, that he was often called -Straightforward Bob by his comrades and those who knew him intimately. -Directly you set eyes upon him, you received the impression, not only -that he was a man to be depended upon, but that he was one who was apt -to form his own opinions, and would stand by them through thick and -thin, unless absolutely convinced, through his reason, that they were -wrong. He had a wife who adored him, and children who looked up to him -in love and respect, as to a king. He was a true type of English -manhood and English shrewd common sense. - -By the time the few words were exchanged, dinner was on the table, and -Mr. Merrywhistle motioned his guests to be seated. But Jimmy Virtue, -turning his blind eye to his host, said, with an odd smile, 'I've got -two more friends outside. May I bring them in?' - -Without waiting for Mr. Merrywhistle's consent, he went to the door -and brought forward Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass. Presenting them to -Mr. Merrywhistle, he went through a kind of mock introduction. Mr. -Thomas Beadle, Miss Blade-o'-Grass, Mr. Merrywhistle. - -Tom Beadle made an awkward bow, and Blade-o'-Grass made a still more -awkward curtsey. Blade-o'-Grass was the only one of the four guests -who had thought fit to do honour to the occasion in the matter of -dress. Jimmy Virtue, as you have seen, had made himself shabbier than -usual; Robert Truefit was in his working clothes; and it would have -been simply impossible for Tom Beadle to have made any change in his -garments, unless he had stolen them, or had had them given to him. But -Blade-o'-Grass, who, like Tom Beadle, possessed no other clothes than -those she stood upright in--and those were as ragged as clothes could -be--had by some strange means acquired a bonnet, and it was on her -head now. Such a bonnet! If it had been gifted with a tongue, it could -doubtless have told a strange story of its career. For although now it -was only fit for a dunghill, it had been a fine bonnet once, and, torn -and soiled as it was, the semblance of a once fashionable shape was -still dimly recognisable. But Blade-o'-Grass was proud of it, wrecked -and fallen as it was from its high estate. - -Now it may as well be confessed at once, that Tom Beadle was not at -his ease. When he had made his awkward bow, he raised his eyes to the -face of Mr. Merrywhistle, and recognised him. He did not know where he -was going to when Jimmy Virtue had asked him if he would like to have -a good dinner; and when he recognised Mr. Merrywhistle, he sent a -reproachful look at Jimmy Virtue, and involuntarily squared his arms -and elbows to ward off the knock on the head he expected to receive. -But as Jimmy Virtue only chuckled (knowing the fear that possessed Tom -Beadle), and as Mr. Merrywhistle was gentleness itself, the lad, after -a time, became reassured--though he still kept his elbows ready. - - -[Illustration] - - -'You sit down in the corner,' said Jimmy Virtue to the children, 'and -when we've finished dinner, you may eat what's left.' - -'Nay,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, chiming in with the humour of his guest; -'there is more than enough for all. Let them eat with us.' And he -placed the children at the table, where they sat watching the filling -of their plates with gloating wonderment. - -'Stop a minute, young uns,' said Jimmy Virtue, arresting their -uplifted forks, which they were clumsily handling, 'Grace before meat. -Repeat after me: For this bit o' luck----' - -'For this bit o'luck,' they repeated. - -'Let us say----' he. - -'Let us say----' they. - -'Hallelujah!' - -'Alleloojah.' - -'Now, you can fire away.' - -And fire away they did, eating as hungry children only can eat--never -lifting their heads once from their plates until they had cleaned them -out; then they looked up for more. - -Jimmy Virtue was quite as busily employed as the children, and ate and -drank with an air of intense enjoyment. Robert Truefit had more -leisure. He ate very little, having had his dinner at one o'clock. -Scarcely any conversation took place until dinner was over. Tom Beadle -and Blade-o'-Grass had eaten their fill, but they still held their -knives and forks in their hands, and looked eagerly at the remains of -the meal. Jimmy Virtue's face had a purplish tinge on it, and his -fierce eye had a mellow light in it, as he saw the children looking -eagerly at the food. - -'What was it you found in your' lap the other mornin'?' he asked of -Blade-o'-Grass. - -'Nothin',' was the reply. - -'Not baked taters? - -'No; we didn't 'ave 'em in the mornin'. Tom and me woke up in the -middle o' the night, and eat 'em.' - -'Wasn't you astonished to find baked taters in your lap when you woke -up?' - -'No; we was pleased.' - -'Do you know who put 'em there?' - -'The baked-tater man?' asked Blade-o'-Grass, after a little -consideration. - -'No; it wasn't him. Guess agin.' - -Blade-o'-Grass considered, and shook her head; but suddenly a gleam -lighted up her face. She pulled Tom Beadle to her, and whispered in -his ear. - -'She ses, if yer please,' said Tom, 'that p'r'aps it was Alleloojah.' - -At this suggestion, Jimmy Virtue was seized with one of his fits of -noiseless laughter; but both Mr. Merrywhistle and Robert Truefit -looked grave. Blade-o'-Grass and Tom Beadle saw nothing either grave -or ludicrous in the suggestion, for their attention was fully occupied -in the contemplation of the food that was on the table. Mr. -Merrywhistle, who was observing their rapt contemplation of the -remains of the feast, observed also Jimmy Virtue's fiery eye regarding -him. - -'It's your'n? questioned the old man of his host. - -'Yes, I suppose so.' - -'You pay for it, whether it's eat or not?' - -'Yes.' - -'Give it to the young uns.' - -'How win they take it away?' - -'In a newspaper.' - -Sharp Tom Beadle followed every word of the dialogue, and his lynx -eyes were the first that saw a newspaper on a sofa in the room. He -jumped from his seat, and brought forward the paper, his eyes -glistening with hope. Mr. Merrywhistle and Jimmy Virtue wrapped up -what remained of the joint of meat in the newspaper. - -'Food for mind and body,' said Robert Truefit, as the parcel was given -to Tom. - -Tom ducked his head, without in the least knowing what Robert Truefit -meant--and not caring either. His great anxiety was, to get away now -that he had as much as was likely to be given to him. Blade-o'-Grass -shared his anxiety. The gift of the food was such a splendid -one--there really was a large quantity of meat left on the joint--that -she feared it was only given to them 'out of a lark,' as she would -have expressed it, and that it would be taken from them presently. A -premonition was upon her, that she would be hungry to-morrow. - -The children stood in painful suspense before the grown-up persons. -Their anxiety to be dismissed was so great, that they threw restless -glances around them, and shuffled uneasily with their feet. But Mr. -Merrywhistle had something to say first. He had great difficulty in -commencing, however. He coughed, and hesitated, and almost blushed, -and looked at Jimmy Virtue in a shame-faced kind of way. - -'The other day,' at length he commenced, addressing himself to Tom -Beadle, 'when I saw you and Blade-o'-Grass on the Royal Exchange----' - -Tom, in the most unblushing manner, was about to asseverate, upon his -soul and body, that he was not near the Royal Exchange, when Jimmy -Virtue's warning finger, and Jimmy Virtue's ominous eye, stopped the -lie on his lips. - -'----On the Royal Exchange,' continued Mr. Merrywhistle, 'and gave -you--a--a shilling, were you really ill, as you seemed to me to be?' - -A look of triumphant delight flashed into Tom Beadle's eyes. 'Did I. -do it well, sir? he cried, nudging Blade-o'-Grass. 'Did I look as if I -was a-dyin' by inches?' - -Mr. Merrywhistle winced, as if he had received a blow. - -'O, Tom, Tom!' he exclaimed gently, 'are you not ashamed of yourself?' - -'No,' answered Tom, without hesitation, his manner instantly changing. - -Blade-o'-Grass perceiving, with her quick instinct, that something was -wrong, and that Tom was likely to get into disgrace because he had -made the gentleman believe that he was dying by inches, stepped -forward chivalrously to the rescue. - -'If you please, sir,' she said, 'you mus'n't blame Tom. It was all -along o' me he did it.' - -Thereupon the following colloquy took place: - -ROBERT TRUEFIT. Bravo, Blade-o'-Grass! - -Mr. MERRYWHISTLE [_only too ready to receive justification_]. Come -here, child. How was it all along of you? - -TOM BEADLE [_taking moral shelter behind Blade-o'-Grass_]. Tell the -gent the truth, Bladergrass; he won't 'urt you. Tell him about the -tiger. - -Mr. MERRYWHISTLE [_in amazement_]. The tiger! - -BLADE-O'-GRASS [_gravely_]. Yes, sir; I got a tiger in my inside. - -Mr. MERRYWHISTLE. Who on earth put such a monstrous idea into the -child's head? - -BLADE-O'-GRASS. Mr. Wirtue knows all about it, and so does all the -others in Stoney-alley. - -JIMMY VIRTUE [_nodding gravely in confirmation_]. Yes, she's got a -tiger. Tell the gentleman what it does to you, Blade-o'-Grass. - -BLADE-O'-GRASS. Eats up everythink as goes down my throat, sir; -swallers every blessed bit I puts in my mouth; and when I ain't got -nothink to give it, tears at me like one o'clock. Tom's giv me grub -for it orfen and orfen, sir; I don't know what I should a' done lots -o' times if it 'adn't been for 'im. [_Mr. Merrywhistle sheds a kindly -glance on Tom Beadle, who receives it with an air of injured -innocence_.] Well, sir, last Monday the tiger was a'-goin' on orfle, -and I was so sick that I begins to cry. Then Tom comes up, and arks me -what I'm cryin' for; and I tells 'im that the tiger's a-worryin' the -inside out o' me. Tom feels in 'is pockets, but he ain't got a copper -to giv me, so he ses, 'Come along o' me,' ses Tom; and he ketches 'old -of my 'and, and takes me to the Royal Igschange. Then he ses, ses Tom, -'If anybody arks you, Bladergrass, just you say that I'm your brother, -a-dyin' of consumption. I'm a-dyin' by inches, I am.' And I cries out, -sir, for Tom looked jist as if he _was_ a-dyin' by inches. [_A smile -of triumph wreathes Tom Beadle's lips; he has the proper pride of an -artist_.] But Tom tells me not to be frightened, for he's only -a-shammin'. Then the peeler tells us to move on, and you comes up and -gives Tom a shillin'; and the first thing Tom does is to buy a poloney -for me and a 'unk o' bread for the tiger. - -TOM BEADLE. I wish I may die, sir, if she ain't told the truth, the -'ole truth, and nothin' but the truth, so 'elp me Bob! - -Blade-o'-Grass gazes at Mr. Merrywhistle eagerly, and with glistening -eyes, and seeing that her vindication of Tom has raised him in the -estimation of their benefactor, nods at her ragged companion two or -three times in satisfaction. Mr. Merrywhistle, in his heart of hearts, -forgives Tom for the deception--nay, finds justification for it; and -the children are allowed to depart with their spoil. - -Mr. MERRYWHISTLE. That's a sad sight, and a sad tale. - -ROBERT TRUEFIT. England's full of such sights and such tales. - -Jimmy Virtue pricked up his ears. He knew when his friend Bob was -'coming out,' and he prepared himself to listen by taking out his -glass eye and contemplating it with his fierce eye, polishing it up -the while. - -Mr. MERRYWHISTLE [_gently_]. Not full of such sights, surely? - -ROBERT TRUEFIT. Yes, full of them, unfortunately. Take London. There -are thousands and thousands of such children in such positions as Tom -Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass, hanging about the courts and alleys--pushed -out of sight, one might almost say. And as London is, so every other -large English city is. If they haven't shoals of boys and girls -growing up to men and women in one bad way, they have them in another -bad way. I know what old Jimmy got me here for to-day--he wanted me to -talk; he knows I'm fond of it. - -JIMMY VIRTUE. Bob ought to be in Parleyment. He'd tell 'em somethin'. - -ROBERT TRUEFIT. That's a specimen of old Jimmy's flattery, sir. I -don't see what good I could do in Parliament. I've got to work for my -living, and that takes up all my time; if I were in Parliament, I -should have to get money somehow to support my wife and family, and it -isn't in my blood to become a pensioner. Besides, I should be -contented enough with what's called 'the ruling powers,' if they'd -only turn their attention more to such social questions as this. - -Mr. MERRYWHISTLE. Ah, I'm glad of that; I'm glad you're not a -republican. - -ROBERT TRUEFIT. Not I, sir--though I don't know what I might become by -and by; for there's no denying that things are unequal, and that -working men are talking of this inequality more and more every year. -You'd be surprised to know what they think about this and that. And -although I don't go so far as some of them do, I can't help agreeing -with them in many things. - -Mr. MERRYWHISTLE. But what do they want? Equality? Such a thing is -impossible. - -ROBERT TRUEFIT. I know it is. You'd have to do away with brains before -you got that; though there _are_ a many who believe that it is to be -arrived at. Some of them are fools, and some of them are rogues; but -some of them have really worked themselves up into absolute belief. - -Mr. MERRYWHISTLE. Discontented people are to be found everywhere, and -under any form of government. - -ROBERT TRUEFIT. Ay, that's the way a great many sum up; when they say -that, they think they have found out the cause, and that the matter is -settled. 'Tisn't the sensible way to view it. - -Mr. MERRYWHISTLE. What is the reason, then, of this spread of feeling -among working-men? - -ROBERT TRUEFIT. That's a large question, and would take too long to -answer. But I think the penny newspaper is partly accountable for it. -They can afford to buy the penny and halfpenny newspaper, and they -read them, and talk more among themselves. You see, things press upon -them. They are arriving at a sort of belief that the laws are made -more for the protection and benefit of property than for the -protection and benefit of flesh and blood; and as _their_ value in the -market doesn't lie in land and money, but in bone and muscle, the idea -isn't pleasant to them. - -Mr. MERRYWHISTLE. But surely they are not right in this idea? - -ROBERT TRUEFIT. Are they not? Read the newspapers, and you'll find -they are. Why, a man may do anything to flesh and blood, short -of murder, and the law won't be very hard on him. But let him -touch property, ever so little, and down it comes on him like a -sledge-hammer. I'll tell you what I read in the police reports this -morning. A man is had up at the police-court for beating his wife. The -woman is put into the box, with marks on her face and with her head -bandaged; the man doesn't deny that he beat her, and half-a-dozen -witnesses prove that he beat her cruelly; the floor of the room in -which they lived was covered with blood-stains. There is no excuse for -him; no aggravation on her part is set up; a doctor states, that if -one of the blows she received had been a little more on the left -of her head, she would have been killed; and the man gets three -months' hard labour. Afterwards, a man is brought up for stealing -three-and-sixpence. He is miserably dressed, and there is want in his -face. The evidence in this case is quite as clear as in the other. The -prisoner snatched a purse, containing three-and-sixpence, out of a -man's hand, and ran away. Being searched, not a farthing is found upon -him, nor anything of the value of a farthing. The man does not deny -the theft, and says he wanted a meal; the police know nothing of him; -and he gets three months' hard labour. Compare these equal sentences -with the unequal offences, and you will see the relative value of -property and human flesh in the criminal market. - -JIMMY VIRTUE. Bob puts it plainly, doesn't he? - -Mr. MERRYWHISTLE. But these cases must be rare. - -ROBERT TRUEFIT. They are very common; and these two cases that I have -put side by side, are two of the mildest. Listen to this--another -wife-beating case: Husband comes home at noon. What kind of man he is -may be guessed from his first words to his wife: 'I've something to -tell thee, you----! I'm going to murder thee, you----!' He takes off -his jacket, calls his bulldog, and sets it at his wife. As the dog -flies at the woman, her husband hits her in the face; the dog drags -her from the sofa, with its teeth in her flesh (it is almost too -horrible to tell, but it is true, every word of it), and the husband -jumps upon her, and kicks her on the head and shoulders. Imploring him -to have mercy upon her, crying for help, the woman is dragged by the -dog from room to room, tearing flesh out of her. The frightful -struggle continues for some time, until the woman manages to make her -escape from the house. It is dreadful to read the doctor's description -of the state of the woman, and how he feared, for three or four days, -that mortification would set in. The man is sentenced to--what do you -think? Six months' hard labour. About the same time, a very young man -is found guilty of stealing twenty shillings' worth of metal, and he -gets seven years' penal servitude. But I could multiply these -instances. You may say, that such cases as these have nothing to do -with the broad question of misgovernment; but I maintain that they -have. You get your criminal material from such places as Stoney-alley, -where poor Blade-o'-Grass lives; and yet Stoney-alley is as bad -now--ay, and worse than it was fifty years ago. The law knows of its -existence, has its wakeful eye upon it; but what has the law done for -its good, or for the good of those who live there? Take the case of -Blade-o'-Grass. What does the law do for her?--and by the law you must -understand that I mean the governing machinery for keeping society in -order and for dispensing justice to all--out of our police-courts as -well as in them. Think of the story she told, and the way in which she -told it. There is capacity for good, in that child--ay, and in Tom -Beadle, too. Can you doubt that, but for your charity, she might have -died of hunger? - -Mr. MERRYWHISTLE [_eagerly_]. Then you don't disapprove of -indiscriminate charity? - -ROBERT TRUEFIT. Not I; I don't disapprove of a man putting his -hand into his pocket and exercising a benevolent impulse. Your -lip-philanthropists, who preach against indiscriminate charity--what -would they do for Blade-o'-Grass? What _would_ they do! What _do_ they -do? 'Work,' they say. But they don't? give her work; don't even teach -her how to work, if such a miracle happened to fall in her way. And -all the while the policeman says, 'Move on.' I know something, through -Jimmy here, of Blade-o'-Grass--a hapless waif, an encumbrance, a blot, -serving as a theme for countless meetings and oceans of words. What -business has she in the world? But she came, unfortunately for -herself, and she is so legislated for, that to live is her greatest -affliction. - -JIMMY VIRTUE. It's my opinion that a good many of the fellers who -preach agin indiscriminate charity only do so as an excuse for -buttonin' up their pockets. - -ROBERT TRUEFIT [_laughing_]. And their hearts as well, Jimmy. You put -me in mind of something I saw last Sunday in Upper-street, Islington. -The people were coming out of church. A couple--evidently man and -wife-were walking before me, talking on religious matters--or, rather, -he was talking, and she was listening. I passed them just as he was -saying, 'If I haven't got the grace of God in my heart, I'd like to -know who _has_ got it?' and at the same moment as forlorn-looking a -woman as ever I set eyes on, intercepted him, and curtseyed, and held -out her hand imploringly. He pushed her aside surlily and with a sour -look on his face; and walked along talking of the grace of God. The -woman may have been an impostor--in other words, a professional -beggar; but I should be sorry to call that Grace-of-God man my friend. -No, sir, I don't think that it is a good thing to crush a kindly -impulse, or that we should treat our best feelings and emotions as so -many figures in a sum. It is not the giver who makes beggars. The -fault is in the system, which opens no road for them at the proper -time of their lives. - -Mr. MERRYWHISTLE [_sadly_]. But tell me: do you see no remedy for -these ills? - -ROBERT TRUEFIT. The remedy is simple. Commence at the right end. Train -up a child in the way it should go, and when it is old it will not -depart from it. And by the same rule, Train up a child in the way it -shouldn't go, and when it is old it will not depart from it. It is -almost time for me and Jimmy to be off. Jimmy wants to open his shop, -and I want to get home to my wife; but I'll just try to explain what I -mean. Two poor boys, one six and one nine years of age, lost their -mother; a few weeks afterwards they were caught taking some potatoes -from a garden. The presumption is, that they were hungry. The potatoes -were valued at one penny. The boys were sent to prison for fourteen -days, and the State thus commenced their education. I will conclude -with a personal experience. I had occasion to go to Liverpool some -little time ago, and on the day that I was to return to London I saw a -girl standing against a wall, crying bitterly. She was a pretty girl, -of about sixteen years of age. I went and spoke to her, and soon saw -that the poor girl was utterly bewildered. It appeared that she had -landed that morning in Liverpool, having been brought by her sister -from Ireland, and that her sister had deserted her. A more simple, -artless girl I never met, and she hadn't a penny in her pocket, nor a -friend in the Liverpool wilderness. I thought to myself. This girl -will come to harm. Hungry, friendless, pretty---- I went to a -policeman, and told him the story. The policeman scratched his head. -'Is she a bad girl?' he asked. I was shocked at the question, and said -no, I was sure she was not; that she was a simple good girl, almost a -child--and was as complete an outcast as if she were among savages. -The policeman shrugged his shoulders, and said civilly enough that he -couldn't do anything. 'What did you mean by asking if she was a bad -girl?' I asked. 'Well, you see,' he answered, 'if she was a bad girl, -and wanted to be took care of, I could take her somewhere.' 'Where she -_would_ be taken care of?' I asked. 'Yes,' he answered. 'And have food -given to her? 'Yes.' 'But a good girl,' I said, 'homeless, friendless, -and hungry----''Can't interfere with _them_,' said the policeman. -'She'll have to qualify herself for a refuge, then,' I could not help -saying bitterly, as I turned away, leaving the poor girl in her -distress; for I could do nothing, and had only enough money to take me -third-class to London. There, sir! You can draw your own moral from -these things. Many a working man is drawing conclusions from suchlike -circumstances, and the feeling that statesmen are ignoring the most -important problems of the day is gaining strength rapidly. For my own -part, I honestly confess that, without one tinge of socialism or even -republicanism in my veins, I am not satisfied with things as they are. - -With these words, spoken very earnestly, Robert Truefit, accompanied -by Jimmy Virtue, took his departure. But Jimmy Virtue found time to -whisper in Mr. Merrywhistle's ear, - -'Didn't I tell you Bob 'ud talk to you? It ain't dear at sixpence an -hour, is it? - -Mr. Merrywhistle said no; it was not at all dear, and he hoped soon to -see them again. - -'All right,' said Jimmy Virtue, with a last flash from his fierce eye; -'when you like;' and so departed. - - -[Illustration] - - - - THE INTERLUDE. - - -In times gone by, it used to be the sometime fashion in the theatres -to have an interlude between the acts of the melodrama, so that the -mind might find some relief from the thrilling horrors which had just -been enacted, and might prepare itself for the more profound horrors -to come. Usually, there was an interval of time between the acts--in -most cases seven years--during which the performers neither changed -their linen nor grew any older. This was probably owing to the joyous -efforts of those who enacted the interlude, which was invariably -composed of songs and dances. Of such material as these shall part of -this interlude be composed; striking out the songs, however, and -introducing flowers in their stead, as being infinitely more innocent -and graceful than the gross and impure lessons taught by the popular -songs of the day, which unfortunately flow too readily into such -neighbourhoods as that of which Stoney-alley forms a limb. Such -teaching, in its own sad time, will bear bitter fruit--nay, it is -bearing it even now, and the poisoned branches are bending beneath the -weight. - -Blade-o'-Grass was very young; but the few years she had lived -contained many imminent crises--any one of which, but for some timely -act of human kindness, might have put an end to her existence. But her -life had not been all shade, although it may appear to you and me to -have been so; there were lights in it, there were times when she -enjoyed. You and I stand in the sun, and contemplate with sadness our -fellow-creatures struggling and living in the dark. But it is not dark -to them, as it is to us; they were born in it, they live in it, they -are used to it. Such sunlight as we enjoy, and are, I hope, thankful -for, might make them drunk. - -Said Tom Beadle one day to Blade-o'-Grass, - -'I say, Bladergrass, why don't yer do somethin', and make a few -coppers?' - -And Blade-o'-Grass very naturally answered, - -'What shall I do, Tom?' - -Tom was prepared with his answer. - -'Lookee 'ere: why don't you be a flower-gal?' - -'O, Tom!' exclaimed Blade-o'-Grass, her face flushing, her heart -beating, at the prospect of heaven held out to her. 'A flower-gal, -Tom! A flower-gal! O, don't I wish I could be!' - -'You'd 'ave to wash yer face, yer know,' said Tom, regarding the dirty -face of Blade-o'-Grass from a business point of view, 'and put a clean -frock on.' - -Down to zero went the hopes of Blade-o'-Grass. A clean face she might -have compassed. But a clean frock! That meant a new frock, of course. -Blade-o'-Grass had never had a new frock in her life. A new frock! She -had never had anything new--not even a new bootlace. Despair was in -her face. Tom saw it, and said, - -'Don't be down in the mug, Bladergrass. We'll see if it can't be done -some'ow.' - -What a hero Tom was in her eyes! - -'O, Tom,' she cried, 'if I could be a flower-gal--if I could! I've -seen 'em at the Royal Igschange'--she was pretty well acquainted with -that locality by this time--'and don't they look prime!' She twined -her fingers together nervously. 'They've all got clean faces and nice -dresses. O, 'ow 'appy they must be!' - -'And they make lots o' money,' said Tom. - -'Do they! O, don't I wish I was them!' - -'And they go to theaytres.' - -'Do they! O, don't I wish I could go to the theaytre!' - -'There's Poll Buttons. Why, two year ago, Bladergrass, she was -raggeder nor you. And now she comes out--she _does_ come out, I can -tell yer! _She_ sells flowers at the Royal Igschange, and she looks as -'appy--as 'appy'--Tom's figures of speech and similes were invariably -failures--'as 'appy as can be. Why, I see her the other night at the -Standard, and she was in the pit. There was a feller with her -a-suckin' a stick. Didn't she look proud! And I 'eerd Bill Britton say -as how he saw her at 'Ighbury Barn last Sunday with another feller -a-suckin' a stick.' - -'Do all the swells suck sticks, Tom?' asked Blade-o'-Grass innocently. - -'All the real tip-toppers do,' answered Tom. - -'Perhaps there's somethin' nice in the knobs,' suggested -Blade-o'-Grass. - -'Perhaps; but I don't think it. You see, it looks swellish, -Bladergrass.' - -'If you 'ad a stick, would you suck it, Tom?' - -'I think I should,' replied Tom, after a little consideration; 'and -I'd 'ave one with a large knob. They're all the go.' Then Tom came -back to the subject of Poll Buttons. 'She makes a 'eap o' money. Why, -I 'eerd tell as 'ow she sells crocuses and wilets for a tanner a bunch -at first. The swells buy a bunch of wilets, and then she coaxes 'em, -and ses as 'ow wilets and crocuses ought to go together, and she uses -'er eyes and smiles sweet. Stand up, Bladergrass!' - -Blade-o'-Grass stood up, and Tom Beadle scrutinised her. - -'Poll Buttons is a reg'lar beauty, they say. But I wish I may die if -you won't be a reg'larer beauty when you're as old as Poll is.' - -'Shall I, Tom? Shall I?' And the eyes of Blade-o'-Grass sparkled, and -a bright colour came into her cheeks. Even in her ragged frock, and -with her dirty face, she looked pretty. 'Then I shall get a tanner a -bunch for my crocuses and wilets, and when the roses comes in, -I'll--I'll----' But her voice trailed off as she looked at her ragged -frock, and her lips trembled, and the little glimpse of heaven that -lay in the imaginary basket of flowers faded utterly away. - -'Don't take on so, Bladergrass,' said Tom Beadle; 'who knows? I may -'ave a bit o' luck. And if I do, I wish I may die if I don't set you -up as a flower-gal! You jist keep up your 'art, and wait a bit.' - -And one day Tom Beadle really went to Jimmy Virtue's leaving-shop, and -asked the price of a new cotton frock, which, after much bargaining, -he bought for two shillings and fourpence. - -'Who's it for, Tom?' asked Jimmy, testing the coins before he -delivered the frock to Tom. 'Got a new sweet'art?' - -'It's for Bladergrass,' replied Tom complacently. 'I'm a-goin' to set -her up as a flower-gal. I promised 'er I would when I 'ad a bit o' -luck.' - -'And you've 'ad a bit o' luck?' - -'Yes, a reg'lar slice.' - -'How was it, Tom?' - -'Arks no questions, and I'll tell 'you no lies,' responded Tom -saucily, walking away with his precious purchase. - -Neither will we be too curious about how the means were acquired which -enabled Tom to give Blade-o'-Grass an honest start in life. - -That first new common cotton dress! What joy and delight stirred the -heart of Blade-o'-Grass as she surveyed it! She devoured it with her -eyes, and was as delicate in handling it as if its texture had been of -the finest silk. All that she could say was, 'O, Tom! O, Tom!' She -threw her arms round Tom's neck, and kissed him a hundred times; and -Tom felt how sweet it is to give. But Tom's goodness did not end here. -He conducted Blade-o'-Grass to a room where she could wash herself and -array herself in her new dress. She came out of that room transformed. -She had smoothed her hair and washed her face, and the dress became -her. She smiled gratefully at Tom when she presented herself to him. - -'I'm blessed if Poll Buttons'll be able to 'old a candle to you!' -exclaimed Tom admiringly, and Blade-o'-Grass thrilled with joy. - -Thus it came about that Mr. Merrywhistle, walking near the Royal -Exchange one day, saw a clean little girl, with a basket of humble -flowers on her arm, and a bright little face looking earnestly at him. - -'Bless my soul!' exclaimed the benevolent gentleman. 'Blade-o'-Grass!' - -'Yes, sir, if you please. Tom's set me up as a flower-gal.' - -'Tom!' - -'Tom Beadle, sir; 'im as you guv a shillin' to once, and as come along -o' me when we 'ad that jolly dinner.' - -'Dear me! Dear me!' said Mr. Merrywhistle, honest pleasure beaming in -his eyes. 'And Tom's set you up, eh? And you're getting an honest -living, eh?' - -'Yes, sir, if you please, sir. Do you want a flower for your -button'ole, sir? 'Ere's a white rose, sir--a reg'lar beauty; and -'ere's a piece o' mingyonet to show it off', sir, and a bit o' maiden -'air to back it up.' - -And before Mr. Merrywhistle knew where he was, he had put the flowers -in his button-hole, and, instructed by Blade-o'-Grass, had fastened -them with a pin she took out of her frock. It was thirty years since -he had worn a flower, the good old fellow! and as he looked upon them -now, there came to him the memory of a few sunny months when he was -young. The crowds of people, the busy streets, the noise and turmoil, -vanished from sight and sense; and for one brief moment--which might -have been an hour, the vision was so distinct--he saw fair fingers -fastening a piece of mignonette in his coat, and a fair head bending -to his breast---- It was gone! But as Mr. Merrywhistle awoke to the -busy hum about him, there was a sweet breath in his nostrils, and a -dim sweet light in his eyes. Most unwisely he gave Blade-o'-Grass a -shilling for the flowers, and patted her head, and walked away; while -Blade-o'-Grass herself, almost fearing that the shilling was a bad -one, bit it with her strong teeth, and being satisfied of its -genuineness, executed a double-shuffle on the kerbstone. - -That very afternoon, Blade-o'-Grass, having had a good day, purchased -a walking cane of a street vendor. It was a cane with the largest knob -he had in his stock. This cane she presented to Tom Beadle the same -evening. Tom was immensely delighted with it. To the admiration of -Blade-o'-Grass, he put the knob in his mouth, to the serious danger of -that feature, and comported himself as became a tip-top swell. - -'You're a reg'lar little brick,' said Tom; 'and I'm blessed if I don't -take you to the theaytre.' - -Blade-o'-Grass jumped for joy and clapped her hands. How she had -longed to go to a theatre! And now the magic hour had come. She had -been rich enough lately to pay twopence a night for a bed, and she -went to the cheap lodging-house she patronised, and washed her face -and combed her hair, and made herself as smart as she could. Tom -Beadle had also smartened himself up, and to the theatre they went, -arm in arm, he with the knob of the stick in his mouth, and she, in -her rags, as proud as any peacock. - -In what words can the awe and wonder of Blade-o'-Grass be described? -She had her own ideas of things, and she was surprised to find the -interior of the theatre so different from what she had imagined. -Boxes, pit, and gallery, she knew there were. But she had set down in -her mind that the boxes were veritable boxes, in which the people were -shut, with little eye-holes to peep through; and the pit she had -imagined as a large dark space dug out of the earth, very low down, -where the people were all huddled together, and had to look up to see -what was going on. It was to the pit they went, and for some time -Blade-o'-Grass was too astonished to speak. A very, very large O would -fitly describe her condition. Tom Beadle, on the contrary, was quite -composed; theatres were but ordinary places to him. But used-up as he -was to the pleasures of the town, he derived a new pleasure from the -contemplation of the wonderment of Blade-o'-Grass. - -'O, Tom! O, Tom!' she whispered in ecstasy, edging closer to him, when -at last she found courage to use her tongue. It was a large theatre, -with a great deal of gold-leaf about it; and the audience were -evidently bent upon enjoying themselves, and vehemently applauded at -every possible opportunity. Thus, when the lights are turned up, and a -bright blaze breaks out upon the living sea of faces, there is much -clapping of hands, and much stamping of feet, and other marks of -approval. When the musicians straggle into the orchestra, they are -also vehemently applauded; but those 'high and mighty' might have been -by themselves in the Desert of Sahara, for all the heed they pay to -the audience. The occupiers of the gallery are very noisy in their -demonstrations, and issue their commands with stentorian lungs. 'Now, -then; scrape up, cat-gut!' 'Hoo-o-o-o! Scrape up! Up with the rag!' -with cries, and shouts, and whistles, which strike fresh wonderment to -the soul of Blade-o'-Grass. She is not frightened at the noise; for -even Tom Beadle puts his two little fingers to the corners of his -lips, and adds shrill whistles to the general confusion--in the -performance of which duty he stretches his mouth to such an extent -that, as a feature, it becomes a hideous mockery. But at length the -band strikes up with a crash, the sound of which is speedily drowned -in the roar of delight that follows. In due time--but not in time to -satisfy the impatient audience--the music ceases, and a general -shifting and rustling takes place among the audience. A moments -breathless expectation follows; a cracked bell gives the meanest of -tinkles; and Blade-o'-Grass bends a little more forward as that awful -and magic green curtain is drawn upwards by invisible hands. The piece -that is there and then represented to the wondering soul of -Blade-o'-Grass is a 'strong domestic drama,' as the playbill has it, -and Blade-o'-Grass gasps and sobs and catches her breath at the -'striking' situations with which the play is filled. The piece is a -narration of the struggles and vicissitudes of the poorest class of -the community--the class indeed, the lower stratum of which is -occupied by just such persons as Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass; and a -curious commentary is made on it the next day by Blade-o'-Grass, who, -dilating upon its wonders and entrancements, declares that she 'never -seed sich a thing in all her born days.' There are of course in the -piece a painfully-virtuous wife, a desperate villain, to whom murder -is child's play, a delirium-tremens beggar, a Good Young Man, and a -vilified Jew; and as these characters play their parts, Blade-o'-Grass -thrills and quivers with delicious excitement. Tom Beadle also enters -into the excitement of the representation, and stamps and claps his -hands and whistles as vigorously as any one there. But when the -'strong domestic drama' is concluded, and the glories of the burlesque -are unfolded to the ravished senses of Blade-o'-Grass, then, indeed, -is she in heaven. Never has she conceived anything so enchanting as -this. It is the first fairy story that has ever been presented to her. -How she screams over the meaningless songs! How she devours with her -eyes the display of female limbs! 'O, 'ow lovely, Tom!' she whispers. -'O, don't I wish I was them!' - -'You'd look as well as any of 'em, Bladergrass,' says Tom, who knows -everything, 'if you was took in 'and, and if you could darnce.' - -'O no, Tom--O no!' exclaims Blade-o'-Grass: 'I ain't got sich legs.' - -Tom laughs, and whispers confidentially that 'them legs ain't all -their own. He knows a cove who knows a balley-gal, and she pads her -legs like one o'clock.' Blade-o'-Grass, in her heart of hearts, can't -believe it; but she is too much absorbed in the performance to enter -into argument. So the pageant passes before her eyes until all the -songs are sung and all the dances danced; and when the curtain falls -upon the brilliant last scene, she looks solemnly at Tom, and a great -sob escapes her because it is all over. She can scarcely repress her -tears. It is a wondrous night for Blade-o'-Grass, and lives in her -memory for long afterwards. Tom Beadle proposes 'a eel supper,' and -they sit in state, like the best nobles in the land, in a dirty box in -a dirty eel-pie shop; and as they eat their eels off a dirty plate, -with a dirty spoon and fork, Blade-o'-Grass looks up to her companion -as to a god; and Tom, noticing the girl's sparkling eyes and flushed -cheeks, says, with an approving nod, 'I'm blessed if you won't beat -Poll Buttons into fits.' Then they go home, and Blade-o'-Grass dreams -that she is an angel hanging from the flies. - -That first night at a theatre filled Blade-o'-Grass with a new -ambition, and her better prospects inspired her with confidence. She -determined to learn to dance. - -You will, I am sure, be amazed to hear, that every night in -Stoney-alley, when the weather was in any way propitious, there was a -ball--an open-air ball; the orchestra, an Italian organ-grinder; the -company, nearly all the dirty boys and girls in the neighbourhood. At -a certain hour every evening an Italian organ-grinder, on whose dark -face a fixed expression of stolid gloomy melancholy for ever rested, -made his appearance in Stoney-alley; and, as if he were a lost soul, -and this agony was his penance, ground out of his afflicted organ a -string of waltzes and polkas and quadrilles, so inexpressibly dismal -that the very dogs howled in despair, and fled. But directly the first -note sounded--and that first note always came out with a wail--the -children, from two years old and upwards, began to congregate, and -without any curtseying, or bowing, or engaging of partners, the -strangest ball commenced that ever was seen. - -Girls with babies in their arms glided round and round in the -entrancing waltz; children who could scarcely toddle toddled round; -and young ladies without encumbrances clasped each other by the waist, -and spun round in a state of beatific bliss. When the waltz music -ended with a groan, and the polka commenced with a wheeze, the big -children hopped and the toddlers toddled in perfect contentment. Then -came the quadrilles, in which many new figures were introduced, which -Belgravia might have profited by. But the strangest dance of all was a -Scotch reel, which, by some unearthly means, had got into this -decrepit organ, and which, being set to work by the inexorable handle, -came out of its hiding-place spasmodically, and with stitches in its -side. It was a sight to remember to see these ragged children dance -this Scotch reel, with their toes up to their knees, their right arms -elevated above their heads, and their left hands stuck in their sides -as if they grew there. Blade-o'-Grass had never had courage to join in -the revels; she had been too ragged and forlorn to claim equality with -even this ragged and forlorn troop. But now her prospects were -brightening, and her ambition was roused. The very evening following -that on which she visited the theatre she boldly joined the dancers. -And there she hopped and twirled and glided until the music ceased; -and every evening thereafter she made her appearance at the -entertainment as punctually as some people attend their places of -worship, and with more devotion than many. She was looked upon as a -guest of high distinction at the ball, for she was liberal with her -farthings and halfpence. In course of time she became one of the very -best dancers in the alley, and often and often dreamt that she was a -ballet-girl, and was twirling before an admiring audience, in the -shortest of short spangled skirts, and the pinkest of pink legs. - -These were the happiest days she had ever known. Now and then the -tiger set up its claims, and was not satisfied; but these occasions -were very rare. She went to the theatre often, and sometimes treated -Tom Beadle, who did not show a stupid pride and independence. She sold -flowers in the season, and lived how she could when there were no -flowers to sell. 'I wish they growed all the yeer round,' she said to -Tom many and many a time. She and Tom were always together, and it was -understood that they had 'taken up with one another.' - -This being an interlude, in which the promise set forth has been -faithfully carried out--for dances and flowers have been introduced -in profusion--it will perhaps be considered out of place to mention -that, excepting that she knew how to speak an intelligible language, -Blade-o'-Grass was as ignorant of morals and religion as if she had -been a four-footed animal. But it is necessary to state this, or you -might condemn her unjustly, and look down upon her uncharitably. And -while she grew in deeper and deeper ignorance, how the great world -laboured, in which she lived and moved and had her being! One section -was in agony because a man of science had by his writings thrown doubt -on the grand story of the Creation, and had attempted to prove that -Adam and Eve were not created; and nine-tenths of the people shrunk in -horror from a man who denied the truth of biblical miracles. Yet one -and all believed in a future state--a better one than this, a higher -one than this, a holier one than this--to be earned by living a good -life, and by doing unto others as we would others should do unto us. -And Blade-o'-Grass had never raised her eyes and hands to God; she had -never said a prayer. - - -[Illustration] - - - - - - PART II. - - THE PRISON WALL. - - -Seven years have passed, and the curtain rises upon a high gloomy -stone wall. Grouped about the pavement which skirts the wall are -nearly a score of persons, waiting in a state of painful expectancy. -They are waiting for friends and relatives; and this gloomy stone wall -encloses a prison. - -Although it is broad day, the aspect of the scene is inexpressibly -depressing. It is September; but the treacherous month has crept upon -November, and stolen one of its cheerless days, when dull sky and dull -atmosphere conspire to send the spirits down to zero. Not that these -unhappy mortals require any outward influence to render them -miserable; their countenances and attitude show that clearly enough. -There are among them young women, almost children, and they stand -about the prison with pale faces and clasped hands, with eyes cast -down to the earth. They exchange but few words; they have sufficient -special occupation in their thoughts to render them indisposed for -conversation. They are poorly clad, and some of them shiver as the -damp wind steals round the massive wall which shuts out hope. - -Near to the prison door are a young and an old woman--one seventeen -years of age on her last birthday, the other seventy. The young woman -has no covering on her head; the old woman wears an ancient bonnet, -which was the fashion once upon a time. Her little wrinkled face is -almost hidden in the bonnet, and her ancient cotton dress falls in -such straight lines about her, that, but for the pale wrinkled face -and the shrivelled hands that peep from out the folds of a faded -shawl, it might reasonably have been supposed it covers the limbs of a -child. The bonnet has moved several times in the direction of the -girl-woman, as if its owner were curious about her companion; but the -girl takes no notice. At length, a piping voice asks, 'Are you waiting -for some one, my dear?' - -The girl answers 'Yes,' but does not look at the questioner. - -'Who for, my dear?' - -No answer. - -'You needn't mind me,' pipes the old woman; 'I don't mean any harm; -and it does my old heart good to talk. Perhaps you've got a mother of -your own.' - -'Mother!' echoes the girl, somewhat bitterly, and yet with a certain -plaintiveness. 'No, I've got no mother; I never 'ad one as I knows -of.' - -'Poor dear, poor dear! Come, my dear, talk kindly to an old woman who -might be your grandmother. Ay, I might, my dear. I'm seventy-one come -the 10th of November, and I'm waiting for my daughter. You've got a -long time before you, my dear, before you come to my age.' - -'Seventy-one!' exclaims the girl, '_I_ shall never be seventy-one. I -shouldn't like to be. What's your daughter in for? How old is she? She -must be older than me.' - -'She's thirty, my dear, and she's in for begging. What's yours in -for?' - -'My what in for?' sharply and sullenly. - -'Your friend. You needn't be so sharp with an old woman like me. You -may be a mother yourself one day, poor dear!' - -The girl turns with a gasp--it may be of joy or pain--and takes the -old woman's hand and begs her pardon. - -_Her_ friend is in for worse than beggin', the girl says, and relapses -into silence, retaining the old woman's hand in hers, however, for a -little while. - -Many persons pass this way and that, but few bestow a second glance -upon the group; and even if pity enters the heart of one and another, -it does not take practical shape, and in its passive aspect it is, as -is well known, but cold charity. One man, however, lingers in passing, -walks a few steps, and hesitates. He has caught a glimpse of a face -that he recognises, and it is evident that he is distressed by it. He -turns boldly, and pauses before the forms of the old woman and the -girl. - -'Blade-o'-Grass!' he exclaims. - -She raises her head, and looks him in the face. No shame, no fear, no -consciousness of degradation, is in her gaze. She drops him a curtsey, -and turns her face towards the prison doors. - -Girl as she is, she is a woman, and well-looking. Her dress is of the -poorest, and she is not too tidy; but the grace of youth is upon her. -It is not upon all who are brought up as she has been. But she has -this charm, and good looks as well; and she is grateful for them, for -she likes to be called pretty. Remember that, at that momentous period -in the life of Blade-o'-Grass when her future hung on a chance, Mrs. -Manning 'kept the prettiest one, the one with the dimple.' - -What is it that causes the gravest of expressions to pass into the -countenance of Mr. Merrywhistle as Blade-o'-Grass looks up? He does -not say; but the grave expression remains upon his face during the -interview. He has not seen her since the spring. Somehow or other, he -lost sight of her. Years ago, when Tom Beadle 'set her up' as a -flower-girl, he had a strong inclination to do some substantial good -for her--to remove her from the associations by which she was -surrounded, and which dragged her down to the lowest level. But, in -the first place, he could ill afford it; and, in the second, when he -had spoken of his wish to Jimmy Virtue, that worthy had asked him if -he thought he could take all the world's work upon his one pair of -shoulders. 'And after all,' Jimmy Virtue had said, 'isn't the gal -gettin' a honest livin'?' - -The old woman peers into Mr. Merrywhistle's face, and as her ancient -bonnet goes up in the air, it seems capacious enough to bury her whole -body in. Mr. Merrywhistle gives her a kind look, and addresses himself -to Blade-o'-Grass. - -'This is not a fit place for you--' he is about to add, 'my poor -child,' but her womanly appearance checks him. - -'Ain't it?' she replies, with a smile on her lips that is not pleasant -to see. 'What is then?' - -He is surprised at her reckless manner. 'Have you business here? Are -you waiting for any one? - -'Yes.' - -'For whom?' - -'Ah, that's what I asked her,' pipes the old woman; 'but she wouldn't -tell me.' - -'I'm waitin' for Tom,' she says, answering him. - -'Tom Beadle?' - -'Yes, Tom Beadle.' - -'Is he in prison, then?' he asks, very gently. - -'Yes; he's been doin' a month.' - -'What for?' - -'What does it matter? Priggin'--anythin'.' - -Perceiving that Blade-o'-Grass does not wish to pursue the -conversation, Mr. Merrywhistle steps aside, sad at heart; but lingers, -looking pityingly at Blade-o'-Grass. As he does so, a clock strikes -the hour, and the eyes of the expectant group turn eagerly to the -prison door, which presently opens. Six or seven persons walk out. The -women blink their eyes as they come into the light; the men shake -themselves like dogs; some raise their hands to their brows, and look -about them as Gulliver might have done when he found himself in a -strange land. The little old woman hastens to her daughter, a -patient-looking woman, and for a moment two faces are hidden in the -ancient bonnet. One man, who has seven or eight friends waiting for -him, shakes his fist at the prison, and kicks the stone wall savagely. - -'That's how I'd like to serve the guvner of that there cussed hole!' -he exclaims. 'Give me something to drink, or I shall choke!' - -Another man looks around with a vacant stare: there is no one to meet -him. With something like a sigh his head sinks into his shoulders, and -he slinks away, hugging the wall as he goes. - -The last to come out is Tom Beadle. Blade-o'-Grass is by his side in -an instant. - -'Come along, Tom,' she says, clinging fondly to his arm, and pulling -his face down to hers and kissing it; 'I've got something nice to eat -at home.' - -'You're a good sort, Bladergrass,' says the thief. 'Let's get away -from this place quick, and go home.' - -Home! Yes, to Stoney-alley, not twenty yards from where her mother had -died. A room in an attic, which had been thoroughly cleaned and made -tidy for the return of the prodigal. No furniture to speak of; a fire, -and a saucepan on the hob; a mug of beer, a flat bottle with gin in -it; one chair and a stool, and a table; a bed in the corner. - -Tom surveys the room with satisfaction beaming in his eyes. -Blade-o'-Grass looks at him, and joy breaks like sunlight over her -face because he is pleased. - -'Drink some beer, Tom.' - -He takes a deep draught, puts the jug down, heaves a long breath, and -repeats, - -'You're a real good sort, Bladergrass. Give us another kiss, old gal!' - - - - ONE OF MANY HAPPY NIGHTS. - - -But that the gray streaks are thickening in Mrs. Silver's hair, and -that her husband is fast growing bald, it might have been but -yesterday that we were sitting with them in the cosy parlour in -Buttercup-square. Everything inanimate is the same as it was seven -years ago, and does not appear to have grown any older or shabbier; -the very cuckoo in the clock retains its youth, and its tones, as it -asserts itself to be the great 'I am,' are as fresh as ever they were. -Hark! it is speaking now, and 'Cuck-oo!' issues six times from its -throat, sparklingly, as if defying time. It is six o'clock. The days -are drawing in, and it is dark enough for lights. But Mr. and Mrs. -Silver sit in the dusk before the fire, talking of the matters nearest -to their hearts. Their married life has been a happy one--with clouds -in it, of course. Natural griefs and sorrows have come to them, as to -others. At first a storm threatened their future, but it did not burst -over them. The exercise of kindly impulse; the wise and good desire to -accept the inevitable, and to make the loneliness of their lives a -means of happiness to others; their dependence on one another, and -mutual love and faith; their recognition, in their every action, -of higher duties of life than are generally acknowledged in -practice,--turned the storm to sunshine, brought happiness to them. If -they were to die now, they would be blessed with the happy assurance -that their lives had been productive of good to others. So might we -all live; so should we all live. The world would be the better for it. -No man or woman is unblessed with the want of continual opportunity -for doing good or being kind. - -'Christmas will very soon be here once more,' says Mr. Silver. - -'We'll have a merry gathering,' Mrs. Silver answers. 'There will be -changes before the next comes round.' - -'Yes; our little children are men and women now.' - -'Good men and women, thank God!' - -'Wife,' he says, 'I have thought many times of your words when I -brought little Charley home twenty-three years ago. The child was -lying in your lap, and you said, "Perhaps this is the reason why God -has given us no children."' - -She looks at him with a tender light in her eyes. Between these two -love does not show itself in words, but in ministering to each other -unselfishly. - -'They have been a blessing to us, dear,' she says. 'Our household will -be smaller presently. Charley and Ruth, I think, are fond of each -other. He brings her home now every night.' - -'What did Charley earn last week? - -'Thirty-eight shillings.' - -'Is that sufficient to marry on?' - -'Quite sufficient, and to spare; and Charley has money put by to start -with. They must live near us. Charley would like to, I know, and Ruth -too; but it will be time enough to talk of these things by and by.' - -'Carry your mind ten years on, my dear.' - -'Well, I do so.' - -'What do you see?' - -'If we live?' - -'If we live.' - -She muses a little, looking into the fire. - -'Ourselves old people; Charley and Ruth happily married, with -children of their own; Mary married also, although her prince -is not yet come, and is a stranger to us. Richard will go abroad: -I can tell, by his reading and conversation, that his heart is set -upon it. And Rachel--poor Rachel!--stopping sometimes with us, and -sometimes--nearly always indeed--with Ruth and Charley. I can see -myself with hair perfectly white, and you with only a fringe of white -hair round your head.' - -He laughs softly and pleasantly, and caresses her hand. - -'I can see nothing but happiness, dear.' - -They sit quietly before the fire, and the darkness grows deeper. The -door opens, and Mr. Merrywhistle enters softly. - -'Don't stir,' he says; 'and don't light the gas. I was told you were -here, and I know how fond you are of sitting in the dark.' - -It was indeed a favourite habit with them when they were alone. He -sits by them in silence; for a minute or two no word is spoken. Then -Mrs. Silver places her hand lightly on his shoulder. - -'I understand, I understand,' he says; 'you are waiting for me to -speak. You always know when I am in trouble.' - -'How can I help knowing? Your face I cannot see, but I hear your heart -in your voice.' - -'Tell me: is it a good thing to make other persons' troubles ours?' - -'What is sympathy for?' she answers in return. - -'I have spoken to you now and again of a child--a girl--whom I have -seen occasionally---- - -'The flower-girl?' - -'Yes, the flower-girl; the girl whom I met for the first time in the -company of a boy who deceived me--a boy who told me the most -unblushing l---- stories, and who yet had some humanity in him.' - -'That is many years ago. The girl must be almost a woman now.' - -'She _is_ a woman, God help her!--more woman than her years warrant I -should think she is about the same age as Ruth. And it comes upon me -again, that fancy, when I speak of Ruth and think of this poor girl.' - -'Yes; you have told us there is a singular likeness between them.' - -'It is striking--wonderfully striking. But there can be nothing in it; -for Ruth, you have said, was the only child of a poor woman who died a -fortnight after the little thing was born.' - -'Yes, my friend.' - -'So that it is pure accident; but the fancy remains, for all that I -shall never forget the sad story that this poor Blade-o'-Grass told me -of the tiger that worried her, and clamoured for food. It was hunger, -my dear friends, hunger. I shall never forget her notion that -Hallelujah came to her while she was asleep, and put baked potatoes in -her lap. I shall never forget my pleasure when I first saw her with a -basket of flowers, and bought a flower of her. But I have told you of -these things before, and here I am babbling of them again, like an old -man that has lost his wits.' - -'Never mind, friend; go on.' - -'I saw poor Blade-o'-Grass this morning. I haven't seen her for many -months. I had occasion to pass by a certain prison early, and I saw -her, with a dozen others, waiting outside. She was waiting for this -boy that was--this man and thief that is. I lingered until the -prison doors were opened, and let him and others out. And when he -came'--there were tears in the old man's voice as he spoke--'and when -he came, this unhappy girl kissed him and clung to him as with less -shame she might have kissed and clung to a better man, had she been -taught something good when she was younger.' - -'My dear, dear friend!' says Mrs. Silver, taking his hand in hers. - -'I cannot tell you what I feared as I saw her, and spoke to her before -the prison doors were opened. Poor Blade-o'-Grass! poor child! Nay, -let me have my way.' - -And this good old man, whose heart is as tender as that of a good -woman, sheds tears and trembles; if a daughter's happiness had been at -stake, he could not have been more moved. Wisely, Mr. and Mrs. Silver -do not disturb him, but talk together of other subjects until Mr. -Merrywhistle exclaims, with something of his usual cheerfulness, 'What -on earth are we sitting in the dark for?' Whereat Mr. Silver smiles, -and lights the gas. As if the light is the means of suddenly waking up -the cuckoo from a nap, it immediately proclaims seven o'clock, and in -another hour the whole of Mrs. Silver's family are assembled in the -parlour. Rachel, the blind girl, has no outdoor occupation, but all -the others have. Charley, as you know, is a printer, and, being out of -his time, is earning good wages; Richard is a watchmaker, still an -apprentice, and making famous progress; and Mary and Ruth are both of -them in the postal telegraph office. For it has been part of Mrs. -Silver's plan to give her family the opportunity of making their way -in the world, and boys and girls have been taught that to work is one -of the chief duties and one of the best blessings of life. Charley and -Ruth come in together. He has grown quite a man since we last saw him, -and Ruth, Blade-o'-Grass's sister, is as bright and cheerful-looking a -lass as one can meet. She is particularly bright just now, and looks -particularly happy, for she and Charley have had a brisk walk; her -cheeks are glowing healthfully, and there is a bright sparkle in her -eyes. Then questions are asked and answered. The events of the day are -narrated, and it is wonderful what interest is manifested in these -trifles. Every few minutes the comfortable parlour in Buttercup-square -is filled with merry laughter. - -'Come, come, children,' says Mr. Silver, after nearly an hour has been -spent in this manner; 'are we to have any reading to-night?' - -The books are instantly brought forward, and the youngsters are busy -turning over the leaves. When last we were in their company they were -deep in the beautiful story of Paul and Virginia. Since then, they -have had rare nights with their favourite authors, and have laughed -and cried, as hundreds of thousands of others have done, over the -sayings and doings of the men and women and children who play their -parts in the pages of Thackeray and Scott and Dickens and Jerrold, and -authors of long ago. It is not a novel that engages their attention -now; this is one of their 'play' nights, when scenes from Shakespeare -are read. When the rustling of the leaves has ceased, they all with -one accord turn to Rachel, the blind girl. She knows they are looking -at her, and her face flushes as she says, 'Yes, I am ready.' Then says -Richard, in a deep bass voice, laying his finger on the first line of -the fourth act of _The Merchant of Venice_, 'What, is Antonio here?' -And Charley forthwith answers, 'Ready, so please your grace;' and the -play commences. They all take parts, with the exception of Mr. -Merrywhistle, who is the audience, and who applauds as if the house is -packed, and there is not standing room for one. Mr. Silver takes -Shylock (the villain's part generally falls to his share), and Ruth -reads the few lines that Nerissa has to say. But the great wonder of -the reading takes place when Richard, as the Duke, says, - - - 'You hear the learned Bellario, what he writes: - And here, I take it, is the doctor come.' - _Up rises Rachel, the blind girl_. - 'Give me your hand. Come you from old Bellario?' - - -And Rachel bows, and answers, in a gentle voice, 'I did, my lord.' The -scene proceeds, and Rachel speaks Portia's lines with grace and power, -and does not falter at a word. How they all praise her and cluster -round her when the act is finished, and the books are closed! - -But this is only one of very many such nights passed in that happy -home in Buttercup-square. - - - - FACE TO FACE--SO LIKE, YET SO UNLIKE. - - -On the following Saturday, Ruth and Charley had a holiday, which, with -the sanction of their kind guardians, they intended to spend at the -International Exhibition. The holiday had been planned a month before -its arrival, and had indeed been the occasion of an innocent -conspiracy between Ruth and Rachel and Charley, and of much mysterious -conversation. Rachel was to accompany them. The day, which had been -looked forward to with such rapturous anticipation as only the young -can experience and enjoy, at length arrived. In a very flutter of -delight, the two girls and their hero--for Charley was Rachel's hero -as well as Ruth's--bade Mrs. Silver good-morning, and went out into -the streets with joy in their hearts. Very tender were they to each -other, and very tender were Ruth and Charley to their blind companion. -No words of love had passed between Ruth and Charley, although their -attachment was known to their kind guardians, as you have read. But, -indeed, no words were required; their looks, their almost -unconsciously-exercised tenderness towards one another, were -sufficient confirmation of mutual affection. These two young persons -were enjoying the purest, happiest dream that life contains. May all -the grown-up people who read these pages have enjoyed such a pure and -happy dream! May all others live to enjoy it! - -Ruth and Charley, of course, with the usual blindness of lovers, -believed that no one noticed anything particular in their behaviour; -but in this respect they were as blind as Rachel--more so indeed, if -there be degrees in blindness, for even she guessed their secret In -the course of their rambles through the Exhibition, she sat down and -asked to be left alone for a while, and when Ruth and Charley -demurred, insisted, with a pretty and affectionate wilfulness, on -having her own way. - - -[Illustration] - - -'And don't hurry,' she said, turning her face to them and smiling -sweetly. 'You will find me here when you come back. I am tired, and -want a long, long rest.' - -And there the blind girl sat, seeing nothing, enjoying everything, -while unsuspecting Ruth and Charley wandered away into fairyland, arm -in arm. Soft strains of music came to Rachel's ears, and she listened -and drank them in, with clasped hands and head inclined, She was as -one inspired; visions of beauty passed before her, and the melodious -notes were imbued with palpable loveliness for her. Many a passer-by -paused to look at her beautiful face, and felt the better for it, and -a great lady came and sat down beside her. When the music ceased, the -lady said, 'My dear, are you here alone?' - -'O no,' replied Rachel, 'I have friends; I asked them to let me sit by -myself. I wanted to listen to the music. They will come for me -presently.' - -'You love music?' - -'Who can help loving it? I can see it' - -The lady's voice was soft and sweet, and Rachel _felt_ goodness in her -manner. 'Tell me,' she said, 'what is before me.' - -They were sitting opposite a piece of sculpture--a perfect work--and -the lady described it, and described it well, and told the story that -it illustrated. - -'Ah,' sighed the blind girl, 'it is beautiful!' - -The lady was accompanied by her husband and child. - -'Is this your little daughter?' asked Rachel. - -'My dear,' exclaimed the lady, 'I thought--thought----' - -'That I was quite blind,' said Rachel, smiling. 'So I am. But -see--your little girl's hand is in mine.' - -And indeed the child, who was standing by her mother's side, had -placed her hand in Rachel's, beneath the folds of the blind girl's -shawl. - -'And without that I think I could tell,' added Rachel. - -'Yes, my dear, it is my little girl,' said the lady. - -Rachel stooped and kissed the child, whose hand stole round Rachel's -neck, and caressed it. Lips purer and more innocent had never met. So -they sat, talking for a little while longer, until Rachel raised her -face, and smiled a happy greeting to Ruth and Charley, who were -standing before her. The lady and the child bade good-bye to Rachel, -and kissed her; and when they met again, an hour afterwards, the child -gave Rachel a flower. - -Like the incense of a breeze that has been wandering among -sweet-smelling plants; like the soft plash of water on a drowsy day; -like the singing of birds, are such small circumstances as these. -Thank God for them! - -And what had Ruth and Charley been doing? Dreaming--nothing -more--walking almost in silence among the busy eager bustling crowd, -standing before works of beauty, and enjoying. Everything was -beautiful in their eyes. Perfect harmony encompassed them; the -commonest things were idealised; their souls were filled with a sense -of worship. - -How quickly the hours passed! It seemed to them that they had been in -the place but a few minutes, and it was already time for them to go. -They left with many a sigh, and many a parting glance at the wonders -which lined the spaces through which they walked. Ruth's hand was -clasped in Charley's beneath her mantle, and a tender light was -in her eyes as they made their way through the restless throng. -It was still light when the omnibus put them down within a mile of -Buttercup-square. The tramway carriage would have carried them to the -avenue that led to Buttercup-square; but both Ruth and Rachel -expressed a desire to walk, wishful perhaps to prolong the happy time. -Charley, nothing loth, gave an arm to each of the girls, and they -walked slowly onwards, Rachel being nearest to the wall. They were -passing a man and a girl, who were talking together. The girl had just -uttered some words to the man, who was leaving her, when Rachel cried -suddenly in a voice of alarm, - -'Ruth, was it you who spoke?' - -Her face was deadly pale, and her limbs were trembling. - -'No, Rachel,' answered Ruth, surprised at the blind girl's agitation. - -As she replied, both she and Charley turned, and saw Blade-o'-Grass. -Thus, for the first time since their infancy, the sisters looked each -other in the face. Each saw, instantaneously, such a resemblance to -herself, that they leant towards each other in sudden bewilderment -Their gaze lasted scarcely as long as one might count three, for -Charley hurried Ruth and Rachel on; he also had seen with amazement -the likeness that Blade-o'-Grass bore to Ruth, and that there -should be any resemblance to his treasure in such a forlorn -disreputable--looking creature as Blade-o'-Grass, smote him with a -sense of pain. Ruth walked along, dazed; but before they had gone a -dozen yards she stopped, and pressed her hand to her heart. - -'Ruth! dear Ruth!' exclaimed Charley, placing his arm round her, for -indeed she was almost falling. She released herself, and said in a -faint voice: - -'Rachel, why did you ask if it was I who spoke?' - -'The tone was so exactly like yours, Ruth,' answered Rachel, 'that the -words slipped out from me unaware. Who was it that spoke?' - -'It must have been a poor girl whom we have just passed.' - -'What is she like?' Ruth's lips trembled, but she did not answer the -question. - -'Why must the words have slipped from you unaware, Rachel?' - -'Because, if I had considered an instant, I should not have asked. You -could not have said such a thing.' - -'What thing?--Nay, Charley, don't interrupt me,' said Ruth, in such an -imploring tone, that he was mute from fear, for Ruth's eyes were -filled with tears, and her face was very pale. 'What thing, Rachel?' - -'Just, then,' answered Rachel slowly and solemnly, 'a voice said, "For -God's sake, Tom, bring home some money, for there's not a bit of bread -in the cupboard!"' - -'Charley!' cried Ruth hurriedly, 'stand here with Rachel for a few -moments. Don't follow me; let me go alone.' - -She was his queen, and he obeyed her; but his apprehensive looks -followed her, although he did not stir from the spot Ruth hastened to -where Blade-o'-Grass was standing. The poor outcast was very wan and -wretched. Ruth knew part of her own history; for Mrs. Silver, when her -adopted children arrived at a proper age, had told them, gently, as -much of the story of their lives as she deemed it right and necessary -for them to know. The hours in which she unfolded their stories to her -children were quiet and solemn; there was no one present but she and -her adopted one; and she told them their history so gently and with -such sweet words of love, that they were never unhappy when they -learnt the truth. Ruth therefore knew that she was an orphan; and she, -in common with the others, had shed many grateful tears, and had -offered up many grateful prayers, for the merciful heart that had made -life a blessing to her. As she stood before her sister, so like, yet -so unlike--her sister never to be recognised, or acknowledged as of -her blood--the thought came to her, 'But for my dear good mother I -might have been like this--ragged, forlorn, hungry, with not a bit of -bread in the cupboard!' - -Blade-o'-Grass, whose wistful eyes had followed the strange likeness -to herself, saw Ruth turn back, and dropped a curtsey as her sister in -her warm soft dress stood before her. - -Then said Ruth timidly, 'It _was_ you who said that?' She herself -might have been the suppliant, her voice and manner were so quiet and -humble. - -'Said what, miss?' - -'That you hadn't a bit of bread in the cupboard.' - -'It's true, miss, and to-morrow's Sunday.' - -Ruth thought of what a happy day the Sabbath was to her and hers in -Buttercup-square, the goodness of it, the peacefulness of it! And this -forlorn girl before her, the sight of whom had so strangely unnerved -her, had only one thought of that happy Sabbath to-morrow--whether she -would be able to get bread to eat. Tears choked her voice as she -asked, 'Will you tell me your name?' - -'Blade-o'-Grass, miss.' - -Ruth looked up in surprise. 'Is that your real name?' - -'Yes, miss, I ain't got no other.' Ruth's hand had been in her pocket -from the first, with her purse in it; but she could scarcely muster -sufficient courage to give. She judged poor Blade-o'-Grass with the -eyes of her own sensitive soul, and felt that if money were offered to -her, she would sink to the earth in shame. - -'Will you pardon me,' she said hesitatingly, the hot blood flushing -her neck and face; 'will you pardon me if I offer you--if I beg of you -to--to----' - -The hand of Blade-o'-Grass was held out eagerly, imploringly, and Ruth -emptied her purse into it. Blade-o'-Grass wondered at the munificence -of the gift, and the modesty with which it was given, and her fingers -closed greedily on the silver coins. - -'God Almighty bless you, miss!' she exclaimed, taking Ruth's hand and -kissing it 'God Almighty bless you!' The tears were streaming down -both their faces. A warm hand pressure, a last grateful look from -Blade-o'-Grass, and the sisters parted. - -'O, Charley! Charley!' sobbed Ruth, as she clasped his arm, 'I might -have been like that!' They walked in silence to their home, and Ruth -whispered to her companions not to say anything to their kind -guardians of what had taken place. 'It might make them sad,' she said. - -It was dusk when they went indoors. Rachel went to her room first, and -Ruth and Charley lingered in the passage. - -'Ruth!' he whispered. - -She laid her head upon his breast with the confidence and innocence of -a child. He stooped and kissed her cheek, still wet with her tears. -She clung to him more closely--hid her face in his neck. A wondering -happiness took possession of them. - - - - ROBERT TRUEFIT ALLOWS HIS FEELINGS TO MASTER HIM. - - -The chance acquaintanceship which had so strangely sprung up seven -years ago between Mr. Merrywhistle, Robert Truefit, and Jimmy Virtue -had ripened into intimacy, and it was not unusual for the three to -meet in the old man's leaving-shop in Stoney-alley. The shop and the -stock were, on the whole, less fragrant than on the occasion of Mr. -Merrywhistle's first introduction to them. An additional seven years' -mouldiness lay heavy on the shelves; but familiarity had rendered the -musty vapour less objectionable to the benevolent gentleman. There was -no perceptible change of importance in Jimmy Virtue; his skin -certainly had got tougher and dryer and yellower, but otherwise he did -not seem to be a day older. His eyebrows were as precipitous, and his -glass eye as mild, and his fierce eye as fierce, as ever they were. No -perceptible change either was to be observed in the articles which -filled his shop: the same faded dresses and dirty petticoats were -crammed into inconvenient corners; the same crinolines loomed from -unlikely places; the same old boots hung from the ceiling; and -doubtless the same vanities of vanities were enclosed in the box which -served as a resting-place in Jimmy Virtue's parlour. - -It was a dull, miserable November night. A thick fog had lain upon -Stoney-alley during the day, necessitating the use of candles and gas; -towards the evening the fog had cleared away, and a dismal rain had -set in; Stoney-alley and its neighbouring courts and lanes were -overlaid with dirty puddles. It was by a strange chance, therefore, -that Mr. Merrywhistle and Robert Truefit found themselves in Jimmy -Virtue's parlour on this evening; they said as much to each other. -Each of them had some special business which brought them in Jimmy's -neighbourhood, and he expressed his pleasure when he saw them. They -were the only living friends he had; other friends he had, but they -were not human; notwithstanding which some hours would have hung -dreadfully upon Jimmy's hands, if he had been deprived of them. These -friends were aces, deuces, knaves, and the like; in other words, a -pack of cards. Very dirty, very greasy, very much thumbed and -dog's-eared, but very useful. Jimmy spent comfortable hours with these -friends. Sitting in his chair, he would place an imaginary opponent on -the seat opposite to him, and would play blind All-Fours with his -unreal foe for large sums of money. 'Jack' was the name of his -opponent, and Jimmy often talked to him, and called him a fool for -playing, and abused him generally for incapacity. For Jimmy nearly -always won; and many and many a night Jack was dismissed a ruined and -brokenhearted shadow, while Jimmy, after putting up his shutters, let -down his turn-up bedstead, and went to bed a winner of hundreds, -sometimes of thousands of pounds. For Jack's wealth was enormous; he -never refused a bet, never declined 'double or quits.' So reckless a -player was he--being egged on by Jimmy--that it was impossible he -could have come by his money honestly. Be that as it may, his -ill-gotten gains were swept into Jimmy's imaginary coffers, to the old -man's delight and satisfaction. It is a positive fact, that Jimmy had -grown into a sort of belief in Jack's existence, and often imagined -that he saw a shadowy opponent sitting opposite him. There was a very -good reason why Jimmy so invariably won and Jack so invariably lost. -Jimmy cheated. He often slipped into his own cards an ace or a knave -that properly belonged to Jack. When Jimmy did this, his manner was as -wary and cautious as though flesh and blood opposed him. It was a -picture to see this old man playing All-Fours with Jack for ten pounds -a game, or for 'double or quits,' and cheating his helpless adversary. - -When Mr. Merrywhistle and Robert Truefit entered Jimmy's parlour--they -had met at the door of the leaving-shop--he was playing greasy -All-Fours with Jack, and had just scored a winning game. Robert -Truefit always had something new to speak of: a trade-union outrage, a -strike, a flagrant instance of justices' justice, a mass meeting and -what was said thereat, and other subjects, of which a new crop springs -up every day in a great country where tens of millions of people live -and have to be legislated for. The late war, of course, was a fruitful -theme with Robert Truefit, who spoke of it as an infamous outrage upon -civilisation. Especially indignant was he at the sacrilege which lay -in one king invoking 'the God of Battles,' and in the other praying to -the Supreme to assist him in bringing desolation and misery to -thousands of homes. But this is no place for the outpourings of -Robert's indignation on those themes. From those lofty heights they -came down, after a time, to Blade-o'-Grass. It was Mr. Merrywhistle -who introduced her name. He asked Jimmy if he had seen her lately. No; -Jimmy hadn't seen her for a month. - -'You see,' said Jimmy, 'she's a woman now, and 'as been on 'er own -'ook this many a year. Besides which, once when I spoke to her she -was sarcy, and cheeked me because I wanted to give 'er a bit of -advice--good advice, too. But she was up in the stirrups then.' - -'Has she ever been prosperous?' inquired Mr. Merrywhistle. - -'Well, not what _you_ would call prosperous, I daresay; but she's 'ad -a shillin' to spare now and agin. And then, agin, she 'asn't, now and -agin. She's 'ad her ups and downs like all the other gals about 'ere; -you couldn't expect anythin' else, you know. And of course you've -'eerd that Tom Beadle and 'er----' - -'Tom Beadle and her--what? asked Mr. Merrywhistle, as Jimmy paused. - -'O, nothin',' replied Jimmy evasively; 'it's sich a common thing that -it ain't worth mentionin'.' - -'I saw her myself about six weeks ago,' said Mr. Merrywhistle; and he -narrated how he had met Blade-o'-Crass outside the prison, and what -had passed between them, and what he had seen. 'Tell me,' he said, -'is she married to Tom Beadle?' - -Jimmy Virtue's eye of flesh expressed that Mr. Merrywhistle -outrivalled Simple Simon in simplicity. 'I do believe,' thought Jimmy, -'that he gits greener and greener every time I see him.' Then he said -aloud contemptuously, 'Married to Tom! As much as I am!' - -Mr. Merrywhistle twisted his fingers nervously, and otherwise so -comported himself as to show that he was grieved and pained. - -'I wouldn't 'ave a 'art as soft as yours,' thought Jimmy, as Mr. -Merrywhistle rested his head upon his hand sadly, 'and as green as -yours--no, not for a 'atful of money.' - -'Poor child! poor child!' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle. 'I wish I could -do something for her.' - -'Too late,' said Jimmy shortly. - -'Yes, too late, I'm afraid,' said Robert Truefit. 'Blade-o'-Grass is a -woman now. Her ideas, her principles, her associations, are rooted. -When she was a sapling, good might have been done for her, and she -might have grown up straight. But she had no chance, poor thing! And -Jimmy's tone and your fears point to something worse than hunger. You -fear she is leading a bad life.' - -'No, no!' interposed Mr. Merrywhistle earnestly; 'not that--indeed, -not that. But I would give more than I could afford if I knew that she -was married to Tom Beadle.' - -'Thief as he is? questioned Robert Truefit. - -'Thief as he is,' replied Mr. Merrywhistle. - -His grief was contagious: Robert Truefit turned away, with a troubled -look on his face; Jimmy Virtue preserved a stolid silence, as was his -general habit on such occasions. 'What can one good man do?' presently -said Robert Truefit, in a low tone; but his voice was singularly -clear. 'What can a hundred good men do, each working singly, according -to the impulse of his benevolent heart? I honour them for their deeds, -and God forbid that I should harbour a wish to check them! Would that -more money were as well spent, and that their numbers were increased a -hundredfold! They do _some_ good. But is it not cruel to know that -Blade-o'-Grass is but one of thousands of human blades who are cursed, -shunned, ignored, through no fault of theirs, and who, when -circumstances push them into the light, are crushed by System? If they -were lepers, their condition would be better. And they might be so -different! To themselves, and all around them. To the State; to -society. In actual fact, and putting wordy sops in the pan out of the -question, what do statesmen do for such poor places as these? Give -them gin-shops and an extra number of police. No prompt effort made in -the right direction; no clearing away of nest-holes where moral -corruption and physical misery fester and ripen. Where legislation is -most needed, it moves at a snail's pace. So wrapt up are statesmen in -the slow hatching of grand schemes, that they cannot stoop to pour oil -upon these festering social wounds. And what is the result? While they -legislate, Blades-o'-Grass are springing up all around them, and -living poisoned lives. And while they legislate, if there be truth in -what preachers preach, souls are being damned by force of -circumstance. What should be the aim of those who govern? So to govern -as to produce the maximum of human happiness and comfort, and the -minimum of human misery and vice. Not to the few--to the many, to -all.' He paused, and turned to Mr. Merrywhistle. 'Seven years ago,' he -continued, 'we talked of poor Blade-o'-Grass. I told you then--I -remember it well--that England was full of such pictures as that -hungry ignorant child, with the tiger in her stomach, presented. Seven -years before that, it was the same. During that time Blade-o'-Grass -has grown up from a baby to a woman. What a childhood must hers have -been! I wonder if she ever had a toy! And see what she is now: a woman -for whom you fear--what I guess, but will not say. What will she -be--where will she be--in seven years from now? Seventy years is the -fulness of our age. Carry Blade-o'-Grass onwards for seven years more, -and find her an old woman long before she should have reached her -prime. What has been done in the last seven years for such as she? -What will be done in the next--and the next? There are thousands upon -thousands of such babes and girls as she was seven years and twice -seven years ago growing up as I speak; contamination is eating into -their bones, corrupting their blood, poisoning their instincts for -good. What shall be done for them in the next seven years? Pardon me,' -he said, breaking off suddenly; 'I have let my feelings run ahead of -me perhaps; but I'll stick to what I've said, nevertheless.' - -With that he wished them goodnight, and took his leave. Mr. -Merrywhistle soon followed him, first ascertaining from Jimmy Virtue -the address of Blade-o'-Grass. - - -[Illustration] - - -Jimmy, being left to his own resources, went to the door to see what -sort of a night it was. The rain was still falling drearily. It was -too miserable a night for him to take his usual pipe in the open air, -and too miserable a night for him to expect to do any business in. So -he put up his shutters, and retired to his parlour. Then he took out -his greasy pack of cards, and conjured up Jack for a game of -All-Fours. With his eye on his opponent, he filled his pipe carefully, -lighted it, puffed at it, and cut for deal. He won it, and the first -thing he did after that was to turn up a knave (slipping it from the -bottom of the pack) and score one. He was in a more than usually -reckless and cheating mood. He staked large sums, went double or -quits, and double or quits again, and cheated unblushingly. He won a -fortune of Jack in an hour; and then contemptuously growled, 'I'll try -you at cribbage, old fellow,' The cribbage-board was his table, and he -scored the game with a bit of chalk. Jack fared no better at cribbage -than he had done at All-Fours. Jimmy had all the good cribs, Jack all -the bad ones. By the time that the table was smeared all over with -chalk figures, Jimmy was sleepy. He played one last game for an -enormous stake, and having won it and ruined Jack, he went to bed -contentedly, and slept the sleep of the just. - - - - TOO LATE. - - -Mr. Merrywhistle had no very distinct plan in his mind when he left -Jimmy Virtue's shop to visit Blade-o'-Grass. Sincerely commiserating -her condition, he wished to put her in the way to get an honest and -respectable living, but was deeply perplexed as to the method by which -she was to arrive at this desirable consummation. Some small -assistance in money he might manage to give her; but in what way could -it be applied? by what means was she to be lifted out of that slough -into which she had been allowed to sink? And then he feared that she -was past training. As Robert Truefit had said, Blade-o'-Grass was a -woman now, with a grown-up person's passions and desires firmly rooted -in her nature. And he feared something else, also. But he would see -her and speak to her freely; good might come of it. - -The room she occupied was at the extreme end of Stoney-alley, and Mr. -Merrywhistle was soon stumbling along dark passages and up flights of -crippled stairs. When he reached the top of the house, as he thought, -he tapped at a door, and receiving no answer, turned the handle, and -entered. A very old woman, sitting before a very small fire, smiled -and mumbled in reply to his questions; and he soon discovered that she -was deaf and childish, and that he was in the wrong apartment. As he -stumbled into the dark again, a woman, with a child in her' arms, came -on to the landing with a candle in her hand, and showed Mr. -Merrywhistle that there was still another flight of stairs to mount. -Blade-o'-Grass lived up there, the woman said; first door on the right -She didn't know if the girl was at home. And then she asked if he was -a doctor. No, he answered, surprised at the question; he was not a -doctor. The crazy stairs complained audibly as he trod them. He -knocked at the first door on the right, and paused. - -'You'd better go in, and see, sir,' called the woman from below; -'perhaps she's asleep.' Mr. Merrywhistle hesitated. What right, he -thought, had he to intrude on the girl's privacy, and at this time of -night? But the knowledge that he was there for no bad purpose made him -bold, and he opened the door. A candle that was burning on the table -threw a dim light around, but the corners of the miserible apartment -were in shade. The woman was right in her conjecture: Blade-o'-Grass -was in the room, asleep. She was lying on the ground, dressed, before -a mockery of a fire; her head was resting on a stool, round which one -arm was thrown. The faintly-flickering flames threw occasional gleams -of light on the girl's face, over which, strange to say, a smile was -playing, as if her dreams were pleasant ones. The benevolent old -gentleman looked round upon the miserable apartment, and sighed. It -was a shelter, nothing more--a shelter for want and destitution. Then -he looked down upon the form of the sleeping girl, clothed in rags. -Child-woman indeed she was. Her pretty face was thin and pale; but -there was a happy expression upon it, and once her arm clasped the -stool with fond motion, as if she were pressing to her breast -something that she loved. Yet, doubtless, there are many stern -moralists, philanthropic theorists, and benevolent word-wasters, -who would have looked coldly upon this sleeping child, and -who--self-elected teachers as they are of what is good and -moral--would only have seen in her and her surroundings a text for -effervescent platitudes. But the school in which they learn their -lessons is as cruel and harsh as the school in which Blade-o'-Grass -learns hers is unwholesome and bitter. - -Mr. Merrywhistle was debating with himself whether he should arouse -her, when a slight motion on his part saved him the trouble of -deciding. 'Is that you, Tom?' she asked softly, opening her eyes, and -then, seeing a strange figure before her, scrambled to her feet. - -'I have come to see you,' said Mr. Merrywhistle. - -Although she curtseyed, she was scarcely awake yet. But presently she -said, 'O, yes, sir; I arks yer pardon. It's Mr. Merrywhistle? - -'Yes, child; may I sit down?' - -She motioned him to the only chair the room contained. 'It's very -late, ain't it?' she asked. And then anxiously, 'Is anythink up?' - -Mr. Merrywhistle was sufficiently versed in vulgar vernacular to -understand her meaning. No, he said, there was nothing the matter. She -gave a sigh of relief as she said, 'I thought you might 'ave come to -tell me somethin' bad.' - -'How long have you lived here?' - -'O, ever so long.' - -'Alone?' he asked, after a slight pause. - -But to this question she made no reply. - -'Times are hard with you, are they not, my child?' he said, -approaching his subject. - -'Very 'ard,' she answered, with a weary shake of the head. - -'Have you given up selling flowers?' - -''Tain't the season for flowers,' she answered; 'wilets won't be in -for three months.' - -He felt the difficulty of the task he had set himself. 'How do you -live when there are no flowers?' - -'Any'ow; sometimes I sells matches; I can't tell you 'ow, and that's a -fact.' - -'But why don't you work?' he inquired, with a bold plunge. - -'Work!' she exclaimed. 'What work? I don't know nothin'. But I've been -arksed that lots of times. A peeler told me that once, and when I -arksed him to get me some work that I could do, he only larfed.' - -'Suppose now,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, 'that I were to take you away -from this place, and put you somewhere where you could learn -dressmaking or needlework.' - -She gave him a grateful and surprised look. 'I don't think it'd -answer, sir. I knows lots o' gals who tried to git a livin' by -needlework, and couldn't do it. I knows some as set up till two -o'clock in the mornin', and got up agin at eight, and then couldn't -earn enough to git a shoe to their foot. And they couldn't always git -work; they'd go for weeks and couldn't git a stitch.' - -'Good heavens!' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle, who was as ignorant as a -child in such matters. 'What did they do then?' - -Blade-o'-Grass laughed recklessly. 'Do! what do you think? Beg, -or----somethin' else.' - -He was pained by her manner, and said, 'My poor child, I have only -come here out of kindness, and to try if I could do some good for -you.' - -'I know, sir,' she said gratefully; 'you've always been kind to me as -long as I can remember; I don't forget, sir. But there's some things I -know more about nor you do, sir. A gal can't git a livin' by -needlework--leastways, a good many of 'em can't. There was a woman -livin' in the next room: she worked 'er fingers to the bone, and -couldn't git enough to eat. Last winter was a reg'lar 'ard un; and -then she lost her work, and couldn't git another shop. She took to -beggin', and was 'ad up afore the beak. She was discharged with a -caution, I 'eerd. It _was_ a caution to her: she died o' starvation in -that there room!' - -Grieved and shocked, Mr. Merrywhistle was silent for a little while; -but he brightened up presently. He was sincerely desirous to do some -tangible good for Blade-o'-Grass. He thought of the situations held by -Ruth and Mary in the Postal Telegraph Office. Suppose he was to take -Blade-o'-Grass away from the contaminating influences by which she was -surrounded; give her decent clothes, and have her taught the system, -so that she might be an eligible candidate. He could set some -influence at work; Mr. Silver would do his best, and there were others -also whom he could induce to interest themselves. He felt quite -hopeful as he thought. He mooted the idea to Blade-o'-Grass. She -listened in silence, and when she spoke, it was in a low voice, and -with her face turned from him. - -I've see'd them gals, and I'd like to be one of 'em; but----' - -'But what, Blade-o'-Grass?' he asked kindly, almost tenderly; for -there was a plaintiveness in her voice that deeply affected him. - -'They must be able to read, mustn't they?' - -'O, yes; they would be useless without that.' - -'And they must be able to write, too. Where do you think _I_ learnt to -read and write? I don't know one letter from another.' - -Here was another difficulty, and a gigantic one; but it seemed as if -each fresh obstacle only served to expand Mr. Merrywhistle's -benevolent heart. - -'Why, then,' he said cheerfully, 'suppose we teach you to read and -write. You'd learn quickly, I'll be bound.' - -A sudden rush of tears came to her eyes, and she sat down on the -floor, and sobbed, and rocked herself to and fro. - -'It's too late!' she cried. 'Too late!' - -Too late! The very words used by Robert Truefit They fell ominously on -Mr. Merrywhistle's ears. He asked for an explanation; but he had to -wait until the girl's grief was spent, before he received an answer. -She wiped her eyes in a manner that showed she was mad with herself -for giving way to such emotion, and turned on her would-be benefactor -almost defiantly. - -'Look 'ere,' she said, in a hard cold voice, 'all them gals are what -you call respectable, ain't they?' - -'Yes, my child.' - -'Don't call me your child; it 'urts me--O, it 'urts me!' She was -almost on the point of giving way again; but she set her teeth close, -and shook herself like an angry dog, and so checked the spasms that -rose to her throat 'They must show that they're respectable, mustn't -they, or they couldn't git the billet?' - -'Yes.' - -'Well, then, I ain't respectable, as you call it; 'ow can I be? A nice -respectable gal _I'd_ look, comin' out of a orfice! Why, they've got -nice warm clothes, every one of 'em, and muffs and tippets, and all -that I've see'd 'em, lots of times.' - -'But you can leave your past life behind you,' urged Mr. Merrywhistle, -overleaping all obstacles; 'you can commence another life, and be like -them.' - -'Be like them! I can't be. It's too late, I tell you. And I'll tell -you somethin' more,' she added, slowly and very distinctly: 'I -wouldn't leave Tom Beadle to be the best-dressed gal among 'em.' - -'Why?' - -'Why!' she echoed, looking into his face with wonder. 'Why! Tom -Beadle's been the best friend I ever 'ad. He's give me grub lots and -lots o' times. When I was a little kid, and didn't know what was what; -when the tiger was a-tearin' my very inside out; Tom Beadle's come and -took pity on me. No one else but 'im did take it. I should 'ave -starved a 'undred times, if it 'adn't been for Tom. Why, it was 'im as -set me up for a flower-gal, and 'im as took me to the theaytre, and -'im as told me I should lick Poll Buttons into fits. And so I did, -when I 'ad a nice dress on; they all said so. And there's another -reason, if you'd care to know. No, I won't tell you. If you arks about -'ere, I daresay you can find out, and if you wait a little while, -you'll find out for yourself. She stood up boldly before him, and said -in a low passionate voice, 'I love Tom, and Tom loves me! I wouldn't -leave 'im for all the world. I'll stick to 'im and be true to 'im till -I die.' - -Here was an end to Mr. Merrywhistle's benevolent intentions; he had -nothing more to urge. The difficulties Blade-o'-Grass herself had put -in the way seemed to him to render her social redemption almost -impossible. Blade-o'-Grass saw trouble in his face, and said, as if he -were the one who required pity: - -'Don't take on, sir; it can't be 'elped. Next to Tom, no one's been so -good to me as you've been. Perhaps I don't understand things as you -would like me to understand 'em. But I can't 'elp it, sir.' - -Mr. Merrywhistle rose to go. He took out his purse, and was about to -offer Blade-o'-Grass money, when she said, in an imploring tone: - -'No, sir, not to-night; it'll do me more good, if you don't give me -nothin' to-night I shall be sorry to myself afterwards, if I take it. -And don't believe, sir, that I ain't grateful! Don't believe it!' - -'I won't, my poor girl,' said Mr. Merrywhistle huskily, putting his -purse in his pocket. 'I am sorry for all this. But, at all events, you -can promise me that if you want a friend, you'll come to me. You know -where I live.' - -'Yes, sir; and I'll promise you. When I don't know which way to turn, -I'll come to you.' - -He held out his hand, and she kissed it; and went down-stairs with him -with the candle, to show him the way. He walked home with a very heavy -feeling at his heart. 'There's something wrong somewhere,' was his -refrain. He was conscious that a great social problem was before him, -but he could find no solution for it. Indeed, it could not be expected -of him. He was ready enough (too ready, many said) with his sixpences -and shillings when his heart was stirred, but he was not a politician. - -When Blade-o'-Grass reentered her cheerless room, she set the candle -on the table, and began to cry. Her heart was very sore, and she was -deeply moved at Mr. Merrywhistle's goodness. She started to her feet, -however, when she heard the sounds of a well-known step on the stairs. -Wiping her eyes hastily, she hurried into the passage with the candle. -Tom Beadle smiled as he saw the light He was a blackguard and a thief, -but he loved Blade-o'-Grass. - -'I've got some trotters, old gal,' he said, when they were in their -room, 'and 'arf-a-pint o' gin. Why, I'm blessed if you 'aven't been -turnin' on the waterworks agin.' - -Her eyes glistened at the sight of the food. - -'Look 'ere, old woman,' said Tom Beadle, with his arm round her waist -''Ere's a slice o' luck, eh?' And he took out a purse, and emptied it -on the table. A half-sovereign and about a dozen shillings rolled out. -She handled the coins eagerly, but she did not ask him how he came by -them. - - -Half an hour later, Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass, having finished -their supper, were sitting before the fire, on which the girl had -thrown the last shovelful of coals. In the earlier part of the night, -she had been sparing of them; but when Tom came home rich, she made a -bright blaze, and enjoyed the comforting warmth. Tom sat on the only -chair, and she on the ground, with her arm thrown over his knee. She -was happy and comfortable, having had a good supper, and seeing the -certainty of being able to buy food for many days to come. Then she -told him of Mr. Merrywhistle's visit, but did not succeed in raising -in him any grateful feeling. All that he saw was an attempt on the -part of Mr. Merrywhistle to take Blade-o'-Grass away from him, and he -was proportionately grateful to that gentleman. - -'I'd 'ave punched 'is 'ead, if I'd been 'ere,' was Tom's commentary. - -'No, Tom, you wouldn't,' said Blade-o'-Grass earnestly. 'He only come -to try to do me some good, and he's give me money lots o' times.' - -'He didn't give you any to-night,' grumbled Tom. - -'He wanted to, but I wouldn't take it; I couldn't take it' - -'Blessed if I don't think you're growin' soft, old woman! Wouldn't -take his tin!' - -'Somethin' come over me, Tom; I don't know what. But he'll make it up -to me another time.' - -There was a soft dreaminess in her tone, as she lay looking into the -fire with her head upon Tom's knee, that disarmed him. He took a good -drink of gin-and-water, and caressed her face with his hand. Just then -the candle went out. Blade-o'-Grass placed her warm cheek upon Tom's -hand. They sat so in silence for some time. Tender fancies were in the -fire even for Blade-o'-Grass. As she gazed she smiled happily, as she -had done in her sleep. What did she see there? Good God! a baby's -face! So like herself, yet so much brighter, purer, that thrills of -ineffable happiness and exquisite pain quivered through her. Eyes that -looked at hers in wonder; laughing mouth waiting to be kissed. It -raised its little hands to her, and held out its pretty arms; and she -made a yearning movement towards it, and pressed her lips to Tom's -fingers, and kissed them softly, again and again, while the tears ran -down her face. - -'O, Tom!' she whispered, ''ow I love you!' - -What a rock for her to lean upon! What a harbour for her to take -shelter in! - -She fell into a doze presently, and woke in terror. - -'What's the matter, old gal?' asked Tom, himself nodding. - -And then she gasped, between her sobs, that she dreamt it was born -with a tiger in its inside! - - -Hark! What was that? Heavy steps coming up-stairs. No shuffling; -measured, slow, and certain, as though they were bullets being lifted -from stair to stair. Tom started to his feet. Nearer and nearer came -the sounds. - -'Give me the money, Bladergrass; give me the money, or you might get -into trouble too!' He tore the money out of her pocket; when he came -in he had given it to her to keep house with. Then he cried, 'The -purse! Where's the purse? Throw it out on the tiles--put it on the -fire!' - -'I 'aven't got it, Tom,' answered Blade-o'-Grass hurriedly, her knees -knocking together with fright. 'What's up?' - -'The peelers! Don't you 'ear 'em? Curse the light! why did it go out? -If they see the purse, I'm done for!' - -They groped about in the dark, but could not find it For a moment the -steps halted outside the door. Then it opened, and the strong light -from the policemen's bull's-eye lamps was thrown upon the crouching -forms of Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass. - -'You're up late, Tom,' said one of the policemen. - -'Yes,' said Tom doggedly, and with a pale face; 'I was jist goin' to -bed.' The policeman nodded carelessly, and kept his eye upon Tom, -while his comrade searched about the room. - -'Got any money, Tom?' - -'What's that to you?' - -'Come, come; take it easy, my lad. You haven't been long out, you -know.' - -'And what o' that?' exclaimed Tom, beginning to gather courage, for -the policeman's search was almost at an end, and nothing was found. -'You can't take me up for not bein' long out.' - -'But we can for this,' said the second policeman, lifting a purse from -the mantelshelf. 'Is this yours, sir?' - -A man, who had been lingering by the door, came forward and looked at -the purse by the light of the lamp. 'Yes, it is mine.' - -'And is this the party?'--throwing the light full upon Tom Beadle's -face. He bore it boldly; he knew well enough that the game was up. - -'I can't say; the purse was snatched out of my hand suddenly, and I -didn't see the face of the thief. I followed him, as I told you, and -saw him run down this alley.' - -'And a nice hunt we've had! Been in a dozen houses, and only came to -the right one at last. How much was in the purse, sir, did you say?' - -'Twenty-three shillings--a half-sovereign, and the rest in silver.' - -'Now, Tom, turn out your pockets.' - -Tom did so without hesitation. A half-sovereign and twelve shillings -were placed on the table. - -'Just the money, with a shilling short. What have you been having for -supper, Tom?' - -'Trotters.' - -'Ay; and what was in the bottle?' - -'Gin, of course.' - -'Trotters, fourpence; gin, eightpence. That's how the other shilling's -gone, sir. Come along, Tom; this'll be a longer job than the last.' - -As Tom nodded sullenly, Blade-o'-Grass, who had listened to the -conversation with a face like the face of death, sank to the ground in -a swoon. The policemen's hands were on Tom, and he struggled to get -from them. - -'Come, come, my lad,' said one, shaking him roughly; 'that's no good, -you know. Best go quietly.' - -'I want to go quietly,' cried Tom, with a great swelling in his throat -that almost choked his words; 'but don't you see she's fainted? Let me -go to her for a minute. I hope I may drop down dead if I try to -escape!' - -They loosened their hold, and he knelt by Blade-o'-Grass, and -sprinkled her face with water. She opened her eyes, and threw her arms -round his neck. - -'O, Tom!' she cried; 'I thought--thought----' - -'Now, my girl,' said the policeman, raising her to her feet in a not -unkindly manner; 'it's no use making a bother. Tom's got to go, you -know. It isn't his first job.' - - -[Illustration] - - -'Good-bye, old gal,' said Tom tenderly; 'they can't prove anythin'. -They can't lag me for pickin' up a empty purse in the street; and as -for the money, you know 'ow long I've 'ad that, don't you?' - -She nodded vacantly. - -'That's well trumped-up, Tom,' said the policeman; 'but I don't think -it'll wash.' - -Tom kissed Blade-o'-Grass, and marched out with his captors. When -their steps had died away, Blade-o'-Grass shivered, and sank down -before the fire, but saw no pictures in it now to bring happy smiles -to her face. - - - - HELP THE POOR. - - -Merry peals of bells herald the advent of a bright and happy day. Care -is sent to the right-about by those upon whom it does not press too -heavily; and strangers, as they pass each other in the streets, are -occasionally seen to smile amiably and cheerfully--a circumstance -sufficiently rare in anxious suspicious London to be recorded and made -a note of. But the great city would be filled with churls indeed, if, -on one day during the year, the heart was not allowed to have free -play. The atmosphere is brisk and dear, and the sun shines through a -white and frosty sky. Although the glories of spring and summer are -slumbering in the earth, nature is at its best; and, best thing of all -to be able to say, human nature is more at its best than at any other -time of the year. The houses are sweet and fresh, and smiles are on -the faces and in the hearts of the dwellers therein. Men shake hands -more heartily than is their usual custom, and voices have a merry ring -in them, which it does one good to hear. It is an absolute fact, that -many men and women today present themselves to each other unmasked. -Natural kindliness is in the enjoyment of a pretty fair monopoly, and -charity and goodwill are preached in all the churches. One minister -ends an eloquent exordium with 'God help the poor!' and the majority -of his congregation whisper devoutly, 'Be it so!'--otherwise, 'Amen!' - -In the church where this is said are certain friends of ours whom, I -hope, we have grown to respect: Mr. and Mrs. Silver with their flock, -and Robert Truefit with his. Mr. Merrywhistle has brought Robert -Truefit and the Silvers together, to their mutual satisfaction; and -Robert has agreed to spend Christmas-day in Buttercup-square with his -family--wife and four young ones. Thus it is that they are all in -church together. They make a large party--fourteen in all, for Mr. -Merrywhistle is with them--and there is not a sad heart among them. - -'If I had been the minister preaching,' says Robert Truefit to Mrs. -Silver, as they come out of church, 'I should not have ended my sermon -with "God help the poor!"' - -'With what then?' - -'With "Man, help the poor!"' answers Robert Truefit gravely. - -Here Charley and Ruth come forward with a petition. They want -permission to take a walk by themselves; they will be home within an -hour. - -'Very well, my dears,' says Mrs. Silver; 'don't be longer, if you can -help it.' - -It is Ruth who has suggested the walk, and she has a purpose in view -which Charley does not know of as yet. But Charley is happy enough in -his ignorance; a walk on such a day with his heart's best treasure by -his side is heaven to him. He is inclined to walk eastward, where -glimpses of the country may be seen; but she says, 'No, Charley, -please; you must come my way.' Perfectly contented is he to go her -way, and they walk towards the City. - -'You remember the day we went to the Exhibition, Charley?' - -What a question to ask him! As if it has not been in his thoughts ever -since, as if they have not talked of it, and lingered lovingly over -the smallest incidents, dozens and dozens of times! But he answers -simply, 'Yes, Ruth.' - -'And what occurred when we came back, Charley?' - -'The poor girl do you mean, Ruth?' - -'Yes, the poor girl--so much like me!' - -'I remember.' - -'I have never forgotten her, Charley dear! I want to pass by the spot -where we met her, and if I see her, I want to give her something. I -should dearly like to do so, to-day! Do you remember, Charley?--when -we saw her, she had not a bit of bread in the cupboard. Perhaps she -has none today.' - -'Take my purse, Ruth, and let us share together.' - -'I shall tell her, Charley, that it is half from you.' - -'Yes, my dear.' - -But though they walk past the spot, and, retracing their steps, walk -past it again and again, and although Ruth looks wistfully about her, -she sees nothing of Blade-o'-Grass. They walk homewards, Charley very -thoughtful, Ruth very sad. - -'Come, Ruth,' says Charley presently, 'we must not be unhappy to-day. -Let us hope that the poor girl is provided for; indeed, it is most -reasonable to believe so.' - -'I hope so, Charley, with all my heart.' - -'What you hope with all your heart, dear Ruth, is sure to be good and -true. Is there anything else you hope with all your heart?' - -There is a tender significance in his tone, and she glances at him -shyly and modestly, but does not answer. - -'You can make this happy day even happier than it is, Ruth; you can -make it the happiest remembrance of my life if you will say Yes to -something!' - -Her voice trembles slightly as she asks, 'To what, Charley?' - -'Let me tell our dear parents how I love you. Let me ask them to give -you to me. Is it Yes, Ruth dear?' - -'Yes, dear Charley.' But so softly, so tenderly whispered, that only -ears attuned as his were could have heard the words. - -Presently, - -'And do you love me with all your heart, Ruth?' - -'With all my heart, Charley.' - -O, happiest of happy days! Ring out, sweet bells! A tenderer music is -in your notes than they have ever yet been charged with! - - -It is twilight, and all the elderly people are in the parlour in -Buttercup-square. The children are in another room, engaged in -mysterious preparation. - -'I think we shall have snow soon,' says Mr. Merrywhistle. - -'I'm glad of it,' says Robert Truefit. 'Something seems to me wanting -in Christmas, when there is no snow. When it snows, the atmosphere -between heaven and earth is bridged by the purity of the happy time.' - -Mrs. Silver is pleased by the remark; the firelight's soft glow is on -her face. Charley enters, and bends over her chair. - -'My dear mother,' he whispers. - -She knows in an instant by the tremor in his voice what he is about to -say. She draws him to her, so that the firelight falls on his face as -well as on hers. - -'Is it about Ruth?' she asks softly. - -'Yes, yes,' he answers in a tone of eager wonder. 'How did you know?' - -She smiles sweetly on him. - -'I have known it for a long time, Charley. Have you spoken to her?' - -'Yes; and this is the happiest day I have ever known. O, mother, she -loves me! She gave me permission to ask you for her.' - -Mrs. Silver calls her husband to her side. - -'Charley has come to ask for Ruth, my dear.' - -'I am glad of it. Where is Ruth?' - -'I will bring her,' says Charley, trembling with happiness. - -'Did I not tell you, my dear?' Mrs. Silver asks of her husband. - -'It is a happy Christmas, indeed,' he answers. - -Ruth is glad that it is dark when she enters the room. Mrs. Silver -folds the girl in her arms. - -'My darling child! And this wonderful news is really true?' - -'Yes, my dearest mother,' kissing Mrs. Silver's neck, and crying. - -'What are you people conspiring together about?' asks Mr. -Merrywhistle, from the window. - -'Come here, and join the conspirators,' says Mrs. Silver. 'Our plots -will fail, without your assistance and consent.' - -Mr. Merrywhistle joins the party by the fire, and Robert Truefit -steals quietly out of the room. - -'It is eighteen years this Christmas,' says Mrs. Silver, 'since Ruth -was given to us. She has been a comfort and a blessing to us, and will -continue to be, I am sure.' Ruth sinks on her knees, and hides her -face in Mrs. Silver's lap. This true woman lays her hand on Ruth's -head, and continues: 'It is time that Ruth should know who is her real -benefactor.' - -'Nay, my dear madam,' expostulates Mr. Merrywhistle, blushing like a -girl. - -'My dear friend,' says Mrs. Silver, 'it is necessary. A great change -will soon take place in Ruth's life, and your sanction must be -given.--Ruth, my dear, look up. Before you were born, this -friend--whom we all love and honour--came to me, and asked to be -allowed to contribute out of his means towards the support of our next -child. You can understand with what joy his offer was accepted. -Shortly afterwards, my dear--eighteen years ago this day--you came to -us, and completed our happy circle. You see before you your -benefactor--your father--to whom you owe everything; for all the -expense of your training and education has been borne by him. It is -right that you and Charley should know this. And, Charley, as--but for -this our dearest friend--the happiness which has fallen upon you could -not have been yours, it is of him you must ask for Ruth.' - -'Sir--'says Charley, advancing towards Mr. Merrywhistle. - -'Not another word,' cries Mr. Merrywhistle, with Ruth in his arms; -'not another word about me, or I'll go and spend my Christmas-eve -elsewhere. If, as Mrs. Silver says, my consent is necessary, I give -you Ruth with all my heart.'--He kisses Ruth, and says: 'A happy -future is before you, children. No need for me to tell you where your -chief love and duty lie--no need for me to remind you to whose -parental care and good example you owe all your happiness. To me, an -old man, without kith or kin, their friendship and love have been -priceless; they have brightened my life. It comes upon me now to say, -my dear girl and boy, that once--ah, how many years ago!--such a prize -as the love which animates you seemed to be within my reach; but it -slipped from me, and I am an old man now, waiting to hear my name -called. Cling to your love, my dears; keep it in your hearts as a -sacred thing; let it show itself daily in your actions towards each -other: it will sweeten your winter when you are as old as I am, and -everything shall be as bright and fresh to you then as in this your -spring-time, when all the future before you seems carpeted with -flowers. Ruth, my child, God bless you! Charley, I am proud of you! -Let your aim be to live a good life.' - -Mrs. Silver kisses the good old man, and they sit round the fire -undisturbed; for it appears to be understood in the house, that the -parlour must not be invaded until permission is given. It is settled -that Charley and Ruth shall wait for twelve months; that Charley shall -be very saving; that Ruth shall leave her situation, and keep house -for the family, so that she shall enter her own home competent to -fulfil the duties of a wife. But, indeed, this last clause is scarcely -necessary; for all Mrs. Silver's girls have been carefully instructed -in those domestic duties, without a knowledge of which no woman can be -a proper helpmate to the man to whom she gives her love. - -The shadows thicken, and the snow begins to fall There is peace -without, and love within. Mrs. Silver, as she watches the soft -snowflakes, thinks that it will be just such a night as that on which, -eighteen years ago, she and her husband brought Ruth home from -Stoney-alley. She recalls every circumstance of her interview with the -landlady, and hears again the pitiful story of the motherless babe. -Then she looks down upon the pure happy face of Ruth, and her heart is -filled with gratitude to God. - - -And Ruth's twin sister, Blade-o'-Grass? - -She was sitting in the same miserable attic from which Tom Beadle was -taken to prison. He was not in prison now, having escaped just -punishment by (for him) a lucky chance. When Tom was brought before -the magistrate, he told his trumped-up story glibly: he had picked up -the empty purse in the street, and the money was, the result of -his own earnings. When asked how he had earned it, he declined -to say; and he advanced an artful argument. The policeman had -reckoned up the money which the man who had lost the purse said it -contained--twenty-three shillings. Twenty-two shillings were found in -Tom's pocket, and the other shilling was spent, according to the -policeman's version, in trotters and gin. Not another penny, in -addition to the twenty-two shillings, was discovered in the room. Now, -said Tom, it wasn't likely that he would be without a penny in his -pocket, and the fact that he had just the sum the purse had contained -was simply a coincidence. He argued that it would be much clearer -against him if a few coppers more than the actual money lost had been -found. Of course this defence was received with derision by the -police, and with discredit by the magistrate. But it happened that the -prosecutor was too unwell to attend on the morning that Tom made his -appearance in the police court, and he was remanded for a week. Before -the week passed by, the prosecutor died, and Tom was set free. -Blade-o'-Grass was overjoyed; it was like a reprieve from death to -her. But the police were angry at Tom's escape, and kept so sharp a -watch on him, that he found it more than ever difficult to live. I am -not pleading Tom's cause, nor bespeaking compassion for him; I am -simply relating certain facts in connection with him. When Christmas -came, things were at their very worst. They had no Christmas dinner, -and Tom was prowling about in search of prey. - -On the night before Christmas Blade-o'-Grass listened to the merry -bells with somewhat of bitterness in her soul. Everything about her -was so dreary, the prospect of obtaining food was so faint, that the -sound of the bells came to her ears mockingly. What she would have -done but for her one comfort and joy, it is difficult to say. - -Her one comfort and joy! Yes, she had a baby now, as pretty a little -thing as ever was seen. All her thought, all her anxiety, was for her -child. Blade-o'-Grass possessed the same tenderness of nature that had -been so developed in Ruth as to make her a pride of womanhood. How -proud Blade-o'-Grass was of her baby! How she wondered, and cried, and -laughed over it! As she uncovered its pretty dimpled face, and gazed -at it in worship, all the bitterness of her soul at the merry sound of -the bells faded away, and for a little while she was happy. She talked -to the babe, and, bidding it listen to the bells, imitated the glad -sound with her voice, until the child's face was rippled with smiles. -But the hard realities of her position were too pressing for her to be -able to forget them for more than a few minutes. Tom had not been home -since the morning, and she had had but little food during the day. Not -for herself did she care; but her baby must be fed. If she did not eat -and drink, how could she give milk to her child? 'I'll go and arks -Jimmy Wirtue for somethin',' she thought; and so that her appeal to -the old man might be fortunate, she cunningly took her baby out with -her. Jimmy was playing All-Fours with Jack, who, having come into -another fortune, was dissipating it recklessly as usual for the -benefit of his remorseless foe. - -'What do you want? What's that bundle in your arms?' growled Jimmy, as -Blade-o'-Grass peeped into his parlour. - -'Ifs my baby,' said Blade-o'-Grass; 'I've come to show it to you.' - -'And what business have you with a babby?' exclaimed Jimmy, in an -excited manner. 'Ain't you ashamed of yourself? Take it away; I don't -want any babbies 'ere.' - -But Blade-o'-Grass pleaded her cause so meekly and patiently, and with -so much feeling, that Jimmy was bound to listen and sympathise, hard -as he was. - -'Lookee 'ere,' he said harshly, holding up his finger, as she stood -looking at him entreatingly: 'it's now nigh on eighteen year ago since -Mrs. Manning----you remember Mrs. Manning?' - -'O, yes,' sighed Blade-o'-Grass. - -'It's now nigh on eighteen year ago since she come round a-beggin' for -you; and now _you_ come round a-beggin' for your babby.' - -'I can't 'elp it,' said Blade-o'-Grass; 'don't speak to me unkindly; I -am weak and 'ungry.' - -'Why, you was only a babby yourself then----what's the matter?' - -Blade-o'-Grass was swaying forward, and would have fallen if he had -not caught her. His tone was so harsh, that the poor girl's heart was -fainting within her at the prospect of being sent away empty-handed. -Jimmy assisted her into his chair; and without considering that he was -about to upset Jack, who was sitting on the box, opened it, and -produced a bottle of spirits. He gave her some in a cup, and she -revived. Then, grumblingly, he took a sixpence out of a dirty bag, and -gave it to her, saying: - -'There! And don't you come botherin' me agin!' - -How grateful she was! She made him kiss baby, and left him with that -soft touch upon his lips. He stood still for a few moments with his -fingers to his lips, wondering somewhat; but he recovered himself very -soon, and glaring at Jack, took swift revenge in All-Fours for his -softness of heart, and ruined that shadowy creation for the hundredth -time. - -When Blade-o'-Grass quitted Jimmy's shop, she felt as if she would -have liked to sing, she was so blithe and happy. She spent the whole -sixpence, and treated herself to half a pint of stout. 'This is for -you, pet!' she said to her baby, as she drank. She drank only half of -it; the other half she saved for Tom. But although she waited up, and -listened to the bells--gratefully now--until long past midnight, Tom -did not come home. And when she rose on Christmas morning, he was -still absent. She wandered out to look for him, but could not find -him; and then hurried back, hoping that he might have come in her -absence. As the day wore on, she grew more and more anxious, and -tormented herself with fears and fancies as to what could have -happened to him. So she passed her Christmas-day. In the afternoon she -fell asleep, with her baby in her arms. At first she dreamt of all -kinds of terrors, and lived over again, in her dreams, many of the -miseries of her past life; but after a time her sleep became more -peaceful, and her mind wandered back to the time when, a child of -three years of age, she sat on the stones in the dirty yard, looking -in silent delight at the Blades of Grass springing from the ground. - -When she awoke it was dark. She went to the window, shivering; it was -snowing fast. All the food was gone, and she was hungry again. What -should she do? Suddenly a terrible fear smote her. Baby was very -quiet. She looked at the sleeping child's white face by the white -light of the snow, and placed her ears to the pretty mouth. Thank God! -she felt the child's warm breath. But it would wake up presently, and -she had no milk to give. The child's lips and fingers were wandering -now to the mother's bosom. She could not stand this agony of hunger -and darkness and solitude any longer; she must go into the streets. - -Out into the streets, where the snow was falling heavily, she went. -She looked wistfully about for Tom, but saw no signs of him. Into the -wider thoroughfares she wandered. How white they were! how pure! how -peaceful! A virgin world had taken the place of the old; a newborn -world seemed to lie before her, with its pure white page ready for the -finger of God to write upon. She wandered on and on, until she came to -a square. She knew it immediately--Buttercup-square. Why, here it was -that Mr. Merrywhistle lived, and he had made her promise that she -would come to him when she wanted a friend. 'When I don't know which -way to turn, I'll come to you,' she had said. Well, she didn't know -which way to turn. She walked slowly towards a house, through the -shutters of which she could see pleasant gleams of light. It was Mrs. -Silver's house, and she paused before it, and thought to herself, -'I'll wait 'ere till I see 'im.' And so, pressing her babe to her -bosom, she waited, and listened to the music of happy voices -that floated from the house into the peaceful square. Did any -heavenly-directed influence impel her steps hitherward? And what shall -follow for poor Blade-o'-Grass? I do not know, for this is Christmas -eighteen hundred and seventy-one, and I cannot see into the future; -but as I prepare to lay down my pen, I seem to hear the words that -Robert Truefit uttered this morning--'Man, help the poor!' - - - - THE END. - - - - * * * * * - - LONDON: ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W. - - - - - - -[Frontispiece] - - - - - - - GOLDEN GRAIN. - - - By B. L. FARJEON, - AUTHOR OF 'BLADE-O'-GRASS,' 'BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES,' ETC. - - - -[Illustration] - - - - - I. - - THROUGH COUNTRY ROADS TO - SOME GREEN PLEASANT SPOT. - - -This Christmas I fulfill a purpose which has been in my mind for more -than a year. Until now my days and nights have been so much occupied -that I have not been able to commence my task. But you will see, by -the time you reach the end of these pages--if you have patience to go -through them--that I am enjoying a little leisure. The task that I -have set myself to perform is both sad and pleasant, and no more -fitting time than Christmas could be found for its accomplishment. - -Not that it is Christmas at this present moment of writing. But the -good season will be here in a month; and when the mistletoe and holly -are hanging in cot and mansion, and the hearts of men are beating in -harmony, as if one pulse of love and goodwill animated them, I hope, -with God's blessing, that my little book will be completed, ready for -those who care to read what I have written. It may be that certain -persons who appear in these pages will be familiar to some of my -readers. I hope they will not be the less welcome on that account. To -me the story of their lives is fraught with deep and abiding interest. - -How sweet the days are!--ay, although it is winter. Happiness comes -from within. Grateful hearts can give light and colour to the -gloomiest hours. But the hours for me are not gloomy, and no effort on -my part is required to make them bright. This is the sweetest part of -my life, both in itself and in the promise that it holds out. Three -days ago I was married. My wife is working in the room in which I am -writing. I call her to me. - -'Rachel!' - -She comes to my side. I hold her hand in mine. I look into her face, -which is inclined towards me. She cannot see me; she is blind. But she -smiles as I gaze at her. She knows the tender thought which impelled -me to call her to my side. - -I am a clergyman, and my name is Andrew Meadow. My duties lie in one -of the most crowded and populous parts of the City, and the stipend I -received (for I no longer receive it) in return for my labours was -small. Far be it from my intention to make a merit of the fact, but it -is necessary that I should mention it. Although I have at times felt -myself cruelly hampered for want of means, my stipend was sufficient -for my personal wants, and I have even been able now and then to spare -a little: but very little. In the clerical, as in many other -professions, the payment to the workers is most unequally apportioned; -it is almost the rule that those who work the hardest receive the -least. So far as I myself am concerned, I have no complaint to make; -but I feel that it is an anomaly that some of those who work in the -Church should receive so much that they leave great fortunes behind -them, while others receive so little as to be scarcely able to -maintain their families. The priests of Him who advised the wealthy to -sell all they had, and give to the poor, should have neither more nor -less than enough. If they do not recognise in their practical life, -and by practical example, that the cause they labour in is the cause -of humanity, they are in a measure unfaithful to their trust. - -I have no recollection of my father; but I have learned to honour his -memory. My mother lived until I was eight years of age. She was a -simple good woman--sweetly girlish in her manner to the last--and -although she is dust, I have not lost her. She dwells in my heart. -There is always to my consciousness a strong affinity between good -women; in point of feature, voice, or manner, one reminds you of -another; and' I often see in the face of my wife a likeness to that of -my mother. I read these last words to my wife; her face lights up with -a new happiness, and she says: - -'I am glad; very, very glad!' - -My wife knows and approves of the task I am engaged upon. - -'It will do good, Andrew,' she says; 'I am sure it will.' - -In my heart of hearts I hope so. If ever so little good results from -these words of mine, if but a seed is sown, if but a little sympathy -is roused to action which otherwise would have lain dormant, I shall -be amply repaid. - -My wife, like myself, is an orphan; unlike myself, she never knew -father or mother. But she had, and has, those who stand to her in that -relation. In the house of these dear souls I first met her. - -Their name is Silver. The maternal instinct is implanted in the breast -of every good woman, and it was a great grief to the Silvers that -their union was a barren one; but they turned their sorrow to good -use. Childless themselves, they, to the full extent of their means, -adopted a family of children, and trained them in such a manner as to -make their lives a blessing to them and to those around them. I cannot -hope to give you an idea of the perfect goodness of the lives of these -two dear friends, to whom my present and future happiness is due. I -thank God that I know them, and that they account me their friend. -Could the example which they have set in their small way and with -their small means be followed out on a larger scale, in other places -and localities than those in which I labour, a blessing would fall -upon the land, and humanity itself would be ennobled. These children, -when Mr. and Mrs. Silver adopted them, were babes, unconscious of the -perils which lay before them, and only those were selected who had no -parents. The time chosen for their adoption was within a week or two -of Christmas. They were found in the most miserable courts and alleys -in the metropolis; they were surrounded by ignorance, poverty, dirt, -and crime. God knows into what form of shame they might have -developed, had they been left to grow up in accordance with their -surroundings. But a happier fate is theirs. Under the influence of a -sweet and wise benevolence they have grown into good and useful men -and women, of whom their country may be justly proud. - -I made the acquaintance of the Silvers almost as soon as I had entered -upon my duties; but circumstances did not bring us together, and I was -not very intimate with them until some time afterwards. I had heard -much of their goodness, for they are loved in the neighbourhood; every -man and woman has a good word for them. - -One memorable day in August, more than four years ago now, I received -a note from Mrs. Silver, who lived in Buttercup-square, asking me as a -great favour to visit her in the evening, if I had the time to spare. -I was glad of the opportunity of seeing something of a household of -which I had heard so much good, and from that evening our actual -friendship commenced. There were present Mr. and Mrs. Silver, and two -of their adopted children, Mary and Rachel. They received me -cordially, and I felt that I was among friends. I saw that Rachel was -blind, and it touched me deeply, at that time and always afterwards, -to witness their tender thoughtfulness for the dear girl's calamity. -Not, I truly believe, that it is a calamity to her. She has been so -wisely trained, and has such strong inherent gratitude for the love -which is shed upon her, for the blessings by which she is surrounded, -that a repining thought never enters her mind. The effect of her -grateful nature is shown in the purity of her face, in the modesty of -her every movement. Were I a sculptor, it would be my earnest wish to -take her face as a model for Purity, and were I talented enough to be -faithful in the reproduction, I am sure that my fame would be made. - -'These are only two of our children,' said Mrs. Silver, after I had -shaken hands all round; 'we have three more--Ruth and Charley, who -took into their heads to fall in love with each other, and are -married; and Richard, who is in Canada, and from whom we have received -a letter to-day. Ruth has a baby, and she and her husband will be here -in half-an-hour.' - -'Not the baby, mother!' said Mary. - -'No, dear, not the baby. She is only three months old, Mr. Meadow.' - -'But such a wise little dear!' added Mary. 'I do believe she begins to -understand already.' - -Then Mrs. Silver went on to tell me that Mary, the eldest girl--woman -now, indeed, twenty-four years of age--held a responsible position in -a government telegraph-office; that Charley was a compositor; that -Richard was a watchmaker; and that Rachel was as useful as any of -them, for she did all the needlework of the house. Rachel was working -a black-silk watch-guard for Richard, and it surprised me to see how -nimble her fingers were. She was listening intently to every word that -passed, and when I first spoke, she paused in her work to pay -attention to my voice. - -'I want you to know exactly all about us,' said Mrs. Silver, 'and to -interest you in us, for I have made up my mind--pray excuse me for -it--that you are necessary to our plans. In a word, I wish to enlist -you.' - -Rachel did a singular thing here--something which made a great -impression upon me. She left the room, and returned with a small piece -of bread dipped in salt. She held the plate towards me. - -'Pray eat this piece of bread, Mr. Meadow,' she said. - -I took the bread, and ate it. - -'Now, mother,' said Rachel, with a satisfied expression, 'Mr. Meadow -is enlisted.' - -'Yes,' I said, addressing Mrs. Silver; 'I am one of your soldiers.' - -'Ah,' rejoined Mrs. Silver; 'but I want you to be my captain.' - -At that moment there was a knock at the street-door. - -'That's Mr. Merrywhistle,' cried Rachel, running into the passage, and -they all turned their faces to the door to welcome a friend. - -'Rachel knows every knock and every step,' observed Mrs. Silver; 'she -will know you by your step the next time you visit us.' - -I had heard of Mr. Merrywhistle as a large-hearted charitable man, and -I was pleased to come into closer acquaintanceship with him. He -entered, with his arm around Rachel's waist. An old man with white -hair and a kind eye. - -Mrs. Silver was the first to speak. 'We have enlisted our curate, Mr. -Merrywhistle.' - -'I knew,' he said, as he shook hands with me, 'that he had -only to be spoken to. I am truly pleased to see you here. Well, -children'--turning to the girls--'what is the news?' - -The important news was Richard's letter from Canada. Mr. -Merrywhistle's face brightened when he heard of it. It was not to be -read, however, until Ruth and Charley came in. They arrived earlier -than was expected, both of them in a glow of excitement. It was -evident that they also had important news to communicate. Ruth, after -the first affectionate greetings, went to Rachel's side, and for the -rest of the evening the maid and the wife were never apart. A -special affection seemed to exist between them. Now that the whole -family was assembled, I thought I had never seen a more beautiful -group--especially beautiful because the ties that bound them together -were made fast by love and esteem. I knew to whom this was due, and I -looked towards Mr. and Mrs. Silver with increased respect and -admiration. - -The first inquiries were about Ruth's baby. The young mother's -enthusiasm in answering the inquiries, and in detailing the wonderful -doings of her treasure during the last twenty-four hours, warmed my -heart; and when, after a long and almost breathless narration, Ruth -exclaimed, 'And I really think the darling has a tooth coming!' I -thought I had never heard anything more delicious. As for Mr. -Merrywhistle, he rubbed his hands with delight, and took Ruth's hands -in his, and rubbed those also, and exclaimed, 'Wonderful, wonderful! -Really I never did!' a score of times at least. Flushed with pride and -pleasure, Ruth as she spoke nodded at the others, now wisely, now -merrily, now tenderly, with looks which said, 'Of all happy mothers, I -am the happiest!' Never in my life had I seen so exquisite a home -picture. - -'And now, Charley,' said Ruth, when she had exhausted her budget, -although she could have gone through the whole of it again with -perfect satisfaction, as if it were something entirely new, 'and now, -Charley, tell them.' - -What Charley had to tell was simply that he was to be made overseer of -the printing establishment in which he was employed. There was an -honest ring in his voice as he spoke of his good fortune, and I was -convinced that it had been earned by merit. - -'That is good news, indeed,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, with his hand on -Charley's shoulder. 'Charley, by the time you are thirty, you will be -a master printer. Bravo! Bravo! - -Mrs. Silver kissed him, without saying a word, and as he drew her face -down to his and returned the kiss, and her gray hair mingled with his -brown curly locks, he whispered something in her ear which brought a -happy sigh from her. - -Then came the reading of Richard's letter. Mr. Silver took it from his -pocket and opened it, and there was a general rustle of expectation in -the room and a closer drawing together of chairs. He looked around him -with a wistful air; the movement reminded him of a time when those who -were now men and women grown were children. To this purpose he spoke, -in a soft tone, before he commenced to read Richard's letter: - -'You remind me, children, you remind me! It brings many happy evenings -to my mind. Do you remember _Paul and Virginia_ and the _Vicar of -Wakefield?_' - -This challenge loosened their tongues, and for five minutes they were -busy recalling refreshing reminiscences. When memories of times that -were sweet and pleasant come to us, they come wrapt in a cloud of -solemn tenderness, and the voices of these children were pensive as -they spoke. - -Behind the year whose seasons we are now enjoying is an arch of -overhanging leaves and boughs, receding, as it were, and growing -fainter in colour as old age steals upon us. Within this arch of green -leaves and boughs live the memories of our past. As, with a wistful -yearning to the days that were so sweet, we turn towards the arch, -which spans from heaven to earth, it opens, as by the touch of a magic -wand, and we see the tender trees that made our young lives green. -They are fair and good, and their leaves and branches are dew-laden, -though we of whom they are a part are walking to the grave. Some -sadness is there always in the mind as we recall these memories, but -only to those who believe not in the future, who see no hope in it, do -they bring pain and distress. - -'When our children were in jackets and pinafores,' said Mrs. Silver to -me, 'my husband used to read to them every evening, and the hour was -always looked forward to with delight.' - -'One night,' said Charley, with a sly look at his wife, 'when we were -in the middle of _Paul and Virginia_, and left off where Paul was -carrying Virginia in his arms, Ruth said, "Charley, you are like -Paul!" "But Where's my Virginia?" I asked. "_I'll_ be Virginia!" Ruth -cried; "and you can carry me about where you like." That's the way it -came about, sir.' - -Of course there was much laughter at this reminiscence, to the truth -of which they all vouched, and Ruth, with a saucy toss of her head, -said, - -'Ah, but there's no doubt that I was too little then to know my own -mind.' - -'I don't know that, Ruth,' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle, chuckling; 'I -don't know that. It's my opinion you determined to marry Charley long -before you were out of short clothes.' - -After this innocent fashion they made merry. - -'Dear me, dear me, children!' cried Mr. Silver, with assumed -petulance. 'How much longer am I to wait with Richard's letter in my -hand?' - -'Read it now, father,' said Mrs. Silver; and there was a general hush -of expectancy. - -The letter was a long one, and in it were recounted all the writer's -experiences in the land of his adoption. It was written hopefully and -confidently, and yet with modesty, and was filled with expressions of -love for the dear ones at home. 'Everything before me is bright, and I -have no doubt of the future. Not a day passes that I am not assured -that I was right in coming, and the conviction that I have those in -the old country who love me, and whom I love with all my heart and -soul, strengthens me in a wonderful manner. I can see you all as I -write, and my heart overflows towards you. Yes, I was right in coming. -The old country is over-crowded; there are too many people in it, and -every man that goes away gives elbow-room to some one else. When I see -the comfortable way in which poor people live here, and compare it -with the way they live at home--and above all, when I think of the -comfortable future there is before them if they like to be steady--I -find myself wishing that hundreds and hundreds of those I used to see -in rags, selling matches, begging, and going in and out of the -gin-shops, could be sent to this country, where there is room for so -many millions. I daresay some of them would tum out bad; but the -majority of them, when they saw that by a little steadiness they could -make sure of good clothes and good food, would be certain to turn out -good. I am making myself well acquainted with the history of this -wonderful country, and I mean to try hard to get along in it. You -can have no idea what a wonderful place it is; what opportunities -there are in it; what room there is in it. Why, you could put our -right-little tight-little island in an out-of-the-way corner of it, -and the space wouldn't be missed! If I make my fortune here--and I -believe I shall--I shall know how to use it, with the example I have -had before me all my life. I hope to have the opportunity of doing -more good here than I should have been able to do at home, and depend -upon it I will, if I have it in my power, for I want to repay my dear -mother and father for all their goodness to me. Want to repay you! No, -my dearest parents, I do not want to do that; I never could do it, if -I tried ever so hard. O, if I could put my arms now round my dear -mother's neck, and kiss her as I used to do! But I can kiss her -picture and all your pictures. Here's Mary and Ruth and Rachel--I feel -inclined to cry as they pass through my hands--and Charley--How are -you, Charley?--here you are, all of you, with mother and father, lying -before me as I write. Upon my word, I fancy you almost know that I'm -speaking to you. God bless you, my dears!... I've got ideas, and -there's room to work them out in this new country. And one day, when -Mary writes to me that she is going to get married, I shall be able to -say, perhaps, to my dear sister, "Here is a purse from runaway Richard -to help you and your husband along in the battle of life." For it is a -battle, isn't it, dears? And I mean to fight it, and win. Yes, and -win! You'll see if I don't!' - -In this way the letter ran on--eagerly, impetuously, lovingly--and -there was not a dry eye in the room when Mr. Silver read the last -words, 'Ever your own faithful and loving Son and Brother, RICHARD. -God bless you all, again and again! Now I shall go to bed, and dream -of you.' - -I am particular in narrating this incident of the reading of Richard's -letter, for Richard, although he will not appear in person in these -pages, plays an important part in them on one momentous occasion, as -you will see. - -The reading being concluded, eager tongues related anecdotes of -Richard; and, 'Do you remember, mother, when Richard----?' and, -'Do you remember, Rachel, when we were at Hampstead-heath, and -Richard----?' so-and-so and so-and-so. And then, when there was -silence, Ruth said pensively, 'I wish Richard could see baby!' - -And thus, in various shapes of love, the thoughts of all travelled -over the waters to the absent one. I can fancy that the very breezes -that waft thitherward, and thence to the mother-land, are sweetened by -the loving thoughts which float upon them from one shore to another. - -'Mr. Meadow will forgive us,' said Mrs. Silver, 'for detaining him -with these family details. We are apt to be selfish in our joys.' - -I assured her that I regarded it as a privilege to be admitted to -these family confidences, and that I hoped it would not be the last -occasion I should share them. - -'I hope not, dear sir,' she replied. 'Mary, give me my desk.' - -Mary brought the desk, and took her purse from her pocket. - -'I have two contributions, mother. A gentleman came to our office -to-day, and when he read the paper they allowed me to put up, he gave -me five shillings. Jane Plunkett, too, who has only been in the office -three weeks, gave me ninepence.' - -'I collected four shillings and twopence,' said Charley, 'among the -men and boys in the office. Some of the boys gave a halfpenny each; -and my master has promised half-a-sovereign.' - -'This partly explains our business,' said Mrs. Silver to me; 'and the -reason for my asking you to come this evening. We have been collecting -subscriptions for the purpose of taking a number of the poorest -children in the parish into the country for a day. Richard sent us two -pounds a little while ago to give away, and the idea struck us that it -could not be better devoted than to such a purpose. So we commenced a -fund with his subscription, and we shall write him a full description -of the holiday, telling him that it was he who initiated it. Indeed we -call it Richard's Day. Nothing could please him better. You, who go so -much among the poor, know what numbers of poor children there are who -have never seen the country, and to whom the sight of flowers and -green fields will be like gentle rain to drooping blades of grass.' - -I noticed here that Mr. Merrywhistle started; but he offered no -explanation of his sudden movement. - -'Whosoever,' I said, 'shall give to drink unto one of these little -ones a cup of cold water only, shall in no wise lose his reward.' - -'Thank you, dear sir,' was Mrs. Silver's earnest rejoinder. 'Our -reward will be the brightening faces and the innocent delight of these -poor little waifs. We have been very successful in our collection, and -I think we shall have sufficient money to take a hundred and twenty -children. My idea is, that we shall engage vans, and drive as much as -possible through country roads to some green pleasant spot, where the -children can play, and have dinner and tea. I must tell you that it is -only the poorest of the poor who will be chosen, and that in the -matter of shoes and stockings there may be here and there a -deficiency. But we will endeavour that they shall all have clean -faces. Will you join us, and take the command of our ragged army?' - -I consented to join them with pleasure, but said that I must be -regarded more in the light of a soldier than of a captain. 'We can -divide the command,' I said. 'Have you any place where the children -can assemble before starting?' - -'That is one of my difficulties,' said Mrs. Silver. 'Some of these -children will be sure to come not over clean, and I want to make them -so before they get into the vans. I have plenty of help in the shape -of hands, but I want the room.' - -'I can wash some,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, in perfect sincerity. The -good old man was like a child in his simplicity. - -'I think we women will do it better,' replied Mrs. Silver gaily; 'but -we will find you plenty to do.' - -'To be sure,' mused Mr. Merrywhistle, 'there are the buns and the -fruit----' And lost himself in the contemplation of these duties. - -I then told Mrs. Silver that I could obtain the use of a large -warehouse, which had been for some time unoccupied, and that she might -depend upon my fullest assistance in the arrangement of the details. -Their pleasure was unbounded, and I myself felt happier and more truly -thankful than I had felt for a long time past. I left the house with -Mr. Merrywhistle, and he beguiled the way with stories of the doings -of these his dearest friends. He was in the heart of an enthusiastic -speech when a poor woman, carrying a child, brushed past us; her head -was bent down to the child, and she was murmuring some restful words. - -'Dear me!' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle, suddenly stopping. 'You will -excuse me, my dear sir. Goodnight! Good-night!' - -Without waiting for a reply, he shook hands warmly with me, and -hurried after the woman. They turned the corner of the street almost -at the same moment. - - -[Illustration] - - -I walked home by myself, and thought of the pleasant evening I had -spent. The last words I had heard in the house of the Silvers were -from Rachel's lips. - -'Good-night,' she had said, with her hand in mine. 'I am so glad you -came!' - -But she was not more glad than I. - - - - II. - - THANK GOD FOR A GOOD BREAKFAST! - - -It is not necessary, nor is it within the limit of these pages, to -narrate how the details necessary to make the day in the country a -success were got through. Sufficient for my purpose to say that -everything was satisfactorily arranged and completed on the evening -before the appointed day. The number of applications was very great; -ten times as many as we were able to take begged to be allowed to go. -Mothers entreated; children looked imploringly into our faces. There -were many heartaches, I am sure; but none suffered greater pain than -we, the committee, upon whom devolved the duty of making the -selection. But we gave pleasure to many; and for the others---- Would -there were more workers! Each can do a little, with time or purse, and -that little may prove to be so much! Remember what the strongest and -most beautiful trees were, once upon a time. So may a good life be -developed even from such a seedling as this. - -There was one anxiety which nature alone could allay, if it were kind: -the weather. Many a heart beat with mingled hope and fear that night -before the day, and many a child's prayer was thought and whispered -that the sun would shine its best in the morning. Nature _was_ kind, -and the sun broke beautifully bright. How we congratulated ourselves, -with smiling faces, as we all assembled at seven o'clock in the large -warehouse I had borrowed for the occasion! The door was to be opened -for the children at half-past seven. - -I have mentioned the committee. Let me tell you who they were. All -Mrs. Silver's family, of course. Mary and Charley had obtained a -holiday, and Ruth was there with her baby, whom the fond mother every -now and then consulted with bewitching gravity, and to whom she -whispered, in the delicious tones that only a mother's voice can -convey, all sorts of confidences about the party. I include in Mrs. -Silver's family Mr. Merrywhistle, for he was truly one of them. But -Mr. Merrywhistle was a member of the selecting committee for only one -day; he had been summarily dismissed and deprived of power, because he -found it impossible to say No to a single application. 'My rock ahead, -sir,' he whispered to me confidentially, when we reproached him. 'I -never _can_ get that word out! I _mean_ it often, but there's an imp -in my throat that invariably changes it into Yes. I ought to know -better at my age.' And he shook his head in grave reproof of himself. -As Mrs. Silver had warned him, however, we gave him plenty to do. He -was unanimously elected chief of the commissariat, and he made himself -delightfully busy in the purchase of buns and fruit and lemonade. We -were not aware that he was unfit even for this task, until we -discovered that he had provided twice as many buns as were necessary. -When his blunder was pointed out to him by Mrs. Silver on the ground, -he gazed disconsolately at the heap of uneaten buns. 'Dear me!' he -said mournfully, 'what is to be done with them? I suppose they must be -divided among the children. You see, my dear madam, I am not to be -trusted--not to be trusted!' But I am sure I detected a sly twinkle in -his eye as he condemned his own shortcomings. In addition to the -persons I have mentioned, there were two other members of the -committee--to wit, Mr. Robert Truefit and Mr. James (or Jimmy) Virtue; -as singular a contrast in individuals as can well be imagined. Robert -Truefit I hold in high esteem. He is a fine, and I take pleasure in -thinking a fair, representative of the sterling English working-man, -with a higher intelligence than is possessed by the majority of his -class. He is a married man, with a large and increasing family, and -his earnings will probably average a trifle under two pounds a week. -With these earnings he supports and 'brings up' his family in a manner -which commands admiration. His children are likely to be a credit to -the State; it is such as he who form the sound bone and muscle of a -great nation. Jimmy Virtue is of a lower grade. Outwardly a cynic, one -who sneers at goodness, but who has, to my knowledge, occasionally -been guilty of an act of charity. He kept a leaving-shop in one of the -worst thoroughfares in the locality where my duties lie. Everything -about him outwardly was unprepossessing; the wrinkles in his face -seemed to snarl at you; he had a glass eye, and he was ill-dressed and -ostensibly ill-mannered to those in a better position than himself. - -Such was Jimmy Virtue, of whom you will find, as you proceed, some -exciting record. You may reasonably ask. How came such a man on your -committee? Both Robert Truefit and Mr. Merrywhistle were his friends, -and took pleasure in his society. This surprised me at first, but not -afterwards. I found that, to read his character properly, it was -necessary to read between the lines. Having lived amongst -misery-mongers all his life, he was well acquainted with the class -from which our children were to be chosen; and, as it proved, his -services were most useful to us. - -A word about Rachel in connection with the selection. Instances -occurred where opinion was divided as to the suitability of -candidates; it was our natural desire to choose those who were most -deserving, and it was impossible to take them haphazard, as they -presented themselves. Here was a mother with two children, pleading, -entreating, imploring that they might be taken. Jimmy Virtue shook his -head. Robert Truefit, with a quiet motion, also gave an adverse vote. -We--the Silvers and I--were in favour of the applicants, but we felt -that, the two dissentients were more fitted to judge than we. It -seemed that there was something worse than usual against the mother, -whose face grew almost wickedly sullen as she observed signs of a -refusal in Truefit and Virtue. - -'Let Rachel decide,' said Mrs. Silver. - -We all experienced a feeling of relief at this suggestion. The woman -and the children went aside with Rachel, and kept together for fully -twenty minutes, while we continued the business of the hour. I, -furtively watching the group in the corner of the large room, saw -Rachel sit down and take the two miserable children by the hand. Then -the woman went towards Rachel, and gradually the sullen expression in -her face softened; and shortly afterwards she was on her knees by the -side of the blind maid, listening and speaking with tears in her eyes. -Not a word reached me; but when the interview was ended, Rachel rose -and walked towards us with a child on each side of her. Behind her was -the mother, hiding her face, as if ashamed of her tears. As Rachel -stood before us, looking upwards, with her face of purity and -goodness, clasping the ragged children to her, a light seemed to fall -upon her in my eyes--a light which touched with merciful glance the -figure of the wretched mother in the rear. - -'I am to decide?' said Rachel, gently and earnestly. - -'Yes, my dear.' - -'Then we will take these little ones with us. They will be very good.' - -'Very well, my dear.' - -And their names were put down and instructions given to the weeping -mother. The woman showed no gratitude to us; but as she turned to go, -with a lingering look at Rachel, the blind girl held out her hand. The -woman seized it, kissed it, and muttered, 'God love yer, miss!' We -were all satisfied with Rachel's decision. Even Jimmy Virtue shut his -useful eye and glared out of his glass one, that being, as I -understood the action, the only mode he could find of taking a clear -view of the difficulty. - -Among those who were chosen were no fewer than seven children, maimed -and deformed; one could not walk; another used crutches, and proved to -be one of the most active of the whole party, much to our surprise, -for when he applied, he appeared to be very lame indeed. One little -fellow presented himself without a guardian; he was about six years of -age, and had the largest and roundest eyes I ever saw in a child. To -all our questions about his parents he gave no answer; he only stared -at us. - -'What is your name?' - -He found his tongue. 'Jacky Brown.' - -'And what do you want?' - -'I wants to 'ave a ride and see a lot o' trees.' - -'Who told you to come to us?' - -'Old Rookey.' - -'And what did Old Rookey tell you to say?' - -'Old Rookey ses, he ses. You go, Jacky, and arks 'em to take yer to -'ave a ride and see the trees. And Old Rookey ses, he ses, Don't you -come away, Jacky, till they puts your name down.' - -Who Old Rookey was we were unable to discover. Jimmy Virtue recognised -the child, and told us his mother was in prison, and that he didn't -know how the little fellow lived. There was something so interesting -about Jacky, that we promised to take him. We wrote instructions on a -piece of paper, and gave it to him, telling him to give it to Old -Rookey. - -'You must come very clean, Jacky.' - -'I'll tell Old Rookey,' he said. 'He knows wot's wot.' - -Long before half-past seven o'clock on the holiday morning the -children and their friends began to arrive. The committee of selection -had given them to understand that they were to have breakfast before -they came. At the back of the warehouse was a recess screened off by -sacks hung over a line, in which were ample supplies of water, soap, -and towels; and the girls were ready to do the washing, with their -sleeves tucked up and aprons on to save their dresses. The process was -this: we, the men, stood at the door and received the visitors, taking -their names and otherwise identifying them, so that no deceit should -be practised. Each child, as he established his right of entrance, was -passed into the room, where, if he were not clean and tidy, he was -made so, as far as possible, by the women. Some of them, I must admit, -required washing badly; but when the work was done, and the children -stood in lines along the benches, their bright eager faces and -restless limbs formed a picture which dwelt vividly in my mind for a -long time afterwards. Jacky Brown was very punctual, and, contrary to -our expectation, very clean. We looked for some person answering to -the description we had formed of Old Rookey, but we were not -successful in finding him. Jacky had something to say to us. - -'Old Rookey ses, he ses, you'll open yer eyes when yer sees me.' - -And Jacky pointed to his well-polished face and held out his clean -hands. We thought we would improve the occasion. - -'We are very pleased with you, Jacky. It's much nicer to be clean than -dirty, isn't it?' - -But Jacky was dubious. - -'It gets inter yer eyes, and 'urts,' he said. - -Soap was evidently a disagreeable novelty to him. - -Mrs. Silver and the girls were putting on their bonnets and getting -ready for the start, when a serious innovation in our programme -occurred. The guilty person was one of the most esteemed members of -our own body. - -'Children,' exclaimed Mr. Merrywhistle, suddenly stepping in front of -them, 'have you had breakfast?' - -A mighty shout arose of 'No!' but whether those who gave evidence were -witnesses of truth I dare not venture to say. - -'Then you shall have some,' cried Mr. Merrywhistle, with a triumphant -look at us; but there was conscious guilt in his gaze. - -The 'Hoorays!' that were sent forth in voices shrill and gruff formed -a fine p[ae]an certainly, but scarcely recompensed us at the moment -for the loss of time. But it all turned out splendidly. Mr. -Merrywhistle had planned his artifice skilfully, and, in less than -seven minutes, buns and hot milk in mugs were in the hands of every -member of our ragged crew. The moment we found we were compromised, we -rushed to assist, and (although we were sure we were wrong in -encouraging the traitor) we shook hands heartily with Mr. -Merrywhistle, whose beaming face would have been sufficient excuse for -fifty such innovations. I am not certain that, when the children were -served, Ruth and Rachel did not take the good old fellow behind the -screen of sacks where the washing had been done, and kiss him; for he -came forth from that recess with an arm round the waist of each of the -girls, and with his face beaming more brightly than ever. - -In the middle of breakfast the vans rattled up to the door; they were -decorated with bright ribbons and flags, and the drivers had flowers -in their coats; the very horses wore rosettes. There were five vans, -and they presented so gay an appearance that the street was filled -with sight-gazers. Immediately the vans drew up--which they did -smartly, as if they knew what they were about, and that this was a day -of days--the children paused from their eating to give vent to another -cheer, and another, and another. Their faces flushed, their little -hands trembled, their restless limbs shifted and danced, and took part -in the general animation. As for ourselves----Well, we paused also, -and smiled at each other, and Ruth held baby's face to Charley to -kiss. - -'A fine sermon this, sir,' said Robert Truefit to me. - -'Indeed, indeed,' I assented. 'Better than any that tongue can -preach.' - -There was no need to tell the children to hurry with their meal; they -were too eager to be on the road. - -'Now, children, have you finished?' - -'Yes, sir! Yes, marm! Yes, miss!' - -'Then thank God for a good breakfast!' - -The simple thanksgiving was uttered by all with earnest meaning. Then -out they trooped to the vans, the sight-gazers in the street waving -their arms and hats at us. The deformed children were placed in -advantageous positions, so that they could see the roads through which -we were to drive, and were given into the charge of other children, -who promised to take care of them; Jacky Brown had a seat on the box; -we took our places on the vans; the drivers looked seriously at their -reins; the horses shook their heads; and all was ready. If I had the -space at my command, and were gifted with the power, what scenes I -could describe here of mothers, sisters, friends, who showed their -gratitude to us in various ways as we prepared to start! Not all of -them as low as by their outward presence you would judge them to be. -Written history--notwithstanding that we pin our faith to it, that we -pride ourselves upon it, that we strive to shape our ends according to -its teaching--is to unwritten history, in its value of example, as a -molehill to a mountain; even the written history of great national -conflicts, which strew the cornfields with dead and dying, upon whom -we throw that sham halo called Glory, as compared with the unwritten -history of courts and alleys, which we push out of sight with cruel -carelessness. - - - - III. - - THEY LISTENED WITH ALMOST BREATHLESS ATTENTION TO EVERY WORD - THAT FELL FROM HER LIPS. - - -And so, with our mud-larks and street arabs, we rode out of the busy -city, away from the squalid walls in the shadow of which the bad -lessons which lead naturally to bad lives are graven on the hearts of -the helpless young. It was the end of August, and the corn was being -cut. The children sniffed the sweet-smelling air, and asked one -another if it wasn't prime. Every turn of the road through which we -gaily trotted opened new wonders to our ragged crew; and we were kept -busy answering the torrent of questions that were poured upon us. -What's that? A field of clover. Three cheers for the clover. Fields of -barley, wheat, oats, all were cheered for lustily. What's them fellers -diggin' up? Potatoes. Hurrah for the taters! Hallo! here's a bank of -lavender, filling the air with fragrance. Most of the children were -noisy in their expressions of delight; but a few sat still, staring -in solemn wonder. The golden corn which the scythe had not yet -touched--how it bowed and waved and whispered in the breeze that -lightly swept across it! How few of the uncultured children could be -made to understand that bread--to them so scarce and precious--was -made from these golden wavelets! A windmill! Another! The huge fans -sailed slowly round. 'Here,' we said, 'the corn is ground to flour.' -'Wonder what makes the flour so white!' whispered a mudlark to his -mate; ''t ought to be yaller.' Now we were driving along a narrow -lane, between hedges; the sounds of music came from our rear. I stood -up and looked. Some twenty or thirty yards behind the last van was a -spring-cart, with a band of musicians in it. What cheers the children -gave for 'the musicianers'! Their cup of happiness was full to the -brim. I caught Mr. Merrywhistle's eye: it fell guiltily beneath my -gaze; but as I smiled with grateful approval at him, he brightened up, -and rubbed his hands joyously. Every popular air that the musicians -played was taken up by a full chorus of voices. Here and there, along -the country roads, housewives and children came out to look at us. -There was a greeting for all of them from our noisy youngsters, and -they greeted us in return. One woman threw a shower of apples into the -vans, and received in return the acknowledgment, 'Bravo, missis! -You're a good sort, you are!' At half-past ten we reached our -destination--a very pretty spot, with a wood adjacent, and a meadow to -play in. Everything had been judiciously arranged, and, marshalling -the children, we acquainted them with the programme. They were free -for two hours to do as they pleased. They might play their games where -they liked in forest or meadow. The band would play in the meadow. But -a promise was to be exacted from them. They were to be kind to every -living creature they came across; they were to kill nothing. Would -they promise? 'Yes, sir; yes, marm; yes, miss! We won't 'urt nothink!' -Very well, then. In two hours the horn would sound, three times. Like -this. Listen. The musician who played the horn gave the signal. When -they heard that again they would know that dinner was ready; they were -not to go too far away, else they would not hear it, and would lose -their dinner. 'No fear, master!' they shouted. 'Let's give three -cheers,' one of them cried. 'And look 'ere! The boys fust, and the -gals arterwards.' So the cheers were given as directed, and the boys -laughed heartily at the girls' piping voices. 'Now, then, you all -understand---- But stop! what is this?' Here was Mr. Merrywhistle -again, with another of his triumphantly-guilty looks, introducing new -features into the programme. Two of the biggest boys were carrying a -trunk towards us, and when it was opened, out came balls, and traps -and bats, and rounder-sticks, and kites, and battledores and -shuttlecocks, and skipping-ropes. The shout that arose as these things -were given out was mightier than any that had preceded it, as the boys -and girls, like wild birds released from prison, rushed off with their -treasures. - -'I suppose,' said Mrs. Silver, with the kindest of looks towards Mr. -Merrywhistle, 'there is no reclaiming you.' - -'I'm too old, I'm too old,' he replied deprecatingly. 'I hope you -don't mind.' - -Mind! Why, he had done just the very things that we had forgotten, and -the very best things too, to keep the youngsters out of mischief. We -had plenty to do. Here and there was a solitary one, who knew nobody -in all that wild band, wandering by himself, and casting wistful -glances at the other children who were playing. Here was a little -fellow who had lost his brother, crying lustily. Here was a shy timid -girl, absolutely without a friend. All these human strays--strays even -among the forlorn crew of youngsters who were tasting a pure enjoyment -for the first time in their lives--we collected together and formed -into bands, instructing them how to play, and taking part in their -games until they were sufficiently familiarised with each other to get -along without help. The children who were unable to run about we -arranged comfortably together in a place where they had a clear view -of the sports. Rachel, by tacit consent, took this group under her -care; and not long afterwards I saw her seated in the midst of them, -and heard her telling them, in admirable language and with admirable -tact, the best of those fairy stories which delight our childhood's -days. Blind as Rachel was, she could see deeper into these children's -hearts than we. They listened with almost breathless attention to -every word that fell from her lips--and every word was sweet--and saw -the scenes she painted, and learnt the lessons she taught. Among all -our children there was no happier group than this over which she -presided; and many whose limbs were straight and strong approached the -deformed group, and listened in delight and wonder. During the whole -of that day I noticed how the most forlorn and friendless of the -children congregated about Rachel. Perhaps they saw in her blindness -something akin to their own condition, and eyes that might have been -mournful grew soft and tender beneath the influence of her -sightlessness and kindly help. One of the most favourite pastimes of -the day was dancing to the music of the band. Such dancing! Girls went -round and round in the waltz with a solemn enjoyment in their faces -most wonderful to witness; boys, more demonstrative, executed amazing -steps, and flung their arms and their legs about in an extraordinary -manner. There were two champion dancers--boys of about twelve years of -age--whose capers and comicalities attracted large audiences. These -boys, by some means had secreted about their persons two immense pairs -of 'nigger' shoes, which were now tied on to their feet. They danced, -they sang, they asked conundrums of each other with amusing -seriousness; and I was privately and gravely informed that they -intended to become negro minstrels, and were saving up to buy a banjo. -Dinner-time came, and the horn was blown. Such a scampering never was -seen, and dull eyes lightened, and bright eyes grew brighter, at the -sight of the well-stocked tables. If it were necessary, I could -vulgarise this description by mention of certain peculiarities--forms -of expression and such-like--which existed among our guests; but it is -not necessary. No one's enjoyment was marred, and every youngster at -our tables was perfectly happy. The children stood while I said grace. -I said but a very few words, and that the brevity of the grace was -appreciated was evidenced by a remark I overheard. 'That's proper! I -thort the parson-chap was goin' to pray for a hour.' The children ate -very heartily, and here and there, with the younger ones, we had to -exercise a salutary check. But the older boys and girls were beyond -our control. 'Tuck away, Sal!' cried one. 'It'll be all over -to-morrer!' When the children--dinner being finished--were, at play -again, we had a little leisure. Mrs. Silver, seated on a bench, looked -around upon her family and friends, and said, with a satisfied smile, - -'I really am tired, my dears.' - - -[Illustration] - - - - IV. - - FOR MERCY'S SAKE, TELL ME! WHOSE VOICE WAS IT I HEARD JUST NOW? - - -I also was tired. I had been up very late three nights during the -week, and on the night previous to this day I had had only four hours' -sleep. Glad of the opportunity to enjoy a little quietude, I strolled -from where the children and my friends were congregated, and walked -towards the rise of a hill on the other side of which was a wooded -knoll, where I supposed I should be quite alone. There it was my -intention to stretch myself, and rest for fully half an hour by my -watch. - -The day had continued gloriously fine, and there was no sign of -change. I had much to think about. An event of great importance in my -private history was soon to take place, and I knew it, and was only -waiting for the time. It made me sad to think that when that time came -I should probably lose a friend--not an ordinary friend, but one to -whom I owed my education and my present position. It will find record -in its proper place, however, and needs no further reference here. I -had mounted the hill, and was descending towards the clump of trees, -when I saw, at a little distance, three persons sitting on the ground. -One of them I knew. It was Mr. Merrywhistle, and he was attending to -the wants of a very poorly-dressed girl, who was eating her dinner, -which it was evident Mr. Merrywhistle had brought to her from the -tables. There was a large quantity of wild flowers by the girl's side, -which I judged she had gathered during the day, and in the midst of -these flowers sat a child between two and three years of age, towards -whom the girl directed many a look of full-hearted love. The face of -the child fixed my attention; it was a dull, pale, mournful face, and -there was an expression of weariness in the eyes which hurt me to see. - -To detect Mr. Merrywhistle in an act of kindness did not surprise me; -and yet I wondered how it was that he was here, in a certain sense -clandestinely, with this poor girl, who had the look of the London -streets upon her. Not wishing, however, to disturb the group, I walked -slowly in the opposite direction; the conformation of the hill -favoured me, so that I was very soon hidden from their sight, although -really I was but a very few yards from them. I threw myself upon the -ground, my thoughts dwelling upon the scene of which I had been an -unseen witness. It struck me as strange that Mr. Merrywhistle and this -poor girl were evidently well acquainted with one another; their -familiar bearing convinced me of that. Then by what singular chance -was it, or was it by chance at all, that they had met here in this -sweet spot, so far away from her natural haunts? For there was no -mistaking the type to which this poor girl belonged; it can be seen, -multiplied and multiplying, in all our crowded cities, but not in -country places such as this in which we held our holiday. Could this -be the same girl and child, I asked myself, whom Mr. Merrywhistle -followed when he left me so abruptly on the night we walked together -from Mrs. Silver's house? But presently my thoughts wandered to more -refreshing themes. The many beautiful pictures of sweet charity and -unselfishness I had witnessed this day came before me again, and I -thanked God that my country held such noble specimens of true -womanhood as Mrs. Silver, Mary, Ruth, and Rachel. And then, knowing -full well the history of these girls, I contrasted their present lives -with that of the poor girl in Mr. Merrywhistle's company. In the midst -of my musings, and while I was contemplating the picture (to which my -thoughts had wandered) of Rachel standing before us, as she had stood -three days ago, with a child on each side of her, and the weeping -mother behind--as I was contemplating this picture, and weaving -idealisms about it, the sound of a harsh voice reached me, and -dissolved my fancies. I recognised the voice immediately--it belonged -to Jimmy Virtue, and it came from the direction where Mr. Merrywhistle -and the poor girl were. Not quite trusting Jimmy Virtue, as I did not -at that time, I rose to my feet, and walked towards the group, the -disposition of which was now completely changed. The girl was standing -in a half-frightened, half-defiant attitude, pressing her child to her -breast; in the eager haste with which she had snatched the child from -the ground, she had clutched some wild-flowers, and these were -trailing to her feet; Jimmy Virtue, with head inclined, was holding up -an angry finger; and Mr. Merrywhistle, with an expression of pain and -distress on his features, seemed by his attitude to be mediating -between them. The girl was the first to see me, and she turned to fly, -as if every human face she saw were a new terror to her, or as if in -me she recognised a man to be avoided. I hastened to her side, and -laid my hand on her arm. With a convulsive shiver, but without a word -and without resistance, she bowed her head to her baby's neck, and -cowered to the ground, like a frightened animal. And there she -crouched, a poor forlorn thing, ragged, defiant, panting, fearing, -with the world sitting in judgment upon her. - - - * * * * * - - -Bear with me a little while. The memories connected with this poor -girl fill my heart to overflowing. They belong not only to her and her -mournful history; she is but one of many who are allowed to drift as -the careless days glide by. If you do not enter into my feelings, bear -with me, I pray. - -And I must not flinch. To be true unto others, you must be true to -yourself. My conscience, no less than my heart, approves of the course -I pursued with reference to certain passages in this girl's career. -Many who hold a high place in the world's esteem will differ from me, -I know; some, who look with self-righteous eyes upon certain bad -features in the lower social life of the people, and whose belief -inclines them to touch not lest they be defiled, will condemn me -because I did not, from the very first, attempt to turn this girl's -heart with prayer, believing themselves in its full efficacy for all -forms of trouble. But let them consider that this girl-woman was -already grown to strength; veined in her veins were hurtful fibres -which once might have been easily removed, but which, by force of -surrounding circumstance, were now so deeply rooted in her nature that -they could only be weakened by patience, forbearance, tender handling, -and some exercise of wise benevolence. Here was a mind to be dealt -with utterly ignorant of those teachings, the following out of which -renders life healthful and pleasant to contemplate; but here at the -same time was a hungry stomach to be dealt with--a hungry stomach -continually crying out, continually craving, which no words of prayer -could satisfy. And I, a clergyman, who preach God's word in full -belief and believe fully in His mercy and goodness, say to those who -condemn for this reason, that words of prayer--otherwise lip-worship, -and outward observances according to set forms--are, alone and -in themselves, valueless and unacceptable in the eyes of God. -Self-accusation, self-abasement, pleadings for mercy, unaccompanied by -good deeds, go for naught. A merciful action, a kindly impulse -practically acted upon--these are the prayers which are acceptable in -His eyes. - - - * * * * * - - -I looked around for an explanation. - -'Ah,' exclaimed Jimmy Virtue, threateningly, ''ere's the parson! He'll -tell you whether you're right or wrong.' - -A proof that I, the parson, had been set up by Jimmy Virtue as a man -to be feared. It was natural that the poor girl should shrink from my -touch. Mr. Merrywhistle drew me aside. - -'It is all my fault,' he said, in a tone of great emotion. 'I smuggled -her here.' - -'How did she come?' I asked. 'She was not in any of the vans.' - -'I smuggled her in the cart that brought the provisions, and I bade -the driver not to come too close to us, for fear poor Blade-o'-Grass -should be discovered and sent back.' - -'Poor who?' - -'Blade-o'-Grass. That's the only name she has. It came into my mind -the first night I saw you in Mrs. Silver's house. Mrs. Silver, you -remember, was telling you the plan of this holiday, and was saying -that you, who go so much among the poor, knew that there were numbers -of poor children who had never seen the country, and that the sight of -flowers and green fields would be to them like gentle rain to drooping -blades of grass.' - -'I remember well.' - -'I don't know if Mrs. Silver used the expression purposely, but I -thought immediately of this poor girl, whom everybody round about -Stoney-alley, where she lives, knows as Blade-o'-Grass, and I thought -what a fine thing it would be for her if I could smuggle her here with -her baby, so that she might enjoy a day in the country, which she -never set eyes on until now. She danced for joy, sir--yes, sir, she -did!--when I asked her if she would like to come. And she has enjoyed -herself so much, and has kept out of the way according to my -instructions. See, Mr. Meadow, she has been gathering wildflowers, and -has been talking and singing to her baby in a way it has made me glad -to hear. Poor girl! poor girl! I have known her from a child, and, if -you will forgive me for saying it, I think I almost love her. Although -she has always stood in her own light--always, always! It was wrong of -me to bring her here, but I did it for the best I have been told often -I was doing wrong when I have foolishly thought I was doing good.' - -'You have done no wrong,' I said emphatically, 'in bringing that poor -girl here. I honour you for it. And now tell me what has occurred to -spoil her pleasure, and what is the cause of Mr. Virtue's anger.' - -'Why, you see, Mr. Meadow, that Jimmy Virtue, of whose rough manners -you must not take any notice--you must not judge harshly of him -because of them--has taken a liking to the girl.' - -'Well?' - -'He has been kind to her, I feel certain, though you'll never get him -to acknowledge it--indeed, he'll tell you fibs to your face without -ever a blush--and he has been trying for a long time to persuade her -to come and live with him. She has persistently refused, and now he is -angry with her. He is an old man and a lonely man, and he feels it -perhaps; but, anyhow, it is as much for her good as his that he makes -the offer. He says he will look upon her as a daughter, and it would -be better for her than her present lot.' - -'Why does she refuse?' - -Mr. Merrywhistle hesitated. - -'Tell me all,' I said, 'plainly and without disguise.' - -'Well, Mr. Meadow, nothing on earth can induce her to leave Tom -Beadle.' - -'Who is he? What is he?' - -'He is a thief, and the father of her child.' - -Mr. Merrywhistle's voice trembled from sadness as he spoke these -words. I understood it all now. To my grief, I knew what would be the -answer to my next question; but it must be asked and answered. - -'Is she married?' - -'No.' - - -[Illustration] - - -We were but a few paces from Jimmy Virtue and Blade-o'-Grass, and our -conversation had been carried on in a low tone. I turned towards them. -Jimmy Virtue, in a heat, was wiping his glass eye. Blade-o'-Grass had -not stirred from her crouching attitude. She might have been carved in -stone, so motionless had she remained, and to discover any signs of -life in her, you would have had to put your head down to her beating -heart So she cowered among the wildflowers, with sweet breezes about -her, with beautiful clouds above her. - -'Now, parson,' said Jimmy Virtue, in a menacing tone, 'per'aps you'll -tell that gal whether she's right or wrong!' - -'I must first know,' I said, striving to induce gentleness in him by -speaking gently myself, 'what it is I am to give an opinion upon.' - -'I know that. Mind you, I ain't overfond o' parsons, as a rule, and I -ain't overfond o' words, unless there's a reason for 'em. You see that -gal there--she's a pretty article to look at, ain't she? Judge for -yourself; you can tell pretty well what she is by 'er clothes and 'er -babby, though she does 'ide 'er face. She's not so bad as you might -make 'er out to be, that I must say; for I ain't a-goin' to take -advantage of 'er. But you may make 'er out precious bad, what -with one thing and another, and not be far wrong arter all. She's got -no 'ome to speak of; she's got no clothes to speak of; she's got no -babby that she's got a right to. Well, I orfer that gal a 'ome in my -leavin'-shop. I say to 'er, You can come and live along o' me, and -I'll look arter you like a daughter; and I would, for I'm a man o' my -word, though my word don't amount to much. Now what does she say, that -gal, as couldn't lay 'er 'and on a 'arf-a-crown as she's got a right -to, if it was to save 'er life--what does she say to my orfer? She -says. No, and says as good as I'll see you further fust! Now, tell 'er -whether she's right or wrong--tell 'er once and for all. You're a -parson, and she'll believe you, per'aps.' - -I beckoned him away, for I knew that his harsh tones no less than his -words hurt the girl. - -'Our mutual friend, Mr. Merrywhistle,' I said---- - -'That's right; our muchel friend, Mr. Merrywhistle. Though he's too -soft-'earted, mind you! I've told 'im so a 'underd times.' - -----'Has made me acquainted with some part of this poor girl's story. -Don't speak so loudly and so angrily. She hears every word you say.' - -'I know that,' he growled. 'She's got the cunnin' of a fox.' - -'And, after all, she has a right to choose for herself; you can have -no real claim upon her.' - -'She ain't got no right,' he said vehemently, 'to choose for 'erself, -and if I ain't got no claim on 'er, I'd like to know who 'as! I've -knowed 'er from the time as she was a babby. She growed up almost -under my eyes. She's played on my doorstep when she was a little 'un, -and 'as been shoved off it many and many a time. I knowed 'er -mother--I knowed 'er father, the mean thief! as run away afore she was -born. No claim! Ain't that no claim, I'd like to know? And don't I -know what she'll come to if she goes on much longer as she's a-goin' -on now? It's a-comin' to the end, I tell you, and I want to stop it! -Why, Tom Beadle, the man as she's a'----I put my finger to my lips, -out of compassion for the poor girl----'the man as she ain't married -to, was took up this mornin' by the peelers afore my very eyes'---- I -caught his wrist, and pointing to Blade-o'-Grass, stopped his further -speech. A moan came from the girl's lips, a shiver passed over her -form, like a despairing wave. She struggled to her feet, and throwing -her hair from her eyes, looked distractedly about her. - -'O, why did I come?' she cried. - -'Why did I come? Which is the road to London?' - -And she ran a few steps wildly, but I ran after her and stopped her. -She struggled to escape from me. - -'Let me go!' she beseeched. - -'Let me go! I want to git to London! I must git there at once! O Tom! -Tom!' - -'You would not get there tonight,' I said; 'it is eighteen miles away. -You would never be able to walk so far with your baby. You must wait -and go with us; we shall start in an hour.' - -She shrank from my grasp and moaned upon the ground, and pressed her -child closer to her bosom, with sighs and sobs and broken words of -desolation. - -'O baby! baby! baby! Tom's took up agin! What shall we do? O, what -shall we do?' - -Something like a vapour passed over my mind as the wail of this -desolate girl fell upon my ear. I seemed to 'recognise in its tones -something akin to the fond accents of a happier mother than she. I did -not like to think of the resemblance, and I tried to shake off the -impression that had stolen upon me; but it remained with me. It was in -vain that I attempted to console Blade-o'-Grass; she paid no heed to -my words. I was a stranger to her then. - -'Your news is true?' I said to Jimmy Virtue. - -'As I was comin' to the room this mornin',' he replied, 'I saw Tom -Beadle with the peeler's grip on 'im, and the peeler told me he was -wanted agin.' - -'What for?' - -'The old thing--pickin' pockets.' - -This was a sad episode in our holiday-making. I could not leave -Blade-o'-Grass alone. In her despair, in her belief that the hands -and hearts of all were against her, she would be certain to take the -first opportunity of escaping from us, and would thus bring further -trouble on herself. I looked towards Mr. Merrywhistle; his face -was turned from me. I called to him, and he came. I had a thought -which I resolved to act upon. I desired him to keep by the side of -Blade-o'-Grass until I returned, and I went at once in search of -Rachel. The musicians were doing their best, merrily, and the children -were dancing and playing joyously. - -'This is a very happy day,' said Mrs. Silver, as I approached her; -'see how they are enjoying themselves, poor things. It will be a great -remembrance for them.' - -Her tone changed when she saw the anxiety in my face; she laid her -hand upon my arm. - -'You are in trouble.' - -'Yes,' I said; 'but make your mind easy. It is nothing at all -connected with our children. I will tell you about it by and by. Where -is Rachel?' - -'There, helping to get tea ready. You must come and have a cup, Mr. -Meadow. 'It will refresh you.' - -I said that I would, and I asked if she would spare Rachel for a -little while. Yes, she answered, with a solicitous look. I smiled at -her to reassure her. As I walked towards Rachel, I passed Ruth; she -was suckling her baby. A white kerchief covered her bosom and her -baby's face, and she raised a corner of it to whisper some endearing -words to her treasure. Again the vapour passed over my mind. I -trembled as I detected the resemblance in her voice to the voice of -the hapless mother I had just left. But I was now close to Rachel. She -smiled at me, knowing my step. I remember that that was the first -occasion on which I called her by her Christian name. - -'Rachel, I want you to help me. Mrs. Silver says she can spare you.' - -Rachel took off her apron, and gave me her hand, and I led her to -where Blade-o'-Grass was lying. As briefly as I could I told her all, -and I asked her to comfort Blade-o'-Grass. - -'Indeed, indeed, I will try, Mr. Meadow!' she said earnestly. - -'We must not lose her; she must go back to London with us. In her -present state of mind she believes every one to be against her. But -she will trust you, Rachel, because----' - -'Because I am blind,' she said sweetly. 'I will strive to do my best.' -She paused a moment, and added, 'Is it not a good thing, Mr. Meadow, -that I cannot see?' - -I could not answer her; my emotion stopped my utterance. I left her -with Blade-o'-Grass, and Mr. Merrywhistle and I stood apart from them. - -'Give me your hand, my dear,' Rachel said. Blade-o'-Grass made no -movement 'My dear, I am blind!' - -Involuntarily, as if the claim were sisterly, and could not be denied, -the hand of Blade-o'-Grass was held out to Rachel, and Rachel clasped -it, and sat down by her side. What passed during the next few moments -I did not hear; but I saw that Rachel was speaking to Blade-o'-Grass, -and presently Blade-o'-Grass's baby was in the blind girl's arms, and -the mother was looking wonderingly into her face. I acknowledged the -wisdom of Rachel's act; by that tie she held Blade-o'-Grass to her. -But up to this time Blade-o'-Grass had not spoken; Rachel had not won -a word from her lips. - -'Let us join our friends,' said Mr. Merrywhistle; 'we can leave them -safely together now.' - -'One moment,' I answered; 'I am waiting for something.' - -What I was waiting for came presently. Rachel was fondling the child's -hand, and holding it to her lips, when Blade-o'-Grass spoke. A look of -terror flashed into Rachel's face. I was by her side in an instant, my -hand in hers. She clung to it, and raised herself to her feet. - -'Tell me,' she whispered, in a tone of suffering; 'for mercy's sake, -tell me! Whose voice was it I heard just now?' - -'It was Blade-o'-Grass that spoke,' I replied; 'the unhappy girl I -told you of. She is younger than you are, my dear, and you hold her -child in your arms. Comfort her, Rachel; she needs comfort sorely!' - -'I have heard her voice before,' said Rachel, with sobs, 'and it -reminds me--O, it reminds me of one I love so dearly, so dearly!' - -'The greater reason, my dear, that you should aid her in her -affliction. Her heart is bleeding, Rachel. Do not alarm her -unnecessarily--she suspects everybody but you; she is looking towards -us now, with struggling doubt in her face. Be strong, for pity's -sake!' - -She needed no other encouragement; I left them together, and when the -time for our departure to London arrived, they were still sitting side -by side. An expression of solemn pity rested on Rachel's face. She -kissed Blade-o'-Grass and the child before they parted, and asked -Blade-o'-Grass to kiss her. The poor girl did so, with grateful tears. -Then I gave Blade-o'-Grass into the charge of Mr. Merrywhistle, and -led Rachel to her friends. But only to Ruth did she cling; she clasped -her arms round her sister's neck, and sobbed quietly on her shoulder. - -'Why, Rachel!' exclaimed Ruth. 'Rachel, my dearest!' - -'Let me be, Ruth dear!' sobbed Rachel. 'Let me be! Do not say anything -to me. I shall be better presently.' - -It was no easy matter getting our children together. We had to call -them by name, and count them; it was an anxious task, and it occupied -a longer time than we anticipated. And in the end there was one -missing--Jacky Brown. None of the boys or girls could tell us where he -was, and we were fully a quarter of an hour hunting for him. We were -in great trouble, but at length we discovered him, with such a dirty -face! sitting under one of the largest trees in the wood. - -'Come, come, Jacky,' Mrs. Silver said, 'this isn't good of you. Didn't -you hear the horn?' - -'Yes, I 'eerd the 'orn, but I ain't a-comin',' was his confident -reply. - -'O Jacky, Jacky!' she remonstrated. - -'I ain't a-goin' 'ome any more. I'm a-goin' to stop under this tree as -long as ever I live, and I don't want to move.' - - -[Illustration] - - -We absolutely had to use a little force with him, and while we carried -the little fellow to the vans, he cried again and again that he didn't -want to go home any more. References to Old Rookey had no effect upon -him; he wanted to live among the trees always, and he was passionately -grieved because he could not have his way. The children sang all along -the road to London; and I was glad to see that the majority of them -had bunches of wild-flowers in their hands. And thus the day ended -happily--for all but one. - -'We shall sleep well to-night,' said Mrs. Silver, with a satisfied -sigh. - -I did not, although I was thoroughly tired out. - - - V. - - YOU'RE A PARSON, SIR, AND I PUT IT TO YOU. WHAT DO _YOU_ SAY TO - PARTING MOTHER AND CHILD? - - -It was not alone because Mr. Merrywhistle urged me that I took an -interest in Blade-o'-Grass. I was impelled to do so by certain -feelings of my own with reference to the poor girl. I became nervously -desirous to learn her history, and I questioned Mr. Merrywhistle, He -could tell me nothing, however, but the usual tale attached to such -unhappy human waifs--a tale which I had heard, with slightly-varying -forms of detail, many times before. I desired to learn something more -definite--something which I scarcely dared to confess, even to myself, -working as I was in the dark, and with only a vague impression or a -morbid fancy for a basis. But then came the thought that Rachel shared -the impression with me, and I continued my inquiries. - -'Jimmy Virtue knows more about Blade-o'-Grass than I do,' said Mr. -Merrywhistle, 'It was through him I first became acquainted with her.' - -Jimmy Virtue was not very communicative; it was not in his nature to -take easily to new friends. - -'But you yourself,' I urged, 'spoke of her mother and father as if you -knew them intimately.' - -'Did I?' he replied. 'Ah! I ain't over-particular what I say -sometimes, so you must put it down to that. You see, they were not -long in this alley afore the father cut away, and the mother--well, -she died! So what should I know of 'em? The mother was buried afore -the kids was three weeks old.' - -'The children!' I exclaimed, my heart beating fast at this discovery. -'Then the poor mother had twins?' - -'Yes, there was two on 'em; as if one warn't enough, and more than -enough! And then a woman--Mrs. Manning her name was--comes round -a-beggin' for the babbies, and a nice row she kicked up about it. -Arksed me what I'd lend on 'em--as if babbies warn't as cheap as dirt, -and a deal sight more troublesome!' - -'These twins, Mr. Virtue--were they both girls?' - -'Yes, they was both gals, I 'eerd.' - -'What became of the other child?' - -I asked eagerly. - -'What other?' demanded Jimmy Virtue surlily. 'I didn't know no other. -Blade-o'-Grass was the only one left.' - -And this was all the information I could elicit from him. I inquired -of other old residents in Stoney-alley, but not one of them remembered -anything worth hearing. I returned to Mr. Merrywhistle, and after -narrating to him the fruitless result of my inquiries, I asked -abruptly if he knew anything concerning the circumstances attending -the birth of Ruth. The old man changed colour, and his manner became -very nervous. - -'I can see your drift,' he said in a troubled voice. 'In your mind, -Ruth and Blade-o'-Grass are associated, as if some undiscovered -tie exists between them. I once shared your suspicion. I saw in -Blade-o'-Grass a likeness to Ruth, and I mentioned it to Mrs. -Silver. But when Mrs. Silver adopted Ruth, the babe was orphaned -indeed. Both father and mother were dead, and Ruth was the only -child. It is impossible, therefore, that the likeness between Ruth and -Blade-o'-Grass can be anything but accidental. Do not say anything of -this to Ruth or Mrs. Silver; it would grieve them. Look at Ruth and -Blade-o'-Grass; see them as they are, and think what a gulf separates -them.' - -A gulf indeed! But still I was not satisfied. - -I found it much easier to learn the fullest particulars concerning Tom -Beadle. Plainly and simply, he was a thief, and had been in prison a -dozen times at least. The day following our holiday-making he was -brought up at the police-court on a common charge of pickpocketing. -Blade-o'-Grass begged me to intercede for him with the magistrate; but -it was impossible for me to do so, as I knew nothing concerning him -but what was bad. 'He loves me, sir, does Tom,' she pleaded; 'and I -love 'im!' And said it as if it were a sufficient reason for his not -being punished. It was impossible to reason with her on the matter; -all that concerned herself and Tom Beadle she could look at from only -one point of view. Whether he worked or whether he stole, nearly every -farthing he obtained was spent in food. Blade-o'-Grass's standpoint -was that she and Tom and the baby must have bread, and that if they -could not get it one way they must get it another. Tom Beadle did work -sometimes as a costermonger; but the difficulties in his way were very -serious because of his antecedents, and he rebelled against these -difficulties sullenly and savagely, and bruised his soul against them. -He was no casuist, and made no attempt to excuse himself. He was -simply a man at war with society, a man whose keen intellect had been -sharpened and perfected in bad soil. As I write of him now, I can see -him slouching along in his patched clothes, with defiance in his mind. -Watchful eyes have been upon him almost from his birth; they are upon -him now, whichever way he turns, and he knows it, and has grown up in -the knowledge. Respectability turns its back upon him--naturally, for -he is its enemy. Even benevolence shrinks from him, for the spirit of -cunning and ingratitude lurks in his every motion. I paint him as I -knew him, in the plainest of colours. He had one redeeming trait in -his character; he loved Blade-o'-Grass, after his fashion, with as -much sincerity as good men love good women. His love for her had come -to him naturally, as other worse qualities in his nature had come. By -Blade-o'-Grass he was loved, as she had truly said, but with that -deeper love of which only a woman's nature is capable. Hers was -capable of the highest form of gratitude, of the highest form of love. -She was faithful to Tom Beadle, and she loved her child with as -perfect, ay, and as pure a love as can animate the breast of the most -delicate lady in the land. Overshadowing these bright streaks of light -was a darker line. When she was a mere babe, afterwards when she was a -child, afterwards when she was a woman, she frequently suffered the -pangs of hunger; she often knew what it was to want a crust of bread. -From these sufferings came the singular and mournful idea that she had -within her a ravenous creature which she called a tiger, and which, -when she was hungry, tore at her entrails for food. This tiger had -been the terror of her life, and it was with her an agonising belief -that she had endowed her child with the tiger curse: I can find no -other term of expression. From this belief nothing could drive her. -Talk to her of its folly, of its impossibility, and you talked to -stone. Her one unfailing answer was, 'Ah, I know; you can't. I feel -it, and my baby feels it also.' I learnt the story of this tiger from -her own lips. I found her waiting for me one morning at the corner of -the street in which I lived. It was while Tom Beadle was undergoing -his term of imprisonment. I stopped and spoke to her, and she asked -might she say something to me. Yes, I answered, I could spare her a -few minutes; and I led the way to my rooms. - -'It was Mr. Wirtue as told me to come to you, sir,' she said; 'he -ain't so 'ard on me as he was.' - -'I am glad you are friends again,' I said. 'Will you have some -bread-and-butter?' - -'Yes, if you please, sir.' - -I cut some bread-and-butter for her and her child, and I dissolved -some preserved milk in warm water for her. She watched with keen -interest the process of making this milk, and when she tasted it said, -with a touch of humour of which she was quite unconscious: - -'They won't want no more mothers by and by, sir, what with sich milk -as this, and feedin'-bottles, and p'ramberlaters!' - -While she was eating and giving her child to eat, she reverted to -Jimmy Virtue. - -'You see, sir, he was mad with me 'cause I wouldn't give up Tom; but I -couldn't do that, sir, arter all we've gone through. We growed up -together, sir. If you knowed all Tom's done for me, you'd wonder 'ow -anybody could 'ave the 'eart to arks me to give 'im up. Tom 'as stuck -to me through thick and thin, and I'll stick to 'im as long as ever I -live! I've 'eerd talk of sich things as 'eart-strings. Well, sir, my -'eartstrings 'd break if I was to lose 'im. Leave Tom! Give 'im up -_now!_ No, sir; it wouldn't be natural, and what ain't natural can't -be good.' - -Blade-o'-Grass cut straight into the core of many difficulties with -her unconsciously-uttered truisms. When she and her child had eaten -all I had set before them, she opened the business she had come upon. -Then it was that I heard the history of the tiger. - -'It's inside o' me, sir; I was born with it. When I was little, there -was a talk o' cuttin' me open, and takin' the tiger out; but they -didn't do it, sir. Per'aps it'd been better for me if they 'ad.' - -I attempted to reason her out of her fancy; but I soon saw how useless -were my arguments. She shook her head with sad determination, and -smiled piteously. - -'It don't stand to reason as you can understand it, sir. _You_ ain't -got a tiger in _your_ inside! I 'ave, and it goes a-tearin' up and -down inside o' me, eatin' me up, sir, till I'm fit to drop down dead. -It was beginnin' this mornin', sir, afore I seed you.' - -'Did you have any breakfast, my poor girl?' - -'Not much, sir; a slice o' bread and some water 'tween me and baby. -You see, sir, Tom's not 'ere, and I've 'ad some bad days lately.' - -'You don't feel the tiger now?' - -'No, sir; it's gone to sleep.' - -I sighed. - -'I wish,' she continued, 'I could take somethin' as 'd kill it! I -tried to ketch it once--yes, sir, I did; but it was no go. I 'adn't -'ad nothink to eat for a long time, and it was goin' on awful. Then, -when I got some grub, I thought if I put it down on the table, and set -it afore me with my mouth open, per'aps the tiger 'd see it, and come -up and fetch it. I was almost frightened out o' my life as I waited -for it; for I've never seed it, sir, and I don't know what it's like. -But it wouldn't come; it knows its book, the tiger does! I waited till -I was that faint that I could 'ardly move, and I was forced to send -the grub down to it. I never tried that move agin, sir.' - -I told her I was sorry to hear that she had been unfortunate lately. -She nodded her head with an air of weary resignation. - -'It can't be 'elped, sir, I s'ppose. A good many societies 'as sprung -up, and they're agin me, I think. O, yes, sir, we know all about 'em. -It warn't very long ago that I was walkin' a long way from 'ome, with -some matches in my 'and; I thort I'd try my luck where nobody knowed -me. A gentleman stopped and spoke to me. "You're beggin'," he said. I -didn't deny it, but I didn't say nothin', for fear o' the peelers. -"It's no use your comin' 'ere," he said; "we've got a society in this -neighbourhood, and we don't give nothink to the poor. Go and work." -Then he went on to tell me--as if I cared to 'eer 'im! but he was one -as liked to 'eer 'isself talk--that it was sich as me as was the cause -of everythink that's bad. Well, sir, that made me open my eyes, and I -couldn't 'elp arksing 'im if it was bad for me to try and git a bit o' -bread for my baby; but he got into sich a passion that I was glad to -git away from 'im. Another gentleman persuaded me to go to a orfice -where they looked arter the likes o' me. I went, and when they 'eerd -me out, they said they'd make inquiries into my case. Well, sir, they -did make inquiries, and it come to the old thing that I've 'eerd over -and over and over agin. They said they'd do somethink for me if I'd -leave Tom; but when they spoke agin 'im I stood up for 'im, and they -got angry, and said as I was no good. Then another party as I went to -said they'd take my child--which I 'ad no business to 'ave, they -said--if I liked, and that they'd give me ten shillin's to set me up -in a stock of somethink to sell for my livin'. Part with my child!' -exclaimed Blade-o'-Grass, snatching the little one to her lap, and -looking around with fierce fear, as if enemies were present ready to -tear her treasure from her. 'Sell my 'eart for ten shillin's! You're a -parson, sir, and I put it to you. What do _you_ say to partin' mother -and child?' - -What could I say? I was dumb. It was best to be so upon such -straightforward questions propounded by a girl who, in her position -and with her feelings, could understand and would recognise no logic -but the logic of natural laws; it was best to be silent if I wished to -do good, and I did wish it honestly, sincerely. The more I saw of -Blade-o'-Grass, the more she interested me; the more she interested -me, the more she pained me. I saw before me a problem, hard as a rock, -sensitive as a flower--a problem which no roundabout legislation can -solve in the future, or touch in the present. Other developments will -to a certainty start up in time to come--other developments, and worse -in all likelihood, because a more cultivated intelligence may be -engaged in justifying what now ignorance is held to be some slight -excuse for. - -'Then, sir,' continued Blade-o'-Grass, driving her hard nails home, -'if I was one o' them unnatural mothers as don't care for their -children, and took the orfer--'ow about the ten shillin's to set me up -in a stock o' somethin' to sell? What do the peelers say to a gal as -tries to sell anythin' in the streets? Why, there ain't a inch o' -flagstone as she's got a right to set 'er foot on! And as for the -kerb, as don't belong properly to nobody, and's not wanted for them as -walks or them as rides, why, a gal daren't stand on it to save 'er -life! And that's the way it goes, sir; that's the way it goes! But I -beg your pardon, sir. I'm wanderin' away from what I come for, and I'm -a-takin' up your time.' - -'Go on, my poor girl,' I said; 'let me know what I can do for you.' - -'It ain't for me, sir; it's for my baby.' - -'What can I do for her, the poor little thing?' I asked, pinching the -child's cheek, who showed no pleasure, however, at my caress; there -dwelt in her face an expression of mournfulness which was native to -her, and which nothing could remove. 'What can I do for her?' - -'Pray for 'er!' implored Blade-o'-Grass, with all her soul in her -eyes, from which the tears were streaming. - -I started slightly, and waited for further explanation. Blade-o'-Grass -regarded me earnestly before she spoke again. - -'You see, sir, she was born with a tiger inside of 'er, the same as I -was; it ain't 'er fault, the dear, it's mine. It breaks my 'eart to -think as she'll grow up like me, and that the tiger'll never leave -'er. I talked to Mr. Wirtue about it yesterday, and he says to me, -"Why don't you go to the parson, and arks 'im to _pray_ the tiger out -'er?" And so I've come, sir. You'd 'ardly believe what I'd do if it -was set me to do, if I could get the tiger away from my dear. I'd be -chopped up, sir, I would! Mr. Wirtue says prayer'll do anythink, and -that if I didn't believe 'im, I was to arks you if it won't I can't -pray myself; I don't know 'ow to. So I've come to you to arks you to -pray the tiger out of my baby!' - -I scarcely remember in what terms I replied. I know, however, that I -sent Blade-o'-Grass away somewhat consoled, saying that she would -teach her baby to bless me every day of her life if my prayers were -successful. - - - - VI. - - FOR THESE AND SUCH AS THESE. - - -And now it becomes necessary that I should say something concerning my -private history. I have made mention of a friend to whom I owed my -education and position, and whose friendship it saddened me to think I -should probably soon lose. It is of this friend, in connection with -myself, that I am about to speak. - -His name was Fairhaven. He was a great speculator, and his ventures -had been so successful that he had become famous in the stock and -money markets. At this time he was nearly seventy years of age, -unmarried, and he had no family connection in which he took the -slightest interest, none, indeed, which he would recognise. Although I -was indebted to him in the manner I have stated, I did not see him, -and did not even know his name, until I had arrived at manhood and had -chosen my career. All that I knew was that he was very wealthy, and it -was by almost the merest accident that I discovered his name and real -position. I made this discovery at a critical time. A season of great -distress had set in in my parish, and I became acquainted with much -misery, which, for want of means, I was unable to alleviate. I yearned -for money. Where could I obtain it? I thought of Mr. Fairhaven. I said -to myself, 'He has been good to me, and he is a wealthy man, and might -be willing to assist me. Surely he would not miss a little of his -money, and I could do so much good with it!' I must explain that I had -before this time endeavoured to ascertain the name of the gentleman -who had befriended me when I was left an orphan, but I was told by his -agents that it was his wish to remain unknown. I respected that wish, -and did not prosecute my inquiries. Even now that I had accidentally -discovered his name, I should not for my own sake have pressed myself -upon him; but for the sake of those suffering ones whom I was unable -to relieve for want of money, I determined to do so. When I presented -myself to him, he regarded me attentively, and with some symptoms of -agitation. I said I hoped he was not displeased with me for coming to -him. No, he answered, he was not displeased; and he made me so welcome -that I ventured to thank him for his past goodness to me. Then I made -my appeal to him, and after some consideration he placed at my -disposal the sum of a hundred pounds, intimating that the same amount -would be paid to me every year, to spend according to my own -discretion among the poor of my parish. I was overjoyed at this good -result of my courage, and I thanked him cordially for his liberality. -Up to this time I had received the money regularly, and had been -enabled to do much good with it. I visited him occasionally to inform -him how his money was expended, and even in the midst of his vaster -operations, I think he was glad to hear of the good which sprang from -the seed he placed in my hands to sow among my poor. After a time he -asked me to visit him more frequently, saying that he was a lonely -man, and that my visits were an agreeable relief to him. I owed him -too deep a debt of gratitude to refuse, and I saw him as often as the -duties of my position would allow. As our intimacy ripened, I learned, -from chance words which escaped from him now and then, that he was not -satisfied with the groove in which I was working. Knowing that we were -not in the slightest way related to each other, I was naturally -curious to learn why he took so deep an interest in me; but when I -approached the subject he stopped me somewhat sternly, and desired me -to speak of other matters. The impression I had gained that he was -dissatisfied with my career became strengthened in every succeeding -interview. And one night he made me a startling proposition. - -I have a clear remembrance of that night and all the details connected -with it. We were conversing in the pleasant garden of his house, which -was situated on the bank of the river Thames. From where we sat we -commanded a clear view of the river. The tide was ebbing, and the -river's water was flowing towards the sea. The heavens were bright, -and the fragrant air was whispering among the leaves. The water was -murmuring with a sweet sibillation as it flowed towards a mightier -power, and the stars were flashing in its depths. - -On that night Mr. Fairhaven said that he wished he had known me -earlier in life; he would have chosen for me a different career; but -it was not too late now. 'I am a childless man,' he said, 'and I have -grown to love you.' He proposed that I should resign my office, and -come and live with him as his heir; had I been his son he could not -have expressed himself more affectionately towards me. He took me -entirely into his confidence, and endeavoured to win my sympathy in -his career. He showed me how he had risen to wealth--nay, he showed me -by his books and by other evidence the wealth itself which he had -accumulated. I was amazed at its extent. I had no idea that he was so -rich. As a proof of the sincerity of his offer, he said he would -settle a large sum of money on me immediately, and that the bulk of -his fortune should be mine when he was dead. There were certain -conditions attached to his proposal. I was to bear his name when he -died, and I was to pledge myself on my honour to live fully up to my -means, and to take what he considered to be the proper position in -society of a man who possessed so large a fortune. 'Money has its -duties,' he said--'duties which I perhaps have neglected, but which it -shall be your pleasant task to perform.' In a word, I was to become a -man of fashion, and I was to do whatever was necessary in the world of -fashion to make the name of Fairhaven notable. He laid great stress -upon this latter stipulation, and I understood that his money was not -to be mine to do as I pleased with in any other way. - -I listened to his proposal in silence. For a short while I was -overwhelmed by the offer and by the generosity which prompted it. But -even as I listened I felt that I could not accept it. The prospect he -held out to me did not dazzle me. To my mind, the mere possession of a -large amount of money has no attraction, and confers no distinction; -to possess it and to spend it in the way Mr. Fairhaven had set down -appeared to my understanding a dreary task, and was distinctly -inimical to the views I had formed of life and its duties. Besides, I -had grown to love my labours; I was bound by the tenderest links of -love and humanity to the people among whom I moved. Look where I -would, I saw no higher lot in life than that which I had chosen, -and--a selfish reason perhaps--I was happy in my choice. - -I answered Mr. Fairhaven to this effect, and was about to refuse his -offer absolutely, when he stopped me. I saw by his face that he -anticipated what I was about to say. He did not want my answer then, -he said; he wished me to take a certain time for reflection--a time -extending over two years, and to expire on the anniversary of my -thirty-third birthday. He asked me to study the matter well during -this interval, and in the consideration of it to throw aside all false -sentiment and eccentricity. He proposed to gain admission for me into -certain circles, where I could see in full operation the machinery of -the life he wished me to adopt; and he added--not as a threat, but -simply as part of a resolution he had formed--that if, at the -expiration of the allotted time, I did not accept his proposal, I must -never expect to receive one shilling of his money. The time passed. At -the expense of my duties I made leisure to move in the society in -which he wished me to move; I studied its machinery; I made myself -acquainted with its inner life, with its aims, desires, ambitions, -results; as far as opportunity served, I probed its depths, and my -resolution to decline Mr. Fairhaven's offer was strengthened. It is -not for me here to state the reasons which led to the conclusion I -formed. They sprang from my heart and my conscience; they were and are -part of myself, which I could no more tear from myself than I could -resist the course of time. - -I visited Mr. Fairhaven on the appointed day, and acquainted him with -my decision. I spoke in words and tone as gentle as I could command; -for I bore in mind the great debt I owed him, and the exceeding -generosity of his offer. He looked at me with eyes of doubt and -surprise as I spoke, and turned from me when I finished. When he spoke -it was in a hard cold tone. - -'And that is your positive decision?' he said. - -'Yes, sir.' - -'There is nothing hidden behind it----or stay! Perhaps you have not -had sufficient time for reflection. Let the matter rest for a little -while longer.' - -I told him that, if I had twenty years for reflection, my answer would -be the same. - -'You are aware,' he said, 'that you are inflicting a great -disappointment upon me? - -'I cannot but be aware of it, sir,' I replied, 'and it pains me -exceedingly to know it.' - -'You said a little while ago,' he said, referring to words I had used, -'that when I took you into my confidence, I endeavoured to win your -sympathy in my career. Did I win it?' - -'No, sir.' - -'Why?' - -I determined to speak frankly. - -'It seemed to me that you had amassed money simply for its own sake, -and not for the sake of the good uses to which it may be applied. -According to my thinking, money is only sweet when it is well-earned -and well-spent.' - -I saw that he pondered over these words. - -'Your life,' he said, 'must contain special attractions, that you are -so wedded to it. You have made friends, doubtless.' - - -[Illustration] - - -'Many, sir, thank God! Friends to whom I am deeply attached.' - -'Tell me of them, and let me ascertain for myself the superior -inducements of the life you lead to the life which you reject.' - -I considered for a few moments, I thought of Mrs. Silver and her happy -home and family; but connected with them in my mind were the less -wholesome figures of Tom Beadle, Blade-o'-Grass, and Jimmy Virtue. As -a foil to these, however, were the figures of Mr. Merrywhistle and -Robert Truefit and his family. I resolved to show this picture in a -complete form, as presenting a fair variety of those among whom my -life was passed. As I mentioned the names of these persons and -described them, Mr. Fairhaven wrote them on a leaf in his pocket-book. -I laid the greatest stress upon the figures of Mrs. Silver and her -family, and I endeavoured to show this part of the picture in bright -colours. But I was honest throughout, and I spoke plainly of Tom -Beadle, Blade-o'-Grass, and Jimmy Virtue. When the picture was -completed, Mr. Fairhaven read the names aloud, and exclaimed angrily: - -'A pretty circle of portraits truly! The principal of them thieves and -gutter children! Andrew Meadow, it is incomprehensible to me. But your -mind is set upon them evidently. Can anything I say move you from your -resolution?' - -'Nothing, sir.' - -'Then here we part,' he said sternly and bitterly. 'As you cannot be -moved from your resolution, I cannot be moved from mine. Not one -shilling of my money shall you ever receive. I have striven hard for -your good, and you reject me for these and such as these!' - -He tapped the list scornfully, and rose. I understood from his action -that I was dismissed. I knew it would be useless to attempt to soften -him; he was a man of inflexible resolution. - -'You need not trouble yourself,' he said, 'to call upon me again, -unless I send for you. Goodnight.' - -'Before I go, sir,' I said, very sad at heart, 'let me say how truly -grateful I am to you for your past kindness to me. I shall hold you in -my heart and mind with thankfulness and gratitude until my dying day.' - -Then I walked sadly out of the peaceful garden towards the City, where -lay my labour of love. - - -Two matters must be mentioned before I close this chapter. - -The first is that before I acquainted Mr. Fairhaven with the decision -I had arrived at, I endeavoured again to ascertain from what motive he -had educated and befriended me when I was left an orphan. He refused -distinctly to give me any explanation. - -The next is that the hundred pounds a year he had hitherto given me to -spend among my poor was stopped from that day. This grieved me -exceedingly. I think I had never fully understood the power of money -until then. - - - - VII. - - HEALTHY BODY MAKES HEALTHY MIND. - - -It was but natural that the loss of so good a friend as Mr. Fairhaven -should have had an effect upon my spirits, and I felt it the more -deeply because he had parted from me in anger. I did not for one -moment doubt that I had decided rightly, but it would have been a -happiness to me to have retained Mr. Fairhaven's friendship. I found -myself brooding over it and growing melancholy. I sorely felt the need -of sympathy, or at least of that consolation which one derives from -unbosoming himself to his friends. Mrs. Silver saw my distress of -mind, and with delicate tact led me to confide in her. I told her the -story--the temptation, the trial, the result--and I asked her if I had -done right. Only she and Rachel were present when I commenced to tell -my story; and Rachel, divining by my first words that I was about to -impart a confidence to Mrs. Silver, rose to leave the room; but I -desired her to stay, and she resumed her seat and continued her work. - -'Have I done right, dear friend?' I asked of Mrs. Silver when I had -concluded. - -I saw that she was much affected. 'Between friends such as we had -grown to be but few words were needed. I was bending anxiously towards -her as I asked the question. She took my hand and kissed me. - -'I am old enough to be your mother,' she said; 'it gladdens me to know -that we are friends.' - -I was inexpressibly consoled and comforted. I looked towards Rachel. -Her bosom was heaving, and a tender radiance was in her face. My heart -leaped up as I saw. Immediately I turned to her she knew that I was -gazing at her, and she rose hurriedly and left the room. Mrs. Silver -looked at me with solemn tenderness and followed her blind child. From -that moment a new tie seemed to be established between us, and I came -and went as one of the family. - -As regards private social life, I know of no happier phase of it than -that which allows you to have only a few intimate friends, and which -does not compel you to fritter away your hours among a host of -acquaintances who have no heart-regard for you--paying a cold visit -here, a cold visit there, glad when they are over; receiving these -conventional visits in return, and uttering commonplaces the while -which are devoid of meaning and have no suspicion of earnestness. -Where you have within hail a few friends between whom and yourself a -sincere esteem exists, room is given for earnest feeling to flower; -the true heart-glow is felt, and you give and receive smiles which are -not artificial, and speak and hear words which are good and glad -utterances. In time the ties which bind you and your friends grow as -strong as ties of blood-kindred, and when a face is missed from the -circle, you mourn for it with genuine grief and affection. - -Such a phase of social life existed with the Silvers and their -friends, of whom Robert Truefit was not the least esteemed. Wherever -he was, the conversation was always animated. He was a man who thought -for himself, and was not willing to be led unless his reason approved. -Under any circumstances, Robert Truefit would not have been satisfied -with going through the world blindfold. In no sense of the word an -agitator, he was always ready to express his opinion, and you might -depend that that opinion would be the result of a fairly-exercised -judgment. He was contented with his position as an ordinary workman, -but this does not imply that he was without ambition. He simply -recognised that it is folly to knock your head against stones. In a -new country, such as America, Canada, or any of the Australasian -colonies, he would have risen by sheer force of character; but in -England, with the ties that he had gathered about him, the chances -were against him. I am anxious that the character of Robert Truefit -should not be misunderstood. He was in no wise discontented with the -groove in which he laboured. He was a good husband and a good father. -Fond of an argument he certainly was; but he was not that kind of man -who justifies himself by a proverb. He chafed at injustice to others, -and he often expressed indignation at the neglect of public morality -which, he contended, characterised the government of the country. -'They look after the trees,' he said, 'and neglect the flowers. It is -a cant saying that you cannot make people moral by Act of Parliament. -Keep dinning a thing in the people's ears, and, whether it be true or -false, it will come to be believed in as something not to be -controverted. They will believe that a bread pill will prolong life -indefinitely, if it be advertised sufficiently. I say you can make -people moral by Act of Parliament. You can make them clean and you can -compel them to be decent, and those qualities go a very long way -towards morality.' - -We were all together one evening, talking of the good prospect that -lay before Charley, who, firmly established as the overseer of a large -printing establishment, was saving money with the view of setting up -for himself in business, 'one of these fine days,' as he said. Ruth -was busy upon something marvellous in the shape of a frock for baby, -and much serious conversation was indulged in by the females on the -subject of trimmings. Said Ruth, - -'Charley, when baby grows up she shall write a book, and you shall -print it.' - -'Why,' exclaimed Charley, 'you don't want baby to be a bluestocking, -do you, Ruth? - -'She will be clever enough for anything,' said Ruth confidently. -'There, mother, don't you think she will look beautiful in this?' And -Ruth held up the frock for inspection. - -'I begin to think,' said Charley, 'that I am ambitious. Are you?' he -asked of Robert Truefit. - -'I can't afford to be,' answered Robert Truefit, with a smile. 'In my -position, and with my responsibilities, ambition would lead to -discontent--discontent to unhappiness. I have seven pairs of feet to -provide boots and shoes for, and you can guess what that means.' - -I had heard and read a great deal of the extravagance and improvidence -of the working-man, and looking upon Robert Truefit as a fair sample -of the better class--better because right-minded and intelligent--I -asked him if he was saving money for a rainy day, as the saying is. - -'The only rainy day,' he said, 'for which I have been able to provide -in the shape of money, is the day on which I shall die. Then my wife, -if she is alive and if the company in which my life is insured is not -dishonest, will receive two hundred pounds. Every year I pay the -insurance a weight is taken from my heart; not so much because I am -able to pay it, as because my children are a year nearer to the time -when they will be able to work for their mother and assist her, should -anything happen to me.' He gave me a bright look. 'I am endeavouring -to train my young ones properly, and in that way perhaps I may say -that I am saving up for a rainy day. But I see that you are anxious -for further particulars. If you will give me a hint in what direction -to let my tongue run, I shall be glad to oblige you.' - -'Well,' I suggested; 'concerning income and expenditure.' - -'I can give you a plain experience on those heads,' he said frankly, -'because I am, after a certain fashion, methodical, much more so than -many of my mates. I put down my earnings every week in a little -memorandum-book, and on the opposite side I put down the way in which -my earnings are spent. This is a good lesson for my youngsters, who -learn the value of system in the practical matters of life. You know, -sir, that I have five children--two girls and three boys. The youngest -is eleven months old, the eldest is ten years of age on his next -birthday. Now, last year, from the first day to the last, I earned -ninety-nine pounds ten shillings, and every farthing of my earnings, -with the exception of thirty-eight shillings, which was spent in -junketing, went in the necessaries of life and in paying my policy.' - -'What were your out-door pleasures?' - -'Once during the year we took the children to the Crystal Palace. We -went once to the theatre to see a pantomime; and my eldest youngsters -begged so hard to be taken to the Brighton Aquarium on one of the Bank -holidays, that I could not resist them; and really I was glad of the -opportunity of seeing it myself. We had a capital day, and it did the -children good in many ways; it opened the eyes of their minds, I may -say. Our rent makes a big hole. We pay seventeen pounds a year, -including taxes, for our house, which contains three rooms and a small -kitchen or washhouse--quite as little as we can do with. Meat is -another big item. Then, I work three miles away from home, and that's -an item. In examining the figures, which Jane and I did very carefully -when I balanced the account--we have the fear of that rainy day you -have mentioned very strong upon us sometimes, I assure you, sir!--we -could not find one item which was not properly in its place, and which -in our opinion could have been set under the head of extravagance. Yet -I know that there are political economists--I call them by the name -they give themselves--who would not agree with me. The money spent in -amusements I have no doubt they would say I ought to have saved: I -deny it. We have a right--every human being has--to a reasonable share -of healthful pleasure. "Your meat bill ought to have been a little -less," they would also doubtless say: I deny it. We have little enough -as it is; more than half the meat we eat is Australian meat--and we -like it! The children's bodies must be healthfully nourished if they -are to grow into right-minded, reasonable men and women. Healthy body -makes healthy mind. Twenty-two shillings a year spent in reading! -"Monstrous!" the political economists would exclaim. Why, my -newspapers cost me not less than eight shillings a-year, and there's a -weekly publication, and an occasional oddment for the children; and is -my wife, or am I, not to read a work of fiction occasionally--or are -these things not for such as we? It is they who are monstrous who set -up such monstrous cries. So they would go through my book, and prove -that out of my earnings of ninety-nine pounds ten shillings I ought to -have saved a handsome sum. I have observed that it is only among the -ranks of the well-to-do that you find your political economists. They -argue from the wrong end--they themselves, mind you, being seated the -while on a snug and comfortable elevation; they cast up lines of -figures, and judge the life of an individual by means of a monster -called Aggregate--which Aggregate, I take it, is, applied to such a -purpose, the most absurd and unjust standpoint that mind of man could -have invented.' - - - - VIII. - - THIS 'ERE FREE AND 'LIGHTENED COUNTRY OF OUR'N'S CRAMMED FULL - O' TEMPLES O' LIBERTY. - - -The withdrawal of Mr. Fairhaven's hundred pounds a year compelled me -to relinquish many plans I had formed. It was a sore blow to me, and I -had to pinch and save in order to carry out promises I had made to -some of my poor people. From the Silvers I received not only sympathy, -but help in the shape of money, without which I am sure I could not -have got along. Between Rachel and myself a confidence of a peculiar -and affectionate nature was gradually established. I spoke to her -freely of my troubles, and confided in her, and asked counsel of her. -By what mysterious means it was that she--blind from her birth, and -with no such knowledge of the world as comes from actual contact with -it--could have gained the wise insight into character which she -possessed, it is beyond my power to say. Perhaps it was because she -did not doubt, and believed in the capacity for goodness in others. - -A long time had now passed since the children's holiday in the -country, and yet the incident of Rachel's distress on that day at the -sound of Blade-o'-Grass's voice had never been referred to in any of -our conversations. Truth to tell, I hesitated to open a subject which -had caused so much pain to the blind maid; but I never lost sight of -it. I was often on the verge of speaking about it, but I checked the -impulse. One day, however, I referred to it, almost without thought. - -'I knew,' said Rachel, 'that you would speak to me about it at some -time or other, and I have thought it strange that you have not done so -before now. I think it was out of consideration for me.' I did not -answer. 'But you have had it in your mind?' - -'Yes, Rachel, I have never forgotten it.' - -'Nor I.' She clasped her hands upon her lap, and said quietly, 'Seeing -that you were silent, I should have mentioned it myself, if I could -have mustered sufficient courage; but I was too much afraid. Are we to -speak of it now?' - -'As you think fit, Rachel.' - -'It will be best, perhaps. Mr. Meadow,' she said earnestly, 'it is not -wrong for two persons to have a secret, If the keeping of it harms no -one, and if the disclosure would bring pain to their friends?' - -'Surely not in such a case, Rachel.' - -'I am so glad to know it! Will you, then, let what we say to each -other upon this subject remain a secret between us, unless you should -think it will serve a good end one day to refer to it, or disclose -it?' - -'Yes, Rachel. This shall be a confidence between us.' - -'That is good; it is a confidence between us.' She placed her hand -upon mine for a moment, as if that action sealed the confidence. 'Mr. -Meadow, I told you that I had heard the poor girl's voice before that -day. It was when Ruth and Charley were courting. We had spent a happy -day at the Exhibition with Charley, and we were walking home, when I -heard some one utter words which ring in my ears now. It was Ruth's -voice, but it was not Ruth who spoke. The words were: "For God's sake, -Tom, bring home some money, for there's not a bit of bread in the -cupboard!" Without stopping to think, I cried out to Ruth, and asked -her if it was she who spoke. I told her what I had heard, and that the -voice was like hers; and Ruth went to the poor girl, and gave her -money.' - -'It was Blade-o'-Grass you heard, Rachel. The man who finds food for -her is named Tom.' - -'I never spoke of it afterwards; I did not dare to, for my thoughts. -Mr. Meadow, what is Blade-o'-Grass like? Describe her to me.' - -I described the poor outcast as faithfully as it was possible for me -to do. Rachel was silent for a little while; she was looking at the -portrait. - -'What colour is her hair, Mr. Meadow?' - -'Dark-brown.' - -'The same colour as Ruth's!' she exclaimed, in a tone of distress. -'And her eyes?' - -'Dark-brown, also.' - -'So are Ruth's.' - -She twined her fingers nervously. - -'She has a very pretty dimple, Rachel.' - -Rachel uttered a sob of thankfulness. - -'Ruth has no dimple,' she said gratefully. - -I reflected seriously before I spoke. Such implicit faith did I have -in Rachel's instincts that, without a shadow of direct evidence, -indeed with all evidence against it, I was tempted still to believe -that there was kinship between Ruth and Blade-o'-Grass. Yet what good -purpose could possibly be served in tracing it? Would it not be -bringing pain and shame to Ruth's door?----' No, no!' I cried, in my -thoughts, 'pain doubtless, but not shame! Ruth has been too purely -brought up for shame to touch her. She would stretch forth a -sympathising hand to Blade-o'-Grass. With a loving heart and with -loving words she would influence her for good: love would prevail -where friendship failed. Blade-o'-Grass might by that influence be -brought to see in their proper light the relations that existed -between Tom Beadle the thief and herself, and might----' - -Ah, me! ah, me! I paused here, in grief, too sorrowful to carry out -the thread of my reflections. I had had but few interviews, with -Blade-o'-Grass; but when, feeling my duty press heavily upon me, I had -approached the subject which most grieved her friends, I had found her -deaf and implacable to my words. She placed her back against the rock -of natural affection, and every argument used against Tom Beadle -struck her with a feather's weight. To break the tie seemed to me to -be impossible. There remained, then, but one right thing to be done. -To sanctify it by the sacrament of marriage, and thus fasten the hold -which the thief had upon her. Let no man come between them then! This -girl, in whom there was so much latent good, would be linked for life -to a thief. His infamous life would be hers, his lot would be hers, -and nothing should separate them but death! - -At the date of my present conversation with Rachel, I had not seen -Blade-o'-Grass for many weeks, and I knew that Tom Beadle was out of -prison and at work again in his bad way. I determined to seek her out -that very night. I had promised to visit Jimmy Virtue in company with -Robert Truefit. Jimmy had expressed a wish to see us, and he would -most likely be able to tell me where I could find Blade-o'-Grass. -These thoughts occupied but a very few moments in passing through my -mind; and I turned again to Rachel. - -'When I heard poor Blade-o'-Grass,' I said to her, 'speak to her baby, -her voice sounded strangely familiar to me. Yet it seems scarcely -possible that what you and I have in our minds with reference to her -should be more than fancy.' - -But Rachel gently shook her head, and we diverged to other subjects. - -Robert Truefit and I met by appointment, and walked together to Jimmy -Virtue's leaving-shop. Jimmy Virtue was in his parlour, and upon our -entrance he hastily gathered up an old pack of cards, with which he -had been playing. The deal table was bare of cloth, and was smeared -over with chalk figures representing many thousands of pounds. - -'Hallo!' exclaimed Jimmy Virtue; 'there you are! I've been 'avin' a -game of All-fours with Jack.' - -I looked around for Jack, but saw no signs of him. There was but one -tallow-candle burning in the room, and that was stuck in a ginger-beer -bottle and was guttering down. - -'I'll be with you in a minute,' said Jimmy Virtue; 'I've got a bundle -to tie up in the shop.' - -'This is a miserable place to live in,' I said to Robert Truefit when -Jimmy Virtue had left the room. 'Who is Jack?' - -'A shadow,' replied Robert Truefit; 'a shadow of Jimmy's creation, -with whom he plays at cards in his loneliness, and cheats out of -fabulous sums--money, Jack, and all being things of air. Look at the -chalk-score on the table; Jimmy has won more than three thousand -pounds of Jack. Is not truth stranger than fiction, Mr. Meadow? Jack -sits there.' - -Robert Truefit pointed to a chest upon which the imaginary Jack was -supposed to sit while he was being robbed. So dimly-lighted was the -room that I could easily have fancied a shadow was really sitting on -the chest, gazing with lack-lustre eyes upon another shadow in Jimmy -Virtue's chair, where Jimmy Virtue was not. A mournful picture of a -desolate life, I thought. - -Jimmy Virtue appeared to have forgotten us, for Robert Truefit and I -had been ten minutes together, and were not disturbed. - -'Is he attending to customers?' I asked. - -'There's no customer in the shop,' said Robert Truefit, peeping in. -He went into the shop, and I followed him. Jimmy Virtue was standing -at the street-door, muttering to himself. - -'That's the second time I've seed 'im 'ere,' he muttered, 'the second -time this week; but it's been too dark to ketch a good sight of 'is -face. Now, what does he come 'angin' about 'ere for?' - -He was watching the figure of a man who was standing in that part of -Stoney-alley where the deepest shadows lay. - -'Do you know him, Jimmy?' asked Robert Truefit. - -'He's a 'Postle,' replied Jimmy Virtue. - -'An Apostle,' explained Robert Truefit to me. I wondered, not knowing -what meaning might be attached to the word. - -'He calls 'isself a Delegate, but I calls 'im a 'Postle--a 'Postle o' -Liberty. I'd like to ketch a good sight of that there 'Postle's face. -Pff! What's this a-runnin' in my 'ead?' - - -[Illustration] - - -He glared around with his one useful eye, as if shadows were jostling -him on every side; and in a thoughtful mood he accompanied us to the -parlour. There he opened the chest which formed Jack's resting-place, -and diving to the bottom brought up a small wooden box. Without a word -he opened the box, and turned out the contents. 'There's a rum lot o' -things 'ere,' he said, after a long pause, during which he had been -examining the articles, each of which was wrapped in paper, upon which -there was writing. 'All gold and silver things that's never been -called for. I didn't like to part with 'em. 'Ere's a bit o' coral, -'xactly like a foot and leg; this garter round the leg is gold. I lent -fourteenpence on it to a cove as 'ad seen better days--so he told me. -Them better days must ha' been a precious long time afore I set eyes -on 'im! 'Ere's a bit o' jade with a band o' silver on it. That come -from Chiney. 'Ere's a woman's likeness on a broach--enamel, it is a -pretty face! 'tain't so pretty now, I'll be bound! I've 'ad this for -thirty year. 'Ere's a----ah, 'ere it is!' He lighted upon something he -had been seeking for. 'What do you call this, now?' he asked. - -'I should call it a wedding-ring,' said Robert Truefit. - -'So should I. I ain't 'ad many things like what's in this box brought -to me to lend money on. Peddicuts, and gownds, and old boots is more -in my line.' - -He replaced all the things in the wooden box with the exception of the -wedding-ring, which he put in his pocket. - -'Now, then, Jimmy,' said Robert Truefit, 'tell us what you wanted to -see us about.' - -'Well, you know that place they calls Paul's-buildin's. It's been -empty ever so long, and there's a large 'all in it.' - -'I know it, Jimmy.' - -'Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. The 'all's been -taken for twelve bob a week by some fellers as 'as formed theirselves -into a society called the Workin'-man's League--a society as is goin' -to stick up for workin'man's rights and all that sort o' thing. And -what do you think they've painted on the door. Bob? Why, The Temple o' -Liberty! And this feller as comes 'angin' round 'ere to-night calls -'isself a Delegate. _I_ calls 'im a 'Postle. It sounds better, don't -it? 'Im and 'is mates meets three times a week at the Temple o' -Liberty to take in members at tuppence a 'ead, and to collar -subscriptions. Lord! they'd collar anythink, sich fellers as them! -They do a pretty good stroke o' business altogether, I should say.' - -'If Jimmy's not mistaken,' observed Robert Truefit to me, 'these are -some of the men who live by the trade. But what makes you so -interested in this one particular man, Jimmy?' - -'I'd rather not say jist now, Bob. But I did ketch jist a glimpse of -'is face, and if I'm right, I've seed it afore. Per'aps I _am_ right; -per'aps I ain't. Any'ow this ain't the time to speak, 'cordin' to my -judgment, till I'm more settled about it. There's a big meetin' next -week at the Temple o' Liberty, and there'll be some tall speechifyin', -I daresay. I'll 'ave a good look at that there 'Postle's face then. -Will you go, Bob? and you, sir? This is a sort o' thing as ought to be -looked into. If I was a workin'-man like Bob, I shouldn't be satisfied -without I 'ad a finger in the pie--though there's nothin' good to be -got out of it, mind you, unless you're a 'Postle! And if I was a -parson, I'd think it my duty to 'eer what they've got to say for -theirselves.' - -We promised to accompany Jimmy Virtue to the meeting; and then I asked -him if he knew where Blade-o'-Grass lived. He went into Stoney-alley -with us, closing has shop-door, and pointed out the house. - -'She's got a room on the third floor,' he said; 'she went into it last -week. They about like birds, them gals do; it seems as they can't rest -nowhere. But they allus comes back to the old spot! She was born about -'ere, and it's my opinion she'll die about 'ere. What are you goin' to -do, Bob? - -'I shall stop here until Mr. Meadow's visit is paid. Nay, sir,' he -said, seeing that I was about to attempt to dissuade him, 'I shall -wait for you. Our roads home are same, and perhaps you will allow me -to walk part of the way with you.' - -'I shall go,' said Jimmy Virtue, 'and smoke a pipe outside The True -Briton's Delight. I've got the lonelies on me to-night, and Jack's not -allus the best o' company; gits stupid like, and 's got no go in 'im. -You'll see me there as you pass.' - -I walked up the dark stairs until I came to the third floor, and -knocked at the door of the only room in which there was a light. -Blade-o'-Grass came to the door, and opened it. She curtseyed when she -saw me, and asked me to come in. There was some anxiety in her face, -but this was no new phase in her. I asked after the child. - -'It's that as troubles me, sir,' she said. 'Come and look at it.' - -The child was lying on the bed, with its eyes closed. Blade-o'-Grass -touched her, and she opened her eyes; but there was no sign of -recognition in her face, and no smile or look of gladness as the -mother leaned over her. The expression was one of settled -mournfulness; it appeared to me as if neither pain nor joy could -affect it. - -'She's been like this, sir,' whispered Blade-o'-Grass, 'for nigh on a -week, and I don't know what to make of it. She lays there for hours -without movin' and without speakin'. She don't complain a bit; but it -can't be right, can it, sir? Speak to me, my life! Speak to me!' - -But the child made no response to these and other endearing words; a -mournful lethargy had fallen upon her, and she lay like one in a -trance. - -'She takes her food?' - -'Yes, sir, but not much; she don't seem to care for it. She don't arks -for none.' - -'Has any doctor been to see her?' - -'I've got no money, sir.' - -I knew of a doctor of fair repute who was popular among the poor, and -whose charge was eighteenpence a visit, with medicine included. I gave -Blade-o'-Grass three shillings, and told her it would pay for two -visits. She thanked me with tears in her eyes, and said that she would -run for the doctor immediately I was gone. - -'I wish to say a few words to you first, my dear; I will not detain -you long.' - -She placed a chair for me, and stood before me. - -'Where is Tom?' I asked. - -'I don't know, sir; I ain't seed 'im all day.' - -'It is about him I wish to speak, Blade-o'-Grass.' - -She looked distressed; but I was not to be discouraged. - -'Is it not possible,' I continued, 'for him to get a living in any -other way than the way he does?' - -''Ow do I know, sir? I think Tom 'd do anythink to earn a pound a -week. A pound a week! 'Ow 'appy we should be then! But 'ow's he to do -it, sir? Tell us the way, sir.' - -'Nay,' I said, 'he must find the way himself----' - -She interrupted me impatiently. 'If I didn't know as you was a good -friend to me, sir, I should think as you was mockin' of me, like the -others. Don't you say it all over agin, sir!' she entreated, with a -nervous movement of the hands. 'It makes me sick and mad-like! I've -'eerd it a 'underd times afore, and every time I arks which way we're -to turn, I'm told that we've got to find out the way for ourselves.' - -She looked towards her child, and I saw that she was anxious to go for -the doctor. It would have been cruel to continue the theme then; but I -could not leave her without carrying out my intention. I asked her if -she had ever been to church. - -'Once,' she answered. - -'Only once!' I said sadly. 'That's all, sir; I never went agin. I -stood near the door while the bells was ringin'. I like to 'eer them -bells; they rest me like, and it was them as drawed me on. A lot o' -fine people was comin' along the streets all round, and goin' in -while I stood there. Some on 'em looked 'appy, 'specially the gals as -was about the same age as me; but some on 'em looked orfle glum, -as if they knowed they was bad uns, and was goin' to be preached -to!--beggin' your pardon, sir. Some of the ladies was dressed -beautiful, and more nor one on 'em 'eld their gownds away from me as -they parsed, for fear I should 'ave spoiled 'em by touchin' 'em. One -lady in lavender silk pulled 'er two little gals away because they was -close to me, and looked at me as much as to say that I'd got no -business to be there. No more I 'ad, sir, I know. I remember them -things, sir. All the people got in, and the bells stopped, and then I -thought 'ow I should like to go in too. It took a deal o' courage to -push open the door, and my 'eart was in my mouth when I did it; but -that was nothin' to what come arterwards. When I was inside, I thort I -should ha' dropped down with fright, a lot on 'em stared at me so -'ard-like; and what with that and the place bein' so grand, I turned -all over like a jelly. Then a big man comes up to me, lookin' very -stern and solemn. I thort he was a-goin' to give me in charge, and I -was goin' to cry out and beg 'im not to, when he clapped 'is 'and on -my mouth, and put me somewhere where I couldn't see nothink, and where -I could only 'eer a drummin' in my ears like a lot o' flies, except -when the people was a-singin'. But I was frightened all the while, and -when the doors was throwed open, I run out as fast as I could, for -fear somethin' 'd be done to me. I never went no more; it seemed to me -as if I'd no right to go.' - -'Do you know where my church is, child?' - -'No, sir.' - -I wrote the address on a piece of paper, and gave it to her. - -'I can't read, sir,' she said, with a flush in her cheeks. - -I begged her pardon, and told her the name of the church, and the -street it was in. 'If you will come there, my dear, next Sabbath, I -shall be glad to see you. And don't think you have no right there! You -have as much right as the best-dressed lady in the church.' - -She thanked me, and said she would come because I had been good to -her. - -'And bring Tom,' I said. - -She shook her head. 'I don't think Tom'll come, sir.' - -'Not for your sake?' I asked. - -'Tom'll do almost anythink for me,' she said, tears gathering in her -eyes. - -'Do you know,' I said very gently, 'that living as you are living now -with Tom gives great pain to your friends?' - -She bit her lips rebelliously, and put on her dogged look. - -'And that it is wrong in the sight of God?' - -There was no softening of the dogged look; it hardened rather. - -'And,' I continued, 'there is so simple and so good a way of atoning -for this wrong--a way that will bring Tom nearer to you, that will -bind him closer to you. If, as you say, Tom will do anything for you, -ask him to marry you.' - -The dogged look vanished; joy, wonder, took its place. - -'Marry me!' she exclaimed softly. 'O Tom, if you would! if you would, -Tom!' - -'Is there any doubt of it?' - -'I never arksed 'im, sir! I never arksed 'im!' - -'Well, dear child, ask him now, and let me know.' - -'Won't it cost money, sir? she asked anxiously. - -'But little; and that little I will find.' - -She held out her hands to me in thankfulness. She had learned to trust -me. - -'I'll arks Tom, sir. Though, mind!' she said, out of the noble -chivalry of her nature; 'nothink that Tom can do can bring me nearer -to 'im, or make 'im stick closer to me! But I'll do it, sir, because -you think it's good, and because I think, too, it might be righter -so.' She turned with a newborn joy in her face, and knelt by the bed, -and as I went out of the room, I heard her whisper to her child, -'Baby! baby! me and Tom's goin' to git married! Ain't you glad, baby?' - - -Robert Truefit was waiting for me in Stoney-alley. - -'I am glad you have come at this moment,' he said, as we walked out of -the alley. 'You see those two men before us? One is Tom Beadle, and -the other is the Delegate who roused Jimmy so strangely to-night.' - -'They are not walking together; they do not seem to be acquainted.' - -'No; but supposing this one to be an Apostle of Liberty, and that one -a thief, it is well that they should be strangers.' - -Their destination, however, was the same. They both paused before the -door of The True Briton's Delight, and both entered the building, -which was a triumph of architecture, with its gay decorations and -pillars. The light that came from this bad palace was dazzling. - -'A bright coffin,' observed Robert Truefit, 'for virtue and morality.' - -Jimmy Virtue was leaning against one of the lamp-posts opposite the -public-house, smoking his pipe. - -'I've been thinkin', Bob,' he said, with reflective puffs, 'as I've -been standin' watchin' the people go in and out, that this 'ere free -and 'lightened country of our'n's crammed full o' Temples o' Liberty.' - -'Crammed full of them!' exclaimed Robert Truefit, humouring his -friend. 'Why, what kind of places, Jimmy?' - -Jimmy Virtue extended his pipe in the direction of the True Briton's -Delight. - -'Them kind o' places,' he said. - -Robert Truefit laughed. 'And where on earth, Jimmy, in those temples -is liberty to be found?' - -'At the bottom o' pewter pots,' replied Jimmy Virtue, with a flourish -of his pipe. 'And the persevering way the free and 'lightened Briton -searches for it in them pewter pots is a 'stonishing thing. Bob--a -very 'stonishing thing!' - - - - IX. - - OPEN YOUR EYES, BABY! SPEAK TO ME! LOOK AT MOTHER, MY LIFE! - - -I looked in vain from my pulpit on the following Sabbath for Tom -Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass, but they were not in church. I had -introduced into my discourse on that day certain words applicable to -the beauty and holiness of the marriage tie--words which I had -designed especially for those two humblest members of my congregation, -and which I had hoped they would have understood and appreciated. It -pained me not to see them, and I was sure that some special -circumstance had prevented Blade-o'-Grass at least from attending. I -had promised to take a cup of tea with Ruth and her husband after the -evening service, and if anything could have made me forget for the -time the sorrow which oppressed me, it would have been the peaceful -happiness which pervaded their bright and modest home. But the image -of Blade-o'-Grass was too strongly fixed in my mind to be forgotten, -and in the course of the evening my fancy placed that image by the -side of Ruth, as the latter, with all a mother's love in her face, sat -rocking the cradle with her foot. It was a terrible contrast, and I -strove to banish the fancy; but it refused to leave my mind's eye. Let -me, I thought, strive at all events to give it a more pleasing -colouring. Ruth was dressed in a brown-stuff gown, and she had a piece -of pink ribbon round her neck; she wore dainty white collar and cuffs, -and her hair was done up in a simple knot. Merely to look at her as -she sat rocking the cradle in which her baby was sleeping created that -Home feeling to which all the humanising influences of life are due. -In my fancy now I gave Blade-o'-Grass such a dress and such cuffs and -collar; I placed the piece of ribbon round her neck, and arranged her -hair in similar fashion; and then I placed her by the side of Ruth. It -was wonderful; they were of the same height, and the colour of their -hair and eyes was the same. But the look of peaceful happiness which -dwelt in the face of Ruth was wanting in the face of Blade-o'-Grass. I -gave the poor girl this; I banished the anxiety and sorrow from her -face, and the likeness was perfect. As I gazed upon the picture, -half-real, half-ideal, the sound of Ruth singing softly to her baby -stole upon my ear, and the little tricks and turns of the voice which -Nature varies in her myriad children with such marvellous skill as to -make each distinctive in itself, or assimilative only where ties of -blood exist, brought to me the voice of Blade-o'-Grass speaking to -_her_ child. I started to my feet to dispel the illusion, and bade -Ruth and Charley good-night, for fear I might be tempted to disturb -their happiness by even a mention of my thought. - -It was a wintry night, and the snow was falling. I had other visits to -make in pursuance of my duties, and it was quite eleven o'clock by the -time I had completed my rounds. At that hour I was crossing the -wonderful piece of road which connects the Mansion House with the -Royal Exchange, and I bustled along briskly to keep myself warm. I was -in the open space in front of the Royal Exchange, and I was walking -towards Leadenhall-street, when a woman hurriedly approached me from -that direction. She came almost abruptly to my side, and, with a -reckless movement of her body, in which every limb seemed to take its -part, was about to accost me, when, as I turned my face towards hers, -she uttered a suppressed cry of terror, and flew round the corner -which leads to Threadneedle-street. I had not seen the woman's face, -but the cry told me who she was. Shocked and surprised I ran after -her, and, in her endeavour to escape me, the poor wandering soul fell -upon the ground at the foot of the statue of one of America's greatest -philanthropists. Even in that moment of trouble, the coincidence -struck me as singular, and in the fleeting glance of admiration I cast -upon the statue the thought flashed upon me that it would have been -more charitable, and would have shown more true benevolence, had the -vast sums the philanthropist gave to the poor of London been expended -less after the fashion of a commercial speculation. That the merciful -intentions of the testator--whose kind heart must have been filled -with pity for the unmerited sufferings of the poor, and with a desire -to relieve them--have been made to miss their mark by the manner in -which the trust has been administered, there is, in my mind, not a -shadow of a doubt. - -'Blade-o'-Grass!' I exclaimed pityingly, and I stooped to raise the -writhing form at my feet. - -But she shrank from me and repulsed me with her hands; and bade me, in -a desperate voice, to go, for the Lord's sake! and leave her to -herself. - -'Nay, dear child,' I said, 'I cannot leave you. Tell me what brings -you out on such a night as this.' - -'Don't arks me!' she cried, with a wild movement of her hands. 'O, my -God! don't arks me. O, if I could die this minute, and take my child -with me! O, if we could die together, the pair on us!' - -She looked up to the dreary sky with a face as white as the falling -snow. Never in my life had I witnessed such passion, such utter -prostration of soul, and my heart bled for her--and bled the more as I -observed her scanty clothing and the miserable coverings she wore on -her feet. And then there came to me again the fancies I had raised -concerning Blade-o'-Grass but a couple of hours ago in Ruth's cheerful -room. The reality was before me, in all its naked truth. What a -reality! Stone-deaf, blind, dumb, and utterly senseless to stern -preaching and mild exhortation; to the torrent of words which -comfortably-good creatures listen to from lip-philanthropists who, by -some strange mental jugglery, really believe that they are doing good; -to the raising of voices calling upon the fallen to turn and repent; -to statistics which prove so much and do so little. Only to be -affected, only to be sensibly touched, only to be altered for the -better by the angelic wand of practical benevolence, which sees, -pities, and at once wisely relieves. I knew and recognised that it was -from no fault of hers that this poor girl had fallen so low. _Had_ -fallen! no; she was born fallen, and had been kept so. There was no -road open for her to traverse which would lead to pleasanter paths. -Gardens and fair places she had seen, doubtless, and her soul must -have yearned to them with sickening desire, but they were on far-off -hills, and the gates that led to them were shut for such as she. As -she lay before me now, looking upward to the sky, no fair places shone -for her. Every principle of goodness, the exercise of which brings us -present peace and future bliss, seemed to point at her in bitter -mockery. The reward that waits on worthy endeavour--how could she hope -to win it? The blessing that attends on a pure life--how could she -hope to gain it? Despair and desolation surrounded and encompassed -her. What words I used to comfort her, I do not remember; but I know -that two quarters of the hour had chimed from the solemn bells--doubly -solemn in my ears at this momentous time, and in hers also, for when -they struck we both paused to listen--before she grew calmer and could -speak with coherence; and then only was I able to draw from her lips -an explanation of her terrible distress. - -Her child was perilously ill. She had spent the money I gave her for -the doctor, as I had directed. She thought her dear was a little -better after the first visit, but the doctor had told her yesterday -the child must have nourishing food, or he could give no hopes for it. -What kind of nourishing food? she had asked. A little port wine, -arrowroot, and jelly, was the answer. She repeated these last words -bitterly. 'Threepence-ha'penny was all that we 'ad in the place, and -there warn't a blessed thing in the room that we could ha' raised -fourpence upon. What was I to do? I went on so about it to Tom that he -said last night, "Keep up your pluck, old gal; I'll go and make a -rise."' Nerved to daring deeds, as I understood, and determined to get -money somehow, Tom Beadle left Blade-o'-Grass with a kiss; 'and I've -never set eyes on 'im since!' There was but one inference--the usual -one--to be drawn from his absence; he had been taken up again by the -police. In the mean time the condition of the child was growing more -perilous every hour. 'She never complained once, sir; if she'd ha' -cried it'd ha' been a relief to me I think, but she never opened 'er -lips, the pretty dear; and there she's been a-layin' all the day, with -'er eyes wide open, _lookin' at somethin' as I couldn't see!_ When it -got dark, sir, I 'adn't a farthin' in my pocket, and there wasn't a -bit o' bread nor a drop o' milk in the cupboard. And all the while I -kep' on thinkin' that my dear was a dyin', and that if I could get 'er -a little jelly or a cup of arrerroot, she would git better. It drove -me a'most mad, sir, but I tried to keep up my 'eart by thinkin' that -Tom per'aps 'd come in directly, and make it all right. I 'ad a little -bit o' candle left, and I lighted it, so that I might watch my dear's -face; but it only lasted about a hour and then it went out. I laid -down by my dear's side, and took 'er in my arms to warm 'er; she never -spoke or moved, sir; 'er 'eart beat, that was all. I felt 'er eyes -with my fingers, and they was still wide open. I began to git -frightened. What was it my dear was a-starin' at, and could she see it -even in the dark? Well, sir, I laid so for a long time, until I fell -asleep. 'Ow long I slep', sir, I can't tell, but when I woke up, my -dear was moanin'--not cryin', sir, but moanin'. I tried to coax 'er to -speak to me, but she didn't seem to know that 'er poor mother was by -'er side, and she never answered a word, but went on moanin'. O, sir! -as I laid there in the dark listenin' to my dear, I thought I should -ha' gone out of my mind! And then 'er poor 'ands--they're nothink but -skin and bone, sir!--begun to wander about, and it seemed to me that -she was searchin' and arksin' for somethin' to eat. What _could_ I do, -sir? what could I do? I run out to Mr. Wirtue's, but 'is place was -shut; per'aps he'd ha' given me somethink, but I couldn't find 'im. -Then I went back to my dear, and stood in the dark, fightin' with -myself, and with sich thoughts comin' over me as made me 'ot and cold. -I daren't tell you what they was, sir--I 'ardly know myself, but I -feel that to be dead's better than them! And in the middle of it all, -my dear's voice changed, and I knew that the tiger was tearin' at 'er. -It was tearin' at me, too, and, with the fear of my dear's death -starin' me in the face, I run out of the 'ouse. I didn't know where I -was goin'. I wanted money--food for my dear! I think I was mad! And -that's the way I met you. It's God truth, sir, every word of it!' - -This was the story that, with sobs and gasps and many pauses for -passion which she could not control, Blade-o'-Grass told me. I -breathed a prayer of thankfulness that I was by her side in this awful -crisis of her life. I felt that practical relief must be given at -once. To leave her to her own resources in such a moment of terrible -desperation would have weighed on my soul like a sin which could never -be washed away. I looked around upon the bleak night; not a footfall -was to be heard. The snow was turning to sleet; the streets were -deserted; every door was closed. - - -[Illustration] - - -As I was considering what was best to be done, the bells began to -chime again. It was twelve o'clock, and the Sabbath was at an end. -From far and near the iron tongues, in solemn muffled tones, -proclaimed the commencement of a new week's toil. For a few moments -the air was filled with sound, and it would scarcely have surprised me -to feel that the sleeping millions were suddenly aroused--to hear the -din, the roar, the rattle of the roads--to see the anxious faces -flashing all around me, and the streets peopled with the throngs that -struggle this way and that, and contribute to the sum of the busy -world. But with the last faint echo of the bells the fancy vanished; -the night was more lonely and desolate than before, and Blade-o'-Grass -was turning from me in despair. - -'Come with me,' I said. - -'Let me be!' she cried hoarsely. 'My child's starvin', and I'm goin' -to get food for it--some'ow--or die in the streets!' - -'I am going to help you. I am going to get food for you and your -child.' - -She grasped my hand with a convulsive movement, and sobs of hysterical -joy escaped from her. But weakness and the revulsion of feeling -overcame her, and she would have fallen to the ground again but for my -support. By good fortune I heard the wheels of a cab. - -'Can you keep up for a moment or two?' I whispered to her -hurriedly. 'Take hold of these rails; they will support you. That's -right--that's right! Do not stir till I return. I may be able to stop -that cab, and it will take us to my place, where we can get food. -Think of your child, and gather strength.' - -I left her clinging to the rails and I ran after the cab, and hailed -it. The driver drove on, shaking his head. But I ran by the side of -the horse and entreated him so earnestly that he stopped. He said he -was wet to the skin and tired out, and that he wanted to tumble into -bed. But when he heard my rapidly-told story, and that the life of a -little child might be saved or sacrificed by him, he hesitated not a -moment. - -Blade-o'-Grass was somewhat better and stronger when I returned to -her, and we drove quickly to my lodgings. There I armed myself with -candles, with what food there was in my cupboard, and with a little -brandy which I fortunately had by me. Back to Stoney-alley we drove -swiftly. On the road I urged Blade-o'-Grass to eat. She could not, she -said; it would choke her if she tried. - -'I can't go down this alley, sir,' the driver said, pulling up; 'it's -too narrow.' - -We alighted, and I paid the man his fare. He fumbled the money in his -hand; hesitated; looked doubtfully at it. - -'I hope you will think it enough,' I said. It was all the money I had -about me. - -With a rough tenderness he answered, 'I beg your pardon, sir; but I'd -like to----' and he held sixpence towards Blade-o'-Grass. - -'I will give it to her,' I said. 'God bless you!' - -I shook hands with him, and he jumped on his box and rattled away, -whistling his loudest. - -We walked through the dark alley, unlighted by a single lamp, into the -house, and up the dark stairs. The house contained many inhabitants, -and we heard their breathing as we shuffled quietly along. When we -reached Blade-o'-Grass's room, she paused at the door and listened. - -'My dear's not moanin' now,' she whispered gladly. 'Per'aps she's -asleep. We're a-comin', my dear, we're a-comin'! We've got somethin' -nice to eat!' - -By the time I lit a candle, I saw that Blade-o'-Grass had crept to the -bed and was bending over her dear. She raised the child tenderly in -her arms. I mixed a little brandy-and-water in a broken cup and -approached them. - -''Ad we better wake 'er? asked Blade-o'-Grass. I nodded. 'Baby! baby!' -she cried. - -She looked at me for a moment with a struggling fear in her eyes. - -'Baby, my dear! 'Ere's somethin' nice for you! We're goin' to send the -tiger to sleep; it sha'n't 'urt you any more. Baby! She don't answer -me! For gracious God's sake, sir, come 'ere! Quick! Baby! my love, my -'eart! Mother's a-callin' to you. Open your eyes! Speak to me! Look at -mother, my life!' - -The fear in her eyes grew stronger, spread over her face and turned it -deathly white. With a wild shudder she tore the child from the bed, -and pressing her to her breast, turned to me with a look so agonising -and despairing as blanched my face to the whiteness of hers. - -'What's this!' she muttered piteously. 'For the good Lord's sake, tell -me what is this?' She passed her hand over her child with swift and -fierce tenderness, and with a scream that must have made terrible the -dreams of the sleepers, cried, 'The tiger! the tiger! The tiger's -killed my child! O, my 'eart, my life!' and fell to the ground, -clasping her dear closer to her heart, and rocked to and fro in an -agony of passionate ungovernable grief. - -Alas! alas! The child, on whose face I had never seen a smile, had -died during the mother's absence, and the tiger that had been the -curse of her life would never more disturb her. Never more! Never -more! - - - - X. - - NO, NO! BORN IN LOVE! IN LOVE! - - -I was busy writing on the following morning when Mr. Merrywhistle -called upon me. - -'You look tired,' he said. - -I told him that I had been up all night with Blade-o'-Grass, and that -her child was dead. He being her nearest and most faithful friend, I -related to him the circumstance of my meeting Blade-o'-Grass on the -previous night, and all that followed. The good old man shed tears, -and was sincerely grieved. - -'Can I do anything?' he asked. - -'You can do a great deal,' I answered. 'There is the burial of the -child.' - -'I will see to that,' he interrupted; 'and the poor child shall be -buried decently.' - -This was a weight off my mind, for I knew by his words and his manner -that he intended to defray the charges of the funeral out of his own -purse; mine unfortunately was empty. I pressed his hand. - -'Heaven forgive me for saying it,' he said, wiping the tears from his -eyes, 'but it is a happier fate for the poor little thing to die, than -to live as her mother has lived.' - -Then, I told him, there was the mother herself to look after. - -'I should not have remained with her so long, for I needed rest; but -it was impossible for me to leave her. If she were left to herself and -her thoughts, I am afraid that something bad would happen. Jimmy -Virtue is with her now, and will remain until I send some one to -relieve him, or go myself.' - -'Jimmy is a good fellow,' said Mr. Merrywhistle, rising, 'but he's as -poor as a church mouse, and must attend to his business. I will see to -the poor girl, and when I am absent I will get some woman in the house -to look after her. There, there! make your mind easy till tomorrow, -and go to bed early tonight.' - -I felt much relieved, and I rose the next morning thoroughly refreshed -in mind and body. As early in the day as I could I walked towards -Stoney-alley. On my way I met Mr. Merrywhistle. I asked him after -Blade-o'-Grass. He shook his head gravely, and said, - -'I was anxious to see you about her. It is with her just as you -described. If she were left to herself she would do something -desperate.' - -'Has Tom Beadle come home?' - -'No, and I have heard nothing of him. His presence might arouse her -from the awful melancholy which has fast hold of her. It is dreadful -to see. She has not spoken a word since you left, and it is with the -greatest difficult that the woman I have employed has induced her to -touch food; I am sure she has not eaten sufficient to keep life in -her. She sits by her dead child, looking at it with a blank look in -her eyes that almost freezes my blood to see. Sometimes she turns her -head, and gazes into one particular corner of the room, with a gaze so -fixed and steadfast that I have half expected--I am very nervous, my -dear sir--to see something start out of the wall.' - -'She told me on the night I met her by the Royal Exchange, that her -baby lay all the day with her eyes wide open, staring at something she -couldn't see. She laid great stress on the words. Perhaps she is -trying to discover what it was the poor child was gazing at.' - -'I have been thinking, my dear sir----' - -'Yes,' I said, gently, for he had paused. - -----'That if you were to speak to her, not simply as a friend who is -interested in her bodily welfare, but as a minister----' - -'I understand you. Such thought was in my own mind. I have not -forgotten my duty, believe me.' - -Upon entering the room where the dead and the living lay, I saw at a -glance that Mr. Merrywhistle had indeed well discharged his duty. It -was cleaner and tidier than I had yet seen it. One or two humble and -necessary pieces of furniture had been added, and on the window there -was a clean white muslin blind, edged with black ribbon. The dead -child was on the bed, with a white sheet over it, and Blade-o'-Grass -was lying on the ground, with her hand beneath the sheet embracing the -body. I motioned the woman in attendance from the room; she went -softly, and I closed the door behind me. As I stood with the handle in -my hand, I heard a knock. I opened the door, and saw one of the -lodgers--a tail, gaunt woman, with a decided moustache--with a yellow -basin in her hand. She dropped a curtsey. - -'I've brought a little mutton broth for Blade-o'-Grass,' she said. -'Mind! It's 'ot!' - -I thanked her, and taking the basin from her laid it aside. Then -closing the door again, I approached Blade-o'-Grass, and placed my -hand on her shoulder. She gazed at me with no sign of recognition, and -turned her face again towards her child. I bent over the clay -tenderly. The child looked well in death. Never in its life had its -face worn so peaceful an expression. I sat on a chair beside the -hapless mother, and spoke to her of that other and better life into -which her child had entered; I spoke to her of the goodness of the -all-beneficent God, of the comprehensive love which He, who watches -over all His children, bears to the meanest of them. But my words -touched her not; she made no movement in response to them, but sat -motionless, with hopeless eyes fixed upon the child. I did not dare -attempt to arouse her attention by sternness. Every word that came -from my lips seemed to me to be dissolved into gentle utterance by the -intense mother's love, which closed the door upon all outward -sympathy. And still I continued, - -'Think,' I said, in my most earnest tones, 'think but for a moment -Cast your thoughts from your own misery and your own unhappiness, and -let them dwell wholly and solely upon your child.' - -A gleam that faintly expressed scornful wonder passed into her eyes. I -hailed even that faint sign with gladness. - -'The mother's love that dwells so strongly in your breast, is it as -sweet as it should be, is it as perfect as it should be, if it blind -you to the happier lot that lies before your child, and make you -regardless of it? Love in its perfect form is shown in unselfishness. -Are you unselfish in your grief? While your child lived you found your -happiness and your consolation in her. But was she happy? Carry your -thoughts to the many times that you saw her in pain, that she suffered -hunger, that she cried because of the tiger that tormented her----' - -A shiver passed over the form of Blade-o'-Grass; her stony gaze -relaxed, and I saw that I had aroused her attention. - -'----And think if a happier lot lies before her, as it does, if even -now the power is given to her, by the wisdom and the goodness of God, -to comprehend and be grateful for the love which has filled your heart -from her birth--think but for a moment, if this be so, As It Is! -whether you should not rather rejoice than mourn? By doing this you -would show love in its most perfect form of unselfishness. All her -pain is gone, all her sufferings have passed away, and the tiger is -stilled for ever. Yes, this child, born in sin,'---- - -'No, no!' cried Blade-o'-Grass, in a piercing tone of anguish, -springing to her feet, and pleading for her lost child in the strong -agony of her soul. 'Born in love! In love--in love!' - -'Born in love,' I said sadly, 'and yet in sin'---- - -'I didn't know,' she sobbed, sinking again to the foot of the bed. -''Ow could I know; and 'ow could baby know? O, don't be 'ard on baby! -O, my 'eart, my life! O, baby, baby!' - -The mere utterance of the word so overwhelmed her, that for a time she -was blind and deaf to all around her. Dark clouds encompassed her; she -was conscious of nothing but the overpowering grief which was born of -love; all else was blotted out from her comprehension. She and her -dead baby were alone, distinct from every thing in nature. Divine -sympathy for her touched her not; human love for her touched her not -She did not ask for them; she did not know the good that lay in them. -All that she desired, all that she yearned for, was her baby, and with -that dear soul of her soul and heart of her heart in her arms, she -would be content to wander into the Oblivion where peace was, where no -gnawing hunger was, where no unkind looks were, where no pain was. In -that Oblivion only one thing could live--her love for her baby. - -I waited until she was calmer, and could heed my words. - -'Your child is purified by its death. In the better life that lies -beyond this, all her troubles, all her unconscious shame, all her -sufferings are washed away and forgotten. Ah, my dear! think of it and -be grateful for the Divine compassion that has brought peace to her -suffering soul. She waits for you in the better land to reward you for -your love; and until the Divine Hand is laid upon you, and calls upon -you to join her there, let it be your consolation to know that she has -been spared the misery that has fallen to your lot.' - -She echoed wonderingly, with overflowing eyes, - -'The better land that lays beyond this! She waits for me in the better -land! Tell me.' - -Then, in words as plain as I could find, I spoke to her of those -Divine truths, of that Divine hope, without a belief in which our -lives would be dark indeed. - -'And the tiger!' she cried. 'Is the tiger with her? For the Lord's -sake don't tell me that the tiger is with her there!' - -These and other questions I had to answer to her satisfaction, and -gradually, gradually the expression of stony despair left her -features, and into her eyes there stole a softened look of hope and -belief. - -'She will see me there!' she sobbed. 'My dear will see me there, and -will smile upon me! I shall 'old 'er in my arms! O, my dear, my dear!' - -She knelt with me by the side of the lifeless clay, and repeated after -me her first prayer, dwelling upon the words slowly and wistfully. -Another voice joined ours in the prayer: Mr. Merrywhistle's; and she, -recognising it, stretched out her hand to that faithfullest of -friends. Side by side we knelt in silence when the prayer was done, -and no sound was heard in the room but the quiet sobs of the bereaved -mother. After a time she turned to me, and, in broken, grateful words, -said that I had done her good. Yes, we had comforted her; thank God we -had comforted her! With what fervent gratitude did I bless the -gracious God for giving us the power of comforting that poor bruised -heart! - -Other comfort was given to her also. The Silvers had been told of the -death, and Mrs. Silver and Rachel came and sat with Blade-o'-Grass. At -first she shrank from Mrs. Silver, but no person could long resist the -gentle tenderness of that good woman. - -'She is truly your friend,' I said. - -'I know it, I know it,' whispered Blade-o'-Grass humbly; 'but I'm -not--not good enough.' - -I repeated these words to Mrs. Silver, and with a beautiful smile she -embraced the poor girl and kissed her. - -'Will you not kiss me, my child?' Mrs. Silver asked. - -The sobs that came from Blade-o'-Grass came from a heart overcharged -with gratitude. But she was most at home with Rachel, and the two -girls sat by the bed, while Mrs. Silver busied herself about the room. -She stopped until the evening, and when she and Rachel were preparing -to go, I saw an imploring look in Blade-o'-Grass's eyes. I stepped to -her side. - -'What is it you want, my dear?' She made no reply, but she looked at -Rachel most wistfully and yearningly. I saw the thought and the wish -that she was too humble to express. - -'Let Rachel stop with her tonight,' I said to Mrs. Silver. - -For one moment only did Mrs. Silver hesitate; her child had never -slept away from her home. - -'Rachel, my dear,' she said, 'will you stop to-night with -Blade-o'-Grass?' - -'O yes!' answered Rachel with cheerful willingness; 'I shall be glad -to stop.' - -With a gasp of joy Blade-o'-Grass caught Rachel's hand, and fondled it -and kissed it again and again. Rachel released her hand, and placed -her arm round Blade-o'-Grass's neck. The head of Blade-o'-Grass -drooped to her breast, but Rachel's was lifted in simple trustfulness -and love. We left to Mr. Merrywhistle the task of seeing to Rachel's -comfort for the night. - -'I shall be here very early in the morning,' said Mrs. Silver, as she -kissed her child. She kissed Blade-o'-Grass again also, and went out -of the room with Mr. Merrywhistle. I lingered behind for a moment or -two. With Rachel's hand in mine I could not help saying to her, - -'You gladden my heart, my dear.' - -She flushed slightly, and trembled. - -'I am glad you are pleased with me, Mr. Meadow. Good-night.' - -'Good-night, my dear.' - -We left Mr. Merrywhistle in Stoney-alley; he expressed his intention -of sleeping in the house, and I saw Mrs. Silver home. - -'How shall I thank you, dear madam,' I said as I stood with her in -Buttercup-square, 'for the confidence you place in me?' - -'Do you know what I have been thinking of as we walked along, Mr. -Meadow?' - -'No.' - -'That it was a fortunate day for me when I wrote to ask you to assist -us in our children's holiday. If it had pleased God to have given me a -son of my own, I should have wished him to resemble you.' - -I cannot resist writing these words here, for they were very pleasant -to me. - -The funeral took place on the Thursday. Rachel, Mrs. Silver, and Mr. -Merrywhistle accompanied Blade-o'-Grass to the last resting-place of -her child. The women brought some winter flowers with them. If -anything could have soothed the heart of Blade-o'-Grass on that -occasion, it was the sight of these flowers, as well as the tender -consideration which lay in the act. Before the lid of the coffin was -nailed down, Blade-o'-Grass, with trembling hands and white lips, -placed some of these flowers in her dead child's hands; her tears -rained upon them as she stooped and kissed the lifeless clay. She did -not raise her head for many moments, and I heard her whisper to her -dear to be sure and wait for her in the better land. I led her from -the coffin, and bade her take heart. - -'I do, sir, I do!' she sobbed. 'I remember every word you said. - -Stoney-alley and the narrow streets through which we wended our way to -the wider thoroughfares were thronged with poor people, and many a -'Lord love you!' came from their lips, and women pressed forward and -asked Rachel, whose arm was round the weeping mother's waist, to shake -hands with them. When we arrived at the churchyard, we found Jimmy -Virtue waiting by the side of the grave. The simple service was soon -ended, and the clay of the poor child was left to peace and God. - - - - XI. - - ONCE UPON A TIME THERE LIVED ON AN ISLAND---- - - -There was a considerable stir in the immediate neighbourhood of the -Temple of Liberty on the night of the great meeting. Paul's-buildings, -now newly christened, was situated in a dimly-lighted narrow street, -and had in its time played many parts. It had been a lecture-hall, a -warehouse for old clothes, a dancing academy, a refuge for 'fat women' -and 'living skeletons,' a home for the tamest of wild beasts; and it -had brought misfortune upon all who had flown to it. It was a moot -point whether the social regenerators who had christened it the Temple -of Liberty would fare better than their predecessors. - -On the night in question, little knots of men hung about the portico, -in which dangled a dejected oil-lamp, the despondent light in which -showed the way to liberty. The ostensible purpose for which the -meeting was to be held was to pass resolutions condemnatory of a -miscarriage of justice in one instance, and of a too-violent carrying -out of the law in another; but it was generally understood that other -and more important matters connected with the position of the working -man were to be brought forward. There was no charge for admission, but -before the proceedings commenced, the Secretary--whom we discovered to -be the Delegate or 'Postle' whose appearance in Stoney-alley had -caused so much mental disturbance to Jimmy Virtue--announced that the -smallest subscription in aid of the defrayal of expenses would be -thankfully received. 'Those who cannot afford more,' he said, 'can -give their ha'penny or their penny in aid of the good cause. We know -how the poor man is ground down, and the smallest subscription is in -our eyes equal to the largest. In the same way,' he added, with a -touch of cunning, 'as the poorest man should be equal to the richest -in the eyes of justice!' 'Equaller!' cried an unreasoning demagogue, -smelling strongly of beer, as he handed in a penny with a flourish, -and with the air of one who, with that copper donation, was giving the -deathblow to a bloated aristocracy. - -'What's that Secretary 'Postle's name?' muttered Jimmy Virtue as he -looked at a small handbill of the proceedings. 'Mark Mallard! H'm! -Mark Mallard.' And then turned his attention to a study of Mark -Mallard's face, which seemed, indeed, to be the principal reason for -Jimmy Virtue's presence on the occasion. - -'You are strangely interested in that secretary, Jimmy,' observed -Robert Truefit. - -'You let me alone,' replied Jimmy Virtue; 'I'm a puzzlin' out -somethin'. I've got my considerin' cap on.' - -And as he was evidently engaged in an intricate mental process, we did -not disturb him. - -The Temple of Liberty held probably nearly two hundred persons, and it -was quite full. We three were among the earliest arrivals, and -occupied the front seat directly facing the platform. I noticed that -there was a large number of decently-clad working men present, some -with earnest faces, who had evidently come with the intention of -arguing matters out in a certain sense fairly. Many members of the new -Working-man's League were also present, and these were prepared to -support their officers through thick and thin. The chief of these -officers and the principal speaker among them was the Secretary, Mark -Mallard, who was voted to the chair. He was a common-looking man -between fifty and sixty years of age, and his face bore strong marks -of a life's discontent of mind; a man, thought I, who would be envious -of his neighbour's ox, but too indolent to work for that which he -envied. The unfavourable opinion I formed of him became strengthened -as I studied the signs in his face: he was evidently an unfit man to -be a leader in any good cause. But he could speak in a fairly-fluent -style and with a certain rough readiness which found favour with many -among his audience. He was not eloquent, but ready-tongued, and from -long practice, as I judged, knew how to make such use of his materials -as would best please the kind of assemblage he was addressing now. He -first proceeded to give a brief account of the establishment in the -neighbourhood of the new Working-man's League, a branch, he said, of a -greater institution which was to set everything right for the working -man--and by the working man he meant the poor man. Throughout the -whole of the proceedings he placed idle poverty and honest labour on -one pedestal, and sought to prove--and did prove to many only too -ready to believe--how the poor man was ground down, oppressed, and -crushed by the 'ruthless' heel of the rich. The Working-man's League -would seek to bring about a different state of things; its aim was to -give the working man the rights which were unlawfully denied to him in -the present condition of things, and to prove that the real power of -the nation lay in labour, and not in capital. This, of course, was -received with cheers. The orator showed no originality either in his -propositions or in his mode of placing them before his hearers; but -they were none the less enthusiastically received on that account. -Fairly sifted and summed up, his utterances amounted to nothing more -than the usual declamation concerning the rich and the poor, and the -atrocious injustice of a state of things which allows one man to have -more money in his purse than another. The old platitudes which cling -to the vexed subject came trippingly off his tongue. If, he said, the -real power of the country lay in labour and not in capital, then -labour should govern the country; but to show the unfairness of -things, and the howl that the moneyocracy raised at the slightest -attempt to set things right, let them bring to mind how, if a working -man tried to get into Parliament, he was hounded down and barked at by -the wealthy classes. Well, if the wealthy classes, and he was sorry to -say the middle classes also, denied justice to the working man, the -time had come for the working man to set up shop for himself. He did -not lose sight of the ostensible purpose for which the meeting was -called. He detailed two instances of the mal-administration of justice -which had gone the round of the papers and had created some noise. - - -[Illustration] - - -There is nothing that so impresses a meeting composed of ordinary -minds, such as this was, as the bringing forward of small facts -which have already been commented on among themselves. One instance -of the miscarriage of justice was where a gentleman-farmer had -flogged a labourer to within an inch of his life, and was punished -for the offence by a fine of five pounds inflicted by another -gentleman-farmer, before whom, as a magistrate, the case was brought. -'What was five pounds to him?' asked the speaker. 'What's five pounds -to the man who has thousands in the bank? Five pounds or three months' -imprisonment! Why, the rich farmer pulled out the money with a grin on -his face, and was heard to say afterwards that what he'd done was the -proper thing to do to such scum--meaning the working man--when they -dared to say they were not well enough paid, and couldn't support a -family on twelve shillings a week. Twelve shillings a week! That was -the sum this agricultural labourer had starved upon--him and his wife -and children--for more than twenty years. And he became a union-man, -and spoke up for his rights; and his master marked him, and nigh -killed him for it. Was that five pounds' fine justice, I should like -to know?' The other instance was that of a labouring man who, under -more aggravating circumstances, had thrashed a gentleman and beat him -severely, and who was put in prison for six months for the offence. -'And while he was in prison,' said the speaker, 'how was his wife to -get bread for her children? After this, will any one dare to say that -there's not one law for the rich and another for the poor? And shall -this state of things be allowed to continue?' - -The recapitulation of these familiar illustrations accomplished more -than could have been accomplished by volumes of rhetoric, and cries of -'No, no!' came from all parts of the hall. - -'The mischief is,' whispered Robert Truefit to me, 'that these -instances are true. See how intent Jimmy is upon our worthy chairman.' - -After the passing of resolutions condemning the judicial decisions in -the strongest terms, other and more daring matter was gone into; and -then I saw plainly, what I had hitherto only suspected, that the -Working-man's League was in reality a republican club (in the shell), -the promoters of which were ready with fiery words to inflame the -minds of the ignorant against all recognised authority. One of the -great points that Mark Mallard made was, that he, like themselves, was -a working man. - -'Look at my clothes; look at my hands! They are the same as yours, and -I have as little money in my pocket, I daresay, as any of you.' - -'Yes,' growled Jimmy Virtue; 'and you're as ready as any on us to be -treated to a pint o' beer.' - -'Order, order!' cried some. - -'Quite as ready to be treated,' said Mark Mallard, with a frown at -Jimmy Virtue, which Jimmy received with a sneer; 'and as ready,' he -added, brightening up, 'to treat when my turn comes. We're rowing in -the same boat, you and me.' ('I'm 'anged if we are!' growled Jimmy -Virtue under his breath.) But Mark Mallard proceeded: 'I'm not being -rowed; I'm rowing, as all of you are; and we'll all row together, and -show our muscle.' - -There was a murmur of approval at this figure of speech; and thus -encouraged, the speaker proceeded. The cunning skill with which he -mingled familiar matters was enough to mislead any but fairly-balanced -minds--royal pensions dating back hundreds of years; manhood suffrage; -attempts to interfere with the poor man's beer; justices' justice; the -price of meat and coals; one man rolling in his carriage while another -starved in rags; bank and other directors who had ruined thousands of -poor families living, after exposure, on the fat of the land; the -starvation price which capital put upon labour, as instanced in the -condition of the agricultural labourers--all these were brought -forward and artfully handled to prove into what a deplorable and -abominable Slough of Despond the Rights of Man had been trodden by -masters and gentlemen. - -During the whole time Mark Mallard was speaking, Jimmy Virtue had -scarcely once removed his eyes from the man's face; and he had openly -expressed his disapproval of the false conclusions drawn by the -speaker. At first Mark Mallard had endeavoured to bully Jimmy Virtue -into silence, but Jimmy Virtue was the last man in the world to be so -bullied, and he expressed his dissent in stronger terms every time the -attempt was made. I noticed that Mark Mallard was gradually drawn to -observe the close manner in which he was being watched by Jimmy -Virtue, and I saw that he grew uneasy and nervous beneath the steady -gaze of my eccentric friend. From that time Mark Mallard took no open -notice of Jimmy Virtue, but nevertheless looked at him stealthily -every now and then. He wound up his most lengthy speech with a -peroration in which the Rights of Man and the boast that he, like -themselves, was a working man, were the two most conspicuous features; -and having resumed his seat amid applause, was wiping his forehead, -when Jimmy Virtue rose suddenly, and said in a loud tone that he -wanted to ask the Delegate a question or two. - -Cries of 'Hear, hear!' and 'No, no!' responded to this announcement; -and the latter, on a secret sign from Mark Mallard to his immediate -supporters, were swelling into a roar, which would have speedily -silenced those who were curious to hear Jimmy Virtue, when Robert -Truefit leaped upstanding on to the bench, and cried, in a ringing -voice which quelled the tumult, - -'Fair play! fair play!' - -The appeal, strengthened by the manly manner in which it was made, was -taken up and indorsed in different parts of the room. In the midst of -this counterbalancing excitement, Robert Truefit leaned down to Jimmy -Virtue, and asked hurriedly, - -'Jimmy, what is it you are about to do? - -'You stick to me. Bob,' replied Jimmy Virtue; 'I know what I'm about -You stick to me, and you'll 'ear somethin' as'll interest you. The -warmint!' His features were working in an extraordinary manner, and -his last two words were intended to apply to Mark Mallard. - -'Look here, mates,' cried Robert Truefit, commanding and compelling -silence by his earnest voice and action, 'we've been called -together to-night to discuss certain matters affecting the working -man. How _can_ we discuss these matters, and arrive at a proper -understanding--and from that point to a proper solution--of the -difficulties which surround us, unless we give fair play to those who -wish to speak? ('Hear, hear, hear! Well said, mate; go on.') 'I _am_ a -working man. My name's Robert Truefit, and I'm a working mason in Mr. -Turner's yard. Some of you know me, perhaps; I think I see a face or -two that I've seen before.' ('You do. Bob, you do. Go it, old fellow! -Fair play! fair play!' And a distinct voice from a gray-haired man in -a corner of the room, saying, 'There ain't a man in London that's got -the real interest of the working man more at heart than Robert -Truefit. And he's got a wife and six children as 'd be a credit to the -best man as ever trod shoe-leather.' This statement elicited cheers -for Robert Truefit, and 'Another for the old woman!' and 'Another for -the kids!' which were given heartily. Then a laughable episode -occurred by Robert Truefit saying, in correction, 'No, mate; I've only -five young ones;' and a voice replying, 'Never mind, old man; you can -soon make it up half a dozen!' A great many who had listened -listlessly to Mark Mallard's platitudes now shifted on their seats, as -if the meeting was beginning to be interesting.) - -'This man here,' continued Robert Truefit, 'who wants to ask Mr. Mark -Mallard a question or two, is a friend of mine. He's a rum 'un to look -at, but he's sound at bottom.' (Cries of 'Let's see him! Let's have a -look at him!') 'Wait a bit. _I_ don't know what he's going to say any -more than you do; but he has told me that he knows what he's about, -and I believe him, as I'd believe anything else he says.' ('Hurrah for -the rum 'un to look at!') 'And now to those who have made up their -minds beforehand not to hear what he has got to say, all I've got to -do with them is to direct their attention to the name of this hall, -written up over the chairman's head. Look at it. "The Temple of -Liberty!" A big name, mates, for such a little room as this, but it -will do if it prove to be what it professes to be. Great things have -been accomplished in little places before to-night; even now, I've no -doubt, busy hands and busy minds are at work in common garrets and -kitchens, and the world will be the better for their labours by and -by, I hope. Let those who wrote "The Temple of Liberty" at the head of -this hall--Mr. Mark Mallard, I presume, is chiefly responsible for -it--take it down if we are not to have a fair hearing.' ('Bravo, Bob! -You're a sound man, you are!') 'I hope so. I cry "Shame" on those who -would deny us a hearing! Why, if there were masters and gentlemen -among us who wanted to be heard, I hope we are manly enough to listen -to them. _Beg_ for fair play, indeed! Why, it's an Englishman's boast -that he makes a clear ring for all who, believing they have right on -their side, have the pluck to stand up for themselves and their -opinions; and we're not to be told to-night that in this respect we -are a nation of liars. Whatever our opinions, however much we may -differ about this and that, we're Englishmen, and we're proud of it! -Shall we, then, scream out--as we do--for liberty of speech, and deny -it to one of ourselves?' - -Robert Truefit had done his work well. From all parts of the room the -cry arose, 'Get on to the platform, mate!' and in obedience to that -request Robert Truefit jumped on to the platform, and assisted Jimmy -Virtue to get up after him. They pulled off their caps, and stood side -by side, facing the meeting. Immediately the people caught sight of -Jimmy Virtue's eccentric face and form, a shout of laughter came from -them, which the cause of it received most good-humouredly. But his -earnestness of purpose was apparent in the midst of the good-humoured -nods with which he responded to the merriment his appearance created. -When silence was restored, Jimmy Virtue said: - -'I want to ask the honourable Delegate a question or two as you'll -see the drift on presently. If he'll 'ave the kindness to step -forward----' - -'Well, here I am,' said the Chairman, rising; 'and now be quick with -your questions, for there's a deal of business to be got through.' - -'Some on us want to be sure,' replied Jimmy Virtue, 'that you're the -proper person to conduct the business; I'm one o' them as wants to be -convinced.' He referred to the handbill. Your name's Mark Mallard.' - -'That's my name. What's yours?' - -'Jimmy Virtue; and it's the name as I was christened by, and I never -'ad no occasion to take no other. Can the honourable Delegate say as -much as that?' - -'What do you mean by this fooling?' blustered Mark Mallard. 'What has -my name to do with the object of this meeting?' - -Some of those present were evidently asking this question of -themselves, but when Jimmy Virtue said excitedly, 'You wait a bit, and -you'll 'eer somethin' as'll open your eyes!' their curiosity became a -check to their impatience. - -'Now,' continued Jimmy Virtue, 'you've talked a good deal about the -Rights o' Man, and you say you're a workin' man yourself. For my part, -I've got a big respect for the Rights o' Man, and I wish with all my -'eart that every man 'ad his rights; though what the world'd do if it -was all rights and no wrongs, it's beyond me to answer. But about -you're bein' a workin' man, Mr. Delegate. What kind o' workin' man? -What's your trade?--that's what I want to know. What's your trade, and -where do you work?' - -Mark Mallard held out his arms to the meeting in remonstrance, and was -about to protest against the introduction of such irrelevant matter, -when Jimmy Virtue stopped him. - -'No; I bar that! No shirkin'. No runnin' away from what I'm a-coming -to. If you're a workin'-man you've got a trade, and you're not one o' -the sort this meeting's come to 'eer if you're ashamed of it.' ('Hear, -hear, mate!') 'There's a 'underd men 'ere as 'd be willin', if they -was asked, to say what their trade is and what shop they work for. And -why'd they be ready and willin' to say? Because they ain't got -nothink to be ashamed on--that's why!' - -But here Mark Mallard called out authoritatively that it was time this -nonsense was put a stop to. 'We are not here to discuss -personalities,' he said; 'we have higher matters in hand. The -condition of the working man has become too serious to be pushed out -of sight by one who is evidently no friend to the good cause. As -chairman of this meeting----' - -'Say Captain,' suggested Robert Truefit quietly. - -'Well, as Captain, if it pleases you better----' - -'It does,' said Robert Truefit, pushing his way to the front again, -'for it fits the story I'm going to tell.' - -'We want no stories,' shouted Mark Mallard; and a few of his followers -took up the cry. - -'A story,' continued Robert Truefit, not heeding the interruption, -'which concerns the business for which we have been called together, -and which concerns I won't say all here, but every honest-minded man I -see before me.' - -The meeting here was convulsed with laughter. Jimmy Virtue, in his -excitement, had taken out his glass eye, and was polishing it -vigorously with his red cotton handkerchief, perfectly unconscious -that he was doing anything extraordinary. - -'Go it, old chap,' cried a number of voices, 'with your one eye!' - -'I can see as far,' retorted Jimmy Virtue, 'with my one eye as you can -with two. And look 'ere, mates. This' (holding up the piece of glass) -'is the only sham thing I've got about me.' - -This hit told well, and when the laughter had subsided there were -calls for Robert Truefit's story. - -'I won't keep you long, mates, and I'll commence after a good -old-fashioned style. Once upon a time there lived on an island a great -number of persons of all stations and degrees. Some were born with -silver spoons in their mouths, some with iron ladles. Some were poor, -some were rich; some idled and lived well; some worked all the working -hours of the day and lived hard. These last were like ourselves, -working men; and whilst they had much to be grateful for, they had -also, no doubt, much to complain of. Many of them were married and had -children; others were courting and on their road to wedlock. The wages -they earned were about the same as we earn--say, from twenty to -forty-five shillings a week--and they found they had as much as they -could do to squeeze out a sufficient and reasonable subsistence for -their families. This pressed heavily upon them, and they began to -murmur at the inequality of things. "We can't enjoy ourselves as we -ought," they said to one another; "we can't afford to eat meat every -day; we can't afford to go to the theatres; we can't afford a holiday; -we can't make any provision for sickness, or for the time when we are -too old to work." These complaints they made, and a hundred others, -many of which were undoubtedly well-founded from their point of -view--and you will agree with me that the point of view which comes -home to their own doors is the only point of view from which nine -hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand care to argue, whether -they be rich or poor. Some sensible and straightforward workmen among -them resolved to agitate their grievances in such a manner as to make -things better for their children, if not for themselves. You know, I -daresay, what is the meaning of the Constitution: it is a system of -fundamental principles for the government of rational and social -beings. Well, these men were sensible enough to recognise that the -Constitution by which they were governed, and which was accountable -for the burdens which pressed heavily upon them, was not a creation, -but a growth--a steady gradual growth of many centuries. Let us liken -it to an old and deeply-rooted tree, which by undue favour or by force -of circumstance had grown crooked--but a tree, nevertheless, from -which they drew food and protection. The common sense of these men -told them that desolation and misery would fall upon them if by -violent and sudden means they strove to _force_ the crooked tree -straight. The violent straining of the fibres would weaken them, and -would so destroy the power of reproduction that the tree would not be -able to bear sufficient food for those who lived in the shadow of its -branches. And as to planting another, and expecting it to grow up and -have healthy limbs in a night----well, you know what a foolish -expectation that would have been! "But," they said, "we can sow the -seed for another and a healthier tree, and while it grows we will -wait, and watch, and assist it to the extent of our wisdom, and we'll -work steadily on the while--like men!" There were others who were for -more violent means--with as much reason as would exist in the man who, -having suffered all his life from an internal hereditary disease, goes -abruptly to a physician, and demands a dose of medicine that shall -cure him on the spot. But the sensible men were the most powerful -body, although possibly not the most numerous, and they worked -steadily on, educating their children, and taking advantage of those -aids which their own persistence and the natural advancement of the -times brought to them. In the midst of this, there comes to the island -a ship, and the Captain, convening a meeting of working men, says, "I -am one of yourselves, and I know a means of remedying your grievances. -Sail under my colours, and the oligarchs who monopolise the fat of the -land shall be mown down like chaff. There shall be no waiting! You -shall have as much fresh meat every day as you can eat; you shall have -good clothes always; you sha'n't know what it is to be pinched; you -shall have a man's rights--full measure! And these things shall be -accomplished at once." He spoke confidently and boldly, and his words -were tempting, and made an impression even upon those whose views were -in favour of more temperate action than he advocated. But some among -them asked of themselves, "What is it that we are asked to do?" And -they thought, after all, that there were worse lots than that they had -to bear. Many of their homes were happy, though poor. By their own -firesides they enjoyed the greatest blessings of life. They loved -their wives; they loved their children. They saw these stems of theirs -growing to womanhood and manhood under their loving protection. "If we -stagger," they said to themselves, "they will fall and get hurt." And -we know,' said Robert Truefit, with intense and heartfelt earnestness, -'we who are husbands and fathers--we know how our own hearts bleed -when those who are dear to us suffer! Said these men to themselves, as -they looked around upon other communities and other countries, "Here -is a community that strove to accomplish by force what we are striving -to accomplish by steady and reasonable means. What do we see as the -result? Fire, pillage, murder, civil war; food-fields laid waste, -homes burnt to the ground, families in mourning, lives wrecked! Shall -we bring these things upon ourselves and upon our wives and children?" -But still the captain urged his views. "Well, then," said they, -turning to him'--and Robert Truefit with a startlingly significant -movement turned towards Mark Mallard--'"prove to us at all events that -you are honest--prove to us that you are one of ourselves--that the -name you go by is your own, and has always been your own. Some of us -fear that you have hoisted false colours, and they don't want to sail -under them. Prove to us that our fears are unfounded, and then, when -we are satisfied as to your honesty and integrity, we will give a more -careful attention to the temptations you hold out, and shall be the -better able to judge of their value."' - -Robert Truefit paused, and from the hearty cheers that were given as -he retreated a step and laid his hand on Jimmy Virtue's shoulder, it -was evident that his sentiments were indorsed by the better class of -men in the meeting, and that they would not allow him or his friend to -be put down. Mark Mallard saw that there was no escape for him, and -without the slightest suspicion of the shot Jimmy Virtue was about to -fire, said, in a blustering tone, - -'Now, then, say what you've got to say, and be done with it.' - -'I will,' replied Jimmy Virtue; 'and as you don't seem willin' to say -what's your trade, I won't press you there. I'll just be satisfied -with an answer to two questions, and I'll put 'em both in one breath.' -The "two" men were standing in front of the platform in a line by -themselves, and the eyes of all were upon them. Crooking the -forefinger of his right hand, extending his arm, and bending forward -towards Mark Mallard with an earnestness there was no withstanding, -Jimmy Virtue said, 'Tell this meetin' if you ever lived in a place -they calls Stoney-alley, and then tell 'em what's become of the wife -you left there to starve!' - -Mark Mallard staggered as if shot, and a deathly paleness came into -his face. - -'I knowed it!' cried Jimmy Virtue. 'Look at 'im, mates, look at 'im! I -never set my eyes on a man but what I'd swear to 'im ag'in if there -was fifty year atween! Look 'ere, mates'--(Jimmy's excitement was -wonderful to witness)--'Look 'ere, mates. This man 'as come 'ere and -starts a Temple o' Liberty 'as got no more right to the name of Mark -Mallard than I've got to the name of Tippitiwitchet. Twenty-two year -ago he lived four doors from where my shop is now in Stoney-alley. All -the while he lives there he never does a stroke o' work, but passes -his time in pot-'ouses, drinkin' the beer as is given to 'im freely -because he's got the gift o' the gab, as we've 'eerd to-night. Don't -think, mates, I'm agin a poor man 'avin 'is beer; I ain't one as 'd -rob 'im of it. I'm _for_ it! though I do believe at the same time -that the poor man makes a sight too much of it--a blessed sight too -much--as if 'is liberty and the whole blessed constitootion depended -on it! Well, this man goes about pot-'ouses talkin' o' the Rights o' -Man and leavin' 'is wife to starve. He pawns every blessed thing of -'er'n he can lay 'is 'ands on--she's 'eavy in the family-way, mind -you!--he pawns 'er weddin' ring, and 'ere it is. I lent 'im money on -it myself. And a week afore 'is wife's confined; he carries out the -Rights o' Man, and makes a end of 'em, so to speak, by cuttin' away, -and leavin' 'er without a loaf o' bread, or as much as 'd buy one! -Nothin' more 's 'eerd of _'im_; 'is wife she's confined with twins, -and dies a week arterwards from sorrer and starvation. And I put it to -you, mates,--I put it to you, whether a mean thief like 'im is the -proper sort o' man to set up a Temple o' Liberty and to come preachin' -to us about the Rights o' Man!' - -It is impossible to describe the storm of agitation that ensued; I -know that the men present, stirred to honest indignation, would have -dealt violently with Mark Mallard if they could have laid hand on him; -but by strenuous means we saved him from their anger, and he escaped -safely through a door at the back of the platform. When he was gone, -Robert Truefit said in an agitated tone, 'For heaven's sake, Jimmy, -tell us who that man is.' - - -[Illustration] - - -'That man, Bob,' replied Jimmy Virtue, dabbing his face with his -handkerchief, 'is Blade-o'-Grass's father. I knowed 'im agin, the -thief, directly I set eyes on 'im!' - -The meeting broke up in confusion; but not before the placard with the -Temple of Liberty written on it had been torn into a thousand pieces. - - - - XII. - - IN THE DIM TWILIGHT OF THAT HOLY DAY. - - -It was but a little past nine o'clock when the meeting was over, and -the night, though cold, was fine. When we were clear of the Temple of -Liberty, Robert Truefit suggested that we should stroll as far as -London-bridge, and talk over what had occurred. The principal question -that arose in our conversation was what Mark Mallard would do. I was -inclined to believe that he would make inquiries after his children, -but Jimmy Virtue shook his head. - -'You'll never 'eer of him agin,' Jimmy said. 'He's got no feelin' and -no 'eart, and it ain't likely as he'd show his face in Stoney-alley. -Sich fellers as 'im ain't got the pluck of a mouse. No, no; we sha'n't -'eer nothin' more o' Mr. Mark Mallard, and a good job too. What'd be -the good of sich a father as 'im to Blade-o'-Grass?' - -We agreed not to mention what had occurred to Blade-o'-Grass, as it -could serve no good purpose. Jimmy Virtue and I united in praising -Robert Truefit for the admirable part he had played at the meeting. - -'Bob ought to do more o' that sort o' thing,' said Jimmy; 'that's what -I've told 'im over and over agin.' - -'And grow into an agitator!' exclaimed Robert Truefit. 'No, Jimmy; I -haven't time for the business. When it comes into my way naturally, as -it has come tonight, well and good. But I have my own little -commonwealth at home to look after; it takes all my time to administer -to that properly.' - -We retraced our steps towards Stoney-alley, and found the -neighbourhood in a state of great excitement. In answer to our -inquiries we learned that there had been a fire in Stoney-alley. As we -hurried thither, we were greeted by exclamations of - -'Ah, there he is! There's the old un! Wonder bow he'll take it!' - -We soon ascertained the meaning of these remarks. Jimmy Virtue's -leaving-shop was a heap of ashes. A house on each side was partially -burnt; but the only building completely destroyed was his shop. How -long ago did it occur? A hundred tongues volunteered information. Not -an hour ago; but, bless your heart! it was all over in twenty minutes. -The place burnt like a piece of tinder; it was nearly all wood, you -see, sir. The old man must have left a candle burning. To the -questions which elicited these and other answers, Jimmy Virtue -listened quietly, taking no part in them. The alley was strewn with -rickety furniture and beds which, in the first alarm, the occupants of -the adjoining houses had brought into the streets for safety; now that -the danger was over, they were carrying their furniture back to their -rooms. When it became buzzed about that Jimmy Virtue had arrived on -the scene of action, there came surging around him a number of girls -and women clamorously demanding their little bits of things, valueless -perhaps in themselves, but a great loss doubtless to the poor people -who had pledged them. - -'Where's my Sunday 'at?' demanded one. 'Where's my gal's boots?' -another. 'Where's my flannin-peddicoat?' another. 'Where's my -crinoline?' 'Where's my chignon?' 'Where's my old man's waistcoat?' - -These and a hundred other inquiries were literally hurled at Jimmy -Virtue. He simply glared at the women, and told them to look for their -things among the ashes. - -'Are you insured, Jimmy?' asked Robert Truefit. - -No; he was not insured for a shilling. His clients still continuing to -badger him, he turned savagely upon them, and said he couldn't help -the fire occurring; they were a parcel of fools; and they were welcome -to any odds and ends of rags they could find. Suddenly he darted -forward into the midst of the smouldering ruins, and fished-out an old -greasy pack of cards burnt round the edges. - -'Saved them!' he muttered triumphantly. 'I might 'ave lost every game -with a new pack. There's one good thing--Jack's safe. When I'm out, -he's never at 'ome.' - -I really think that the saving of that pack of cards with which he -played for great sums with his shadowy victim, Jack, was a perfect -consolation to him for the burning of all the rest; but indeed he did -not seem to be in any way depressed by the misfortune which had -overtaken him. - -'Well,' he said, 'it's no good starin' at it any longer. Bob, you'd -better go 'ome. Good-night, Mr. Meadow.' - -Robert Truefit and I looked at each other. - -'Mr. Virtue,' I said, 'you've no bed to sleep in to-night; and you'll -feel lonely by yourself after what has occurred. Will you come home -with me? I can make you up a rough bed in my room.' - -'Thank you, sir,' he replied, with a set expression on his face; 'I -was afraid you or Bob 'd say somethink o' that sort to me. I shouldn't -be surprised, now, if you'd orfer to 'elp me in other ways. How long -'ave you and me known each other. Bob?' - -'For more than ten years, old fellow.' - -'I'll trouble you, Bob, not to "old-feller" me; it sounds special, and -it don't suit me jist now. More than ten year, eh? So it is, Bob; so -it is. You've found me a pretty obstinate old chap--pig'eaded you -might say, eh?' - -'Well, Jimmy, you are rather--' - -'Pig-'eaded--that's the word. Now, look 'ere, you two! Pig'eaded I am, -and pig-'eaded I'm goin' to be, to the last. If either o' you--you, -Bob, or you, sir--ever orfers me anythink agin--bed, money, grub, I -don't care what!--you can say good-bye from that blessed minute to -Jimmy Virtue. I must be nigh on seventy year old--I can't speak for -two or three year one way or another, but I must be nigh on seventy if -I'm a day--and I've never took charity yet; and I don't mean to begin -now. I've never pocketed no money as I didn't work for--except Jack's, -and that's a matter 'twixt 'im and me--and I ain't a-going to begin -that game at my time o' life. So I'll thank you to say good-night, and -leave Jimmy Virtue to 'isself.' - -'You might as well talk to the Monument,' said Robert Truefit, as we -walked home, 'as talk to Jimmy after what he has said. He'll die -before he'll take a penny-piece. We must humour the old fellow, and -hope for the best.' - -The following day I learned that Tom Beadle was undergoing another -term of six months' imprisonment for pickpocketing. I went to him to -tell him of the death of his child, and I took a piece of black crape -with me for his cap. I had never spoken to him before, and I was -wishful to know something of his nature, so that I might judge in what -way I could best impress him to act for the good of the girl who clung -to him with so much devotion. He received me with cunning civility; -his lynx eyes watched every word from my lips, as if in every word -might be concealed a trap. In his mind he classed me with those who -wished Blade-o'-Grass to desert him, and therefore I was his enemy. I -knew, also, that the fact of my being a minister was an additional -argument against me in his eyes. But he must be civil to me, because -Blade-o'-Grass had told him I had been kind to her. His eyes moistened -when he heard of the death of his child, and his grief grew stronger -in the brief pause that ensued. But after a time he said it was the -best thing that could have happened to the little thing. I told him, -also, of the kindness of Mr. Merrywhistle, and that it was he who had -borne the expenses of the funeral. - -'Yes,' was Tom Beadle's careless comment, 'the old chap's 'elped -Blade-o'-Grass a good many times, on and off. He's knowed 'er since -she was a kid.' - -There was not a trace of gratitude in his voice. - -'She has made other friends as well,' I said. - -A jealous gleam shot into his eyes. - -'What friends? Swells?' - -'Friends,' I answered, 'who sympathise deeply with her, and who would -help her if they could.' - -'What's to 'inder 'em?' - -I did not answer him. I left it to him to gather from my silence that -it was he who barred the way to a better kind of life for the poor -girl; that it was her entire devotion to him that kept her down. - -'I know what you're drivin' at; it's me as 'inders 'em,' he said, with -a sneer. 'Well, that's nothink new. Blade-o'-Grass and me's 'eerd that -often enough. The way they'd 'elp 'er is by tellin' 'er to cut away -from me. I don't think the old gal 'd do that. I'd bet a penny -_you've_ been tryin' to persuade 'er.' - -'On the contrary; I have begged her to ask you to do something that -will bring her closer to you.' - -'Gammon!' he sneered. 'What is it you wanted 'er to ask me? - -'That you should marry her.' - -He looked at me in blank wonder. 'Marry 'er!' he exclaimed. He was -evidently puzzled, and he ransacked his mind for motives and reasons; -but all his cunning wit could not assist him. - -'It's me as 'inders people from 'elpin' Blade-o'-Grass, and yet the -parson wants me to many 'er!' - -I saw this expressed in his face, and I saw also a deep suspicion that -some treachery to himself lay behind the proposition. - -'I'll think on it,' he said aloud. 'Will you take 'er a letter from -me?' - -'Yes; I will write it for you if you like.' - -'Thank you for nothink!' he replied with a leer. 'I'll get it done -through the governor. He'll 'ave to read it, you know, before it goes. -Will you take your solemn oath you won't open it?' - -'I promise you not to open it.' - -'And you won't read it to 'er? You'll give it to the old gal 'erself, -and tell 'er she's got to git some one else to read it? - -I made this promise as well; and when I left with the letter, I think -he was half inclined to believe that my words and sympathy were -genuine. I gave an account of this interview to Mrs. Silver. - -'I have been thinking all the morning of the poor girl,' she -said. 'My servant is going to leave me to get married. I will take -Blade-o'-Grass in her place, if she will come. It will be a home for -her, and I may be able to do her some good.' - -The proposal delighted me, and I went at once to Blade-o'-Grass to -acquaint her with it. She thanked me and Mrs. Silver most gratefully, -but said she could not accept the offer. 'No, sir, not to save my -life.' - -'But why?' I asked in grief and annoyance. 'Your refusal is -unreasonable.' - -'You don't understand, sir. Read Tom's letter. You'll see what part of -it I mean.' - -She gave me the letter I had brought her from Tom Beadle. The words -she referred to were these: - -'When I come out, we'll get married. And mind! So long as you are true -to me, I will be true to you. But if you run away from Stoney-alley, -and go with them friends of yours, I shall know what that means.' - -'It means, sir,' said Blade-o'-Grass, 'as Tom'll think I've deserted -'im. So you see, sir, I can't go to Mrs. Silver's. Don't you fear for -me, sir; Mr. Wirtue is a real good friend to me now; he's took the -next room to this, and he's always bringin' things to me.' - -Since the night of the fire I had not seen Jimmy Virtue; and I went at -once to his room. He did not reply to my knock; and when I opened the -door, I found him playing cribbage with his shadow-companion. He was -so intent upon the game that he did not know I was in the room until I -was close to him. - -'Ah, Mr. Meadow, sir, I didn't 'eer yer. Take a chair.' - -I noticed that his face was pinched and careworn; and I asked him if -he was not well. - -'Well enough,' he replied. 'I can't expect to be too well. My time's -comin'. Yes, I'm near the end on it. I dreamt last night they was -diggin' my grave.' He pushed the cards from him impatiently. 'Look -'ere, Mr. Meadow, take an old man's advice. Don't lead a lonely life; -git somethin' about you to love, and as'll love you; if ever you git a -chance, snap at it, or you'll rue the day! A nice thing for a man to -play a game--it's life as I'm talkin' of--and when he comes to the end -of it, to find out that he's played it all wrong! Do you think it's -worth 'avin'?' - -'What?' - -'Life. Is it worth 'avin'?' - -'Surely, surely. It would be sinful to think otherwise.' - -'O, I don't put myself up for anythink good! And don't you think I'm -different to what I was because I've been dropped upon by bad luck. -But what's it worth 'avin' for?' - -'For itself; for the good that there is in it; for the good that one -can do; for that it is a preparation for the better life to come.' - -'Yes, yes; Blade-o'-Grass 'as been tellin' me. She says 'er baby's -there. Well, it's a good thing for her to look forward to. There's -nobody there for me, though; a good job then for me that I don't -believe. No,' he said, holding up a warning finger; 'don't preach to -me! I won't stand it! I've made my bed, and I've got to lay on it.' - -As I wished to divert his mind from gloomy thought, I did not pursue -the subject, but related what had passed concerning Tom Beadle and -Blade-o'-Grass, and asked if he had anything to advise. - -'Why not marry 'em at once,' he said, 'if you think sich a lot o' good -is comin' out of it? _I_ think it's about the worst thing as could -'appen to 'er.' - -'I have my plan already settled,' I replied, 'and if I can carry it -out, it will be the redemption of both of them. Marry them at once, -you say. But Tom is in prison!' - -'Is there any law agin marryin' 'em there? I daresay you could manage -it if you tried.' - -I had not thought of that, and I resolved to act at once upon the -suggestion. There were serious difficulties in the way, but I was -fortunate enough to gain the sympathy of the governor and the chaplain -of the prison, who, when they heard the story of Blade-o'-Grass, were -most eager to aid me in carrying out my design. With their assistance, -then, all obstacles were overcome, and the day was fixed for the -ceremony. I decided that the marriage should be consecrated early in -the morning of Christmas-day. - -''Ow about the weddin'-ring?' asked Jimmy Virtue. - -I said that I would have it ready on the morning of the ceremony. - -'You'll 'ave to measure 'er finger,' he said; 'let's do it now.' - -We were conversing in his room. He called Blade-o'-Grass, and she -entered. - -'We're a-goin' to measure your finger for the weddin'-ring. Hold on, -Mr. Meadow, don't you say a word! Give us your 'and, Blade-o'-Grass.' - -The blood mounted to her face as she held out her hand. Jimmy Virtue -took a wedding-ring from his pocket, looked at it curiously, and -placed it on her finger. - -'See, Mr. Meadow,' he said, 'it just fits. This is my present, -Blade-o'-Grass.' - -She thanked him tearfully, and kissed the ring, and held it to her -lips. - -'It's 'er mother's,' whispered Jimmy Virtue to me. - - -The sun rose bright and clear on Christmas-day. How well I remember -the morning! It is three years since that time, and every incident is -as clear to my mind as if it had occurred but yesterday. Punctually at -half-past eight o'clock Blade-o'-Grass was at my lodgings; she was -nervous and very pale, and had evidently had but little sleep during -the night. I had never seen her so neatly dressed, and I expressed my -pleasure at her appearance. - -'Mrs. Silver and Miss Rachel brought the things to me yesterday, sir,' -she said. 'They are too good to me, sir--too good.' - -'It gives them pleasure.' - -'I don't deserve it, sir.' - -'You can deserve it. If you could do something for them in return for -their kindness, you would?' - -'That I would, sir, and grateful to be able to.' - -'Come, we are going to walk to their house now. It is a bright -Christmas morning, is it not?' - -'Yes, sir, I never remember sich a Christmas as this.' - -'May it prove the commencement of a happy life for you, my dear!' - -She turned from me and sobbed quietly. When she recovered we walked -together to Buttercup-square. Then Blade-o'-Grass told me how one -Christmas night, very soon after her baby was born, she had stood for -more than an hour at the door of Mrs. Silver's house, in the midst of -a heavy fall of snow, with her dear in her arms, waiting for Mr. -Merrywhistle. - -'If it 'adn't been for 'im, sir, we should 'ave been found dead in the -snow, baby and me!' - -'He is a good man, my dear. He is coming with us this morning. Do not -cry. This is a bright day for all of us. Rachel, also, is coming.' - -'O, sir!' she said, with quivering lips. 'What 'ave I done that you -should all be so good to me?' - -'It will be in your power to repay us all, my dear.' - -'Will you tell me 'ow, sir?' - -'By and by, my dear. The time will come.' - -We found Rachel with her hat and shawl on, ready to accompany us. She -gave Blade-o'-Grass a little present--a silk neckguard which she had -worked, with a jet cross hanging to it. Mr. Merrywhistle came in -almost at our heels, rubbing his hands, and saying what a fine morning -it was. By a quarter to ten o'clock we four were at the prison gates, -where Jimmy Virtue was waiting for us; he had smartened himself up for -the occasion, but his face looked worn and aged. Time was telling fast -upon him. - -The governor of the prison had kindly set apart a private room for us, -and there the ceremony was performed. Tom Beadle, when he first -entered, looked half shamefaced and half defiant; but the solemnity of -the prayers had its effect upon him, and after a time he drew his -breath in short gasps, and the words he had to repeat after me came -tremblingly from his lips. Jimmy Virtue gave Blade-o'-Grass away. So -these two human waifs were joined together according to God's holy -ordinance, and were made man and wife. - -The last words were said, and I prepared to go to my church. Tom -Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass were standing a little apart from us; there -was a dazed expression in his face, as if he could not fully realise -what had occurred, but it softened as he gazed into Blade-o'-Grass's -eyes, and saw the look of full-hearted love with which she was -regarding him. - -'Are you glad, old woman?' he asked. - -'I am very, very 'appy, Tom!' she said. - -Then Rachel, as had been arranged between us, asked Tom whether his -wife might spend the day with her. He hesitated a moment or two, but -the better part of his nature had been awakened, and he could not -resist Blade-o'-Grass's pleading look. - -'Tom told me,' said Blade-o'-Grass, as we walked to church, 'that he -feels as if he was just born like.' - -We wanted Jimmy Virtue to spend the day with the Silvers, but he -refused, saying that he could pass the time well enough with Jack. -'I'm pig-'eaded, you know,' he added; 'that's what I am; and you ain't -goin' to redemption _me!_' And so left us abruptly. - -That happy Christmas day was an era indeed in Blade-o'-Grass's life. -It was spent very peacefully; and every one strove in a quiet way to -make Blade-o'-Grass feel that she was in the midst of friends. I -watched her closely during the day, and I saw that new thoughts were -stirring in her mind. In the evening we were sitting together in the -parlour; the candles were not lighted, and the conversation was -carried on in low tones. Blade-o'-Grass had removed to the window, -where she sat, watching the birth of night. I drew a chair close to -her. - -'Mr. Meadow,' she whispered, 'I've been thinkin'----' - -'Yes, my dear.' - -'That if me and Tom 'ad 'ad a 'ome like this we might 'ave been -different to what we are.' She paused, and I did not speak, for I saw -that she was struggling to say something more. 'I'm almost sorry I -came 'ere, sir.' - -'Why, my dear?' - -'It's ungrateful of me to say it; but seein' what I've seen 'ere -today'll make me miserable to-morrer in Stoney-alley.' - -I made no attempt to console her. I strove to prepare her for the end -I had in view. - -'This is a happy home, indeed, Blade-o'-Grass, and other homes as -happy have sprung from it.' - -I recalled to her mind the circumstance, which Rachel had narrated to -me, of Ruth assisting her one day when she was beseeching Tom Beadle -to bring home some money as there was no bread in the cupboard. - -'I remember the young lady well, sir,' said Blade-o'-Grass; 'and I -thought of 'er orfen, though I never set eyes on 'er since then.' - -'She will be here presently. She is married, and has a baby.' - -Blade-o'-Grass turned from me, trembling, and hid her face in her -hands. - -'She and her husband have a very happy home, not far from where we are -sitting. If you had a home like theirs----' - -'O, sir! for pity's sake, don't mock me!' - -'Listen, my dear. Do you believe that we have your happiness and -well-doing very close to our hearts?' - -'If I didn't believe it, sir, I wouldn't be fit to live.' - -'Then believe this as well. Such a happy home as Ruth's and this may -be yours, if you have the courage to make a sacrifice. No, not yet! -nor will I tell you what it is until the time comes. But think of it, -and believe in it. Even if you doubted me, and Rachel told you it -would be a good thing to do----' - -She looked lovingly at Rachel. - -'I think, sir, that whatever she told me to do I would do, though I -was sure to die the next minute.' - -'You would be right, Blade-o'-Grass. All that she says and does is -sweet and good.' - - - * * * * * - - -Ah, Rachel, my wife, how my heart yearned to you then! How tenderly, -in the dim twilight of that Holy Day, did my thoughts dwell upon you -in purest love! In the solemn pause that ensued I endeavoured to -strengthen my heart by inward prayer. If the priceless gift of your -love were denied to me, I might still hope that your friendship would -sweeten my life. - - - * * * * * - - -Blade-o'-Grass laid her hand timidly upon mine, and whispered to me -that the prospect I had held out was like heaven to her. - -Soon after this, Charley, and Ruth with her baby, came in quietly, and -I brought Ruth and Blade-o'-Grass together. - - - * * * * * - - -I see them standing side by side at the window. I see Ruth showing her -baby to Blade-o'-Grass. I see Blade-o'-Grass's hands tremble and -wander. I see her stretch forth her arms convulsively, and presently I -see her sitting on a low stool, with the baby in her lap, sobbing -quietly over the child, whose fingers caress her face, pityingly as it -seems. Ruth sinks upon her knees by the side of the bereaved mother, -and their arms are round each other's neck. Night's shadows steal upon -them, and wrap them in a peaceful embrace. - - - - XIII. - - HIS SOUL IS IN YOUR HANDS TO SAVE AND PURIFY! - - -I had many opportunities of seeing Tom Beadle during his term of -imprisonment, and I soon became engaged in the contemplation of a -subject which has been studied and pondered over by thousands of -earnest minds, but never, I believe, with greater seriousness than at -the present time. Here was a man, with a man's strength, not unwilling -to do his work in the world, if he knew the way to do it. Of a low -type he certainly was, but he had grown into his condition through no -fault of his own. I penetrated the crust of his character, and I found -behind it much material which could be worked to a good end. Gradually -I won his confidence, and, in answer to certain remarks of mine -affecting his career and character, he answered me in plain terms and -with a rough shrewdness which greatly impressed me in his favour, I -saw that he was helpless; that, in this country, society could do -nothing for him, and that he would be utterly lost if he were left to -himself and his own resources. If he were lost, Blade-o'-Grass would -be lost also. - - -[Illustration] - - -'It will be a happy task accomplished,' I thought, 'if I can save -these two from the certain degradation which lies before them--if I -can make their after-life happy in an honourable way, and worthy of -the respect of men.' - -Tom Beadle gave me a great proof of his confidence. I asked him to -allow Blade-o'-Grass to visit the Silvers and Ruth, and he consented -with but little pressure. I took care that she was frequently in one -or other of the houses. She liked best to be with Ruth and Ruth's -baby, whom she often begged to be allowed to nurse. I said to her one -day when she was in Ruth's house, having spent a few happy hours -there, - -'If you and Tom had such a home as this----' - -'It'd be like 'eaven, sir,' she answered. 'Don't speak of it, sir. It -breaks my 'eart to think of it!' - -But I knew that the plan I had in view would give them such a home, -after a time, if they were willing to endure a present sacrifice. I -knew it from a letter which I had received from Canada a week after -Christmas. The letter was from Richard. I give it in its entirety: - - -'My dear Mr. Meadow,--I can now, I think, send you a letter which will -give you satisfaction. My dear mother, and Ruth, and Mary, write so -much about you, that I feel, although I have never seen you, as if I -was talking to an old friend; and I feel very proud, I assure you, -that you should write to me as you have written, and should place so -much confidence in me. I cannot express to you how much I have thought -of the story you have told me. I can see Tom Beadle and Blade-o'-Grass -as plainly as if they stood before me. I can see what they were when -they were children (I saw it often, my dear Mr. Meadow, when I was in -London), and what they are likely to become, if a helping hand is not -stretched forth to save them. You say you place your hopes in me, and -that if it is out of my power to help you, you will not know which way -to turn to accomplish what you desire. My dearly-beloved mother has -written to me also, urging me to try and do something, and I need not -say what an incentive that has been to me. - -'Now let me tell you. It has been my good fortune to make the -acquaintance of a farmer, at whose house I spend my day of rest -every week. His name is Gibson. Is it letting you into a secret, when -I tell you that he has a daughter, and that I hope some day, please -God!----Well, dear Mr. Meadow, you must finish the uncompleted -sentence yourself. And yet I must tell you that I do love her, with -all my heart! You are not the first I have told. My dear mother knows -all about it. - -'Mr. Gibson has a large farm, and employs eighteen hands, who all -receive fair wages, and have made comfortable homes for themselves. -The Sabbath before last, Mr. Gibson was telling me the history of some -of the men he has employed, and it suddenly flashed upon me that it -was in his power to do what you desire with respect to Tom Beadle. - -'Well, dear Mr. Meadow, I told him the story, and I gave him your -letters and my dear mother's letters to read. Annie--that is his -daughter--was present, and I spoke with all my earnestness. When I had -finished, Annie was crying, and I myself was very nearly crying too. -It would take too long for me to tell all that passed, but Mr. Gibson -said he would keep the letters for a week, and that he would consider -whether he could do anything. When I wished Annie good-night, I asked -her if she would help me with her father, and she said she would--and -said, too, how she wished that she knew you and my dear mother and -sisters! You have no idea, Mr. Meadow, what a dear good girl she is. - -'I didn't have one good night's rest all the week for thinking of what -Mr. Gibson would say, and last Sabbath I went to his house with a -trembling heart. We go to the same church, and after church we took a -walk. It was a fine cold morning--you should have seen how Annie -looked! Well, but I must not wander from the subject. Then Mr. Gibson -told me he had read all your letters, more than once he said, and that -he had made up his mind. This is what he says. If Tom Beadle will come -out to us, Mr. Gibson will take him into his service, and will give -him fair wages. He will work and live on the farm, and Mr. Gibson will -do all he can for him. But Mr. Gibson made conditions. Tom Beadle must -come out by himself, and must bind himself to work for Mr. Gibson for -five years. "At the end of that time," Mr. Gibson said, "he will, if -he is industrious, have a home of his own and money in his pocket. -Then he can send for his wife, and they will have a good future before -them." Mr. Gibson put it this way. "Tom Beadle," he says, "must do -something to show that he is worthy of the confidence that is to be -placed in him; he has to grow out of old bad ways into new good ones. -Give him something to work for," said Mr. Gibson, "something to look -forward to, and the chances of his turning out right are more in his -favour." Well, dear Mr. Meadow, that is how it stands. If Tom Beadle -will come over, there is a home for him at once, and there is honest -good work, with fair wages, for him to commence at, right away. - -'I hope you will be satisfied and pleased with this. I am sure it will -turn out right. _I_ will make a friend of Tom Beadle, and he shall not -go wrong, if we can help it. Annie will help too, I am sure. I do not -write any news about myself; dear mother will tell you all about me. I -am getting along famously. With affectionate esteem, my dear Mr. -Meadow, believe me to be most faithfully yours, - - 'RICHARD SILVER.' - - -I deemed it wise not to disclose the contents of this letter to -Blade-o'-Grass until the day before Tom Beadle was to come out of -prison. I had persuaded her to spend a few hours of that day with -Ruth, and when I went to Ruth's house in the evening, I found that -Blade-o'-Grass had gone to her home in Stoney-alley. About nine -o'clock in the night I went to her room, to play the great stake upon -which her future rested, and as I walked through the labyrinth of -narrow thoroughfares which led to Stoney-alley, I prayed fervently -that my mission would be successful. Blade-o'-Grass's room was very -clean and tidy; she had been busy making preparations for the return -of Tom Beadle. When I entered, her work was done, and she was sitting -with her head resting on her hand. - -'Don't disturb yourself, my dear,' I said; 'I have come to have a long -chat with you. You have been busy, I see.' - -'Yes,' she said; 'Tom's comin' 'ome to-morrer.' - -I noticed that there was sadness in her tone. - -'You are glad?' I said. - -'Yes, sir, of course I'm glad. But I've been thinkin' of a good many -things. I've been thinkin' of baby, and--and----' - -She bit her lips, as if that effort were necessary to restrain the -expression of what was in her mind. - -'Don't hide anything from me, my dear; tell me what you've been -thinking of.' - -'I 'ardly know 'ow to tell it, sir. My thoughts seem as if they was -turnin' agin myself. I see that I must ha' been goin' on wrong all my -life, and that Tom 's been doin' the same. And my 'eart's fit to -break, when I think it can't be altered now!' - -'It can be altered, my child.' - -She looked at me imploringly. - -'You've said somethin' like that afore, sir; but it's all dark to me. -Tom'll come 'ome to-morrer, and things'll go on in the old way, and -per'aps he'll be took up agin before long----' - -She could not proceed for her tears. - -'You see, my dear, that the life he is leading is wrong.' - -'I see it, sir--I see it. It'd be better, arter what you've told me, -if Tom and me was to die to-morrer!' - -'Our lives are not in our own hands, my dear. What has been done in -the past has been done in ignorance, and the shame of it can be wiped -away. It _is_ shame, my dear. Place yourself and Tom by the side of -Ruth and _her_ husband.' - -She uttered a cry, as if a knife had struck her. But I continued: - -'Place your home by the side of theirs. See the happy future that lies -before them, and think of what lies before you, if, as you have said, -things go on with you in the same old way.' - -She covered her face with her hands. I was striking her hard, but I -knew it was necessary for the sacrifice I was about to call upon her -to make. I drew a picture of the two homes. I placed children in them, -and contrasted their appearance, their lives, their chances of -happiness. I did not spare her; I spoke with all my strength and -earnestness. Suddenly she interrupted me with wild looks and in a wild -tone. - -'What are you tellin' me all this for?' - -'Because it is in your power to choose between them,' I replied. 'Not -only for yourself, but for Tom. His future is in your hands to shape -to a good end, if you have the courage to make a sacrifice. Nay, not -only his future in this world--his soul is in your hands to save and -purify!' - -She parted the hair from her eyes, and gazed at me as if she were in a -dream. - -'Will you do this? Will you save your husband from the net of crime -and shame in which he is entangled?' - -'Will I do it?' she cried, in a tone of wonder. 'Can you arks me? Show -me the way!' - -I did. I told her the end I had been working for. I read Richard's -letter to her, and dilated upon the prospect it held out. - -'There is no chance for Tom here,' I said; 'there is in that new land, -and with such friends as he will have about him. I believe it is in -your power to persuade him to go. He loves you, and would do much for -you. The separation will not be a very long one. Five years will soon -pass, and then you will both be young. While he is working out the -commencement of a good and better life there, you can stop with Mrs. -Silver; she bids me offer you a home. Will you make the sacrifice?--a -sacrifice that in all your after-life you will bless us for persuading -you to make. My dear sister,'--she bowed her head to her breast -convulsively as I thus addressed her--'it will be your salvation, and -his. All our hearts are set upon it for your good and his. I know how -you will suffer in parting from him, but the love's sacrifice that you -will make for him will be a truer test of love than all you have -hitherto done.' - -She was silent for a long, long time before she spoke. - -'When will he 'ave to go, sir?' - -'A ship sails from Liverpool the day after to-morrow.' - -'So soon!' she cried, clasping her hands. - -'It is best so. Every hour that he passes here after he is out of -prison is an hour of peril to you both. I will myself accompany him to -Liverpool to-morrow. Let him commence his baptism at once, and in the -new land work out his regeneration. He will thank you for it by and -bye. Shall I tell you what I see in a few years from this present -moment, my dear?' - -'If you please, sir,' she said, tears streaming down her face. - -'I see you and Tom in the new land living happily in your own little -home. I see you standing at the door in the morning looking after him, -as he goes to his work, and he turning round to smile upon you. I see -him, when he is out of your sight, exchanging friendly greetings with -men whose respect he has earned; no longer ashamed to look men in the -face, my dear, but walking with head erect, without fear, as one can -do who earns his bread honestly. I see him coming home at night, when -his day's work is done, and you, perhaps, reading to him----' - -'Reading, sir!' - -'Yes, my dear, reading. Reading a letter, perhaps, that Mrs. Silver, -or Ruth, or Mr. Merrywhistle has written to you and Tom. It will -come--you will learn while he is away. I see your cupboard well -stocked, your house prettily furnished, yourselves comfortably -clothed. Perhaps Richard--Ruth's brother--and his wife come in to see -you, and you talk together of the dear ones at home, bound to you as -to him, my dear, by links of love. I hear you thank God before you -sleep for all His goodness to you. I see you helping some poor child -who has been left orphaned and helpless as you were left----' - -'O, sir!' - -'It will come, my dear, if you live, as surely as we are speaking -together at this minute. I see you, perhaps, with a baby in your arms, -like the dear one who has passed away from you----' - -She caught my hand hysterically, and I paused. I saw that my work was -done. I will not set down here what she said when she was calmer. When -I left her she was animated by a high resolve, and I knew that she -would not falter. - -'What time will you be 'ere in the mornin', sir?' she asked, as she -stood with me at the street-door in Stoney-alley. - -'At twelve o'clock, my dear.' - -'Tom'll be ready to go with you then, sir. It'll 'urt 'im to leave -me, sir, but he'll do it for my sake. I know 'im, sir!' - -'Good-night, my dear; God bless you!' - -'And you, sir,' she said, kissing my hand. - -I was punctual to my appointment on the following day. Blade-o'-Grass -heard my step on the stairs, and came into the passage to meet me. - -'Tom's inside, sir.' - -I looked into her face, and saw in the anguish expressed there the -marks of the conflict she had passed through. - -'He's ready to go with you, sir.' - -Tom Beadle's face bore marks of trouble also, and he evidently had not -made up his mind whether he should receive me as a friend or an enemy. - -'I feel as if I was bein' transported,' he said in a dogged manner. - -'You will live to thank us, Tom,' I said, as I held out my hand to -him. He hesitated a moment or two before he took it, and then he -gripped it fiercely. - -'Look 'ere!' he exclaimed hoarsely. 'Is it all goin' to turn out as -you've told 'er? Take your oath on it! Say, May I drop down dead if it -won't all come right!' - -'As surely as I believe in a better life than this, so surely do I -believe that this is your only chance of bestowing happiness upon the -woman who loves you with her whole heart and soul.' - -'I wouldn't do it but for 'er!' he said, and turned to Blade-o'-Grass. -She crept into his arms, and clasped him to her faithful heart, and -kissed him again and again. I went into the passage, and I heard her -tell him, in a voice broken by sobs, how she loved him, and would love -him, and him only, till death, and after death, and how she would -count the minutes while he was away, till the blessed time came when -they would be together again. Powerful as was her influence over him, -it would not have been perfect if he had not had some good and tender -qualities in his nature. I felt that the words that were passing -between them in this crisis of their lives were sacred, and I went -downstairs to the street-door. I found Mr. Merrywhistle there. - -'I have a cab waiting for you,' he said, 'and a box.' - -'A box!' - -'With some clothes in it for Tom Beadle, my dear sir. It will make a -good impression upon him. And here are two sovereigns for him.' - -'Give them to him yourself, Mr. Merrywhistle,' I said; 'he will be -down presently.' - -Tom Beadle joined us in a few minutes. - -'Mr. Merrywhistle has brought a box of clothes for you, Tom,' I said; -'and he has something else for you also.' - -'It's only a matter of a couple of sovereigns, Tom,' said Mr. -Merrywhistle, stammering as if he were committing an act of meanness -instead of an act of kindness. 'They may come useful to you when you -land in Canada.' - -Tom took the money and thanked him; then said that he had forgotten to -say something to Blade-o'-Grass, and ran up-stairs. I learnt -afterwards that he had given her the money, and had insisted, despite -her entreaties, that she should take it. - -I did not leave Tom Beadle until the ship sailed. He related to me the -whole story of his life, and asked me once, - -'Won't the old devil break out in me when I'm on the other side o' the -water?' - -'Not if you are strong, Tom--not if you keep your thoughts on -Blade-o'-Grass, and think of the perfect happiness you can bestow upon -her by keeping in the right path.' - -'I'll try to, sir. No man's ever tried 'arder than I mean to.' - -When I thought of the friends that were waiting on the other side of -the Atlantic to help him, and encourage him, and keep him straight, I -was satisfied that all would turn out well. - -I returned to London with a light heart. It was nearly nine o'clock at -night when I reached home. I lit my lamp, and saw upon my table a -large envelope, addressed to me in a lawyer's handwriting. I opened -the letter, and found that it contained a sealed packet, and the -following note, dated from Chancery-lane: - - -'Sir,--In accordance with instructions received from our late client, -Mr. James Fairhaven, we forward to you the enclosed packet, seven days -after his death.--We are, sir, your obedient servants, - - 'WILSON, SON, & BAXTER. - -'To Andrew Meadow, Esq.' - - -The news of the death of my benefactor and old friend, Mr. Fairhaven, -shocked and grieved me. It was a sorrowful thought that he had parted -from me in anger. If I had known of his illness, I am sure I should -have gone to him, despite his prohibition. But I did not know; and -even the consolation of following to the grave the last remains of the -man who had so generously befriended me had been denied to me. I -passed a few minutes in sorrowful reflection, and then took up the -sealed packet. It was addressed, in his own handwriting, to Andrew -Meadow, and was very bulky. The manuscript it contained was headed, - - - '_James Fairhaven's last words to - Andrew Meadow_.' - - -It was with a beating heart I prepared to read what he had written. - - - - XIV. - - IT IS SUNRISE. A GOLDEN MIST IS RISING FROM THE WATERS. - - -On two occasions you have expressed to me your wish to know what it -was that induced me to take an interest in you when you were left an -orphan, friendless, as you might have supposed. As the answer to your -inquiry would have disclosed one of the secrets of my life, I refused -to answer. But tonight, sitting, as I am sitting, alone in this -desolate house, I am impelled to write an answer in my own -way--impelled by the resurrection of certain memories which have -arisen about me during the last hour, and which cling to me now with -terrible tenacity. For the only time in my life that I can remember I -will indulge myself by a free outpouring of what is in my mind, -setting no restraint upon myself, as has hitherto invariably been my -rule. I do this the more readily, as these words will certainly not be -read by you until I am dead, and may never be read by you at all, for -the whim may seize me to destroy them. To this extent I may therefore -think that I am speaking to myself only--making confession to myself -only. I strip myself of all reserve; the mere expression of this -resolution gives me relief. - -I am not writing in my study; it was my first intention to do so, but -the room was close and warm, and when the door was shut a stifling -feeling came upon me, as if other forms besides my own were there, -although I was the only living presence in it. Directly the fancy -seized me, it grew to such monstrous proportions that, with a vague -fear, I brought my papers away, and felt when I left the room as if I -had escaped from a prison. I am writing now in the large drawing-room, -by the window which looks out upon the garden and the river, where you -and I have sometimes sat and conversed. The night is dark; the river -and the banks beyond are dark; the garden is filled with shadows. The -only light to be seen is where I am sitting writing by the light of a -reading-lamp. The other portions of the room, and the garden, and the -river, and the river's banks are wrapped in gloom. I open the window; -I can breathe more freely now. - -Certain words you spoke to me, during our last interview, have -recurred to me many times, against my wish, for I have endeavoured -vainly to forget them. According to your thinking, you said, money, -was only sweet when it was well-earned and well-spent. Well-earned? I -have worked hard for the money which I have gained. I have toiled and -laboured and schemed for it, and it is mine. Has it not been well -earned? I ask this question of myself, not of you; for I believe your -answer, if you could give it to me, would not please me. Well spent? I -do not know--I never considered. I have gone on accumulating. 'Money -makes money,' I used to hear over and over again. Money _has_ made -money for me. Well, it is mine. The thought intrudes itself, For how -long? This thought hurts me; I am an old man. For how many years -longer will my money be mine? But I go on accumulating and adding; it -is the purpose of my life. - -It has been the purpose of my life since I was a young man. Then I was -clerk to a great broker. I became learned in money; I knew all its -values and fractions; it took possession of my mind, and I determined -to become rich. It seemed to me that money was the only thing in life -worth living for; I resolved to live for it, and for it only, and to -obtain it. I have lived for it--I have obtained it--and I sit now in -my grand house, a desolate man, with a weight upon my heart which no -words can express. - -How still and quiet everything is around me! I might be in a deserted -land, alone with my wealth, and the end of my life is near! 'Money is -only sweet when it is well-earned and well-spent?' Are you right, or -am I? Has my life been a mistake? - -The great broker in whose employ I was, noticed my assiduity and -my earnestness. There were other clerks of the same age as myself -in the office, but I was the most able among them, and I rose above -them. Little by little I became acquainted with the mysteries of -money-making, and it was not long before I commenced to take advantage -of the knowledge I gained. I began to trade upon the plots and schemes -of the money men. Others lost; I gained. Others were ruined; I was -prospering. In time to come, I said, I shall ride in my brougham--like -my master. In time to come, I shall own a fine house--like my master. -I never paused to consider whether he was happy. I knew that he was -rich; I knew that he had a fine wife and a fine daughter, a fine -house and a fine carriage. His wife was a fine lady--a fashionable -lady--who, when I saw her in her carriage, looked as if life were a -weariness to her; her daughter was growing into the likeness of her -mother. I know now that he was an unhappy man, and that his pleasures -were not derived through home associations. - -A clerk--Sydney by name--over whose head I had risen, had often -invited me to visit him; I spent one Sunday with him. He lived -half-a-dozen miles from the City, and his salary at the time I visited -him was a hundred and seventy-five pounds a year. I was then making, -with my salary and speculations, at least a thousand. He was a married -man, with a pretty wife and a baby. The house in which they lived was -small, and there was a garden attached to it. After dinner we sat in -the garden and talked; he told his wife what a clever fellow I was, -and how I had risen over all of them. I told him that he could do as -well as I if he chose, although I was inwardly sure he could not, for -his qualities were different from mine. 'You have only to speculate,' -I said. He returned a foolish answer. 'This is my speculation,' he -said, pinching his wife's cheek. 'Is it a good one?' his wife asked -merrily. I do not know what there was in the look he gave her which -caused her to bend towards him and kiss him; I think there were tears -in her eyes too. 'Well,' I said, 'every one to his taste.' 'Just so,' -he replied, with his arm round his wife's waist In the evening, your -mother, then a single girl, came in with her father. They and the -Sydneys were friends. - - -[Illustration] - - -Now, to whom am I speaking? To myself or to you? Shall I go on with my -confession, and go on without moral trickery, or shall I tear up these -sheets, and deaden my memory with excess of some kind? It is rather -late in life for me to commence this latter course. I have often been -drunk with excitement, but never with wine. My life has been a steady -one, and it has been my study to keep a guard over myself. Indeed, it -has been necessary for success, and I _have_ succeeded. 'When the wine -is in, the wit is out'--a true proverb. Why am I debating about my -course? I have already decided that I will speak plainly, and will -strip myself of all reserve. When I have finished, I can destroy. I -will not waver; I will go on to the end. - -Even if you do read what I write, it will not matter to me. I shall -have gone, and shall not know. Stop, though. You, as a clergyman, -would tell me otherwise, and would doubtless, if you had the -opportunity, enlighten my darkness, to use a common phrase. I have -never considered it before; but I suppose I am a Christian. Is that a -phrase also? To speak without reserve, as I have resolved to do, it is -to me nothing more than a name. If the question, What has been your -religion? were put to me, and I were compelled to answer (again -without moral trickery), I should answer, Money. These reflections -have come to me without foreshadowing, and I set them down. If they -cause you to be sad, think for a moment. How many Christians do you -know? I could argue with you now, if you were here. Christianity, as I -have heard (not as I have seen), cannot mean a set belief in certain -narrow doctrines; it cannot include trickery and false-dealing in -worldly matters. It means, as I have heard and not seen, the practical -adoption of a larger view of humanity than now obtains. Certain -self-sacrifices, certain tolerations, which are not seen except in the -quixotic, are included in this larger view. I repeat my question: How -many Christians do you know? - -A bitter mood is upon me; it may divert me from my purpose. I will lay -down my pen, and look into the shadows. - -What have I seen after an interval of I do not know how many minutes? -Shadows in the future. Shadows from the past. Shadows all around me as -I sit--in the room, in the garden, in the river. Stay. I see a light -coming into the sky. The waters of the river are trembling. The moon -is rising. - -Andrew, I loved your mother. I never told her this, in words; but she -knew it. There was a time, I have sometimes thought, when I might have -won her. But I held back until, so far as she herself was concerned, -it was too late. If she had not met your father--(she had not seen him -when I first knew her)--and if she had not loved him, I should still -have held back. For my design then was to many money, if I married at -all. My master had married money. Other rich men, to whose height I -had hoped to rise, had married money. I would do the same. Love was a -dream to be blotted out. It stopped advancement. I strove to blot out -my love for your mother, but I could not. I did the next best thing; I -strove to conceal it. Even in that attempt, however, I was not -successful. The Sidneys whose house I frequently visited in the hope -of meeting her, saw it, and threw us much together. Mrs. Sydney said -to me once, out of her ignorance, 'See how happy we are! You can be -the same if you please.' I smiled, but did not reply. I could be the -same, if I pleased! Why, I could have bought them up twenty times -over. Sydney himself owed me money, having been duped by a friend, as -foolish persons almost always are. I have never been duped by a friend -in all my long life. I have lost money in the way of business, but I -have never been duped by a friend. Life is an intellectual battle. -Those win whose wits are the sharpest. - -Your mother and I grew very intimate. I interested her in my career, -although I never entered into the details of my successes. I told her -only the results. Her father encouraged our intimacy. I had already -lent _him_ money. About this time I saw signs of an approaching panic. -I said to myself, 'This is your chance; there will be precious -pickings in the ruins. Sharpen your wits; now is your time.' I -gathered in my money; I studied the signs, with a cool head. I -mentioned the matter, under the seal of secrecy, to your mother. 'If -all goes well,' I said, 'in six months I shall be worth so-and-so.' -Your mother answered, 'But how about the people with whom all will go -ill?' I said gaily, 'What is one man's meat is another man's poison. -If I don't gather, others will.' The panic came and parsed, and did -not leave me a mourner. England was strewn with wrecks, but I was -safe; I was one of the fortunate wreckers. It was an anxious time; -sharp wits were about, but few sharper than mine; and every man's hand -was against his neighbour. Thousands of weak ones lost their all, and -thousands more were bruised to death in rash attempts to recover what -they had lost I saw them struggling all around me, and I saw here and -there a foolish one holding out a helping hand, and being dragged -into the whirlpool for his pains. When the storm passed, and the sky -became clear, the land was filled with mourning. Among the foolish -ones was Sydney. How could such a man expect to get on in the world? -'Self-preservation is the first law of nature.' What wisdom there is -in many of these proverbs! There were very few smiling faces after the -storm; but mine was one. I had netted thirty thousand pounds. This was -the solid commencement of my fortune. - -During this time I had but little leisure, and I saw scarcely anything -of your mother. Now that the struggle was over, I went to her to tell -her of my successes. Then I learned that her father had been ruined in -the panic, and that if it had not been for a friend who sacrificed his -small fortune for them, they would have been turned out of house and -home. This friend was your father. He was a friend also to Sydney; and -it was with his money, I believe, that Sydney discharged his debt to -me; I had other security, but I was glad that there was no need to -enforce it. - -I held my passion in full control when I was told that your mother was -engaged to be married. It was bitter to bear, but I argued with myself -that it was best so; I _might_ have done a foolish thing. A coldness -sprang up between the Sydneys and me, and our intimacy weakened. It -was natural, for our positions were very different from what they were -a few months before. I had risen, and he had fallen. We were not upon -an equality. - -I never saw your mother after she was married. Engrossed in the -purpose of my life, deeply engaged in schemes involving large -interests, rising and prospering, amassing and accumulating, I lost -sight of her. But I did not forget her. Now and again, in my calmer -moments, when a great venture had been brought to a successful issue -and I had added to my store, or when the fever of a great speculation -was over, I thought of her with a certain tenderness and a certain -regret; but I strove to find happiness in my money. Did I find it? No. - -No; I did not find it. Looking back into my life, with all its cares -and anxious struggles, I know that I was never happy. Looking upon -myself now, as I sit in my great house, an old man, writing my -confession, I know that I am an utterly miserable man. Yet are not -most men unhappy? It seems so to me. Then I am no different from -others, and under any other circumstances I should be as I am. Should -I? Supposing I had married, and had children who loved me. There would -be consolation in that, surely. Children, wife, friends, who loved me! -Answer me, Myself. Is there one living being in the world who thinks -of you with affection, who pauses now and then to give you a thought -of love? Answer honestly. Not one! - -Is it fancy, and am I working myself into a morbid state of feeling? -From the dense shadows that lurk in the corners of the room, seemed to -come an echo of the unspoken words--Not one! The air seemed to carry -the words to the river--Not one! The river is flowing to the sea--to -the vast unseen waters which in my present mood I liken to the future -into which my life will sink, unremembered, unblessed! - -Most men are unhappy, I have said. Well, it is so in my experience. -Yet the Sydneys were happy; I am sure of it. Even after the panic -which enriched me and impoverished him, I have seen him on the top of -an omnibus, after business hours, on his way home, with happiness in -his face. Home! Is this my house a home? I have seen glimpses of -happiness also elsewhere, and always, as I now recognise, in -connection with women and children. - -I thought often of your mother; but years passed, and I made no effort -to see her. One day among my letters was one with a black envelope. I -have the letter by me now. Knowing what I was about to write, I -brought it with me from my study. You will recognise your mother's -writing. I place it after these words, so that--should these pages -come to your hands--you may read it in its natural order. - -'My dear Sir,--You will be surprised to receive a letter from me, but -not angry, I hope. You will regard it with kindly feelings, perhaps, -when I tell you that when you read it I shall be in my grave. I come -to you a suppliant, and with all the earnestness of my soul I pray -that I may not write in vain. My husband--whom I shall soon see -again--died three years since, leaving me with a child, a boy, in whom -you will see a resemblance to the girl to whom you used to confide -your hopes and plans. He has his father's mouth, but he has my eyes -and hair. I was very very happy with my husband, who was a good man, -but not fortunate in worldly matters. I used sometimes to wish that -you could have visited us, and seen our happy little home. But you -were too far removed from us in station; I often heard of your great -successes in life, and was very very glad to know that you had gained -what you most desired. When my husband died, he left me very poor. Can -you guess now--you who must receive so many applications from the -unfortunate--my purpose in writing to you? - -'The doctor tells me I have not many days to live. I may live a month, -he says; I may die tomorrow; and my child will be left quite penniless -and unprovided for. I made up my mind to write before my strength -fails me. Will you befriend my orphan boy? I do not know what words to -use to strengthen my appeal. If you were to ask me what it is I wish -you to do, and I could answer from my grave, I would say. Arm him for -the battle of life; give him some sort of plain and useful education; -and when he is old enough, put him in some way so that he may be able -to work for his living. Will you do this, for the sake of old times, -for the sake of the girl you used to like to chat with, for the sake -of charity? When I write my name to this letter, I will kneel down and -pray to the Almighty that you will not turn a deaf ear to my appeal, -and I will bless you with my dying breath. As you read these words, -think that I am by your side, imploring you to say, "Yes, I will do -this out of pity for the orphan and his dead mother, and for the sake -of old times." God prosper you in all your undertakings!--Your old -friend and suppliant, ISABEL.' - -You know now why I interested myself in you. Yes, I think there is one -living being who will remember me with affection when I am gone. - -I am thinking of you now, Andrew, and I am considering whether I shall -carry out an idea which has occurred to me with reference to my money. -I have nearly run my span of life. Death may, in the natural order of -things, claim me at any moment. Say it claims me to-morrow, and I die -without a will, what will become of the great fortune I shall leave -behind me? Litigation will ensue. The lawyers will have a banquet You -said once, 'If there were in the world one lawyer where now there are -a hundred, the world would be the better for it, and justice would be -more easily administered.' Well, the law shall not juggle with my -money if I live another week; neither shall you have it for your own -use; no, not one shilling of it. And yet, if I keep in my present -mind, you shall have the entire control of it, and shall have the -power of disposing of it in any way you please--except for your own -benefit. I know that I can trust you thoroughly; there is not another -man in the world whom I would dream of placing such confidence in. It -was my desire that you should take my name after my death, and spend -my money in such a manner as to make the name a great one in society. -As that satisfaction is denied to me, and as you say that 'money is -only sweet when it is well-spent,' use mine in fulfilment of your -sentiment. The more I think of it the more am I disposed to regard my -scheme with favour. To-morrow morning I will go to my lawyer, who will -communicate with you after my death. You may be sure that everything -will be plainly set down, and that you will not be able to appropriate -the money to your own private use. But I must be just. Every labourer -is worthy of his hire. If the administration of the trust occupies the -chief portion of your time, you shall be warranted in drawing from the -funds the sum of one hundred and fifty pounds per annum--to cease -immediately your labours cease. - - - * * * * * - - -It is long past midnight. As I look out of window, I see that the moon -has risen, and that the heavens are filled with stars. My garden is -really beautiful now, with the light shining upon it. I have never -seen my property present so fair an aspect as it does at this present -moment. The river is very beautiful also. I will go out and stroll -along the banks, or sit and muse, as the whim seizes me. Shall I wish -you 'Good-night before I go? No, I will wait until I return. - - - * * * * * - - -Three hours have passed since I wrote the last words. I have heard no -human voice, and yet it seems to me that I have heard voices. The air -has grown very sweet. Flecks of gold are coming into the sky. I have -watched their faint colour grow strong. It is sunrise. A golden mist -is rising from the waters. I cannot tell you what has passed through -my mind during the last few hours. I cannot tell you what is in it -now. I can scarcely comprehend it myself, but I feel happier than I -have felt for some time. I cannot wish you Good-night, for the night -has passed. Good-morning, Andrew! - - - - XV. - - FAIRHAVEN. - - -The perusal of this remarkable document affected me beyond power of -description. My mother's letter to Mr. Fairhaven brought her dear -figure vividly to my mind's eye, and I sobbed from happiness. It was -love that had accomplished this wonderful thing--love, which death -cannot destroy. - -I read the latter portion of the document again and again, until I -could almost repeat the words from memory. 'Good-morning, Andrew,' -were Mr. Fairhaven's last words to me. Ah, yes! In the night of his -life the morning had dawned sweetly and holily. I blessed him for his -noble revenge. I prayed for strength, for wisdom, to worthily fulfil -the solemn trust reposed in me. - -But in what way to apply it, so that unalloyed good might spring from -its use? My heart cried out, 'Teach me! Show me the way!' An answer -came. Side by side I saw the figures of Ruth and Blade-o'-Grass. 'Look -here and here,' a voice seemed to say to me. 'See this one trodden -into the mire. See this one tended, cared for, raised to purity and -usefulness.' I trembled with mingled fear and happiness. A great -thought loomed upon my mind, like a sunrise to my soul. - -I placed my hand upon my heart to still its beating. I was alone, and -I yearned for the presence of friends in whom I could confide. Should -I go to those who were dearest to me--to Rachel and to Mrs. Silver, -and tell them this wonderful news? I started to my feet with the -intention of proceeding at once to Buttercup-square. I placed the -precious document in my breast-pocket, and I buttoned my coat tightly -and securely. But what, after all, if it should prove a mockery? No, I -would wait until I had assured myself. I knew what hopes would be -raised in their breasts, and I would spare them a possible -disappointment. - -If it were not mockery--if it were true, clear, incontestable--this -immense fortune was at my disposal to do as I pleased with. Not to -spend upon myself; to spend upon others; to sow and reap the crop. -Golden Grain! - -But before it grew to fulness and ripeness, before it waved in perfect -comeliness in the eyes of God and man, to watch the tender green -leaves springing from the beneficent earth, smiling in the face of the -bright sun, with nature's health-giving tears glistening upon them--to -watch them gather sufficient strength to resist the attacks of wind -and storm and adverse circumstances, each Blade of Grass a thing of -beauty---- Ah, Golden Grain! Golden Grain indeed! - -I could not sleep on that night I rose many times, and paced the room, -praying for sunrise. And then, when the business of the day had fairly -commenced, I was in the office of Mr. Fairhaven's lawyers. The -principal member of the firm received me. He eyed me with curiosity -through his golden spectacles. - -'I expected you would call,' he observed, as he motioned me to a seat. - -'Are you acquainted,' I asked, 'with the contents of the packet you -sent to me yesterday?' - -He answered me like a lawyer. - -'It came to me sealed; my instructions were to forward it.' - -I placed it in his hands, and he read it, slowly and attentively. - -'I was in doubt,' he said, as he handed it back to me, 'whether you -were a relative of the late Mr. Fairhaven.' - -'You see that I am not' - -'I see. It is all the more remarkable because of that.' - -'The will,' I said, and paused. He took up my words. - -'----Is in exact accordance with the terms of the letter.' - -He opened his safe, and produced the will. He referred to the date of -the letter. - -'I received my instructions,' he said, 'from the late Mr. Fairhaven on -the morning following the day on which he wrote this communication.' - -'I should have wished to attend his funeral,' I said, 'if I had but -known! Even without this, it would have been my earnest desire. I owe -much to him.' - -'I received no instructions that have not complied with.' - -'You saw my dear friend before his death?' - -'Frequently. Two days before his death, indeed. You are aware that he -died rather suddenly.' - -'I was not aware. I am glad to know that he did not suffer long.' - -'Up to the last his intellect was remarkably clear.' He said this with -a half smile. - -'You put stress upon that,' I observed. - -'Undoubtedly, my dear sir. It is an important point.' - -'In what way?' - -He gave me an odd look, and said: 'The late Mr. Fairhaven must have -relations. The will he has made is undoubtedly an eccentric one. Has -it occurred to you that its validity may be disputed?' - -'No.' - -'It will be,' he said dryly; 'and that is the reason why it is -important to be able to prove that his intellect was clear to the -last. You need have no fear, Mr. Meadow. The will cannot be shaken.' - -I thanked him for the assurance, and asked him if he was acquainted -with the extent of the property. - -'It will probably realise,' he answered, 'not less--yes, I should -certainly say not less--than two hundred and thirty thousand pounds.' - -'A vast fortune, indeed,' I said, with a beating heart at this -confirmation of my hopes. - -'And made out of nothing,' he added. 'He commenced life as a poor -clerk. I have heard it said of him that whatever he touched turned to -gold.' - -I left to the lawyer the management of everything connected with Mr. -Fairhaven's will. As he had predicted, it was disputed, on the ground -of the testator's incapacity. But it was proved, beyond the shadow of -a doubt, that Mr. Fairhaven was in the full possession of his -reasoning faculties not only at the time he made his will, but up to -the very day of his death. The validity of the will was unhesitatingly -upheld by the judges, and the property came into my possession. -Nevertheless the case was not finally settled until after the lapse of -many months, and during this time the newspapers were busy upon Mr. -Fairhaven's eccentricity. 'It remains to be seen,' said an influential -paper, in a leading article, 'and it is a matter of much curiosity, -how the legatee will administer his trust' I found myself quite a -public character, and I was inundated with applications and with -letters of advice. But my resolution was already formed. - -I did not disclose this resolution to the Silvers while the matter was -in the law-courts. So great was my anxiety that I feared, even up to -the last moment, that some chance or quibble of the law would deprive -me of the means for carrying it out. Not until everything was settled, -not until the property was declared to be mine incontestably, not -until it was realised, and the money invested in the Funds, did I -consider myself free to open my mind to my dear friends. I had my last -interview with the lawyer; he had acted throughout in the most -straightforward manner, and I thanked him sincerely. - -'And yet,' he remarked, 'you said once to Mr. Fairhaven that if there -were in the world one lawyer where now there are a hundred, the world -would be the better for it.' - -'I think so still,' I replied. - -'Strange,' he said, with a touch of pleasant satire, 'that the world -has never been able to get along without us.' - -'Never!' I exclaimed. 'Nay, you must be mistaken.' - -'I am not mistaken. I can go as far back as the days of Abraham for -proof. Did not that patriarch buy "the field of Ephron, which was in -Macphelah, which was before Mamre; the field, and the cave which was -therein, and all the trees that were in the field, that were in all -the borders round about?" The very words we read in Genesis. Do you -mean to tell me that any one but a lawyer could have written such a -description? We have our uses, my dear sir!' - -I smiled. I was too happy to argue with him, and we parted the best of -friends. In the evening I found myself, as I had designed, in -Buttercup-square. I knocked at Mrs. Silver's door, and she herself -opened it. Only Rachel and she were at home. I had kept her fully -acquainted with the progress of affairs, and she knew that I expected -to have my final interview with the lawyer on this day. - -'All is settled,' I said. 'What do you see in my face?' - -'Happiness.' - -'It is in my heart. This is a supreme moment in my life. I feel that I -am about to commence a great work.' Mrs. Silver did not reply, but -looked earnestly at me. I noticed also that Rachel suspended her -sewing. 'The vast fortune that Mr. Fairhaven left has been safely -invested in Consols. What income, do you think, is derivable from the -money?' - -'I am afraid to guess.' - -'What would you say to nearly nine thousand pounds a year?' - -'As much as that?' asked Mrs. Silver, with an exclamation of -astonishment. - -'Quite as much. What is to be done with this great sum, of which I am -the steward?' - -'It is a grave question,' she said; 'one not easily answered.' - -'Still I have not found it difficult to decide. When I first received -Mr. Fairhaven's letter an inspiration fell upon me, and my resolution -was formed. But I did not dare to consult you upon it, for I feared -that the means of carrying it out would slip from me. Now I am free to -speak. Listen to me in silence, and when I have unfolded my plan, tell -me what you think of it. The inspiration that fell on me on the first -disclosure of this good fortune came, my dearest friend, from you, and -from the history and influence of your happy home. During the interval -that has passed since that eventful day I have thought deeply over my -scheme, and have matured it to some extent in my mind. I have not been -so wrapt up in it as to be regardless of other modes of expending the -money in a good and useful way; but, in the continual contemplation of -it, I have become more and more strengthened in my belief that my -first thoughts are the happiest and the best. I know the solemnity of -the trust reposed in me, and from this moment I consecrate my life to -it, convinced that I shall find true happiness in it. I propose to -establish on a large scale a Home for the poorest orphaned and -friendless children, whom we shall adopt while they are very young, -and educate and rear in such a manner as shall make them good and -useful members of society. We will take them from the gutters, and -rescue them from ignorance and crime; and as they grow up we will -draft them into the ranks of honest bread-winners, either in this or -in other countries, and fill their places with other poor children. -There shall be no distinctive mark of charity upon them; they shall be -so brought up as to be proud of the Home in which they are armed for -the battle of life. There are numerous matters of detail which need -not be discussed and decided upon at present; such as establishing -schools of trade in our Home, so that the children may be usefully -employed until they take their places in the ranks of out-door -workers. I have seen a large building, with ground attached, which -will suit our purpose admirably; the rental is three hundred pounds a -year. I requires a great deal of alteration, which the proprietor is -willing to make if he can let it on a long lease. There is sufficient -available land round the building for playgrounds and gardens. The -children themselves shall learn to be the gardeners. This, in brief, -is my scheme, of which I ask your approval. I see many beautiful -pictures in the future in connection with it, the contemplation of -which makes me supremely happy. I see men and women in whom have been -implanted the seeds of cleanliness, industry, virtue, and religion, -living their useful lives, and some among them rising even to eminence -in this and other lands--men and women who, without this Home, would -be lurking about in rags and want, and filling the public houses and -prisons. I see them marrying, and bringing up _their_ children in the -right path, and holding out a helping hand to others. I see the means -for enlarging our Home coming from some of the prosperous ones, out of -the gratitude of their hearts. And when the time comes for me to -render an account of my stewardship, I trust I shall have earned the -approval of Him from whom all blessings are derived. Tell me, dear -friend, do you think my scheme a good one?' - - -[Illustration] - - -Mrs. Silver took my hand in hers, and retained it. She was too -agitated to speak, but I saw perfect approval in her sweet face, and -in the sweet face of Rachel. I continued: - -'In his first proposition to me to make me his heir, Mr. Fairhaven -expressed a wish that I should take his name after his death, and -spend his money in such a manner as to make the name a great one in -society. I shall call our Home, Fairhaven; and thus his goodness will -be perpetuated. I look to you, dear madam, to assist me in my scheme, -and I ask you to enlist under my banner, as I once enlisted under -yours.' - -She gave me the assurance of her fullest help, and said she had never -hoped such happiness would be hers as to assist in the development of -a scheme which she described as noble and good. - -'And now,' I said, in tones which trembled with emotion, for I was -approaching a subject very dear to my heart, 'if I might be permitted -to say a few words privately to you----' - -Rachel rose and left the room. I followed her form with wistful eyes, -and when I turned to Mrs. Silver I saw that good woman regarding me -more attentively than she had hitherto done. I paused for awhile -before I resumed. - -'I am about to speak of a selfish subject--myself. In Mr. Fairhaven's -letter to me, he states that every labourer is worthy of his hire, and -that if the administration of the trust he has reposed in me occupies -the chief portion of my time, I am warranted in drawing from the funds -an annual salary of one hundred and fifty pounds. As I shall make my -home at Fairhaven, and shall devote all my time to the furtherance of -my scheme, I believe I am fairly entitled to that sum. If I were -possessed of private means I would not accept one shilling of the -money for my own use; I would cheerfully give my labours without fee -and without reward. But it is otherwise with me, and in the annual -statement which I shall draw up and endeavour to get published in the -papers, I shall place the sum of a hundred and fifty pounds as the -fixed salary paid to the general manager of the Home. I _am_ justified -in doing that, am I not?' - -'Quite justified.' - -'The income I have hitherto received for my labours has been -sufficient for my personal needs, but not more than sufficient. I have -felt this sorely, for with those means I have not dared to indulge in -the contemplation of the dearest wish and hope of my heart. But now -all is clear before me, and I may speak without hesitation.' - -My agitation communicated itself to her; I saw the signs of it in her -face. - -'Not very long ago you said something to me which was very sweet to my -ear. You said that if it had pleased God to give you a son of your -own, you would have wished him to resemble me. I have thought of these -words very often. Have you sufficient confidence in me to give into my -care one whom I love with all the strength of my heart and soul? Will -you give me Rachel for my wife? Will you let me call you Mother?' - -I leant towards her eagerly; she looked at me with solemn affection. - -'I _am_ proud of you,' she said, 'and I love you as if you were my -own. But have you well considered? Rachel is blind----' - -'Not to me--not to me, Mother! To make her my wife is the dearest hope -of my heart.' - -'If I seem to hesitate,' she said tearfully, 'it is because I love -you. I would trust you with the dearest treasure I have.' - -'If you hesitate,' I replied, 'I shall think that you begin to doubt -me. You must believe what I say. Rachel's love will crown my life with -perfect happiness.' - -I have cause to remember and bless that night. Before I left the house -Rachel and I plighted our troth to each other. The dear girl, while -confessing that she loved me, actually needed persuasion to accept me -as her husband. She was full of doubts of herself, and of her fitness, -being blind, to fulfil a wife's duties. Pure, gentle heart! Her -presence would sweeten and add lustre to a palace. It was decided that -we should not be married until Fairhaven was fairly established, and -this I knew would occupy some considerable time. - -So now, with everything fair before me, I set to work upon my scheme. -The house and grounds I had mentioned to Mrs. Silver as being suitable -for the Home, I took on a long lease, in which a purchasing clause was -inserted. The necessary alterations were carefully discussed, and were -commenced as soon as possible. As I had resolved, I made my scheme -public, through the medium of the newspapers, the writers in which -gave me the most generous assistance and encouragement. To my -surprise, not one thought my idea quixotic; and before Fairhaven was -ready to receive inmates, its name became famous not only in this, but -in other countries. Every hour of my time was occupied, and I think -I may fairly say I earned my wages. It would occupy too much space -here to narrate the details of my work; they were numerous and -onerous--more so than I had contemplated; but I did not shrink from -them, and the assistance I received from the Silvers was of -incalculable value to me. Letters poured in upon me, and among them -were some addressed to the Master of Fairhaven. It pleased my friends -to adopt this title for me, and I accepted it with pride and pleasure. - -One of the most gratifying features of the movement was that many of -the letters contained subscriptions in money in aid of the Home. These -subscriptions it was necessary to acknowledge, and I thought it would -be a good thing to acknowledge them in the newspapers. I did so; and -the result was astonishing. Stimulated by the example, money was sent -to me from all quarters and from all kinds of people, even from the -poorest. Before many weeks had elapsed I found that the work of -answering these letters was too much for me. - -'You want a secretary,' said Mrs. Silver. - -'I have been thinking of it,' I said; 'and I have thought of offering -the situation to some one whom you know.' - -'To whom?' - -'To Mary. The work will be no harder for her than that which she -already accomplishes in the telegraph office.' - -Mrs. Silver was delighted with the suggestion, and Mary was offered -and accepted the situation. Thus the work went on harmoniously, and a -fortnight before Christmas the Home was in a sufficiently forward -state to commence operations. I had schemed that the inauguration -should take place on Christmas-day, and I proposed that all my -friends--the Silvers and their children, Mr. Merrywhistle, Jimmy -Virtue, Robert Truefit and his family, and Blade o'-Grass--should -spend the day at Fairhaven. It was thus arranged, and this Christmas -two years, Fairhaven received more than sixty poor orphaned children, -and the good work was actually commenced. - -I must mention here that Blade-o'-Grass had lived with Mrs. Silver -from the time of Tom Beadle's departure; and on this, our inauguration -day, I found her assistance with the children peculiarly valuable. - -'This is the anniversary of your wedding-day, my dear,' I said to -Blade-o'-Grass. - -'Yes, sir,' she answered; 'there are only four years now to wait. Did -you know I had a letter last night from Tom?' - -'No, my dear.' - -She gave me the letter, and I found that it was written--very badly, -of course--by Tom Beadle himself. He was learning to read as well, he -said in the letter; Richard was his tutor. - -'You are getting along also, my dear, with your reading and writing.' - -'Yes, sir. It's a good letter, isn't it? - -It was a good letter. Everything was turning out as I had hoped. The -different life which Tom was leading was having its effect upon him, -and he was beginning to look forward. From Richard's letters to me I -knew that he had had some trouble with Tom at first; Tom had not taken -too kindly to the restrictions of his time which regular labour -imposes; but this feeling--the natural result of the vagrant life he -had hitherto led--was passing away, and Tom's mind was nearly settled. -In his letter, which I held in my mind, there was a message of -goodwill to all who had been kind to Blade-o'-Grass. - -'Now, my dear,' I said, as I returned the letter, 'I have a -proposition to make to you. You have four years to wait before you -wish us good-bye, and sail for your new home in another land. What do -you say to living at Fairhaven until that day comes? You shall be one -of my matrons--I want those about me whom I can depend upon--and I can -afford to pay you twenty pounds a year for your services. You will -have a little purse to give Tom when you see him, and that will be an -agreeable surprise to him. What do you say to my proposition?' - -She could not answer me immediately; but when she was sufficiently -recovered to speak, she told me that she had yearned to be allowed to -stop at Fairhaven, but that she should not have been able to muster -courage to ask me--not deeming herself capable enough or good enough. -She accepted the offer gratefully, but begged me not to pay her money. - -'Let me work for you for love, sir!' she pleaded. - -'No, my dear,' I said firmly, 'not entirely for love. Why! _I_ take -money for my services, and so shall you! It is just and right.' - -From that time until this, Blade-o'-Grass has not spent a day away -from Fairhaven, and she is the most valuable assistant I have in the -Home. I shall miss her sorely when she goes. Her influence over the -children is wonderful, and they, as well as we, love her very -sincerely. - -The year that followed was even busier than the preceding year. So -much had to be seen to! Rachel and I decided to wait until everything -was settled and in far working order before we were married. We had -another reason for the delay. The rooms in Fairhaven that I had set -aside for ourselves required to be furnished, and the money for the -furniture could not be taken out of the general fund. I had to earn -the money before I could offer Rachel a home which she could call -properly her own. During the year subscriptions continued to flow in -upon us, without any appeal being made. The charitable heart of -England is not hard to touch. And one day, to my intense delight and -joy, a letter came from a Great Lady, containing a cheque for a large -amount. The letter itself is a bright testimonial in favour of the -good work. - -I could tarry with pleasure over this portion of my story, but my -time is drawing short. My holiday is nearly at an end--the day after -to-morrow my wife and I return to Fairhaven. We have enjoyed our -honeymoon beyond description, although it is winter. Many a happy walk -have we taken in the crisp cold air; many a happy evening have we -spent by the cheerful fireside, Rachel busy with her needle, and I -reading to her what I have written; breaking off every now and then to -talk of the dear house in Buttercup-square, and of the dear ones in -it; of the children at home in Fairhaven, and of the happy future -there is before us, and we hope before them. The house in which we -have been living during our honeymoon is completely covered with ivy -up to the very chimneys, and the wrens find shelter there, and leave -not a crumb of the bread we scatter for them every morning upon our -windowsill. The holly-bushes are bright with crimson berries; -Christmas will be with us soon; a bunch of Christmas-roses is on my -table now. But one eventful circumstance remains to be narrated. - -It was the autumn of last year; I had called into see Mrs. Silver -early in the morning, to consult her on some arrangements for the -Home. She asked after all there, and we fell a-talking, as we often -did, about Blade-o'-Grass, who was very much changed in appearance -from what she was. A stranger, looking upon her now for the first -time, would never have guessed what her previous life had been; her -dress was neat and modest, her hair was done up in a simple knot, hope -and happiness dwelt in her face. Day by day she was strengthening her -hold upon all our hearts; her gentle behaviour to the children, her -gratitude and her love for all around her, her patience, her cheerful -willingness, were very pleasant to behold. Mrs. Silver and I spoke of -one fancy which Blade-o'-Grass indulged in. She seemed to have set -Ruth before her as a model; and in the matter of dress and the fashion -of her hair, she copied Ruth as closely as she could. The subject of -her resemblance to Ruth had never been touched upon by any of us since -my conversation with Rachel, although I am sure it was in the mind of -my friends as it was in my own. But it seemed to be avoided by general -and unexpressed consent. I was telling Mrs. Silver that before I left -Fairhaven, Ruth had come with her child to spend the day there with -Blade-o'-Grass, when the servant entered to say that a visitor wished -to see Mrs. Silver very particularly. - -'She says she don't think you know her, ma'am, but that she'll tell -you who she is herself.' - -'Let her come in, Emma.' - -The visitor proved to be a tidily-dressed woman, of about fifty or -fifty-five years of age; she looked like a farmer's wife. If I wished -to describe her by a word, I should use the word 'comfortable.' In her -dress and general appearance she was eminently a comfortable woman. -She looked at Mrs. Silver very earnestly, and took the chair that was -offered to her. There was something very homely and genial about her; -and although I felt somewhat curious to know her errand, I asked Mrs. -Silver if I should retire. - -'Not unless this lady wishes it,' said Mrs. Silver. - -'Love your heart!' was the reply, in a pleasant tone; 'I don't wish it -if you don't. And I hope you'll forgive the liberty I've took in -coming here; but I couldn't rest without seeing you, after coming all -these miles.' - -'You have come a long way, then,' said Mrs. Silver; 'you must be -tired.' - -The visitor laughed. 'I've come sixteen thousand miles over the water, -all the way from Australia, and I'm going back there next month, -please God!' - -'You are an Englishwoman?' - -'O yes, ma'am; I was born in London. Me and my husband emigrated -eighteen year ago. It was the best day's work we ever done, though I -love the old country, ma'am; but we were driven out of it, in a manner -of speaking. My husband was a carpenter--he's a builder now, and -we've done well, thank God, and our children are in the way of doing -well too.' - -'I am glad to hear it.' - -'I'm the mother of fourteen, ma'am--twelve of them living.' - -'That's a large family.' - -'Not a bit too large out there; too large here for a poor man, but not -there. I've been longing these five or six years past to come and see -the old country once more before I die; and four months ago, my man -said, "Well, mother, if your mind's set on it, we'd best go and get it -over." So we've come, and we sha'n't lose anything by it. He's busy -this morning looking at a steam-plough we're going to take back for -our eldest son, who has a farm--if you'll excuse me for rambling on in -this way, ma'am.' - -'It interests me to hear you.' - -'When a person comes back to the old spots, after being away for so -many years, all sorts of curious feelings comes over her. It seemed to -me as if I was in a dream when I walked through Stoney-alley this -morning----' - -'Stoney-alley!' - -'I lived there a long time, ma'am; but I never knew until this morning -what a dreadful place it is. I think I should die if I was compelled -to live there again. There's the old shops there, just the same as -they were eighteen years ago--all except Mr. Virtue's leaving-shop, -which I was told was burnt down. You look as if you knew the place, -sir.' - -'I know it well,' I said, 'and Mr. Virtue also.' - -'Ah, he was a queer old man! but he had a heart, though he _was_ so -grumpy! But I mustn't ramble. I've come to make a confession to you, -ma'am, and to ask you after some one I nursed in these arms when she -was a baby.' - -Mrs. Silver turned pale. - -'I've nothing to blame myself for, ma'am; what was done was done for -the best. Do you remember anything that, occurred last Christmas-eve -come twenty-three year ago?' - -'Yes, I remember it well; very well,' replied Mrs. Silver, in an -agitated tone. 'I have cause to remember it with gratitude. It was on -that night, Andrew, that Ruth came to us; it was on that night I -visited Stoney-alley, the place where this good woman lived.' - -'You came to the very house in which I lived, ma'am, and you took -away--bless your loving heart for it!--one of the sweetest children -that ever breathed. The landlady brought her to you out of these very -arms. Ruth, you say her name is. Tell me, ma'am--tell me--you know -what it is I want to ask.' - -'She is well and happy.' - -'Thank God for that!' - -'But you say the landlady gave me the child out of your arms. You are -not her mother----' Mrs. Silver was unable to proceed. - -'Love your dear heart, no! The poor child's mother was dead. But the -landlady only told you half the truth when she told you that. She said -there was only one baby--she didn't tell you that the poor mother was -confined with twin-girls. On the Christmas-eve that you came to -Stoney-alley I had them both on my knees--the sweet little things! -They hadn't a friend, and we were too poor to take care of them. We -had a large family of our own, and our hands were as full as full -can be! As I was nursing the dears, the landlady came into the -room in a flare of excitement, and said that there was a kind lady -downstairs--it was you, ma'am--who wanted to adopt an orphan child, -and who would give it a home and bring it up properly. The landlady -said that if she had told you there was twins left in that way, she -was sure you wouldn't be willing to part them, and that it would be a -good thing, at all events, if one of the poor little ones could be -taken care of. My husband thought so too; and though it cut me to the -heart to part the dears, I felt it was the best thing we could do. We -were a long time choosing between them; they were so much alike that -we could hardly tell which was which; but one of them had a pretty -dimple, and we kept that one, and sent the other down to you. If you -remember, ma'am, you left your name and address with the landlady, and -I never parted with the piece of paper you wrote it on, for I didn't -know what might turn up. That is how I've found you out now.' - -Mrs. Silver looked at me in distress. - -'There is no need for sorrow here,' I said. 'If what I suspect is -true, it is but a confirmation of what has been in my thoughts and in -Rachel's also for a long time.' I turned to our visitor. 'I should -know your name; Mr. Virtue has told me of you, and of your kindness to -these babes. You collected money for them before they were a fortnight -old.' - -'Yes,' she assented with pleasant nods, 'and Mr. Virtue himself gave -me a penny. My name is Mrs. Manning.' - -'Tell me. What became of the other child?' - -'That's what I want to know. If she's alive now, poor thing! she must -be a woman grown; very different, ma'am, I'm afraid, from the child -that you adopted. But if she wants a friend I'll be that friend. I'll -take her back with me, if she'll come--my man wouldn't mind! She'd -have a chance out there; and what's a mouth more or less at a full -table, as ours is, thank God! a slice off a cut loaf is never missed.' - -'You good soul! I said, pressing her hand. 'We want to know all you -can tell us about the other child. Do you remember what name she was -known by?' - -'Ah, that I do, and a curious way it was how she came by that name! -You see, ma'am, two or three blades of grass happened to sprout up in -our back-yard, and the child took to watching them, and fell quite in -love with them, poor little dear! This went on for three or four days, -till one morning, when she was sitting by the side of the blades of -grass, a lodger, hurrying along, happened to tread them down. The -child was in a dreadful way, ma'am, and, as children will do, she hit -at the man with her little fists. He pushed her down with his foot, -not intending to hurt her, I do believe; and I ran out, and blew him -up for his unkindness. He laughed, and said it was a fine fuss to kick -up about two or three blades of grass, and that it was a good job for -the child that she wasn't a blade of grass herself, or she might have -been trod down with the others. From that time the child began to be -called little Blade-o'-Grass, and that was the only name I ever knew -her to have.' - -'Ruth is at Fairhaven,' I said to Mrs. Silver. - -'We will go there at once,' said Mrs. Silver, rising. 'This will be a -joyful day for both of them. You will accompany us,' to Mrs. Manning. -'You would like to see these sisters whom you nursed and were good to -in their helplessness?' - -'It's what I've been praying for, ma'am. Many and many a time, over -the water, has my man and me talked of them, and wondered what has -become of them. Fairhaven! It's a pretty name; but are they both -there? and what kind of a place, is Fairhaven?' - -'You shall see for yourself,' replied Mrs. Silver, with tearful -smiles. 'And on the way the Master of Fairhaven shall tell you the -story of these sisters' lives.' - -How the good creature cried and laughed over the story I need not here -describe. When I came to the end her delight knew no bounds. She shook -hands with me and Mrs. Silver, her honest face beaming with joy, and -said, under her breath, 'Well, this is the happiest day!' - -Blade-o'-Grass and Ruth were in the garden. As we approached them -Mrs. Manning raised her hands in astonishment, and whispering to -us that they were as like each other as two peas, asked which was -Blade-o'-Grass and which was Ruth. We told her; and, in her motherly -homely fashion, she held out her arms to them. Blade-o'-Grass passed -her hands over her eyes and gazed earnestly at Mrs. Manning. - -'Do you remember me, my dear?' asked the good woman. 'I've come a long -way to see you--sixteen thousand miles--to see both of you, my dears! -I nursed you both on my knees before you were a week old----' - -Her motherly heart overflowed towards the girls, and Mrs. Silver and I -stole away and left them together. We did not disturb them for fully -half-an-hour. Then we went softly towards them. Blade-o'-Grass was -kneeling by the side of Ruth, looking into her sister's face with a -look of unutterable love. Ruth's arm was embracing Blade-o'-Grass, and -Mrs. Manning was standing, with clasped hands, contemplating the -sisters with ineffable gladness. - -My story is told. - - -I write these last words at Fairhaven. The morning after our arrival -home, I stood upon the threshold of our little snuggery, which is -built on an elevation, with my arm around my wife's waist, describing -to her the picture which I saw. It was the play-hour of the day, and -the grounds were filled with children, comfortably dressed. We have -nearly three hundred children in our Home. Immediately before me, in -the centre of a group of young ones, who were clustering round her, -was Blade-o'-Grass, strengthened and chastened by the troubles she has -experienced, beautified by the better sphere of life which she now -occupies. The innate goodness of her nature has made her beloved by -all. Of all our sisters she is the dearest. - -We are making great preparations for Christmas. May it be as happy a -time to you, dear reader, as, in all human probability, it will be to -us and to the little ones who are in our charge! - - - - THE END. - - - - * * * * * - LONDON: ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W. - - - - - - -[Illustration: Saul and David.] - - - - - - -[Illustration: Bread and Cheese and Kisses. -By B. L. Farjeon -AUTHOR OF BLADE OF GRASS "GRIF" AND JOSHUA MARVEL.] - - - - - - Introduction, - which - serves in part as a - Dedication - to the - Memory of my Mother. - - * * * - - -With a sense of infinite thankfulness upon me, I sit down to commence -my Christmas story. This thankfulness is born of overflowing -gratitude. I am grateful that I am spared to write it, and grateful -because of the belief that the Blade of Grass I put forth a year ago -was: out of the goodness of many sympathising hearts: not allowed to -wither and die. It has been pressed upon me, and I have had it in my -mind, to continue the history of the humble Blade of Grass that I left -drooping last year; but the social events that have occurred between -that time and the present would not justify my doing so now. I hope to -continue it before long. By and by, please God, you and I will follow -the Blade of Grass through a summer all the more pleasant because of -the bleak winter in which it sprung, and by which it has hitherto been -surrounded. In the mean time, the tears that I shed over it will keep -it green, I trust. And in the mean time, it gladdens me to see a star -shining upon it, although it stands amid snow and wintry weather. - -As I sit in my quiet chamber, and think of the happy season for which -I am writing, I seem to hear the music of its tender influence, and I -wish that the kindly spirit which animates that day would animate not -that day alone, but every day of the three hundred and sixty-five. It -might be so; it could be so. Then, indeed, the Good Time which now is -always coming would be no longer looked forward to. - -Not that life should be a holiday: work is its wholesomest food. But -some little more of general kindliness towards one another, of -generous feeling between class and class, as well as between person -and person; some little less consideration of self; some more general -recognition by the high of the human and divine equality which, the -low bear to them; some little more consideration from the poor for the -rich; some little more practical pity from the rich for the poor; some -little less of the hypocrisy of life too commonly practised and too -commonly toadied to; some better meaning in the saying of prayers, and -therefore more true devotion in the bending of knees; some little more -benevolence in statesmanship; some hearty honest practising of doing -unto others even as ye would others should do unto you:--may well be -wished for, more appropriately, perhaps, at this season than at any -other, associated as it is with all that is tender and bright and -good. - -Why does the strain in which I am writing bring to me the memory of my -Mother? It is, I suppose, because that memory is the most sacred and -the tenderest that I have, and because what I feel for her is inwoven -in my heart of hearts. - -But there is another reason. From her comes the title of my Christmas -story. And this introduction serves in part as a dedication to the -beautiful goodness of her nature. - -I think that in this wide world: among the thousands of millions of -human beings who live and have passed away: there is not, and never -was, a woman who lived her life more contentedly, nor one who strove -more heartfully to make the most cheerful use of everything that fell -to her lot--of even adversity, of which she had her full share. She -was beloved by all who knew her. To her sympathising heart were -confided many griefs which others had to bear; and, poor as she was -for a long period of her life, she always, by some wonderful secret of -which I hope she was not the only possessor, contrived to help those -who came to her in need. I remember asking her once how she managed -it. 'My dear,' she answered, with a smile which reminds me of a -peaceful moonlight night; 'my dear, I have a lucky bag.' Where she -kept it, heaven only knows; but she was continually dipping her hand -into it, and something good and sweet always came out. How many hearts -she cheered, how many burdens she lightened, how many crosses she -garlanded with hope, no one can tell. She never did. These things came -to her as among the duties of life, and she took pleasure in -performing them. I am filled with wonder and with worship as I think -how naturally she laid aside her own hard trials to sympathise with -the trials of others. - -She was a capital housewife, and made much out of little. She had not -one selfish desire, and being devoted to her children, she made their -home bright for them. There was no sunshine in the house when Mother -was away. She possessed wonderful secrets in cookery, and I would -sooner sit down to one of the dinners she used to prepare for us -(albeit they were very humble) than to the grandest banquet that could -be placed before me. Everything was sweet that came from her hands--as -sweet as was everything that came from her lips. - -I would ask her often, being of an inquisitive turn of mind, 'Mother, -what have you got for dinner to-day?' 'Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses,' -she would reply merrily. Then I knew that one of our favourite dishes -was sure to be on the table, and I rejoiced accordingly. Sometimes, -however, she would vary her reply by saying that dinner would consist -of 'Knobs of Chairs and Pump-Handles.' Then would I sit in sackcloth -and ashes, for I knew that the chance of a good dinner was trembling -in the balance. - -But Knobs of Chairs and Pump-Handles was the exception. -Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses was the rule. And to this day -Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses bears for me in its simple utterance a -sacred and beautiful meaning. It means contentment; it means -cheerfulness; it means the exercise of sweet words and gentle thought; -it means Home! - -Dear and sacred word! Let us get away from the garish light that -distorts it. Let you and I, this Christmas, retire for a while, and -think of it and muse upon it. Let us resolve to cherish it always, and -let us unite in the hope that its influence for inconceivable good may -not be lost in the turmoil of the Great March, to the thunderous steps -of which the world's heart is wildly beating. Home! It is earth's -heaven! The flowers that grow within garret walls prove it; the -wondering ecstasy that fills the mother's breast as she looks upon the -face of her first-born, the quiet ministering to those we love, the -unselfishness, the devotion, the tender word, the act of charity, the -self-sacrifice that finds creation there, prove it; the prayers that -are said as we kneel by the bedside before committing our bodies to -sleep, the little hands folded in worship, the lisping words of praise -and of thanks to God that come from children's lips, the teaching of -those words by the happy mother so that her child may grow up good, -prove it. No lot in life is too lowly for this earth's heaven. No lot -in life is too lowly for the pure enjoyment of Bread-and-Cheese and -Kisses. - -I wish you, dear readers and friends, no better lot than this. May -Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses often be your fare, and may it leave as -sweet a taste in your mouth as it has left in mine! - - - - - - PART I. - - COME AND SHOW YOUR FACE, LIKE A MAN! - - -[Illustration] - - -If I were asked to point to a space of ground which, of all other -spaces in the world, most truly represents the good and bad, the high -and low, of humanity, I should unhesitatingly describe a circle of a -mile around Westminster Abbey. Within that space is contained all that -ennobles life, and all that debases it; and within that space, at the -same moment, the lofty aspiration of the statesman pulses in the great -Senate House in unison with the degraded desires of the inhabitant of -Old Pye-street. There St. Giles and St. James elbow each other. There -may be seen, in one swift comprehensive glance, all the beauty and -ugliness of life, all its hope and hopelessness, all its vanity and -modesty, all its knowledge and ignorance, all its piety and profanity, -all its fragrance and foulness. The wisdom of ages, the nobility that -sprung from fortunate circumstance or from brave endeavour, the -sublime lessons that lie in faith and heroism, sanctify the solemn -aisles of the grand old Abbey. Within its sacred cloisters rest the -ashes of the great: outside its walls, brushing them with his ragged -garments, skulks the thief--and worse. - -But not with these contrasts, nor with any lesson that they may teach, -have you and I to deal now. Our attention is fixed upon the striking -of eight o'clock by the sonorous tongue of Westminster. And not our -attention alone--for many of the friends with whom we shall presently -shake hands are listening also; so that we find ourselves suddenly -plunged into very various company. Ben Sparrow, the old grocer, who, -just as One tolls, is weighing out a quarter of a pound of brown sugar -for a young urchin without a cap, inclines his head and listens, for -all the world as if he _were_ a sparrow, so birdlike is the movement: -Bessie Sparrow, his granddaughter, who, having put Tottie to bed, is -coming downstairs in the dark (she has left the candle in the -washhand-basin in Tottie's room, for Tottie cannot go to sleep without -a light), stops and counts from One to Eight, and thinks the while, -with eyes that have tears in them, of Somebody who at the same moment -is thinking of her: Tottie, with one acid-drop very nearly at the -point of dissolution in her mouth, and with another perspiring in her -hand, lies in bed and listens and forgets to suck until the sound dies -quite away: a patient-looking woman, pausing in the contemplation of a -great crisis in her life, seeks to find in the tolling of the bell -some assurance of a happy result: James Million, Member of Parliament, -whose name, as he is a very rich man, may be said to be multitudinous, -listens also as he rolls by in his cab; and as his cab passes the end -of the street in which Mrs. Naldret resides, that worthy woman, who is -standing on a chair before an open cupboard, follows the sound, with -the tablecloth in her hand, and mutely counts One, Two, Three, Four, -Five, Six, Seven, Eight, the last number being accompanied by a -resigned sigh, as if Eight were the end of all things. - -The room in which Mrs. Naldret is standing is poor and comfortable; a -cheerful fire is burning, and the kettle is making up its mind to -begin to sing. An old black cat is lazily blinking her eyes at the -little jets of gas that thrust their forked tongues from between the -bars of the stove. This cat is lying on a faded hearthrug, in which -once upon a time a rampant lion reigned in brilliant colours; and she -is not at all disturbed by the thought that a cat lying full-length -upon a lion, with his tongue hanging out, is an anomaly in nature and -a parody in art. There is certainly some excuse for her in the -circumstance that the lion is very old, and is almost entirely rubbed -out. - -Mrs. Naldret steps from the chair with the tablecloth in her hand, and -in one clever shake, and with as nimble a movement as any wizard could -have made, shakes it open. As it forms a balloon over the table, she -assists it to expel the wind, and to settle down comfortably--being -herself of a comfortable turn of mind--and smoothes the creases with -her palms, until the cloth fits the table like wax. Then she sets the -tea-things, scalds the teapot, and begins to cut the bread and to -butter it. She cuts the bread very thick, and butters it very thin. -Butter is like fine gold to poor people. - -'I don't remember,' she says, pausing to make the reflection, with the -knife in the middle of the loaf, 'its being so cold for a long time. -To be sure, we're in December, and it'll be Christmas in three weeks. -Christmas!' she repeats, with a sigh, 'and George'll not be here. -He'll be on the sea--on the stormy ocean. It'll be a heavy Christmas -to us. But, there! perhaps it's all for the best; though how George -got the idea of emigrating into his head, I can't tell; it seemed to -come all of a sudden like. The house won't seem like the same -when he's away.' For comfort, her thoughts turn in another -direction--towards her husband. 'I wish father was home, though it -isn't quite his time--and he's pretty punctual, is father.' She goes -to the window, and peeps at the sky through a chink in the shutters. -'It looks as if it was going to snow. What a bright clear night it is, -but how cold! It's freezing hard!' Turning, she looks at the fire, and -at the cozy room, gratefully. 'Thank God, we've got a fire, and a roof -to cover us! God help those who haven't! There are a many of 'em, poor -creatures, and times are hard.' She turns again to the window, to -takes another peep at the sky through the shutters, and finds the -light shut out. 'There's some one looking into the room!' she -exclaims, retreating hastily out of view. 'It can't be Jim--he's never -done such a thing. He's only too glad to get indoors such nights as -this. And it can't be George. And there's the lock of the street-door -broken--no more use than a teapot with a hole in the bottom.' Being a -woman of courage, Mrs. Naldret runs into the passage, and opens the -street-door. 'Who's there? she cries, looking into the street, and -shivering, as the cold wind blows into her face. 'Who's there? Don't -sneak away like that, but come and show your face, like a man!' - -The man pauses at the challenge, stands irresolute for a moment or -two, then walks slowly back to the window, with hanging head. - -'Show my face, like a man!' he repeats, sadly, bitterly, and with a -world of self-reproach in his tone. 'There's not much of that stuff -left in me, Mrs. Naldret.' - -'Good Lord!' she exclaims, as he stands before her like a criminal. -'It's Saul Fielding!' - -'Yes,' he replies. 'It's Saul Fielding, God help him!' - -'Why can't Saul Fielding help himself?' she retorts, half angrily, -half pityingly. 'There was stuff enough in him once--at all events I -thought so.' - -'Show me the way!' he cries; but lowers his tone instantly, and says -humbly, 'I beg your pardon, Mrs. Naldret, for speaking in that manner. -It's ungrateful of me to speak like that to any of George's friends. -and least of all to his mother, that George loves like the apple of -his eye.' - -'So he does, dear lad,' says the grateful woman, 'and it does my heart -good to hear you say so. But you've nothing to be grateful to me for, -Saul. I've never done you any good; it's never been in my power.' - -'Yes, you have, and it has been in your power, Mrs. Naldret. Why, it -was only last week that you offered me----' - -'What you wouldn't take,' she interrupts hastily; 'so you don't know -if I meant it. Let be! Let be!' - -'----That you offered me food,' he continues steadily. 'But it's like -you and yours to make light of it. You've never done me any good! Why, -you're George's mother, and you brought him into the world! And I owe -him more than my life--ay, more than my life!' - -'I know the friendship there was between you and George,' she says, -setting the strength of his words to that account, 'and that George -loved you like a brother. More's the pity, because of that, that you -are as you are.' - -'It is so,' he assents meekly; 'but the milk's spilt; I can't pick it -up again.' - -'Saul, Saul! you talk like a woman!' - -'Do I?' he asks tenderly, and looking into her face with respect and -esteem in his eyes. 'Then there's some good left in me. I know one who -is stronger than I am, better, wiser, than a hundred such as I--and I -showed my appreciation of her goodness and her worth by doing her -wrong. Show my face like a man! I ought to hide it, as the moles do, -and show my contempt for myself by flying from the sight of men!' - -Filled with compassion, she turns her face from him so that she may -not witness his grief. - -'She is the noblest, the best of women!' he continues. 'In the face of -God, I say it. Standing here, with His light shining upon me, with His -keen wind piercing me to my bones (but it is just!), I bow to her, -although I see her not, as the nearest approach to perfect goodness -which it has ever been my happiness and my unhappiness to come in -contact with. Ay; although virtue, as humanly exercised, would turn -its back upon her.' - -'Are you blaming the world, Saul Fielding,' she asks, in a tone that -has a touch of sternness in it, 'for a fault which is all your own?' - -'No,' he answers; 'I am justifying Jane. _I_ blame the world! a pretty -object I, to turn accuser!' - -He appeals to his rags, in scorn of them and of himself. - -'Saul Fielding,' she says, after a pause during which she feels -nothing but ruth for his misery, 'you are a bit of a scholar; you have -gifts that others could turn to account, if they had them. Before -you--you----' - -'Went wrong,' he adds, as she hesitates, 'I know what you want to say. -Go on, Mrs. Naldret. _Your_ words don't hurt me.' - -'Before that time, George used to come home full of admiration for you -and your gifts. He said that you were the best-read man in all the -trade, and I'm sure, to hear you speak is proof enough of that. Well, -let be, Saul; let the past die, and make up your mind, like a man, to -do better in the future.' - -'Let the past die!' he repeats, as through the clouds that darken his -mind rifts of human love shine, under the influence of which his voice -grows indescribably soft and tender. 'Let the past die! No, not for a -world of worlds. Though it is filled with shame, I would not let it -go.--What are you looking for?' - -'It's Jim's time--my husband's--for coming home,' she says, a little -anxiously, looking up the street. 'He mightn't like----' But again she -hesitates and stumbles over her words. - -'To see you talking to me. He shall not My eyes are better than his, -and the moment I see him turn the corner of the street, I will go.' - -'What were you looking through the shutters for?' - -'I wanted to see if George was at home.' - -'And supposing he had been?' - -'I should have waited in the street until he came out.' - -'Do you think Jim Naldret would like to see his son talking to Saul -Fielding?' - -'No, I don't suppose he would,' he replies quietly; 'but for all that, -I shall do George no harm. I would lay down my life to serve him. You -don't know what binds me and George together. And he is going away -soon--how soon, Mrs. Naldret?' - -'In a very few days,' she answers, with a sob in her throat. - -'God speed him! Ask him to see me before he goes, will you, Mrs. -Naldret?' - -'Yes, I will, Saul; and thank you a thousand times for the good -feeling you show to him.' - -'Tell him that I have joined the waits, and that he will hear my flute -among them any night this week. I'll manage so that we don't go away -from this neighbourhood till he bids good-bye to it.' - -'Joined the waits!' she exclaims. 'Good Lord! Have you come to that?' - -'That's pretty low, isn't it?' he says, with a light laugh, and with a -dash of satire in his tone. 'But, then, you know--playing the -flute--is one of my gifts--(I learnt it myself when I was a boy)--and -if s the only thing I can get to do. Is there any tune you're very -fond of, and would like to hear as you lie a-bed? If there is, we'll -play it.' - -'If you could play a tune to keep George at home,' says Mrs. Naldret, -'that's the tune I'd like to hear.' - -'Your old Gospel of contentment, Mrs. Naldret,' he remarks. - -'I like to let well alone,' she replies, with emphatic nods; 'if -you'd been content with that, years ago, instead of trying to stir men -up----' - -'I shouldn't be as I am now,' he says, interrupting her; 'you are -right--you are right. Good-night, and God bless you!' - -He shuffles off, without waiting for another word, blowing on his -fingers, which are almost frozen. Mrs. Naldret, who is also cold -enough by this time, is glad to get to her fireside, to warm herself. -Her thoughts follow Saul Fielding. 'Poor fellow!' she muses. 'I should -like to have had him by the fire for a while, but Jim would have been -angry. And to be sure it wouldn't be right, with the life he's been -leading. But how well he talks, and how clever he is! What'll be the -end of him, goodness only knows. He's made me feel quite soft. And how -he loves George! That's what makes me like him. "You don't know what -binds me and George together," he said. "I would lay down my life to -serve him," he said. Well, there must be some good in a man who speaks -like that!' - - - - AND SO THE LAD GOES ON WITH HIS BESSIE AND HIS BESSIE, UNTIL ONE - WOULD THINK HE HAS NEVER A MOTHER IN THE WORLD. - - -By an egregious oversight on the part of the architect, designer, or -what not, the door of Mrs. Naldret's room turned into the passage, so -that whenever it was opened the cold wind had free play, and made -itself felt. Mrs. Naldret, bending before the fire to warm herself, -does not hear the softest of raps on the panel, but is immediately -afterwards made sensible that somebody is coming into the room by a -chill on the nape of her neck and down the small of her back, 'enough -to freeze one's marrow,' she says. She knows the soft footfall, and, -without turning, is aware that Bessie Sparrow is in the room. - -'Come to the fire, my dear,' she says. - - -[Illustration] - - -Bessie kneels by her side, and the two women, matron and maid, look -into the glowing flames, and see pictures there. Their thoughts being -on the same subject, the pictures they see are of the same -character--all relating to George, and ships, and wild seas, and -strange lands. - -'I dreamt of you and George last night,' says Mrs. Naldret, taking -Bessie's hand in hers. She likes the soft touch of Bessie's fingers; -her own are hard and full of knuckles. The liking for anything that is -soft is essentially womanly. 'I dreamt that you were happily married, -and we were all sitting by your fireside, as it might be now, and I -was dancing a little one upon my knee.' - -'O, mother!' exclaims Bessie, hiding her face on Mrs. Naldret's neck. - -'I told father my dream before breakfast this morning, so it's sure to -come true. The little fellow was on my knee as naked as ever it was -born, a-cocking out its little legs and drawing of them up again, like -a young Samson. Many a time I've had George on my knee like that, and -he used to double up his fists as if he wanted to fight all the world -at once. George was the finest babby I ever _did_ see; he walked at -nine months. He's been a good son, and'll make a good husband; and -he's as genuine as salt, though I say it perhaps as shouldn't, being -his mother. Is your grandfather coming into-night, Bess? - -'I don't think it. He's busy getting ready a Christmas show for the -window; he wants to make it look very gay, to attract business: -Grandfather's dreadfully worried because business is so bad. People -are not laying out as much money as they used to do.' - -'Money don't buy what it used to do, Bess; things are dearer, and -money's the same. Father isn't earning a shilling more to-day than he -earnt ten years ago, and meat's gone up, and rent's gone up, and -plenty of other things have gone up' But we've got to be contented, my -dear, and make the best of things. If George could get enough work at -home to keep him going, do you suppose he'd ever ha' thought of going -to the other end of the world?' She asks this question, with a shrewd, -watchful look into Bessie's face, which the girl does not see, her -eyes being towards the fire; and adds immediately, 'Although he's not -going for long, thank God.' - -'It is very, very hard,' sighs Bessie, 'that he should have to go.' - -'It would be harder, my dear, for him to remain here doing nothing. -There's nothing that does a man--or a woman either, Bess--so much -mischief as idleness. My old mother used to say that when a man's -idle, he's worshipping the devil. You know very well, Bess, that I'm -all for contentment. One can make a little do if one's mind is made up -for it--just as one can find a great deal not enough if one's mind is -set that way. For my part, I think that life's too short to worrit -your inside out, a-wishing for this, and a-longing for that, and -a-sighing for t'other. When George began to talk of going abroad, -I said to him, "Home's home, George, and you can be happy on -bread-and-cheese and kisses, supposing you can't get better." "Very -well, mother," said George, "I'm satisfied with that. But come," said -he, in his coaxing way--_you_ know, Bessie!--"But come, you say home's -home, and you're right, mammy." (He always calls me mammy when he's -going to get the best of me with his tongue--he knows, the cunning -lad, that it reminds me of the time when he was a babby!) "You're -right, mammy," he said; "but I love Bess, and I want to marry her. I -want to have her all to myself," he said. "I'm not happy when I'm away -from her," he said. "I want to see her a-setting by _my_ fireside," he -said. "I don't want to be standing at the street-door a-saying -goodnight to her"--(what a long time it takes a-saying! don't it, -Bess? Ah, I remember!) "a-saying good-night to her with my arm round -her waist, and my heart so full of love for her that I can hardly -speak"--(his very words, my dear!)--"and then, just as I'm feeling -happy and forgetting everything else in the world, to hear -grandfather's voice piping out from the room behind the shop, 'Don't -you think it's time to go home, George? Don't you think that it's time -for Bessie to be a-bed?' And I don't want," said George, "when I -answer in a shamefaced way, 'All right, grandfather; just five minutes -more!' to hear his voice, in less than a half a minute, waking me out -of a happy dream, calling out, 'Time's up, George! Don't you think you -ought to go home, George? Don't you think Bessie's tired, George?" -"That's all well and good," said I to him; "but what's that to do with -going abroad?" "O, mammy," he said, "when I marry Bessie, don't I want -to give her a decent bed to lie upon? Ain't I bound to get a bit of -furniture together?" Well, well; and so the lad goes on with his -Bessie and his Bessie, until one would think he has never a mother in -the world.' - -There is not a spice of jealousy in her tone as she says this, -although she pretends to pout, for the arm that is around Bessie -tightens on the girl's waist, and the mother's lips touch the girl's -face lovingly. All that Mrs. Naldret has said is honey to Bessie, and -the girl drinks it in, and enjoys it, as bright fresh youth only can -enjoy. - -'So,' continues Mrs. Naldret, pursuing her story, 'when George comes -home very down in the mouth, as he does a little while ago, and says -that trade's slack, and he don't see how he's to get the bit of -furniture together that he's bound to have when he's married, I knew -what was coming. And as he's got the opportunity--and a passage free, -thanks to Mr. Million'--(here Mrs. Naldret looks again at Bessie in -the same watchful manner as before, and Bessie, in whose eyes the -tears are gathering, and upon whose face the soft glow of the -firelight is reflected, again does not observe it)--'I can't blame -him; though, mind you, my dear, if he could earn what he wants here, -I'd be the last to give him a word of encouragement But he can't earn -it here, he says; times are too bad. He can't get enough work here, he -says; there's too little to do, and too many workmen to do it. So he's -going abroad to get it, and good luck go with him, and come back with -him! Say that, my dear.' - -'Good luck go with him,' repeats Bessie, unable to keep back her -tears, 'and come back with him!' - -'That's right. And, as George has made up his mind and can't turn back -now, we must put strength into him, whether he's right or whether he's -wrong. So dry your eyes, my girl, and send him away with a light heart -instead of a heavy one. Don't you know that wet things are always -heavier to carry than dry? George has got to fight with the world, you -see; and if a young fellow stands up to fight with the tears running -down his cheeks, he's bound to get the worst of it But if he says, -"Come on!" with a cheerful heart and a smiling face, he stands a good -chance of winning--as George will, you see if he don't!' - -'You dear good mother!' and Bessie kisses Mrs. Naldret's neck again -and again. - -'Now, then,' says Mrs. Naldret, rising from before the fire, 'go and -wash your eyes with cold water, my dear. Go into George's room. Lord -forgive me!' she soliloquises when Bessie has gone, 'I'd give my -fingers for George not to go. But what's the use of fretting and -worriting one's life away now that he's made up his mind? I shall be -glad when they are married, though I doubt she doesn't love George as -well as George loves her. But it'll come; it'll come. Times are -different now to what they were, and girls are different. A little -more fond of dress and pleasure and fine ways. She was very tender -just now--she feels it now that George is really going. It would be -better for her if he was to stay; but George is right about the times -being hard. Ah, well! it ain't many of us as gets our bread well -buttered in this part of the world! But there! I've tasted sweet bread -without a bit of butter on it many and many a time!' - - - - YOU WORE ROSES THEN, MOTHER. - - -Having made this reflection, Mrs. Naldret thinks of her husband again, -and wonders what makes him so late to-night. But in a few moments she -hears a stamping in the passage. 'That's Jim,' she thinks, with a -light in her eyes. A rough comely man; with no hair on his face but a -bit of English whisker of a light sandy colour in keeping with his -skin, which is of a light sandy colour also. Head well shaped, -slightly bald, especially on one side, where the hair has been worn -away by the friction of his two-foot rule. When Jim Naldret makes a -purse of his lips, and rubs the side of his head with his rule, his -mates know that he is in earnest. And he is very often in earnest. - -'It's mortal cold, mother,' he says almost before he enters. - -'There's a nice fire, father,' replies Mrs. Naldret cheerfully; -'that'll soon warm you.' - -'I don't know about that,' he returns, with the handle of the door in -his hand. 'Now look here,--_did_ you ever see such a door as this? -Opens bang into the passage.' - -'You're always grumbling about the door, father.' - -'Well, if I like it, it doesn't do any one any harm, does it? The -architect was a born fool, that's what he was.' - -To support his assertion that the architect was a born fool, Jim -Naldret thinks it necessary to make a martyr of himself; so he stands -in the draught, and shivers demonstratively as the cold wind blows -upon him. - -'Never mind the door, Jim,' says Mrs. Naldret coaxingly. 'Come and -wash your hands.' - - -[Illustration] - - -'But I shall mind the door!' exclaims Jim Naldret, who is endowed with -a large organ of combativeness, and never can be induced to shirk an -argument. 'The architect he made this door for warm weather. Then it's -all very well. But in this weather, it's a mistake, that's what it is. -Directly you open it, comes a blast cold enough to freeze one. I ain't -swearing, mother, because I say blast.' - -This small pleasantry restores his equanimity, and he repeats it with -approving nods; but it produces little effect upon his wife, who says, - -'_Will_ you wash your hands and face, father, instead of maudlin?' - -'All right, all right, mother! Bring the basin in here, and I'll soon -sluice myself.' - -Mrs. Naldret, going to their bedroom, which is at the back of the -parlour, to get the soap and water, calls out softly from that -sanctuary, - -'Bessie's here, father.' - -'Ah,' he says, rubbing his knuckles before the fire. 'Where is she?' - -'Up-stairs in George's room. She'll be down presently. She's pretty -low in spirits, father.' - -'I suppose you've been having a cry together, mother,' By this time -Mrs. Naldret has brought in a basin of water and a towel, which she -places on a wooden chair, 'I daresay George'll pipe his eye a bit -too, when he says good-bye to some of his mates. Ugh! the water is -cold!' - -'George pipe his eye! Not him! He's a man is George--not one of your -crying sort.' - -'I don't know about that,' gasps Jim Naldret; 'a man may be crying -although you don't see the tears running down his face. Ugh!' - -There was something apposite to his own condition in this remark, for -Jim's eyes were smarting and watering in consequence of the soap -getting into them. - -'That's true, Jim. Many a one's heart cries when the eyes are dry.' - -'I can't get over Mr. Million getting that passage-ticket for George. -I can't get over it, mother. It's bothered me ever so much.' - -'Well, it's only steerage, Jim, and you can't say that it wasn't kind -of Mr. Million.' - -'I don't know so much about that, mother.' - -'Do you know, Jim,' says Mrs. Naldret, after a pause, during which -both seem to be thinking of something that they deem it not prudent or -wise to speak about, 'that I've sometimes fancied----' Here the old -black cat rubs itself against her ankles, and she stoops to fondle it, -which perhaps is the reason why she does not complete the sentence. - -'Fancied what, mother? - -'That young Mr. Million was fond of Bessie.' - -'I shouldn't wonder,' he replies, with a cough. 'Who wouldn't be?' - -'Yes; but not in that way.' - -'Not in what way, mother?' - -'You drive me out of all patience, Jim. As if you couldn't -understand--but you men are _so_ blind!' - -'And you women are so knowing!' retorts Jim Naldret, in a tone made -slightly acid because he is groping about for the towel, and cannot -find it. 'Where _is_ the towel, mother? That's Bessie's step, I know. -Come and kiss me, my girl.' - -'There!' exclaims Bessie, who has just entered the room, standing -before him with an air of comical remonstrance, with patches of -soapsuds on her nose and face, 'you've made my face all wet.' - -'Father never _will_ wash the soap off his skin before he dries it,' -says Mrs. Naldret, wiping Bessie's face with her apron. - -'Never mind, Bessie,' says Mr. Naldret, rubbing himself hot; 'your -face'll stand it better than some I've seen. I can't wash the colour -out of your cheeks.' - -Bessie laughs, and asks him how does he know? and says there is a sort -of paint that women use that defies water. While Mrs. Naldret tells -him not to be satirical, remarking that all women have their little -weaknesses. - -'Weaknesses!' echoes Mr. Naldret, digging into the corners of his eyes -viciously. 'It's imposition, that's what it is!' - -'You'll rub all the skin off your face, if you rub like that.' - -'It's a playing a man false,' continues Jim Naldret, not to be -diverted from the subject, 'that's what it is. It's a----' - -'Is George coming home to tea, do you know, father?' asks Mrs. -Naldret, endeavouring to stem the torrent. - -'No; he told me we wasn't to wait for him. It's a trading under false -pretences----' - -'Not coming home to tea! And here I've been laying the tablecloth for -him, because I know he enjoys his tea better when there's something -white on the table. Mind you remember that, Bessie. There's nothing -like studying a man's little ways, if you want to live happy with -him.' - -'I wondered what the tablecloth was on for,' remarks Jim Naldret; and -then resumes with bulldog tenacity, 'It's a trading under false -pretences, that's what it is! Little weaknesses! Why----' - -'Now, father, will you come and have tea?' - -'Now, mother, _will_ you learn manners, and not interrupt? But I can -have my tea and talk too.' - -Mrs. Naldret makes a great fuss in setting chairs, and a great clatter -with the cups and saucers, but her wiles produce not the slightest -effect on her husband, who seats himself, and says, - -'Well, this is my opinion, and I wouldn't mind a-telling of it to the -Queen. What do girls look forward to naturally? Why, matrimony to be -sure----' - -'Put another lump of sugar in father's cup, Bessie. He likes it -sweet.' - -'Well,' continues the irrepressible Jim, 'looking forward to that, -they ought to be honest and fair to the men, and not try to take them -in by painting themselves up. It's a good many years ago that I fell -in love with you, mother, and a bright-looking girl you was when you -said Yes, to me. You wore roses then, mother! But if, when I married -you, I had found that the roses in your cheek came off with a damp -towel, and that you hadn't any eyebrows to speak of except what you -put on with a brush, and that what I saw of your skin before I married -you was a deal whiter than what I saw of your skin after I married -you,--I'd--I'd----' - -'What on earth would you have done, father?' asks Mrs. Naldret, -laughing. - -'I'd have had you up before the magistrate,' replies Jim Naldret, with -a look of sly humour. 'I'd have had you fined, as sure as my name's -Jim.' - -'That wouldn't have hurt me,' says Mrs. Naldret, entering into the -humour of the idea, and winking at Bessie; 'my husband would have had -to pay the fine.' - -Jim Naldret gives a great laugh at this conclusion of the argument, in -appreciation of having been worsted by these last few pithy words, and -says, with an admiring look at his wife, - -'Well, let you women alone!' - -Then, this subject being disposed of, and Jim Naldret having had his -say, Mrs. Naldret asks if he has brought home the _Ha'penny Trumpet_. - -'Yes,' he answers, 'here it is. A great comfort to the poor man -are the ha'penny papers. He gets all the news of the day for a -ha'penny--all the police-courts----'. - -'Ah,' interrupts Mrs. Naldret, 'that's the sort of reading I like. -Give me a newspaper with plenty of police-court cases.' - -But police-court cases have not the charm for Jim Naldret that they -have for the women, with whom a trial for breach-of promise is perhaps -the most interesting reading in the world. - -'There's a strike in the North among the colliers,' says Jim. 'The old -hands are beating the new men, and setting fire to their houses.' - -'And turning,' adds Mrs. Naldret, 'the women and children into the -streets, I daresay--the wretches!' - -'I don't know so much about that, mother. Men are goaded sometimes, -till they lose their heads. If a man puts my blood up, I hit him.' - -'You, father! You hurt any one.' - -'I said I'd hit him--I didn't say I'd hurt him. I'd hit him soft, -perhaps; but I'd be bound to hit him if he put my blood up!' - -'A strike's a wicked thing, father,' is Mrs. Naldret's commentary. - -'I don't know so much about that. There's a good deal to be said on -both sides.' - -'There's Saul Fielding,' says Mrs. Naldret; 'getting up a strike was -the ruin of him--and hurt a good many others, hurt 'em badly, as you -know, Jim.' - -By this time the tea-things are cleared away, the hearth is swept up, -and the fire is trimmed. The picture that is presented in this humble -room is a very pleasant one; Bessie and Mrs. Naldret are doing -needlework more as a pastime than anything else, and Jim is looking -down the columns of the _Trumpet_. - -'Saul Fielding went too far,' says Jim; 'and when he had dragged a lot -of men into a mess, he deserted them, and showed the white feather. -I'm for my rights, and I'll stand up for them, but I'm not for -violence nor unreasonable measures. Saul Fielding's fine speech misled -a many, who swore by him, and would have followed him through thick -and thin. He makes a speech one night that set the men on fire. I -heard it myself, and I was all of a quiver; but when I was in the cold -air by myself I got my reason back, and I saw that Saul Fielding was -putting things in a wrong light. But other men didn't see it. Then, -what does he do? Deserts his colours the very next day, and leaves the -men that he's misled in the lurch.' - -'He may have got in the air, as you did, Jim, and thought better of -what he had said. He may have found out afterwards that he was wrong.' - -'Not he! He had plenty of time to consider beforehand--seemed as if he -had studied his speeches by heart--never stumbled over a word, as the -others did, who were a deal honester than him--stumbled over 'em as if -words was stones.' - -'Well, poor fellow, he's suffered enough. From that day masters and -men have been against him.' - -'He's made his bed, and he must lay on it,' says Jim Naldret; 'and you -know, mother, even if he could wipe that part of his life away, he's -not fit company for honest men and women.' - -Jim Naldret feels inclined to say a great deal more on another subject -about Saul Fielding, but as the subject which he would have ventilated -is a delicate one, and refers to a woman who is not Saul Fielding's -wife, he refrains, because Bessie is present. - -'Let Saul Fielding drop, mother.' - -Mrs. Naldret deems it wise to say no more about Saul, and allows a -minute or so to elapse before she speaks again. - -'Anything in the paper, Jim, about that working-man that put up for -Parliament?' - -'He didn't get in.' - -Mrs. Naldret expresses her satisfaction at this result by saying that -'it's a good job for his family, if he's got one.' - -'Why shouldn't a working-man be in Parliament, mother?' asks Jim -Naldret. - - -[Illustration] - - -'Because he can't be two things at once. If he fuddles away all his -time at Parliament, he can't have time to work; and if he don't work -for his living, he's not a workingman.' - -'He'd work with his tongue, mother.' - -'He'd better work with his hands,' says Mrs. Naldret emphatically, -'and leave the tongue work to his wife. She'd do it better, I'll be -bound.' - -'I've no doubt she would,' says Jim Naldret, with a chuckle. 'But that -working-man in Parliament question is a problem.' - -'Well, don't you bother your head about it--that's other people's -business. My old mother used to say that every hen's got enough to do -to look after its own chicks, and it clacks enough over that, goodness -knows.' - -'But I'm not a hen, mother,' remonstrates Jim; 'I'm a cock, and I like -to have a crow now and then.' - -'Well,' exclaims Mrs. Naldret, stitching viciously, 'crow on your own -dunghill. Don't you go encroaching on other people's premises.' - - - - IF I DID NOT LOVE HER, I WOULD NOT GO AWAY. - - -The entrance of George Naldret and young Mr. Million gives a new turn -to the conversation, and to the aspect of affairs. George Naldret -needs but a very few words of introduction. He is like his father was -when his father was a young man. More comely-looking because of the -difference in their ages, but his little bit of English whisker is -after the same model as his father's, and his hair is also of a light -sandy colour. His head is well shaped, and he has contracted his -father's habit of rubbing one side of it with his two-foot rule when -he is in earnest. When he came into the world, his mother declared -that he was as like his father as two peas, which statement, regarded -from a purely grammatical point of view, involved a contradiction of -ideas. But grammar stands for nothing with some. Poor folk who have -received imperfect education are not given to hypercriticism. It is -not what is said, but what is meant. George's father and his father's -father had been carpenters before him, and as he has taken after them, -he may be said to have become a carpenter by hereditary law. Mrs. -Naldret was satisfied. To have a trade at one's finger-ends, as she -would have expressed it, is not a bad inheritance. - -Young Mr. Million was named after his father, James, and was therefore -called young Mr. Million to prevent confusion. _His_ father and his -father's father had been brewers, or, more correctly speaking, in the -brewing interest before him, and he was supposed to take after them. -There was this difference, however, between him and George Naldret. -George Naldret was a thoroughly good carpenter, but it cannot be said -that young Mr. Million was a thoroughly good brewer. In point of fact, -he was not a brewer at all, for he knew no more of the trade than I -do. He knew a good glass of beer when he was drinking it, but he did -not know how to make it; as George knew a good piece of carpentering -work when it was before him; but then George could produce a similar -piece of work himself. George took pride in his trade; young Mr. -Million looked down upon his because it _was_ a trade--he thought it -ought to be a profession. Although he and his were the last who should -have thought unkindly of it, for from the profits of the family -brewery a vast fortune had been accumulated. Estates had been bought; -position in society had been bought; a seat in the House had been -bought; perhaps, by and by, a title would be bought: for eminence -deserves recognition. And a man can be eminent in so many different -ways. One maybe an eminent tea-dealer, or an eminent chiropodist, or -an eminent dentist, if one's profits are large enough. The seat in the -House was occupied at the present time by Mr. James Million senior, -whose chief business in the Senate appeared to be to look sharply -after his own interests and those of his class, and to vote as -he was bid upon those indifferent questions of public interest which -did not affect the profits of his brewery, and which were not likely -to lessen his income from it. For Mr. Million's brewery, being an -old-established institution, had become a sacred 'vested interest,' -which it was absolute sacrilege to touch or interfere with. And it is -true that 'vested interests' _are_ ticklish questions to deal with; -but it happens, now and then, in the course of time, that what is a -'vested interest' with the few (being fed and pampered until it has -attained a monstrous growth) becomes a vested wrong to the many. Then -the safety of society demands that something should be done to stop -the monstrous growth from becoming more monstrous still. The name of -Million was well known in the locality in which the Naldrets resided, -for a great many of the beershops and public-houses in the streets -round about were under the family thumb, so to speak, and it was more -than the commercial lives of the proprietors were worth to supply any -liquids but those that Million brewed to the thirsty souls who -patronised them. And nice houses they were for a man to thrive -upon--worthy steps upon the ladder of fame for a man to grow Eminent -by! - -Young Mr. Million was a handsome-looking fellow, with the best of -clothes, and with plenty of money in his purse. Having no career -marked out for him pending the time when he would have to step into -his father's shoes, he made one for himself. He became a merchant in -wild oats--a kind of merchandise which is popularly considered to be -rather a creditable thing for young men to speculate in; and it was a -proof of his industry that he was accumulating a large supply of the -corn--having regard probably to its future value in the market. But in -this respect he was emulated by many who deem it almost a point of -honour to have their granaries well supplied with the commodity. - -As the young men enter the room, Bessie's eyes brighten. She knows -George's footsteps well, and has not recognised the other. George -enters first, and he has drawn Bessie to him and kissed her, and she -him, before she sees young Mr. Million. When she does see that heir to -the family brewery, she gently releases herself from George's embrace, -and stands a little aside, with a heightened colour in her face. The -action is perfectly natural, and just what a modest girl would do in -the presence of a comparative stranger--as young Mr. Million must have -been, necessarily, he being so high in the social scale, and she so -low. The young gentleman, in the most affable manner, shakes hands all -round, and gives them good evening. - -'Meeting George as I was strolling this way,' he says, accepting the -chair which Mrs. Naldret offers him, 'and having something to say to -him, I thought I might take advantage of his offer to step in, and -rest for a minute or so.' - -Had he told the exact truth, he would have confessed that he had no -idea of coming into the house until he heard from old Ben Sparrow, at -whose shop he had called, that Bessie was at Mrs. Naldret's, and that, -meeting George afterwards, he had walked with him to the door, and had -accepted a casual invitation to walk in, given out of mere politeness, -and almost as a matter of form. - -'You have the _Trumpet_ there, I see,' continues young Mr. Million, -addressing the master of the house; 'is there anything particular in -it?' - -'No, sir,' replies Jim, 'nothing but the usual things--strikes, -elections, and that like. There's always plenty stirring to fill a -newspaper.' - -'That there is,' says the young brewer; 'I'm sorry to hear of the -strikes spreading. They make things bad in every way.' - -'That they do, sir,' chimes in Mrs. Naldret; 'let well alone, I -say.' - -Young Mr. Million assents with a motion of his head. Perhaps he would -have spoken if his attention had not been fixed upon Bessie, whom -George has drawn within the circle of his arm. - -'Women can't be expected,' says Jim Naldret, with rather less -politeness than he usually shows to his wife in company, 'to -understand the rights and wrongs of this sort of thing. It's only the -horse in the shafts that feels the weight of the pull.' - -'Well,' says young Mr. Million in a careless manner, 'I'm no -politician; I leave that to my father. So, without venturing an -opinion in the presence of one who has studied these questions'--with -a condescending nod to Jim Naldret--'I can't do better than side with -Mrs. Naldret, and say with her. Let well alone.' With a graceful bow -to that worthy creature, who receives it without gratitude, for it -does not please her to find herself trapped into taking sides with a -stranger, however much of a gentleman he may be, against her husband. - -'Mr. Million came to tell me,' says George during the lull that -follows, clearing his throat, 'that the Queen of the South sails -earlier than was expected. It goes out of the Mersey the day after -to-morrow.' - -He does not look at any one of them as he says this, but they all, -with the exception of young Mr. Million, turn their anxious eyes to -George. The Queen of the South is the name of the ship in which George -is to sail for the other end of the world. - -'So soon!' exclaims Mrs. Naldret, with a motherly movement towards her -son. - -'So soon!' echoes Bessie faintly, clinging closer to her lover. - -And 'Why not stop at home?' is on the mother's tongue. 'Even now, why -not stop at home, and be contented? But she knows what George's answer -would be, so she restrains her speech. 'I want my Bessie,' he would -have answered, 'and I want a home to bring her to. If I did not love -her, I would not go away, but I would be content to work here as you -have done all your lives, and live as you have done, from hand to -mouth.' - -To cheer them, young Mr. Million tells them the latest best news from -the other side of the world--how cheaply a man could live; how much -larger a workman's earnings were there than here; what a demand there -was for skilled labour; and what chances there were for every man -whose head was screwed on the right way. - -'Suppose a man doesn't wish to work at his trade,' he says, 'and takes -it into his head to make a venture for three or four months. There are -the gold-fields. All over New South Wales and New Zealand new -gold-fields are being discovered. They say that the natives of New -Zealand are bringing in great lumps of gold from the north, and that -the ground there has never been turned over, and is full of gold. Once -in the colonies, it takes no time to get to these places; and even if -a man is not fortunate enough to do well, he can come back to his -trade. The experiment that occupies three or four months in making is -not a great slice out of a young man's life, and the prize that's -likely to be gained is worth the venture. Then at these new places, -supposing George does not care to run the risk that lies in -gold-digging, but determines to stick to his trade, what better one -can he have than that of a carpenter? Houses and shops must be built, -and they must be built of wood. Who is to build them? Why, carpenters! -Think of the scope there is for good workmen. Why, a carpenter must be -almost a king in those places! If I hadn't been born into a fortune,' -he concludes, 'I would give three cheers for Captain Cook, and be off -without a day's delay.' - -'When he bids them good-night, as he does presently, seeing that -silence falls upon them and that they wish to be left alone, he does -not leave a bad impression behind him. But although he has not -addressed half a dozen words to the girl, he sees with his mind's eye -Bessie's bright face, and no other, as he walks through the cold air. -Now, what on earth could a pretty girl like Bessie have to do with the -stock of wild oats which young Mr. Million was so industriously -collecting? - - - - WITH THE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR, BEGIN A NEW LIFE. - - -When Saul Fielding left Mrs. Naldret he made his way through the -narrow streets, shivering and stamping, until he came to a house, -the lower portion of which was devoted to the sale of plum- and -peas-pudding, and food of that description. The side door which led to -the upper portion of the house was open, and Saul ascended the dark -stairs until there were no more stairs to ascend, and entered a room, -the low roof of which shelved in one part almost to the floor. A -common lamp was alight, the flame being turned very low down, more, it -is to be presumed, for the sake of economy than for safety, for there -was nothing in the room of the slightest value. What little furniture -there was was rickety and broken: two cane chairs, nearly bald; the -few ragged pieces of cane that were left in the frames were tattered -and of various lengths, and mournfully proclaimed, 'See what we have -come to!' while one of the chairs was so completely decrepit, that it -had lost its backbone, and had so little life left in it, that it -wheezed when sat upon; a turn-up bedstead, which made a miserable -pretence of being something else; a deal table, which once could flap -its wings, but could do so no longer; on the table two cups, which -were not of a match, but this was really of the smallest consequence, -for one was chipped and one was without a handle; and a metal teapot, -the surface of which was so battered, that it might be likened to the -face of a worn-out prizefighter who had played second best in a -hundred fierce encounters. But, common and poor as was everything in -the room, everything was as clean and tidy as orderly hands could make -it. - -Saul Fielding turned up the light of the lamp, and the lamp spat and -spluttered in the operation with a discontented air of being ill-fed; -this discontent was plainly expressed in the top of the wick, which -was lurid and inflamed. There were signs in the room of a woman's -care, and Saul Fielding sat down upon the wheezy chair, and waited -with his head resting upon his hand. He had not long to wait; the -sound of light steps running up the stairs caused him to rise, and -look towards the door. - -'Jane!' - -She nodded and kissed him, and asked him if he were hungry. - -'No,' he answered; 'where have you been to?' - -'Only on a little errand. Come, you _must_ be hungry. You've had no -tea, I know.' - -She took the remains of a loaf, and a yellow basin containing a little -dripping, from a cupboard, and cut the bread and spread the dripping -solicitously. Then she pressed him to eat. - -'I shall have some with you,' she said. - -To please her, he forced himself to eat. - -'It's very cold, Jane.' - -'Very, Saul.' - -She was a woman who once was very fair to look at, who was fair now, -despite her poverty. She was not more than twenty-five years of age, -but she looked older; there was no wedding-ring on her finger, and she -was too poor for adornment of any kind about her person. There was -beauty in her, however; the beauty that lies in resignation. And now, -as Saul Fielding looked at her furtively, he noticed, with evident -inward fear, a certain kind of sad resolution in her manner which -tempered the signs of long suffering that dwelt in her face. He put -his hand timidly upon her once, and said in a troubled voice. - -'You have no flannel petticoat on, Jane.' - -'No, Saul,' she answered cheerfully; 'I have pledged it.' - -An impressive silence followed. As the darkness that fell upon Egypt -could be felt, so the silence that fell upon this room spoke: with -bitter, brazen tongue. - -'I have been out all the afternoon,' she said presently. 'First I went -to----you know where.' Her soft voice faltered, and carried the -meaning of the vague words to his sense. - -'And saw her?' he asked wistfully. - -'Yes; she was playing on the door-step. She looked so beautiful! I--I -kissed her!' - -All the love that woman's heart can feel, all the tenderness of which -woman's love is capable, were expressed in the tone in which she -uttered these simple words. She placed her fingers on her lips, and -dwelt upon the memory of the kiss with tearful eyes, with heart that -ached with excess of love. - -'Did I tell you that last week I tried again to get work, Saul?' - -'No,' he said; 'you failed!' As if he knew for certain with what -result. - -'Yes; I failed,' she repeated sadly. - -'I ask myself sometimes if I am a man,' exclaimed Saul, in contempt of -himself, spurning himself as it were; 'if I have anything of a man's -spirit left within me. Mrs. Naldret said something of that sort to me -this very night--not unkindly, but with a good purpose. When I think -of myself as I was many years ago, it seems to me that I am -transformed. And the future! Good God! what lies in it for us?' - -'I am a tie upon you, Saul.' - -'A tie upon me!' he said, in a tone of wonder. 'Jane, you are my -salvation! But for you I should have drifted into God knows what. You -are at once my joy and my remorse.' - -He took from the mantelshelf a broken piece of looking-glass, and -gazed at the reflection of his face. A bold and handsome face, but -with deeper lines in it than his years, which were not more than -thirty-two or three, warranted. Strong passion and dissipation had -left striking marks behind them, but his clear blue eyes were as yet -undimmed, and shone with a lustre which denoted that there was vigour -still in him. His mouth was large, and the lips were the most -noticeable features in his face; they were the lips of one to whom -eloquence came as a natural gift, firm, and tremulous when need be. -The change that he saw in himself as he looked back to the time gone -by gave point and bitterness to his next words. - -'I was not like this once. When you first saw me, Jane, these marks -and lines were wanting--they have come all too soon. But no one is to -blame but I. I have brought it all on myself. On myself! On you!--you -suffer with me, patiently, uncomplainingly. You have a greater load -than I to bear; and you will not let me lighten it.' - -'I will not let you, Saul! I don't understand.' - -'Because every time I approach the subject, I try to approach it by a -different road.' - -'Ah, I know now,' she said softly. - -'Jane, I ask you for the twentieth time.' He held out his hands -supplicatingly to her. 'Let me do what I can to remove the shame from -you. Let me do what I can to atone for my fault. As you love me, Jane, -marry me!' - -'As I love you, Saul, I refuse!' - -He turned from her, and paced the room; she watched him with steady -loving eyes, and the signs of a sad, fixed resolution deepened in her -face. - -'Come and sit by me, Saul.' - -He obeyed her, and she drew his head upon her breast and kissed his -lips. - -'There's no question--no doubt of the love between us, Saul?' - -'None, Jane.' - -'If some chance were to part us this night, and I was never to look -upon your face again----' - -'Jane!' - ---'And I was never to look upon your face again,' she repeated with a -cheerful smile, 'I should, if I lived to be an old woman, and you to -be an old man, never for one moment doubt that you loved me through -all the years.' - -'It is like you, Jane; your faith would not be misplaced.' - -'I know it, and I know that you would be to me the same--you would -believe that no other man could hold the place in my heart that you -have always held.' - -He took her in his arms, and said that she was his anchor; that as -nothing on earth could shake her faith in him, so nothing on earth -could shake his faith in her; after what she had said (although he -knew it before, and would have staked his worthless life on it) could -she still refuse to allow him to make her the only reparation it was -in his power to make? - -She waived the question for the present and said, - -'We are at the lowest ebb, Saul.' - -'Ay,' he answered. - -'Then you must not speak of drifting,' she said tenderly; 'we have -drifted low enough. Remember, Saul,' and she took his hand in hers, -and looked into his eyes, 'we have not ourselves alone to think of. -There is another. It only needs resolution. Come--let us talk of it -Here, there is no hope.' - -'There seems none, Jane; all heart has left me.' - -'Elsewhere things might be better for you.' - -'For us,' he said, correcting her. 'What is better for you is better -for me,' she replied. 'I heard today that George Naldret----' - -'God bless him!' - -'Amen! God bless him! I heard to-day that he was going away sooner -than was expected.' - -'I heard so too, Jane; and I went round to Mrs. Naldret's tonight to -see him if I could. But he had not come home.' - -'Saul,' she said, hiding her face on his shoulder, and pressing him in -her arms, as one might do who was about to lose what she loved best in -this world, 'we have suffered much together; our love for each other -seems to keep us down.' - -'It is I--I only who am to blame. I commenced life badly, and went -from bad to worse.' - -She placed her hand upon his lips, and stopped farther -self-accusation. - -'It is a blessing for many,' she said, 'that those new lands have been -discovered. A man can commence a new life there without being crushed -by the misfortunes or faults of the past, if he be earnest enough to -acquire strength. It might be a blessing to you.' - -'It might,' he assented, 'if you were with me.' - -'You, with your gifts, with your talent for many things, might do so -well there. Saul, turn that lamp down; the light glares, and hurts my -eyes.' - -He turned down the lamp; the sullen wick flickered, once, twice, -thrice, and the room was in darkness. - -'Let it be, Saul; don't light it. I love to talk to you in the dark. -It reminds me of a time----do you remember?' - - -[Illustration] - - -Did he remember? There came to him, in the gloom of the mean room, the -memory of the time, years ago, when he first told her that he loved -her. In the few brief moments that followed, after the light had gone -out, the entire scene was presented to him; every word that was -uttered by him and by her came to him. It was in the dark that he had -told her; it was in the dark that he vowed to be faithful to her, and -she to him. It seemed as if it might have been yesterday, for he held -her in his arms now, as he had held her then, and he felt her heart -beating against his. But the misery of the present time was too -pressing to forget for more than a brief space, and he raised his head -from her breast, and faced the gleams of the clear bright cold night, -as they shone through the garret-window. - -'If I were to tell you,' she resumed, 'that I have felt no sorrow -because of the position we are in--not as regards money, though that -cannot be worse, but as regards our living together, not being -married--I should tell you what is not true. I have felt bitter, -bitter sorrow--bitter, bitter shame. When friends fell off from me, I -suffered much--when the dearest one I had, a girl of my own age, said, -"Father forbids me to speak to you because you are leading a wrong -life; when you are married, perhaps father will not be so hard upon -you, and we may be friends again,--though never as we were, Jane! -never as we were!" I turned sick, Saul, because I loved her.' - -She paused a moment, and he, with a full sense of his own -unworthiness, drew a little away from her. What she was saying now was -all the more bitter because hitherto no word of implied reproach had -passed her lips. She knew his thoughts, and in her tenderness for him, -put forth her hand to draw him closer to her; but withdrew it -immediately without fulfilling her purpose, as though it might make -her waver. - -'I said to myself, Saul knows what is right; when he is in a position -he will say to me, Come, Jane; and I pictured to myself our going to -some quiet church one morning, without any one knowing it but -ourselves, and coming back married. But it was not to be; the part you -took in the strike crushed you and kept you down. The masters were -against you naturally; and I knew that as my friends had fallen off -from me, so your friends and fellow workmen had fallen off from you. I -blamed myself for it, for it was my counsel that caused you to desert -the men as you had deserted the masters. I did not see the -consequences when I spoke; I should have held my tongue.' - -'Jane,' said Saul gloomily, 'you were right; I had my doubts that very -night, after I had made the speech that inflamed me in the making as -much as it inflamed the men in the hearing. I lost my head; no wonder -they turned against me afterwards. I should have done the same by -them. But in acting as I did, I acted conscientiously. What, then, did -I do, when I began to feel the consequences of my own act? Sought for -consolation in drink, and but for your steady, unwavering faith--but -for your patient endurance, and your untiring efforts to bring me back -to reason--might have found a lower depth even than that. But patient -love prevailed. Death will overtake me, or I will overtake it, when I -break the promise I gave you not long ago!' - -'I know it,' she said, with a bright look which he could not see, her -back being towards the light, 'and that is why I can trust you now; -that is why I have courage to say what I am about to say. There is no -fear between us of misapprehension of each other's words, of each -other's acts; and therefore I do not hesitate. Saul, if I have done -my duty by you--and I have striven to do it, with all my heart and -soul--it remains for you to do your duty by me.' - -He had no word to say in reply; that he had failed in his duty to her, -that upon her had fallen the greater part of the misery, and all the -shame, of their lot, he was fully conscious. But he had never heard -her speak like this before; her voice was firm, though tender, and he -held his breath, waiting for her next words. - -'It remains for you to do your duty by me.' As she repeated these -words it required the strongest effort of her will to keep the beating -of her heart and her inward suffering from affecting her voice. She -was successful in her effort; for knowing what would occur within the -next few hours, the imminence of the coming crisis gave her strength, -and her voice was clear and steady. - -'How--in what way?' he asked, in an agitated tone. - -'Be sure of one thing, Saul,' she cried, turned aside for an instant -only by the agitation in his voice; 'be sure that I love you, wholly, -heartfully!' - -'I _am_ sure of it. Teach me my duty. I will do it.' - -She steadied herself again. - -'Saul, we cannot go on as we are. We have come low--very low; but -worse is before us, if we are content to let it come, without an -effort to avoid it. Listen. The greatest happiness that can fall to my -lot is to be your wife.' - -'I believe it,' he said. - -'But not as you are, Saul! Tear yourself from your present -surroundings--tear yourself from this place, where there is no hope -for you nor for me! If we were at opposite ends of the world, there is -a tie that binds us which neither of us can ever forget. If she were -in her grave, her lips would seek my breast, her little hands would -stretch themselves out to you, to caress your face! What kind of -happiness would it be for you to be able to say, Come, Jane; I have a -home for you, for her?' - -He repeated, with his lips, 'What kind of happiness!' but uttered no -sound. - -'Make the effort!--away from here. If you succeed--never mind how -humble it is, never mind how poor--I will be your wife, loving you no -more than I love you now, and you will repay me for all that I have -suffered. If you fail---- But you will not fail, Saul. I know it! I -feel it! Make the effort; for the sake of my love for you, for the -sake of yours for me. I think, if it were placed before me that you -should make the effort, and, failing, die, or that we should remain as -we are, I should choose to lose you, and never look upon your face -again---- Here! We are near the end of this sad year. Christmas is -coming, Saul. Let it be the turning over of a new leaf for us. Nerve -yourself--I will not say for your own sake, for I know how poor an -incentive that would be to you--but for mine, and with the dawning of -a new year, begin a new life!' - -'And this is the duty that remains for me to do, Jane?' - -'This is the duty.' - -Not from any doubt of her, or of the task she set before him, did he -pause, but because he was for a while overpowered by the goodness of -the woman who had sacrificed all for him--who loved him, believed in -him, and saw still some capacity for good in him. When he had -conquered his emotion, he said in a broken tone, - -'And then, should such a happy time ever come, you will let me make -the poor reparation--you will marry me?' - -'How gladly!' she exclaimed, 'O, how gladly!' - -'No more words are needed than that I promise, Jane?' - -'No more, Saul.' - -'I promise. With all my strength I will try.' - -He knelt before her, and, with his head in her lap, shed tears there, -and prayed for strength, prayed with trustfulness, though the road was -dark before him. Lifting his head, he saw the light of the clear cold -sky shining through the window at her back. With her arms clasped -round his neck, she leant forward and kissed him, and as he folded her -in his embrace, he felt that there were tears also on her face. - -'The world would be dark without you, dear woman,' he said. - -Again she kissed him, and asked if it was not time for him to go. - -He answered. Yes; and yet was loth to go. - -'Good-night, Jane.' - -'Good-night, dear Saul.' - -With the handle of the door in his hand, he turned towards her, and -saw her standing with the light shining upon her. - - - - DEAR LOVE, GOOD-BYE. - - -It was three o'clock in the morning before Saul Fielding came home. -The bell of Westminster proclaimed the hour with deep-sounding tongue. -Saul ascended the stairs quietly. He did not wish to disturb any one -in the house--least of all, Jane, if she were asleep. 'Although,' he -thought, dwelling in love upon her, 'the dear woman wakes at my -lightest footfall.' He crept into the room softly, and paused, with -hand upraised and listening ear. 'She is asleep,' he whispered gladly. -He stepped gently to the bedside and laid his hand lightly upon the -pillow; it was cold. 'Jane!' he cried, with a sudden fear upon him. -His hand travelled over the bed; it was empty. So strong a trembling -took possession of him that he could not stand, and he sank, almost -powerless, on the bed. 'What is this? he asked of himself. 'Why is she -not abed? Jane! Jane! Where are you?' Although he spoke in a tone -scarcely above a whisper, every word he uttered sounded in the dark -room like a knell, and seemed to come back to him charged with -terrible meaning--as though some one else were speaking. 'Let me -think,' he muttered vaguely. 'How did I leave her? She was not -angry with me. Her words were full of hope. She kissed me, and -stood--there!' He looked towards the window, and saw the outlines of -her face in the light--saw her eyes gazing tenderly, lovingly, upon -him. He knew that what he saw was but a trick of the imagination; but -he moved towards the light, and clasped a shadow in his arms. 'The -world is dark without you, dear woman!' he sobbed, with closed eyes, -repeating almost the last words he had said to her. 'The world is dark -without you! Where are you? Have you left me?' The table shook beneath -his hand, as he rested upon it to steady himself. But he could not -control his agitation; it mastered him. With trembling hands he struck -a match and lit the lamp; then saw with certainty that Jane was not in -the room. Mechanically he took from the table a sheet of paper with -writing upon it, which the light disclosed. 'Jane's writing,' he -muttered, and then read: - - -'Dear Love,--I have left you for your good--for mine. I had this in my -mind when I spoke to you to-night. I have had it in my mind for a long -time. It is the only secret I have ever had which you did not share. -We have been so unfortunate in the past, and so clear a duty remains -before us, that we should be undeserving of better fortune if we did -not strive ourselves to better it. I rely implicitly upon your -promise. Tear yourself away from this place, and begin a new life. As -long as I live, not a day will pass without my praying for a better -fortune for you and for me to Him who sees all things, and who my -heart tells me approves of what I am doing now. Pray to Him also, dear -Love. He will hear you, and pity. Remember what is the greatest -happiness that can fall to my lot, and remember that I shall not be -unhappy--loving you and having you always in my thoughts--while I -think that you are working towards a happier end. I have no fears in -leaving you. I know how you will keep your promise--and you have said -so much to-night to comfort me! I treasure your words. They are balm -to my heart. - -I have taken service with a respectable family, who live a long way -from here, and I have adopted an assumed name. The address I enclose -is where you can write to me. You will not, I know, seek to turn me -from my purpose. I shall write to you to the care of Mrs. Naldret; for -the sake of George's friendship for you she will receive the letters. -Tell George. - -Pear Love, good-bye! All my prayers are with you. Let them and the -memory of me sustain your heart; as the consciousness of your love for -me, and my faith in God's goodness, will sustain mine. - -Till death, and after it, - - Your own - - JANE.' - - -He read the letter twice, first with only a vague sense of its -meaning, but the second time with a clearer understanding. Sobs came -from his chest, tears came from his eyes, the hand that held the paper -trembled, as he read. He knew that she was right. But it was hard to -bear--bitterly hard to bear. How lonely the room looked--how mean and -miserable and desolate! Faint as he was--for he had been standing in -the cold streets for hours, playing with the waits, and nothing but a -sup of water from a drinking fountain had passed his lips--he had no -consciousness of physical weakness. All his thoughts were of Jane, all -his heart and soul and mind were charged with tenderness for his dear -woman. He looked at the words 'Dear Love,' until he heard her voice -speaking them. He had no thought of following her; her happiness -depended upon his obeying her, and he would obey her. He had resolved -upon that immediately. But, O, if he could hold her in his embrace -once more! If he could hear her dear voice again! If, with her arms -around him, he could tell her that he would be faithful to his -promise! He dashed the tears from his eyes. 'She is thinking of me -now,' he sobbed; 'she is awake and praying for me now! All the -suffering of our parting was hers. She took it all upon herself, dear -soul! She knew, and I did not; and her heart was bleeding while she -shed the light of hope upon mine! What does she say here, dear soul, -to lessen my pain? "You have said so much to-night to comfort me! I -treasure your words. They are balm to my heart." It is like her--it is -like her, to write those words. She knew, dear woman, she knew, dear -heart, that they would comfort _me!_ But I want strength! I want -strength!' His eyes travelled over the letter again, and again he read -the words, 'Pray to Him also, dear Love. He will hear you, and pity.' -Pressing the paper to his lips, Saul Fielding sank upon his knees, and -bowed his head upon the bed. - - - - TOTTIE IS READY TO TEAR OLD BEN SPARROW LIMB FROM LIMB. - - -As nearly all the persons with whom this history has to deal are -almost in the same station of life, and live within a stone's throw of -each other, it is not a difficult task for us to transport ourselves -to the little parlour in the rear of old Ben Sparrow's grocer's shop, -where Ben Sparrow himself is at present considering the mechanism of a -curious and complicated piece of work, the separate parts of which are -lying before him. Although the parlour and the shop adjoin each other, -Ben Sparrow looks upon the parlour as being a long way off, like a -country house, as a place where he can obtain repose from the cares of -the counter and shelves. And it really is a snug, cozy retreat. - -Ben Sparrow came into the world exactly at midnight of the 21st of -October 1805, a few hours after the battle of Trafalgar was fought and -won; and the doubtful compliment was at once passed on the new arrival -of being the very smallest baby that ever was seen. But then women go -into extremes in these matters, and their statements that this is the -most beautiful baby in the world, and this the smallest, and this the -chubbiest, and this the darlingest, must be taken with very large -pinches of salt. On that occasion the very smallest baby in the world -acted in precisely the same manner as he would have done if he had -been the very largest baby in the world. Looking upon the world as his -own especial dunghill (as we all of us do), he immediately began to -crow, and sounded his trumpet with the weakest of lungs to show that -he had made his appearance upon the stage. The sound of Westminster -bells was ringing in his ears as he gathered up his little toes and -legs and clenched his little fists with an air of saying, Come on! to -his brothers and sisters in the profession; and in after-days he often -declared jocosely that he perfectly well remembered hearing his first -twelve o'clock proclaimed by the tongue of old Westminster. Between -that time and this, Ben Sparrow had grown from a very small baby to a -very small man, and many eventful things had occurred to him. When he -came to man's estate--the only estate he ever came into--he entered -into business as a grocer; married, and lost his wife, who left behind -her one child, a son, who had 'gone wrong,' as the saying is, and -whose place knew him no more. The 'ups and downs' of life are -generally believed to be a very common experience; but they could -scarcely have been so with Ben Sparrow, he had so very many downs and -so very few ups (if any) in the course of his career. Still he managed -to plod on, somehow or other, until the present time, when he and his -granddaughter, Bessie Sparrow, whom you have seen, and Tottie, a child -of whom you have had a glimpse, after she had been put to bed by -Bessie, are living together in the small house of which the grocer's -shop forms part. - -This short biography being concluded, we come upon Ben Sparrow, -sitting in his parlour, contemplating the separate parts of the -curious piece of work above referred to. The only other person in the -room is Tottie, who is perched on a high chair, with a rail in front, -to prevent her making an attempt to walk in the air, and whose -attention is divided between the old man and certain sweet things -which are spread upon the table. Such as three large fat -figs--luscious young fellows, new, ripe, and with so tempting an air -about them as to make their destruction appear inevitable. (Tottie is -ready to act as executioner; her eager eyes attest that they would -have short shrift with her.) Such as half-a-dozen or so sticks of -cinnamon, not as fresh-looking as the figs, being indeed rather -wrinkled specimens of spice; but, notwithstanding their snuffy colour, -they have an inviting odour about them, and tickle the nose -tantalisingly. (Tottie would not say them nay, and is ready to devote -them to destruction on the first word of command.) Such as a few dozen -of plump dried currants, of exquisite sweetness. (As Tottie well -knows, from experience of their fellows, not honestly come by; for, -notwithstanding her tender years, Tottie has a vice, as you shall -presently see.) Such as two or three bunches of muscatel raisins, -rich-looking, princes among grapes, with a bloom upon their skins, -which speaks eloquently of luscious juices within. (Tottie's eyes -wander to these, and her mouth waters, and her fingers wait but for -the opportunity. If some kind fairy would but cry 'Shop!' now, and -call for a quarter of a pound of brown sugar, or an ounce of tea--the -best one-and-fourpenny--or a ha'porth of barley-sugar! But business is -slack, as Ben Sparrow will tell you, with a doleful shake of the head, -and there appears no such fairy, in the form of a slattern with shoes -down at heel, or of a bold-faced girl with her baby in her arms, and -with a blue handkerchief tied crosswise over her bosom, or of a -gutter-student, capless, with straggling-hair, or of a man of any age, -weak-eyed with shaking limbs: no such fairy calls 'Shop!' in Tottie's -interest, and taps the counter with the nimble penny.) Such as two -whole halves (the prettiest of paradoxes) of candied lemon-peel, -with such an appetising fragrance oozing out of them, with such -delicious patches, of sugar clinging to their aldermanic insides and -outsides--pearls in mussels are valueless as a comparison--that the -precious things of the world, such as dolls and boxes of wooden -soldiers (would they were all so!), and oyster-shells and pieces of -broken china to play at dinners and teas with, fade in the -contemplation of them. (At least, such are Tottie's feelings, as she -looks and longs. O, for the fairy!) Such, to conclude with, as a few -shreds of mace, and a clove or two--scarcely worth mentioning in the -presence of their superiors. - -These delectable joys of life being spread upon the table, immediately -under Tottie's nose, and Tottie's attention being divided between them -and their lawful owner, Ben Sparrow, it will not be difficult to see -which of the two possessed the greater charms for her. A rapid glance -at Ben Sparrow's face, a lingering gaze upon fruit and spice, another -rapid glance (with a slight reproach in it this time) at Ben Sparrow's -face, and, finding no benevolent intention there, a more fixed and -longing gaze upon the treasures of the earth--thus it goes without a -word on either side (the thoughts of each being so intensely -engrossing), and thus it might have continued for goodness knows how -long, but that Ben Sparrow, with a cheery laugh, taps Tottie's cheek -with his forefinger, and cries, in a tone of satisfaction, - -'Now, I've got it!' - -(Tottie wishes _she_ had.) - -'Now, I've got it,' cries the old man again; 'all complete.' - -Tottie shifts restlessly in her high chair. - -'And Tottie shall see me make it,' says Ben, with beaming face, -rubbing his hands, and shifting the fruit and the spice about much the -same as if they form pieces of a puzzle, and he has found the key to -it. 'Especially,' adds Ben, 'as Tottie will sit still, and won't -touch.' - -'No, I never!' exclaims Tottie. - -This is Tottie's oath, which she is much given to swearing when her -honour is called into question. Tottie's 'No, I never!' is in her -estimation worth a volume of affidavits, but it is much to be feared -that her sense of moral obligation is not of a high order. - -'And as Tottie's a good little girl----' - -'Tottie's a dood little girl!' - -There is no expression of doubt in the nods of the head with which -Tottie strengthens this declaration. - -'And'll sit still, she _shall_ see me make it.' - -The good old fellow laughs. He does not seem to realise how difficult -is the task he has set Tottie. To sit still, with these treasures in -view! Here an agonising incident occurs. A small piece of candied -sugar has become detached from one of the halves of lemon-peel, and -Ben Sparrow, with an air of abstraction, picks it up, and puts it--in -his own mouth! Tottie watches him as he moves it about with his -tongue, and her own waters as the sweet dissolves in her imagination. -She knows the process as well as Ben, and appreciates it more, and she -sighs when the candy is finally disposed of. - -'You see, Tottie,' says Ben, taking her into his confidence, 'business -is very slack, and Christmas is coming, Tottie.' - -Tottie gives a nod of acquiescence. - - -[Illustration] - - -'So I think to myself--another nod from Tottie; she also is thinking -to herself--'if I can put some thing in the window that'll make the -people look at the figs----' - -Here Tottie introduces an artful piece of diplomacy. 'Tottie can spell -fig,' she says, and proceeds to do it smilingly--'F-I-G, fig.' - -But Ben, intent upon his scheme, does not see the point of Tottie's -interruption, and proceeds: - -'--Something that'll make 'em look at the figs, and the currants, and -the raisins--something new and spicy'--(Ben laughs at this joke, and -repeats it)--'something new and spicy, perhaps it'll wake 'em up, and -bring 'em in here instead of going to another shop. For they want -waking up, Tottie, they want waking up badly.' - -Solemn nods from Tottie proclaim the serious consideration she has -given to the general sleepiness and indifference of Ben Sparrow's -customers. - -Ben Sparrow picks up a fat currant and contemplates it with as much -interest as a geologist would contemplate a new fossil. Tottie's eyes -follow his movements; she sits like Patience on a monument, and -another sigh escapes her as Ben Sparrow (again abstractedly) puts the -currant in his mouth, and swallows it. Draw a veil mercifully over -Tottie's feelings. - -'It was in the middle of the night,' says Ben Sparrow with all the -impressiveness demanded by the historical fact, 'that I first thought -of making ME, and putting ME in the window to attract custom. I was a -good deal puzzled about my legs, and my stomach got into my head, and -I couldn't get it out; but little by little all my limbs and every -other part of me came to me until the idea was complete. And now we'll -try it--now we'll set to work and make a MAN! And if you're a good -girl, and'll sit still, you shall see ME made.' - -Tottie's experience in literature is very limited--extending no -farther, indeed, than b-a-t bat, c-a-t cat, r-a-t rat, d-i-g dig, -f-i-g fig, p-i-g pig--and she knows nothing of the terrible story of -Frankenstein; therefore, she is not at all frightened at the idea of -seeing a man made, nor has she any fear that it will turn out to be a -monster. On the contrary, if Ben Sparrow's thoughts would only take a -benevolent turn in the shape of a fig for Tottie, or a few plums for -Tottie, or some candied sugar for Tottie, she would be prepared to -enjoy the feat which Ben is about to perform as much as if it were the -best bit of fun in the world. - -'Now, then,' commences Ben, with a whimsical glance at Tottie, who -smiles back at him like a true diplomatist, 'I don't know what part is -generally made first, but perhaps it'll be as well to commence with -the stomach. Here it is--here's my stomach.' - -He takes one of the halves of the candied lemon-peel, and places it -before him, round side up. - -'There's a little too much sugar in me,' he says, with a more -whimsical glance than the first; 'it'll make me rather too heavy, I'm -afraid. And besides, Tottie, it ain't true to nature. My inside ain't -got such a coating as this.' - -He breaks a piece of candied sugar from the inside of his stomach, -looks at Tottie, notices her wistful eyes, and gives it to her. She -eats it eagerly, and so quickly as to cause amazement to Ben Sparrow, -who says, - -'You shouldn't eat so fast, Tottie. Good little girls don't eat so -fast as that.' - -Tottie, with feminine duplicity, accepts this warning in an inverted -sense, and cries, with her mouth full of sugar, - -'Tottie's a dood little girl!' as if indorsing a statement made by her -grandfather. But Tottie's thoughts are not upon the good little girl; -at the present moment she resembles a savage. She has tasted blood, -and thirsts for more. - -'It's a fatter stomach than mine,' proceeds Ben, laying his hand upon -his stomach of flesh, the stomach he came into the world with; 'it's -rounder and plumper, and would fit the Lord Mayor or an alderman, but -it'll do, I daresay. Now for my neck.' - -He picks up the thickest piece of cinnamon, and measures it with his -eye, breaking the stick in two. 'I mustn't make my neck too long--nor -too short--and I take the thickest piece, Tottie, because it's got to -support my head. Like this.' He makes a hole in the end of the -lemon-peel, and sticks the cinnamon in firmly. 'Now to stick my head -on, Tottie.' - -He selects the largest of the fat figs, and attaches it to his neck. -'What's the next thing? My eyes, to be sure. Currants.' Remarkably -like eyes do they look when they are inserted in the face of the fat -fig. Then he takes a clove for his nose, and, making a thin slit in -the fig for his mouth, inserts an appropriate morsel of mace. All this -being successfully accomplished, he holds himself up (as far as he -goes) for his own and Tottie's inspection and approval. Tottie claps -her hands, and laughs, but subsides into a quieter humour at a guilty -thought that steals into her mind. She thinks what a delightful thing -it would be to take her grandfather (as far as he goes) and eat him -bit by bit. - -'I begin to look ship-shape,' observes Ben Sparrow, gazing admiringly -at the unfinished effigy of himself. 'You see, Tottie, what the people -want nowadays is novelty--something new, something they haven't seen -before. Give them that, and you're all right' (Which vague generality -appears to satisfy him.) 'Now, here it is--here's novelty--here's -something they've never seen before; and if this don't bring custom, I -don't know what will.' - -Tottie gives a grave and silent assent; she cannot speak, for her mind -is bent upon cannibalism. She is ready to tear the old man limb from -limb. - -'But,' continues Ben Sparrow, unconscious of the horrible thought at -work in the mind of the apparently innocent child before him, 'I must -get along with myself, or I shall never be finished. I haven't been in -any battle that I know of, and I wasn't born a cripple, so my limbs -must be all right when I appear in public. Now for my arms. More -cinnamon! I think I may call cinnamon my bones.' - -When two pieces of cinnamon are stuck into the sides of the candied -lemon-peel, they look so naked that he says, - -'I must put sleeves on my arms.' - -And impales raisins upon them, and sticks five small slips of mace in -each of the last raisins, which serve for fingers. - -'Now for my legs, and there I am. More cinnamon!' - -Two sticks of cinnamon stuck in the bottom of his candied stomach, and -then clothed with raisins, form his legs, and there he _is_, complete. - -'I think I'll do,' he says complacently. - -At this moment a voice calls 'Shop!' and a fairy, in the shape of a -shoeless ragged girl, taps upon the counter. Ben Sparrow goes into the -shop to serve, and Tottie is left alone with his effigy. Now it has -been mentioned above that Tottie has a vice, and this is it: she is -afflicted, not with a raging tooth, but with a tooth so sweet as to -weaken her moral sense, so to speak: she is unable to resist -temptation when it presents itself to her in the shape of sweetmeats -or fruit, and her notions as to the sacredness of such-like property -are so loose that (no one being by to see her do it) she helps -herself. And yet it is a proof that she possesses a wakeful -conscience, that she turns her back upon herself when she pilfers, as -if she would wish to make herself believe that she is unconscious of -what she is doing. Thus, seeing, say, a bowl of currants near, and no -person within sight, she will approach the bowl stealthily, and, -turning her back to it, will put her hand behind her, and take a -fistful, with an air of thinking of something else all the while. And -it is a proof that the moral obligation of her conscience is not -entirely dormant, that, after the act is committed and enjoyed, she -will, under the influence of a human eye, instantly defend herself -without being accused, by 'No, I never! no, I never!' This express -admission of guilt she can no more resist than she can resist the -temptation itself. At the present time the sweet effigy of Ben Sparrow -is lying within reach upon the table. Shutting her eyes. Tottie -stretches out her hand, and plucking her grandfather's left leg bodily -from his candied stomach, instantly devours it, cinnamon, raisins, and -all--and has just made the last gulp when Ben Sparrow, having served -his customer, reenters the parlour. He casts a puzzled look at his -dismembered effigy, and mutters, - -'Well! if I didn't think I had made my two legs, may I be sugared!' -Which sweet oath is exactly appropriate to the occasion. Then he turns -to Tottie, who is gazing unconsciously at vacancy, with a wonderfully -intense expression in her eyes, and she immediately shakes her head -piteously, and cries, - -'No, I never! no, I never!' - -Ben Sparrow, having his doubts aroused by this vehement asseveration -of innocence, says mournfully, - -'O, Tottie! Tottie! I didn't think you'd do it! To begin to eat me up -like that!' - -But Tottie shakes her head still more vehemently, and desperately -reiterates, 'No, I never! no, I never!' With the frightful -consciousness that the proofs of her guilt are in her inside, and that -she has only to be cut open for them to be produced. - -Ben Sparrow, with a grave face, makes himself another leg, moving -himself, however, out of Tottie's reach with reproachful significance. -An unexpected difficulty occurs at this point. Being top-heavy he -cannot balance himself upon his legs; but Ben is of an ingenious turn -of mind, and he hits upon the expedient of shoring himself up from -behind with stout sticks of cinnamon. Then, setting himself up, he -gazes at himself in admiration. Tottie's eyes are also fixed upon the -effigy; it possesses a horrible fascination for her. - - - - HERE AND THERE ARE FORGET-ME-NOTS. - - -All night long Saul Fielding kneels by the side of his bed, absorbed -in the memory of the woman whom he loves, and who, out of her great -love for him, has deserted him. At first his grief is so great that he -cannot think coherently; his mind is storm-tossed. But after a time -the violence of his grief abates, and things begin to shape themselves -in his mind. The night is cold, but he does not feel the winter's -chill. The wind sighs and moans at his window, but he does not hear -it. As it leaves his lattice, and travels through the courts and -streets, it bears upon its wings the influence of the grief it has -witnessed, and it sobs to the stone walls, 'There kneels a man in -woe!' It gathers strength when it leaves the packed thoroughfares, -which, huddled together like a crowd of beggars, seem to seek warmth -in close contact, and becomes angry when it reaches the wide streets, -angrier still when it reaches the woods, where the trees tremble as it -rushes past them. Say that it rushes onward and still onward, and that -we have the power to follow it--that we see it merge into other winds, -and become furious--that we see its fury die away--that we leave the -winter and the night behind us--that we travel ahead of it over lands -and seas until we come to where spring and daylight are--that we -travel onward and still onward, until noon and spring are passed, and -we come to where bright sun and summer are. Where are we? Thousands, -upon thousands of miles away; but the time is the same, for as the -warm wind kisses us we look back and see the man kneeling by the side -of his bed. It is winter and night, and there kneels the man. It is -summer and day, and here is another man among the mountains lying on -the earth, looking at the clouds. And the time is the same. The -thoughts of both these men are in the past. What connection can there -be between these two in such adverse places, seasons, and -circumstances? They have never touched hands. What link can bind them? -Heart-links? Perhaps. It would not be so strange. It may be that at -this present moment, in some distant part of the world of which we -have only read or dreamt, links in your life's chain and mine are -being forged by persons whose faces we have never seen. - -He is desolate. Jane has gone from him. She has left words of comfort -behind her, but he may never look upon her face again. She has given -him a task to fulfill. 'If I have done my duty by you,' she said, 'and -I have tried to do it, it remains for you to do your duty by me.' He -will be true to his dear woman, as she has been to him. He will strive -to perform the task she has set before him--he will strive to find a -way. Ay, if he dies in the attempt. He will consider presently how he -shall commence. In the mean time, he must think of Jane. - -He falls into a doze, thinking of her, and with her in his mind the -past comes to him. The aspirations which filled his boyish mind--his -love for books--his desire to rise above his surroundings--his -reasonings upon the relation of this and that, and his theoretical -conclusions, which were to suddenly divert the common custom of -things, as if a creation could in a moment crumble into dust the -growth of centuries--his delight when he found that he was an orator, -and could move an assembly of men to various passions--his meeting -with Jane---- He went no farther. The memory of her as she was when he -first saw her, a bright flower--ah, how bright, how trustful and -womanly!--stopped farther thought, and for a time no vision appears of -his downfall, his weakness, his disgrace, his sinking lower, lower, -until he is almost a lost man. It comes to him presently with all its -shame; but when he wakes, the chaos of images in his mind resolves -itself into this: his life is before him, full of weeds, like an -untended garden, but here and there are Forget-me-nots, and each one -bears the name of Jane. - -The morning light steals in upon his vigil, and still he has not -decided how or in what way he shall commence his new life. In truth he -is powerless. He has no weapons to fight with. His old confidence in -himself, his pride, his strength of will, are covered with the rust of -long weakness. Rising from his knees, he breaks the crust of ice upon -the water in his pitcher, and bathes his face. The cold water seems to -bring strength to him. He looks about the room, and everything within -the poor walls speaks of Jane's love and care for him. The fire is -laid with the last few sticks of wood and the last few lumps of coal. -The old kettle, filled, is on the hob. The last pinch of tea is in the -cup; the remains of the loaf are on the table. Not a thing is -forgotten. 'Dear woman!' he murmurs. 'It is like you!' He paces the -room slowly, striving to think of some path by which he can obtain a -home for Jane, and thereby win her and reward her. It is useless, he -knows, to seek for work here in the neighbourhood where he is known. -He is known too well, and has sunk too low. Who would believe in his -profession of amendment? Besides, what is the use of trying? He is of -the same trade as George Naldret, and even George, a better workman -than he, has resolved to leave, and try his fortune elsewhere, because -of the difficulty he finds in saving sufficient money to buy a home -for the girl he desires to marry. Even George is compelled to -emigrate---- He stops suddenly in the middle of the room, and draws -himself up with a spasmodic motion. Jane's words come to him: 'It is a -blessing for many that these new lands have been discovered. A man can -commence a new life there, without being crushed by the misfortunes or -faults of the past, if he be earnest enough to acquire strength. It -might be a blessing to you.' 'A new life in a new land!' he says -aloud. 'All the weakness and shame of the past wiped away because they -will not be known to those around me. I should feel myself a new -man--a better man; my strength, my courage would come back to me!' So -strong an impression does the inspiration of the thought make upon -him, that he trembles with excitement. But can he leave Jane--leave -the country which holds her dear form? Yes, he can, he will; the -memory of her will sustain him; and she will approve, as indeed she -has done already by her words. 'It is the only way!' he cries; 'the -only way!' Thus far he thinks, and then sinks into a chair, -despairing. The means! How can he obtain the means? He has not a -shilling in the world, nor any friends powerful enough to help him. -Heaven's gate seems to be more easily accessible to him than this new -land across the seas. But he does not allow himself to sink into the -lowest depth of despondency. Jane stands before him; her words are -with him; like wine they revive his fainting soul. 'Come, Saul,' he -cries aloud to himself, resolutely. 'Come--think! Cast aside your -weakness. Be your old self once more!' These words, spoken to himself -as though they came from the lips of a strong man, sound like a -trumpet in his ears, and really strengthen him. Again he thinks of -George Naldret. 'Mr. Million gave him his passage ticket,' he says; -'would Mr. Million give me one?' No sooner has he uttered the words -than the current of his thoughts is diverted, and he finds himself -speculating upon the cause of Mr. Million's generosity to George. -Friendship? No, it can scarcely be that. There can be no friendship -between George and Mr. Million. Kindness? Perhaps; and yet he has -never heard that Mr. Million was noted for the performance of kindly -actions. These considerations trouble him somewhat on George's -account, although he cannot explain to himself why the fact of Mr. -Million giving George a free passage ticket to the other end of the -world should cause him uneasiness. 'I wonder how it came about,' he -thinks. 'I never heard George speak of emigrating until the ticket was -promised to him. At all events, if George has any claim upon him, I -have none. But Mr. Million is a public man, and may be in favour of -emigration. It will cost him but little to assist me. There are -Government emigration ships which take a man over for almost nothing, -I have heard. A line of recommendation from Mr. Million in my favour -would be sufficient, perhaps. I will try; I will try. If I knew a -prayer that would make my appeal successful, I would say it.' - - - - BATTLEDOOR AND SHUTTLECOCK. - - -As a public man, James Million, Esquire, M.P. for Brewingham, felt it -necessary to his position to spend two or three hours in his study -every morning, and to 'make-believe' to be busy. Had you asked James -Million what he was, he would not have told you that he was a brewer -or a capitalist, but would have replied briefly and emphatically, 'A -public man, sir.' Now, to be a public man, you must have a -shuttlecock; and whether it was that Mr. Million had a real sympathy -for the institution known as the working man, or because the working -man drank large quantities of Million's Entire and Million's Treble X, -it is certain that he set up the working man as his shuttlecock; and -it is quite as certain that he set it up without in the least -understanding it, being, indeed, a most unskilful player at any game -in which his own interests were not directly involved. The game of -battledoor and shuttlecock is a popular one with us from childhood -upwards, but I am not aware that any close observer and noter of -curious things has ever calculated how many shuttlecocks an ordinary -battledoor will outlast. Popular as the game is with children, it is -more popular with public men, who, battledoor in hand, are apt (in -their enthusiasm and love for the game) to run into exceedingly wild, -extremes when a new shuttlecock, with spick and span new feathers, is -cast among them. Such a superabundance of energy do they in their zeal -impart into the game that they often sorely bruise the poor -shuttlecock, and so knock it out of all shape and proportion that the -members of its family find it impossible to recognise it. How many a -poor shuttlecock have you and I seen on its last legs, as one might -say, in a desperate condition from being much hit and much missed and -much trodden into the mud, and with feathers that would rival those of -a roupy old hen in the last stage of dissolution! and looking upon it -in melancholy mood, may we not be excused for dwelling sadly upon the -time (but yesterday!) when its feathers were new and crimson-tipped, -and when it proudly took its first flight in the air? - -In appearance, James Million, the eminent brewer, was a small, flabby -man, with a white face on which the flesh hung loosely. It had been -said of him that his morals were as flabby as his flesh--but this was -invented by a detractor, and if it conveyed any reproach, it was at -best a hazy one. He had a curious trick with his eyes. They were sound -and of the first water--not a flaw in them, as diamond merchants say; -but whenever there was presented for his contemplation or -consideration a question of a perplexing or disagreeable nature, he -would close one of his eyes, and look at it with the other. It was a -favourite habit with him to walk along the streets so, with one eye -closed; and a man who set himself up for a satirist, or a wag, or -both, once said: 'Jimmy Million is so moral that he doesn't like to -look on the wickedness of the world; so he shuts one eye, and can only -see half of it, and thereby saves himself half the pain.' - -To James Million, as he sits in his study, comes a servant, who, after -due tapping at the door, so as not to disturb the ruminations of the -legislator, announces a man in the passage who desires to see Mr. -Million. - -'Name? asks Mr. Million. - - -[Illustration] - - -'Saul Fielding,' answers the servant, and adds, 'but he says he does -not think you know him.' - -'What does he look like?' - -The servant hesitates; he has not made up his mind. Although Saul -Fielding is shabbily dressed, he is clean, and Jane's watchful care -has made his wardrobe (the whole of which he wears on his back) seem -better than it is. Besides, there is 'an air' about Saul Fielding -which prevents him being placed, in the servant's mind, on the lowest -rung of vagabondism. - -'Is he a poor man? Is he a working man? demands Mr. Million -impatiently. - -'He looks like it, sir,' replies the servant, not committing himself -distinctly to either statement. - -Mr. Million has an idle hour before him, which he is not disinclined -to devote to the workingman question, so he bids the servant admit the -visitor. - -'Wait a minute,' says Mr. Million to Saul Fielding as he enters the -room. Mr. Million evidently has found some very knotty problem in the -papers before him, for he bends over them, with knitted brows and -studious face, and shifts them about, and makes notes on other pieces -of paper, and mutters 'Pish!' and 'Psha!' and 'Very true!' and 'This -must be seen to!' with many remarks indicative of the engrossing -nature of the subject which engages his attention. After a sufficient -exhibition of this by-play, which doubtless impresses his visitor with -a proper idea of his importance and of the immense interest he takes -in public matters, he pushes the papers aside with a weary air, and -looks up, with one eye closed and one eye open. What he sees before -him does not seem to afford him any comfort: for it is a strange thing -with public players of battledoor and shuttlecock, that although they -have in theory a high respect for their shuttlecocks, they have in -absolute fact a very strong distaste for them. Seeing that he is -expected to speak, Saul Fielding commences; he is at no loss for -words, but he speaks more slowly than usual, in consequence of the -heavy stake he has in the interview. - -'I have ventured to call upon you, sir,' he says, 'in the hope that -you will take some interest in my story, and that you will extend a -helping hand to a poor man.' - -Somewhat fretfully--for careful as he strives to be, Saul Fielding has -been unwise in his introduction, which might be construed into an -appeal for alms--somewhat fretfully, then, Mr. Million interposes with - -'A working man?' - -'I hope I may call myself so--although, strictly speaking, I have done -but little work for a long time.' - -Mr. Million gazes with curiosity at his visitor, and asks, in a - self-complacent, insolent tone, as if he knows all about it, - -'Not able to get work, eh? - -'I have not been able to get it, sir.' - -'But quite willing to do it if you _could_ get it?' - -'Quite willing, sir more than willing--thankful.' - -Saul Fielding knows that already he is beginning to lose ground,' but -his voice is even more respectful and humble than at first--although -the very nature of the man causes him to speak with a certain -confidence and independence which is eminently offensive to the -delicate ears of the friend of the working man. - -'Of course!' exclaims Mr. Million triumphantly and disdainfully. 'The -old cry! I knew it. The old cry! I suppose you will say presently that -there is not room for all, and that there are numbers of men who are -in the same position as yourself--willing to work, unable to obtain -it.' - -Saul Fielding makes no reply; words are rushing to his tongue, but he -does not utter them. But Mr. Million insists upon being answered, and -repeats what he has said in such a manner and tone that Saul cannot -escape. - -'I think, sir, that there are many men who are forced to be idle -against their will; that seems to be a necessity in all countries -where population increases so fast as ours does. But I don't complain -of that.' - -'O!' cries Mr. Million, opening both his eyes very wide indeed. 'You -don't complain of that! You are one of those glib speakers, I have no -doubt, who foment dissatisfaction among the working classes, who tell -them that they are down-trodden and oppressed, and that masters are -fattening upon them! I should not be surprised to hear that you are a -freethinker.' - -'No, sir, I am not that,' urges Saul Fielding, exquisitely distressed -at the unpromising turn the interview has taken; 'nor indeed have I -anything to complain of myself. I am too crushed and broken-down, as -you may see.' - -'But if you were not so,' persists Mr. Million, growing harder as Saul -grows humbler, 'if you were in regular work, and in receipt of regular -wages, it would be different with you--eh? You would have something to -complain of then doubtless. You would say pretty loudly that the -working man is underpaid, and you would do your best to fan the flame -of discontent kept up by a few grumblers and idlers. You would do -this--eh? Come, come,' he adds haughtily, seeing that Saul Fielding -does not wish to answer; 'you are here upon a begging petition, you -know. Don't you think it will be best to answer my questions?' - -'What is it you wish me to answer, sir?' asks Saul Fielding -sorrowfully. - -'The question of wages. I want to ascertain whether you are one of -those who think the working classes are underpaid.' - -Saul Fielding pauses for a moment; and in that brief time determines -to be true to himself. 'Jane would not have me do otherwise,' he -thinks. - -'I think, sir,' he says, firmly and respectfully, 'that the working -classes--by which I mean all in the land who have to work with their -hands for daily bread--do not receive, as things go, a fair equivalent -for their work. Their wages are not sufficient. They seem to me to be -framed upon a basis which makes the work of ekeing them out so as to -make both ends meet a harder task than the toil by which they are -earned. The working man's discontent does not spring from his work; he -does that cheerfully almost always. It springs out of the fact, that -the results of his work are not sufficient for comfort, and certainly -not sufficient to dispel the terrible anxiety which hangs over the -future, when he is ill and unable to work, perhaps, or when he and his -wife are too old for work.' - -'O, indeed!' exclaims Mr. Million. 'You give him a wife!' - -'Yes, sir; his life would be a burden indeed without a woman's love.' - -Mr. Million stares loftily at Saul Fielding. - -'And children, doubtless!' - -'Happy he who has them! It is Nature's law; and no man can gainsay -it.' The theme possesses a fascination for Saul Fielding, and he -continues warmly, 'I put aside as distinctly outrageous all that is -said of the folly and wickedness of poor people marrying and having -large families. This very fact, which theorists wax indignant -over--theorists, mind you, who have wives and families themselves, and -who, by their arguments, lay down the monstrous proposition that -nature works in the blood according to the length of a man's -purse--this very fact has made England strong; had it been otherwise, -the nation would have been emasculated. Besides, you can't set natural -feeling to the tune of theory; nor, when a man's individual happiness -is concerned, can you induce him to believe in the truth of general -propositions which, being carried out in his own person as one of the -units, would make his very existence hateful to him.' - -Mr. Million opens his eyes even wider than before; such language from -the lips of the ragged man before him is indeed astonishing. - -'What more have you to say? he gasps. 'You will want property equally -divided----' - -'No, sir, indeed,' interrupts Saul Fielding, daring to feel indignant, -even in the presence of so rich a man, at the suggestion. 'The man who -makes honestly for himself is entitled to possess and enjoy. I am no -socialist.' - -'You would, at all events,' pursues Mr. Million, 'feed the working -man with a silver spoon?--You would open the places of amusement for -him on the Sabbath?' - -'I would open some places and shut others.' - -'What places, now?' - -'The museums, the public galleries. I would give him every chance--he -has a right to it--to elevate himself during the only leisure he has.' - -'And in this way,' demands Mr. Million severely, 'you would desecrate -the Sabbath!' - -For the life of him Saul Fielding cannot help saying, - -'A greater desecration than even that can be in your eyes takes place -on the Sabbath in places that are open in the name of the law.' - -'You refer to----' - -'Public-houses. If they are allowed to be open, what reasonable -argument can be brought against the opening of places the good -influence of which is universally acknowledged? It is the withholding -of these just privileges that causes much discontent and ill-feeling.' - -This is quite enough for Mr. Million. This man, ragged, penniless, -has the effrontery to tell the rich brewer to his face that he would -have the public picture-galleries and museums of art opened on the -Sabbath-day, and that he would shut the public-houses. Mr. Million can -find no words to express his indignation. He can only say, stiffly and -coldly, - -'I have heard quite enough of your opinions, sir. Come to the point of -your visit. You see'--pointing to the papers scattered about the -table--'that I am very busy.' - -'I came, sir,' he says sadly, 'in the hope that, seeing my distress, -you would not have been disinclined to assist me--not with money, -sir,' he adds swiftly, in answer to an impatient look of dissent from -Mr. Million, 'but with your good word. But I am afraid that I have -injured my cause by the expression of my opinions.' - -'In what way did you expect that I could aid you?' asks Mr. Million -carelessly, as he settles himself to his papers. - -'I have been especially unfortunate in my career, sir. As I told you, -I am willing to work, but am unable to obtain it. If I could emigrate; -if I could get into a new country, where labour is scarce, things -might be better for me.' - -The poor man is helpless at the rich man's foot; and the rich man -plays with him, as a cat with a mouse. - -'Well,' he says, 'emigrate. The country would be well rid of such as -you.' - -Saul Fielding takes no notice of the insult. He is not to be turned -aside from his purpose, although he knows full well that he has missed -his mark. - -'I have no means, sir; I am poor and helpless.' - -'How do you propose to effect your object, then?' - -'There are Government emigrant ships which take men out, I have heard, -for very little--for nothing almost. A line of recommendation from you -would be sufficiently powerful, I thought, to obtain me a passage.' - -'Doubtless, doubtless,' this with a smile; 'but you are a man of some -perception, and having observed how utterly I disagree with your -opinions--which I consider abominable and mischievous to the last -degree--you can hardly expect me to give you the recommendation you -ask for. May I ask, as you are a perfect stranger to me, for I have no -recollection of you in any way, to what I am indebted for the honour -you have done me by choosing me to give you a good character?' - -'You are a public man, sir, and I have heard a friend to the working -man. And as you had helped a friend of mine to emigrate by giving him -a free passage in a ship that sails this week----' - -'Stop, stop, if you please. _I_ help a friend of yours to emigrate by -giving him a free passage! I think you are mistaken.' - -'If you say so, sir, I must be. But this is what George Naldret gave -me to understand.' - -'And pray who is George Naldret?' demands Mr. Million haughtily; 'and -what are his reasons for emigrating?' - -'George Naldret,' returns Saul Fielding, in perplexity, 'is almost the -only friend I have in the world, and he is emigrating for the purpose -of putting himself into a position to marry more quickly than his -prospects here will allow him.' - -'As you are introducing me,' says Mr. Million, with an air of supreme -indifference, 'to your friends, perhaps you would like also to -introduce me to the young lady--for of course' (with a sneer) 'she is -a young lady--he desires to marry.' - -'Her name is Sparrow--Bessie Sparrow, granddaughter to an old grocer.' - -Mr. Million becomes suddenly interested, and pushes his papers aside -with an exclamation of anger. - -'What name did you say?' - -'Miss Bessie Sparrow.' - -The rich brewer ponders for a moment, evidently in no pleasant mood. -Then suddenly rings a bell. A servant appears. - -'Is my son in the house?' - -'Yes, sir.' - -'Tell him to come to me instantly.' - -Saul Fielding waits gravely. Seemingly, he also has found new food for -contemplation. Presently young Mr. Million appears. - -'You sent for me, sir.' - -'Yes, James. Do you know this person?' with a slight wave of the hand -in the direction of Saul Fielding, as towards a thing of no -consequence. Saul Fielding knows that his mission has failed, but does -not resent this contemptuous reference to him. He stands, humble and -watchful, before father and son. - -'I have seen him,' says young Mr. Million, 'and I should say he is not -a desirable person in this house.' - -'My opinion exactly. Yet, influenced by some cock-and-a-bull story, he -comes here soliciting my assistance to enable him to emigrate. The -country would be well rid of him, I am sure; but of course it is out -of my power to give such a person a good character to the emigration -commissioners.' - -'Out of anybody's power, I should say,' assents young Mr. Million -gaily. 'To what cock-and-a-bull story do you refer?' - -'He tells me--which is news to me--that I have given a free passage -ticket to a friend of his, George--George--what did you say?' - -'George Naldret, sir.' Saul Fielding supplies the name in a manner -perfectly respectful. - -'Ay--George Naldret. Such a statement is in itself, of course, a -falsehood. Even if I knew George Naldret, which I do not, and desired -to assist him, which I do not, the fact of his being engaged to be -married to any one of the name of Sparrow--a name which means disgrace -in our firm, as you are aware-would be sufficient for me not to do -so.' - -Young Mr. Million steals a look at Saul Fielding, whose face, however, -is a mask; and in a hesitating voice says: 'I think I can explain the -matter; but it is not necessary for this person to remain. You do not -know, perhaps, that he was the chief mover in a strike a few years -ago, which threatened to do much mischief.' - -'I am not surprised to hear it,' says the rich brewer; 'the opinions -he has expressed have prepared me for some such statement concerning -him. He would desecrate the Sabbath-day by opening museums and -picture-galleries, and he would curtail the liberty of the subject by -closing public-houses, and depriving the working man of his beer! -Monstrous! monstrous! He has nothing to say for himself, I suppose.' - -'No, sir,' answers Saul Fielding, raising his head, and looking -steadily at young Mr. Million, 'except that I believed in the truth of -what I told you, and that I don't know whether I am sorry or glad that -I made the application to you.' - -The rich brewer has already touched the bell, and the servant comes -into the room. - -'Show this person to the door,' Mr. Million says haughtily; 'and if he -comes again, send for a policeman. He is a dangerous character.' - -Saul Fielding's lips wreathe disdainfully, but he walks out of the -room, and out of the house, without a word of remonstrance. This -chance has slipped from him. Where next shall he turn? He walks slowly -onwards until he is clear of the rich brewer's house, and then stops, -casting uncertain looks about him. As a sense of his utter -helplessness comes upon him, a young woman brushes past him without -seeing him. He looks up. Bessie Sparrow! She is walking quickly, and -seems to see nothing, seems to wish to see nothing. Without any -distinct purpose in his mind, but impelled by an uncontrollable -undefinable impulse, Saul Fielding turns and follows her. A gasp of -pain escapes him as he sees her pause before Mr. Million's house. She -rings the bell, and the door is opened. She hands the servant a -letter, and the next moment she is in the house, shut from Saul -Fielding's view. The terror that comes upon him is so great that the -street and the sky swim before his eyes, and he clings to a lamp-post -for support. - -'O, George!' he groans. 'O, my friend! How will you bear this? Good -God! what bitterness there is in life even for those who have not -fallen as I have done!' - - - - TOTTIE'S DREAM. - - -When Tottie was put to bed, it was no wonder that she was haunted by -the sweet effigy of old Ben Sparrow, and that his stomach of candied -lemon-peel and his head of rich figs and currants presented themselves -to her in the most tempting shapes and forms her warm imagination -could devise. As she lay in bed, looking at the rushlight in the -washhand basin, the effigy appeared bit by bit in front of the basin -until it was complete, and when it winked one of its currant eyes at -her--as it actually did--the light of the candle threw a halo of glory -over the form. Her eyes wandering to the mantelshelf, she saw the -effigy come out of the wall and stand in the middle of the shelf; and -turning to the table, it rose from beneath it, and sat comfortably -down; with its legs of cinnamon and raisins tucked under it like a -tailor. When she closed her eyes she saw it loom in the centre of -dilating rainbow circles, and in the centre of dark-coloured discs, -which as they swelled to larger proportions assumed bright borderings -of colour, for the express purpose of setting off more vividly the -attraction of the figure. Opening her eyes drowsily, she saw the old -man come down the chimney and vanish in the grate, and as he -disappeared, down the chimney he came again, and continued thus to -repeat himself as it were, as if he were a regiment under full -marching orders. Whichever way, indeed, Tottie's eyes turned, she saw -him, until the room was full of him and his sweetness, and with his -multiplied image in her mind she fell asleep. - -No wonder that she dreamt of him. Tottie and Bessie slept in the same -room, and Tottie dreamt that long after she fell asleep--it must have -been long after, for Bessie was in bed--she woke up suddenly. There -she was, lying in bed, wide awake, in the middle of the night. The -room was dark, and she could not see anything, but she could hear -Bessie's soft breathing. She was not frightened, as she usually was in -the dark, for her attention was completely engrossed by one feeling. A -frightful craving was upon her, which every moment grew stronger and -stronger. This craving had something horrible in it, which, however, -she did not quite realise. In the next room slept old Ben Sparrow, -who, according to the fancy of her dream, was not made of blood, and -flesh, and bone, but of lemon-peel, fig, and currants and raisins. All -the sweet things in the shop had been employed in the manufacture, and -there they lay embodied in him. - -Tottie knew nothing of theology; knew nothing of the value of her -soul, which, without a moment's hesitation, she would have bartered -for figs and candied lemon-peel. And there the delicious things lay, -in the very next room. If she could only get there!--perhaps he would -not miss an arm or a leg. But to eat the old man who was so kind to -her! She had a dim consciousness of the wickedness of the wish, but -she could not rid herself of it. Thought Tottie, 'He won't know if -he's asleep, and perhaps it won't hurt him. I know it would do me -good.' Her mouth watered, her eyes glistened, her fingers twitched to -be at him, her stomach cried out to her. She could _not_ withstand the -temptation. Slowly and tremblingly she crept out of bed, and groped -along the ground towards the door. Bessie was asleep. Everybody was -asleep. The house was very quiet. Everything favoured the -accomplishment of the horrible deed. 'Nobody will know,' thought -Tottie. Thoroughly engrossed in her desperate cannibalistic purpose, -and with her teeth grating against each other, Tottie turned the -handle of the door and opened it; but as she looked into the dark -passage Ben Sparrow's door opened, and a sudden flood of light poured -upon her. It so dazzled her, and terrified her, that she fled back to -her bed on all-fours, and scrambled upon it, with a beating heart and -a face as white as a ghost's. - -[Illustration] - - -Sitting there glaring at the door, which she had left partly open in -her flight, she saw the light steal into the room, and flying in the -midst of it, old Ben Sparrow. He was not quite as large as life, but -he was ever so many times more sweet and delicious-looking. As old Ben -Sparrow appeared, the room became as light as day, and Tottie noticed -how rich and luscious were the gigantic fig which formed his head, the -candied lemon-peel which formed his stomach, the raisins which clothed -his legs and arms; and as for the ripeness of his dark, beady, fruity -eyes, there was no form of thought that could truly express the -temptation that lay in them. Ben Sparrow hovered in the air for a few -moments, and then steadied himself, as it were: he stood bolt upright, -and, treading upon nothing; advanced slowly and solemnly, putting out -one leg carefully, and setting it down firmly upon nothing before he -could make up his mind to move the other. In this manner he approached -Tottie, and sat down on her bed. For a little while Tottie was too -frightened to speak. She held her breath, and waited with closed lips -for him to say something. But as grandfather did not move or speak, -her courage gradually returned, and with it, her craving for some of -him. She became hungrier than the most unfortunate church-mouse that -ever breathed; her rapacious longing could only be satisfied in one -way. Timorously she reached out her hand towards his face; he did not -stir. Towards his eyes; he did not wink. Her finger touched his eye; -it did not quiver--and out it came, and was in her hand! Her heart -throbbed with fearful ecstasy, as with averted head she put the -terrible morsel in her mouth. It was delicious. She chewed it and -swallowed it with infinite relish, and, when it was gone, thirsted for -its fellow. She looked timidly at the old man. There was a queer -expression in his fig face, which the loss of one of his eyes had -doubtless imparted to it. 'It doesn't seem to hurt him,' thought -Tottie. Her eager fingers were soon close to the remaining eye, and -out that came, and was disposed of in like manner. Tottie certainly -never knew how good Ben Sparrow was until the present time. She had -always loved him, but never so much as now. The eyeless face had a -mournful expression upon it, and seemed to say sadly, 'Hadn't you -better take me next?' Tottie clutched it desperately. It wagged at -her, and from its mace lips a murmur seemed to issue, 'O, Tottie! -Tottie! To serve me like so this!' But Tottie was ravenous. No fear of -consequences could stop her now that she had tasted him, and found how -sweet he was. She shut her eyes nevertheless, as, in the execution of -her murderous purpose, she tugged at his head, which, when she had -torn from his body, she ate bit by bit with a rare and fearful -enjoyment. When she looked again at the headless figure of the old -man, one of the legs moved briskly and held itself out to her with an -air of 'Me next!' in the action. But Tottie, hungering for the -lemon-peel stomach, disregarded the invitation. It was difficult to -get the stomach off, it was so tightly fixed to its legs. When she -succeeded, the arms came with it, and she broke them off short at the -shoulder blade, and thought she heard a groan as she performed the -cruel operation. But her heart was hardened, and she continued her -feast without remorse. How delicious it was! She was a long time -disposing of it, for it was very large, but at length it was all -eaten, and not a piece of candied sugar was left. As she sucked her -fingers with the delight of a savage, a sense of the wickedness of -what she had done came upon her. Her grandfather, who had always been -so kind to her! She began to tremble and to cry. But the arms and legs -remained. They _must_ be eaten. Something dreadful would be done to -her if they were discovered in her bed; so with feverish haste she -devoured the limbs. And now, not a trace of the old man remained. -She had devoured him from head to foot She would never see him -again--never, never! How dreadful the table looked, with him _not_ on -it! How Tottie wished she hadn't done it! She was appalled at the -contemplation of her guilt, and by the thought of how she would be -punished if she were found out. In the midst of these fears the light -in the room vanished, and oblivion fell upon Tottie in the darkness -that followed. - - - - I CAN SEE YOU NOW, KISSING HER LITTLE TOES. - - -The next day, being George's last day at home, was a day of sorrow to -all the humble persons interested in his career. He, was to start for -Liverpool by an early train on the following morning, and was to pass -his last evening at Ben Sparrow's, with the old man and Bessie and -Tottie and his mother and father. He had decided to bid Bessie -good-bye in her grandfather's house. Bessie was for sitting up all -night, but he said gently, - -'I think, Bessie, that mother would like to have me all to herself the -last hour or two. You know what mothers are! By and by, heart's -treasure! you will have the first claim on me; but now mother looks -upon me as all her own, and it will comfort her heart, dear soul! to -let it be as I say.' - -There were tears in George's eyes as he looked down upon the face of -his darling, and his heart almost fainted within him at the thought of -parting from her. And, 'Do you love me, Bess?' he asked, for the -thousandth time. - -'With all my heart and soul,' replied Bessie, pressing him in her -arms. And so, with his head bowed down to hers, they remained in -silent communion for many minutes. They were sitting in Ben Sparrow's -parlour, and the old man had left the young people by themselves, -finding occupation in his shop, in the contemplation of his effigy, -and in weighing up quarters of a pound of sugar. There was a woful -look in Ben Sparrow's face as he stood behind his counter; times were -hard with him, and his till was empty. - -'Bess, darling,' said George, waking up from his dream. She raised her -tearful eyes to his. He kissed them. 'As I kiss away your tears now, -my dear, so I will try to take sorrow and trouble from you when we -commence our new life.' - -'I know it, George; I know it,' she said, and cried the more. - -'But that is not what I was going to say. I was going to say this. -Listen to me, dearest: If it were not for you, I shouldn't go; if it -were not for you, I should stay at home, and be content. For I love -home, I love the dear old land, I love mother and father, and the old -black cat, and the little house I was born in. And it's because of you -that I am tearing myself from these dear things. I am going to earn -money enough to make a home for you and me; to make you more quickly -all my own, all my own! How my heart will yearn for you, dear, when I -am over the seas! But it will not be for long; I will work and save, -and come back soon, and then, my darling, then!----' The tenderness of -his tone, and the tenderness there was in the silence that followed, -were a fitter and more expressive conclusion to the sentence than -words could have made. 'I shall say when I am in the ship, I am -here for Bessie's sake. When I am among strangers, I shall think of -you, and think, if I endure any hardship, that I endure it for my -darling--and that will soften it, and make it sweet; it will, my dear! -I shall not be able to sleep very much, Bess, and that will give me -all the more hours to work--for you, my darling, for you! See here, -heart's treasure; here is the purse you worked for me, round my neck. -It shall never leave me--it rests upon my heart. The pretty little -beads! How I love them! I shall kiss every piece of gold I put in it, -and shall think I am kissing you, as I do now, dear, dearest, best! I -shall live in the future. The time will soon pass, and as the ship -comes back, with me in it, and with my Bessie's purse filled with -chairs and tables and pots and pans, I shall see my little girl -waiting for me, thinking of me, longing to have me in her arms as I -long to have her in mine. And then, when I _do_ come, and you start -up from your chair as I open the door!----Think of that moment, -Bess--think of it!' - -'O, George, George, you make me happy!' - -And in such tender words they passed the next hour together, until -George tore himself away to look after some tools, which he was to -take with him to coin chairs and tables and pots and pans with. But if -he did not wish his tools to rust, it behoved him not to bring them -too close to his eyes, for his eyelashes were dewy with tears. - -Now, late as it was in the day for such common folk as ours, Tottie -had not yet made her appearance downstairs. The first in the morning -to get up in the house was old Ben Sparrow, and while he was taking -down his shutters, and sweeping his shop and setting it in order, -Bessie rose and dressed, and prepared the breakfast. Then, when -breakfast was nearly ready, Bessie would go upstairs to dress and wash -Tottie; but on this particular morning, on going to the little girl's -bedside, Tottie cried and sobbed and shammed headache, and as Tottie -was not usually a lie-abed, Bessie thought it would do the child good -to let her rest. And besides being as cunning as the rest of her sex, -Bessie was the more inclined to humour Tottie's whim, because she knew -that George would be sure to drop in early; and if Tottie were out of -the way, she and her lover could have the parlour all to themselves. -George being gone, however, there was no longer any reason for Tottie -keeping her bed; so Bessie washed and dressed the child, and was -surprised, when taking her hand to lead her downstairs, to see Tottie -shrink back and sob and cry that she didn't want to go. - -'Come, be a good child, Tottie,' said Bessuel 'grandfather's -downstairs, and he wants to play with you.' - -At this Tottie sobbed and sobbed, and shook her head vehemently. She -knew very well that it was impossible for Ben Sparrow to be -downstairs, for had she not eaten him in the night, every bone of him? -She was morally convinced that there was not a bit of him left. -Grandfather play with her! He would never play with her any more; she -had done for him! Her fears were so great that she fancied she could -feel him stirring inside of her. But although she was rebellious, she -was weak, and so, shutting her eyes tight, she went into the parlour -with Bessie. Then she ran tremblingly into a corner, and stood with -her face to the wall, and her pinafore over her head; and there -Bessie, having more pressing cares upon her just then, left her. When -Tottie, therefore, heard the old man's voice calling to her, she -sobbed, 'No, I never! No, I never!' and was ready to sink through the -floor in her fright; and when the old man lifted her in his arms to -kiss her, it was a long time before she could muster sufficient -courage to open her eyes and feel his face and his arms and his legs, -to satisfy herself that he was really real. And even after that, as if -she could not believe the evidence of her senses, she crept towards -him at intervals, and touched him and pinched his legs, to make -assurance doubly sure. - -Ben Sparrow found it hard work to be playful to-day, and Tottie had -most of her time to herself. If the anxiety depicted on his face were -any criterion, his special cares and sorrows must have been of an -overwhelming nature. In the afternoon young Mr. Million came in, -spruce and dandified, and handsome as usual. The young gentleman was -not an unfrequent visitor at the little grocer's shop, and would often -pop in and chat for an hour with Ben Sparrow; he would sit down in the -back parlour in the most affable manner, and chat and laugh as if they -were equals. Bessie was not at home when he came this afternoon, and -he seemed a little disappointed; but he stopped and chatted for all -that, and when he went away, the old grocer brightened, and his face -looked as if a load were lifted from his heart. His brighter mood met -with no response from Bessie, when she came in shortly afterwards. -Some new trouble seemed to have come on her since the morning--some -new grief to which she hardly dared give expression. She had been -stabbed by a few presumably chance and careless words spoken by a -neighbour--need it be told that this neighbour was a woman? No weapon -can be keener than a woman's tongue, when she chooses to use it to -stab. The woman who had uttered the words was young--a year older than -Bessie--and it was known at one time that she was setting her cap at -Bessie's sweetheart. But she had met with no encouragement from -George, who, being wrapt heart and soul in Bessie, had no eyes for -other women. George often nodded a laughing assent to a favourite -saying of his mother's, that 'One woman was enough for any man; more -than enough, sometimes,' Mrs. Naldret would occasionally add. The stab -which Bessie received shall be given in the few words that conveyed -it. - -'So George goes away to-morrow morning,' was the woman's remark to -Bessie as she was hurrying home with heavy heart. - -'Yes,' sighed Bessie; 'to-morrow morning.' - -'Ah,' said the woman, 'he'll be nicely cut up at leaving. I daresay -he'd give a good deal, if he could take some one with him.' - -'I am sure he would,' said Bessie, thinking that by 'some one' herself -was meant. - -'O, I don't mean you,' said the woman, seeing the interpretation that -Bessie put upon her words. - -'Who do you mean, then?' asked Bessie, looking up quickly. - -The woman laughed and shrugged her shoulders. - -'Well!' she exclaimed. 'Some girls _are_ blind! Thank goodness, the -best man in the world couldn't blind me so!' - -'What do you mean?' demanded Bessie, in an agitated tone, all the -blood deserting her face. 'What have you to say against George?' - -The woman laughed again. - -'You've no cause to be jealous, Bessie,' she said, 'it's only a child. -But I _do_ think, if I was George's sweetheart'--Bessie's lip curled, -and this little expression made the woman's tone more venomous--'I -_do_ think,' she added with scornful emphasis, 'that if I was George's -sweetheart--O, you needn't curl your lip, Bessie!--I should ask -him--who--Tottie's--father--was! A woman isn't worth that'--with a -snap of her finger--'if she hasn't got a spirit.' - -And George's discarded left Bessie white and trembling, with this -wound in her heart. - -Bessie looked after the woman, dazed for a few moments by the -accusation conveyed in the words; then she became suddenly indignant, -and the blood rushed back to her face and neck; it dyed her bosom, and -she knew it and felt it, and felt the stab there also. Then she -hurried home. - -Ben Sparrow did not notice her agitation at first; he was too much -rejoiced at the lifting of a heavy weight from him. In the morning -ruin had stared him in the face; a small creditor had come down -upon him; had given him twenty-four hours to pay an account which, -trifling as it was, he was not possessed of. But young Mr. Million had -been to see him and had saved him. He would be able to pay this hard -creditor--I am ashamed to say for how trifling an amount--in the -morning, and he was exultant 'I am only too glad,' this young -gentleman had said, 'to have the opportunity of rendering a service to -Bessie's grandfather.' When he departed, old Ben Sparrow actually -danced in his parlour in thankfulness for the danger escaped. - -'Bessie,' cried Ben Sparrow as his granddaughter entered, 'young Mr. -Million has been here.' - -Bessie nodded, scarcely heeding the words. - -'He's a gentleman,' continued Ben Sparrow, 'every inch of him; to -forget the past, as he does.' - -'What past, grandfather?' asked Bessie. 'Forget what?' - -'O, nothing--nothing, my dear,' exclaimed Ben hurriedly, and coughing -as if something had come up or gone down the wrong way. 'What I say -is, he's a gentleman, every inch of him.' - -'You said that before, grandfather.' - -'Did I? yes, of course. But I'm an old man, Bessie, and you must make -allowances. We can't be all bright and fresh, and always happy as my -dear child is.' - -Bessie kissed Ben Sparrow's neck, and laid her head oh his shoulder. -'Always happy, grandfather! Am I always happy?' - -'Of course you are, dear child, and it's natural and right and proper. -Sorry and grieved, of course, because our sweetheart's going away--but -he'll be back soon, never fear. And we'll talk of him every day and -every night, my dear, and the time'll fly away'--he blew a light -breath--'like that! Ah, my dear! it's only the old that knows how -quickly time flies!' - -Bessie said nothing, but pressed closer to the old shield that had -sheltered her from babyhood to womanhood. - -'And now see,' said the old shield, 'what young Mr. Million brought -for you. And you're to wear them at once, he said, and I say so too, -and I promised him you would, for he's coming here tonight, and is -going to do me such a kindness as only the kindest heart in the world -could do.' - -Ben Sparrow took from his pocket a little box, and opened it, and -produced therefrom a piece of tissue-paper, and from the tissue-paper -a pair of pretty turquoise earrings set in gold. Bessie scarcely -looked at them, and allowed Ben to take from her ears the pair of old -ear-rings she had worn for ever so many years, and replace them with -Mr. Million's pretty present. - -'You look, Bessie,' said old Ben, falling back and contemplating her, -'you look like a Princess! and it's my opinion, my dear, that you are -every bit as good as one.' - -He held a piece of looking-glass before her, and desired her to look -at herself. To please him she said they _were_ very pretty, and then -said, suddenly coming to what was uppermost in her mind, 'Grandfather, -I want you to tell me about Tottie.' - -'About Tottie, my dear!' exclaimed Ben Sparrow wonderingly. - -'Yes,' replied Bessie, sitting down, 'about Tottie. All I know is that -you came and asked me once if I would mind if you brought a little -friendless girl home to live with us, and if I would take care of -her.' - -'And you said Yes, gladly, for it would be company for us, and would -make the place pleasant. And I'm sure neither you nor me have ever -repented it. If Tottie was our own flesh and blood we couldn't be -fonder of her. I shouldn't know what to do without her now I've got so -used to her. I'll tell you the story by and by, my dear, when George -has gone----' - -'No,' interrupted Bessie, so impetuously as to cause old Ben to jump; -'now! I want to know now. Ah, dear grandfather! you have always been -so good to me that I can't help being a tyrant.' - -'You a tyrant!' cried Ben, appealing with raised hands to the walls -and the furniture to join him in the repudiation of the astonishing -statement. 'That's a good one, that is. Well, my dear, as you want to -know at once, and as you're such a tyrant--ha, ha! I can't help -laughing, my dear--here goes. It's now three years gone, Bess--before -George and you began to keep company, my dear--that George comes and -tells me a story of a poor little thing that had been thrown helpless -upon the world. "Such a pretty little thing!" says George, "and not a -friend but me to look after her! I wish I knew some one," says George, -"who would take care of the dear; I'm sure I could never be grateful -enough to them." Then I asked how old the child was, and whether she -did not have relations. "Yes," said George, "she had two, but they had -no home and were altogether in too bad a position to take care of the -little one." Then I thought of you, my dear, and thought it would be -company for my Bessie and for me, and that if we grew to love the -child, there would be nothing to repent of. I told George this, and -George confessed that he had the same thing in his mind too, and that -was the reason why he spoke to me about it--hoping that I would say -what I had said. And so, to cut a long story short, one night a woman -came to the door with little Tottie in her arms, and kissed the child -a many times, and George brought Tottie in. I didn't see the woman's -face, but I fancied that she was crying. I have often wished since -that I had seen her face, the poor creature seemed in such distress. -You remember, Bessie, when you came home an hour afterwards, and found -me sitting before the fire with Tottie in my lap, warming her little -toes, how you fell in love with her directly, and how happy she made -us, and how this very parlour was, because Tottie was with us, really -made a great deal more cheerfuller than ever it had been before! You -remember the wonderful dimples that came into her face when she -looked at us, and broke out a-smiling, as much as to say, 'How d'you -do, old Ben and young Bess? I'm very glad to see you!' Why, it was as -good as a play! I can see you now kissing her little toes, and can see -her crowing and laughing when you kissed her neck--so fat, and so full -of creases! and I can see her clenching her little fist and -flourishing it in the air as much as to say, "In this fist I've got a -hundred-pound note, and all the world and his wife sha'n't take it -from me!" Dear, dear! the child _has_ been a comfort to us, and it was -a bright day when she came into the house, the poor little thing! Then -George says, "You're not to be expected to keep Tottie for nothing, -Mr. Sparrow; and here's three shillings a week, and when she gets a -big girl perhaps we'll be able to spare more." And he's paid the three -shillings a week regular, and has brought little things for her now -and then, such as a frock, you know, or a flannel petticoat, or a -little pair of shoes. And that's the whole of the story, Bess.' - -Bessie had listened very attentively to the narration of Tottie's -history, and now said, after a pause, with a strange hesitation in her -voice, - -'Grandfather, did George never tell you--who--Tottie's--father--was? - -'No, my dear. I remember once it coming up between us somehow, but -George turned it off, and said it didn't matter to Tottie, who seemed -as happy as the day was long--and so she was, and is, my dear.' - -At that moment 'Shop!' was called, and Ben Sparrow hurried in to -attend to his customer, and the subject dropped. - - - - ONE KISS FOR HOPE, ONE FOR FAITH, AND ONE FOR LOVE. - - -Tea was over and cleared away in the little back parlour, and Bessie -and old Ben Sparrow sat looking sadly into the fire. Tottie was also -present in her high chair, but there was nothing of sadness in her -thoughts. She was enjoying, in anticipation, what was spread upon the -table; for after the fashion of humble folk, preparations had been -made for 'a party' on this last evening which George was to spend with -them. There was a bottle of 'sherry wine' on the table, and another of -port, which old Ben had bought at a large grocer's shop over -Westminster-bridge, at a cost, for the two bottles, of two shillings -and fourpence; and that the wine was of an old and rich vintage, was -proved by the mildew and sawdust which clung to the bottles. There -were six wine-glasses of different shapes and patterns; and there was -a plate of almonds and raisins, and another of figs, and some small -seed-cakes, and four oranges cut in quarters; so that, altogether, the -table presented quite a festive appearance. There was nothing festive, -however, in the countenances of Bessie and her grandfather; their -faces were as sad as their thoughts. It was but natural. And yet they -would have been loth to have confessed to each other the exact tenor -of their contemplations. - - -[Illustration] - - -A bustle in the shop caused Ben Sparrow to jump from his chair. - -'That's Mr. and Mrs. Naldret,' he said, and opened the parlour-door -and gave them welcome. - -'Well, Bessie,' said Mrs. Naldret, and 'Well, my girl,' said Jim -Naldret, and they both kissed her, and shook hands with old Ben, who -bustled about doing nothing, while Bessie assisted Mrs. Naldret to -take off her bonnet and things. Mrs. Naldret had with one glance taken -in the preparations for the party, and approved of them. - -'What a pretty pair of earrings!' exclaimed Mrs. Naldret, admiring the -turquoise trifles in Bessie's pink ears, and, 'Well, George is a sly -one!' said Jim Naldret, pinching the pretty ears. - -'George didn't give them to her,' said Ben Sparrow, rubbing his hands; -'no, nor me either. I'm not rich enough; though if I could afford it, -Bessie should have had such a pair long ago, and a gold chain and a -watch as well.' - -'She's pretty enough to have them,' said Jim Naldret. - -'And good enough,' added Ben. 'Well, I _am_ glad to see you! But I -wish it was to welcome George back instead of wishing him good-bye. -Eh, Bess?' - -'Yes, grandfather,' replied Bessie, with a heavy sigh. - -Mrs. Naldret said nothing; she was thinking who had given Bessie the -turquoise ear-rings; she knew they could not have cost less than four -pounds at least. - -'There's George,' said Jim Naldret, as the shop-door opened. - -Bessie turned eagerly to the door, but Ben Sparrow stepped before her -and said in a hurried agitated tone, - -'I should like to have a few quiet words with George, my dear; I -sha'n't have another opportunity. Mrs. Naldret won't mind.' - -That worthy woman nodded, and Ben Sparrow, going into the shop, -stopped George's entrance into the parlour. - -'Don't go in for a minute,' said Ben; 'I want to speak to you.' - -'All right, grandfather; but I must have a kiss of Bessie first. -Bessie!' - -The girl ran into the shop at his call, and nestled in his arms for a -moment. - -'There! there!' exclaimed old Ben, taking Bessie's hand gently and -kindly. 'Go inside, Bess, my dear. That's all George wanted with you. -We'll be in presently.' - -Bessie went into the parlour, and George's heart was like a nest from -which the dearly-loved bird had flown. That little embrace, with -Bessie, warm and soft and tender in his arms, contained such exquisite -happiness as to be painful. - -'I'll not keep you two minutes,' said Ben Sparrow; 'come to the door, -so that we may not be heard.' - -They went to the shop-door, and into the street, which they paced -slowly as they conversed. - -'As I was sitting inside by the fire, just now, George,' resumed Ben, -'there came into my mind something which I think I ought to speak of -before you go away. It brought back old-time memories, too. You see, -my dear boy, I am an old man, and there's no telling what may happen. -It is a comfort to me that Bessie will have a good man for a -husband--for I believe you to be good, and--and a man, George!' - -'Indeed, Mr. Sparrow, I will do my best. It will be my happiness to -make her happy.' - -'I believe it will be, George, and that's why I'm glad she will be -yours. I have nothing to give her, George, nothing. I am so poor that -I don't know which way to turn sometimes to pay little pay little -bills.' - -'I want nothing with her, Mr. Sparrow. I want no better fortune than -Bessie herself.' He was overflowing with love for his dear girl. - -'She's good enough to be a Princess,' said Ben proudly, 'good enough -to be a Queen.' - -'She's my Princess and my Queen,' replied George; 'and she's a good -girl and will be a good wife, and that's better than all.' - -'That it is--that it is. But don't interrupt me, George. I thought -once I should be better off than I am, but something went wrong with -me, and I lost all my little savings. Since then, I have been going -down, till sometimes I think I can't go down any lower.' Old Ben -Sparrow paused here, and before he resumed closed his eyes, and put -his hand over them, as if with his inner sense of sight he were -looking into the past. 'George, I am going to speak of Bessie's -father--and my son; it is only right that I should, for you may meet -him.' - -'Meet him, Mr. Sparrow!' - -'Yes,' replied the old man in a quiet tone, 'I daresay you have heard -that he ran away, years ago, in disgrace. Bessie was quite a little -thing then, and I don't think any one has been so unkind as to speak -of it to her. To tell you the truth, George, she believed years ago -that her father was dead, and it is best that she should not be told -different. And he may be dead, George, for all I know. He was employed -as one of old Mr. Million's collectors, and he used money that didn't -belong to him. He used my money, too, and put my name to papers -without my knowing; so that when he ran away, to prevent something -worse happening, I had to pay, which brought me down, and kept me -down, George. This is a solemn secret between us, George, and must -never again be spoken of.' - -'I understand, sir.' - -'But I thought it right that you should know before you go away. It -don't alter your opinion of Bessie, does it, George? does it, my boy?' - -'Alter my opinion of Bessie!' exclaimed George warmly. 'It gives her a -greater claim on me. I love her more for it, dear girl, knowing how -unhappy it would cause her to know this. Of course, it must be kept -from her!' - -'Dear boy, God bless you! God bless you, dear boy!' cried old Ben -Sparrow, with the tears running down his face. 'And, George--when you -make a little money, and come home with it to make Bessie happy, be -contented. Don't go striving after riches, as my son did, and forgot -the meaning of honesty and the happiness there is in contentment. From -the time he ran away, I have never had a line from him. But I heard -that he was seen in Australia, and if he is alive, you may meet him, -for there are not many people there. Strange things _do_ happen, -George! You may meet him, and know him. I daresay he has grown -something like me, but taller and more gentlemanly. Ah, that was his -ruin, wanting to be a gentleman! Well, if you do meet him, George,' -and the old man took George's hand and pressed it hard, and twined his -fingers with George's nervously; 'if you do, give him--my--my love, -George--my dear love--and tell him to write to me, and that his old -father forgives him, George--that he forgives him! And tell him about -you and Bessie, and how beautiful Bessie has grown, and how she's fit -to be a Princess'----Old Ben broke down here, and George put his arm -round the old man's neck, and patted him on the back, and said, 'Yes, -yes, Mr. Sparrow, I understand, I understand. I'll do all that you -wish and in the way that you wish. And now that I know, I'll look out -for him. What part of Australia do you think he's in?' - -'I don't know, George; but Australia can't be very large. I've done -right to tell you, George, haven't I?' - -'Yes, quite right.' - -With that, they went into the house, and joined the party in the -parlour. It was not a very merry one, and the conversation chiefly -consisted of tender reminiscences and hopeful anticipation. George -tried to be gay, but broke down, and if it had not been for old Ben -Sparrow chirruping out a line of 'Cheer, boys, cheer, there's wealth -for honest labour,' now and then, it would have been difficult to keep -matters going. But a diversion was occasioned in the course of the -evening by the arrival of young Mr. Million, who came in to shake -hands with George, he said, and to wish him good-bye. George was -sitting in the corner, with Tottie on his knee; the child was in a -state of repletion, having feasted her full on the pleasures of the -table, and was curled up in George's arms, feeling very sleepy. -Bessie, sitting next to George (he had a spare arm for her waist, -Tottie notwithstanding), cast strangely disturbed glances at her lover -and the child, and her heart was bleeding from the wound inflicted -upon it by what she had heard that afternoon. Every time George -stooped and kissed Tottie, Bessie's wound opened, and she was almost -distracted with doubt and grief and love. Young Mr. Million was very -sunny and bright--a sunbeam lighting up the sad clouds. He gave just a -glance at the earrings in Bessie's ears, and Bessie blushed as she -rose to allow George to shake hands with him. No one saw the glance -but Mrs. Naldret, and she looked gravely at Bessie. Young Mr. Million -was profuse in his good wishes for George; he wished the young man all -sorts of luck, and hoped he would soon be back. Every one was -gratified at the heartiness with which young Mr. Million expressed his -good wishes--every one but Mrs. Naldret; but then nothing seemed to -please her to-night. - -'I must drink your health, George,' said the young brewer. - -Ben Sparrow asked him with a grand air whether he would take sherry -wine or port, and he chose sherry, and said that Miss Sparrow should -fill his glass for him. Bessie filled his glass and handed it to him -with a bright flame in her cheeks; her hand shook, too, and a few -drops of the wine were spilt upon the table, which young Mr. Million -said gaily was a good omen. - -'And here's good luck to you, George, and a prosperous voyage,' he -said, and shook hands with George and wished him good-bye, and shook -hands also with all in the room. Old Ben Sparrow looked at him very -anxiously, and when the young prince with a quietly significant glance -at the old man, proposed that Miss Sparrow should open the shop-door -for him, Ben said, 'Yes, yes, certainly, sir,' and almost pushed -Bessie into the shop. Now what made Mrs. Naldret open the -parlour-door, and seat herself so that she could see the shop-door? It -may have been done unconsciously, but certain it is that, seeing -something pass between young Mr. Million and Bessie as they shook -hands at the shop-door, she gave a sudden cry, as if overtaken by a -spasm. Bessie ran in at the cry, and then Mrs. Naldret saw in one -quick flash, what no one else saw (for Bessie slipped it into her -pocket), a letter in Bessie's hand! The matron said it was nothing, -merely a stitch in her side; and turned from the maid to her son, -around whose neck she threw her arms, and kissed him again and again. - -'Why, mother!' exclaimed George, for Mrs. Naldret was beginning to sob -convulsively. 'Come, bear up, there's a dear soul! or we shall all be -as bad as you!' - -Mrs. Naldret repressed her sobs, and pressed him closer to her -faithful breast, and whispered, - -'Ah, George, there are a many women in the world for you, but there's -only one mother!' - -He whispered back to her, 'There's only one woman in the world for me, -and that's my darling Bessie; and there is only one other who is as -good as she is, and that's the mother I hold in my arms.' - -And all she could reply to this was, 'O, George, George! O, my dear, -dear boy!' with a world of love and pity in her voice. - -And so the sad evening passed away, until George said, Hadn't father -and mother better go home? He would soon be with them. They knew that -he wanted to say good-bye to Bessie, who sat pale and tearful, with -her hand in his; and they rose to go, saying he would find them up -when he came home. - -'I know that, dear mother and father,' he said, and went with them to -the door, and kissed them, and came back with the tears running down -his face. - -'I'll tell you what, George,' whispered old Ben Sparrow in George's -ear. 'You shall say good-bye to Tottie and me, and we'll go to bed; -and then you'll have Bessie all to yourself. But don't keep too long, -my dear boy, don't keep too long.' - -Tottie had been fast asleep for more than an hour, and George took her -in his arms without waking her. - -'Good-bye, Tottie,' he said; 'good-bye, little one!' He kissed her -many times, and the child, stirred by his caresses, raised her pretty -little hand to his face. He kissed her fingers, and then resigned her -to old Ben, who, with his burden in his arms, grasped George's hand -tight, and bade him good-bye and God speed. - -'And don't forget, George,' he said, with a secret look towards -Bessie. - -'No, Mr. Sparrow,' George replied, 'I'll bear in mind what you told -me.' - -'God bless you, then, and speed you back!' - -With this the old man ascended the stairs, with Tottie in his arms, -turning over his shoulder to give George a parting look, and humming -'Cheer, boys, cheer!' softly, to keep up the spirit of the lovers. - -They had listened with a kind of strained attention to the old man's -voice, and when it was hushed, and silence fell upon them, George -turned to Bessie, and in an instant she was in his arms, lying on his -breast. A long silence followed. George heard Bessie's heart beat -plainer than the tick of the old-fashioned clock, which stood like a -ghost in a corner of the room. Not another sound could be heard but -the ticking of the old clock and the beating of their hearts. As -Bessie lay in her lover's arms, she thought whether it would be -generous in her to question him about Tottie. The very asking of the -question would imply a doubt. A voice whispered to her, 'Trust him; -perfect love means perfect confidence.' But the woman's words were -present to her also; and George was paying for the child. She would -not admit the thought of anything dishonourable in George; but the -sting of the doubt was in her. Would it not be better for her to ask a -simple question, which George could easily answer, than to be -tormented with doubt during the long months he would be away from her? -Would it not be simple justice to Tottie? for if she were not -satisfied, she might grow to hate the child. And Bessie really loved -the pretty little forsaken one. The maternal instinct was in her, like -the seedling of a flower in the ground, waiting for the summer-time to -ripen it into the perfect beauty of motherly love. She loved children. - -And here, a word. Whether out of place or not, it must be written. -Trust not that woman who has no love for little ones. She is unworthy -of love. - -How long the lovers remained silent they did not know. But the time -flew all too swiftly, for the solemn tongue of Westminster proclaimed -the hour. Each clang was like a knell. It was midnight. - -Midnight! What solemn reflections arise at such a moment, if the mind -be attuned to them! If the world were spread before us like a map, -what varied emotion and feeling, what unworthy striving, what -unmerited suffering, what new lives born to pain, what old lives dying -out in it, what thoughts dark and bright, what flowers of tender love, -what weeds of ruthless circumstance, what souls born in the mire and -kept there, what hope, what remorse, what sounds of woe and pleasant -fountain-voices with sparkles in them, what angel-lights and divine -touches of compassion, would, in the brief space occupied by the -striking of the hour, there be displayed! And so that bell may toll, -night after night, for generation after generation, until a time shall -come--say in a hundred years--when every human pulse that at this -moment beats throughout the world, when every heart that thrills and -thirsts, when every vainful mortal that struts and boasts and makes -grand schemes for self's exaltment, shall lie dead in earth and sea! -Such thoughts should make us humble. - -The bell awoke the lovers from their dream, and they spoke in low -tones of the future and the hopes that lay in it for them. - -'When I come back with a little bit of money, my darling,' said -George, 'I shall be content to settle down to my trade, and we shall -jog along as happy as can be. We couldn't settle down without pots and -pans, and these I am going away to earn. I can see our little home, -with you sitting by the fireside, or waiting at the door for me to -give me a kiss when my day's work is done. Then I shall come round to -mother's old way, with her bread-and-cheese and kisses. That will be -good enough for me, my darling, with you to give me the kisses.' - -And he gave and took an earnest of them there and then. - -So they talked of one thing and another until One o'clock was tolled -by the Westminster bell, and during all that time Bessie had not found -courage to speak of what was in her mind. George had noticed the -ear-rings in Bessie's ears, but had not spoken of them, thinking that -Bessie would have drawn his attention to them. But Bessie's wound was -too fresh; the pain and bewilderment of it were all engrossing. She -had no thought for anything else. - -'And now I must go, my darling,' said George, as they stood by the -shop-door; 'for mother and father are waiting for me.' He took her -face between his hands and kissed her lips. 'One kiss for hope; one -for faith; and one for love.' - -Bessie raised her face again to his, and whispered as she kissed, - -'And one for confidence.' - -'And one for confidence,' he repeated, as heartily as his sadness -would allow. - -'There should be no secrets between us, George dear.' - -'Certainly there should not be, darling,' he replied, 'though you've -been keeping one from me all the night, you puss!' - -'I, George!' - -'Yes, you, dearest. You have never told me who gave you those pretty -ear-rings.' - -Upon such slight threads often do our dearest hopes hang! Bessie, -yielding to the weak impulse, to play off confidence for confidence, -said, - -'Never mind those, George. I want to ask you something first.' - -At this moment the sound of music came to them, and the waits -commenced to play the dear old air of 'Home, sweet home.' - -'That's Saul's doing,' thought George. 'Good fellow! What will become -of him during the time I am away?' As he and Bessie stood linked in a -close embrace, the soft strains floated through the air into their -hearts. - -'There shall be no secrets between us, George, in our own home, sweet -home!' - -'None, darling.' - -'And you'll not be angry with me for saying something?' - -'What can my dear girl say to make me angry? and at such a time!' - -'Then tell me, George--about Tottie.' - -'The dear little thing! What about her, dearest?' - -'George, is she an orphan?' - -How long seemed the interval before he replied! Tick--tick--tick--went -the clock, so slowly! O, so slowly, now! - -'No, Bessie.' - -How strangely his voice sounded! But he held her closer to him, and -she had no power to free herself from his embrace. Indeed, she would -have fallen had he loosed her. - -'Do not be angry with me, George,' she whispered, slowly and -painfully. 'She has a father living?' - -Another long, long pause, and then, 'Yes,' from George, in the same -strange tone. - -'Tell me his name, George.' - -He held her from him suddenly, and with his hands upon her shoulders, -looked her steadily in the face. But her eyes drooped in the light of -his earnest gaze. - -'I cannot, Bessie,' he said; 'I must not. When we are married I will -tell you all. There shall be no secrets between us in our home, sweet -home. Till then, be satisfied.' - -Softer came the dear old air to Bessie's ears. But the tenderer -meaning in it was gone for her. She turned from her lover petulantly. - -'I did not think you would refuse me this, George.' - -Wiser, stronger, than she, he said, - -'Do not let this trivial matter come between us, my dear;' and would -have taken her to his heart again, but she did not meet him as before. -'This trivial matter!' Was he so lost to honour and to love for her? -Something of her mind he saw in her face, and it made his blood hot. -'Good God,' he thought, 'is it possible she suspects me?' Then he -strove to soothe her, but she would not be soothed. She said but -little now; but her face was white with misery; doubt tore at the -wound in her heart. She knew the pain she was inflicting upon him by -the pain she felt herself. But she could not yield; she could not say, -'I know you are true to me. I will be satisfied, and will wait.' So -his efforts were vain, and two o'clock struck, and their agony was not -over. The tolling of the bell, however, brought to him the picture of -his father and mother waiting up at home for him. 'I _must_ go,' he -said hurriedly. 'Good-bye, dear Bessie, and God bless you! Trust to -me, and believe that no girl ever had more faithful lover.' - -In spite of her coldness, he pressed her close to his breast, and -whispered assurances of his love and faithfulness. Then tore himself -away, and left her almost fainting in the shop, love and doubt -fighting a sickening battle in her heart. - - - - YOU ALONE, AND MY MOTHER, ARE TRUE; ALL THE REST OF THE - WORLD IS FALSE. - - -The night was very cold, and George felt the keen wind a relief. He -took off his hat, and looked around. The street was still and quiet; -the last strains of 'Home, sweet home,' had been played, and the -players had departed. All but one, and he waited at the end of the -street for George to come up to him. - -'What, Saul!' - -'George!' - - -[Illustration] - - -They clasped hands. - -'I am glad you are here, Saul. I should not have liked to go without -wishing you good-bye.' - -'I waited for you, George. I knew you were in there. Mother and father -sitting up for you, I suppose?' - -'Yes. In a few hours I shall go from here; then I shall be alone!' - -'As I am, George.' - -'Nay, Saul, you have Jane.' - -'She has left me, dear woman. I may never see her face again. It is -for my good, George, that she has done this. You do not know how low -we have sunk. George,' and here his voice fell to a whisper, 'at times -we have been almost starving! It could not go on like this, and she -has left me, and taken service somewhere in the country. She has done -right. As I suffer, as I stretch out my arms in vain for her, as I -look round the walls of my garret and am desolate in the light of my -misery, I feel and confess she has done right. Here is her letter. -Come to the lamp; there is light enough to read it by.' - -George read the letter, and returned it to Saul, saying, 'Yes, she is -right. What do you intend to do?' - -'God knows. To try if I can see any way. But all is dark before me -now, George.' - -'I wish I could help you, Saul.' - -'I know, I know. You are my only friend. If it ever be in my power to -repay you for what you have done----' He dashed the tears from his -eyes, and stood silent for a few moments, holding George's hand in -his. 'George,' he said, in unsteady tones, 'in times gone by you and I -have had many good conversations; we passed happy hours together. -Words that have passed between us are in my mind now.' - -'In mine too, Saul.' - -'We had once,' continued Saul in the same strange unsteady tones, 'a -conversation on friendship. I remember it well, and the night on which -it took place. We walked up and down Westminster-bridge, and stopped -now and then, gazing at the lights on the water. There is something -grand and solemn in that sight, George; I do not know why, but it -always brings to my mind a dim idea of death and immortality. The -lights stretch out and out, smaller and smaller, until not a glimmer -can be seen; darkness succeeds them as death does life. But the lights -are there, George, although our vision is too limited to see them. You -remember that conversation, George?' - -'As if it had taken place this night, Saul. I can see the lights, and -the darkness that follows them.' - -'We agreed then upon the quality of friendship, but gave utterance to -many generalities.' Saul paused awhile, and then said slowly, 'I am -considering, George, whether I rightly understand the duties that lie -in friendship.' - -'Faithfulness, trustfulness.' - -'Yes, those; and other things as well. Say that you had a friend, and -had learnt something, had seen something, of which he is ignorant, and -which he should know; say it is something that you would keep from -your friend if you were false instead of true to him----' - -'I should be a traitor to friendship,' interrupted George warmly, 'if -I kept it from him. If I were truly his friend, I should seek him out -and say what I had learnt, what I had seen.' - -'Even if it contained pain, George; even if it would hurt him to -know?' - -'Even if it contained pain; even if it would hurt him to know. There -is often pain in friendship; there is often pain in love. You have -felt this, Saul, yourself. I have too, dear friend! Often into life's -sweetness and tenderness pain creeps, and we do not know how it got -there.' - -George uttered this in a gentle tone; he was thinking of Bessie. -'Come, friend,' he said, seeing that Saul hesitated to speak, 'you -have something to tell your friend. If you are true to him, tell it.' - -Thus urged, Saul said: 'First answer me this. When did you first think -of emigrating?' - -'I did not think of it at all, before it was put in my head.' - -'By whom?' - -'By young Mr. Million. One night, not very long ago now, he met me, -and got into conversation with me. Trade had been a little slack, and -I had had a few idle days. This made me fret, for I saw that if things -went on in the same way it might be years before I could save enough -to buy furniture to make a home for Bessie. I let this out in -conversation with young Mr. Million, and he sympathised with me, and -said it was a shame, but that if he were in my place he would put -himself in a position to marry his sweetheart in less than a year. -How? I asked. By emigrating, he said. It staggered me, as you may -guess, Saul. The idea of going away had never entered my head. He went -on to say that his father took a great interest in working men, and -was very interested also in emigration; that only that morning his -father had mentioned my name and had said that he had a passage ticket -for the very ship that is going out of the Mersey to-morrow, Saul--and -that if I had a mind to better myself, he would give the ticket to me. -I thanked him, and told him I would think of it. Well, I _did_ think -of it, and I read about wages over the water, and saw that I could do -what he said. He gave me the ticket, and that's how it came about.' - -'George,' said Saul pityingly, for things that were at present dark to -George seemed clear to him, 'Mr. Million never heard your name until -this morning.' - -'Stop!' exclaimed George, passing his hand over his eyes with a -bewildered air. 'Speak slowly. I don't know that I understand you. Say -that again.' - -Saul repeated: 'Mr. Million never heard your name until this morning. -I went to his house, thinking that as he had helped you, he might help -me; and he scoffed at me, and taunted me bitterly. He had no more to -do with getting your ticket than I had. Every word young Mr. Million -told you about the passage and about his father was false.' - -'Good God!' cried George. 'What could be his motive, then, in telling -me these things, and in obtaining this passage ticket for me?' - -'Think, George,' said Saul; 'there is such a thing as false kindness. -He _may_ have a motive in wishing you away. I could say more, but I -cannot bring my tongue to utter it.' - -'You must, Saul, you must!' cried George, in a voice that rang through -the street. They had walked as they conversed, and they were now -standing outside his mother's house. 'You must! By the friendship I -have borne for you! By the memory of what I have done for you!' The -door of his house was opened as he spoke. His mother had heard his -voice, and the agony in it, and came to the door. George saw her -standing there, looking anxiously towards him, and he said in a voice -thick with pain, 'Stay here until I come out. By the love you bear to -Jane, stop until I come. My mother will know--she is far-seeing, and I -may have been blind.' - -He hurried to his mother, and went into the house with her. For full -half an hour Saul waited in suspense, and at the end of that time -George came out of the house, staggering like a drunken man. Saul -caught him, and held him up. His face was as the face of death; a -strong agony dwelt in it. - -'I have heard something,' he said, in a tone that trembled with -passion and pain and weakness. 'My mother has doubted for a long time -past. She took a letter from him secretly to-night! Those earrings she -wore he gave her. O, my God! Tell me, you, what more you know! By the -memory of all you hold dear, tell me!' - -'George, my dear,' said Saul, in a broken voice, 'a few moments after -I quitted Mr. Million's house, I saw her enter it.' - -A long, long silence followed. The stars and the moon shone brightly, -but there was no light in the heavens for George. A sob broke from -him, and another, and another. - -'For God's sake,' exclaimed Saul, 'for your mother's sake, who suffers -now a grief as keen as yours, bear up! Dear friend, if I could lay -down my life for you, I would!' - -'I know it. You alone, and my mother, are true; all the rest of the -world is false! He wished to get rid of me, did he, and this was a -trap! The false lying dog! But when I meet him!---- See here! Here is -the ticket he gave me. If I had him before me now, I would do to him -as I do to this----' - -He crumpled the paper in his hand, and tore it fiercely in twain. Saul -caught his arm, and stayed its destruction. - -'No, no, George!' he cried, but his cry was like a whisper. 'Don't -destroy it! Give it, O, give it to me! Remember the letter that Jane -wrote to me. Think of the future that is open to me, to her, unless I -can see a way. The way is here! Here is my salvation! Let me go -instead of you!' He fell upon his knee's and raised his hands -tremblingly, as if the Death-Angel were before him, and he was not -prepared. 'If I live, I will repay you, so help me, the Great God!' - -George muttered, 'Take it. For me it is useless. May it bring you the -happiness that I have lost!' - -Saul kissed his friend's hand, which fell from his grasp. When he -looked up, his friend was gone. And the light in the heavens that -George could not see, shone on the face of the kneeling man. - - - - - PART II. - - - - THEY SAW, UPON ONE OF THE NEAREST PEAKS, A MAN STANDING, WITH - SUNSET COLOURS ALL AROUND HIM. - - -We are in the land of a thousand hills. Height is piled upon height, -range upon range. The white crests of the mountains cut sharp lines in -the clear cold air, and the few trees that are dotted about stand like -sentinels on the watch. On one of the far heights, some trees, -standing in a line, look like soldiers that have halted for rest; and -the clumps of bush that lie in the valleys and on the sides of the -hills are like wearied regiments sleeping. - -In dear old England the roses are blooming, and the sun is shining; -but here it is night, and snow-shadows rest on the mountains and -gullies. Among the seemingly interminable ranges, ice-peaks glitter -like diamond eyes. Round about us where we stand there is but little -wood growth; but in the far distance, beyond the eye's reach, are -forests of trees, from the branches of which garlands of icicles hang -fantastically; and down in the depths the beautiful fern-leaves are -rimmed with frosted snow. We are in the new world. - -Creation might have been but yesterday. Even these white canvas tents, -lying in the lap of Night, in the centre of the forest of peaks, do -not dispel the illusion. They are clustered in the saddle of a gully -almost hidden from sight by jealous upland. But look within, and you -will see that the old world is marching on to the new. Sturdy men, -asleep upon canvas beds, are resting from their toil. Some are from -old Devon, England's garden land; some from the Cornwall mines; some -from the motherland's fevered cities. Rest, tired workers! Sleep for a -little while, strong, brown-bearded men! Over your spirits, as you -dream and sometimes smile, it may be that the eternal light of a new -childhood is slowly breaking! - -Hark! What cry is this that reaches the ear? Come nearer. A baby's -voice! And now we can hear the soft voice of the mother, singing her -child to sleep with an old familiar nursery rhyme. Dear words! Dear -memories! Sweet thread of life! When it snaps, the world is dark, and -its tenderness and beauty have departed from our souls. The mother's -soft voice is like a rill dancing down a hill in the sun's eye. How -sweet it sounds! - -What brings these men, women, and children here among the wilds? For -answer, take--briefly told--what is not a legend, but veritable -new-world history. - -Two men, adventurers from the old world, attracted thence by the news -of gold discoveries, travelled into new country in search of an -eldorado which they could keep to themselves until their fortunes were -made. They travelled over mountain and plain, and searched here and -searched there, for weeks and months without success, until, almost -starving and penniless, they found themselves on the banks of a -swiftly-flowing river. This river, here wide, here narrow, here -confined between rocky precipices, here widening on the plains, -presented strange contrasts during the year. In the winter, the -mountain snows which fed it came tumbling furiously over the rocks; -then its waters rushed madly through the defiles and overflowed the -plains. In the summer, peace came to it; the warm sun made it drowsy, -and it fell asleep. It curled itself up in its bed, as it were, and -left its banks bare and dry. The snow-torrents from the mountains -brought with them something rarer than snow--gold. The precious metal -grew in the mountain rocks, and when the furious water tore it from -its home, and carried it to the river, it sank into the river's bed -and banks, and enriched every fissure and crevice in its stony bottom. -When the two adventurers camped by the river's side it was summer, and -the banks were dry. They tried for gold, and found it. In a few hours -they unearthed twenty ounces, and they looked at each other with wild -eyes. Not a soul was within many miles of them; only the birds and the -insects knew their secret. But they could not work without food. Some -twenty miles from the scene of their discovery was a sheep-farming -station. Thither they walked in the night, so that they might not be -observed, and slept during the day. Pleading poverty, they bought at -the station a little meat and flour, and walked in the daylight away -from the river. But when night fell, they warily retraced their steps, -and crept through the dark like thieves, until they came to the -precious banks. For weeks and months they worked in secret, and lived -like misers, never daring to light a fire, for fear the smoke might be -seen; the very wind was their enemy. Their flesh wasted, their faces -became haggard, their hair grew tangled and matted, they became -hollow-eyed; and when, after many months of suffering, they had -amassed as much pure gold as they could carry, they walked painfully -and wearily through bush and plain for a hundred and sixty miles, -until they came to a city with a few thousand inhabitants, where, -skeletons among men, they told their story, and for the first time -showed their treasure. Delirium seized the city; men became almost -frantic with excitement; and the next day half the inhabitants were -making preparations to journey to Tom Tiddler's ground. Surely enough -the river's banks proved a veritable gold-mine; and after a time fresh -discoveries were made. Came there one day a man, almost dead, from the -snow mountains, with lumps of gold in his pockets; but the perils of -those regions were great, and men thought twice before they ventured. -Life, after all, is more precious than gold. Some adventurers went -forth: and never returned to tell their story. Then it was said they -were killed by starvation, not by the perils of the weather; or -because they had no guns, and tents, and blankets with them. Said -some, 'Let us take food sufficient for months, and whatever else is -necessary.' They took more; they took wives, those who had them. -Believe me, woman was worth more than her weight in gold. So in the -summer they went into Campbell's Ranges, and pitched their tents -there. And those they left behind them, wrapt in their eager hunt for -gold, forgot them for a time. The town nearest to the Ranges was many -miles away; it was composed of a couple of score of tents and huts, -and perhaps two hundred persons lived there. Wandered into it, looking -about him strangely, wistfully--for old-world's ways were upon him, -and old-world thoughts were stirring in his mind--a man, tall, -blue-eyed, strong; No man is long a stranger in the new world, and -this wayfarer talked to one and another, and heard from a butcher the -story of the two adventurers working on the river's banks until they -were worn to skin and bone. - -'But they got gold!' exclaimed the new-comer. - -'Almost more than they could carry,' was the answer. - -The man looked about him restlessly; the eager longing of his soul was -for gold, but in him it was no base craving. - -'If one could get into the mountains now,' he said, 'where the gold -comes from!' - -Said the butcher: 'Some went, and didn't come back.' - -'They lie over there?' said the man, looking towards the hills. - -'Ay,' replied the butcher, 'them's Campbell's Ranges, There's a party -prospecting there now, I've heard. They'll get gold, sure; but it -requires courage.' - -'Courage!' exclaimed the man, not scornfully and arrogantly, but -sweetly and gently. 'Who dares not, deserves not. And when a great -thing is at stake!---- Thank you, mate. Good-day!' - -And then he walked in the direction of Campbell's Ranges, stopping to -buy a little flour on his way. He could not afford much; his means -were very small. - - -The rough diggers often spoke among themselves of the manner of his -first coming to them. They were working in the gullies, which were -rich with gold; some were burrowing at the bottom of their mines, some -were standing by the windlasses, hauling up the precious dirt. They -had been working so from sunrise, and their hearts were light; for the -future was as glowing as the bright colours of the sun were when they -turned out to work--as glowing as the beautiful colours in the sky -were now. It was sunset. The gold-diggers standing in the sun's light, -with strong chests partly bared, with strong arms wholly so, were -working with a will. Now and then snatches of song burst from their -lips, now and then jests and good-humoured words were flung from one -to the other. The women were busy outside their tents, lighting fires -to prepare for supper; three or four children were playing with a goat -and a dog; a cat--yes, a cat!--stepped cautiously out of a tent, and -gazed solemnly about. And all around them and above them were the -grand hills and mountains, stretching for miles on every side. It was -a wonderful life amidst wonderful scenes. Close contact with the -grandeur of nature and with its sublime influences humanised many of -the rough men, and melted them to awe and tenderness. The hills were -full of echoes; when the thunder came the titanic hollows sent the -news forth and brought it back again: it was like God's voice speaking -with eternal majesty. As the diggers looked up from their work, they -saw, upon one of the nearest peaks, a man standing, with sunset -colours all around him. - - - - MORE PRECIOUS THAN GOLD, PURER THAN DIAMONDS, ARE THESE SWEET - AND DELICATE WAYS. - - -Their first thought was, 'Is he alone? Are there more behind him?' for -they were jealous of being overwhelmed by numbers. He looked down upon -the busy workers, and with slow and painful steps came across the -hills, and down the valley towards them. Pale, patient-looking, -footsore, ragged, and with deep lines on his face, he stood in the -midst of them, a stranger among the hills. - -'Are these Campbell's Ranges?' he asked humbly. - -'Yes, mate.' - -The man who answered him had just emptied a bucket of fresh-dug earth -on to a little hillock by the side of his mine. The stranger saw -specks of gold among it. There was no envy in the look that came into -his eyes. It was like a prayer. - -'Where do you come from?' asked the gold-digger. - -The stranger mentioned the name of the town. - -'Did you come in search of us?' - -'I heard that there was a party of men working in Campbell's Ranges, -and that there was plenty of gold here; so I came.' - -'By yourself?' - -'By myself. I know no one. I have been but a short time in the -colony.' - -'You have no tent?' - -'I had no money to buy one.' He murmured these words in so soft a tone -that the gold-digger did not hear them. - -'No blankets?' - -'For the same reason.' - -Again he murmured the reply, so that the questioner did not know his -destitute condition. - -'No pick or shovel?' - -The stranger shook his head sadly, and was turning away, when the -gold-digger said: - -'Well, mate, the place is open to all; but we want to keep ourselves -as quiet as possible.' - -'I shall tell no one.' - - -[Illustration] - - -He turned from the worker, and sat himself upon the ground at a short -distance from the human hive, out of hearing. The gold-diggers spoke -to one another, and looked at him, but made no advance towards him. -The women also raised their heads and cast many a curious glance at -the stranger, who sat apart from them. He, on his part, sent many a -wistful glance in their direction, and watched the fires and the -children playing. Behind the hills sank the sun, and night drained the -fiery peaks of every drop of blood. Before the hills grew white, the -gold-diggers left off work, and contrary to their usual custom, took -their buckets and tools to their tents, and took the ropes from their -windlasses. There was a stranger near them. - -'He seems decent,' said the women. - -'You can never tell,' replied the men, shaking their heads in doubt. - -Now and then they came from their tents to see if the stranger were -still there. He had not moved. It was from no want of humanity that -they did not call to him, and offer him food and a shelter. How did -they know that he did not belong to a party of bushrangers, whose -object was plunder? They let off their firearms and reloaded them. -But if they had known this man's heart and mind; if they had known -that he was penniless, friendless, that his feet were sore, and that -he had not tasted food since yesternight; if they had known the -trouble of his soul, and the dim hope which kept up his heart and his -strength--they would have played the part of good Samaritans without a -moment's hesitation. The darker shadows came down upon the valleys, -and wrapt the man and his misery from their gaze and comprehension. -They could see the faint outline of his form: nothing more. What were -his thoughts during this time? 'They suspect me; it is natural. If I -can keep my strength, I may find gold tomorrow, and then they will -sell me food perhaps. If not----there are women among them. I may be -able to touch their hearts.' He gazed around and above him--at the -solemn hills, at the solemn sky, and thought, 'For myself I should be -content to die here, and now. But for her--for her! Give me strength, -great God--sustain me!' He knelt, and buried his face in his hands; -and when the moon rose, as it did soon after, it shone upon his form. -A woman, standing at the door of her tent, was the first to see him in -his attitude of supplication. She hurried in to her husband, who was -nursing a little daughter on his knee. - -'David,' she said, 'that man is praying. There can be no harm in him, -and he has no shelter. He may be in want of food.' - -'Poor man!' said the little daughter. - -The father lifted her gently from his knee, and went out without a -word. The touch of a hand upon his shoulder roused the stranger, and -he looked into David's face. - -'What are you doing?' asked David. - -'Praying.' - -'For what?' - -'For strength, for comfort I need both. Turn your face from me! I am -breaking down!' - -A great sob came from the stranger's heart. David, with averted face, -stood steady and silent for full five minutes. Then placed his hand -upon the stranger's shoulder, and spoke: - -'Come with me. I can give you a shelter to-night. My wife sent me to -you.' - -'God bless her!' - -'Amen. Come, mate.' - -The stranger rose, and they walked together to the tent, where the -woman and child awaited them. The stranger took off his cap--it was in -tatters--and looked at the woman and her child, and stooped and kissed -the little girl, who put her hand on his face, and said pityingly: - -'Poor man! Are you hungry?' - -'Yes, my child.' - -That the man and the woman should turn their backs suddenly upon him -and make a perfectly unnecessary clatter, and become unnecessarily -busy, touched the stranger's sensitive heart, and the unspoken words -were in his mind, 'God be thanked! There is much good in the world.' - -More precious than gold, purer than diamonds, are these sweet and -delicate ways. - -'Now, David,' cried the woman briskly, 'supper's ready.' - -And David and his wife, notwithstanding that they had made their meal -an hour ago, sat down with the stranger, and ate and drank with him. -When supper was over, David said: - -'We'll not talk to-night; you must be tired. You slept out last night, -I suppose?' - -'Yes.' - -'And without a blanket, I'll bet!' - -'Yes.' - -'A good night's rest will do you good.' - -Upon this hint his wife brought some blankets, and gave them to the -stranger. She and her husband and child slept in the back part of the -small tent, the wall of division being strips of green baize. Before -turning in, David said: - -'You had best have a look round you in the morning; I can lend you a -pick and shovel. My name's David.' - -'Mine is Saul Fielding.' - - - * * * * * - - -By his patience and gentleness he soon made his way to the hearts of -the residents in this small colony. First, the children loved him; the -liking of the mothers followed naturally; and within a month every man -there was his friend. Love is not hard to win. Try, you who doubt. -Try, with gentleness and kindness, and with charitable heart. - - - * * * * * - - -It is full three months after Saul' Fielding's introduction to the -small settlement in Campbell's Ranges. Of human beings there are fifty -souls, all told. Four women--wives--seven children, and thirty-nine -men. Of other living creatures there are at least a dozen dogs--(what -is your gold-field without its dogs?)--three goats, wise, as all goats -are, in their generation, a large number of poultry (some of them in -the shell), and a cat. The shade of Whittington would rejoice if it -knew that this cat cost an ounce of gold--and a pinch over. - -It is June and winter, and the snow-season is in its meridian. The -workers are snow-bound; the heights all around them are more than -man-deep in snow. But they have no fear. They have made wise -preparations for the coming of the enemy, and up to the present time -they have escaped hurt. They have wood and provisions to last them for -full six months. That they are cut off from the world for a time -daunts them not. Their courage is of the Spartan kind. They have been -successful far beyond their expectations, and nearly every man there -is worth his hundred ounces of gold. Some have more, a few less. Saul -has eighty ounces, and he keeps it next to his heart, sewn in his blue -serge shirt David's wife reproved him once for carrying the weight -about. - -'It is nearly seven pounds weight, Saul Fielding,' she said; 'it must -weigh you down.' - -'Weigh me down, David's wife! he replied, with a sweet look in his -eyes. 'It is a feather's weight. It bears me up! It is not mine; it -belongs to the dearest woman in the world. The little bag that -contains it contains my salvation!' - -David and Saul were mates; they dug and shared, and he lived with the -father, mother, and child. The man he called David, the woman David's -wife, the child David's daughter. He said to David's wife one day: - -'When I go home and join my dear woman, she and I every night of our -lives will call down a blessing for David and David's wife, and -David's daughter.' - -He often said things to David's wife that brought tears to her eyes. - -'We shall go home, too,' said David's wife, 'and we shall see her.' - -'Please God,' returned Saul, and whispered, 'Come, happy time!' - -How tender his heart grew during this time! How he blessed God for His -goodness! What beauty he saw in every evidence of the great Creator! -He made the rough men better, and often in the evening they would -gather round him while he read to them, and talked with them. The -Sabbath-day, from the time he came among them, was never passed -without prayer. And so they had gone on during the summer and the -autumn, digging and getting gold, singing songs to the hills while -they dug and delved; the men had built stronger huts for the women and -children, in anticipation of the winter, and they all lived happily -together. Then the snow began to fall. It came light at first, and -dropped softly to the ground round about the huts of the small -community, as if it were bringing to them a message of love from the -clear bright sky. They laughed when they saw it, for it warmed their -hearts with visions of the dear old land over the seas. It brought -back to them memories of their schoolboy days. 'After the snow,' they -said, 'the primroses;' and in their fancy they saw the old country's -sweet flower: The children played with it, and pelted each other with -snow-balls, and the men joined in the sport. The goats scampered up -the hills in mad delight, and sent snow-sprays in the air with their -hoofs. The women looked on lovingly, and the little gully was filled -with pleasant mirth; and the echoes laughed after them. At night they -clustered round their fires, and raised up pictures for the future. -They talked of their gold, not greedily, but gratefully; they blessed -the land which gave them its treasures willingly; and in their dreams -they dreamed of dear old England and of the dear faces at home--the -dear old faces which would smile upon them again by and by, please -God! And while they dreamt, and while their hearts were light, and -while within them reigned the peace which came from pleasant thought, -the soft snow fell and fell. Day after day passed, week after week, -and still it fell. After many weeks had thus passed, Saul woke in -terror one night. He did not know what, had occasioned the fear that -was upon him. Was it caused by a dream? He could remember none. He -felt as if a spirit's voice had spoken to him. He rose and listened. -He heard nothing. Everything around was wrapt in peace and silence. -Softly he dressed himself, so as not to disturb the sleepers, and went -out of the tent. The snow was falling fast. How white and pure were -the hills! In the far distance they and the sky seemed one. He took a -pole, and feeling his way carefully, walked across the near hills, -ankle deep, knee deep, waist deep, breast deep. And yet he had not -walked far, not five hundred yards. The terror that was upon him now -assumed a tangible shape. He was in a snow prison! Nature held him -fast; had built up barriers between him and Jane. Was it destined that -he should never get away from these snow-bound hills? Suppose the snow -continued to fall for weeks and months! 'Jane!' he cried. And the -echoes cried 'Jane! Jane!' dying away mournfully. The sound frightened -him, and he called no more. Then his reason came back to him. They -could keep the snow away from their tents; all they had to do was to -shovel it down; all they had to do was to be vigilant. He comforted -himself with this thought, and slowly, painfully, retraced his steps -to his tent, and crept among his blankets again. As he lay, he heard a -moan. How every little sound frightened him! It was but the wind. -But the moan grew louder, grew into a shriek, and rushed past the -tent, and over the hills, like an angry spirit. And it brought the -Snow-Drift with it! But he did not think of that, as he lay shivering. -He did not know the new danger that threatened him. 'God shield you, -dear woman!' he murmured, as he fell into a doze. 'God bring me to -you!' - -All night long the wind shrieked and whistled through the tents; the -men, tired out with their exertions, did not wake. But the women did, -and lay and trembled. David's wife awoke. - -'David!' she whispered, but he did not hear her. - -'What's the matter, mother?' murmured her daughter. - -'Nothing, child, nothing. It's only the wind. Hush! we mustn't wake -father. Go to sleep, darling!' - -The sun rose late the next morning, and a dim blood-veil was in the -sky, which made some of them think that it was night still. The miners -found the snow round their huts to be three feet deep. They looked -anxious at this. - -'We can master the snow,' they whispered to one another, 'but the -snow-drift will master us.' - -Even as they spoke, the wind, which had lulled, began to moan again, -and before they had been working an hour shovelling away the snow, the -wind-storm, bringing the snow with it from the heights over which it -rushed, blinded them, and drove them into their tents for shelter. -They could not hold their feet. 'Let us hope it'll not last long,' -they said; and they took advantage of every lull to work against their -enemy, not like men, but like heroes. - -'What makes you so downcast, Saul?' asked David; he had not begun to -lose heart. - -Saul looked in silence at David's wife and David's daughter; they were -at the far end of the hut. - -'You are not frightened, Saul, surely?' said David. - -'Not for my self, David,' whispered Saul. 'But tell me. What kind of -love do you bear for your wife and child?' David's look was sufficient -answer. 'I have a perfect love for a woman also, David. If she were -here, as your wife is with you, I could bear it, and so could she. -David, we are beset by a terrible danger. Listen to the wind. I am -afraid we may never get out of this.' - -David's lips quivered, but he shook away the fear. - -'We mustn't lose heart, Saul, and we must keep this danger from the -wife and little one. There's men's work before us, and we must do -it--like men!' - -'Trust me, David,' said Saul; 'my heart beats to the pulse of a -willing hand;' and said no more. - -The wind-storm continued all the day with such violence, that it was -impossible for the men to work. As the day advanced, the blood-veil in -the sky died away, and when the night came, the moon's light shone -clear and cruel, bright and pitiless. - -Worn out with hard toil and anxiety, Saul Fielding lay down that -night, and tried to sleep. 'I must have strength for to-morrow,' he -thought. The fierce wind had grown faint, and it moaned now among the -hills like a weak child. Saul smiled gladly, and accepted it as a good -omen. He hugged his gold close, and vowed that he would not risk -another season of such danger. 'If I do not get an ounce more,' he -thought, 'I will be content. What I have will be sufficient for the -home and for Jane. Jane, dear Jane!' Her name always came to him like -a prayer, and with 'Jane' on his lips, and 'Jane' in his thoughts, he -fell asleep and dreamt of her. He dreamt that he and the others had -escaped from their snow-prison, and that he was on his way home. Blue -waters were beneath him, bright clouds were above him, a fresh breeze -was behind him, and the ship dipped into the sea and rose from it, -like a light-hearted god. The sailors were singing, and he sang with -them as he lent a hand with the ropes. He looked across the sea and -saw Jane standing on a far-off shore, with glad face turned towards -him. 'I am coming, Jane! he cried, and she smiled, and held out her -arms to him. Nearer and nearer he approached to the haven of his -hopes; nearer and nearer, until, although they were divided by many -miles of water, he could speak to her, and hear her speak. 'See!' he -cried, and held out his bag of gold. As she raised her eyes with -thankfulness to the heavens, David's wife and David's daughter -appeared suddenly by his side. 'Here are the friends who saved me, -Jane,' he cried. 'David is below, asleep, and his wife is here, -knowing your story and mine. She insists upon saying that you are her -sister; she is a good woman. The shame of the past is gone.' As he -said these words, a sudden and terrible wind sprang up; and the dark -clouds, rushing down from the heavens, shut Jane from his sight. In a -moment everything was changed. The ship seemed as if it were being -torn to pieces; the waters rose; and the cries of the sailors were -indistinguishable amidst the roaring of the wind. 'My God!' he heard -David's wife cry, and at that moment he awoke, and rising swiftly to -his feet, saw a candle alight in the tent, and David's wife standing -in her nightdress on his side of the green baize which divided the -tent. Her face was white with terror. 'My God!' she cried again; 'we -are lost!' The storm that had arisen in his dream was no fancy. It was -raging now among the hills furiously. - -'Go into your room,' said Saul hurriedly. 'I will be dressed in a -minute.' - -In less than that space of time he was up and dressed, and then David -tore the green baize aside. - -'Saul,' he said, 'this is terrible!' And stepping to Saul's side, -whispered, 'If this continues long, our grave is here.' - -Saul went to the door of the tent, and tried to open it; he could not. -The wind had brought with it thousands and thousands of tons of snow -from the heights, and they were, walled up. Saul felt all round the -sides of the tent. The snow was man-high. Only the frail drill of -which the tent was made kept it from falling in, and burying them. In -an instant Saul comprehended their dread peril. - -'The tree!' he cried, as if an inspiration had fallen upon him. 'The -tree!' - -Just outside the tent, between it and the tent next to it, stood a -great pine-tree, the only tree among the tents. Many a time had it -been suggested to cut down this tree for firewood, but David had -prevented it. 'Wait,' he had said, 'until we want it; when firewood -runs short, and we can't get it elsewhere, it will be time enough.' So -the tree had been saved from the axe, and stood there like a giant, -defying the storm, Saul piled up the rough seats and the tables which -comprised the furniture of the tent, and climbing to the top of them, -cut a great hole in the roof of the tent. It was daylight above, and -the snow was falling fast Saul saw the noble tree standing fast and -firm in the midst of the storm. With a desperate leap he caught a -branch, and raised himself above the tent. And when he looked upon the -awful scene, upon the cruel white snow in which the tents all around -him were embedded, and nearly buried, his heart throbbed despairingly. - -But this was no time for despair. It was the time for action. When he -had secured his position in the tree, he stooped over the tent. - -'David!' he cried. David's voice answered him. - -'This is our only chance,' he said loudly; he spoke slowly and -distinctly, so that those within the tent might hear him. 'Here we -maybe able to find safety until the storm abates and the snow -subsides. Listen to me, and do exactly as I say. Get some provisions -together and some water; and the little brandy that is left. Make them -up in a bundle. Tie rope and cord round it, and let me have it. -Quickly!' - -Before he finished speaking, David's wife was busy attending to his -instructions. - -'Answer me, Saul,' cried David. 'What do you see of our mates?' - -Saul groaned, 'Do not ask me, David! Let us thank God that this tree -was left standing.' - -David climbed on to the table in a few minutes, with the bundle of -provisions in his hands. He was lifting it for Saul to take hold when -the pile upon which he was standing gave way, and he fell heavily to -the ground. - -At this moment, a movement in the tent nearest to the tree arrested -Saul's attention. One of the men inside had thought also of the tree, -and had adopted Saul's expedient of cutting through the roof of the -tent. His head now appeared above the rent. He saw Saul, but he was -too far away to reach the tree. - -'Give me a hand, mate!' he cried. 'Give me a hand, for God's sake!' - -'One moment,' replied Saul, deeply anxious for the fate of David, for -he heard the generous-hearted digger groan, and heard David's wife -sobbing. 'Keep your hold and stand firm for a little while. You are -safe there for a time. There is something here in my own tent I must -see to at once.' Then he called, 'David! David! Are you hurt?' - -The voice of David's wife answered him with sobs and cries. 'He can't -move, Saul! He can't move! O, my poor dear David! He has broken his -leg, he says, and his back is hurt. What shall I do? O, what shall I -do?' - -But although she asked this question, she--true wife and woman as she -was--was attending to the sufferer, not thinking of herself. - -'God pity us!' groaned Saul, and raised his hand to the storm. 'Pity -us! pity us! he cried. - -But the pitiless snow fell, and the soft flakes danced in the air. - -Then Saul cried, 'David's wife! The child! the child!' - -'Let me be, wife,' said David; 'I am easier now. Pile up those seats -again; make them firm. Don't hurry. I can wait I am in no pain. Lift -our little daughter to Saul, and the provisions afterwards.' - -She obeyed him; she piled the seats one above another. Then brought -the child to David. He took her in his arms, and kissed her again and -again.' - -'My pet! my darling!' he moaned. 'Kiss father, little one!' - -And the rough man pressed this link of love to his heart, and kissed -her face, her hands, her neck, her lips. - -'Now, wife,' he said, and resigned their child to her. David's wife -stood silent for a few moments with the child in her arms, and -murmured a prayer over her, and blessed her, and then, keeping down -her awful grief bravely like a brave woman, climbed to the height, and -raised her arms to Saul with the child in them. Only her bare arms -could be seen above the tent's roof. - -'Come, little one,' said Saul, and stooping down, at the risk of his -life, clutched the child from the mother's arms, and heard the -mother's heart-broken sobs. - -'Is she safe, Saul?' - -'She is safe, dear woman.' - -Other heads rose from other tents and turned despairingly about. But -no help for them was near. They were in their grave. - -David's wife raised the provisions to Saul, and went down to her -husband. - -'Wife,' said David, 'leave me, and see if you can reach Saul. It will -be difficult, but you may be able to manage it.' - - -[Illustration] - - -She looked at him tenderly. - -'My place is here, David,' she said; 'I shall stay with you, and trust -to God. Our child is safe, in the care of a good man.' - -He tried to persuade her, but she shook her head sweetly and sadly, -and simply said, 'I know my duty.' He could say no more, for the next -moment he swooned, his pain was so great. Then his wife knelt by him, -and raised his head upon her lap. - -Meanwhile, the man in the next tent who had called to Saul to give him -a hand had not been idle. He found a plank and was raising it to the -roof, with the purpose of resting it upon a branch of the tree. As -with more than a man's strength he lifted the plank forward, Saul -heard a thud beneath him, and looking down saw that the walls of the -tent in which David and his wife were had given way, and that the snow -was toppling over. He turned his head; he was powerless to help them. -The tears ran down his face and beard, and he waited, awe-struck by -the terror of the time. He thought he heard the voice of David's wife -cry, - -'Good-bye, my child! God preserve you!' - -In a choking voice, he said solemnly to David's little daughter, - -'Say, God bless you, mother and father!' - -'The child repeated the words in a whisper, and nestled closer to -Saul, and said, - -'I'm so cold! Where's mother and father? Why don't they come up? - -Saul, with a shiver, looked down. Nothing of David or of David's wife -did he see. The tent was not in sight. The snow had covered it. And -still it fell, and still it drifted. - -The digger who occupied the next tent had fined his plank; not a -moment was to be lost; his tent was cracking. Creeping along the -plank, with the nervous strength of desperation, clinging to it like a -cat, he reached the tree and was saved for a time. As he reached it, -the plank slipped into the snow. And still it fell, and rose higher -and higher. Men signalled to each other from tent to tent, and bade -God bless each other, for they felt that, unless the snowdrift and -snowfall should instantly cease, there was no hope for them. But still -it fell; fell softly into the holes in the canvas roofs and sides, -into the chambers below; crept up to them inch by inch; wrapt yellow -gold and mortal flesh in soft shrouds of white, and hid the -adventurers from the light of day. - - -Only three remained. Soul, and David's little daughter, in the -uppermost branches of the tree. The digger from the nearest tent -clinging to a lower branch. - - -This man was known by the name of Edward Beaver; a silent man at best, -and one who could not win confidence readily. His face was covered -with hair fast turning gray. Between him and Saul but little -intercourse had taken place. Saul had not been attracted by Beaver's -manner, although often when he looked at the man, a strange impression -came upon him that he knew the face. Saul spoke to Beaver once, and -asked him where he cane from; but Beaver answered him roughly, and -Saul spoke to him no more. In this dread time, however, Beaver's -tongue was loosened. - -'This is awful,' he said, looking up at Saul. - -Saul looked down upon the white face which was upturned to his, and -the same strange impression of its being familiar to him stole upon -him like a subtle vapour. An agonising fear was expressed in Beaver's -countenance; he was frightened of death. He was weak, too, having just -come out of a low fever, and it needed all his strength to keep his -footing on the tree. - -'Do you think we shall die here?' he asked. - -'I see no hope,' replied Saul, pressing David's little daughter to his -breast. The child had fallen to sleep. Saul's soul was too much -troubled for converse, and the morning passed almost in silence. Saul -lowered some food and drink to Beaver. 'I have very little brandy,' he -said; 'but you shall share and share.' And when Beaver begged for -more, he said, 'No, not yet; I must husband it. Remember, I have -another life here in my arms to care for.' - -The day advanced, and the storm continued; not a trace of the tents or -of those who lay buried in them could be seen. The cruel white snow -had made a churchyard of the golden gully! - -Night fell, and brought darkness with it; and in the darkness Saul -shuddered, with a new and sudden fear, for he felt something creeping -up to him. It was Beaver's voice creeping up the tree, like an awful -shadow. - -'Saul Fielding,' it said, 'my time has come. The branches are giving -way, and I am too weak to hold on.' - -'God help you, Edward Beaver,' said Saul pityingly. - -And David's little daughter murmured in her sleep, 'What's that, -mother?' Saul hushed her by singing in a soft tender voice a nursery -rhyme, and the child smiled in the dark, and her arms tightened round -Saul's neck. It was a good thing for them that they were together; the -warmth of their bodies was a comfort, and in some measure a safeguard -to them. - -When Saul's soft singing was over, he heard Beaver sobbing, beneath -him. 'I used to sing that once,' the man sobbed in weak tones, 'to my -little daughter.' - -'Where is she now?' asked Saul, thinking of those he loved at home. - -'Bessie! Bessie!' cried Beaver faintly. 'Where are you? O my God! if I -could live my life over again!' - -Saul thought of George's Bessie as he asked, 'Where do you come from? -What part do you belong to?' - -It was a long time before he received an answer, and then the words -crept up to him, faint and low, through the darkness, as though the -speaker's strength were waning fast. - -'From London--from Westminster.' - -'From Westminster!' echoed Saul, and Beaver's face appeared to his -imagination. - -'I must tell you,' gasped the dying man; 'I must tell you before I -die. You may be saved, and you will take my message home.' - -'I will, if I am spared,' replied Saul, in a voice which had no hope -in it. - -'I have been a bad son and a bad father. My name is not Beaver--it is -Sparrow, and my father, if he is alive, lives in Westminster.' - -'Old Ben Sparrow, the grocer!' cried Saul, in amazement 'I know him! I -saw him a few weeks before last Christmas. You are Bessie Sparrow's -father; I thought your face was familiar to me.' - -'Bad son! bad father!' muttered the man. 'O my God! the tree is -sinking! the branch is giving way! Tell me, quickly, for mercy's sake. -My daughter--Bessie--she is alive, then? Tell me of her.' - -'She was well when I saw her,' replied Saul, with a groan, thinking of -George and his lost hopes. 'She has grown into a beautiful woman.' - -'Thank God! If you ever see her again, tell her of me--ask my father -to forgive me. Take the love of a dying man to them. I have gold about -me--it is theirs. Say that I intended to come home, and ask -forgiveness, but it has been denied me. God has punished me! I am -sinking!----' - -A cry of agony followed, and the wind took it up, and carried it over -the hills. Then all was hushed, and the erring son and father spoke no -more. - -Saul offered up a prayer for Bessie's father, and waited sadly for -_his_ time to come. - -As the night waned, the fierce wind grew softer, and sighed and -moaned, repentant of the desolation it had caused. What a long, long -night it was! But at length the morning's light appeared, and then -Saul, looking down, saw that he and David's little daughter were the -only ones left. Stronger grew the light, until day had fairly dawned. -As Saul looked over the white expanse, he felt that there was no hope -for him, and his mind began to wander. Long-forgotten incidents of his -childhood came to him; he saw his father and mother, long since dead; -he saw a brother who had died when he himself was a child; he saw Jane -as she was when he first met her, as she was on that sad night when -she told him of the duty that lay before him; he saw George and the -lights on Westminster-bridge. All these visions rose for him out of -the snow. And fields and flowers came, and he wandered among them hand -in hand with Jane, as they had done on one happy holiday. It did not -seem strange to him that there was no colour in any of these things; -it caused no wonder in his mind that all these loved ones and the -fields and flowers, perfect in form and shape, were colourless, were -white and pure as the snow which stretched around him on every side. -They were dear memories all of them; emblems of purity. And in that -dread time he grew old; every hour was a year. But in the midst of all -the terror of the time he pressed David's little daughter closer and -closer to his breast, and committed their souls to God. So that day -passed, and the night; and the sun rose in splendour. The white hills -blushed, like maidens surprised. With wild eyes and fainting soul, -Saul looked around; suddenly a flush of joy spread over his face. Upon -a distant mount, stood Jane. 'Come!' he cried. And as Jane walked over -the snow hills towards him, he waited and waited until she was close -to him; then sinking in her arms, he fell asleep. - - - - - PART III. - - - - I HAVE COME TO RETURN YOU SOMETHING. - - -On the afternoon of the day on which the Queen of the South (with -George Naldret in it, as was supposed) sailed out of the Mersey for -the southern seas, young Mr. Million, with a small bouquet of choice -flowers in his hand, made his appearance in the old grocer's shop. Ben -Sparrow, who was sitting behind his counter, jumped up when the young -brewer entered, and rubbed his hands and smirked, and comported -himself in every way as if a superior being had honoured him with his -presence. Young Mr. Million smiled pleasantly, and without the -slightest condescension. The cordiality of his manner was perfect. - -'Quite a gentleman,' thought old Ben; 'every inch a gentleman!' - -Said young Mr. Million: 'As I was passing your way, I thought I would -drop in to see how you and your granddaughter are.' - -'It's very kind and thoughtful of you, sir,' replied old Ben -Sparrow. 'Of course, we're a bit upset at George's going. Everything -is at sixes and sevens, and will be, I daresay, for a few days. -Bessie's inside'--with a jerk of his head in the direction of the -parlour--'she's very sad and low, poor dear.' - -'We mustn't let her mope, Mr. Sparrow,' remarked young Mr. Million, -striking up a partnership at once with the old grocer. - -'No, sir,' assented Ben; 'we mustn't let her mope; it ain't good for -the young--nor for the old, either. But it's natural she should grieve -a bit. You see, sir,' he said confidentially, 'George is the only -sweetheart Bessie's ever had. She ain't like some girls, chopping and -changing, as if there's no meaning in what they do.' - -'We must brighten her up, Mr. Sparrow. It wouldn't be a bad thing, if -you were to take her for a drive in the country, one fine day. The -fresh air would do her good.' - -'It would do her good, sir. But I couldn't leave the shop. Business is -dreadfully dull, and I can't afford to lose a chance of taking a few -shillings--though, with the way things are cut down, there's very -little profit got nowadays. Some things almost go for what they cost. -Sugar, for instance. I don't believe I get a ha'penny a-pound out of -it.' - -Young Mr. Million expressed his sympathy, and said it ought to be -looked to. He would speak to his father, who was a 'friend of the -working-man, you know.' - -'I don't know how to thank you, sir,' said Ben gratefully. 'Indeed, I -haven't thanked you yet for the kindness you----' - -'I don't want to be thanked,' interrupted young Mr. Million -vivaciously. 'I hate to be thanked! The fact is, Mr. Sparrow, I am an -idle young dog, and it will always give me pleasure to do you any -little service in my power. I will go in, and say How do you do? to -Miss Sparrow, if you will allow me.' - -'Allow you, sir!' exclaimed Ben. 'You're always welcome here.' - -'I brought this little bunch of flowers for her. Flowers are scarce -now, and the sight of them freshens one up. Although, Mr. Sparrow, -your granddaughter is a brighter flower than any in this bunch!' - -'That she is, sir; that she is,' cried Ben, in delight; adding to -himself, under his breath, 'Every inch a gentleman! His kindness to -George and me is a-maz-ing--A-MAZ-ING!' - -The idle young dog, entering the parlour, found Bessie very pale and -very unhappy. She was unhappy because of the manner of her parting -from George last night; unhappy and utterly miserable because of the -poisoned dagger which had been planted in her heart. - -'I was passing through Covent garden,' said the idle young dog, in -gentle tones, thinking how pretty Bessie looked even in her sorrow, -'and seeing these flowers, I thought you would do me the pleasure to -accept them.' - -Bessie thanked him, and took them listlessly from his hand. Tottie, -who was playing at 'shop' in a corner of the room, weighing sand in -paper scales, and disposing of it to imaginary customers as the best -fourpenny-ha'penny moist (is this ever done in reality, I wonder!), -came forward to see and smell the flowers. The idle young dog seized -upon Tottie as a pretext for taking a seat, and, lifting the child on -his knee, allowed her to play with his watch-chain, and opened his -watch for her, and put it to her ear, so that she might hear it -tick--a performance of which she would never have tired. His manner -towards Bessie was very considerate and gentle, and she had every -reason to be grateful to him, for he had been a good friend to her -grandfather and her lover. Certainly he was one of the pleasantest -gentlemen in the world, and he won Tottie's heart by giving her a -shilling--the newest he could find in his pocket. Tottie immediately -slipped off his knee, and went to her corner to brighten the coin with -sand; after the fashion of old Ben Sparrow, who often polished up a -farthing with sand until he could see his face in it, and gave it to -Tottie as a golden sovereign. Tottie valued it quite as much as she -would have done if it had been the purest gold. - -The idle young dog did not stay very long; he was no bungler at this -sort of idling, and he knew the value of leaving a good impression -behind him. So, after a quarter of an hour's pleasant chat, he shook -hands with Bessie, and as he stood smiling at her, wishing her -good-day, with her hand in his, the door suddenly opened, and George -Naldret appeared. - -His face was white and haggard, and there was a wild grief in his -eyes. The agony through which he had passed on the previous night -seemed to have made him old in a few hours. He stood there silent, -looking at Bessie and young Mr. Million, and at their clasped hands. -It was but for a moment, for Bessie, with a startled cry--a cry that -had in it pain and horror at the misery in his face--had taken her -hand from young Mr. Million's palm; it was but for a moment, but the -new expression that overspread George's face like an evil cloud was -the expression of a man who had utterly lost all faith and belief in -purity and goodness: and had thus lost sight of Heaven. - -Bessie divined its meaning, and gave a gasp of agony, but did not -speak. Not so, young Mr. Million. - -'Good Heavens!' he cried, with a guilty look which he could not hide -from George's keen gaze. 'George, what has happened?' - -George looked at young Mr. Million's outstretched hand, and rejected -it disdainfully and with absolute contempt. Then looked at the flowers -on the table--hothouse flowers he knew they were--then into Bessie's -face, which seemed as if it were carved out of gray-white stone, so -fixed did it grow in his gaze--then at the earrings in her ears: and a -bitter, bitter smile came to his lips--a smile it was pity to see -there. - -'These are pretty flowers,' he said, raising them from the table; in -the intensity of his passion his fingers closed upon the blooming -things, and in a moment more he would have crushed them--but he -restrained himself in time, and let them drop from his strongly-veined -hand. 'I beg pardon,' he said, 'they are not mine. Even if they belong -to you--which they do, of course--I can have no claim on them now.' - -He addressed himself to Bessie, but she did not answer him. She had -never seen in his face what she saw now, and she knew that it was the -doom of her love and his. - -'I have come to return you something,' he said, and took from his -breast a pretty silk purse. It was hung round his neck by a piece of -black silk cord, and he did not disengage it readily. It almost seemed -as if it wished not to be taken from its resting-place. - -As he held it in his hand, he knew that his life's happiness was in -it, and that he was about to relinquish it. And as he held it, there -came to Bessie's mind the words he had spoken only the night before: -'See here, heart's-treasure,' he had said, 'here is the purse you -worked for me, round my neck. It shall never leave me--it rests upon -my heart. The pretty little beads! How I love them! I shall kiss every -piece of gold I put in it, and shall think I am kissing you, as I do -now, dear, dearest, best!' - -'Take it,' George said now. - -She held out her hand mechanically, and as George touched her cold -fingers he shivered. Both knew what this giving and taking meant. It -meant that all was over between them. - -Old Ben Sparrow had come into the room, and had witnessed the scene in -quiet amazement; he did not see his way to the remotest understanding -of what had passed. But he saw Bessie's suffering, and he moved to her -side. When the purse was in her hand he touched her, but she repulsed -him gently. Some sense of what was due to herself in the presence of -young Mr. Million came to her, and her womanly pride at George's -rejection of her in the presence of another man came to her also, and -gave her strength for a while. - -George's hand was on the door, when young Mr. Million, who was deeply -mortified at George's manner towards himself, and who at the same time -thought it would be a gallant move to champion Bessie's cause, laid -his hand on George's sleeve, and said: - -'Stay; you owe me an explanation.' - -'Hands off!' cried George, in a dangerous tone, and a fierce gleam in -his eyes. 'Hands off, you sneaking dog! I owe you an explanation, do -I? I will give it to you when we are alone. Think what kind of -explanation it will be when I tell you beforehand that you are a -false, lying hound! Take care of yourself when next we meet.' - -Every nerve in George's body quivered with passion and pain. - -'You can't frighten me with bluster,' said young Mr. Million, who was -no coward, 'although you may try to frighten ladies with it. As my -presence here is likely to cause farther pain to a lady whom I -esteem'--with a respectful look towards Bessie, which caused George to -press his nails into his palms--'I will take my leave, unless Mr. -Sparrow wishes me to stay as a protection to him and his -granddaughter.' - -'No, sir; I thank you,' replied Ben Sparrow sorrowfully. 'George -Naldret can do my child no more harm than he has done already.' - -'Then I will go;' and he moved towards the door, 'first saying, -however, that I tried to be this man's friend--'indicating George with -a contemptuous motion of his hand, and repeating, 'that I tried to be -his friend----' - -'You lie!' cried George. - -'--Thinking,' continued young Mr. Million, with quiet disdain, 'that -he was better than others of his class. But I was mistaken. Mr. -Sparrow, you exonerate me from all blame in what has taken place?' - -'Entirely, sir,' said Ben Sparrow, in a sad and troubled voice. - -'I wish you and your grandchild good-day, then, and leave my hearty -sympathy behind me.' - -With these words, and with a triumphant look at George, the idle young -dog took his departure. Then, after a brief pause, George said: - -'I have nothing more to stop for now.' - -And, with a look of misery, was about to depart, when Tottie ran to -his side, and plucking him by the coat, looked up into his face. - -'Don't go,' said Tottie; 'stop and play.' - -'I can't, my dear,' said George, raising the child in his arms and -kissing her. 'I _must_ go. Goodbye, little one.'--He set the child -down; tears were coming to his eyes, but he kept them back. - -'One moment, George Naldret,' said old Ben Sparrow, trying to be -dignified, but breaking down. 'George--my dear George--what is the -meaning of this?' - -'I have no explanation to give, Mr. Sparrow,' replied George sadly. - -'George, my dear boy, think for a moment! Are you right in what you -are doing? Look at my darling, George; look----' - -'Grandfather!' - - -[Illustration] - - -The word came from Bessie's white lips; but the voice, struggling -through her agony, sounded strange in their ears. The word, however, -was sufficient; it carried its meaning in it; it told her grandfather -not to beg for her of any man. - -'You are right, my darling,' he sobbed; 'you are right. But neither -of you will speak, and I am almost distracted. You are not going -abroad then, George?' - -'No, Mr. Sparrow; I have no need to go now.' - -Bessie's strength was giving way. Pride, humiliation, wounded love, -suspicion of her lover's faith, were conquering her. She held out her -trembling hand to her grandfather. He took it, and cried: - -'George! George! you are breaking her heart!' - -'She has broken mine!' replied George, and turned without another -word, and left the room, almost blinded by grief and despair. The -moment he was gone, a sigh that was almost a groan broke from Bessie's -wounded heart, and she sank into old Ben Sparrow's arms, and fainted -there. - - - - WELL, MOTHER, DO YOU WANT ANY WASHING DONE? - - -When George Naldret was seen in the streets of Westminster, it -occasioned, as may be imagined, no little surprise. His neighbours -supposed him to be on his way to the other end of the world, and they -rather resented his appearance among them, for he had in a certain -measure deceived them. He had promised to write to some, to tell them -how affairs were over the water; and two or three courageous ones had -already made up their minds that if George sent home a good account of -things they would sell every stick they had, and make for a land where -a brighter future awaited them than they could look forward to here. -They would have been satisfied if George had given them an -explanation; but this he absolutely refused to do. 'I have altered my -mind,' was all they could get from him. 'I may do that if I like, I -suppose, and if it don't hurt you.' But some decided that it _did_ -hurt them; and when they continued to press him for farther -particulars, he desired them to mind their own business; and as this -was the most difficult task he could set them, it made matters worse. -George was too delicate-minded and too honourable to introduce -Bessie's name; and when the inquisitive ones mentioned it he turned -upon them savagely. It caused quite a commotion in the neighbourhood. - -On the first day Mrs. Naldret had tried to persuade George to keep -indoors and not show himself. But he said, 'No, mother; it will be -better for me to show my face at once, and not shirk the thing.' And -his father backed him up in his resolution. When he resolved upon -this, he went to his bedroom and locked himself in, and, after much -sad communing, decided that the first thing it was incumbent on him to -do was to go to Bessie and release her from her promise. Thus it was -that he met young Mr. Million in the parlour of the old grocer's shop, -where he had spent so many happy hours. He had decided in his mind -what to say. He would be gentle and firm with Bessie. And as he walked -to old Ben Sparrow's shop, disregarding the looks of astonishment -which his first appearance in the streets occasioned, he rehearsed in -his mind the exact words he would speak to her. But when he arrived -there, and saw Mr. Million smilingly holding her hand, and saw the -bunch of rare flowers on the table, he received such a shock that his -plans were instantly swept away, and he spoke out of the bitterness of -his heart. - -How the news got about was a mystery, and how it grew into exaggerated -and monstrous forms was a greater mystery still. Who has ever traced -to its source the torrent of exciting rumour which, like a rush of -waters, flows and swells, unlocking vivid imagination in its course, -until reason and fact are lost in the whirl? All sorts of things were -said. George was frightened of the water; he was in debt; he had done -something wrong at the shop he had been working for, and was not -allowed to leave without clearing it up; these, and a hundred other -things, were said and commented upon. The peculiarity of this kind of -rumour is, that directly a new theory is started it is accepted as a -fact, and is taken to pieces and discussed in all its bearings. George -was a fruitful theme with the neighbours on that Saturday night and on -the following day; they served him up hot (like a new and appetising -dish), and so seasoned him and spiced him and garnished him, that it -would have made his blood tingle to have known. But he did not know, -and did not even suspect. To be sure, when Jim Naldret went to the -baker's on the Sunday for his baked shoulder of mutton and potatoes, -he heard some remarks which did not please him; but he did not say a -word to George, and the mother, father, and son spent a sad and quiet -evening together, and went to bed earlier than usual. - -On the Monday, the startling intelligence was bandied from one to -another that George Naldret and Bessie Sparrow had broken with each -other. Bessie had turned him off, it was said; they had had a dreadful -quarrel the night before he was to start for Liverpool. But it is not -necessary here to set down all the reasons that were given for the -breaking of the engagement. Some of them were bad, and all were false. -But in the course of the day a little rill was started, which grew and -grew, and swelled and swelled, until it swallowed up all the other -waters. A rod was thrown down, which becoming instantly quick with -life, turned into a serpent, and swallowed all the other serpents. It -was said that Bessie had discovered that George had another -sweetheart--who she was, where she lived, and how it had been kept -secret during all this time, were matters of no importance; but it was -first whispered, then spoken aloud and commented on, that this -sweetheart should have been something more than a sweetheart to -George--she should have been his wife. The reason why she should have -been his wife was that George was a father. But where was the child? -Rumour decided this instantaneously. The child was no other than our -poor little Tottie; and George had basely deceived old Ben Sparrow and -Bessie into taking care of the little one by a clever and wicked story -that Tottie was an orphan, without a friend in the world. Here was -food for the gossippers! How this hot dish was served up, and spiced -and seasoned! - -It reached George's ears, and he wrote to Ben Sparrow. He said that he -had heard some rumours affecting his character; he did not mention -what these rumours were, but he said they were wicked lies--wicked, -wicked lies, he repeated in his letter. The rumours he referred to may -have reached Mr. Sparrow, and might affect the happiness of a poor -innocent child--a child innocent as he was himself. If so, he was -ready to take the little one from Mr. Sparrow's charge. He said no -more, concluding here, almost abruptly. A reply soon came. Ben Sparrow -had heard the rumours, and was shocked at them; he believed what -George said in his letter. But the child, said old Ben, was a comfort -to them: by 'them' he meant himself and Bessie, but he did not mention -Bessie's name: it formed the principal part of their happiness now in -their little home, and to part with her would cause 'them' great grief -and pain. His letter, also, was short and to the point. And so our -little Tottie remained with old Ben Sparrow and Bessie, and was even -more tenderly cared for than she had been before. Somehow or other, -these letters were a great consolation to George and Bessie. - -But the gossippers and rumourmongers would not let them alone. They -said that George's other sweetheart had declared if he went away she -would go with him, and would follow him all over the world. Bessie -then was brought in. She had another lover also, a lover she liked -better than George. Who should it be but young Mr. Million? He gave -her those pretty ear-rings, of course, and he was seen to go into old -Ben's shop with beautiful flowers in his hands, and come away without -them. Ben Sparrow encouraged him, too. O, it was plain to see what was -going on! So both George and Bessie were condemned, and kind -gossippers did what they could to keep them from ever coming together -again. - -George and young Mr. Million met. Young Mr. Million was alone; George -had his father with him. The sight of the idle, well-dressed, smiling -young dog made George furious. He left his father, and walked swiftly -up to his enemy. A policeman was near. Young Mr. Million beckoned to -him, and the limb of the law touched his helmet, and came close. Jim -Naldret saw the position of affairs in a moment. 'Come along, George,' -he said, and linking his arm in that of his son, almost dragged him -away. When they reached home, Mrs. Naldret made George promise not to -molest young Mr. Million, not even to speak to him. 'No good can come -of it, my dear boy,' she said; 'let the scum be! Don't get yourself -into trouble for him; he's not worth it. He'll meet with his deserts -one day!' - -Time passed, and the world went on as usual. George got work at his -old shop, and worked hard through the ensuing spring and summer. At -that time, murmurs of discontent began to be heard among the builders -and carpenters--not only among them, but among the workers in nearly -every other trade as well. Labour was on the strike all over the -country, and one trade quickly followed the example of another. Jim -himself began to murmur; he wanted to know what he was to do when he -got old, and couldn't work--for he had found it impossible to put by -money for a rainy day. - -'Go to the workhouse, I suppose,' he said bitterly. - -But Mrs. Naldret said, 'Let be, Jim, let be; what's the use of looking -forward? We should be happy enough as it is if it wasn't for George's -misfortune. Poor lad! all the salt seems to have gone out of his -life.' - -In the summer the crisis occurred in the trade; and Jim Naldret came -home one day with his hands in his pockets, and said, - -'Well, mother, do you want any washing done? I'm on strike.' - -'Jim! Jim!' cried Mrs. Naldret 'What have you done? Remember Saul -Fielding.' - -'Saul Fielding wasn't so wrong, after all,' said Jim; 'I was a bit too -hard on him. I can't help myself, mother. I'm obliged to turn out with -the others.' - -It was well for them that during this time George had saved a little -money; but although he gave them every penny he had saved, and -although they pledged nearly everything of value they had in the -house, they were in debt when the strike was at an end. - -'It'll be spring before we're clear, mother,' said Jim; 'we've got to -pay this and that, you know.' - -Mrs. Naldret knew it well enough, and she began to pinch and save; -this little family fought the battle of life well. - -Old Ben Sparrow, of course, suffered with the rest. Trade grew duller -and duller, and he drifted steadily, got from bad to worse, and from -worse to worse than that. Autumn came, and passed, and winter began to -make the poor people shiver; for coals were at a wicked price. Down, -down, went old Ben Sparrow; sadder and sadder grew his face; and one -day, within a fortnight of Christmas--alas! it was just a year from -the time when George was nearly going away--Bessie heard a loud and -angry voice in the shop. She hurried in, and saw her grandfather -trembling behind the counter. The man who had uttered the angry words -was quitting the shop. Bessie asked for an explanation. - -'It's the landlord, my dear,' he sobbed upon her shoulder, 'it's the -landlord. I've been behindhand with the rent ever so long, and I've -promised him and promised him, hoping that trade would improve, until -he's quite furious, and swears that he'll put a man in possession -to-morrow morning.' - -'And you can't pay him, grandfather?' - -'Bessie, my darling,' sobbed old Ben; 'there isn't eighteenpence in -the house, and I owe other money as well. I'm a ruined man, Bessie, -I'm a ruined man! And you, my dear!--O, dear! O, dear! what is to -become of us?' - -And the poor old fellow pleaded to her, and asked her forgiveness a -hundred times, as if he were the cause of their misfortunes. No need -to say how Bessie consoled and tried to cheer him. She drew him into -the parlour, and coaxed and fondled him, and rumpled the little hair -he had on his head, and so forgot her own sorrow out of sympathy -for his, that he almost forgot it too. But once during the night, -while she was sitting on a stool at his feet, he said softly and -sadly, 'Ah, Bess! I wouldn't mind this trouble--I'd laugh at it -really--if--if----' - -'If what, dear?' - -'If you and George were together, my darling.' - -She did not reply, but rested her head on his knee, and looked sadly -into the scanty fire. She saw no happy pictures in it. - - - - THE MAN IN POSSESSION. - - -Old Ben Sparrow had genuine cause for his distress. Ruin not only -stared him in the face, but laid hold of him with a hard grip. The -landlord was as good (or as bad) as his word. He called the following -morning for his rent, and as it was not forthcoming, he took an -inventory, and put a man in possession. He brought this person in with -him. A strange-looking man, with a twelvemonth's growth of hair at -least on his face and head, and all of it as white as snow. The faces -of Ben Sparrow and Bessie were almost as white as they followed the -hard landlord from room to room, like mourners at a funeral. There was -first the shop, with very little stock in it, and that little in bad -condition. As the landlord said, How could a man expect to do -business, and be able to pay his way honestly, when everything he had -to sell was stale and mouldy? And old Ben answered humbly: - -'Yes, yes, sir; you're quite right, sir. I ought to have known better. -It's all my fault, Bessie, my darling; all my fault.' And felt as if, -instead of an immediate execution coming to him, he ought to be led -off to immediate execution. - -'What d'ye call these? asked the landlord contemptuously. 'Figs! Why, -they're as shrivelled as--as you are.' - -'Yes, yes, sir; quite right, sir. We are, sir, we are; we ought to be -put away! We're worth nothing now--nothing now!' - -After the shop came the parlour, with the furniture that old Ben had -bought for his wedding more than forty years ago; he sobbed as the -landlord called out, 'One old armchair, stuffed and rickety!' and said -to Bessie: 'Your grandmother's favourite chair, my darling!' - -The old fellow could have knelt and kissed the 'one old arm-chair, -stuffed and rickety,' he was so tender about it. Then they went into -the kitchen; then upstairs to Ben Sparrow's bedroom, and old Ben cried -again as 'One old wooden bedstead: wheezy!' went down in the -inventory; then into another bedroom, where Bessie and Tottie slept. -The man in possession stooped down by the child's bed. - -'What are you looking for?' demanded the landlord testily. - -'I was thinking the child might be there,' replied the man in -possession meekly; 'there _is_ a child, isn't there?' - -'What if there is!' exclaimed the landlord. 'Can't sell a child. -There's no market for them.' - -Old Ben explained: 'There is a child. Poor little Tottie! But we've -sent her out to a neighbour's, thinking you would come.' - -'And might frighten her, eh?' said the landlord. And shortly -afterwards took his departure, leaving the man in possession with -strict injunctions not to allow a thing to be taken out of the house. - -'You're accountable, mind you,' were his last words. - -Bessie and her grandfather felt as if the house had been suddenly -turned into a prison, and as if this man, with his strange face and -snow-white hair, had been appointed their gaoler. As he did not appear -to notice them, old Ben beckoned to Bessie, and they crept out of the -parlour into the shop for all the world as if they had been found -guilty of some desperate crime. In the shop they breathed more freely. - -'What are we to do with him, Bessie?' asked Ben. 'What do they -generally do with men in possession? They give 'em tobacco and beer, -I've heard. O, dear! O, dear! I don't mind for myself, my darling; I -don't mind for myself. It's time I was put away. But for you, -Bessie--O, my darling child! what have I done to deserve this? What -have I done? What have I done? - -'Grandfather,' said Bessie firmly, 'you mustn't go on like this. We -must have courage. Now, I've made up my mind what I'm going to do. I'm -going to take care of you, dear grandfather, as you have taken care of -me. You know how clever I am with my needle, and I intend to get work; -and you shall thread my needles for me, grandfather. We can live on -very little----' - -Her poor white lips began to tremble here, and she kissed the old man -again and again, and cried in his arms, to show how courageous she -was. - -'I beg your pardon,' said a gentle voice behind them. It was the man -in possession who spoke. 'I beg your pardon,' he repeated. 'May I beg -a word with you in the parlour?' - -They dared not for their lives refuse him, and they followed him -tremblingly. - -'I am aware,' he said then, as they stood before him like criminals, -'that I am here on an unpleasant duty, and that I must appear very -disagreeable in your eyes----' - -'No, no, sir,' remonstrated Ben, feeling that his fate and Bessie's -were in this man's hands; 'don't say that, sir! Quite the contrary, -indeed, sir; quite the contrary, eh, Bessie?' - -And the arch old hypocrite tried to smile, to show that he was -delighted with the man's company. - -'--But I assure you,' continued the man, 'that I have no desire to -annoy or distress you. I have gone through hardships myself--with a -motion of his hand towards his white hair--'as you may see.' - -'What is it you want us to do, sir? asked Ben Sparrow. 'I am sure -anything you want, such as tobacco or beer--or anything that there is -in the cupboard----' - -'I want you to feel as if I wasn't in the house. I know, for instance, -that this is your sitting-room; I don't want you to run away from it. -If you like, I will go and sit in the kitchen.' - -'No, no, sir!' implored Ben Sparrow. 'Not for worlds. We couldn't -allow such a thing, could we, Bessie? This is my granddaughter, -sir!--the dearest child that man ever had!----' - -Why, here was the man in possession, as old Ben broke down, actually -patting him on the shoulder, and looking into his face with such -genuine sympathy, that before Ben knew where he was, he had held out -his hand as to a friend! What would the next wonder be? - -'That's right,' said the man in possession; 'we may as well be -comfortable together, and I shall take it ill of you, if you and your -granddaughter do not use the parlour just as if I wasn't here. If you -don't, I shall go and sit in the kitchen.' - -They could do nothing else, after this, but look upon the parlour as -their own again. Bessie felt very grateful to the man for the sympathy -he had shown to her grandfather, and she took out her old workbox, and -sat down to mend a pair of Tottie's socks. 'The way that child makes -holes in her toes and heels is most astonishing,' Ben had often -remarked. - -The man in possession glanced at the little socks, and then at Bessie -so thoughtfully and kindly, that she gave him a wistful smile, which -he returned, and said: - -'Thank you, child!' in a very sweet and gentle tone. - -When dinner-time came, and before they could ask him to share their -humble meal, he went to the street-door and called a boy, who, in -obedience to his instructions, bought some cold meat and bread at a -neighbouring shop. All he asked Bessie to give him was a glass of cold -water, and with this and his bread-and-meat he made a good meal. To -the astonishment of Bessie and old Ben, they found they were growing -to like him. After dinner, he seemed to be drowsy, and sat with closed -eyes and thoughtful face in the corner of the room he had appropriated -to himself, which, it maybe remarked, was not the warmest corner. -Bessie and old Ben talked in whispers at first, so as not to disturb -him, but after a time his regular breathing convinced them that he was -sleeping; and Bessie laid down her plans to the old man. When they -were turned out of the shop they would take one room, Bessie said; -they would be very comfortable, she was sure, if they would only make -up their minds to be so, and she would work for all three, for -grandfather, Tottie, and herself. Indeed, the girl showed herself so -much of a true woman in her speech, that she was almost beginning to -persuade the old man that what had occurred was, after all, no great -misfortune. - -'How strange that his hair should be white!' remarked Ben, looking at -the sleeping man. 'He does not seem old enough for that. He isn't very -attentive to his duties, whatever they may be. Why, Bessie,' said the -old man in a whisper that was almost gleeful, 'we could actually run -away!' But his thoughts assumed their sadder tenor immediately -afterwards, and he sighed, 'Ah, Bessie! What will George think of all -this? They've had trouble at home too, Bessie dear, during the strike. -I often wished, during that time, that I could have gone and sat with -them, and comforted them; and you wished so too, Bess, I know.' - -'Yes, dear,' answered Bess in a quiet tone, 'I wished so too. But -George might have put a wrong construction upon it.' - -'Bess, darling, tell me----' - -'No, no!' cried Bessie, holding up her hands entreatingly, for she -anticipated what he was about to say. 'Don't ask me, grandfather! It -can never, never be! O my dear, I try to forget, but I can't!' She -paused, unable to proceed for her tears, but presently said, 'I -should be so much happier if he thought better of me--although I know -we can never be to each other what we were! I was angry and indignant -at first, but I am not so now. If he had only answered me about -Tottie--dear little Tottie----' - -The man murmured in his sleep, and they spoke in hushed voices. - -'It was wrong of me to doubt him,' continued the girl, 'very, very -wrong! I should have trusted him, as he told me to. He can never think -well of me again--never, never! But do you know, dear, that I have -loved Tottie more since that time than I did before--poor little -motherless thing! I shall never be happy again! Never again! O, my -poor heart!' - -It was Ben's turn now to be the consoler, and he soothed her, and -caressed her, and suddenly cried: - -'Bessie! young Mr. Million!' - -What made Bessie turn white at the name? What made her gasp and bite -her lips, as the young gentleman entered the room? - -'I am grieved to hear of what has happened, Mr. Sparrow,' he said, -taking off his hat; 'and I have come at once to ask if you will allow -me to assist you.' - -'Hush, if you please, sir,' returned Ben. 'Speak low. That--that man -in the corner has been put in by the landlord, and I shouldn't like to -wake him. We are in great distress--ruined, I may say, sir----' - -'Then let me help you,' interrupted young Mr. Million eagerly. 'It -will be a pleasure to me. Let me pay this man off. You and Miss -Sparrow will confer an obligation upon _me_--believe me!--if you will -allow me to do this.' - -'I thank you for your offer, sir,' replied Ben, with a helpless -look around the humble room in which he had spent many happy years, -'but'--something in Bessie's face imparted a decision to his -voice--'it can't be, sir, it can't be.' - -'Why?' - -'Well, sir, it might get talked about, and that wouldn't do Bessie any -good. You see, sir, you are so far above us that it's impossible -we--we can mix, sir. Yes, sir, that's it; it's impossible we can mix. -No, sir, it can't be.' - -Young Mr. Million was silent for a few moments, and tapped with his -fingers impatiently on the table. - -'For some time,' he then said, 'I have seen that you and Miss Sparrow -have rejected my advances, and have been different from what you were. -Why, may I ask again?' - -'Well, sir,' replied old Ben, emboldened by the expression on Bessie's -face, 'it will be best to speak plain. You see, sir, the neighbours -_will_ talk; and when they see a gentleman like you always a-visiting -poor people like us, they want to know the reason of it. And as we've -no reason to give, they make one for themselves. People will talk, you -see, sir; and I am afraid that my Bessie's name--my Bessie! the best -girl in the world, sir; good enough to be a Princess----' - -'That she is,' put in young Mr. Million. - -'--Well, sir, as I was saying, I am afraid that my Bessie's name has -got mixed up with yours by people's tongues in such a way as to cause -sorrow to her and to me. I have heard, sir, that she was seen one -day--nearly a year ago now--go into your house, and that has been set -against her, and flung into her teeth, as a body might say. Well, she -_did_ go into your house that once--and only that once, mind!--and -took a letter from me which you desired me to send by her last year -when I was in trouble. You helped us then, sir, and I am grateful to -you, though I can't pay you. And we've got it into our heads--Bessie -and me--that that, and the earrings you gave her--for _they've_ been -talked about too, and that's the reason we sent them back to you--was -the cause of a greater sorrow to my poor girl than she has ever -experienced in her life.' - -'O!' exclaimed young Mr. Million, with a slight sneer in his tone. -'You mean because the affair between Miss Sparrow, and that cub, -George Naldret, has been broken off.' - -From Bessie's eyes came such a flash that if the idle young dog could -have flown through the door, and have disappeared there and then -instantaneously, he would have gladly availed himself of the -opportunity. Old Ben Sparrow's blood; also, was up. - -'Be kind enough to go, sir,' he said, with more dignity of manner than -Bessie had ever seen in him; 'and wherever we are, either here or -elsewhere, leave us to ourselves and our troubles.' - -Their voices roused the man in possession; he yawned, and opened his -eyes. Young Mr. Million saw here an opportunity to assert himself as -the heir of a great brewery, and to indulge in a small piece of -malice, at one and the same time. - -'I must show my sense of your ingratitude,' he said, 'by somewhat -severe measures, and therefore you will arrange at once for the -repayment of the money I have advanced to you. I must remind you that -there is such a thing as imprisonment for debt. As for the money which -your son embezzled from our firm, I must leave my father to settle -that with you. In the mean time----' - -'In the mean time,' interrupted the man in possession, to the -astonishment of all, 'I'm the master of this house, being in -possession; and as you're not down in the inventory, I must request -you to leave.' - -And without allowing the idle young dog to utter another word, the man -in possession, with a wrist of iron, twisted him round, and thrust him -from the old grocer's shop. - -So young Mr. Million, for a fresh supply of wild oats, had to go to -another market. And doubtless succeeded in obtaining them: they are -plentiful enough. - -Ben Sparrow could not but thank the man in possession for his friendly -interference. - -'Don't mention it,' said the man in possession, adding, with an odd -smile, 'he's not down in the inventory, you know.' - -The interview had caused old Ben and Bessie great agitation, and left -them sadly distressed; but nothing could exceed the consideration of -the man in possession. He did not ask them for a word of explanation. -When, indeed, the old man stumblingly referred to it, he turned the -conversation, and asked for a sheet of paper and an envelope. These -being supplied to him, he wrote a note, and when, after putting it in -the envelope and addressing it, he looked up, his hitherto sad face -wore such a bright expression that Ben whispered to his granddaughter, - -'Really, Bessie, he is a good fellow; he puts heart into one;' and -said aloud, 'Can I post the letter for you, sir? - -'No, thank you,' was the reply; 'I can send it by a messenger. I -mustn't let you out of my sight, you know. The landlord said I was -accountable for you.' - -Old Ben began to feel as if he were in prison again. - -It was dark when Tottie was brought home; she ran into the parlour -calling for grandfather and Bessie, and jumped into their arms, and -kissed them, and pulled old Ben's hair; she seemed to bring light in -with her. 'Is that Tottie?' asked the man in possession in a tremulous -tone. - -'Yes, sir, yes,' replied old Ben. 'Go to the gentleman, my dear.' - -Something like a sob came from the man in possession as he lifted -Tottie, and kissed her; and when, a little while afterwards, the lamp -was lighted, and Tottie was seen curled up contentedly in the man's -arms, eating sweets which he was giving her: with such a sweet tooth -as Tottie had, it was no wonder she was easily bought over: old Ben -whispered to Bessie, - -'Depend upon it, my dear, he has got a little daughter at home, and -that makes him fond of Tottie.' - -Everything about this strange man was so gentle, that they actually -looked upon him as a friend instead of an enemy. - - - - SOFTLY, SWEETLY, PROCEEDS THE HYMN OF HOME. - - -'It is a story about two friends--' It is the man in possession who is -speaking. Tottie is lying in his arms as contentedly as if she has -known him all her life; he has told her the prettiest of stories, and -the child has crowed and laughed over them, until she is almost tired -with the pleasure and excitement. And now, although it is very nearly -eleven o'clock, and time to think of going to bed, Bessie and her -grandfather find themselves listening to a story which he says he -desires to tell them. Of course they dare not refuse to listen. - -'It is a story about two friends--mainly about those, although the -dearest hopes of others better and purer than they are mixed up in it -The story is a true one. What shall I call these friends, so as to -distinguish them? Shall I say George for one---- What is the matter, -my dear?' For Bessie has looked with a startled glance into the -stranger's face. 'George is a common name enough, and this man whom I -call George is a good man, in every sense of the word. Say, shall I -call him George?' - -'Yes, if you please,' replies Bessie faintly, turning her face from -him. - -'And the other--I will call him Saul.' - -'Bessie, my dear!' exclaims old Ben Sparrow. 'Do you hear? Saul and -George!' - -Bessie's hand steals into his, and the stranger continues. - -'Say, then, Saul and George. They lived and grew to manhood in just -such a neighbourhood as this. Saul was the elder of the two by six or -seven years; but notwithstanding the difference in their ages, they -became firm friends. They talked much together, and read together; for -Saul was a great reader, and took delight in studying, and (according -to his own thinking) setting wrong things right. I believe that, at -one time of his life, he really had a notion that it was his mission -to redress the wrongs of his class; at all events, it is certain that -he elected himself the champion of his fellow-workmen, and as he had -the fatal gift of being able to speak well and fluently, the men -listened to him, and accepted his high-flown words as the soundest of -logic. George admired his friend, although he did not agree with him; -and when he was a man he took an opportunity of vowing eternal -friendship to Saul. Such a vow meant something more than words with -George; for he was constant and true to the dictates of his heart -Where he professed friendship, there he would show it. Where he -professed love, there would he feel it. And it might be depended upon -that neither in his friendship nor his love would he ever change. He -was no idle talker. Saul, working himself into a state of false -enthusiasm respecting his mission, waited but for an opportunity to -raise his flag. The opportunity came. A dispute arose between master -and men in a certain workshop; Saul plunged himself into the dispute, -and by his fatal gift inflamed the men, and fanned the discontent -until it spread to other workshops. Neither men nor masters would -yield. A strike was the result. In this strike Saul was the principal -agitator; he was the speaker and the man upon whom all depended, in -whom all trusted. Hear, in a few words, what occurred then. After -making things as bitter as he could; after making the men believe that -the masters were their natural enemies; after making a speech one -night, filled with false conclusions, but which fired the men to a -more determined resistance; after doing all this, Saul suddenly -deserted his followers, and left them in the lurch. He told them that, -upon more serious consideration, he had been led to alter his mind, -and that he was afraid of the misery a longer fight would bring upon -them and their families. The men were justly furious with him; they -called him names which he deserved to be called; and the result was -that the men returned to work upon the old terms, and that all of -them--masters and men--turned their backs upon the man who had -betrayed them. Only one among them remained his friend. That one was -George. From that day Saul began to sink; he could get no work; and he -dragged down with him a woman who loved him, who had trusted in him, -and whom he had robbed of her good name. Stay, my dear,' said the man -in possession, placing a restraining hand upon Bessie's sleeve; the -girl had risen, uncertain whether to go or stay. 'You must hear what I -have to say; I will endeavour to be brief. This woman had a child, a -daughter, born away from the neighbourhood in which Saul was known. -Her love was great; her grief was greater. Saul showed himself during -this time to be not only a traitor, but a coward. He took to drink. -What, then, did this good woman--ah, my dear, how good she was only -Saul knows!--what did this good woman resolve to do, for her child's -sake? She resolved that she would not allow her child to grow up and -be pointed at as a child of shame; that she would endeavour to find -some place where it could be cared for, and where, if happier times -did not come to her, the child might grow up in the belief that her -parents were dead. Shame should not cast its indelible shadow over her -darling's life. Saul, in his better mood, agreed with her. "I have no -friends," said this woman to Saul; "have you? Have you a friend who, -out of his compassion for the child and friendship for you, would take -my darling from me, and care for it as his own?" Saul had no friend -but one. George! He went to George, and told his trouble, and this -dear noble friend, this Man! arranged with a neighbour to take the -child, and bring her up. He promised sacredly to keep Saul's secret, -and only to tell one person the story of the poor little forsaken one. -"I may marry one day, Saul," he said, "and then I must tell it to my -wife." In this way the mother obtained her desire; in this way came -about her love's sacrifice!' - -Tick--tick--tick--comes from the old-fashioned clock in the corner. -Bessie has sunk into her chair, and her head is bowed upon the table. -She hears the clear tick, and thinks of a year ago, when, standing at -the door with her lover, it sounded so painfully in her ears. What -pain, what pleasure, has this strange man brought to her! For she -knows that the story he is telling is true, and that Saul's friend, -George, is her George, whom she has loved truly and faithfully during -all this sad year. What pain! What pleasure! What pain to feel that -George is parted from her for ever! What pleasure to know that he is -without a stain, that he is even more noble than her love had painted -him! She raises her head; her eyes are almost blinded by her tears; -she stretches forth her arms for Tottie. - -'Let me nurse her!' she sobs. - -'No, my dear,' says the man in possession; but he places Tottie's lips -to hers, and then stoops and kisses Bessie's tears which have fallen -on the little one's face. 'There is more to tell. Shall I go on?' - -'Yes.' - -'A happy time comes to George. He falls in love with a tender-hearted, -pure-souled girl----' - -Bessie kneels at his feet, and looks in bewilderment at the man's -strange face, at his snow-white hair, and in gratitude raises his hand -to her lips. - -'There, there, child!' he says; 'sit down: you interrupt my story. -They are engaged to be married, and George is anxious to make a home -for his bird. But trade is slack, and he can save no money. Then comes -a false man, whom we will call Judas, into the story, who, under the -pretence of friendship for George, gives him a passage-ticket to the -colonies, where George can more quickly save money to buy the home to -which he yearns to bring his bird. But on the very night, within three -hours of the time when George is to look his last upon the little -house in which he was born, he learns from Saul that this pretended -friend has played him false, has told him lies, and has given him the -ticket only for the purpose of getting him out of the country, so that -Judas can pay court to the girl who reigns in George's heart. Other -doubts and misunderstandings unfortunately accumulate in these -critical moments; George learns that the girl was seen to go into the -house where Judas's father lives; learns that Judas has given her a -pair of earrings; learns that Judas was seen by George's mother to -place a letter in the girl's hands----' - -'It was for grandfather!' cries Bessie. 'It contained money for -grandfather to help him out of his trouble!' - -'Hush! my dear! What can you know of this story of mine? When George -learns all this he is in an agony of despair. He takes the ticket from -his pocket, and is about to destroy it, when Saul falls on his knees -at his friend's feet, and begs, entreats in _his_ agony for the -ticket, so that _he_ may go instead of George. For Saul's dear woman -has left him; has charged him, by his love for her and for their -child, to make an effort to lift them from shame; and he sees no way-- -no way but this which is suddenly opened to him. George gives his -friend the ticket, and the next day Saul bids good-bye to the land -which holds all that is dear to his heart.' - -The man in possession pauses here, and old Ben Sparrow gazes earnestly -at him. When he resumes, his voice grows more solemn. - -'Saul reaches his destination, and after much wandering finds a -shelter in the mountains with a little colony of gold-diggers. He -makes a friend there; David. Another; David's wife. God rest their -souls! Another; David's little daughter. Saul finds gold, and thanks -God for His goodness. He will come home and make atonement But the -snow season sets in, and he and his companions are imprisoned by -mountains of snow whose shallowest depth is sufficient for a man's -grave if he is buried upstanding. An awful night comes, when the -snow-drift walls up their tents. In the morning the tents are hemmed -in; the diggers cannot open their doors. Near to the tent in which -Saul and David and David's wife and David's little daughter live is a -tree. Saul climbs to the roof of the tent, breaks through it, climbs -on to the tree, and calls to his friends to follow him. David tries, -and fails; he falls back into the tent, and hurts himself to death. -Saul, in an agony, calls out for David's little daughter, and the -mother succeeds in raising the child through the roof of the tent; -Saul clutches the little girl and takes her to his heart. All this -time the storm is raging; the snow rises higher and higher. David -commands his wife to save herself; she refuses, and stays to nurse -him, and slowly, slowly, my dears! the snow falls; the walls of the -tent give way; and David's wife meets a noble death, and both find -their grave.' - -Awe-struck they listen to this strange man's story. A look of pity -steals into his face--and then he murmurs to himself, 'No; why should -I bring sadness upon them this night?' And says aloud: - -'The tree to which Saul clings for dear life with David's little -daughter, one other man manages to reach. His story you shall hear -to-morrow; sufficient here to say that it is a strange one, and it -comes strangely to Saul's ears. He bequeaths his gold to Saul for a -good purpose. But this man is weak; his strength fails him in the -night; and when the next morning's sun rises Saul and David's little -daughter are the only ones left. Can you picture Saul to yourself -clinging to the tree, holding in his arms the life of a dear little -one? Can you realise the agony of the time? Can you believe that his -grief and tribulation are so great during the two terrible days that -follow, that his hair turns snow-white----' - -'But he is saved?' cries Bessie and her grandfather at once. - -'He is saved.' - -'And David's little daughter?' - -'Is saved also, God be thanked!' - -They draw a long breath. - -'But little remains to be told. Saul comes home, bringing David's -little daughter with him--bringing gold with him. He seeks his dear -woman. He marries her. He hears that the old man and the dear girl who -have protected and reared his child are in trouble--that an execution -is to be put into the old man's shop for rent----' - -'And he becomes a man in possession!' cries old Ben, starting up in -indescribable excitement. 'O, dear! O, dear! He becomes a man in -possession!' - -The tolling of a bell is heard. - -'As you say. Is not that the Westminster clock beginning to chime the -hour? Listen for one minute more. When Judas comes in this afternoon, -do you think the man in possession is asleep? No; he is awake, and -hears every word that passes, and such a joy comes into his heart as -he cannot describe--for he thinks of George, that dear friend, that -noble friend, that Man! What does the man in possession do when Judas -has gone? He writes a letter, doesn't he? Hark! the last hour is -tolling! Twelve!' - -The door opens, and Bessie, with a wild cry, moves but a step, and -presses her hand to her heart. George stands before her, pale with the -excitement of the moment, but hopeful, and with love in his eyes. - -'George, my dear boy!' cries old Ben, grasping the young man's hands. - -'Can you forgive me, Bessie?' asks George. - -A grateful sob escapes from the girl's overcharged heart, and the -lovers are linked in a close embrace. - -As if this happy union has conjured them up, there enter on the -instant Jim Naldret and Mrs. Naldret, she nursing David's little -daughter. And behind them, with a wistful look, with hands that are -convulsed with excess of tenderness, with eyes and face and heart -filled with yearning love, stands the Mother hungering for her child! -Tenderly and solemnly Saul places Tottie in Jane's arms. The Mother -steals softly into the shop with her child; and Saul follows, and -kneels before her. Presently she takes him also to her breast. - -'Dear wife? he murmurs; and a prayer of infinite thankfulness for the -mercy and the goodness of God comes to his mind. - -Half-an-hour afterwards, he enters the room with Jane and their child. - -'Bessie,' he says, 'this is my wife, Jane.' - -And as Bessie kisses her and caresses her, the sorrow of the past -melts into gratitude for the present. - -They sit and talk. - -'George and I are going into business together,' says Saul. 'We shall -start a little shop of our own.' - -'And stop at home,' remarks Mrs. Naldret, 'and be contented.' - -'Yes,' replies George, 'on bread-and-cheese and kisses. I shall be -able to buy my pots and pans now.' - -Somehow or other George has come into possession of the little silk -purse again. - -'Bessie!' exclaims Mrs. Naldret 'My dream that I told you last year'll -come true!' - -The maid blushes. She is dreaming happily now. So are they all indeed. -Old Ben hopes that they will not wake up presently. - -Silence falls upon them. And in the midst of the silence, the sounds -of music steal to their ears, and they gaze at each other with earnest -grateful eyes. It is the waits playing 'Home, sweet Home.' - -'Do you remember, George?' says Bessie, with a tender clasp. - -Softly, sweetly, proceeds the hymn of Home. The air is filled with -harmony and prayer. - - - - THE END. - - - - * * * * * - LONDON: ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W. - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Blade-O'-Grass. Golden Grain. and -Bread and Cheese and Kisses., by B. L. (Benjamin Leopold) Farjeon - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BLADE-O'-GRASS. 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