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diff --git a/old/66833-0.txt b/old/66833-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ebda9b0..0000000 --- a/old/66833-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9352 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook, Stepping Westward, by M. E. Francis - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: Stepping Westward - - -Author: M. E. Francis - - - -Release Date: November 28, 2021 [eBook #66833] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STEPPING WESTWARD*** - - -This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler - - - - - - BY THE SAME AUTHOR - - -IN A NORTH COUNTRY VILLAGE -THE STORY OF DAN -A DAUGHTER OF THE SOIL -MAIME O’ THE CORNER -FRIEZE AND FUSTIAN -AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS -MISS ERIN -THE DUENNA OF A GENIUS -YEOMAN FLEETWOOD -FIANDER’S WIDOW -THE MANOR FARM -CHRISTIAN THAL -LYCHGATE HALL -DORSET DEAR -WILD WHEAT -SIMPLE ANNALS - - - - - - STEPPING WESTWARD - - - BY - - M. E. FRANCIS - - (MRS FRANCIS BLUNDELL) - - * * * * * - - METHUEN & CO. - 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. - LONDON - - * * * * * - - _First Published in 1907_ - - * * * * * - - TO - MY DEAR FRIEND - ELINOR, LADY D’OYLY - KNOWN AND BELOVED BY DORSET FOLK OF ALL GRADES, - AND ALL AGES - - * * * * * - - “_Write me as one who loves his fellow-men_.” - - - - -CONTENTS - - PAGE -TRANTER SALLY 1 -“LWONESOME LIZZIE” 17 -JESS DOMENY ON STRIKE 47 -“JARGE’S LITTLE ’OOMAN” 70 -ANN-CAR’LINE 86 -ONE ANOTHER’S BURDENS 105 -HOW NED BLANCHARD EMIGRATED 120 -FARMER BARNES’ DILEMMA 150 -THE MISSUS’S CHAIR 172 -THE RULES O’ THE HOUSE 187 -LADY LUCY 209 -A PRISONER OF WAR 244 -THROUGH THE COTTAGE WINDOW 257 -APRIL FOOLS 277 - - - - -TRANTER SALLY - - -THE wayside hedgerow, gay with its autumn tints, stretched its undulating -length beside the rather stony lane that wound upwards from the high -road, and lost itself amid a multiplicity of sheep-tracks on the down. - -It was one of those mild days that here in the south country cheat the -fancy with their likeness, not merely to spring, but to summer. The sky -was blue and cloudless; the birds were singing; the banks were still -starred with many flowers: crane’s-bill, mallow and scabious. Here and -there the gorse was blooming afresh, and new blossoms of guelder-rose -surmounted, incongruously enough, twigs with claret-coloured leaves that -dropped at a touch. Here, indeed, the finger of autumn had left its -trace, and all along the hedge were tokens of its magic. Such miracles -of colour as the conjurer had wrought this year are rarely to be seen: -such goldens and ambers, such scarlets and crimsons; stretching away -beyond the hedge were fields still silvery with night-dews, and woods -shining with the incomparable burnish of the season. - -Sol Bowditch, the hedger, had no eyes for any of these beauties, however; -under the strokes of that uncompromising bill-hook of his the glories of -the hedge were shorn. Bending his vigorous young body backwards, he -threw all his strength into the task, and with each rhythmical swing of -his sturdy arm a fresh victim fell. Now a branch of maple that seemed to -shower stars as it dropped; now a jagged wild-rose, heavily laden with -ruby provender which later on might have made many a starving bird happy; -now a hazel-twig with a few belated nuts still clinging to their -shrivelled wrappings; now, with quick sharp strokes, making short work of -hawthorn and privet; again tearing, rather than cutting with his hook, -long-tufted tendrils of jewelled bryony or hoary traveller’s-joy. - -Thus was beauty laid low and nature’s kindly forethought set at nought. -Farmer House cared little for the poetical aspect of things, and still -less for the wants of the singing-birds; being apt, indeed, to speak of -all wild creatures in a lump as “dratted varmint.” It was Sol Bowditch’s -duty to please Farmer House, and so between them the birds’ winter store -was trampled under foot or scattered to the winds. - -Sol Bowditch was a stranger, having recently tramped hither all the way -from Bridport in search of work; but though he had travelled on foot and -carried his worldly goods in a small bundle, he was unquestionably an -honest and respectable young fellow. No one who looked at his brown face -and clear eyes could doubt that fact, and as for the manner in which he -wielded his bill-hook it was, as the farmer said, a treat to see him. - -It wanted yet an hour or two of dinner-time when Sol, having paused a -moment to finish tearing away an obstinate tangle of bryony, was startled -by the approaching sound of wheels; and, looking up, saw the rim of the -green hood of a carrier’s cart slowly rounding the corner of the lane -from the point where it descended from the down. The horse was -apparently very old, for it proceeded slowly; and the vehicle creaked and -jolted as if it too were ancient. As it jogged nearer Sol saw that it -contained but a single occupant, that of the girl-driver, and when it -came nearer yet he observed that she was young and pretty; her face, with -its clear, yet delicate colouring, framed in curling brown hair, standing -out against the background of the old green “shed” like a picture, as he -said to himself. The girl’s eyes rested on him for a moment as she -jogged past, and he jerked his head at her sideways in a manner which -implied as plainly as words: “Good day.” She nodded back at him -brightly, yet modestly, and the vehicle, which was, as Sol observed, -filled with packages of various sizes, went rattling on its downward way, -the horse stumbling and sliding every now and then, and being admonished -in a high, clear treble. - -Dinner-time came, and rest, and then work again, and finally, with a -suddenness proper to the time of year, dusk. Sol was just in the act of -putting on his coat preparatory to leaving the scene of his labours, when -he caught sight, in the far distance, of a wavering light, and presently -heard the creaking and rattling of an ancient vehicle which he inwardly -decided to be the carrier’s cart returning. - -It was indeed the only cart of any kind which had passed his way that -day. As he picked up his bill-hook and walked slowly to meet it, for his -homeward path must perforce take him past it, he could see the outline of -the girl’s figure, and observe that it was bent forward; her voice at the -same time was uplifted as if in anxiety or distress. - -“Dear, to be sure! Whatever must I do now? Come up, Di’mond, you’re -shammin’. No, he bain’t, poor beast.” - -Just as Sol was a pace or two away she threw the reins on the horse’s -back and leaped to the ground, the animal immediately halting. - -“What be the matter here?” enquired Sol, as she lifted the lantern from -its place and ran round to the other side. - -“Oh, I don’t know. He mid ha’ picked up a stone or summat, or he mid -only be lazy—you never can tell wi’ he. Hold up, Diamond. That’s all -right; hold up again.” - -“There’s a stone,” cried Sol eagerly, “and wedged so tight as anything. -’Tis so big as a happle—I wonder it didn’t throw en.” - -“Stand!” cried the girl, still in an exasperated tone, as she deposited -the lantern on the ground, and hunted about for a larger stone wherewith -to dislodge the pebble which was indeed jammed in Diamond’s hind hoof. - -“Here, let me,” said Sol. “Keep your fingers out o’ the way else I’ll be -a-hammerin’ o’ they.” - -The rays of the lantern, striking upwards, revealed a flashing smile -which belied the seeming gruffness of tone and words. - -The girl straightened herself and stood back:—“Don’t be long about it, -that’s all!” said she. “I’m late as it is—and tired just about!” - -“Why, what be you a-doin’ travellin’ the roads so late?” enquired Sol, as -he struck at the recalcitrant pebble. - -“I do travel the road every day,” returned she. “I do get my livin’ by -it. I’m a tranter.” - -Sol was so much astonished by the announcement that he was obliged to -look up, whereupon Diamond immediately jerked away his hoof. - -“I never did hear of a maid bein’ a tranter afore!” remarked the hedger -with a grin. - -“An’ what ’ud ye say to a old ’ooman of seventy-five bein’ a tranter -then?” returned she triumphantly. “My grammer have only just left off -a-drivin’ o’ this ’ere cart, an’ now I do do it. E-es, we’ve done all -the trantin’ in our place for nigh upon fifty year, I mid say.” - -“There! well now,” commented Sol, as he recaptured the hoof, and resumed -his labours. - -“E-es, my granfer begun it, an’ then when he died my father kept it on, -an’ when he died my grammer took it up, an’ now I do do it. Can’t ye -shift that stone?” - -“He be coming,” returned Sol. “’Tis queer work for a maid, an’ lwonesome -too.” - -“’Tis a bit lwonesome just about here,” she agreed. “I do generally have -company part of the time, but nobody comes our ways much, an’ this ’ere -bit o’ lane an’ the track over the down is lwonesome, once it do get so -dark.” - -“There he goes!” exclaimed Sol, as the stone, yielding to an especially -vigorous tap, dropped into the road. “I’ll walk a bit alongside of ’ee -in case the harse should go lame or anything.” - -“Oh, no need to come so far out of your road,” returned she. “I’ll not -trouble you.” - -Sol, without heeding this protest, picked up the lantern, and restored it -to its place, and then extended a hand to assist the girl to mount. She -accepted his help, seated herself, and gathered up the reins once more. - -“Good night, and thank ye,” said she. - -“I’m comin’ part o’ the road wi’ ye,” said Sol, exactly as if he had made -no such suggestion before. - -She chirruped to the horse and it plodded on, Sol’s tall figure keeping -pace with it. Presently he rested one hand upon the shaft, the -lantern-light revealing how strong it was, and brown. - -“My name’s Solomon Bowditch,” he remarked. - -“Oh, an’ be it?” she returned faintly. - -“E-es. What be yours?” - -“Sally Roberts.” - -“Tranter Sally,” remarked Sol with a laugh. - -“They call me that sometimes,” she conceded. “Here we be at the top of -the hill, Mr Bowditch. I be goin’ to make en trot now.” - -“I can trot too,” said Sol, and indeed his long legs carried him along at -a pace that shamed the shambling efforts of poor Diamond. - -Sally protested, scolded, and finally laughed: Sol took no notice of any -of these modes of procedure, his tall figure jogged along at the same -steady pace, just a little in front of the hood, so that the light fell -full on his honest good-humoured face, and broad-shouldered frame. The -cart went bumping and jolting over the uneven down track, now threading -its way between patches of firs, now rounding a copse of stunted trees. -At last a few twinkling lights came in view, shining fitfully from a not -far distant hollow. - -“That’s our place,” said Sally, pointing with her whip. - -“You’re safe now, then,” returned Sol. “They’d hear ye if ye was to -holler. Good night.” - -And with that he turned, and disappeared into the dusk, before she had -time to thank him. - -On the following day, at the same time, Tranter Sally jogged past Hedger -Sol, and Sol looked up with a friendly word, and Sally smiled down rather -shyly. When dusk came and the van was jogging home again, a tall, dark -figure suddenly loomed beside it. - -“I be a-goin’ to keep ye company along the lwonely bit,” remarked Sol. - -“’Tis too much trouble, I’m sure,” returned Sally, but she made no -further protest. - -The next day the same order of procedure held good, but on the following -morning no Sol appeared in the lane, for the hedge which bordered it was -shorn as close as a stubble-field. Sally looked about her eagerly, but -detecting no signs of life, continued her journey with somewhat depressed -spirits. - -Nevertheless, in the evening, as the van slowly mounted the hill, she -heard the sound of hasty steps behind her, and was presently overtaken by -Sol. - -“Did ye think I wasn’t comin’?” he enquired. - -“I didn’t think anything about you,” returned Sally, mendaciously. - -“Well, I’ve come, an’ what’s more I be a-goin’ to go on comin’ so long as -it be so dark. It bain’t fit for a maid to go travellin’ alone so late.” - -“I can take care o’ myself, thank ye,” returned Sally. - -“No, no,” cried Sol with conviction, “no maid can do that. They was -meant to be took care on, an’ I be a-goin’ to take care o’ you.” - -Sally tossed her head. - -“Perhaps I’ve other folks to take care o’ me if I choose to call ’em,” -she remarked. - -Indeed it would not have been in girlish nature to submit to the -masterful manner in which Sol took possession of her. - -“Be you a-keepin’ company wi’ somebody?” enquired Sol with some anxiety. -“Because there’s no use my comin’ so far out o’ my road if ye be. I be -workin’ over t’other side o’ the farm now that this ’ere job’s finished, -an’ I’ve gone into a new lodgin’-there’s no use my wastin’ my time, my -maid, if—” - -“Oh, I’m sure I don’t want ye to waste no time on my account!” cried -Sally. - -Her voice was unsteady, and she blinked hard to keep back the tears. No -maid, she said to herself, would like to be courted after such a fashion. - -Sol sighed impatiently. As a practical man he was anxious to ascertain -his position. - -“Be there?” he enquired, with a self-restraint that was palpable and -exasperating, “Be there another chap a-lookin’ arter ye, or bain’t -there?” - -As a matter of fact there was not, but Sally was not the girl to admit -it. She remained, therefore, obstinately mute. - -“Now look ’ee here, my maid,” resumed Sol, after a full minute’s pause. -“I must have a answer to this ’ere question afore things get any -forrarder. I’ll give ’ee till to-morrow to think it over, and then it -must be ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ If ye’ve got a young man of your own then ye may -cry ‘hands off,’ an’ I’ll let ’ee alone. If ye haven’t—there bain’t no -reason in life why you an’ me shouldn’t start keepin’ company reg’lar. -So think it over, maidie.” - -Having now reached the top of the slope, Sally whipped up Diamond, and -the horse proceeded at its usual trot, Sol jogging beside it according to -his custom. When Sally’s home came in sight he disappeared into the -darkness with a cheery good night, leaving Sally disconcerted, angry, and -sorely perplexed. - -She already liked Sol very much; she would probably like him more when -she had time and opportunity to study his character, but to be pressed -thus to come to a definite decision at so short a notice—it was unfair—it -was cruel! Above all to be forced to own straight out that she had no -other lover—how could she bring herself to make such a humiliating -confession? - -Very little did Sally sleep that night, and when she looked up in the -morning from her untasted breakfast and announced that she had a -headache, she was sufficiently pale to alarm her grandmother. - -“I don’t think I can ever go joggin’ off in that wold cart to-day,” -continued Sally, dismally. “Couldn’t you go, grammer, for once? ’Tis a -lovely day, look see, an’ there bain’t so much doin’ of a Tuesday.” - -“Well, to be sure,” grumbled the old woman, “’tis a pretty notion. -What’s to become o’ the wash if I’m to go a-traipsin’ round the country -wi’ the cart?” - -“Oh, I’ll manage the wash!” cried Sally, eagerly. “The steam ’ull do me -good, I think. ’Tis the neuralgy what be a-troublin’ of I. I’ll finish -the washin’, an’ get on wi’ the ironin’, if ye’ll let me, grammer?” - -Mrs Roberts assented, after much murmuring and a good deal of sarcastic -comment on the “neshness” of the rising generation. There was never no -talk of newralgy or oldralgy neither when she was a maid, she said, an’ -she was sure she didn’t know what the world was a-comin’ to. - -Nevertheless she duly started off, encasing her spare figure in Sally’s -warm jacket, and covering her head with an old sailor hat which had once -belonged to the girl. Sally, indeed, had pressed these articles upon her -grandmother with an exuberance of affection which had somewhat mollified -that old lady, and stood leaning against the door-post as Diamond and the -van jogged out of sight. Her face was pink enough to denote that the -“newralgy” was not in a very acute stage, and all at once she burst into -a fit of laughter, and clapped her hands. - -It was darker even than usual when Mrs Roberts, much exhausted after her -round, set forth on her return journey. She drew back as far as possible -into the shelter of the “shed,” and let the reins drop loosely over -Diamond’s back as he crawled slowly up the stony lane so often mentioned. -Presently, to her great surprise, a figure leaped out from the shelter of -the bank, and accosted her. - -“I thought you was never comin’!” cried a man’s voice. - -Grammer Roberts checked the exclamation which rose to her lips, and -flattened herself yet more against the side of the hood, but she made no -audible remark. To herself, however, she observed: “Ho! ho! Miss Sally.” - -Diamond continued his progress as though nothing unusual had happened, -and the newcomer paced beside him. - -“There’s no use your holding your tongue, my dear,” he continued, after a -pause, “because I’m going to have an answer, one way or another.” - -“A answer!” commented Mrs Roberts to herself. “He’ve a-been makin’ the -maid a offer.” - -“It must be ‘yes’ or ‘no,’” continued Sol firmly. “If ye don’t say -nothin’ I’ll take that for a answer. Now listen to I—” - -Grammer Roberts was not very quick of hearing, but she strained her ears -to the utmost. - -“I’ll give ’ee till we get to the top of the lane, an’ if by that time ye -haven’t spoke I’ll take it ye’re willin’ to keep company wi’ I. If -there’s another chap about ye, ye must make up your mind to say so.” - -“There bain’t no other chap as I know on,” reflected Mrs Roberts, “but -I’d like to know a bit more about this one.” - -As though in obedience to her unspoken wish, Sol, after another pause, -proceeded to set forth his circumstances. - -“I bain’t much of a match for ’ee, I dare say—” - -Grammer shifted uneasily on her seat: she was sorry to hear that. - -“But you mid go further an’ fare worse. I’m earnin’ sixteen shillin’ -a-week wi’ the promise of a rise at Lady Day.” - -The battered sailor hat nodded approvingly in the shadow. - -“I’ve not got no dibs save—” - -“That’s bad,” commented Grammer inwardly; “a few dibs ’ud ha come in -handy.” - -“In fact I tramped here from Bridport wi’ just the clothes on my back.” - -“I don’t like that,” said Mrs Roberts to herself; “there were never no -tramps in our family.” - -“’Twas my mother’s long sickness what cleared out all my savin’s. I -couldn’t deny the poor wold body anythin’.” - -Here Mrs Roberts’ countenance assumed a benign expression: it spoke well -for the young man that he should be so considerate to the old and weak. - -“I’m young, I’m strong,” summed up Sol energetically; “I’ll look after -you so kind as I can if you’re willin’ to keep company wi’ I, an’ I’ll -make ye a lovin’ husband when the time comes for us to be married. Here -we be at the top of the lane now, and as ye haven’t spoke, I d’ ’low -ye’re willin’ to take me.” - -Mrs Roberts jerked at the reins, but she was not quick enough for Sol, -who in a moment leaped into the cart, and took up his position beside -her. - -“Now then, my maid,” he cried jubilantly, “we’re sweethearts.” - -And with that he flung his arm round her waist, and endeavoured to plight -his troth in the usual way. - -But to his surprise, not to say stupefaction, a shrill cackle of laughter -fell upon his ears, and his advances were repelled by a vigorous thrust -of a hand that was certainly not Sally’s. - -“Dear, to be sure!” cried a quavering voice. “Did ever anybody hear the -like? There now! well, well! Dear heart alive! I d’ ’low you don’t -know your own mind, young man.” - -Still crowing with uncanny laughter, she stretched out her wrinkled hand, -detached the lantern from its hook, and held it up to her face. - -“Well, I’m—I’m dalled!” exclaimed Sol, utterly dumbfounded. - -“Ho! ho! ho!” cackled grammer. “Shall I speak out now, or be it too -late? I d’ ’low ’tis too late an’ we be sweethearts.” - -“Here! wait! whoa!” cried Sol, distractedly. “Let me out!” - -“Nay, now,” returned grammer, clutching him by the arm, “bide a bit, bide -a bit. Don’t be in sich a hurry. P’raps there’s a little mistake.” - -“There’s a mistake, an’ not such a very little one,” replied Sol, -indignantly. - -“You was a-lookin’ for another tranter, I reckon,” resumed grammer, -archly. “Maybe you was a-lookin’ for Tranter Sally.” - -“Maybe I was,” admitted Sol, relaxing. - -“She’s my granddarter,” remarked the old lady. - -“Oh!” said Sol, stiffening again. “She needn’t ha’ served me sich a -trick then,” he added somewhat inconsequently. “She needn’t ha’ made a -fool o’ me! Any man mid be made a fool on that way.” - -“True,” agreed Mrs Roberts soothingly, “you was made a fool on, jist -about!” - -“I d’ ’low I’ll get out now,” announced Sol for the second time, with -sulky dignity. - -“No, no, bide a bit. ’Tis lwonely here, an’ ye know ye did promise to -take care of I—he, he, he!” - -After a moment’s struggle Sol, too, broke forth into irrepressible -laughter, and as the cart jolted over the downs the mingled sounds of -their mirth astonished the sleepy wild things. - -Mrs Roberts was the first to compose herself. - -“So you be a-earnin’ sixteen shillin’ a week!” she remarked, sitting up -and wiping her eyes. - -“Yes, sixteen shillin’ a week and the promise of a rise.” - -“We’ve a-got a nice little place down yonder,” resumed grammer; “a tidy -bit o’ ground, too, but it wants a man to see to’t.” - -“Oh, do it?” said Sol, in a non-committal way. - -“It do! Ye haven’t got no money saved, I think ye said?” - -“Mrs Roberts,” cried Sal desperately, “will ye tell me straight out, or -will ye not? Be there another chap a-hanging round Sally?” - -“Ye’d best ax her!” chuckled the old woman. “Ax her same as ye did ax -me, an’ tell her if she means ‘no’ she must say it. We be just there -now.” - -The cart, indeed, now began to rattle down the path which led to the -hollow, and presently Mrs Roberts pulled up. - -“Bide there,” she whispered in Sol’s ear, “bide where ye be, an’ I’ll -send her out to ye.” - -“Must I unhitch Di’mond?” enquired Sally, appearing at the open door. - -The firelight from within turned her fair hair to gold and outlined her -slight figure. Sol felt the last trace of resentment melt as he looked -at her. - -“E-es, you can unhitch, my dear; an’ there’s a bit o’ rubbish in the cart -what ye can have if ye fancy.” - -“A bit o’ rubbish!” ejaculated the girl, pausing on the threshold. - -“E-es, a bit o’ rubbish what was give me, but what I haven’t got no use -for—so I make a present of en to you, my dear.” - -And with that Grammer Roberts clambered down, and hurried into the house, -exploding with laughter as she went. - -Though she was discreet enough to leave the young couple to their own -devices, she could not wholly conquer her curiosity as to the issue -between them, and, pausing just behind the door, listened eagerly. - -A startled cry, a man’s voice talking eagerly, a peal of laughter—and -then silence. - -“Sixteen shillin’ a week!” meditated grammer. “I hope they won’t forget -to unhitch the harse!” - - - - -“LWONESOME LIZZIE” - - -IT was late on a bright spring afternoon when Mrs Caines betook herself -to a certain out-of-the-way wood, in the midst of which her mother’s -cottage was situated. This wood lay at a considerable distance from the -high road, and the nearest approach to it was across a number of ploughed -fields, so that Phoebe Caines was hot and somewhat exhausted when she at -last reached the longed-for friendly and familiar shade. There was a -high wind that March day, and Phoebe’s face had been blistered alike by -it and the sun as she toiled along the road proper. Even in the fields -the light soil, newly harrowed, had been caught up now and then by the -mischievous wind and dashed into eyes and hair. - -But here was the wood at length, and the narrow little moss-grown path -along which she had so often tripped as a child. Phoebe had been born -and bred in that wood, as had her mother before her. The queer little -thatched cottage in which the latter dwelt had been the old keeper’s -house, and there Mrs Sweetapple had first seen the light. Her father had -been keeper in those far-away days, and both her husbands had been -keepers too. If she had been blest with a son he would doubtless have -followed the family traditions; but Phoebe was her only child, and the -grand new two-storied brick house which the Squire had built at a quarter -of a mile’s distance from the old cottage was inhabited by a stranger. - -The Squire had not had the heart to turn out old Lizzie Sweetapple, who -was allowed to live on in her tumble-down abode, and to keep cocks and -hens in the empty kennels, and even to fancy herself extremely useful by -bringing up a certain number of pheasants. No hens were ever so -conveniently broody as Lizzie’s, no pens so carefully sheltered, no young -broods so well watched or tenderly nurtured. - -Mrs Sweetapple—“Lwonesome Lizzie,” as her few acquaintances laughingly -called her—was quite a celebrated personage in the neighbourhood, and -though her apparently desolate plight won her much commiseration, she -herself never complained of her solitude. - -But Daughter Phoebe did not approve of the existing state of things, and -frequently endeavoured to induce her mother to take up her residence with -her. The little pension allowed her by the Squire would more than pay -for her keep, and why not tend children, of whom Mrs Caines possessed “a -plenty,” as well as cocks and pheasants? It was dangerous for her, -living so entirely alone at her age, where nobody could look after her if -she were taken ill; and if there were an accident, such as setting the -house on fire or breaking her leg, nobody would be the wiser. - -Though the old woman had hitherto stoutly refused to contemplate any such -possibility as illness or mischance, and resolutely announced her -intention of remaining where she was, Phoebe returned to the charge -periodically, and the present expedition was undertaken with the view of -shaking her mother’s determination. - -Being a practical person, she wasted no time in looking about her now, -but pressed on with as much speed as she could muster, occasionally -repeating over to herself the arguments by means of which she hoped to -convince the old woman. - -Yet indeed the scene was lovely enough to have tempted a less -business-like person to dally on her way. The young grass was springing -up beneath the budding trees on one side, while on the other the ground -was strewn with fir-needles and last year’s beech-leaves. Grass and moss -were alike emerald green, withered leaves and needles copper and gold. -These tints were repeated again on the trunks of Scotch firs, on the -boughs of the heavily-clothed spruces; while the elders and a few stray -thorns had borrowed the living green of the herbage below. The sycamores -were brave with little crimson tufts, and the larches most glorious of -all at this hour, raising as they did their delicate tracery of pendant -twigs against the luminous sky, imprisoning the light, as it were, in a -golden cage, the floating bars of which were studded here and there with -jewels—emeralds that would soon become tassels, rubies that in course of -time would turn into cones. The bank on the right was studded with wild -violets, and here and there primroses grew in profusion, their tender -young leaves flaming in the evening glow almost like the blossoms they -protected. - -At the turn of the path Mrs Caines caught sight of the lichen-grown roof -of the cottage, and heaved a deep sigh of relief. Increasing her pace -she hurried on, unceremoniously bursting into the kitchen, into which the -door opened. - -“’Tis you, Phoebe, love!” exclaimed old Lizzie, coming forward to meet -her, dusting her hands on her apron as she advanced. “You’m welcome, I’m -sure, my dear. I scarce looked for ’ee to come so late, though it be a -goodish long while since I see’d ye.” - -“The children have a-had the whooping-cough,” responded Mrs Caines, -dropping into a chair. “Of all the tedious illnesses that be the -worst—what wi’ coaxin’ of ’em to eat, an’ a-watchin’ of ’em so as they -shouldn’t cough an’ a-make theirselves sick the minute they _have_ took -their meals, it do fair wear a body out. Little Isaac, the way he do -cough and the way he do choke, many a time I think he’ll bust hisself. -He do turn the colour of a turkey-cock, he do!” - -“That’s bad,” said the grandmother placidly. “You was never much -trouble, Phoebe, I’ll say that for ’ee. Every sickness what come you did -take so light as anything. An’ there’s some as ye did never have at all. -’Tis wi’ livin’ so much in the fresh air, I think. I’ll just mix this -bit o’ meal an’ take it outside to the little chicken, an’ you mid pop on -kettle, my dear, an’ rest yourself a bit. We’ll have tea so soon as I -get back.” - -Mrs Caines unpinned her shawl, threw back her bonnet-strings, and set the -kettle on the fire. Then she heaved a sigh, partly of exasperation, -partly of fatigue, and looked about her. The room seemed just the same -as ever, the furniture a little older and a little shabbier than she -remembered it of yore. The grandfather’s clock stood in one corner, with -the hands pointing to a quarter to twelve, as they had done ever since -she could remember; the warming-pan to the right of the fireplace was not -quite as bright as usual, perhaps, and the china on the upper shelf of -the dresser was distinctly dusty. - -“Poor mother, she be gettin’ past her work, I d’ ’low,” said Phoebe to -herself; and the reflection strengthened her resolution. - -Continuing her survey, she presently gave a little start of surprise. -The old oak settle which ever since her childhood had stood with its back -against the wall, being but a clumsy piece of furniture and never used, -was now pushed forward in comfortable proximity to the blaze. What fancy -was this? Surely her mother could not choose to sit on that hard -uncomfortable seat, instead of in the cosy elbow-chair in which Phoebe -herself was now reposing. The fellow to it which had once been her -father’s, now, to her astonishment, was relegated to the place usually -occupied by the settle. - -When Mrs Sweetapple returned, her daughter at once questioned her on the -subject, openly expressing disapproval, for to people of her turn of mind -any change in household arrangements, above all any change carried out -unauthorised, must necessarily be condemned. - -“What in the name o’ goodness ha’ ye gone shiftin’ thik wold settle for?” -she exclaimed, in an aggrieved tone. “Sich a great ar’k’ard thing as it -be, too heavy for your arms I d’ ’low—an’ there’s poor father’s chair set -standin’ again’ the wall!” - -Mrs Sweetapple blushed all over her wrinkled, kindly old face, and -answered confusedly:— - -“It be jist a fancy o’ mine—jist a notion! Some folks take some notions, -an’ some takes others.” - -“Well, but what be it _for_?” persisted Mrs Caines. - -“Oh, ’tis jist a fancy I tell ’ee—a fancy o’ my own to make the time pass -of an evenin’. There, I do make poor Bartlett an’ your own father take -turn about to keep I company, an’ this be Bartlett’s week.” - -“What in the world d’ye mean?” gasped Phoebe, staring harder than ever, -and flushing in her turn. - -“Well, there, I’ve a-lived here all my life in this same little place as -ye know—all the time I were a maid, an’ when I wed poor Bartlett—scarce a -year wi’ he, an’ nigh upon farty wi’ Sweetapple, your father. By -daylight I’m bustlin’ about, ye know, workin’ at one thing an’ workin’ at -another, an’ I don’t seem to have no time for thinkin’, but at night, -when bolt’s drawed an’ window shut, and I do sit here by myself, I do -seem to see their shapes an’ hear their voices. It did use to bother I, -thinkin’ of ’em both, ye know, an’ sometimes one ’ud seem to be there, -an’ sometimes the other. An’ at last I hit upon the notion o’ makin’ ’em -take week about.” - -She paused, drawing imaginary patterns with her forefinger on the -polished seat of the old settle. - -“Mother, you’re raving!” exclaimed Phoebe aghast. - -“No, my dear, no; I be in my senses right enough, an’ ’tis wonderful how -pleasant the time do pass when I’m fancyin’ I’m havin’ sich company. -When I do get the settle out, d’ye see, I do call to mind the time when -Bartlett used to come here a-coortin’. Father’d be out on his rounds -most like, and mother’d be busy wi’ one thing an’ another, an’ him an’ -me’d sit here side by side on thik wold settle—there, I can call to mind -as if ’twere yesterday—the very things he used to say, an’ the way he’d -put his arm round me.” - -She broke off, smiling to herself, her toothless mouth unconsciously -assuming something of the archness with which doubtless she had responded -of yore to Bartlett’s amorous speeches, her dim eyes looking past -Phoebe’s astonished face, and past the smoke-stained wall beyond, to that -far, far away past, when she was a maid, and her young lover sate beside -her. - -“He did use to talk a deal o’ nonsense talk,” she went on. “It do all -come back to me now. I do seem to hear what he did say, an’ what I did -answer back, and sometimes I do find myself laughin’ out loud, an’ -puss’ll get up from the hearth an’ walk over to I quite astonished.” - -“Well, to be sure!” ejaculated Mrs Caines, then stopped short, -astonishment depriving her for the moment of the power of speech. - -“E-es,” continued Lizzie reflectively, “he wer terr’ble fond o’ -me—Bartlett were. Even arter we was wed, he did use to say every evenin’ -so soon as he comed in from his round: ‘Now then, little ’ooman,’ he’d -say, ‘let’s have a bit o’ coortin’ same’s in wold times.’ An’ I’d hurry -up wi’ my work an’ pop on a clean apron, an’ squat down aside of en on -the wold settle—an’ then he do begin a-talkin’ nonsense talk jist so -foolish as ever.” - -She drew her withered hand pensively along the back of the settle as she -spoke, and presently continued in an altered tone:— - -“Thik wold settle. ’Twas here they did lay en when they carried en in -arter that there accident wi’ his gun what killed en. An’ I knelt down -as it mid be here” (pointing with her hand), “an’ he couldn’t speak nor -yet move, but he jist looked at I, an’ I looked back, an’ I took his poor -hand an’ kissed it, an’ then when I looked again he wer’ gone.” - -“I’m sure ye didn’t ought to be thinkin’ o’ sich things,” burst out -Phoebe, with an irritation that was part real, part feigned, to conceal -her alarm. “What call have ’ee now to be fetchin’ ’em up arter all they -years—fifty year an’ more, I’m sure, what have gone by since. If ye must -think o’ anybody why don’t ye think o’ poor father? The best husband as -a woman need wish to be tied-to, I’m sure; him as was allus so kind an’ -worked for ye so faithful—why, you was his wife for farty year very -near.” - -“Farty year and ten month,” said Mrs Sweet-apple. “I do think of en, my -dear, frequent,” she continued mildly. “There, as I do tell ’ee, him an’ -Bartlett takes it week about. I do push back settle to the carner, d’ye -see, where it did bide all the years him an’ me lived together. I could -never seem to have the heart to leave it in its wold place here arter -Bartlett died. So I do push it back to the carner, an’ I do pull out -Sweetapple’s chair, an’ I do set it where he did use to like it anigh the -fire, an’ I do sit in my own where you be a-sittin’ now, an’ I do fetch -out a wold sock an’ make a purtence o’ darnin’ it. An’ I do look up now -an’ again, an’ fancy to myself I do see en a-sittin’ there in his shirt -sleeves same as he did use to do, an’ a-smokin’ of his pipe. An’ I do -say to en by times: ‘Well, Sweetapple, an’ how be the young birds -a-lookin’?’ - -“Wonderful well,’ he d’ say, an’ then us’ll say nothin’ for a bit till by -an’ by I’ll maybe tell en about a hen what I think ’ull soon go broody, -or a clutch o’ young pheasants what I do think ’ull turn out very well. -Why, there’s times when I do actually take en out o’ door to look at the -pens. I do light lantern an’ carry it, an’ I do fancy I hear his steps -aside o’ mine so plain—” - -“Mother,” exclaimed Phoebe, “do you truly mean you do go out at nights -wi’ the lantern an’ all? Why, ye’ll be gettin’ lost in the woods so sure -as anything, or maybe settin’ the whole place afire.” - -Mrs Sweetapple gazed at her, smiling again and rubbing her hands. - -“’Tis only a bit o’ nonsense, bain’t it?” queried her daughter anxiously, -struck by a sudden thought. “You do jist fancy you do go out-o’-door -same as you do fancy you be talkin’ wi’ my father—you don’t truly do sich -a thing, do ye?” - -Mrs Sweetapple appeared to reflect:— - -“Well, I don’t rightly know, my dear,” she replied after a pause. -“There’s times when I mid fancy it, and there’s other times when I do -truly think I do go out to show father the pens. Last week ’twas—’twas -father’s week ye know—I did get my shoes quite wet, an’ I did have a bit -of a cold for a day or two. I think it must have come along o’ takin’ -father out to see the pens.” - -Mrs Caines gazed resolutely at her mother, the colour once more -overspreading her already sufficiently rosy face. - -“It’s time there was an end o’ this,” she announced firmly. “You’ll be -tumblin’ down the well some night, or else maybe go wanderin’ off the -Lard knows where. No, Mother, there’s no use talkin’, the time’s come -for ’ee to shift. Lady Day’s very near, an’ ’twill be so good a time as -any other. I’ll speak to Squire about it. He’ll send a waggon to move -as many o’ your things as be worth takin’, an’ you can come an’ bide -along o’ us. The children ’ull be better company for ’ee nor they crazy -notions o’ yours, an’ if ye do want to do a bit o’ mendin’ of a evenin’ -ye can darn Caines’ socks.” - -“Nay, now, nay Phoebe, nay indeed,” cried the old woman in a shaking -voice, her eyes becoming round with alarm, and her lips quivering. “I -couldn’t shift, my dear, I couldn’t bide nowhere but in the wold place -where I was barn, an’ where I do look to die. The only shiftin’ I’ll do -’ull be then. I’ll shift to the New House, Phoebe, my dear, whenever it -be the Lard’s will to take I, but not before.” - -“I’ll speak to Squire about it,” persisted Phoebe. “Summat awful ’ull be -happenin’ if you do go on this way. ’Tis time that he should see to it. - -“No, don’t ’ee go for to speak to Squire,” pleaded Lizzie. “What be the -good o’ carryin’ tales to Squire? I be so happy as anything here. I -don’t want for nothin’, an’ I do never feel lwonesome. If you do go -puttin’ notions in Squire’s head—but you wouldn’t be so unkind, would ye, -my dear?” - -Phoebe made no answer; the kettle boiled at this juncture, and gave an -excuse for rising and rescuing it from the fire. She insisted on making -tea for her mother, and, instead of reverting to the vexed topic, chatted -throughout the meal so incessantly, and on such a variety of topics, that -Lizzie became a trifle bewildered; and, imagining from her daughter’s -altered demeanour that the latter had come round to her views, smiled -pleasantly, and put in a word now and then whenever she could catch the -drift of the conversation. For, if truth be told, her wits had become -duller than of yore, and remarks and smiles alike were a trifle vague. - -Mrs Caines rose at last to take her departure, straightened her bonnet, -donned her shawl, and kissed her mother affectionately. - -Lizzie had already washed up and put away the tea-things, and after -returning her daughter’s embrace, pulled down her cuffs and shook out her -apron with a pre-occupied air. Almost before Phoebe had left the room -she had installed herself on the settle, and was gazing expectantly at -the door. - -“Now don’t go out to-night, whatever happens,” urged Phoebe. “There’s a -good soul! I can see ye’ve got a bit of a cold hangin’ about ye still.” - -“Nay, my dear,” responded Lizzie, with a small secret smile. “’Tis -Bartlett’s night, ye know. I do never ha’ time to think o’ chicken an’ -sich when Bartlett be here.” - -Phoebe stared; then, taking her umbrella, left the house. She heard -Lizzie bolt the door behind her, and walked away, shaking her head and -pursing up her lips. After proceeding fifty yards or so she paused, and -presently turning retraced her steps as noiselessly as possible. The -kitchen window was already shuttered, but Phoebe knew there was a wide -chink beneath the hinge, and making her way towards it, peered into the -fire-lit room. - -Old Lizzie was still seated on the settle, in the far corner, so as to -leave plenty of room for the other imaginary occupant. She was smiling, -and glancing now up, now down, with that revived coyness of her youth. - -Now she stretched out her trembling old hand with a curious little -gesture, as though stroking something—the crisp brown locks perhaps which -had been so long hidden away in the grave; now she was laughing. - -“I never did hear any chap carry on like that,” she said. “Why we be old -married folks now—six month wed come Tuesday.” - -Phoebe turned away from the window and stepped forth briskly through the -twilight. Her mind was irrevocably made up. - -A wilful woman must have her way, we are told, and Mrs Caines’ way -appeared so very reasonable that even the Squire fell in with it, though -reluctantly. That he himself should take active measures to turn old -Lizzie out of her cherished little house was certainly a most -disagreeable necessity; nevertheless he appeared to have no choice. The -old woman’s actual plight was undeniably dangerous, and she would no -doubt be more cheerful as well as better looked after amid her daughter’s -family. - -Somehow or other, Lizzie never quite realised how, it was made clear to -her that the Squire wanted her cottage for some important purpose, and -moreover wanted possession of it so soon that she must turn out at once. -Event succeeded event with such rapidity that she found herself uprooted -almost before she had time to grasp the full extent of her misfortune, -and was installed by Mrs Caines’ hearth and surrounded by Mrs Caines’ -noisy little flock while still pleading and protesting. - -“Now here you be, mother,” announced Phoebe, whisking off her parent’s -bonnet and shawl, and firmly tying on her black net cap, “here you be so -right as anything. Here be your own chair, d’ye see, for ye to sit in, -and yonder’s the dresser—how well it do look in the carner, don’t it? -Us’ll unpack the china by and by, and wash it and set it out—that’s -summat to do, bain’t it? An’ there’s father’s chair opposite yours, same -as usual.” - -“Ah,” murmured Lizzie vaguely, “this be Sweet-apple’s week. ’Ees, -sure—’ees, there be his chair. Where be—” - -Her eyes wandered round the unfamiliar room. “Where be,” she was -beginning again, when Phoebe adroitly interrupted her. - -“This be father’s chair, as you do say, mother, an’ this be his week to -be sure. There you can talk to en so comfortable as can be.” - -Lizzie glanced round again with a deep sigh. - -John Caines, Phoebe’s husband, worked in the Branston brewery, and they -lived in consequence in the town. Theirs was a six-roomed semi-detached -house with a dusty little yard in the rear, and a tiny grass-plot in -front, on which Phoebe sometimes spread out linen to dry. It was -situated near the station, and many vehicles passed that way, creating -much dust, and making a considerable amount of noise. - -Phoebe presently commented on this fact to her bewildered mother. - -“’Tis nice an’ cheerful to be so near the road, bain’t it?” she remarked -pleasantly, tilting up as she spoke a corner of the muslin blind. “Ye -can look out, look-see. That’s the ’bus from the Crown, an’ there’s -Sibley’s cart, and look, look—there’s a motor.” - -The children all rushed to the window to investigate this wonder, Isaac -pausing midway to whoop violently. Lizzie bent a vacant gaze upon the -window, and then drew back into her corner. - -“’Tis awful lwonesome here,” she said, “terr’ble lwonesome—there, that -noise an’ the dust an’ all; it do fair make my head go round.” - -Phoebe burst out laughing:— - -“Dear, to be sure, that’s a queer notion! How can ye be lwonesome wi’ so -many folks about?” - -Lizzie rocked herself backwards and forwards in her chair, half moaning -to herself. - -“I can’t find nothin’ what I’m used to. I can’t seem to hear nothin’—wi’ -so much talkin’ an’ that there terr’ble noise outside, an’ I can’t find—” - -She broke off suddenly, sitting bolt upright. - -“Where be the settle?” she cried, in a loud, anxious tone. “Where be the -wold settle? Ye’ve never been an’ left that behind?” - -Phoebe was taken aback for a moment: as a matter of fact, she had -purposely left it behind, not only because it seemed to her worthless in -itself, but because she thought the sight of it would conjure up those -crazy notions which she was so anxious to dispel. It was all very well -that her mother should dwell on the memory of Phoebe’s own departed -father; she might look at his chair as much as she liked, and accomplish -a bit of darning for the family, under the impression it was for him; but -it was quite a different matter to go on in such a foolish way about a -man who had been in his grave for more than fifty years, and to whom she -had been wed but for a few months. The neighbours would think Mrs -Sweetapple daft indeed if she were to regale them with such tales as she -had recently related to her daughter. - -“Where be the settle?” repeated Lizzie, with a shrill cry. - -“There, don’t ye take on,” said Phoebe soothingly; “there wasn’t room -for’t in the cart, d’ye see, an’ us’ll have to send to fetch it. ’Tis so -heavy—the poor harse couldn’t ha’ dragged it so far wi’ so many other -things.” - -“It must be here by end of the week,” said Mrs Sweetapple. “It must be -here by Sunday. It’ll be Bartlett’s week, come Sunday.” - -“We’ll send for it—we’ll send for it,” exclaimed Mrs Caines. “There now, -mother,” returning to an argument which she had before found efficacious, -“don’t ye go for to forget as this be father’s turn. Poor father—ye -didn’t ought for to forget he.” - -“I don’t forget en, my dear, I don’t forget en,” said Lizzie, dropping -her head upon her breast. “I do feel a bit confused—I bain’t used to -childern, ye see, and—I do feel terr’ble lwonesome; I did ought to be -feedin’ chicken now,” she added, half rising, and then dropping back -again. “What’s become o’ the chicken, Phoebe?” - -“Why, don’t ye know?” responded Phoebe, cheerfully. “Mr Foster—Keeper -Foster, ye know, he did take ’em all off your hands. He’ll see to the -little pheasants right enough, and he did pay money down for the chicken. -I’ve got it safe for ’ee. I did tell ’ee all about that.” - -“So ye did, so ye did,” murmured Lizzie. “I was forgettin’—it do seem -strange to ha’ no chicken to see to. I d’ ’low father ’ull miss ’em so -well as me.” - -“Eh?” said Mrs Caines, staring. - -“I d’ ’low father’ll miss ’em,” repeated Lizzie. “He’ll be lookin’ to go -out wi’ me last thing to see how they be a-comin’ on.” - -“My dear ’ooman,” exclaimed Phoebe, “you can’t go walkin’ out in the -street o’ nights here, fancy or no fancy. Ye mid be runned over an’ -killed straight-off.” - -“Runned over!” exclaimed Lizzie. She looked about her vaguely, and then -sank into silence. - -Mrs Caines drew her John into the privacy of the back kitchen as soon as -he appeared, and, with many shakes of the head, explained to him the -state of affairs. - -“Poor mother be queerer nor ever to-night. Us mustn’t lose sight of her -for a minute; there’s no knowin’ what she mid do. There, she’ve been -carryin’ on about takin’ father out to see the pens and about bein’ so -lwonesome—lwonesome here in the town, ye know. She says the noise an’ -the voices an’ all do make her feel lwonesome.” - -John Caines removed his pipe in order to grin at ease, and then put it -back again; he was a man of few words. - -“So I was thinkin’,” continued Phoebe, “you’d best keep an eye to her -while I’m gettin’ childern to bed, an’ then so soon as I do come down -I’ll look after her. She’d best get early to bed herself, poor wold -body, she be fair wore out.” - -Caines removed his pipe again: “But what must I do if she should take a -notion that I’m the wold gentleman—your father, I mean?” he enquired in -some alarm. - -Phoebe caught at the idea. “That wouldn’t be a bad thing at all,” said -she. “I d’ ’low that ’ud keep her so quiet as anything. Jist you go an’ -sit down in father’s chair an’ if she do say anything ye mid jist nod -back or say a word or two—my father was never a man of much talk. I d’ -’low if anything ’ull pacify her that will, but mind you don’t let her -take up wi’ any notion o’ gettin’ out o’ door. Here, wait a minute, I’ll -come wi’ ye.” - -She ran upstairs, presently returning with two or three socks, and -preceding John to the kitchen, held her mother in play while he seated -himself in old Sweetapple’s chair. - -“Here, mother,” she cried, “here be some socks what want mendin’ awful -bad. See, I’ll light lamp an’ set it behind ye. They be father’s socks, -ye know—Sweetapple’s socks.” - -Lizzie’s face lit up. “Ah, sure,” she replied, “Sweet-apple’s socks—this -’ere be Sweetapple’s week.” - -She endeavoured to look past Phoebe towards the chair, but her daughter’s -portly figure blocked the way. - -“Here be the needle, look-see, an’ here be the mendin’. The socks be -terr’ble broke at heel, bain’t they?” - -Turning towards the light the old woman threaded the needle, and Phoebe -taking advantage of the opportunity thus created, stepped towards her -husband:— - -“Don’t ye offer to talk to her,” she whispered, “without she speaks -first.” - -He nodded in reply, and going towards the window she pulled down the -blind and jerked the curtains across. As she left the room she paused to -gaze at the two; John was leaning back in his chair, placidly smoking, -and Lizzie, who did not seem to perceive his presence, was intent on her -work. - -Some minutes after her departure he bent forward and tapped his pipe upon -the hob, and his mother-in-law looked up, gazing towards him through the -semi-darkness with a pleasant smile. - -“Ye’ve got your baccy pouch handy, Sweetapple, haven’t ye?” said she. - -John nodded, and she dropped her eyes on her work again. - -Presently a heavy waggon went lumbering past without, and Lizzie looked -up again. - -“Wind blows hard,” she said. “D’ye think there’s a starm coming?” - -“Shouldn’t wonder,” murmured John, indistinctly. Lizzie picked up her -sock once more, but presently paused. - -“I’m not sure if I covered the pens,” she said. “Shall us go out an’ -cover the pens, Sweetapple?” - -John stared in alarm. What was he to do now? Phoebe had not given him -any instructions as to what he should say if her mother suggested going -out to see to the pens. - -“They young pheasants,” went on Lizzie, talking rapidly to herself, “they -be terr’ble nesh. If a heavy starm of rain was to come on they mid all -be dead in the marnin’. Where be the lantern?” - -She rose hurriedly, looking round her with a startled air. John rose -too, thoroughly frightened. - -“Missis!” he shouted, “Phoebe! come down this minute! Here be the old -lady a-wantin’ to go out!” - -Phoebe hurried down with all speed, finding her husband planted with his -back against the door for safety’s sake, while Lizzie, also standing, was -staring at him piteously. - -“Sweetapple!” she gasped, “Richard—what be gone wi’ Richard? I can’t -think where I can be! What’s this strange place—and who’s this man?” - -“Why ’tis John, mother. Don’t ye know John? You be here in our house. -You’ve a-come to bide along o’ we. Don’t ye mind—Squire settled it.” - -“Squire?” echoed Lizzie. “Ees, I mind it now. I mind it.” - -She came back to her chair without another word, and said no more until -her daughter presently took her up to bed. - -“I don’t know as we’ve done so very well to toll mother here,” remarked -Phoebe, when she came down again. “She do seem to be frettin’ quite -sensible by times, an’ at others she’ll carry on wi’ nonsense same as ye -heard.” - -“I don’t think ’tis such a very good notion, to go playin’ games wi’ -her,” responded John. “I’ll not do it no more. I couldn’t think what -was comin’ next.” - -Lizzie seemed comparatively tranquil on the morrow, however, though she -had slept but ill and was very low in spirits. She looked at the -children with the same bewildered air as on the previous day, and started -at the noises in the street, but she made no complaint, except once when -her daughter asked her to repeat some phrase which she had murmured to -herself. - -“I only said there don’t seem to be no birds here,” said Mrs Sweetapple, -half apologetically. “It do feel lwonesome wi’out no birds.” - -“Ye don’t look for birds in a town, do ye?” retorted Phoebe, sharply. - -“Of course not,” agreed her mother. “I’m not used to towns.” - -Towards evening she became restless again, and Mrs Caines despatched her -family to bed earlier than usual in order that she might keep guard -herself; her lord and master found it more convenient to keep out of the -way. - -“Father’s chair” was duly set forth, and Mrs Sweetapple sat and watched -it, making an occasional remark; whenever these disjointed phrases were -of a dangerous tendency Phoebe took care to recall her mother to the -sense of her actual situation. - -No catastrophe occurred that evening therefore, and as the days passed -Mrs Sweetapple seemed gradually to accustom herself to her surroundings; -towards the end of the week, indeed, she became as silent during the -evening hours as since her arrival at Branston she had proved herself -throughout the day. - -When Sunday came, however, all was different. She went to church in the -morning, and behaved as well as even her daughter could wish; she seemed -pleased and interested, and as much excited as a child. She had not been -to church for many years, and all was new to her. - -The unwonted exertion tired her, and she was even more quiet than usual -all that afternoon, dozing in her chair for the most part. Towards -evening, however, she woke up with a start. - -“What’s gone wi’ the settle?” she cried. “Wherever be the settle? -Bartlett ’ull be here in a minute an’ he’ll not ha’ nowheres to sit.” - -The children began to giggle, and even John could not repress a smile. -Before the perplexed Phoebe had time to formulate any soothing rejoinder, -Lizzie started from her chair. - -“I’m fair dathered among ye,” she cried out. “Where be the settle, I -say? The settle what my father did make wi’ his own hands and what poor -Bartlett did always sit on. I’ll not be robbed on’t.” - -“Robbed! Dear, to be sure, sich a notion! Who’d ever go for to steal -such a thing. We did leave it in the wood, don’t ye mind? ’Tisn’t worth -shiftin’—there, I’d ha’ thought ye’d ha’ forgot about it by now.” - -“Nay, I’ve not forgot—an’ Bartlett, he’ve not forgot, I’ll go warrant. -He’ll be that vexed when he do come. There, Phoebe, I never thought -you’d go for to play I sich a trick. You did promise I sure as anything, -I should have it by the week-end, and here be Sunday, an’ Bartlett ’ull -be comin’, an’ he’ll not find it ready.” - -“Well, ye shall have it to-morrow, we’ll send for it sartin sure -to-morrow. Ha’ done, childern (in a fierce aside to the youngsters), -I’ll not ha’ ye makin’ a mock o’ your grammer. Stop that, or I’ll gie ye -summat as ’ull make ye laugh wrong way round. There, mother, ye’d best -come upstairs and get to bed. ’Twill make to-morrow come all the sooner. -An’ I’ll see en fetch the settle by then.” - -“But Bartlett ’ull be comin’,” murmured poor Lizzie, who was shaken with -the pitiful dry sobs of the old. “He’ll come an’ he’ll not find I here, -an’ he’ll not find settle here.” - -“Nay now, mother, nay now. He’ll not come—he could never find his way to -our place. These houses warn’t built in Bartlett’s time. Why so like as -not,” she continued soothingly, struck by a sudden inspiration, “as like -as not he’s waitin’ for ye down in the wood—at the wold place, ye know. -Don’t ye think so, John?” - -“Ees,” said John, controlling his features, “’Tis better nor likely he’m -waitin’ there.” - -“Bidin’ there all alone,” sighed Lizzie. “The house be empty now, and -everything be changed. But the settle’s there.” - -“Ees, the settle’s there,” responded Mrs Caines briskly. “An’ he’ll set -on’t jest so comfortable as can be. Now you come along o’ me, mother, -an’ get to bed. Don’t you bother yourself no more about Bartlett—he’s -all right.” - -Mrs Sweetapple made no further objection, but went upstairs quietly -enough, suffering her daughter to undress her, and getting into bed in -obedience to her command. - -When Alice, the eldest grandchild, who shared her room, came up, she -thought the old woman was asleep. But Lizzie was not asleep. She lay -there very wide-awake on the contrary, forcing herself to keep quiet with -difficulty, until the family should have retired to rest. - -At last the house was absolutely still: a duet of snores from the -neighbouring room announced that Mr and Mrs Caines were sunk in slumber; -but Lizzie lay motionless for an hour or so longer; until, in fact, she -had heard the church clock strike twelve, and had noted the extinguishing -of the street lamp opposite her window. - -Even then she lay still for a while longer, until the lamplighter’s steps -had died away, and the little town itself, which had ever seemed to her -so noisy, was wrapped in unbroken silence. - -Then, stealing noiselessly from the bed, she began to put on her clothes -with as much haste as the necessity for caution would admit of. The -moonlight streamed in through the uncurtained window, and she could find -her way with ease about the little room. The bandbox containing her -bonnet was here, on top of the chest of drawers, her cloak hung on one of -the pegs beside it; here were her boots, but she would not put them on -until she found herself safely in the street. - -Out of the room she crept, and down the narrow stairs; John and Phoebe -snoring unbrokenly on. Here was the door—the back door—oh, what a noise -the bolt made in shooting back! She paused breathless, but no sound -ensued, either of a hurried foot upon the stair, or of an alarmed cry. -With a gasp of relief Lizzie crept out into the night. Sitting down upon -the doorstep she donned her boots, the clock striking one just as the -operation was completed. - -One! How late it was! Would Bartlett be tired of waiting? Would he -have gone before she reached home? - -Down the hill she went, as fast as she could, and then across the market -place. How quiet all the houses looked as they stood thus with shuttered -windows and roofs shining in the moonlight. Now over the bridge and -under the chestnut trees, the cool breath from the river catching her -heated face, the delicious fragrance of the half-opened leaf buds filling -her nostrils. - -Here was the turn now, and here the long, long hill. Bartlett and she -had trodden it once together when they had come back from that famous -outing to Shroton Fair. They had got out of the waggon which had given -them a friendly lift, just at the bridge, and had walked home together in -the moonlight. She had hung on to Bartlett’s arm, and he had talked -courting-talk all the way, just as when they were lovers. - -The old woman smiled to herself as she tottered onwards. It had been -moonlight then and it was moonlight now, and she was going to meet -Bartlett. “He’ll wait, Bartlett ’ull wait,” she said to herself. “He’ll -not disapp’int I.” - -But, dear to be sure, that was a very long hill, and Lizzie was quite -exhausted when she reached the top. She paused, gasping, while she -surveyed the prospect before her. There were the woods before her on her -right, the fir-trees sending out spicy scents which might have refreshed -her had she been less anxious to get on; on her left the fields sloped -away behind the hedge. They were asleep, too, fields and hedge, like the -houses in the town; nobody was awake but Lizzie and poor Bartlett, -waiting yonder, in the empty house. - -But that dreary white road, how long it was? First a dip down and then a -climb up—a long tedious climb, and the corner round which she must turn -so far away that it was out of sight; and even when gained there was -still more road, long and straight and weary, before she could reach the -short cut which led across the fields to her own wood. While she -considered the greatness of the distance and the lateness of the hour -Lizzie became quite frightened, and wishing to make the most of the -downward incline, she set off at a kind of hobbling run. Then, all of a -sudden, she never quite knew how, something hit her in the face; her -whole frame jarred through and through; stretching out her hand she -groped about her blindly for she could not see, and felt grass and a tuft -of weeds: it must have been the ground which had risen up to buffet her. -But even while turning over this new idea in her mind she lost -consciousness. - - * * * - -“Hullo, Mrs Sweetapple!” - -Lizzie opened her eyes and smiled vaguely; somebody had raised her head -and was dusting her face with a cotton handkerchief: Lizzie sat upright, -feeling still dizzy, but happy and hopeful. She had had dreams—curiously -pleasant dreams—and was at first astonished at not finding herself in her -bed; but presently remembered. Then a spasm of anguish crossed her face. -The moon was set, the gray light of dawn shone on her companion’s face -and showed forth the ghostly world about her. Would Bartlett still be -there? - -“I couldn’t think whatever it was,” continued the man. “Me an’ Jinny was -a-joggin’ along so quiet as anything, wi’ our load, when I see’d summat -a-lyin’ aside o’ the road. First I thought ’twas a bundle, then I see’d -’twas a ’ooman, an’ then I turned ye over an’ says I: ‘’Tis Mrs -Sweetapple.’ You’ve a-had a bit of a tumble, haven’t ye? Ye did seem -stunned-like when I did pick ye up.” - -Lizzie, looking at him vaguely, supposed she must have catched her foot -in something. - -“Whatever be you a-doin’ out-o’-door at this time o’ marnin’?” - -Lizzie collected her scattered thoughts, and resolved to make the most of -this unexpected opportunity. This was Jim Frizzle, the corn-merchant’s -man, who had so often driven past her house, with corn for the pheasantry -and forage for the keeper’s pony, and who had even now and then halted at -her own door, to deposit a bundle or two of straw for her private use. - -“Be you—be you goin’ up—along our way?” - -“’Ees, I be a-takin’ a truss or two o’ hay to Keeper Foster’s, an’ a sack -o’ Injun carn. There’s lots o’ room in my cart; would ye like a lift?” - -“Thank ye kindly, Mr Frizzle, I would indeed. It be a good thought; I be -jist about tired.” - -“Well, you’m afoot early. What brings ye out at this time o’ marnin’?” - -Lizzie considered. - -“Well, ’tis nice an’ cool,” she said falteringly. She was learning to be -cunning. People looked so strange and spoke so sharp when she told her -secrets that she was now resolved to keep them to herself. If she were -to let on to Jim Frizzle about Bartlett he might, as like as not, go and -send Phoebe after her. - -Jim let down the tail-board of the cart, and lifted her in. - -“Now you’m all right,” he said, as she sank down between the trusses of -hay. “You’ll be so snug as anything there. You’m a wonderful active -body for your years, I’ll say that. I heerd ye’d shifted,” he continued, -after a pause, “but I s’pose that bain’t true.” - -Lizzie considered again. - -“I’ve been a-biding wi’ my darter for a while,” she returned presently, -“jist for a while—I’m goin’ back now.” - -Jim jerked the reins, and lit his pipe, and they proceeded on their way -in silence, Lizzie dozing now and then, and waking with a start. Their -journey took a considerable time, for Frizzle could not avail himself of -the short cut across the field and was obliged to proceed by road, -approaching the wood at length by a narrow green lane. - -Lizzie opened her eyes wide when they turned into this lane, and raised -herself a little, gazing eagerly towards the longed-for goal. - -The sun was up now, and all the fresh and dewy April world rejoicing. -The grey-green fringes of the larches swung in the breeze, busy birds -fluttered from bough to bough, sending forth ecstatic little notes; a -rabbit scudded across the path just as the cart entered the wood; Lizzie -clapped her hands and laughed. Jim turned round on his seat, and gazed -at her in surprise. - -“What be that for?” he asked. - -“I don’t know,” answered Lizzie, abashed; “’twas seein’ the rabbit, I -think. Did ye notice the rabbit, how he did kick up his little feet and -whisk his little tail?” - -“Most rabbits does that,” commented Jim. - -On they went, and now the cottage came in sight, the desolate cottage -with its smokeless chimney and shuttered windows. - -“Why it be all shut up,” exclaimed Frizzle, as he stopped before the -closed door. “There b’ain’t nobody about, nor yet nothin’ stirrin’.” - -He gazed towards the empty kennels and the piled up heaps of pens which -the keeper had not yet found time to remove. But Lizzie did not heed -him; she had risen to her feet and was endeavouring to descend from the -cart. - -“Here, bide a bit, ’ooman, bide a bit. Ye can’t get down by yourself. -Wait till I help ye.” - -He let down the tail-board and assisted her to alight, and Lizzie, -staggering towards the door, beat upon it with her open palm. - -“Oh, I must get in—I must get in,” she cried. “I forgot about door bein’ -locked! Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do! He’ll be gone!” - -“There, there, that’s a job that’s easy managed,” responded Jim, and, -applying his vigorous shoulder to the door, he sent it swinging inwards -on its hinge. - -Peering curiously in he saw a dismantled little room, dark, save for the -shafts of light which pierced their way through the chinks of the -shutters and down the chimney to the fireless grate, and dismantled, save -for a clumsy old oak settle which stood near the hearth. But to his -surprise Lizzie uttered a cry of rapture, and tottered forward into the -room. - -“I knowed I’d find ye waitin’!” she exclaimed. - - * * * - -“I think I’d best look in again on my way back,” said Jim, as he -clambered into his cart again after depositing his load at the keeper’s. -“I’d no notion the old body was so childish as that. I never thought -someway she’d rid house altogether—” - -“Oh, she’ve shifted for good,” interrupted Keeper Foster. “Her darter -came and carried her off, and none too soon either. There’d ha’ been -some mischance so sure as anything.” - -“Well, I thought it a bit queer to find her out on the road so early. -She’d had a tumble too, mind ye, one side of her face was all bruised. -But ’twasn’t till I heerd her call out, ‘I knowed I’d find ye waitin’,’ -in the empty room, that I knowed for certain she’d gone silly.” - -“You must take her home—along wi’ ye,” said the keeper. “It’s not safe -to leave her, and Mrs Caines ’ll be in an awful state. Here, I’ll come -with ye, and we’ll persuade her between us.” - -He got into the cart too, and they drove together to Lizzie’s cottage. -The door stood open as before, and the room was very still. Lizzie was -crouching in a corner of the settle, with her hands outstretched, and a -smile upon her face. In the green wood without the boughs were waving, -and the birds were singing. “Lwonesome Lizzie” was lonesome no more: she -had found Friend Death waiting for her in the deserted house, in the -guise of the husband of her youth. - - - - -JESS DOMENY ON STRIKE - - -THE hay in Farmer Old’s biggest field had been duly mown and tossed, and -his whole staff were now employed in carrying it. But the day was -intensely hot, with a brooding sultriness which seemed to betoken a -coming storm. Dust lay thick upon the hedges, and the ground was iron -hard; rain was badly needed, no doubt, but Farmer Old devoutly hoped it -would hold off just a little longer until the crop was saved. He was a -wonderfully energetic man, was Farmer Old, and spared himself as little -as those who worked under him. All the long, glowing hours of that -languorous day he had toiled as manfully as any of his labourers; but -now, at length, he had left them to their own devices for a short time, -and the men breathed more freely in consequence. The rattle of the -hay-rake ceased as the driver, having reached the corner of the field, -paused to wipe his brow before turning the horses. A little knot of men, -deputed by the farmer to ensure against any possible waste by following -in its wake with the humble wooden implements in vogue before its -invention, insensibly drew nearer together. One of their number -expressed the natural longing for a drop of beer, and another -incautiously provoked envious feelings by announcing that at Farmer -Inkpen’s the men had as much beer allowed them as they could drink at -busy times. - -“He do send it out to ’em reg’lar,” said Martin Fry. “Ees, my brother -James, what works for Farmer Inkpen, do say that they do be carr’in’ the -jugs back’ards and forrards fro’ the house to the field so reg’lar as if -’twas but the family theirselves what was working. There, it do make I -dry wi’ naught but thinkin’ on it.” - -Jess Domeny looked up from the long roller of hay which he had just raked -together, and surveyed his comrade vengefully. - -“An’ it mid well make ye feel dry, Martin!” he cried emphatically. “It -mid well make ye feel dry. Sich a day as this be, an’ us a-workin’ so -many hours at a stretch.” - -Jim Stuckey, perched aloft on the seat of the hay-rake, drew the back of -his hand across his lips, and remarked that it was the drouthiest weather -he’d a-knowed since he was a lad, an’ he’d see’d a good few hot summers -too. - -“I wish,” resumed Martin, voicing the sentiments of the party, “our -measter was so thoughtful for his fellow-creeturs as Farmer Inkpen do be, -accordin’ to my brother James, but I truly believe a man’s tongue mid -drop out of’s head wi’ drith afore he’d take a bit o’ notice.” - -“Measter b’ain’t mich of a drinker hisself,” hazarded a lover of fair -play, “or else I d’ ’low he’d have a bit more feelin’ for sich as we -together.” - -“He did ought to ha’ feelin’,” cried Jess, vehemently. “A man same as -Measter what be makin’ sich a sight o’ money, takin’ prizes for carn an’ -layin’ by the dibs so fast he can scarce count ’em, did ought to have a -bit o’ mercy on them what do have to earn their bread by the sweat o’ -their brow.” - -“Measter do sweat too,” put in an impartial bystander mildly. “He do -sweat like anything, Jess. I’ve a-see’d the big draps a-standin’ on’s -face.” - -“What I d’ say is,” continued Jess, after pausing to glare at the last -speaker, “a man i’ Measter’s place what be set up over his feller-men by -the hand o’ Providence, did ought to act providential-like. When the -weather be that mortial hot a man gets thirsty sittin’ in a chair, them -what’s set over him did ought to see as he had a drap or two to m’isten -his tongue wi’.” - -There was a murmur of approval, and then the men prepared to continue -their labours. But Jess stayed them by an admonitory gesture. - -“If ye wasn’t all sich a poor-spirited lot we wouldn’t be put upon the -way we be now,” he remarked. “There’s no way o’ bringin’ measters to -reason if men won’t stick up for theirselves.” - -“Stick up for theirselves,” echoed Jim, with a startled look. - -Jeffs transferred his wooden rake from his right hand to his left, and, -fumbling in the pocket of his corduroys, produced a small greasy slab of -newspaper. - -“Did ye chance to notice what the cab-drivers in London done when they -wanted their wages rose” he asked. “They went on strike—there, ye can -read it for yourselves.” - -Martin Fry stretched out his hand for the paper, and slowly spelt out the -paragraph designated by Jess’s horny finger; then he returned the grimy -sheet to its owner, with a shake of the head and a pursed lip. - -“I was readin’ a while back,” continued Jess, without heeding these signs -of disapproval, “how some colliery chaps what was wantin’ shorter hours -got their way—they did go on strike too. The measters had to give in. -Well, why shouldn’t us go on strike for a drop o’ beer at haymakin’ -time?” - -The others looked at each other and then at Jess, who, with his battered -chip hat pushed back upon his stubbly grizzled head, returned their gaze -defiantly. - -“I’d start it soon enough,” he observed, “if I could get the rest o’ ye -to back me up; but ye haven’t got no more spirit nor a pack o’ mice.” - -At this moment the farmer’s stentorian voice hailed them from the gate. - -“Now then, now then, what be doin’ over there?” - -The gate creaked violently on its hinges, and swung to with a re-echoing -bang behind the master, whose long legs carried him towards the idlers at -a prodigious pace, while, as he strode along, he kept up a flow of -sarcastic admonitions. - -“I d’ ’low you folks do seem to think ’tis safe to let the grass grow -under your feet these times, but I tell ye I do want to save this crop -afore thinkin’ about another. . . . Jim Stuckey, I hope ye be restin’ -yerself so well as the harses. Well, Jess, ye be awaitin’ for the rain -to fall, I d’ ’low.” - -He had reached the group by this time; Jim was already almost out of -earshot, the rattle of his machine drowning the last words. But Jess -heard them. His comrades had already resumed their labours, but he -remained standing still, leaning upon his rake, and surveying his master -with a lowering gaze. - -“Don’t hurry yourself, Jess,” observed Farmer Old, with a sneer. - -He was a tall man, but spare of figure, with long wiry limbs, and a face -burnt mahogany-colour and fringed by a grey beard; his small black eyes -were as expressionless as sloes, but there were certain humourous lines -about his mouth. - -“Talkin’ o’ rain,” observed Jess sternly, “a man mid very well wish for -it these times; a drap or two mid m’isten his tongue.” - -Mr Old was so staggered by this remark, which, under the actual -conditions, appeared to him almost blasphemous, that he found himself for -the moment unable to reply. - -“Some folks,” resumed Jess, “as we was a-sayin’ just now—” - -“Speak for yerself,” growled Martin, uneasy under the gaze of his -master’s sloe-black eyes. - -“Well, an’ I will sp’ake for myself, an’ I’ll sp’ake out,” cried Jess -with spirit. “I say, Measter, a man wi’ a heart in his body ’ud take a -bit o’ thought for his men, an’ ’ud not let ’em go wantin’ a drap o’ beer -on such a day as this.” - -“A drap o’ beer!” ejaculated Old with a relieved laugh. “That’s what be -the matter, be it. I d’ ’low, Jess, ye’ve a-had a drap too much -a’ready.” - -“I’ll take my oath I haven’t!” exclaimed Jess, much incensed at this -undeserved accusation; indeed the mere suggestion appeared to intensify -the longing which he was supposed to have partially gratified. “I -haven’t a-had a glass to-day, Measter, nor likely to, seein’ it’s Friday, -and my wold woman she do never allow I a penny at the back-end o’ the -week.” - -“’Tis because you do get through your ’lowance at the beginning,” -returned the farmer, preparing to move on. - -“Nay, now, bide a bit, sir—I’m dalled if I don’t sp’ake out as I said I -would. There’s Measter Inkpen, what haven’t a-got so big a farm as -you’ve a-got, an’ what b’ain’t a-layin’ by so mich money—well, when his -men be a-workin’ so hard as what we be a-doin’ to-day, he do send ’em out -some beer to the field. Martin Fry was a-tellin’ us about it—wasn’t ye, -Martin?” - -“Well,” said Martin uneasily, “I did hear some sich talk fro’ my brother -James what works up to Inkpen’s, and I mid ha’ mentioned it, but I don’t -want no argyment about it.” - -“No need to have no argyments,” returned the farmer blandly. “Measter -Inkpen have a-got his notions, an’ I’ve a-got mine. An’ I’ll tell ye -straight out, my bwoys, I’ve got no notion o’ sendin’ out beer to folks -what be a-earnin’ good wage an’ can buy for theirselves so much as is -good for ’em. A man’s better wi’out it to my mind.” - -“If that be your notion, Measter, I’m sorry for ye,” shouted Jess, whom -the last remark had incensed beyond bounds of caution. “There, ’tis -treatin’ your human fellow-creeturs worse nor the beasts of the field. -Look at them cows yonder—ye’d never think o’ lettin’ them go dry. Wasn’t -we standin’ up to our knees in muck last spring a-cleanin’ the pond for -’em. There’s one a-standin’ in it now a-drinkin’, an’ a-coolin’ his -legs. I d’ ’low ’tis enough to make a body envy the dumb brutes.” - -Farmer Old fixed him with his expressionless gaze. - -“Well, Jess,” he returned, with a provoking mildness which added fuel to -Jess’s wrath. “I b’ain’t a onreasonable man, I hope. I have no -objection at all to your goin’ an’ standin’ in the pond to cool your legs -and refresh yourself. ’Ees, I’ll allow ye five minutes.” - -The men’s laughter rang out loudly at this sally; the distant rattle of -the hay-rake ceased for a moment as Stuckey drew rein, and turned in his -seat in the hope of ascertaining the nature of the joke. But Jess threw -his rake from him, and turned upon his master with anger tempered by -dignity. - -“Then I’ll tell ye what it is, sir,” he cried. “Flesh and blood can’t -bear it no longer. I be a-goin’ on strike.” - -Mr Old surveyed him for a moment; then he glanced at Jess’s -fellow-workers, just the fraction of a gleam being perceptible in his -inscrutable eyes. But Martin and his companions raked away as if their -lives depended on the speed with which they accomplished their task. - -“Oh, ye be goin’ on strike, be ye?” he observed. “Goin’ to strike all by -yourself seemingly.” - -Again he glanced at the gang of rakers, whose efforts became if possible -more strenuous than before, and who appeared quite unconscious of what -was going on; then he set his legs a little more wide apart and whistled. - -“Ye want a rise of wages, I suppose?” he continued calmly. - -Jess considered, and then threw out his hand impressively. There was a -certain appearance of tension about the bent backs of the workers. It -would be a queer thing if, after all, the master were going to give in to -Jess. - -“No, Measter,” said the latter with a virtuous air. “Ye rose me last -year an’ I b’ain’t the man to ax for more now; but a drap o’ beer’s -another thing. I be goin’ on strike, Measter Old, till you agree for to -send us out a drap o’ refreshment at such times as these.” - -“I’m glad ye didn’t ax for more wage, Jess,” returned Old, still mildly, -“because ye wouldn’t ha’ got it. As for sendin’ out refreshment, as I -did tell ye jist now, I’ve got no notion o’ doin’ no sich thing.” - -“Well, Measter,” responded Jess, “I’m sorry for to disapp’int ye but I’ll -ha’ to knock off work till ye give in.” - -“Jist oblige me by handin’ me that there rake,” said the farmer. -“There’s a couple o’ teeth gone—I’ll have to fine ye three-pence for -that. Ye shouldn’t throw my property about that way. I can pay ye the -rest o’ your wage now if ye like. To-morrow comes off, of course.” - -“Of course,” echoed Jess, staring a little blankly however. He did not -expect that Mr Old would accept his resignation with so much promptness -and such evident placidity. - -The farmer now produced a greasy leather purse and counted out the sum of -twelve shillings and nine pence. - -He doled out the last-named fraction in pennies, and as each chinked upon -his palm Jess’s countenance fell more and more. - -“I don’t know but what I’ve let ye have a bit over,” observed Mr Old, -with a dubious look. “’Tis a bit ar’kard to make a calculation all in a -minute like this. But there, you’ve worked for me nigh upon ten year -now; I’ll not be too close wi’ ye.” - -Jess pocketed the coins and shambled away without speaking. After twenty -paces or so, however, he turned. Nobody was looking after him; his late -master was now plying his own discarded rake; his former comrades were -working with the same fury of zeal which had seized them from the instant -of Mr Old’s appearance. At the sight, Jess’s long-gathering fury broke -forth. - -“So that’s how you treat I!” he exclaimed. “Me, what’s worked for ’ee -ten year. You do pack me off wi’out a word. Ees, n’arn o’ ’ee has so -much as a word to throw at I, what’s done my best an’ worked along o’ ye -these years and years.” - -Martin Fry glanced up with a stricken look, but apparently found nothing -to say; somebody did murmur inarticulately that he was sure he wished -Jess well, an’ couldn’t say no more nor that, but none of the others -could be said to respond to his appeal. Farmer Old gazed at him with -apparent amazement. - -“Ye be a-plaisin’ of yerself, b’ain’t ye?” he enquired. “Ye be a-goin’ -on strike to plaise yerself?” Jess rallied his pride. - -“In course I be, but I be a-goin’ on strike along o’ bein’ treated so -bad.” - -“Well, ye’ll not ha’ no more bad treatment to complain on now,” returned -Old. “Ye be a-plaisin’ o’ yerself, as I do say. I do like folks to -plaise theirselves.” - -Jess walked away. - -Considering the strain of the recent struggle, the uncommon heat of the -day, the abnormal thirst from which he was suffering, and the fact that -he would shortly be called upon to face his wold ’ooman, it is not -surprising that he should have turned into the “Three Choughs” before -proceeding on his homeward way. At the last-named hostelry he recovered -some portion of the valour which had possessed him in the field, and -which had been damped by the attitude of the farmer and his men, and -indeed felt himself to be a hero. Ten minutes’ conversation with the -missus, however, sufficed to disabuse him of this idea, and he went to -bed in a puzzled and chastened frame of mind. Mrs Domeny had impounded -the remainder of his already curtailed wage. She had also asked certain -questions which Jess found it difficult to answer, such as who did he -suppose would give him work now? what would become of her and the -children? how were they to meet the rent if he were to be long out of -work? each query being coupled with the persistent refrain, wasn’t he -ashamed of himself? - -With the dawn, however, fresh courage came. He had done what was only -right in the interests of himself and of his colleagues, and must surely -triumph in the end. - -The threatened thunderstorm had blown over, but nevertheless it was a -busy and critical time for farmers. Mr Old would no doubt be glad enough -to come to terms now, that he, too, had had a night to sleep on the -matter. They would be cutting the Twenty Acre to-day—the grass was -almost over ripe and there was Sunday coming—Mr Old might possibly invite -Jess to come back, and might even render the reconciliation more enduring -by making the required concession. - -“What’s a drap o’ beer to sich as he?” murmured Jess, as he hastily -donned his garments; he himself knew how much it meant to him. If Farmer -Old did not come round there would be no beer for Jess for a considerable -time. - -He arrived at the Twenty Acre a little before the usual time of starting -work, but found to his surprise that the two mowing-machines had already -begun operations. Farmer Old himself was driving the one which usually -fell to Jess’s share. Jess stood leaning across the gate with a pleasant -smile on his face until the last-named machine drew near him. - -“Marnin’, sir,” he remarked, hailing the farmer in a genial tone. “You -do seem to be early at work.” - -“We be a bit shart-handed, ye see,” responded Mr Old, with a grin which -displayed his remaining teeth. - -This was the opportunity Jess had hoped for; he grinned back expectantly. - -“It do seem a shame to see ye sittin’ up there, Farmer. It must be a -good few year since you drove a mower.” - -“Ees,” agreed Mr Old. “’Tis a good few year now. ’Tis a nice change.” - -He flicked at the off horse’s ear as he spoke, and the machine went -rattling up the field again. - -Jess waited till it turned, and then marched round the gate with a -determined air, taking off his coat as he advanced, and setting his hat -firmly on his head. - -“Come, sir,” he cried, laying his hand on the reins. “This here job be -altogether too much for ye. You get down, an’ let me pop up in your -place. I can’t bide to see ye a-makin’ a slave o’ yoursel’ same as -that.” - -“Thank ’ee, Jess, thank ’ee,” responded the farmer, clambering down with -great alacrity. “Ees, I’ll not deny I’m gettin’ a bit stiff for this -here work. I reckon it ’ud ha’ tried me a bit.” - -“I can’t forget as I did work for ye for ten year,” observed Jess, eyeing -him sharply; he felt it would be the proper thing now for the other to -own he was in fault on the previous day. But Mr Old appeared to have no -such intention. He handed over the reins with a beaming face, and -watched Jess take his vacated seat with evident satisfaction. - -“I do call it real handsome of ye to lend a hand same as ye be a-doin’,” -he said, “Real handsome, but no one do know better nor you that these be -busy times.” - -Jess’s countenance assumed a dubious, not to say depressed, expression, -as he set the mowing-machine in motion; what did the master mean? Surely -he could not think Jess such a fool as to lend a hand out of mere -neighbourliness? His doubts increased when at dinner-time the farmer -renewed his expressions of gratitude; something very like a twinkle -appearing the while in his habitually expressionless eyes. - -“I’ll not expect ye to come back this afternoon,” he observed. “Ye’ll -have lots o’ little jobs to do at home. Nay now, a favour’s a favour, -an’ I’d never be one for to ax too much.” - -Jess stared hard, scratching his jaw, and the other resumed. - -“I’ve a-heerd o’ folks going on strike before, but I will say I did never -hear of a man what acted so goodnatured. There, most strikers do look on -the masters as they’ve a-left, as regular enemies. ’Tisn’t many as ’ud -offer to do a good turn on a busy day same as you be a-doin’. Your -missus did ought to allow ye a glass o’ beer to-day,” continued the -farmer handsomely. “I’m sure ye do deserve it.” - -“Well, I’m dalled,” growled Jess, under his breath, however, for he had -sufficient self-respect to accept the situation. He walked away with as -jaunty an air as he could assume, and the farmer stood watching him for a -moment or two, shaking with silent laughter. - -Jess passed a very dismal Sunday. His friends looked at him askance, for -his conduct had occasioned much talk, and he was regarded in that little -community in the light of a dangerous firebrand. His missus lost no -opportunity of impressing upon him her views of his recent action; Farmer -Old passed him with a smile which he could not but think savoured of -malicious triumph, and Martin Fry, whom he chanced to encounter on his -way from church, delivered it as his opinion that he had made a sammy of -himself. - -The very indignation provoked by this remark, which, as he thought, came -ill from the man whose incautious speech had first evoked in his hearers -a sense of personal ill-usage, suggested to Jess a new plan of action. -Why not offer his services to Mr Inkpen, who would know so well how to -reward them? He could not but feel gratified at the thought that it was -in vaunting his generosity, and in endeavouring to force Old to follow -his example, that Jess had lost his place. - -He strolled round to Inkpen’s premises at a convenient hour of the -evening, when he would be likely to find the master disengaged. Fortune -seemed to favour him: Mr Inkpen, very much at ease in snowy Sabbath shirt -sleeves, was leaning across his gate, smoking a ruminative pipe. - -“Fine evenin’, sir,” began Jess. - -The farmer nodded a trifle sourly. - -“Ye haven’t a-got all your hay in yet, I see,” proceeded Domeny. - -Mr Inkpen removed his pipe from his mouth. - -“I’d like to know what business it be o’ yours whether I’ve a-got it in, -or whether I haven’t?” he returned, with what seemed to Jess uncalled-for -asperity. - -“No offence, sir, no offence,” faltered the latter. - -“You do seem to meddle a deal too much in my affairs,” continued the -farmer. “It don’t matter to you, as I can see, whether I do give my men -beer or whether I don’t. You haven’t got to drink it.” - -“No, sir, that’s true. I only wish I had the chance,” said Jess with a -sinking heart; it did not seem a promising opening of negotiations. - -“Well, then, why must ye go bringing up my name to Mr Old, an’ a-tryin’ -for to make trouble wi’ his folks? Mr Old an’ me be good neighbours, an’ -don’t wish to be nothin’ else. I don’t meddle wi’ his business, and he -don’t meddle wi’ mine. ’Tis a pretty bit o’ impidence for the likes o’ -you to go a-puttin’ your word in.” - -“’Twas a mistake,” stammered Jess. “Measter Old he did take I up a bit -too shart. I did but chance to mention to en how kind and good-natured -you’d showed yourself. I did tell en he did ought to follow your example -and send out a drap o’ beer to the men at busy times, same as you do do—” - -“Who’s been makin’ a fool o’ ye wi’ such tales?” shouted Inkpen, thumping -the gate with his fist. “I d’ ’low he was as big a fool as yourself, -whoever he mid be. I did gi’ the men a drink once when they was workin’ -arter time—but as for makin’ a reg’lar practice of it, I b’ain’t no more -of a sammy nor my neighbours. Well, I hear Old has gived ye marchin’ -arders, an’ a good job too. It do sarve ye right.” - -“Plaise ye, sir, Measter Old didn’t notice me. I be on strike.” - -Inkpen glowered at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing. - -“On strike, be ye? Well I hope ye’ll like it. All I can say is any -master ’ud be well shut on ye. I wouldn’t have such a mischievous chap -as you among my folk for a hundred pound.” - -“If that’s what you think, sir, I wish ye good evening,” said Domeny, -endeavouring to summon up some semblance of dignity. - -“’Tis what I think,” retorted the other. “I think you be a fool—a -mischievous fool, an’ I’m sorry for your wife an’ family.” - -Jess betook himself home again in a very low-spirited condition indeed. -Would all the masters think the same—would everyone look on him as a -mischievous fool, and if so, what would become of the wold ’ooman and the -children? - -His presentiments were but too well justified. Nobody was anxious to -employ a revolutionary who might at any moment foster discontent and -promote disorder among his peaceful fellow-workers, or harass his -employer with unreasonable demands. - -Two or three days passed by, and Jess began to feel seriously uneasy; the -long hours of enforced idleness wearied him and weighed upon his spirits. -It seemed so strange to feel that there was no need to get up early, and -no work waiting for him to do: His missus, indeed, provided him with a -good many odd jobs which occupied him at first, but on one particular -morning he found himself absolutely at a loss. - -Mrs Domeny was elbow-deep in suds; the children had all gone to school; -he had finished weeding the garden, and cleaning the hen-house, and -chopping the sticks; positively nothing remained for him to do. There -was no use proceeding towards the “Three Choughs,” for his pockets were -empty, and the landlord had long ago refused to allow him credit. He -sauntered down the little flagged path and leaned over his own paintless -garden-gate. Old Bright, who was crippled with rheumatism, was leaning -over his, a little lower down the row; Mrs Stuckey’s two youngest -children were making dust pies near their own gateway. Domeny’s eyes -wandered from one to the other; no one was at home at this busiest time -of the busy day, except the women at their washtubs, the old folks, and -the babies; and here was he, Jess Domeny, standing idle. - -The air was full of the scent of newly-cut hay, there was a ceaseless -rumble of distant waggons bumping in and out of the fields; he could even -hear the clanking of harness and the distant voices of the men. Every -hand was wanted on such a day as this, but Jess’s hands hung limply over -the gate. - -By and by he passed through, and sauntered in an apparently purposeless -manner up to Old’s farm, It was a comfortable house, conspicuous at -present for the bright yellow of its new thatch and the glowing masses of -crimson phlox now in full flower. On his way thither he passed the field -where hay-making was still in full swing; Mr Old himself was plying a -rake. He looked up as Jess paused uncertainly on the other side of the -hedge. - -“Ye be hard at it still, I see, sir,” hazarded Jess. - -“Ees, hard at it,” responded the farmer, cheerfully. - -“’Tis to be ’oped as you wont upset yourself,” said Jess hesitatingly; he -was anxious to ingratiate himself, but had no desire to bestow a further -mead of service gratis. - -“I d’ ’low it do do I good,” returned Old. “There, a man do never know -how much he can do till he tries. I’stead o’ findin’ myself a man shart, -I’m reg’lar vexed to think how long I’ve a-kept a man too many.” - -Jess echoed his laugh in a half-hearted way, and then, finding Mr Old’s -jocular humour a trifle trying, strolled on towards the farmhouse proper. -Here all was cheerful bustle. Jenny Old was hanging out a basketful of -linen on the clothes-line which reached from the corner of the house to -the gnarled apple-tree; Polly, who was not so strong as her sister, was -sitting in the sunshine with a pile of garments in need of mending; young -Bill Hopkins was staggering across the yard carrying a huge bucket of -pig-wash. At the sight Jess’s interest quickened, and at the same time -he was conscious of a spasm of active jealousy. It had been his office -to attend to the pigs, and he had ever taken pride and pleasure in every -detail connected with his charges, from the moment when they first ran -squeaking about the yard till they became bacon. - -“Be the new litter come yet?” he enquired in as casual a tone as he could -assume. - -“Lard, yes! Never see’d a finer lot—eleven they be wi’out countin’ the -littlest what did die last night. But ’twarn’t worth rearing anyway.” - -“I’d ha’ reared it though,” said Jess. “What be bringin’ the sow?” - -“Oh, he be gettin’ on nicely. He’ll do all right on the usual stuff.” - -“He did ought to have a meal drink,” said Jess firmly. - -“Haw, haw! You be terr’ble free wi’ your drinks!” said Bill, slyly. - -Polly Old tittered at the sally, and Jenny, catching the sound of mirth, -uplifted her shrill voice to enquire the cause. Bill repeated the joke -with a guffaw so loud that it brought out Mrs Old from the house, with -soapy hands and an enquiring face. She too laughed on hearing of Bill’s -jest. - -“Ah, ye may all laugh,” cried Jess passionately. “But it b’ain’t no -laughin’ matter to I. Ye think ye may cheek me now, Bill Hopkins, -because I be down in the world, but I tell ’ee, Mrs Old, if I did sp’ake -a word about the sow ’tis because I—I—well there! I don’t like to see -the poor beast punished for want o’ proper care.” - -Mrs Old stopped laughing. - -“Ye was always a careful man, an’ very knowledgeable about pigs,” she -observed, thoughtfully. - -Jess, encouraged by these words of commendation, proceeded to lay down -certain rules of diet appropriate to lady pigs, and Mrs Old listened in -silence, nodding now and then. - -At the conclusion of his harangue she ordered Bill sharply to go back for -the barley-meal, and desired her daughters to give over gigglin’ and -glenin’ and get on wi’ their work; then, meditatively wiping her hands on -her apron, she strolled towards Domeny. - -“’Tis a pity, Jess, ye don’t have so much sense for yourself as ye do -have for the dumb beasts. B’ain’t ye tired o’ bein’ on strike?” - -Jess looked round him cautiously, and then back at her shrewd, kindly -face. - -“Well, mum,” he said, with the faintest dawning of a sheepish grin upon -his face, “I won’t say but what—well, I don’t know.” - -“I’ve been a-talkin’ for your missus,” continued Mrs Old. - -“Oh, and have ye, ma’am?” said Jess doubtfully. - -“Ees,” said Mrs Collins. “I d’ ’low _she’s_ tired of it poor soul, if -you b’ain’t.” - -“Well, ma’am,” said Jess, “it do seem as if I’d ha’ done better to ha’ -left measter alone.” - -“It do look like it,” agreed Mrs Old, with twinkling eyes. - -She paused, polishing the top of the gate with a fore-finger crinkled -from its recent immersion in the suds. “Maybe if ye was to say summat o’ -the kind to he, he mid overlook it.” - -For a moment Jess’s pride struggled with his secret longing; then the -pride broke down. - -“I wonder would ye sp’ake to en for me, mum?” he hinted. - -“No, no. Best say whatever ye do have to say yourself,” returned Mrs Old -hastily. “So like as not he’d tell me to mind my own business. He -b’ain’t one as likes a ’ooman’s interference.” - -“Well,” faltered Jess, after another interval of inward struggle, “I’ll -foller your advice, mum.” - -“Mind,” cried Mrs Old, as he was turning away, “I don’t say for certain -as he’ll take ye back. He was a-sayin’ t’other day as he’d done the -right thing to make a example of ye.” - -Jess stared at her blankly and then went slowly back to the field, more -deeply depressed than he had yet been, since the fatal day when he had -asserted himself. Mrs Old’s words were ominous indeed: Jess had desired -to be a leader among his fellows, to be imitated and admired; not to be -set up as it were in a kind of moral pillory. He stood long looking over -the hedge at the labours of the farmer and his men. At last Mr Old, -attracted by his gaze, came towards him. - -“Want to take a hand again, Jess?” - -“Nay, sir—leastways—I can’t afford to take a hand for nothin’. ’Tisn’t -in rayson. But—” - -He broke off, quailing beneath the farmer’s gaze, now mildly enquiring. - -“The missus—my wold ’ooman, be terr’ble upset,” he went on, “and there’s -rent-day to think on, and—’tis a bad job for I to be out o’ work jist -now, measter.” - -“’Tis a pity ye didn’t think o’ that afore,” said Mr Old. “I d’ ’low -ye’ll be a bit wiser in your next place.” - -“I don’t know when I’ll have another place, sir,” said Jess, babyish -tears springing to his eyes. “There, I can’t get nobody to take I -on—’tis a terr’ble bad look-out for I.” - -“’Tis, ’tis indeed,” agreed the other heartily. - -“I were thinkin’, Measter Old, maybe ye’d overlook the past, an’ take I -back. Ye wouldn’t ha’ no fault to find wi’ I again. I’d serve ye so -faithful as ever I did, an’ I’d—I’d never say nothin’, nor ax for -nothin’.” - -He stopped with a kind of gasp. Old turned his rake upside down and -thoughtfully investigated a splintered tooth. - -“Well, ’tis this way, ye see,” he said, after a moment’s meditation. “I -did say I were a-goin’ to make an example o’ you. I did say it to myself -an’ I did say it to the men; an’ I b’ain’t a man what likes to go back on -his word.” - -Jess looked at him piteously, his round ruddy face almost convulsed with -anxiety. Farmer Old, who was a good-natured man, could not withstand its -pathetic appeal. - -“Well, I’ll tell ye what I’ll do,” he cried; “there’s one way I mid take -ye back wi’out breakin’ my word. I said I’d make an example of ’ee, an’ -dalled if I don’t do it. There, I’ll take ye back at same wage as before -if ye’ll turn teetotal.” - -If Jess’s expression had been pathetic before, it was downright tragic -now; he stood silent, with goggling eyes and a dropping jaw. - -“Ye see,” resumed the farmer confidentially, “’twas the beer—or the wish -for it what did bring all this trouble upon ye. If ye pledge yourself to -drink no beer ye can’t wish for it.” - -Jess however was dubious on this point. - -“’Twill be sich a disgrace,” he stammered presently. - -“Disgrace!” repeated the farmer. “Nothin’ o’ the kind! Ye’ll be an -example to the men, I tell ’ee—they’ll be all a-lookin’ up to ’ee, an’ -a-praisin’ ’ee.” - -Jess’s countenance cleared in some slight measure; he took the rake which -his master proffered him, in silence, and forthwith fell to work with -great vigour and goodwill. - -Jim Stuckey, jingling past with the hay-rake, halted beside him. - -“Be come to help again?” he asked, with a grin. Domeny looked back at -him solemnly. - -“I b’ain’t on strike no more,” he observed. “I’ve a-come to my senses -again, an’ I’ve a-come back to work. I be come,” he added, straightening -his back, and raising his voice for the benefit of the others; “I be come -to set ye all an example. I be a-goin’, Jim, for to give up drink -altogether. I be a-goin’ for to turn teetotal.” - -“Well, to be sure,” cried Jim, much impressed. - -“Ees,” resumed Jess, after a moment’s pause, during which he had searched -his memory for an appropriate text, which he now produced in a somewhat -jumbled condition. “I have found out my sin an’ I be a-goin’ for to -forsake it. I be a-goin’ for to turn teetotal out an’ out.” - - * * * - -No one was more rejoiced to hear of this doughty resolution than Mrs -Domeny; though from certain heated altercations which sometimes took -place on Saturday nights between the couple, it might be inferred that in -spite of his pledge the good fellow was still troubled by certain -rebellious hankerings. It was even whispered that now and then—on -market-days for instance—Jess’s gait was wont to become unsteady and his -speech a trifle thick, almost as of yore; but Farmer Old never appeared -to notice these lapses from the path of rectitude, and Jess lost no -measure of the respect with which he had inspired his fellow-labourers -since he had first proposed to set them an example. - - - - -“JARGE’S LITTLE ’OOMAN” - - -IT was eight o’clock on a summer’s morning, and Farmer Ellery’s haymakers -had duly assembled in his yard preparatory to setting forth for the -field. - -The long spell of fine weather appeared likely to break up at last, and -if the hay in the forty-acre was to be carried that day, every hand was -needed. - -The farmer, mounted on his stout black horse, kept a sharp look-out as -the folk came up, and those who were disposed to lag and to gossip -quickened their pace as they took note of his expression. Several things -had happened to put the master out of temper. One of the horses had -suddenly gone lame, a wheel had come off the biggest waggon, and what was -most provoking of all, though every pair of hands was wanted, as has been -said, every pair of hands was not forthcoming. - -Old John Robbins was down with his rheumatism again—and where was George -Crumpler? - -“Where’s George Crumpler?” Farmer Ellery enquired aloud, taking a rapid -and frowning survey of the groups who had surrounded horses and waggons. - -“Be Jarge Crumpler here?” echoed an officious voice. - -And then the answer came, first from one side and then the other, “I -han’t seen nothin’ o’ Jarge this marnin’;” and “He bain’t here, sir—I d’ -’low he bain’t.” - -The farmer tightened his reins with an ominous look. - -“He’s been at his tricks again, I suppose?” - -While he was yet speaking a figure turned in at the gate and made its way -quickly up to the “maister”; the figure of a short, thick-set woman in a -print dress and sunbonnet. Drawing near, she uplifted a round, sunburnt -face, and laid her hand tremulously upon the farmer’s rein. - -“Please ye, sir, I’m sorry to say my ’usband bain’t so very well this -marnin’.” - -“Oh, isn’t he?” retorted Ellery, with a short, angry laugh. “He’s been -taking something that hasn’t agreed with him, I suppose; it’s happened -once or twice before.” - -“He’ve had a fall,” the little woman nervously stammered. - -“A fall, yes—it’s not the first time either. Cut his head open as usual, -I suppose?” - -The bystanders looked at each other, and a smothered “Haw, haw!” sounded -here and there. - -“He fell into a ditch once,” resumed Mr Ellery, with stern sarcasm. “Was -it a ditch this time, or did he chance to knock himself against a wall?” - -“He tripped over a log of wood,” returned Mrs Crumpler, diffidently; and -the laughter of the bystanders began afresh. - -“Here, you folks,” shouted the farmer, raising himself in his stirrups, -“what are you all idling about for? Because one man’s an idle, -good-for-nothing chap, are you _all_ to lose your time? I’m going to -make an example of George Crumpler, and I’ll make an example of everyone -what thinks he can play the fool and treat me this way. Stand out of my -way, Mrs Crumpler—you know very well, and George knows very well, what he -has to expect. I told him plain the last time he went drinking that if -ever I lost another day’s work through him I’d send him packing. So he -needn’t trouble himself to come here again. Let go of my rein.” - -But Mrs Crumpler clutched it fast. - -“Please ye, sir,” she said firmly, “there’s no occasion for ye to be at -the loss of a day’s work along o’ Crumpler bein’ laid-up—I be come to -take his place.” - -“What,” cried Ellery, “you!” - -“E-es, sir,” rejoined Mrs Crumpler with a kind of modest assurance. “I -can work just so well as he. There’s nothin’ what he do do as I can’t do -if ye’ll let me try.” - -“Can ye drive a hayrake, then?” cried the farmer, with a laugh that was -half-fierce and half-amused. - -“Not a hayrake, no, sir,” rejoined the little woman after a moment’s -reflection; “I shouldn’t like for to undertake a hayrake—but a cart or a -waggon—I d’ ’low I could drive either o’ them just so well as anybody. -And I could use a hand-rake, or I could toss up hay wi’ a pitchfork.” - -“Yes, you’ve got such fine long arms, haven’t you?” rejoined Ellery, -eyeing her diminutive proportions. - -But Mrs Crumpler was not discouraged: “They mid be shart, sir, but they -be terr’ble strong,” she returned; “feel o’ them.” - -The farmer laughed again, but this time more good-naturedly. - -“If you was to give me a trial, sir, I think you’d be satisfied,” pleaded -Mrs Crumpler. - -“Oh, you can try as much as you like,” returned the master, twitching the -rein from her hand, and eyeing her with a smile that was not unkindly. -“I don’t suppose you’ll make much hand of it, but you’re welcome to try.” - -“Thank ’ee, sir,” she responded, fervently. “What be I to do then, -please, sir?” - -“Why, we’ll try what your arms are made of, since you’re so proud of ’em. -You’ll find a pitchfork in that shed yonder. Be sprack and get it, and -follow the rest o’ the folks up along.” - -He chuckled as he watched her cross the yard and dive into the shed, -reappearing in a twinkling with a pitchfork as tall as herself. Having -seen her shoulder this and hasten away with it, he put his horse to a -trot, and presently forgot all about Mrs Crumpler in attending to more -weighty matters. - -The little woman’s appearance in the field was greeted with a shout of -laughter; but, nothing daunted, she made her way to the nearest waggon. - -“I be come to lend a hand,” she declared; “I be come to take Jarge’s -place.” - -The announcement was treated as a good joke; old Joe Weatherby grinned -down at her from the waggon, while Bill Frost paused with an immense -bundle of hay poised on his fork. - -“It bain’t much of a hand what you’ll be lendin’, Sally; I d’ ’low your -arms won’t reach much further nor a child’s.” - -“You’ll soon see that,” returned Sally valiantly; then, smiling up at -Joe, she continued, “I d’ ’low a woman bain’t fit for much if she can’t -take her husband’s place now an’ again when he be laid by the heels. -How’s that to start wi’?” - -She drove the prongs of her fork into the nearest haycock, and adroitly -tossed a goodly truss to Joe, who proceeded to spread and trample it -after the recognised fashion. “Now then, here’s another.” - -Sally’s fork went backwards and forwards with so much speed and energy -that Joe presently pleaded for mercy, announcing that she was ready for -him before he could get ready for she. - -But Bill laughed sardonically. “It be all very well now the wain be near -empty. Bide a bit till the load do begin to grow.” - -As the hay mounted higher and higher, indeed, in response to the combined -efforts of himself and Mrs Crumpler, the poor little creature found the -work more difficult to accomplish. She made strenuous efforts, holding -her pitchfork at its extreme end, tossing the hay with all her strength, -even jumping occasionally; but over and over again the truss tumbled down -from her fork before she could cast it into its allotted place. - -“I d’ ’low ye’ll have to give in,” said Joe, gazing down at her from his -eminence. - -“I ’on’t then!” said Sally; and then she burst into tears. “I can’t!” -she explained between her sobs. “If I can’t do Jarge’s work the maister -’ull turn en off. He said so. Here, I’ll try again.” - -“Nay now, nay now,” said Joe, “ye mid have the best ’eart in the world -yet yer arms midden’t be no longer. Tell ’ee what—ye can be rakin’ the -stuff together, while me and Bill do finish this lot, an’ when we do -bring the waggon back ye can take my place on it.” - -Sally dropped the apron with which she had been wiping her eyes, and -thanked him gratefully; then, exchanging her fork for a wooden rake, she -turned energetically to her new task. - -By-and-by the waggon went creaking out of the field, and presently -returned empty, whereupon Mrs Crumpler proudly clambered up on it. Her -goodwill and energy were certainly unfailing; nevertheless, she presently -discovered that something more was required for the successful loading of -a waggon. It was very difficult to spread the hay evenly, and, trample -as she might, she could not get it to lie as firmly as when Joe was in -possession. - -When Farmer Ellery rode round, he paused for quite a long while watching -her operations, and though Sally worked feverishly hard, and feigned to -take no notice of him, her heart beat so fast that she could scarcely -breathe, and when he presently called her by name, she gave such a start -that she dropped her pitchfork. - -“I don’t think this job is altogether in your line, Mrs Crumpler,” said -the farmer. - -Sally timidly raised her eyes to his face, but could make nothing of it, -half-hidden as it was by his great brown beard. - -“I bain’t gettin’ on so very bad, thank ’ee, sir,” she answered, -curtseying as well as she could on top of her load. “I’ll—I’ll be able -to manage better with a little more practice.” - -“Yes, and while you’re practising my hay will be sliding about all over -the field,” he rejoined gruffly. “You’d best get down again and give up -your place to Joe.” - -Mrs Crumpler meekly slid to the ground, and came up to the farmer, -remarking with an ingratiating smile which belied her anxious eyes, “I d’ -’low I’m best at rakin’.” - -“I d’ ’low you are. But you undertook to fill George’s place. I don’t -pay George for doing boy’s work.” - -Mrs Crumpler cogitated with a troubled face for a moment, and then her -brow cleared. - -“I could come two days for Jarge’s one,” she cried triumphantly. “’Tis -to be hoped he’ll be all right to-morrow and able to do his work, but -I’ll come up this way, sir, if ye’ll let me.” - -“Well, you’re a plucky little soul, I’ll say that for you,” remarked the -farmer, more good-naturedly than he had yet spoken. “There, get your -rake then.” - -Mr Ellery’s words of eulogy were repeated by many voices when the men -assembled at the dinner hour in the shady corner near the pool. Mrs -Crumpler elected to go home for that meal, remarking cheerfully that she -thought Jarge would be pretty well hisself by that time, and would be -lookin’ out for a bite o’ summat. - -“Maister hissel’ did tell her she was a good plucked ’un,” said Bill, -“and so she be. I d’ ’low there bain’t many ’oomen as ’ud gie -theirselves all that trouble for a chap like Jarge.” - -“I could wish my missus ’ud take a leaf out of her book. There, the way -the ’ooman do go on if I do take so much as the leastest drap.” - -“My wold ’ooman wouldn’t put herself out for I, neither,” said another. - -As they sat and watched the retreating figure of Mrs Crumpler hastening -across the field, they felt themselves more and more injured, and were -disposed to vent their grievances on their own women-kind, who presently -appeared to minister to them. - -“A few spuds,” remarked Bill, discontentedly prodding at the little basin -from which his wife had just removed the cloth. “A few spuds and hardly -so much grease to ’em as ’ll m’isten ’em. We’ve a-had a little ’ooman -among us to-day as could show ’ee summat, my dear.” - -“A ’ooman!” cried Mrs Frost, instantly on the alert. - -“Oh, e-es,” responded Bill, shaking his head. “A ’ooman as knowed summat -of the duties of a wife, didn’t she, Ed’ard?” - -“Jist about,” said “Ed’ard” with his mouth full. - -“A ’ooman what come down to take her husband’s place along o’ his bein’ a -bit drinky to-day an’ not able to work. She did come to the maister so -bold as a lion, an’ she did say, ‘Here be I, so well able to do a day’s -work as he’—didn’t she?” - -“Ah!” put in Joe, raising his head from a mug of cider which had just -found its way into his hands, “an’ when she did find she couldn’t get on -so fast as us menfolks, she says to maister, ‘I can do two days’ work -then,’ says she, ‘to make up for it.’ That’s a ’ooman!” With a further -shake of the head as a tribute to the absent Mrs Crumpler, Joe applied -himself to the cider-mug again, but this last remark was taken up by -several of his neighbours. - -“That’s a ’ooman, indeed,” they said, and every man whose better-half -chanced to be in attendance looked reproachfully at her as he spoke. - -“Well, I’m sure,” exclaimed one irate matron, catching up her empty -basket, “she must be a wonderful faymale whoever she mid be, but I’d like -to know who looks after the house while she be traipsin’ about i’ the -fields. Some folks has one notion o’ dooty an’ some has another. To my -mind it’s more a ’ooman’s duty to see to things at home—to get her -husband’s dinner an’ that—” - -“There, ’tis just the very thing what she’ve gone home-along to do,” -shouted Bill. - -“An’ so tired as the creature was, too, wasn’t she?” said somebody. - -“Ah! that was she,” rejoined somebody else. “There she was fair wore -out. The perspiration was a-pourin’ down her face. ‘Sit down an’ rest, -do, my dear,’ says I. ‘No,’ says she, ‘I must run home so quick as I can -to get my Jarge’s dinner.” - -“Jarge!” said Mrs Frost, with withering scorn, “Jarge! It’ll be that -poor little down-trod Mrs Crumpler they be all keepin’ up such a charm -about,” she explained contemptuously to her neighbour with the basket. -“Mrs Crumpler—that poor little plain-faytured—” - -“Handsome is as handsome does,” interrupted Bill; “I d’ ’low Jarge do -think Sally hasn’t her match i’ th’ world.” - -“‘You be a plucky little ’ooman,’” chanted old Joe, gazing maliciously at -the crestfallen assemblage of matrons; “them was Farmer Ellery’s words: a -plucky little ’ooman. Be there any cider left—?” - -“Just a little,” said Bill. - -“Hand it here, then,” cried Joe with a virtuous air; “we’ll drink Mrs -Crumpler’s health.” - -“Well,” said Mrs Frost, turning away with an indignant air, “I wouldn’t -like to have Mrs Crumpler’s conscience, however plucky she mid be. A -body would have thought ’twas bad enough to have a drunken husband wi’out -teachin’ other folks to get into bad ways. Drink her health, indeed! -Somebody did ought to speak to her.” - -The suggestion was warmly taken up, and a select deputation of three -immediately turned their steps in the direction of Mrs Crumpler’s -cottage. - -The matron with the basket, one Mrs Dewey by name, had volunteered to be -spokeswoman; but she stopped short in the open doorway conscious of a -certain diffidence, for Mr Crumpler, very pale in complexion and watery -about the eyes, was up and seated in his elbow-chair by the fire. - -Sally, who with a flushed and tired face was making hasty preparations -for dinner, turned as Mrs Dewey paused on the threshold, and smiled -cheerfully. - -“Come in, do, Mrs Dewey, I haven’t a minute to shake hands—I be terr’ble -busy. There, my poor husband did have a accident last night, an’ I be -takin’ his place in the hay-field.” - -“So we heared,” rejoined Mrs Dewey sedately. - -She stepped in, followed by Mrs Frost and Jenny Weatherby, the remaining -member of the deputation, a spinster with a father just as troublesome as -anybody else’s husband. All took their seats in response to a hurried -wave of Mrs Crumpler’s hand. - -“Oh, ye’ve heared!” said Sally, looking from one to the other with a -somewhat awkward laugh. - -“E-es,” said Mrs Dewey, “we’ve heared. An’ we did hear the cause o’ your -doin’ it, too.” - -“Oh, an’ did you?” said Sally. - -Mr Crumpler cleared his throat in an absent-minded kind of way, and -looked abstractedly at the fire. - -Mrs Frost, after waiting a second or two to see if Mrs Dewey would take -the initiative, shot a severe glance in his direction, and then addressed -herself to his wife, who, with symptoms of gathering irritation, not -unmixed with perturbation, was now laying the table. - -“E-es, Mrs Crumpler,” she said, in a loud, clear voice, “me and Mrs Dewey -an’ Jenny Weatherby there, us felt it our dooty to step up an’ say a word -or two to ye about it. ’Tis terr’ble bad example what you’ve a-been -a-givin’ to-day, Mrs Crumpler.” - -“Bad example!” gasped Sally, clapping down the tumbler which she had been -ostensibly polishing, and whisking round sharply. - -“Well, I don’t know what else you can call it,” put in Mrs Dewey -indignantly. “I’m sure the men is hard enough to manage at the best o’ -times, an’ when a ’ooman like you goes encouragin’ of ’em in their bad -ways and wickedness, ’tis a shame and a disgrace, Mrs Crumpler.” - -“A public shame, so ’tis,” exclaimed Jenny. Sally turned quite pale. - -“Why, what have I done?” she cried. - -“Done!” echoed the deputation in chorus. - -“What have I done?” repeated Sally, with a stamp of the foot, and raising -her voice so as to drown the outcry. “When my husband found hisself -onfit to do his work this marnin’ I went out an’ did it for en, so as -maister shouldn’t turn en away.” - -“Ho, yes,” said Mrs Dewey, folding her arms, “that was what ye done; we -all knows that well enough. Ye was a-boastin’ an a-braggin’ of it loud -enough, I’m sure, settin’ yourself up an tryin’ to make every man o’ the -place discontented and upset.” - -“Me!” exclaimed Mrs Crumpler indignantly. “I’m sure I never opened my -mouth to get a-boastin’ or anything o’ the kind.” - -“Oh, didn’t ye!” retorted Jenny. “I heared my father say as you went an -offered maister to do two days’ work to make up for one your husband had -a-lost through bein’ drinky.” - -“Well,” rejoined Sally, whose blood was now up, “that wasn’t boastin’.” - -“’Twas a-settin’ yourself up above the rest of us and a-puttin’ notions -into the men’s heads what be bad enough as ’tis,” cried Mrs Dewey. - -“Why, they’ll all be expectin’ of us to do the same,” exclaimed Mrs -Frost, “to be sure they will. The very next time Frost gets drunk he’ll -up and ax me, as like as not, why I don’t do his work for en, same as -Sally Crumpler.” - -At this point, Mr Crumpler, whose shoulders might have been observed to -heave during the last few moments, suddenly pushed back his chair and -burst into a roar of laughter. - -“Well done!” he cried. “Well done, Sally! I d’ ’low there b’ain’t a man -in the place but what envies me.” - -Thereupon the deputation turned upon him as one woman. - -“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” asked Mrs Dewey. - -“You did ought to want to go and hide your head,” exclaimed Jenny. - -“Sich a man as that didn’t ought to look honest folk i’ th’ face,” -remarked Mrs Frost witheringly. - -But Jarge laughed on, eyeing the three the while with so quizzical an air -that they were positively discomfited. Finally he rose and made his way -to the door—walking quite straight by the way—and politely requested the -ladies to step out. - -This they did, overturning a chair or two in their hasty passage. - -Jarge closed the door, but, apparently struck by a sudden thought, opened -it again and thrust his head through the aperture. - -“I b’ain’t ashamed o’ myself, good souls,” shouted Mr Crumpler after the -retreating figures, “but I tell ye what—I be jist about proud o’ my -little ’ooman.” - -Mrs Crumpler remained, however, somewhat discomposed by the recent event, -and when she took her way fieldwards again, it was with a downcast -countenance. Jarge would have accompanied her, but for the fact that, -though he had regained control of his legs and could speak with -comparative clearness, he continued to see double. - -“An’ that mid be a bit awk’ard wi’ so many harses about,” he confided to -Sally. - -Moreover the wound in his head was sufficiently painful to make a further -rest advisable. Sally set forth therefore alone, feeling tired and -miserable enough. She was the most modest little creature in the world, -and was filled with dismay at the notoriety she had so suddenly acquired. -As the afternoon advanced she shrank more and more into her shell, for if -the ill-will of the women had vexed and perturbed her, the boisterous -admiration of the men annoyed her almost beyond endurance. The rough -jests, the officious offers of aid, the loudly expressed praise were -equally obnoxious to her. It was with unbounded relief that she saw the -last waggon loaded, and prepared to depart from the field. She had -shaken out her skirts, and was in the act of straightening her sunbonnet -when she found herself suddenly seized from behind, and almost before she -realised what was happening, was hauled by a dozen strong grimy hands on -to the apex of the piled-up hay and there enthroned. - -“Three cheers for the Queen o’ the Day!” shouted someone, and the cry was -taken up by a score of lusty voices. - -“Three cheers for the best wife in Riverton!” - -“Let me down,” gasped Mrs Crumpler faintly; but an extra pair of horses -had been harnessed to the waggon, and it was now rumbling forward at what -seemed to her a dangerously rapid rate. - -There sat the poor little woman on her sweet-smelling throne, the -reluctant centre of all eyes, while the waggon went out of the field and -down the village street surrounded by a shouting band of haymakers. -Outraged matrons stood in the doorways raising indignant eyes to Heaven, -delighted children ran after the convoy, adding their shrill voices to -the chorus; last of all Jarge Crumpler himself, startled by the outcry, -made his way to his own gate just as the triumphal procession drew up -before it. - -“Three cheers for the best wife in Riverton!” shouted Bill Frost; and -“Hooray, hooray!” cried the bystanders. - -Jarge himself, infected by the enthusiasm, shouted “Hooray” too, just as -little Sally, very red in the face, came sliding down from the waggon. - -As she heard him she stopped for a second, threw a reproachful glance at -him, and then, bursting into smothered sobs, hurried into the house. - -After a pause of bewilderment he hastened after her, while the haymakers, -with a farewell cheer, continued their progress at a more leisurely pace, -with a dozen children clinging to the tail-board of the waggon, and one -or two of the more adventurous perched on the load itself. - -Sally was crouching behind the door with her apron over her head, sobbing -as if her heart would break. - -“Missus!” said Jarge, becoming quite sober all at once, and seeing only -the very distinct outline of one little sorrowful figure. -“Missus!—little ’ooman!” - -Sally jerked down her apron and gazed at him with eyes that were fierce -through their tears. - -“You did ought to be ashamed o’ yourself,” she cried brokenly. - -Jarge looked down at her ruefully and drew a long breath. - -“Well,” he said, “I d’ ’low I be!” - - * * * - -He repeated this statement on the following morning when he presented -himself to Farmer Ellery, humbly petitioning that his fault might be -overlooked, and promising to work an hour or two “extry” every day to -make up for the time which had been lost. - -“For I shouldn’t like my missus to come out a-workin’ any more,” he -explained. - -The farmer looked at him sharply, grunted, and finally agreed. - -“I’ll give you another chance,” he said, “but I don’t know how long -you’ll keep straight.” - -“I be a-goin’ for to turn over a new leaf,” said Jarge firmly, and to -everyone’s surprise he actually did. - - - - -ANN-CAR’LINE - - -LAMBING time is a very important epoch to farming folk, and particularly -to farming folk in Dorset. The popular idea which associates the advent -of these innocents with primroses and daffodils, budding hedges, and all -the other adjuncts of spring does not obtain in this pre-eminently -sheep-rearing county. It is in November when days are at their shortest, -when the earth is at its barest, when cold rain falls, and not -infrequently sleet or “snow-stuff,” as it is locally called, that the -misguided younglings of the flock look their first upon a sodden and -gloomy world. Midway in October their quarters are got in readiness, -preferably in a corner of some upland field; the shepherd’s wheeled hut -takes up its position in the midst of a sheltered space in the lewth of -the hedge, straw-padded hurdles mark the enclosure, and sundry pens are -made ready for the new arrivals and their dams. By day the shepherd -himself may be seen, crook in hand and dog at heel, taking stock of his -premises; and often at dusk the uncertain light of his lantern may be -noted from afar. - -On one particularly gloomy November evening young Timothy Kiddle, Farmer -Hounsell’s new shepherd, made a careful inspection of his charges, -lantern in hand; and after completing the tour of the fold sat down in an -angle of the hurdle fence to smoke a quiet pipe. His hut had not yet -been conveyed to its destined site, and till now he had slept at home; -but one of the ewes seemed somewhat uneasy in her mind, and all things -considered Timothy decided that it would be better to spend the night -amid his charges. - -He intended, of course, to watch, but having been exceptionally busy all -day, soon dozed, and presently indeed fell into a sound sleep. This was -no doubt highly reprehensible under the circumstances, particularly when -one remembers that a lighted pipe was between his teeth, and that the -whole place was strewn with straw. - -He awoke with a start and a terrific throb of conscience, and was -relieved to find himself in the dark; his pipe had dropped harmlessly -into his lap, and the very lantern had burnt itself out. He rolled on to -his knees, feeling cramped after his long sitting, and was about to stand -upright when his attention was suddenly arrested by a curious sight. - -At the further end of the long field, outlined against the hedge, and -thrown into strong relief by the light of a lantern which stood on the -ground beside her, was a girl, digging. He could see her distinctly, and -could even note that she wore a white apron, that her sleeves were tucked -up, and that she had no hat or covering of any kind on her head. She -laboured with a will, but presently flung aside her spade, and, kneeling -down, drew something from her bosom which she thrust into the hole she -had made. As she bent over it, Timothy watching breathlessly from his -post behind the hurdles saw and recognised her face. It was Ann-Car’line -Bartlett, who lived in one of the cottages down in the dip yonder. -Timothy had seen her several times, for she came regularly twice a day to -buy milk at Hounsell’s farm. She had even seemed to him a nice, modest, -quiet-spoken maid, and he wondered much at the nature of the task she was -now accomplishing. Soon she was on her feet again, shovelling back the -earth with feverish energy; then, taking up her lantern, she stepped -towards the hedge, and stood there for a moment or two; but her back was -turned towards Timothy, and, crane his neck as he might, he could not see -what she was doing. Presently she turned about again, caught up her -spade, and, squeezing herself through a gap in the hedge, walked away -down the lane. - -Timothy rose cautiously to his feet and looked after the bobbing lantern -till it vanished from his sight, and then, feeling in his pocket for a -fresh bit of candle, put it into his lantern, lit it, and ran to inspect -the mysterious spot. First he examined the hedge, and after a minute -scrutiny discovered a small cross cut deep into the bark of a stout holly -sapling, which was evidently intended to serve as a landmark; next, -carefully inspecting the ground in the neighbourhood, he came to the -place where the earth had been recently disturbed. The field was a -turnip field, and it would have been difficult on the morrow to -distinguish the precise locality without some such precaution as the girl -had taken; as Timothy knelt down to pursue his investigations he mentally -commended her wisdom. - -Depositing his lantern on the ground he scratched away the loose earth -with his vigorous hands, and presently came to a little bundle. This, on -being withdrawn and held to the light, proved to be a cheap printed -cotton handkerchief which was carefully knotted about something hard and -round. Timothy breathlessly removed this outer covering, and discovered -to his astonishment a gold watch. A gentleman’s gold watch, as he said -to himself, for it was a fairly large size, and there was a monogram on -the lid, and two or three seals and charms—fallals Timothy dubbed -them—appended to the ring. - -Timothy sat back on his heels, opening eyes and mouth in astonishment. - -“Well, I’m dalled!” he ejaculated under his breath. “That there nice, -vitty little maid. Who’d ever think she’d be that artful. And that -wicked!” he added severely. - -After turning about the watch, and examining it on every side, he wrapped -it up again, and restored it to its hiding-place. - -“She must ha’ stole it,” he said to himself, as he threw in the earth -again. “Certain sure, she must ha’ stole it. A poor maid like her -doesn’t ha’ gold watches to throw about. If it was given to her she -wouldn’t go and bury it in a field half a mile away from her home. No, -’tisn’t very likely. She stole it. That’s what she’s done, and she’ve -a-hid it away here to keep it safe till she can pop it, or maybe sell it. -Nobody ’ud ha’ knowed if I hadn’t chanced to look over the hurdle. It do -really seem quite providential,” continued Timothy, who loved to use a -long word, now and then, even in communion with himself, “to think I -should ha’ falled asleep, and my lantern should ha’ went out like that, -else the maid ’ud never ha’ dug so nigh to where I was sittin’.” - -He rose to his feet now, stamping down the earth over the filled-in hole, -and then loosening the surface with the toe of his big boot; as he turned -away he laughed to himself. - -“The maid little thinks as I do know her secret. I’ll watch—ah, sure, -I’ll watch. I’m not wishful for to get her into trouble, but I’ll watch. -When she comes to dig her treasure up again, I’ll ha’ summat for to say -to her.” - -With this resolution he made his way back to his charges; but throughout -his oft broken slumbers that night he was haunted by the remembrance of -Ann-Car’line’s secret; when he was not in fancy holding the watch in his -hand or replacing it in its wrapper, he was sternly questioning the girl -and receiving numerous and widely differing explanations of the mystery. - -When he went about his work at early dawn he frequently glanced in the -direction of the hiding place, and saw in imagination the little round -packet lying snug at the bottom of its hole. A chance passer-by on the -rough track on the other side of the hedge made him start—would he be -likely to detect that the earth had been recently disturbed in that -particular spot which Timothy knew of? Even when Mr Hounsell came up as -usual to inspect the little flock, Timothy was careful to place himself -immediately in front of him, whenever the farmer chanced to glance in the -direction in question; so that his own burly form might serve as a screen -to Ann-Car’line’s indiscretion. - -“What be you a-turnin’ and a-turnin’ round me like that for?” enquired -his master presently, with some sternness. “There you do make I quite -giddy. You be jist same as a weathercock.” - -Timothy had no answer ready on the moment; he looked up at the sky, and -then at the distant horizon, and finally remarked that he didn’t think -the wind was shiftin’ that much. - -“I don’t say it be,” responded the farmer emphatically, “but I do say as -you mid be a weathercock the way you do go on a-twistin’ and -a-turnin’—there ye be again! What be the matter, man?” - -Timothy set his hat more firmly on his head, cleared his throat, spat in -his hands, and caught up a pitchfork, remarking that there was a deal to -be seen to, and that weathercock or no weathercock, he ought to be -shakin’ out the straw. - -“There’s one o’ the ewes here as I don’t so very well like the looks on,” -he said persuasively, jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards a -quarter which he felt to be perfectly safe. - -Thereupon Mr Hounsell forgot to animadvert further on his underling’s -oddities, and immediately became immersed in more practical matters. - -By chance the shepherd was obliged to betake himself to the farm that day -on some errand; and, as he was hurrying back to his charges, he -encountered Ann-Car’line, leisurely driving a flock of ducks towards a -wayside pond. She had slung her sun-bonnet on one arm, so that her -pretty hair caught such pale sunshine as was available on that November -afternoon; and in one hand she held a long elder switch with a few yellow -leaves dandling at its extremity. She responded to Timothy’s greeting -with perfect serenity, her placid blue eyes appearing more limpid even -than usual as she returned his gaze. When he was a few paces away from -her, picking his steps carefully among her waddling flock, he heard her -trill out a song as suddenly and sweetly as a robin might have done. - -“Well, that beats all!” commented the shepherd. “There she do look I in -the face so innocent as a baby, and she do sing out like a—like a angel. -I can’t make nothing of it—nay, I can’t indeed.” - -His hut had now been put into position, and he occupied it that night, -and might have slumbered peacefully enough, for his sheep were quiet; yet -he could not rest for thinking of Ann-Car’line and her secret. - -“She mid ha’ found that watch,” he said to himself, “or she midn’t ha’ -knowed ’twas wrong to take it. There, to think of it a-layin’ out there -so as anybody what liked mid just stretch out his hand and take it. What -’ud the poor maid do then? She’d ha’ no chance of giving it back, or -anything.” - -Impelled by these reflections, Timothy presently got up and made a second -pilgrimage to Ann Car’line’s hiding-place. In a very few minutes he had -withrawn the watch from its wrapper, dropped it into his own pocket, and -replaced it by a round smooth stone. He chuckled to himself as he folded -the handkerchief about this and laid it in the hole. - -“’Twill be a rare treat to see the maid’s face,” he said. - -For greater safety he continued to carry the watch about his person, -carefully testing his pocket night and morning to make quite sure there -was no suspicion of a hole. - -The knowledge of this possession made him look quizzically at -Ann-Car’line when next he came upon her; and strange to say he found -himself obliged to pass her house on the following day. She was busily -engaged in scrubbing the doorstep, and on hearing his footfall turned -round; and perceiving that he smiled, though somewhat oddly, smiled back, -gaily and innocently enough. - -“Dear, to be sure!” exclaimed Timothy, pausing; “you do seem in very good -spirits, my maid.” - -“Why, so I be,” replied the girl. “I han’t got nothing to make me sad, -have I?” - -“I don’t suppose you have,” said Timothy. “You was a-singin’ yesterday -so gay as a lark.” - -“Oh, I’m often singin’,” replied she. “I’d sing all day if I was let; it -do help to pass the time away.” - -“You can’t sing and scrub, though, I shouldn’t think,” said Timothy, -tentatively. - -“Can’t I?” retorted Ann-Car’line, and immediately dipped her brush in the -pail and simultaneously lifted that marvellous clear voice of hers. It -was a marvellous voice—fresh and true and ringing; she could send it up, -up, to the very limit of the gamut, as it seemed, yet never lose -sweetness or roundness. - -“Can’t I sing and scrub?” she repeated, pausing to take breath and to -soap her brush afresh. - -“I never heerd nothin’ like it!” replied Timothy, enthusiastically. -“Says I to myself yesterday, ‘It mid be a angel singin’,’ I says.” - -“Oh, and did you?” said Ann-Car’line, growing pink with pleasure as she -vigorously polished the doorstep. - -“Yes, I did indeed,” returned the shepherd earnestly. “I should think -you was a angel—or very near,” he added hastily, for at that moment he -chanced to thrust his hand into his pocket, and came in contact with -something hard and round. - -“Very near—or, perhaps—I mid say—” - -“I mid ha’ been summat very like a angel,” replied Ann-Car’line, -squatting back on her heels and looking at him seriously. “I mid ha’ -been a fairy.” - -Here she lowered her voice and looked round cautiously. - -“What do you mean?” enquired Timothy, stooping over her and speaking in -the same tone. - -“Hush! It’s a secret. Don’t let mother hear ye!” - -The shepherd straightened himself again. “Ah, you’ve got secrets,” he -said dispassionately; “yes, young maids has secrets what they don’t like -the wold folks to hear on. But secrets is dangerous, my girl.” - -And thereupon Timothy fingered the watch once more. - -“There, what be so long a-doin’ for?” called out a sharp female voice -from within the cottage. “I could ha’ cleaned that doorstep forty times -while thou’rt thinkin’ on it.” - -Ann-Car’line gathered up pail and brush, and hastened indoors, leaving -Timothy to meditate on her mysterious words as he made his way towards -the fold. - -He frowned as he walked along, and struck at the hedge savagely with his -crook. - -“Fairies is nonsense-folk!” he exclaimed aloud once and again; “I can’t -think as thikky maid can be so artful as she do seem.” - -On the following Sunday, by some accident, he found himself next her in -church, and, perceiving that he had no hymn-book, Ann-Car’line was kind -enough to permit him to share hers. She looked as fair and innocent as a -flower, and sang with all her heart. Timothy was quite carried away. -Artful indeed! There wasn’t her match in the whole county of Dorset for -looks, and he’d go warrant she was as good as she seemed. - -When they emerged from the church he asked her to walk with him, and -before half an hour had passed had begun to court her in form. He -actually forgot, for the time being, all about the watch and his -suspicions connected with it, and it was not until Ann-Car’line had -unexpectedly broken a somewhat long and contented silence by a fragment -of some gay little song—not a hymn-tune—that he remembered the phrase -which had so much puzzled him a few days before. - -“What was that you was a-sayin’ about bein’ a fairy?” he enquired, -abruptly. - -Ann-Car’line’s little white teeth flashed out in a mischievous smile. “I -was axed once if I’d like to be a fairy,” said she. “Don’t ye think I’d -make a very good one?” - -“There’s no such folks as fairies,” returned Timothy. “Nobody couldn’t -ha’ axed ye such a thing.” - -“They did though!” retorted Ann-Car’line. “Says they, ‘You be a pretty -maid—you’d make a very good fairy. Would you like to be one?’” - -“Now that’s a nonsense tale,” said the shepherd firmly. “I’ll not put up -wi’ no such stories. If you and me be to walk out, and to—and to—carry -on reg’lar same as we’ve a-made up our minds to do, you did ought to have -more respect for I. So don’t ye be a-comin’ to I again wi’ such made-up -tales.” - -The girl laughed again in a queer, little secret way that annoyed him -still more. - -“There must be truth between us,” he said, almost harshly. “You must -tell me the truth about everything.” - -He broke off, looking at her oddly; he did not intend to let her know how -much he had found out for himself. She must confess everything to him of -her own accord, and then he would stand by her through thick and thin. - -Ann-Car’line, however, did not seem in the least impressed; she went on -singing to herself under her breath, glancing maliciously at Timothy from -time to time. - -“I can’t help it if you don’t believe me,” said she, “and there’s nothin’ -more as I can tell ye.” - -“Nothin’ at all?” enquired the shepherd sternly. He thought he saw her -change colour, but she shook her head emphatically. - -“That’ll do,” said Timothy fiercely. “We’ve made a mistake, my girl, and -’tis best to say so straight out. If ye can look I in the face and tell -I they things, ye b’ain’t the maid for I. Ye can find somebody else to -keep company wi’. I’d sooner live lonesome all my days nor have a wife -as wasn’t to be trusted; so I’ll bid ye good-day. But there’s one -thing,” he added, turning round suddenly, “ye may find yourself in -trouble sooner than ye think for, and ye may be glad enough to own up -then. I’ll not be your sweetheart no more, but if ever you’re in trouble -and will own up I’ll stand by ye.” - -She looked at him for a moment oddly, half-fearfully, but recovering -herself, turned upon her heel, muttering something about a likely tale, -coupled with certain ejaculations intended to prove her entire content -with the actual condition of affairs, and her scorn of the recalcitrant -lover. - -Timothy went home in high dudgeon, and taking out the watch gave it a -little indignant shake. - -“I’ve a good mind to put thee back where I found thee,” said he. “Yes, -it ’ud serve her right if I put thee back and took no more notice of -either of ye.” - -But after a moment’s fierce reflection he put the watch back in his -pocket again, and decided to wait. - -Days passed and became weeks; Timothy frequently met Ann-Car’line, -greeting her with a surly word or two, to which she responded by a saucy -nod; sometimes he would hear her singing in the lanes, and would pause to -listen when he thought himself unnoticed; and on Sundays, though they no -longer shared the same hymn-book, his eyes frequently wandered to her -face, and he was forced to confess to himself that though he knew her to -be an artful, untruthful little maid, she looked, as he had so often -said, “like a angel.” - -At last the long-expected actually came to pass. He woke up suddenly, -very early, one morning, and saw a lantern glimmering at the further end -of the field. He immediately rose, put on his coat, and opening the door -of the hut a little wider peered out into the darkness. It was not yet -five o’clock, and here in the open field all was still as at midnight. -The weather had “taken up” lately; the keen crispness of frost was in the -air, and the sky was full of stars. The bobbing light yonder seemed to -blink like one at first, but presently became steady, and all at once he -heard, or fancied he heard, a faint cry. - -“She’s found the stone,” said Timothy, and grinned to himself. - -Now the light began to waver again, and, as Timothy expected, approached -the hut. As it drew near, Ann-Car’line’s voice was heard calling -piteously, “Mr Kiddle! Timothy—Timothy!” - -The shepherd winked to himself, and answered with a low and muffled roar, -intended to indicate that he had just been aroused from profound slumber. - -“Oh, Timothy Kiddle!” cried the voice, “please come out a minute, I don’t -know what to do. Oh! Oh! Oh!” - -“Hold hard a minute!” cried Timothy. “I’m coming!” - -He lighted his lantern and sallied forth. There stood Ann-Car’line, -pressing close against the hurdle fence, the light which she held up -falling upon her white scared face, and upon the handkerchief in her -hand. - -“What be doin’ here, my maid, at this hour?” enquired the shepherd -sternly. “You did ought to be at home and a-bed. ’Tisn’t respectable to -be wanderin’ about in the fields in the dark.” - -“Oh, don’t be so cross,” pleaded the girl. “I wouldn’t come if I could -help it. Oh dear! Oh dear! I’m in such trouble. You said I was to -call you if I was in trouble.” - -“I said you was to own up,” said Timothy, grimly. “You must start wi’ -that.” - -“I thought you’d be a bit kinder,” moaned Ann-Car’line, and two big tears -rolled down her cheeks. “I—I—I had summat as I didn’t want the folks at -home to see—I haven’t got nothin’ what locks—so I made a little hole at -the bottom of the field yon—and I buried it. An’—an’—somebody’s been an’ -stole it away, an’ put a stone in its place.” - -“That’s a queer tale,” said Timothy. “Very near as queer a tale as the -one you did tell I about bein’ axed to be a fairy.” - -“Oh, but it’s true—it’s really true,” cried Ann-Car’line earnestly. “And -the worst of it is the thing—what I hid—wasn’t mine.” - -Timothy deliberately set down his lantern, and folded his arms on the top -of the hurdle. - -“You’ll have to come out wi’ the whole truth, my girl,” said he; “what -was the thing ye hid?” - -“’Twas a watch,” gasped the girl; “a gold watch.” - -Timothy whistled under his breath. “And ’twasn’t yours, ye say?” he -remarked after a pause. “Ye stole it then, did ye? Ye’ll be put in -prison so sure as I be a-lookin’ at ye.” - -“Stole it!” ejaculated Ann-Car’line with a little scream. “I did no such -thing. ’Twas give me, but I didn’t want to take it an’ I said I’d give -it back—and now I can’t,” she added with a burst of woe. - -“Now look ye here, maidie,” cried Timothy, in a voice that had suddenly -grown extremely wrathful, “this ’ere tale’s worse nor what I looked for. -Who gave ye that watch? Come, make a clean breast on’t—else I’ll not -lift a finger to help ye. It’ll have to come out first or last, and -there’s less shame in telling me—what’s your friend—” - -“I’m not ashamed,” interrupted Ann-Car’line, throwing back her head. “I -have not done wrong. ’Twas a gentleman give me the watch, there!” - -“Well, then you have done wrong!” said the shepherd, sternly. “What -right had ye to take gold watches from gentlemen as ye dursen’t let your -mother see. It bain’t a very nice story, that. Who is the gentleman?” -he added fiercely. “What did he give ye the watch for?” - -Standing up to the hurdle he seized the girl by the wrists, pinioning her -fast. - -“Lard, Timothy! Don’t pinch me so vicious—you be hurtin’ I. There, -’twas a actin’ gentleman what come wi’ a lot o’ others to the town in the -summer. They was actin’ a play at the Corn Exchange, wi’ a lot o’ -singin’ and dancin’ in it. This one was the head o’ the actin’ folks. I -went there along o’ father, and he said he see’d me all the time the play -was goin’ on—” - -“Your father said that?” queried Timothy, sharply. - -“No, the actin’ gentleman. He come upon me the next day, walkin’ along -the lane and singin’—as I mid be the first day you did talk to I—and he -did stop and speak.” - -“What did he say?” growled Timothy, tightening his grip upon her wrists. - -“Oh, he axed I a lot of questions, and he did say I wer’ a very pretty -girl, and he did ax I would I like to be a fairy?” - -“It was him said that,” interrupted the shepherd. “I never thought there -was a word o’ truth in the tale.” - -“There was, though. He meant a play-actin’ fairy, o’ course. He said -all I’d have to do was to sing a bit, and dance a bit, and look nice, and -I’d get a lot of money and see the world too.” - -“So he said, and what did you say?” asked Timothy, as she paused. - -“First I said I didn’t think mother could spare me, and then I said I -didn’t think I’d like it, and then I said straight out I wouldn’t. But -he wouldn’t take No,” said Ann-Car’line, opening her eyes very wide. -“The more I hung back, the more he pressed—and at last he pulls out that -watch an’ says he, ‘Now, my dear, think it over. We’ll be comin’ back -again about Christmas-time,’ he says. ‘I’ll give you from now to then to -make up your mind. And meanwhile there’s my watch for you to keep,’ says -he—‘’twill show you I’m in earnest, anyhow. You can mark the flight of -time with that,’ says he—he spoke so funny, ye know—‘and with every day -that passes you must be the nearer to making up your mind to sayin’ Yes.’ -Wasn’t it a queer notion?” - -“A very queer notion, indeed,” said Timothy, grimly. “Well, and now -ye’ve lost the watch—and what be ye goin’ to do?” - -“Oh, I don’t know, I’m sure,” returned Ann-Car’line, sobbing afresh. “I -shall never be able to look him in the face, when he comes for his -answer.” - -“So much the better,” said Timothy, rigidly. “He’ll not be in such a -hurry to meddle wi’ young maids again, p’raps.” - -“Oh, but he’ll be sure to think I sold it, or pawned it, or summat—he’ll -maybe have the law on me.” - -“Is that all what’s troublin’ ye?” said the shepherd, fixing her with a -piercing gaze. “If anybody was to find that watch for ye, you wouldn’t -want to go turnin’ into a fairy or any sich tomfoolery?” - -“I shouldn’t—indeed I shouldn’t,” she cried earnestly. “Oh, Timothy, -will ye help me to find it?” - -“I don’t know but what I will,” said he—“if you’ll promise me—promise me -faithful—faithful, mind, not to take no more notice at all of that -play-actin’ gentleman. I’ll find that watch if ye’ll let me take it back -to the man myself, and tell en so.” - -“I will—I’ll promise,” sobbed she. - -“It’s a bargain!” said Timothy, firmly. “Now then—let’s see what can be -done. Was there nobody at all in the field when you did chance to bury -that watch? Somebody must ha’ see’d ye do it, ye see, and then so soon -as your back was turned, gone and dug it up again.” - -“Oh, there was nobody there,” replied the girl, emphatically. “I watched -and waited for ever so long before I made the hole—there wasn’t a sign of -anybody. Your hut wasn’t up here then—I shouldn’t ha’ done it if it had -a-been there, for I’d ha’ been afeard ye mid see me.” - -“Yes,” agreed Timothy, “that’s true. I mid ha’ seen ye.” - -“And nobody could tell where ’twas hid,” she pursued mournfully. “I -scratched up the earth and made it look same as all the rest o’ the -field. I shouldn’t ha’ found it myself if I hadn’t ha’ made a little -sign to know it by.” - -“Sich as a mark in the hedge?” suggested Timothy. - -She stared at him. - -“A little cross, as mid be, cut in a holly stem?” continued the shepherd. - -“O-o-oh,” cried Ann-Car’line, “you horrid, unkind, teasin’ chap! I d’ -’low you was spyin’ on me all the time!” - -For all answer Timothy dived to the depths of his pocket and produced by -slow degrees, first the chain, and then the watch itself. - -Ann-Car’line, uncertain whether to be more angry or relieved, burst into -a series of disjointed exclamations, and finally ordered her lover to -give her back that watch immediately. - -“Nothin’ of the kind,” replied he, dropping it into his pocket again. -“I’ll keep it for ye same as I’ve a-been doin’ all along. Says I to -mysel’ when I see’d what you was arter—‘That there maid’ll be gettin’ -into trouble,’ I says, ‘wi’out somebody interferes.’ And so I—” - -“Oh, Timothy, did ye?” cried Ann-Car’line, melting all at once, “but ye -needn’t ha’ gied me such a fright.” - -“Ye shouldn’t ha’ had secrets from I, then,” returned he. “Well, we’ll -ha’ no more secrets now, my girl, shall us? I’ll gi’e that watch back to -the chap and send en about his business.” - -“But he’ll think it so queer, won’t he?” said she, simpering. - -“He’ll not think it a bit queer when I do tell en I be a-courtin’ of ye.” - -“Oh, Timothy!” sighed Ann-Car’line. - -And then Timothy Kiddle set his lantern on the ground, and, leaning over -the hurdles, kissed her with great earnestness and satisfaction. - -“Nothing like having a thing settled!” said he. - - - - -ONE ANOTHER’S BURDENS - - -OLD Mrs Spencer picked her way daintily along the path which led from the -Frisbys’ little gate to their house-door. The path in question had been -raked and was devoid of weeds, and if it had not been for a presumably -recent addition of bones and broken crockery in one corner, and a large -pool of dirty water, from which shallow streams were slowly making their -way to the gate aforesaid, would no doubt have been tidy. The old lady -hopped from side to side in the attempt to keep her neat little feet dry, -and when she came to the pool itself, on which rings of suds were -eddying, stopped short with a disgusted air, and raising her voice, -called for Mrs Frisby. - -The door slowly opened, and a slatternly-looking woman stood upon the -threshold. A stout two-year-old child sat on one arm, while the other -hand held a penny novelette. A wisp of hair hung loosely over her face, -which was as dirty as that of the child; the bodice of her dress was held -together by pins, and she altogether presented a most uninviting -appearance. She started at sight of the visitor. - -“I beg pardon, m’m,” she said. “I wish I’d known you was comin’. -Thursday is a busy day with us.” - -“So I see,” responded Mrs Spencer, suffering her eyes to wander over the -woman’s figure, and thence towards the corner of the garden, where she -could see some dingy-looking clothes hanging on the line. “Most people -have finished their washing by Thursday, but you are evidently in the -middle of yours.” - -“Yes, m’m,” admitted Mrs Frisby, dolefully. “There, with all those -childern, ye know, m’m, and Frisby coming in and making so much mess, -’tis hard to get on with the work.” - -“It’s a curious thing,” remarked Mrs Spencer, “that you should prefer to -empty your suds out of the front door—and do you find you get on quicker -with your work if you read while you’re doing it?” - -“Well ’m, I’m sure, m’m, I had but just sat down for a minute. Little -Harry was a bit peevish, and I couldn’t let him cry—he chanced to prick -his finger with a pin, ye see, m’m—” - -“If there’d been a button there,” said Mrs Spencer, “or a hook and eye, -that accident couldn’t have happened. And pray”—peering at the dreadful -little book with her sharp eyes—“were you reading ‘Lady Selina’s Lover’ -out loud to amuse the baby?” - -During the confused pause which ensued, the little old lady made a leap -across the muddy space, and, waving Mrs Frisby on one side, entered the -house. Such a house! Dirty windows, a dirty floor, a grate which had -not been cleaned for several days, and beneath which was such a pile of -cinders and ashes that the fire would scarcely burn. Everything in the -room was dusty, and in the very middle of the floor lay a pair of man’s -muddy boots. - -“I’m sure I beg your pardon, m’m,” said Mrs Frisby. “’Tis a dreadful -untidy place for you to come into. Dear to be sure, just look at -Frisby’s boots! He’ve left them there ever since last night, and I can’t -get him to so much as clean a window for me.” - -“Can’t you really?” said Mrs Spencer. “No, I don’t think I’ll sit down, -thank you. So Frisby won’t clean the windows or put his boots on one -side? Well, you know, there are some wives, Mrs Frisby, who would think -it a little hard to ask their husbands to clean windows when he had been -working all day, and who would even put away his boots if he did chance -to leave them on the floor. The husband, after all, is the breadwinner. -Frisby works very hard—I’ll say that for him—and he’s earning good wages, -and is always ready to earn a little more by doing odd jobs after hours. -Then, when he’s finished those, he has his allotment to see to, and the -garden here, which would, I see, be very tidy if you did not allow your -children to strew things all over the place.” - -“I’m sure I’m always telling the childern not to throw their rubbish -about,” said Mrs Frisby, tearfully, “but what am I to do? I can’t be -indoor and out too. Frisby might very well see to the childern in the -garden, I think, when I’m busy in the house.” - -“It’s all Frisby’s fault, in fact,” said Mrs Spencer, pursing up her -lips. “I suppose,” she added, looking round the room, “he ought to dust, -and clean the grate, and scrub the floors too.” - -The old lady spoke so seriously that Mrs Frisby stared hard without -replying. - -“I must say,” continued the former, after a pause, “your husband has -worked on my estate for nearly ten years—since he was quite a little boy, -in fact—and I have always found him extremely industrious, good-tempered, -and obliging. I can’t understand how it is that you seem to give him -such a different character.” - -“Well ’m,” said Mrs Frisby, shifting the child from her right arm to her -left, “I don’t altogether complain, but I do think Frisby might be a bit -more good-natured, knowin’ how poorly I feel, and so many childern to see -to.” - -“Somebody told me,” said Mrs Spencer, “that Frisby very often helps to -dress the children.” - -“Well ’m, and if he do they’re his childern so well as mine. I get faint -now and then.” - -“I don’t wonder,” said the other. “Do you by any chance ever open a -window here?” - -Mrs Frisby burst into tears. “I think ’tis very hard o’ Frisby to go -complainin’ of me,” she sobbed. “A body can but do their best. With -four childern and such poor health as I have, I think it’s wonderful I -can get along at all. And as to cleanin’ up after Frisby (casting a sour -look at the boots), I’m sure I can’t be expected to do that.” - -“Good morning,” said Mrs Spencer, turning sharply round and walking out -of the house. - -As she drew near her own home she came upon Frisby himself, looking hot -and tired, and walking with a lagging step. There had been no -preparations of any kind for dinner at his cottage, and she wondered if -the poor man would be obliged to get it himself, while his wife read her -trashy paper, and dandled the big child, which could perfectly well have -been taught to amuse itself happily while its mother was busy. - -“I’ve just been to your house,” she remarked, as she came up to him. - -Poor Frisby murmured something about wishing he had known, and fearing -she had found things a bit upset. - -“Now listen to me, James,” said the old lady. “I’ve known you too long -to let you go downhill so fast without trying to help you. I’ve been -turning over a plan in my mind, which may possibly make that wife of -yours think a little more seriously of her duties.” - -James got red, but listened in silence while Mrs Spencer began to talk in -a low rapid voice. He looked more and more astonished as she proceeded, -and finally burst out laughing. - -“’Twould be a good notion,” he said, “a very good notion, but—” - -“Try it for a week,” said Mrs Spencer. “That’s all I ask, try it for a -week; I’ll undertake that you shan’t be the loser, and of course you must -not say a word to your wife about having met me.” - - * * * - -“’Tis past six, Jim,” said Mrs Frisby on the following morning, as she -stood by the bed, after having reluctantly clothed herself. “Didn’t ye -hear church-clock go?” - -“I heard it,” said Jim drowsily. “I’m not feelin’ so very well, this -mornin’, my dear; I don’t think I can get up.” - -Mrs Frisby, in real alarm, questioned him as to the nature of his malady. -Did his head ache—was his back bad—was he feeling his heart any ways -queer? - -Her husband, after reflecting for a moment or two, replied that it was -just “all-overishness,” and that he thought a rest would do him good. - -“Dear!” exclaimed Mrs Frisby, “but I haven’t a drop of water in the -house. Who’s to fill the bucket at the well?” - -“I’m afraid you’ll have to do it, Sally,” returned Jim. “’Tis very -unfortunate—very, I’m sure, but I can’t think how else it is to be -managed.” - -“Well, I’m not going to do it, then,” cried Sally. “I never heerd of -such a thing! You great lazy fellow, lying in bed with nothing the -matter with ye.” - -“I tell you,” repeated Jim, “I’m all-overish, same as you be so often. -My heart don’t feel quite right neither. If ye was to bring me up a cup -of tea, same as I do when you’re not feeling yourself, I fancy it might -just keep it off.” - -“If ye expect me to go cartin’ your breakfast upstairs you’re much -mistaken,” said Sally. “I’m a poor eater myself at best of times, and I -don’t care whether I have my breakfast or not. But I’ll not go drawin’ -water for you.” - -“A pipe o’ baccy is as good as a breakfast to me any day,” said Jim, -reaching out his hand for his pipe. “I dare say I’d be well enough to -mind the childern while you was busy, Sally,” he continued, mildly. “I -can manage the childern very well. You can turn ’em all in here while -you’m a-cleanin’ up. P’raps ’tis just as well I should be at home once -in a way,” he added, pleasantly. “You always say you can never get on -wi’ your work wi’ the little ones in your way. Now they’ll be out o’ -your way.” - -“Ye can fetch childern yourself if you want them,” retorted Mrs Frisby, -marching indignantly downstairs. - -Jim crept cautiously out of bed and went to the window, chuckling to -himself as he presently saw her laboriously filling her bucket at the -well. He dressed himself with great speed and dexterity for one in his -delicate condition, and, going into the adjoining rooms, roused the -children and washed and dressed the younger ones, directing the others to -do the same for themselves. - -When he brought them downstairs presently, the kettle was already -boiling, and Mrs Frisby, with a flushed face was getting down the teapot; -if truth be told, she was not at all averse to her breakfast. - -“Just in time,” observed Jim. “It doesn’t take so very long, you see, my -dear, to get the childern dressed if ye take a bit o’ trouble wi’ ’em. -Now, shan’t we put a cloth on the table?” - -Sally murmured indistinctly something about lazy people not deserving to -be cocked up with cloths. - -“Meaning me?” said Jim. “It’s me what pays for the cloths, though. See, -Rosie, it’s yonder on the dresser. Take it down, there’s a good little -maid, and spread it nice—that’s the way.” - -“If ye can’t do your own work, I don’t see why ye need come interfering -with mine,” remarked Sally. - -“I’ve more time to see to things when I don’t go out to work myself,” -explained her husband. “I’m going to train Rosie a bit. She’s getting a -big girl, now, and could easy learn to be useful.” - -“You’re not going to work!” gasped Sally. - -“I don’t feel up to my work to-day, you see,” said Jim. “I’ll just sit -quiet in a corner and rest me. Have you got a book handy? What have you -done with that nice book you were reading yesterday?” - -“’Tis very ill-done of you to make a mock of me,” cried his wife. “I’m -sure you didn’t ought to grudge me the little bit of amusement I took -after working so hard all day—washing and all.” - -“I don’t grudge it to you, my dear,” responded Jim. “I’m going to -imitate you, that’s all. I work hard, week by week, month by month, and -year by year. I’m going to take a bit of amusement now, and I’m sure you -won’t grudge it to me. Now then, Rosie, set the cups out, and the -plates—the cups at the top, ye know, and the plates all round. Jack, -fetch Daddy’s boots there, and I’ll tell ye what to do with them.” - -The little boy obeyed, and Jim in spite of his feeble state, found -himself able to take the child out to the shed at the back, and there -instruct him in the art of boot-cleaning, of which he proved himself a -capable scholar. By the time they returned breakfast was ready. - -Mrs Frisby looked up with an attempt at a smile as they came in. - -“I am glad to see you are better,” she said. “Maybe you’ll be able to go -to work after all.” - -But Jim shook his head with a despondent air. - -“No use expectin’ too much,” he remarked, quoting one of his wife’s -favourite speeches; then, as she stared, “I’ll jist see to the little uns -an’ help ye a bit with the cleanin’ if I don’t find it knocks me up too -much.” - -Mrs Frisby finished her breakfast in silence, and Jim, after disposing of -his meal, turned his attention to the children. - -“Now then, let’s see how useful you can make yourselves. See, I’ll carry -the things over to the sink, and Rosie can wash ’em up, and Jack here can -dry them.” - -“Ye’ll have ’em smashed to atoms,” said Sally sulkily. - -“Not a bit of it; they’re a deal more in danger of getting smashed lying -about, as they generally do, half the morning.” - -He superintended the carrying out of both operations, and then desired -the children to wash their hands and smooth their hair before going to -school. - -“Dear!” he exclaimed, as he clumsily tied a pinafore string. “All your -things do seem in terr’ble need of mendin’. I tell ye what, Sally, while -you do a bit o’ cleanin’ up I’ll see if I can’t make shift to sew on a -button or two.” - -“I thought you was too bad to work!” exclaimed Sally tartly. - -“Anybody can do a bit o’ sewin’,” said Jim. “Now, my dear, as soon as -ye’ve taken away tea-things, ye can begin on the grate.” - -Having procured needle and cottons and a card of buttons, a trifle -damaged on account of Baby Harry having been allowed to chew it on the -day it had been bought, Jim set to work, while Mrs Frisby reluctantly -knelt down before the hearth. - -“Take out the big cinders, Sally,” he directed, “and put ’em on one side. -It ’ud save ye a deal o’ trouble,” he continued mildly, “if ye’d do it -first thing in the morning, for then the children ’ud give ye a helpin’ -hand. Now I think,” said Jim, leisurely threading his needle, “that -we’ll have a bit o’ black-lead, my dear. It’s wonderful what a -difference it makes to the look of a place.” - -Sally worked away in gloomy silence, and Jim sewed on buttons, and -whistled under his breath. If truth be told he soon grew extremely tired -of the operation, and longed to be digging potatoes or hoeing weeds. He -continued, however, to direct his wife, and, though Mrs Frisby felt -herself very much aggrieved, she did not dare to disobey his orders. - -Presently the couple migrated to the bedrooms, for Jim found himself so -indisposed he was obliged to lie down while Sally gave the three rooms a -thoroughly good cleaning. Angry as she was it was wonderful how quickly -she managed to get through her work on that particular morning, for with -Jim’s eye upon her she could neither sit down to read, nor stand staring -out of the window. - -Jim, meanwhile, had taken charge of little Harry, and though he neither -dandled him nor played with him, he contrived so well to teach him how to -amuse himself that the child was quite happy. It was true he found time -to say an encouraging word now and then to the little fellow, and made a -safe plaything for him out of three or four empty cotton reels securely -fastened to a piece of white tape. These Harry could rattle, or slide up -and down, and they were safer to chew than linen buttons on a shiny green -card. - -After dinner Jim thought the air might do him good. He strolled out into -the garden, therefore, itching to be at work, but resolutely keeping -himself in check; and presently he invited Sally to clean herself and -bring her sewing out there too. - -By and by Mrs Frisby joined him, looking quite tidy, and gazing almost in -alarm at her husband. She half expected him to request her to do a bit -of gardening, but he only smiled as she approached, and told her she -looked downright bonny with her face so nice and clean; more like the -girl he used to court in by-gone days than he ever thought to see her -again. - -Putting his arm round her he made her sit down on the little bench -beneath the apple-tree, and there the couple passed an hour or two in -great content, till Sally remarked that it was time to go in and get tea -ready. - -“Do,” said Jim, “and mind ye sweep up the hearth, my dear. It do make it -look more cheerful.” - -The hearth actually was swept up when he entered, and all the children -sitting round the table with smooth hair and clean faces and hands. - -“If we was to get a door-mat it would keep the place nicer,” Sally -observed. “I could train the childern to wipe their feet on’t.” - -She announced this fact with the air of one who had made an important -discovery, and Jim, delighted with the turn affairs were taking, agreed -with alacrity. - -“It puts more heart into a man if he finds things is made good use of; -but when you go spendin’ an’ spendin’ all what you’ve worked hard for to -get, knowin’ they’ll be let fall to pieces for want of a stitch, or else -ruined with rust and dirt, you have no pride or pleasure in doin’ -anythin’.” - -Sally did not answer, but looked penitently at her husband. - -After tea, when the children were in bed she came and stood by his chair. - -“I hope ye’ll be able to go to work to-morrow,” said she. - -“I hope so, I’m sure,” he replied. “’Tis a bad thing when ye come to -think on’t, Sally, for the man to be laid by—him as has to earn the money -to fill all the little mouths. Wet or dry, sick or well, off he has to -go to his work. If a man didn’t do his work reg’lar he’d get turned off -pretty quick. The women don’t remember that when they sit idle at home, -without ever giving a thought to their husbands’ peace or comfort. Yet, -if the husbands wasn’t there, what would become of them all? Did you -find it hard work fillin’ that bucket this mornin’, Sally?” - -“Terr’ble hard,” said Sally, with a quivering lip. - -“Ah, I’m sorry for that. D’ye think ye’ll be able to chop sticks for -to-morrow’s fire?” - -“Ye oughtn’t to ask me to do such work,” said she, with a sob. “Ye know -I’m not fit for it.” - -“Winter an’ summer, year in, year out, I fill that bucket—and every -evenin’, no matter how tired I may be, I chop them sticks. When I had -the lumbago last year, I filled your bucket all the same, and when I -sprained my wrist I managed to use the chopper with my left hand. Yet, -if you’ve the least little ache or pain, you never do a hand’s turn, -Sally. I ask you straight, is that fair?” - -Sally gazed at him in silence, her lip still trembling, her eyes filled -with tears. - -“An’ if ye’d take a bit o’ pride in yourself an’ the childern,” he went -on, “there’d be some pleasure in comin’ home. Yes, and I’d be glad, too, -to save up an’ take ye for an outing now and again. But when I look at -ye with the clothes dropping off ye, and a face that hasn’t as much as -nodded at cold water, I feel—well, I feel that, if I wasn’t a proper -temperance man, it’s to the public I’d go every night of my life.” - -Sally looked down still without speaking. - -“Just think of it,” he went on; “you have your share of work, no doubt; -but I have mine too. If we each do our own, and pull together, we can -get along right enough. Come, little ’ooman, see how nice you’ve made -the place look—it didn’t take so very long, did it? An’ what a lot of -mendin’ ye did this afternoon—not to mention the buttons I sewed on for -ye,” he added, with a twinkle in his eye—“it wasn’t so very much trouble -once ye set about it. Now, shall we make a fresh start? I’ll go to work -to-morrow morning if you’ll get out your needles and thread, and throw -them nasty silly story books in the fire. And let’s make the childern -useful, my dear—a little bit o’ light work is as good as play to a -child.” - -Sally glanced up with an odd look, in spite of the tears that were still -upon her face. - -“I never heard ye make such a long speech in your life, Jim,” said she. -“I wonder—I wonder if anybody’s been putting you up to all the games -you’ve been playing this day. Mrs Spencer now—she called here -yesterday—” - -“She did,” said Jim, beginning to laugh a little. “Well, I’ll tell you -the truth, Sally, the notion did come from her. Ye mustn’t be vexed, my -dear; but I think ’twas a good notion. ‘If ever any folks should bear -one another’s burdens,’ says the mistress, ‘it’s husband and wife.’ -Come, Sally, I’ll do my best for you if you’ll do your best for me.” - -Sally dried her eyes, and held out her hand to her husband: “I will,” she -said. - -She actually kept her resolution, and Jim had good reason to be grateful -to his mistress for that happy thought of hers, though he sometimes said -with a laugh, that she had taught him a lesson too, and that he would -rather plant cabbages all day than sew on a dozen buttons. - - - - -HOW NED BLANCHARD EMIGRATED - - -ALICE BLANCHARD was wheeling the perambulator slowly along the most rutty -curve of the “Drove,” or steep lane which led from the high road to the -downs, when she caught sight of her father’s sturdy figure behind the -almost leafless hedge. Farmer Bolt was a short, thick-set man, with more -brown in hair and beard than was usual in a man of his years, and with a -corresponding amount of unlooked-for vigour and energy in his sturdy -frame. He was at work now on a task that would have been despised by -most men of his standing. He was clipping one of his own hedges in fact, -wielding his bill-hook with a rapidity and dexterity which did not -prevent his keeping a sharp look-out on the movements of the men who were -carting swedes at the further end of the field. - -Alice wedged the “pram” firmly against the bank, pulled on the baby’s -hood, which had fallen back, arranged its golden fluff of hair so that a -becoming tuft appeared beneath the frill, and then going to the other end -of the small vehicle made little Abel sit straight and smoothed out the -creases in his pinafore. - -“Ye’ve got your face all of a mess wi’ blackberries,” she said, in a -vexed tone. “I don’t know whatever granfer’ll think of ’ee. There, I -reckoned to tidy thee up in grandma’s room afore he see’d thee.” - -As Abel was strapped fast in his seat, and could by no possibility have -procured the blackberries without his mother’s aid, the reproach seemed a -trifle unreasonable; but as Abel had not yet reached a time of life when -he could discourse on feminine inconsequence, he merely smiled broadly, -and repeated the word “b’ackberries” in an expectant tone. - -“Bless your little heart,” said Alice. “That’s granfer, look-see, -t’other side o’ the hedge. Ye must call out ‘granfer,’ when we get -a-nigh en.” - -She shook out her own dress, a somewhat faded print, and set her hat -straight, apparently anxious to present as brave an appearance in her -father’s eyes as in former days she had to those of her admirers. - -A few years ago Alice Bolt had been the handsomest girl in the parish, -and even now, though her figure had lost much of its roundness, and her -curly dark hair was arranged with less skill, was pretty enough to call -for a second glance from all who passed her. - -But her blue eyes had acquired a scared look of late, and the bloom had -faded in her cheeks. What else was to be expected? The wolf was always -at the door, and the fear of it was perpetually present in the heart of -the wife and mother. - -Farmer Bolt, in the intervals of chopping at his twigs and superintending -the leisurely tossing of “roots” into the cart, found time to scan the -windings of the Drove, and had indeed observed his daughter long before -she had caught sight of him. It may be presumed that he took note of her -hasty endeavours to make herself and her family presentable, yet he -appeared to be absorbed in his own labours when she halted beneath the -bank on which he was stationed. - -“Be that you, father? Look, Abel, look-see, ’tis granfer!” - -Mr Bolt parted the thin screen of shoots surmounting the hedge and peered -over. - -“’Tis you, be it?” - -“It’s me. I be just goin’ down to the house to have a chat wi’ mother.” - -“Ah,” said the farmer. - -He lifted his bill-hook and examined it as though he had never set eyes -on it before; then he ran his finger thoughtfully along the edge. - -“That’s granfer, look-see,” repeated Alice in a tone of assumed -cheerfulness. “Look at granfer’s hedgin’ hook, Abel! Call ‘Granfer,’ -lovey!” - -“Gran-fer!” cried Abel, obediently. - -It was the first time his grandfather had heard the child pronounce an -articulate word, and at sound of it he was unable to resist the impulse -to lean forward a little more and gaze down at the perambulator and its -occupants. - -“Learnt to talk, has he?” he enquired, ungraciously enough, yet eyeing -the little fellow with a sort of curiosity. - -“Well, he can only say a few words,” explained the mother, almost -stammering in her haste to bring out the information before the -grandfather’s interest had waned. “‘Granfer’ was one o’ the first words -he said. He says it very plain, don’t he?” - -“Plain enough,” responded the farmer, gruffly, and he let the twigs which -he had been holding slap back again into their ordinary position. - -“He’ve come on a good bit since ye see’d him last,” hazarded the mother. -“Folks about us thinks he’s come on wonderful. Don’t ye think he’s come -on, father?” - -Her father parted the screen of twigs again, and as the bearded face was -thrust forth once more, Abel junior tilted himself back in his place and -gleefully shouted “Cuckoo!” - -For the life of him the grandfather could not help smiling. He did not -speak, but gazed at the child for a moment or two, the lines of his -countenance relaxing. - -“Cuckoo!” cried Abel junior, anxiously watching the upper twigs of the -hedge. - -“He thinks you’m playin’ a game wi’ en,” explained the mother -tremulously. - -“Oh,” said Farmer Bolt, reflectively. “Do he? It’s more in my line to -work nor to play though.” He loosed the twigs which immediately flew -back into place, and Baby Abel, imagining that this was done solely for -his benefit cried “Cuckoo!” again, and watched the top of the hedge with -dancing eyes. When the farmer, with apparent inadvertence, looked forth -again, he threw himself back once more with uproarious laughter, kicking -out at the same time with sturdy little feet, clothed in very battered -boots. - -“He do seem a jolly little chap too,” said the elder Abel, with the air -of one making a concession. “T’other’s a girl, bain’t it?” - -“Ees, she’s a girl. I called en Margaret after mother, same as the bwoy -be Abel after you. We do think little Abel terr’ble like you, father.” - -The farmer surveyed his descendant dubiously; and the two pairs of blue -eyes met; the child’s twinkled in expectation of the renewal of the game, -and by-and-by the old man’s began to twinkle too. As he glanced at the -baby, however, his face clouded over. - -“The maid be a regular Blanchard, though,” he said, in a vexed tone. -“Yellow hair an’ all. There, when she do laugh she be the very image of -her grammer, what used to drive a little donkey-cart wi’ rags and bwones, -an’ sich, an’ what died in the Union.” - -“The child can’t help that, an’ neither can Ned,” said Alice, with a -sudden flash in her eyes. “The poor body did die when he were quite a -little chap. ’Twas none of his fault if she did die in the Union. So -soon as he could work he kept hisself.” - -“It mid be none of his fault that his mother was what she was, but I d’ -’low ’tis your fault that my grandson should be what he is, belonging to -trampin’ folks, wi’ a father as was born i’ the Union, and as’ll die i’ -the Union I shouldn’t wonder. Did ever anybody see a ’ooman so downtrod -as what you be, an’ you as was such a handsome maid. Why can’t the chap -keep ye in a bit more comfort now he’s got ye? That’s what I want to -know.” - -“We’ve had a deal o’ trouble, father,” faltered Alice. “What wi’ the -childer comin’ so fast, an’ what wi’ Ned breakin’ his leg this spring, -we’ve been put about terr’ble.” - -“Well, there’s no use cryin’ about spilt milk,” said her father, roughly. -“Ye took the crooked stick an’ now ye must put up wi’ en. You as mid ha’ -married as well an’ better nor any maid i’ the place, ye must go an’ take -up wi’ a beggarly feller as I hired out o’ charity to begin wi’.” - -“Ned always worked hard for his wage,” interpolated Alice, hotly, -“always! He was worth the money ye paid en.” - -“Ees, but I didn’t know that at first. I took en straight fro’ the Union -wi’out no more character nor what the master up yonder could give en. -An’ when I did do that I didn’t look to bein’ robbed o’ my only child. -There, there’s no use talkin’. I must get on wi’ my work. Get along and -chat wi’ mother if ye want to.” - -“Cuckoo!” cried little Abel as the twigs were once more released; but -Granfer did not respond. After an admonitory shout to one of the carters -who had spent what he considered an undue time in consideration of the -horizon, he resumed his labours with the bill-hook. - -Mrs Blanchard trundled her perambulator onwards with a sore heart and an -anxious face. Her transient anger had left her, and she reproached -herself for having lost her temper. - -“’Twas a bad start,” she thought, ruefully, “a very bad start. I d’ ’low -I’ve spoilt my chance.” - -Mrs Bolt was peeling potatoes when her daughter came to the door, but she -laid down her knife with an exclamation of delight when she caught sight -of her. - -“’Tis never you, my dear, so early an’ all, an’ sich a long ways to come! -To think o’ your travellin’ seven mile at this time o’ marnin’! Dear, to -be sure, how Abel have come on! There, I never see’d a child shoot up -like that. Bless his little heart, he be a fine child. An’ Baby too, -she be a-comin’ on jist about.” - -“Feel the weight of her,” said Alice, taking the child out of the -perambulator and laying her in her mother’s arms; there was a pretty -flush in her face and a light in her eyes. - -Mrs Bolt weighed her small namesake, and uttered various disjointed -exclamations of rapture. - -“She be gettin’ sich a lot o’ hair, look-see,” continued the proud -mother, jerking off the child’s hood. “An’ she’s got two teeth very near -through. She be cuttin’ them early, bain’t she? An’ sich a good baby. -There, she do sleep right through the night, an’ by day when I’m busy at -my work, ye know, she’ll sit an’ suck at her titty wi’out a murmur.” - -“She be a-lookin’ for it now,” remarked grandma. - -The much chewed indiarubber ring was unearthed from beneath the baby’s -cape, and the flat lozenge-shaped adjunct thereto thrust into her mouth, -both women laughing delightedly on noting its possessor’s satisfaction. - -“Come in, my dear, an’ sit down, do,” said Mrs Bolt. “I’m sure ye must -be jist about tired. Come, Abel love, an’ see what grandma’s got for -’ee. A ripe apple won’t do en no harm,” she added, turning to Alice. -“They golden pippins be beautiful to-year—jist so sweet as honey. I do -r’ally think that dear child favours his granfer,” she exclaimed, as -having reached the living-room, she divested Abel of his hat. - -“I do wish father ’ud take to en!” ejaculated Alice, dropping into the -elbow-chair. “We met en jist now hedgin’ in the Drove. He did seem to -notice him a bit at first, but then he turned nasty about Ned as he do -always do, an’ began glenin’ an’ carryin’ on about the Union.” - -“There, love, don’t ye mind en; ye do want a lot o’ patience wi’ father. -’Tis what I do always say. Who’s to know it if not me? But he’ll come -round in time—he’ll come round.” - -“’Tis easy to say ‘in time,’” groaned poor Alice, “but we do find it so -hard to get on now, mother. We’ve a-had sich bad luck, ye see. Ned had -to spend the bit o’ money he’d saved on the furniture we wanted, an’ -stockin’ the garden—’tisn’t as if we’d anybody to help us.” - -Mrs Bolt eyed her daughter compassionately. She was a good-looking, -fresh-coloured woman, with a kindly, good-natured face. Her daughter -resembled her in complexion and build, but not in disposition, for Mrs -Bolt was placid and easy-going, while Alice had inherited her father’s -energy and quickness of temper. Mrs Bolt had been as much grieved as her -husband at Alice’s unprosperous marriage, but, having protested in vain, -resigned herself to the inevitable, and had indeed forgiven her daughter -before the ceremony took place. Mr Bolt, too, had, to outward seeming, -become reconciled with his daughter, though he steadily refused to permit -her husband to cross the threshold, and to help the hapless couple in any -way. Alice, too, was proud, and when her mother would have -surreptitiously bestowed on her sundry dozens of eggs and pecks of -potatoes, she had rejected the gifts. - -“I won’t take nothin’ o’ father’s wi’out his consent,” she said once, -bitterly. “An’ you do know so well as me, he’d rather let us all starve -nor help Ned.” - -“’Tis very hard, I’m sure,” said Mrs Bolt, now in a commiserating tone. -“I did hope your husband ’ud better hisself, an’ earn better wage nor -what father gived en. But he’s worse off now it seems.” - -“He’s terr’ble bad off,” agreed Alice gloomily. “Jobs be so scarce round -our way. An’ when Ned was out o’ work last spring along o’ his accident, -we got into debt. There’s the interest to pay along wi’ everything else. -We couldn’t afford to be too particular. Ned had to take the first place -he could get—’tis but ten shillin’ a week he’s earnin’ now, along o’ -havin’ a house free, ye know. But ten shillin’ a week’s soon gone.” - -“’Tis, sure,” agreed her mother dolefully. - -Alice looked up at the handsome, ruddy face now puckered with sympathetic -distress, and hesitated. - -It is sometimes harder to ask a favour from our nearest and dearest than -from a stranger. “I wonder if you could guess what’s brought me this -morning, mother?” she asked. - -Mrs Bolt did not commit herself. - -“Ned chanced to meet Jim Pike at Wimborne the other day. He had to go -and haul coal, you know, fro’ the station. And Jim did tell en he were -thinkin’ o’ leavin’ father arter Christmas an’ goin’ out abroad.” - -“Ees,” said Mrs Bolt. “Jim be a-goin’ to emmygrate, that’s what he be -a-goin’ to do. He’ve a had a letter from his brother what be livin’ out -yonder in America, and do want en to j’ine en out there. Jim be fair set -on the notion.” - -“He did tell Ned as father had rose his wage to fourteen shillin’ a week. -’Tis good wage that, an’ there’s the house too. ’Tis a deal more nor -what Ned be earnin’.” - -“Oh,” said her mother, sinking her voice and casting a scared glance at -her. “You was thinkin’ maybe father ’ud give your ’usband Jim’s place -when he’ve a-left?” - -“Well,” rejoined Alice, instantly on the defensive, “it do seem hard as -father should be willin’ to pay away all that to a stranger when his own -flesh an’ blood is pretty nigh starvin’. There! mother, I do assure ’ee -there’s times when I wonder where I’m to get the next bit to put in -little Abel’s mouth. Many a time I go hungry myself, an’ that’s not so -very good for me nor for baby.” - -“Dear heart alive!” groaned Mrs Bolt, dropping into the opposite chair -and resting a hand on either knee. “God knows I’m broken-hearted to -think o’ your bein’ in sich trouble—broken-hearted I be!” - -“That little house o’ Jim Pike’s ’ud do us nicely,” went on Alice -eagerly. “’Tis a snug little place, an’ it ’ud be nice to be near you, -mother.” - -“It would,” agreed Mrs Bolt, sucking in her breath, and exhaling it again -with a deep sigh. “It would jist about. I’d love to have the childern -trottin’ in an’ out, an’ you an’ me could help each other, Alice.” - -“We could,” agreed Alice, eyeing her mother with pathetic anxiety. - -“But father be sich a terr’ble one for stickin’ to a notion,” went on Mrs -Bolt gloomily. “He’ve reg’lar took again’ your ’usband, reg’lar took -again’ him he have.” - -“Well, ’tis a hard world,” said Alice, rising hurriedly. “I’d best go -home-along. There’s not mich use my bidin’ here—but I did have hopes. -’Tisn’t as if I was axin’ for a favour—I only want Ned to get the chance -father be willin’ to give any other man. But we’ll never have a chance -here—I see that. I wish to the Lard we could scrape up enough money to -take us out abroad too. I’d be willin’ enough to emmygrate, and so would -Ned—nobody wants us here!” - -Mrs Bolt gazed at her daughter meditatively, laying a restraining hand -upon her arm to prevent her departure. - -“Jim Pike’s brother Robert, what emmygrated first, went travellin’ by -hissel’,” she observed. “He didn’t take his wife an’ childern wi’ en—he -couldn’t afford the expense, d’ye see, but as soon as he were doin’ well -he sent for ’em to come an’ j’ine him.” - -“Well?” said Alice doubtfully, as she paused. - -“Well,” continued her mother, “there, sit ye down, my dear. I can’t say -all what’s in my mind if I think you’m ready to rush off every minute. -Sit down an’ let’s talk proper. Now see here, the notion did come to I -all at once while ye was talkin’ jist now. Why shouldn’t Ned go out -abroad wi’ Jim Pike an’ look for work out in Ameriky? You could come to -us while ye was waitin’—father ’ud be pleased enough to have you an’ the -childern.” - -“Mother!” exclaimed Alice indignantly. She would have started from her -chair again had not Mrs Bolt pinned her to her seat with one large heavy -hand. - -“Now don’t ye fly out like that, don’t ye,” went on the good woman, -impressively. “I am but thinkin’ what’s for the best. You’m our own -flesh an’ blood, as ye say yourself, an’ so’s the childer; father’d be -fond enough o’ the childer if he was to have ’em nigh en. ’Tis but Ned -as he’ve a-took again’.” - -“Well, but I bain’t a-goin’ to desert Ned,” cried Alice, hotly. “My own -’usband what I’ve a-chose and what have a-been sich a good ’usband an’ -sich a good father. I’m sure he’d work his fingers to the bwone for me -an’ the childern!” - -“Bide a bit, bide a bit,” returned Mrs Bolt. “I’ve been a-piecin’ of it -out in my mind. If you an’ the little ones was once here, ye’d soon get -round father—I d’ ’low he’d never want to part from ye again. There, ye -be the only child what was spared to us. I can’t but think so soon as -there was talk o’ your j’inin’ Ned in Ameriky he’d tell ye to send for -him to come back again, sooner nor let ye go.” - -Alice was silent for a moment, struck in spite of herself, by the idea. - -“’Tis true,” she said. “There mid be a chance o’ that. Father used to -be awful fond o’ me when I was a little maid, an’ I couldn’t but see he -noticed the childern to-day. He said Abel was a jolly little chap. Abel -was tryin’ to play cuckoo wi’ his granfer. He’s sich a friendly little -feller, I can’t but think as father’d soon take to en.” - -“I d’ ’low he would,” agreed Mrs Bolt, eagerly. - -“As for poor baby,” went on her daughter, in an aggrieved tone, “I can’t -see no sich great likeness to the Blanchards. Father will have it she -takes after Ned’s mother—I can’t see that.” - -“Nor I,” agreed the living grandmother, gravely, considering the sleeping -baby. - -“But still,” went on Alice, suddenly reverting to the main point from -which she had been momentarily diverted by the various side issues which -seemed to present themselves, “I couldn’t let Ned go travellin’ all by -hisself. I couldn’t ever part wi’ en. Summat mid happen as I mid never -know. An’ he midn’t get on out there—an’ he midn’t be able to find the -money to come home wi’ if father was to let him come—Oh, mother!” - -This latter exclamation was uttered in a totally different tone. She -caught her breath with a gasp, her countenance suddenly illuminated. - -“What’s to do?” cried Mrs Bolt eagerly. Little Abel, who had finished -his apple, came trotting across the room to share in the excitement. But -he was not destined to hear what was going on. Mrs Blanchard, leaning -forward in her chair, whispered eagerly in her mother’s ear. The -latter’s face, at first astonished, grew gradually alarmed, but finally -assumed an expression of admiring delight. - -“Well, I shouldn’t wonder but what it mid answer,” she said slowly. “I -know father’d be overj’yed to have you an’ the childern here. But -whatever ’ud your husband say?” - -“Oh, I’ll manage Ned if you’ll manage father. ’Tis worth tryin’. Dear -to be sure, how happy we mid be all livin’ together!” - -“Father ’ull be fit to kill us all if he do find out.” - -“He won’t find out. He can’t be vexed wi’ you anyhow. Ye need only say -that I’ve a-told ye so, an’ axed ye to speak to en for I.” - -“Well, that’s true. There, my dear, I’d be simply out o’ my wits wi’ -joy. I’ve missed ye—there, I can’t tell ye how much I’ve missed ye.” - -They clung together, half laughing, half weeping, and the remainder of -Alice’s visit was spent in the congenial task of building castles in the -air. - -Farmer Bolt was rather taciturn at dinner-time, and his wife deemed it -more prudent to postpone operations till a more favourable moment. In -the evening, however, when milking was done, and tea over, and Mr Bolt -drew up his chair to the fire and filled his pipe, he himself gave her -the opportunity for which she had been hoping. - -“Ye had Alice wi’ ye to-day?” - -“Ees, she told me she’d passed ye in the Drove—how did ye think she was -lookin’?” - -The farmer smoked for a moment or two with a gloomy expression. - -“She’ve fell away,” he said at last. “Fell away terr’ble.” - -“She have,” agreed his wife with a sigh. “I d’ ’low ’tis a hard struggle -for she. There, she were a-tellin’ me she be often put to it to find a -bit to put in little Abel’s mouth—them was her very words. ‘An’ I do -often go hungry myself,’ says she, ‘an’ it bain’t so very good for me or -baby.’” - -Farmer Bolt removed his pipe and glowered fiercely at his wife, as though -she were responsible for this pitiable state of affairs. - -“An’ what could she expect,” he demanded, “when she took up wi’ that -dalled chap? She threw herself away on en—wouldn’t hear a word again’ -him, an’ he can’t so much as keep her. What’s the chap good for if he -can’t earn enough to keep his wife an’ childer.” - -“He’s a good worker, ye know,” said Mrs Bolt tentatively; “ye did never -have no fault to find wi’ en when he were wi’ us.” - -“I find fault wi’ en now, though,” shouted her lord. “Why don’t he do -summat? Why don’t he turn his hand to summat? He’s all my daughter have -got to look to now. I says to her when she took en, ‘Alice,’ I says, ‘ye -must choose between Ned Blanchard an’ me.’ An’ she chose Ned Blanchard. -Well, let him do summat, then.” - -“He be just a-thinkin’ o’ doin’ summat, my dear,” returned Mrs Bolt -mildly. “Alice were tellin’ I to-day he were goin’ to emmygrate.” - -“What!” exclaimed the farmer aghast. “He be goin’ out abroad—he be goin’ -to tole our Alice an’ them two little bits o’ childern out across the -sea? Well, mother, how ye can sit lookin’ at me—” - -“Nay now, my dear, it bain’t so bad as that,” said Mrs Bolt, in the same -meek and ingratiating tone. “He be a-goin’ to look for work, that’s what -he be a-goin’ to do; an’ so soon as he’ve a-found it an’ have a-got a -comfortable home ready, then he’ll send for our Alice an’ the childern to -j’ine en. That’s the notion.” - -“Oh,” said her husband, staring at her hard. “That’s the notion, be it?” - -He sucked at his pipe for a moment or two, still fixing his unwinking -gaze upon her; finally, he enquired in a stern and disapproving tone what -she supposed would become of their daughter and her children in the -meantime. - -“Well, that’s just it,” said Mrs Bolt gently. “’Tis that what brought -our Alice here to-day.” - -The farmer grunted without speaking. - -“The journey to Ameriky ’ull take every single shillin’ Ned Blanchard can -scrape together,” she continued. - -“He be a-goin’ to send Alice an’ the childern to the workhouse I d’ -’low,” remarked Mr Bolt, hitching his chair a little nearer to the hearth -and holding up one foot to the blaze. “He be a-goin’ to scuttle off wi’ -hisself to Ameriky an’ leave his wife an’ family on the rates.” - -“Nay now, nay now,” protested Mrs Bolt in a soothing tone. “You’d never -be the one to allow that, Bolt, you know you wouldn’t.” - -“Me!” said Bolt, turning round with an expression of great surprise. -“What have I got to do wi’ it?” - -“Why, ye know very well, my dear, you’d be the last to let sich shame -overtake your own flesh an’ blood. If Ned was once away, you wouldn’t -ha’ no objections to your own daughter a-comin’ back here for a while, -an’ your own grandchildern, would ye? They’d bring a bit o’ life about -this place, an’ it ’ud be nice to have our Alice goin’ about the house -again.” - -There was a silence; Mr Bolt stirred up the contents of his pipe with the -end of a match and lit it again. - -“Little Abel be wonderful like his mother in his ways,” went on Mrs Bolt; -“the very moral o’ what she used to be at his age. There’s her little -chair in the corner, look-see. He found it out to-day an’ fetched it -over aside o’ your chair, an’ sat hisself down in it—there, I declare for -a minute I thought our Alice was a child again.” - -Mr Bolt squinted round at the chair, but did not commit himself by -speech. He was not an imaginative man, nevertheless the vision rose -before him of the curly-headed child who used to sit in that chair, and -whom he had loved as the apple of his eye. His wife put his thoughts -into words. - -“Ye mind our Alice, how pleased she used to be when ye called her over of -an evening? Dear to be sure, what a bonny little maid she was, and what -a pride we used to take in her. And now to think that poor creetur’ what -come here to-day is her. There, I could ha’ cried to see her in that -wold patched dress—’ees, an’ I did cry when she did tell I how she do -often go hungry.” - -“Well, I’m dalled if she shall go hungry while she bides wi’ us,” cried -the farmer, sitting suddenly upright in his chair. “Let Master Ned -emmygrate so soon as he pleases, an’ let the poor maid come to us—an’ the -brats too. She’ll know what ’tis for a while, to eat wi’out stintin’. -Let her come an’ bide so long as she likes—the longer the better, say -I—the longer she’s shut o’ that n’er-do-weel o’ a husband the better -pleased I’ll be.” - -The following week Alice and her children took up their abode at her old -home. Alice was pale and nervous at first, but soon regained her -self-possession. The farmer was almost boisterous in his welcome. - -After tea Mrs Bolt, with a wink at her daughter, installed the little boy -in the chair before referred to, at his grandfather’s side, an -arrangement in which the latter acquiesced silently, yet with evident -pleasure. Abel watched him with round inquisitive eyes while he filled -and lit his pipe, and leaning back in his chair, crossed his legs -luxuriously. Presently, possessing himself of a bit of stick which lay -beside the hearth, the child wedged it in a corner of his own small -mouth, and trotting back to his chair, settled himself in it, in as close -an imitation of his grandfather’s attitude as the differences of age and -size, and a slight difficulty in distinguishing his right leg from his -left, would admit of. Abel the elder stared for a moment, and then, -realising the state of affairs, nudged his wife with a delighted chuckle. - -“Look at that,” he exclaimed. “He be a sharp little chap if ever there -was one. Ye shall have a better pipe nor that to smoke, sonny.” - -The farmer was as good as his word, and on the next day purchased a -supply of sugar-sticks, one of which he gravely handed to his grandson -every evening before lighting his own pipe. - -Whether it was because the little fellow was won over by this practical -proof of consideration and regard, or whether the affinity which the -women-folk were so fond of talking about, really existed, it is certain -that before the Blanchard family were a week in the house, the two Abels -were practically inseparable. Whether toddling along a furrow in his -grandfather’s wake, or riding one of the farm horses, or perched on top -of a pile of mangolds, the child was his grandfather’s constant -companion. - -Alice almost insensibly fell back into the ways of her girlhood, and, as -the days passed, her youth itself seemed to return to her. She grew -plump and rosy, sang as she went about her work, played with her little -ones as though she were a child herself. Had it not been for the -presence of the children, indeed, Mrs Bolt often declared she could have -fancied old times were back again, and their maid had never left them. -The good food, the freedom from petty anxieties, had no doubt much to do -with this happy change, but it was chiefly brought about by the new hope -in her heart which grew and brightened day by day. - -One morning, however, Mr Bolt, coming back unexpectedly from the field -where he had been ploughing, and happening to take a short-cut through -the orchard, came upon Alice who was hanging out clothes to dry. Now it -was Mrs Bolt’s custom to let the world know that she had been washing, by -setting the linen to dry in front of the house; the larger articles being -draped on clothes-lines that ran from the corner of the milk-house wall -to the post by the wood-shed, while the smaller were neatly spread upon -the hedge. But here was Alice setting up a private clothes-line of her -own, and hanging garments on it—not her own, or her children’s garments, -as her father first supposed, but socks and shirts, even a pair of -nankeen trousers. - -“What mid ye be doin’ here?” he enquired, at the top of his voice, and so -suddenly that poor Alice dropped her basket. - -“Dear, to be sure, father, how you frightened me!” she exclaimed, -stammering. - -“Who gave ye leave to make a dryin’-ground o’ my archard?” resumed the -farmer, striding up to her. “These here apple-trees wasn’t made to hang -clothes on. Whose clothes be these?” - -All the pretty bloom fled from Alice’s face; for a moment she stood -gaping, unable to find an answer; then all at once she laughed—or tried -to laugh. - -“Why, what a to-do,” she cried. “Whose clothes be they? Well, they be -man’s clothes, as ye can see—an’ you be the only man about this here -place, bain’t ye?” - -An ominous pause ensued, during which Farmer Bolt, turning to the -clothes-line, closely examined the garments thereon. - -“I’d be sorry to wear that shirt,” he remarked; “and when did ye ever see -me in trousers like them? They’m your ’usband’s—that’s what they be; an’ -what be tellin’ lies about ’em for?” - -Alice, who had always been known as a “spiritty maid,” fired up at this. - -“I think it ’ud be a queer thing if I was to name my husband to ye,” she -responded. “Ye can never find a good word to say for him. ’Tis natural -enough for me to be unwillin’ to let his name pass my lips.” - -“What be doin’ washin’ his clothes? I thought he’d emmygrated?” pursued -the father suspiciously. - -“They are his clothes, then,” said Alice, with flashing eyes. “There, -they are his clothes; I’ll not deny it. I’ve a-washed ’em in the water -what the Lard gave us all free, an’ I be a-dryin’ of ’em in the air what -belongs so much to him as to you, father. An’ this here bit o’ rope’s -what was tied round my own box, so I d’ ’low he bain’t beholden to ye.” - -Mr Bolt, slightly abashed, moved a few steps away, and then paused again. - -“Be ye a-goin’ to send his washin’ out to Ameriky to en every week?” he -enquired. - -His daughter made no answer, and Mr Bolt was obliged to go indoors to -seek for further information. - -“When did Ned Blanchard emmygrate,” he enquired abruptly entering the -kitchen. - -Mrs Bolt was stooping over the fire, and it was perhaps on this account -that her face became so red. - -“Thursday was a fortnight, warn’t it?” she enquired. “Yes, Thursday was -a fartnight he shifted.” - -“Ah,” said Farmer Bolt. “Them ships which goes back’ards and for’ards to -Ameriky must travel martal fast. Our Alice be a-hangin’ up his clothes -to dry in the archard now.” - -“There, don’t talk sich nonsence, Bolt!” cried his wife sharply. “She be -but a-washin’ a few o’ the things what he left behind, o’ course.” - -“That’s it, be it?” said Mr Bolt with a keen glance. - -“That’s it,” rejoined Mrs Bolt, making a great rattle with the poker -between the bars of the grate. Mr Bolt eyed her for a moment or two in -silence, and then went slowly out again, jamming his hat firmly on his -head. Several times that day his wife and daughter encountered his fixed -gaze, but he asked no further questions. - -On the following day, chancing to look backwards at his snug house in the -hollow, from the uplands where he was at work, he observed a white -streamer dangling from his own gate. - -“They’ve tied a towel to the gate,” he murmured to himself. “What can -they be wantin’ carrier to call for?” - -For by this simple expedient the carrier, journeying on the high road -above, became aware of the fact that the dwellers in the lane needed his -services. Farmer Bolt went on wondering all the way up that furrow and -all the way down again, and presently caught sight of the carrier’s van -turning down the lane. He continued to speculate while the green-hooded -vehicle turned into his own yard, emerged again, and finally came -crawling up the stony incline to the high road. Then Farmer Bolt, unable -any longer to restrain his curiosity, brought his horses to a standstill, -and leaving them to their own devices, hastened across the field to the -corner which the van must pass. - -“That parcel what my wife gived ye just now, Jan,” he panted, as he -approached; “let’s have a look at it. I want to make sure it’s -addressed right. My wold ’ooman bain’t no great hand with the pen.” - -“’Twas your daughter wrote the address,” returned the carrier. “I d’ -’low it’ll be right enough.” - -He produced the parcel, nevertheless, and the farmer hastily examined it. -The address was certainly set forth in a clear, legible hand:— - - Mr EDWARD BLANCHARD, - c/o The Black Inn, - Sturminster. - -To be left till called for. - -He spelt it out slowly, thrusting out his underlip the while, with a -puzzled look. - -“To be left till called for,” he repeated. “It do seem a queer thing -that. How be the man a-goin’ to call for it when he’ve emmygrated to -Ameriky.” - -“Oh, and ’ave ’ee?” enquired the carrier, much interested. - -“Ees, a fartnight ago.” - -“Well, ’tis funny too; but I d’ ’low I must obey arders. Hand over that -parcel, farmer. I did ought to be gettin’ on; we’m a bit late as it is.” - -Mr Bolt handed him the parcel, and the carrier whipped up his horse; but -the van had hardly rattled on a few yards before its driver was again -hailed. - -“Hi! bide a bit!” - -“Well?” said the carrier, turning. - -Mr Bolt came alongside, red and breathless. - -“Ye mid just ask the folks at the Black who they expects to call for that -there parcel,” he said. “I be a bit puzzled in my mind about it.” - -“I will,” agreed the other; “but let me go now, good man, else I’ll never -get to Sturminster to ask about no parcels at all.” - -Mr Bolt was in a stern and silent mood during the whole of that day, and -after tea, instead of settling down to his pipe with little Abel in his -chair beside him, strolled out Branston way to meet the carrier. He had -not long to wait before he heard the familiar creaking and rattling of -the rickety van, and presently the solitary light of its swinging lantern -came bobbing along between the hedges. The farmer repeated the procedure -of the morning:— - -“Hi, bide a bit!” - -“Hullo, be it you, Mr Bolt? Ah, I axed that there question.” - -“Did ye?” said the farmer, planting himself in front of the horse on the -wet roadway. - -“Ees. I d’ ’low there’s some mistake about Ed’ard Blanchard emmygrating. -He be to call for that parcel hisself.” - -“Be he?” enquired Mr Bolt with starting eyes. - -“He be. There was never no talk of his emmygrating, the folks at the -Black d’ say. He be a-workin’ under the same measter, an’ a-drivin’ o’ -the same cart. He have shifted from the house he had to a lodging i’ the -town, but that’s all the emmygration he did do.” - -“I see,” said the farmer, “Thank ’ee.” - -“’Twas a funny thing as ye didn’t know, warn’t it?” remarked the carrier -as he gathered up the reins. “Blanchard’s your daughter’s husband, -bain’t he?” - -“Ees, that’s right,” agreed Bolt. “I d’ ’low it be a funny thing.” He -turned away, and the van jingled past him and soon disappeared into the -darkness. Mr Bolt went slowly homewards, revolving this astonishing -discovery in his mind. He’d been tricked—that was what had happened. -They were all in it, Ned and Alice, and even his wife. They thought they -could fool him just as if he were a child. He knew what they were at. -They thought that once Alice and her children were established at the -farm he could never find it in his heart to turn them out again; but he -would soon show them whether he could or not. No doubt Master Ned -intended to come marching in by and by, expecting to be received with -open arms. They thought him, Farmer Bolt, a regular sammy, did they? -He’d let them know what sort of a sammy he was! Perhaps he could make -fools of them just as easily as they had made a fool of him. He stood -stock-still in the road all at once—an idea had flashed across him, a -scheme of vengeance quite as subtle as the offence, and moreover -appropriate. They—those deceivers—should find themselves caught in their -own trap! - -He strode on now and presently burst impetuously into the family -living-room. Alice and his wife were sitting on either side of the fire; -little Abel had fallen fast asleep in his tiny chair, his curly head -drooping at a most uncomfortable angle over the arm. The farmer stopped -abruptly at sight of him. - -“What’s that child doing here at this time o’ the evening?” he enquired, -roughly. - -“He did beg so hard to sit up till granfer come back,” explained Mrs -Bolt, “we had to let en bide. There, nothin’ ’ud satisfy him. I give -him his sugar-stick, but that wouldn’t do. He said he must stop up an’ -smoke his pipe wi’ granfer. He’s been a-savin’ it till ye come—there’s -but just the leastest little corner bit off, look-see.” - -But granfer did not look. He sat heavily down in his chair and glared at -Alice, who was knitting a woollen comforter. - -“What be doin’?” he enquired, savagely. - -She glanced up with a smile. “You mustn’t look,” she said. “It’s a -Christmas present.” - -“Ye be a-goin’ to send it out to Ned in Ameriky, I suppose,” he suggested -sarcastically. - -“It’s not for Ned,” returned Alice quickly, and Mrs Bolt added in a -reproachful tone:— - -“The poor maid be a-makin’ it for you, father.” - -There was a pause, during which the farmer recalled his injury and -resolved not to be mollified. - -“Christmas,” he said slowly. “Christmas. I d’ ’low Ned ’ull feel -hisself a bit lonely spendin’ Christmas in Ameriky. Ye’d best write an’ -tell en to come back an’ spend it wi’ us.” - -This was the scheme which the farmer had elaborated during his ireful -descent of the lane. He would tell Alice to send for her husband, and -she, carrying out her former plan of action, would pretend to write to -America and invite him to return, but as soon as Ned appeared he would -find he had met his match. Farmer Bolt would desire him and his family -to emmygrate out o’ that house, and never set foot in it again. - -“That’ll surprise ’em all a bit, I d’ ’low,” said Mr Bolt vengefully to -himself. - -He did not look at Alice as he spoke, half fearful of prematurely -betraying his anger; but after a moment, finding she did not reply, he -wheeled in his chair with an enquiring glance. - -Alice had dropped her work on her lap and was leaning forward, gazing at -him with eyes that were full of tears. - -“Well?” he asked impatiently. Before he realised what she was about she -had risen from her chair and thrown her arms round his neck. - -“Oh, father,” she cried. “Oh, father, I can’t bear it! You’re so -good—so good to me, an’ I’ve been that wicked and deceitful!” - -As she uttered the last word, the farmer, who at first had struggled to -free himself, became suddenly passive in her embrace. - -“I have, I have,” she went on, sobbing. “There, mother, I be a-goin’ to -tell en everything. I couldn’t go on actin’ lies when he be so kind. -Oh, father, I’ve deceived ye shameful. Ned isn’t in Ameriky at all—he -never emmygrated. ’Twas jist a made-up story.” - -Shaking with sobs she clung closer to her father, who still sat immovable -and looking straight before him. - -“I don’t wonder ye can scarce believe it,” she wept. “I could never ha’ -believed it o’ myself, but we was so wretched, Ned an’ me, an’ so -terr’ble bad off, an’ I thought if ye once had me back i’ my wold place -ye’d maybe get fond o’ me again—ye used to be so fond o’ me, father. I -thought ye’d maybe take to the childern—an’ that by-and-by ye’d maybe -forgive Ned, an’ gie en the carter’s place.” - -“Oh,” said Mr Bolt, “that was it, was it?” - -“Ye know ’twould be only nat’ral, my dear,” put in Mrs Bolt meekly. “Ye -wouldn’t be out o’ pocket by it, an’ ye’d be pervidin’ for your own flesh -an’ blood.” - -Mr Bolt’s countenance changed; his wife’s suggestion was eminently -practical, and he could not help being struck by it. Nevertheless the -share she had taken in the recent plot was still too fresh in his memory -to admit of his parleying with her. - -“There, wold ’ooman,” he cried, screwing himself round in his chair, “ye -needn’t be a-puttin’ your oar in. Ye’d better keep quiet. I wonder ye -dare look me in the face,” he added sternly. - -“’Twasn’t mother’s fault—’twas me thought of it,” cried Alice quickly. -“’Twas me planfned it—” - -“An’ ’twas very well planned too,” commented her father. “I only wonder -ye should ha’ thought I’d ever change my mind. Ye do know I be a man o’ -my word, don’t ye?” - -“I do, I do,” sobbed she, “but still—oh dear, father, haven’t we been -happy together these last few weeks, and haven’t ye got fond o’ little -Abel, an’ wouldn’t it be nice for us all to be friends? Ye did use to -say Ned was a terr’ble good worker,” she added wistfully. - -Mr Bolt looked at first severe and then dubious; this was evidently an -aspect of the case which had not before presented itself. The rigidity -of his form relaxed in some degree, and for the first time since Alice’s -confession he cast on her a glance which, though reproachful, was not -unfriendly. - -“’Tis true, that,” he said in a meditative tone, “’ees, ’tis true. Ye be -a truth-tellin’ maid as a rule, my dear. I wonder how you came to make -up such a lyin’ tale about the emmygration.” - -As Alice hid her face he continued more kindly. - -“There, we’ll say no more about that since ye owned up at the last. I -mid own up about summat too, as maybe ye wouldn’t like.” - -Alice raised her head quickly, and Mrs Bolt dropped the poker, and turned -round. Little Abel, disturbed by the clatter, moved uneasily in his -sleep. The farmer looked from the women’s scared faces to that of the -child, and all at once smoothed the waving hair from his daughter’s -forehead and kissed her. - -“I don’t know as I will, though,” he said. “Nay, some things is best -forgot. I d’ ’low I’ll forget this.” - -“An’ ye’ll forgive as well as forget?” said Alice. Mr Bolt disengaged -himself gently, rose, and took a hurried turn about the room. - -“I bain’t one what likes to go again’ my word,” he said after a moment’s -hard thinking. “I said I’d never let your husband cross my door—” Both -the anxious women exclaimed simultaneously; the farmer threw out his hand -to command silence. - -“Bide a bit,” he said, “it’ll work out all right. When I said that about -your husband, Alice, I didn’t know he were going to be my carter. That’s -a different story, bain’t it? I shouldn’t wonder but what my carter mid -have to come in and out of the house for arders.” - -As Alice went quickly towards him, her eyes shining and her bosom -heaving, he burst into a roar of laughter; and then, becoming suddenly -serious, caught her in his arms. - -“There, write to your husband, love,” he said. “Write to en so soon as -ye like. Tell him”—he paused, and then began to laugh again, but -unsteadily, “tell him he can emmygrate back again, an’ while he be -waitin’ for Jim to give up the carter’s place, we’ll make shift to spend -a merry Christmas together.” - - - - -FARMER BARNES’ DILEMMA - - -FARMER BARNES stirred his tea vigorously and continuously for some -minutes, raised the cup to his lips, with the spoon still in it, paused, -tasted again, glancing severely over the edge at his daughter Maimie, and -then remarked, in somewhat stern tones:— - -“You haven’t put no brandy in!” - -“Nay, feyther; I clean forgot to tell ye as there was scarce a drop left -in bottle yesterday. I put the little drain that was left in tea-pot, -but I’m afeared there weren’t enough to make mich difference.” - -“The tay bain’t drawed at all, lass—it makes all that difference. Ye -should ha’ towd me when I was goin’ to town yesterday as bottle were nigh -empty.” - -“Ah, that I should; but I forgot.” - -And Maimie wrinkled up her forehead until her eyebrows nearly touched her -fair fluffy fringe. Her father set down his cup with a kind of groan, -and looked at her with eyes that seemed puzzled, well nigh tearful, in -spite of their severity. - -“Yigh, you’re a good hand at forgettin’, Maimie—ye met tak’ a prize -for’t. There weren’t a bit o’ sauce wi’ the cowd pork to-day, and the -taters was as hard as hard.” - -Maimie coloured and looked down; the farmer gazed at her sternly for a -full minute, and then made a sudden lunge at the youngest child who sat -next to him. - -“What’s wrong wi’ thy bishop, Maggie? One side is all tucked up.” - -“It’s tore,” announced Maggie, with a certain triumph in a statement -which must call down condemnation on her elder. “Our Maimie said as -she’d mend it—she’ve been sayin’ she’ll mend it all the week.” - -“Thou’rt a nasty little tell-tale, Maggie,” cried Maimie with some heat. -“Ye never think for to remind me wi’out it’s jest at my busiest time—when -I’m gettin’ dinner ready or summat.” - -“There, there, never mind,” interposed Barnes gloomily. “’Tis allus the -same story. Young heads I suppose is what we mun look for on young -shoulders.” And he went on with his tea, swallowing it in great gulps, -and as it were under protest, and remarking every now and then below his -breath that it wasn’t half drawed. - -At the conclusion of the meal the younger children slid down from their -seats, and began to play noisily in a corner, while Maimie “sided” the -things. Her father pushed back his chair, with a squeaking sound, over -the tiled floor, lit his pipe, and, extending his stocking-clad feet to -the blaze, smoked meditatively and despondently. - -Maimie glanced at him every now and then as she went backwards and -forwards between kitchen and buttery, and at last, pausing opposite to -him, encountered his steadfast and sombre gaze. - -“Come thou here, my lass,” he said; “put down yon dish, and come and sit -here aside o’ me. Maimie,” he continued solemnly, “I’ve been thinkin’ o’ -summat.” - -Maimie, impressed by his tone, gazed at him with scared blue eyes, not -caring to speak. - -“Ah, I’ve been thinkin’ o’ summat,” he repeated, “summat rather -partik’ler. First off I’ve been thinkin’ a dale about your mother, -Maimie. I miss her dreadful.” - -“I’m sure ye do, feyther,” said the girl with a sob. “’Tis what we all -do. Nobry can’t miss poor mother more nor me.” - -“’Tis a twelvemonth or more since she was took,” continued Barnes, in the -same sepulchral tone. “Ah, a twelvemonth ’twas last Sunday week—and the -house don’t seem like itself at all. I don’t say but what you do your -best, my lass, but things seem to be warsening every day. I don’t know -whatever mother ’ud say if she were here to see it—I don’t I’m sure. I’m -fair moidered wi’ nobbut thinkin’ on it. It seems same as if I wasn’t -doin’ my dooty by her, poor soul. She was allus that house-proud for one -thing, and sich a manager. Summat ’ull ha’ to be done, Maimie.” - -Maimie began to whimper, and to wipe her eyes with her apron, and to -protest in muffled tones from behind its folds that she did try, and she -couldn’t tell how ’twas as things always seemed to slip her memory. The -children was tiresome for one thing, and tore their clothes much more -than when mother was alive, and they didn’t mind her a bit, and she had -meant to make some apple-sauce, and, and— - -“There, that’ll do,” interrupted Barnes, leaning forward with one great -hand on either knee, “Thou’rt but young, as I say, and I mustn’t expect -too much fro’ thee. Do what ye will ye can’t be like poor mother; nay, -’tisn’t to be looked for; nay, it ’ud want sombry else as is older and -wiser nor thee, lass, to take mother’s place. Ah, I’ve been thinkin’ o’ -that”—here he paused, slowly polishing the knees of his corduroys with -his broad palms,—“I’m wishful for to do my dooty by your poor mother, my -dear,” he resumed presently, looking very hard at Maimie. “Ah, I -couldn’t noways rest easy in my mind, if I didn’t strive to do that, and -so, as I tell ye, I’m thinkin’ o’ summat.” - -“What are ye thinkin’ on, feyther?” cried the girl quickly. - -Mr Barnes restored his pipe to his mouth, sucked at it, and then, blowing -out a cloud of smoke, looked at his daughter with moist eyes from amid -the blue mist. - -“’Twill go hard wi’ me,” he said slowly; “it will indeed, but the -question isn’t what I’d choose, but what she’d choose.” - -“Who?” cried Maimie, quite at sea. - -“Why, the poor missus, your mother. It’ll go agen me, as I say, but I’ve -made up my mind for to do it.” - -“For pity’s sake, feyther, speak plain. To do what?” - -“Why, to take a second, my dear,” said the farmer, speaking somewhat -indistinctly by reason of the pipe which was still firmly wedged in the -corner of his mouth, but with the same solemn dignity. “To get wed—to -pick soombry out as ’ud do for me the way your dear mother done for -me—one as ’ud keep things straight, same as they used to be, and have an -eye to all of you young folks.” - -“Nay, but, feyther, mother ’ud never ha’ liked that,” protested Maimie. -“’Tis the very last thing she’d wish, to have a stranger put in her -place, and a stepmother cocked up over her childer.” - -“Cocked up,” repeated the farmer sternly, “the one as I have in my mind -isn’t like to be easy cocked up. A sensible, steady, hard-workin’ -woman—a widder too, so ye may think she’ll have a feelin’ heart for me. -And one as have childer of her own, a plenty of ’em, and ’ull know how to -dale wi’ all on you.” - -“Who is it, feyther?” gasped the girl. - -“Why, Mrs Wharton o’ the Pit.” - -“Mrs Wharton!” ejaculated Maimie. She checked the tears which were ready -to fall, and sat looking at her father in amazement, the colour sweeping -over her pretty face. “Why, she’ve got six childer of her own, and -pretty nigh all of ’em lads.” - -Her father nodded sideways with a contented air. - -“They’ll come in handy about the place I dare-say,” he remarked. - -“And she only buried Mr Wharton six month ago!” - -“Ah! I reckon she’ll feel the want of him—very nigh as bad as I feel the -want o’ your mother.” - -“But she’d never think o’ gettin’ wed again—she’s fifty-five and more.” - -Barnes removed his pipe, pointing with the stem at Maimie to enforce the -comparison:— - -“Your mother,” he said brokenly, “your mother, my dear, was fifty-four -and a bit—’tis a nice age. The more I think on’t, the more I do seem to -tak’ to the notion. Now, I’ll tell you what you’ll do, Maimie—jest pop -round to-morrow and ax Mrs Wharton to come and eat her Sunday dinner wi’ -us—her and all her fam’ly. Sunday is a good day for doin’ a bit o’ -coortin’—her and me ’ull mak’ it up while you youngsters are making -merry.” - -“Nay, but, feyther—” - -“Nay, but, I’ll not ha’ no buts,” shouted her father, good-humouredly but -firmly. “Do what I tell thee, my lass. My mind’s made up, so thou met -as well put the best face thou can on’t.” - -When feyther hammered on the table after that imperative fashion, and -threw so much determination into his one-sided nod, Maimie knew from -experience that it was useless to argue, and, with a heavy heart, -promised to obey. - -Sunday came and proved to be all that Sunday ought to be: sunshiny and -bright. - -After church the Whartons and Barnes’ came trooping down the flagged path -together: Jim brave in the flowered waistcoat which had been laid aside -since the death of his missus, and the Widow Wharton displaying a white -flower in her bonnet, and discarding her crape “weeper.” As they -proceeded in single file, both being too portly in figure to walk side by -side, the neighbours smiled and winked, and nudged each other, and -remarked that it was a match for sure. The children of both families, -stiff and prim in their best clothes, eyed each other somewhat shyly, but -presently fraternised; though Luke, the eldest Wharton lad, a fine, -well-grown young fellow already in the twenties, walked apart, silently, -and with a gloomy face. - -Maimie had stayed at home, busy over hospitable preparations, and now, -with a flushed face and a heavy heart, stood awaiting her visitors. She -revived a little presently, when Mrs Wharton praised her cooking, and -remarked that she could not have made the pudden better herself; but her -countenance soon clouded over again. During the meal feyther paid marked -attention to the lady of his choice, filling up her glass until she was -obliged to protect it by keeping one broad hand outspread on the top, -piling her plate with beef, and leering in an amorous fashion whenever he -caught her eye; and, at its conclusion, he requested Mrs Wharton to -withdraw with him to the parlour, and jocularly told the young folk they -might clear away and cut what capers they liked. - -“I’ll go out for a smoke, I think,” said Luke; but he spoke somewhat -hesitatingly, and looked questioningly at Maimie. “Without,” he added -gallantly, “I can be of any service to you, Miss Barnes.” - -“Do just what you please,” she returned shortly. “I don’t suppose you -feel more like making merry nor I do mysel’. The childer can play if -they’ve a mind to; but it ’ull take me all my time to clear away—and I’ve -no great fancy for making merry as how ’tis.” - -“Come, I’ll help ye with the tray,” said Luke. “There, little ’uns, ye -can take hands round and start ‘The Mulberry Bush.’ ’Twill keep ’em -quiet. I can’t but feel sorry for ye, Maimie,” he continued, as he took -hold of the tray. “’Tisn’t what none of us ’ud like, I s’pose,” and he -jerked his head towards the closed door of the parlour. - -“Ye think your mother ’ull have him then?” said Maimie, with a sinking -heart. - -“I can’t make out one way nor t’other. She’s got no call to be thinkin’ -o’ wedlock, mother hasn’t. Feyther have left her every stick on the -place. ’Tis a nice place, as ye know, Maimie, and she’s reet well off. -I couldn’t help but ha’ words wi’ her last night, and she answered me -back awful sharp. ‘’Tis time there was a change, Mester Luke,’ says she. -‘Thou’rt gettin’ above thyself, lad,’ she says.” - -“An’ what do the younger ones say to it?” said Maimie, pausing in the act -of setting a pile of plates on the tray which he held. - -“Eh, they don’t say much. Mother can do what she likes wi’ they. They -look a bit glum, but that’s all.” - -“’Tisn’t much use lookin’ glum, I reckon,” sighed the girl. “Feyther’s -that set on the notion he won’t hear naught agen it.” - -“I dessay,” said Luke; “’tis a very good match for him?” - -“Not a bit better nor ’tis for your mother,” cried Maimie, tossing her -head. - -“Why, our place is twice as big as this,” returned the youth; “and mother -have money put by—a dale of brass she have. I don’t fancy your feyther -could match it.” - -They were slowly proceeding towards the buttery by this time, each -holding on to an end of the tray; through the open doorway the children -could be seen dancing round and round, while they vociferated shrilly the -time-honoured refrain “Ring-a-ring-a-roses!” - -“I don’t want him to match your mother’s brass, nor yet your mother,” -said Maimie. “I wish she and the lot o’ you had kep’ away—that I do.” - -“Well, if that’s all ye can find to say to me, I’d best take myself off,” -cried Luke angrily, and he suddenly let go of his end of the tray. - -There was a slide, a clatter, a crash; the piled up crockery, too heavy -for Maimie’s arms alone, had slipped to the end of the tilted tray and -fallen on the tiled buttery floor. - -Maimie glanced at the heap of destruction for one moment, and then burst -into tears. - -“I didn’t go for to do it,” shouted Luke, overwhelmed with horror and -remorse. “I thought ye’d firm howd on tray, Maimie.” - -“Eh dear, eh dear,” sobbed Maimie, the tears pouring through her -outspread fingers, her bosom heaving convulsively. “Whatever mun I do? -Feyther’ll be mad. And I’ll be that shamed before your mother and all.” - -Luke struck at his forehead vengefully. - -“I’m a regular fool,” he cried. “I’m a downright wastral and -good-for-naught, that’s what I am. I can’t forgive myself for being so -rough. Dunnot take agen me, Maimie, dunnot! I’m right down sorry—awful -sorry, I am.” - -“I—don’t—belive—you are,” sobbed Maimie. - -“I’ll swear I am,” asserted Luke, and, picking his way through the -fragments of crockery, he put his arm round Maimie’s waist. - -“Well, maybe you are,” she said, relenting a little, but still weeping -piteously. “’Tis a judgment on me I’m sure; I didn’t ought to ha’ spoke -that way about your mother to your face.” - -“Nay, if it comes to that,” groaned Luke, penitently, “I didn’t ought to -ha’ cast up about the brass to ye.” - -By this time he was mopping delicately at Maimie’s eyes with a beautiful -silk handkerchief, duly perfumed with a bottle of sixpenny scent; and -Maimie was so touched by this attention that she presently smiled wanly -through her tears, and the two concluded a compact of friendship as they -cleared away the broken china. - -Meanwhile Jim Barnes and Mrs Wharton sat face to face on either side of -the parlour fire, gazing at each other for some time in unbroken silence. -Presently the farmer spoke, pointing at the widow with his thumb, and -inaugurating proceedings by heaving a deep sigh. - -“I reckon ye miss the gaffer, Mrs Wharton?” - -“I do indeed, Mr Barnes,” returned the widow, with an answering sigh, -which made her stiff black silk creak alarmingly. - -“Ah—ye can’t miss him more nor what I do my poor missus. She was a -wonderful woman, Mrs Wharton.” - -“She was—ah, she was. Providence seems to ha’ dealt a bit ’ard wi’ the -two of us, Mr Barnes, but we munnot _re_-pine.” - -After this there came a pause, during which the farmer scratched his head -and rubbed his knees. - -“My lass, Maimie, d’ye see—she’s a very good lass, but a bit giddy—she -dunnot seem never to remember naught.” - -“She’s but young,” said the widow tolerantly. “Our Luke—the eldest lad, -he do seem to gi’ me a lot o’ trouble. Wants to know better nor me, and -is ever and always trying to be gaffer. ‘Women don’t know naught about -farmin’,’ says he to me as bold as ye please.” - -“Did he?” ejaculated Jim, with a deeply scandalised air. - -“Not but what,” continued the widow, half-laughingly, after a moment’s -reflection; “not but what the lad have got a wonderful notion o’ farm -work himself. Wonderful, he have—eh, he shapes wonderful well for a lad -of his years. Mr Gradwell, now, o’ Little Upton, he was passin’ the -remark to me only t’other day. Says he, ‘I never did see sech a long -head as your Luke have got for sech a young chap,’ he says.” - -“Ah,” exclaimed Farmer Barnes appreciatively, “he’s a fine lad, I’ll say -that for him. He used to follow your poor master same as his shadow. I -reckon ’twas your Joe what put him in the way of things so well. I -reckon,” he continued sympathetically, “he’d ha’ been proud on him if -he’d ha’ lived, poor owd lad.” - -“I reckon he would,” agreed Mrs Wharton, puckering up her face and -producing her handkerchief; from the turn the conversation was now taking -she would have soon to cry again. - -“Ah,” said Barnes, “your lad, I reckon he’s a comfort to you, Mrs -Wharton.” - -Mrs Wharton twitched down her handkerchief and spoke in a voice that was -exceedingly clear and decided. - -“Well, Mester Barnes, he is an’ he isn’t, if ye know what I mean. There -can’t be two masters in one house, and that’s what I say—time and again I -say it to our Luke. I’m fair tired sayin’ the same thing over and over -again.” - -The farmer nodded with a kind of groan. - -“Jest so, Mrs Wharton, jest so. I can feel for ye there. ’Tis the very -same way wi’ me an’ our Maimie. I do tell her a thing twenty times -may-hap, an’ she’ll forget jest same, not but what she’s a good lass—I’d -reckon you’d find her a good lass, Mrs Wharton, if you was to coom here.” - -“Eh, Mr Barnes,” said the widow bashfully, “whatever put that in your -head? Coom here, d’ye say?” - -“This ’ere house,” said Jim firmly, “wants a missus summat awful, an’ I -want a missus to see to things an’ keep the young folks in order, and -there’s nobry in the parish I’d like better nor yourself, Mrs Wharton. -You an’ me can feel for each other—ah, that we can—I don’t see nothin’ in -the world to prevent us from lendin’ each other a helpin’ hand.” - -Mrs Wharton paused to reflect, pleating the edge of her black-edged -handkerchief. - -“If there was but you an’ me,” she said presently, “the matter ’ud be -easy settled. I could do wi’ you very well, Mester Barnes. As ye say, -we can feel for one another—but there’s the childer to be thought on—all -they little lads o’ mine—there is but the one lass, ye know.” - -“The more the merrier,” returned Jim placidly. “There’s plenty o’ little -odd jobs they can be doin’ on, at arter school be over. I often wish I’d -ha’ had more lads mysel’.” - -“Well, but,” continued Mrs Wharton, to whom the various aspects of the -situation were slowly unfolding themselves, “there’s your big lass to be -thought on—your Maimie. I doubt she’ll not make it so very pleasant for -me. I could manage the little ones right enough—I was allus fond o’ -childer. But your Maimie—I doubt we shouldn’t get on so very well -together.” - -“Oh, ye’d get on,” said Barnes, “ye’d get on at arter a bit, I dare say.” - -He did not speak very confidently, however, and presently continued in a -still more dubious tone: “’Tis your Luke as is a bit of a stumblin’ -block. I hadn’t reckoned he were that masterful. I doubt it’ll not be -easy to get him to content hissel’ wi’ workin’ here under me, at arter -he’s been cock o’ the walk at your place.” - -“Workin’ here under you,” repeated Mrs Wharton blankly. “He’d never do -that—never. I don’t know however it’s to be managed, Mester Barnes, I’m -sure. I didn’t reckon to leave our place, ye see. I reckoned—well the -thought jest happened to strike me, as if I was to take a second husband -he’d be content to coom an’ live at the Pit.” - -Farmer Barnes rolled his head from side to side, and gazed at the good -woman with a sternly disapproving air. - -“That wouldn’t suit me,” he said, “nay, that it wouldn’t. Our family -have been settled here for a hundred year an’ more; I bain’t a-goin’ to -shift.” - -Again Mrs Wharton considered. She was not disposed to relinquish her -rights without a struggle, but, on the other hand, Jim Barnes was the -most eligible suitor who was likely to come her way. The widowed state -of both seemed to make the alliance peculiarly desirable; none of the -neighbours could cast up at her for replacing poor Joe so soon when her -second husband stood as much in need of consolation as herself. Then he -was well-to-do, and a most excellent father. She had thought, moreover, -that his support would have enabled her to get the better of the -recalcitrant Luke. But there were limits which could not be outstepped. -To expect a youth of twenty-two to accept a subordinate position on -strange premises was too much. - -“The Pit Farm is a very fine farm,” she remarked tentatively, after a -pause. “The Whartons have lived there a good few year too. ’Tis but -nat’ral as our Luke should look to steppin’ into his feyther’s shoes some -day when I’m laid under ground. ’Tis what he’ve a right to expect.” - -“Well, let the lad step into ’em now, then,” exclaimed Jim Barnes -jovially. “Let him step away. I don’t want to be gaffer at the Pit -Farm; all as I want, my dear, is for you to come an’ be missus here.” - -Mrs Wharton relaxed. When her wooer smiled so pleasantly and called her -“my dear,” it was difficult to maintain an attitude of aloofness; -nevertheless, though her heart was insensibly softening, her shrewd, -stolid North-country head by no means followed suit. - -“There’s a deal to be thought on, isn’t there?” she remarked. “Our -Luke—if I was to let our Luke set up for hissel’ at our place, there’d be -no doin’ anythin’ wi’ him. An’ the lad’s ower young too to be livin’ -alone there—” - -“Why need he live alone?” interrupted Jim. “Pick out a wife for -him—that’s what ye’d best do—pick out a wife for him an’ let the yoong -folks set up there, and you coom here along o’ me.” - -Mrs Wharton smiled dubiously. “It met be a good thing in one way,” she -conceded, “but still—well, ye see, I didn’t reckon to give up the Pit -Farm to our Luke for a good few year yet. There’s all the little uns to -bring up and eddicate. I couldn’t expect to be lookin’ to you for -everything.” - -“That’s true,” said Jim, becoming suddenly very solemn. He, too, had -heard about the good bit of brass that was laid by, and, as every -sensible person knew, when brass was laid by, it was laid by, until the -time came for the fortunate possessor to leave it by will to somebody -else. Still he had not reckoned on the possible contingency of having to -feed and clothe at his expense the five younger Whartons. - -After deep meditation, he struck the table with his fist. - -“Why not make the chap pay ye rent for it?” he said. “That ’ud be the -thing. Set him up there an’ pick him out a missus, an’ let the two of -’em manage for themselves, and pay ye a lump sum every rent-day—a good -sum, mind ye, so as Mester Luke mayn’t be kickin’ up his heels an’ -thinkin’ too much of hissel’. Coom,” he cried, “what d’ye think o’ that -notion?” - -“I think well on’t,” said Mrs Wharton, pursing up her lips, and nodding -with a satisfied air. “I think ’tis a capital notion, Mester Barnes. I -must just turn ower in my mind a bit, the lasses I’d like our Luke to -choose from. There’s Sally Lupton now; she’s a nice little body, an’ -folks say owd Lupton left a good bit to her mother.” - -“Ah,” said the farmer, “she met do very well.” - -“An’ there’s Rose Blanchard,” continued Mrs Wharton, ruminating, “she’s a -nice lass; wonderful house-proud Rose is.” - -“Ah!” agreed Barnes, nodding. - -Mrs Wharton was struck by something peculiar in his tone, and looked at -him sharply; a deeper shade of colour was slowly overspreading his face, -and he was smiling in an oddly bashful way. - -“Can ye call to mind no other lass?” he said, after a pause, and, edging -his chair round the table, he nudged the widow meaningly. - -A light suddenly dawned on Mrs Wharton; she began to laugh with a rather -conscious look. - -“Well, theer’s one lass as ’ud suit very well. In more ways nor one -she’d suit, I reckon; but I’m sure I don’t know whatever you’d say to it, -Mester Barnes.” - -“Give her a name,” said Jim, grinning more broadly. - -“Well—I hardly like—’t ’ud coom best fro’ you, Mester Barnes; but she’s a -very nice lass, an’ I’ve heard as her mother left a nice bit o’ money -behind her.” - -“Meanin’ my missus,” shouted Jim, the smiles forsaking his face -immediately. - -“Oh, I named no names, Mester Barnes, though I did hear that poor Martha -had a nice bit put away in the bank.” - -“Maybe she had, an’ maybe she hadn’t,” said Jim. “As how ’tis, whatever -was left was left to me, an’ it’s me as’ll have the settlin’ on’t.” - -“Of course, of course—I’m only sayin’—blood’s thicker nor water, when -all’s said an’ done, isn’t it?” - -“’Tis indeed, an’ I’m sure that’s a sayin’ as you’ll bear in mind, my -dear, when you’re setting your Luke up. He’s his feyther’s son, ye know, -an’ what did his feyther lay by so mich brass for, if not for the lad as -is to stand in his shoes?” - -There was a twinkle in honest Jim’s eyes as he made this home-thrust, and -when Mrs Wharton replied, it was with a sort of giggle. - -“Ah, to be sure, he’s to stand in’s feyther’s shoes, poor lad, but I -doubt he’ll find ’em a tight fit if I take your advice, Mester Barnes, -an’ make him pay me a big lump o’ rent.” - -The farmer laughed outright. - -“Ye had me there, Lizzie,” he said. “I hadn’t give a thought to the -chance o’ my lass settin’ up along o’ your lad when I gave you that there -advice, my dear. ’Tis as broad as ’tis long, that’s one thing—’twill be -but takin’ the brass out o’ one pocket and puttin’ it into another. -Blood’s thicker nor water, as ye said just now. I doubt we’ll agree very -well.” - -“I doubt we shall,” said Mrs Wharton. - -“Well, the first thing agreed on is that you an’ me is to be shouted -soon,” pursued Jim, smiling, “and next thing is to tackle the yoong -folks.” - -“Reet,” said Mrs Wharton. “If you’ll have a quiet talk wi’ your lass at -arter we’re gone, I’ll say a word to our Luke while we’re goin’ home.” - -“Nay,” cried the farmer, rising, “I’m never one for half-measures. Let’s -have the pair of ’em in now, and put it to ’em straight.” - -Before Mrs Wharton had time to protest, he had thrown open the door, and -was shouting lustily for Luke and Maimie. - -After a moment or two the young couple appeared, Maimie, rather pale and -inclined to be tearful, Luke, flushed and determined. - -“Coom in, my lad,” shouted Barnes, clapping him cheerily on the back. -“Coom your ways in Maimie, too: we’n summat to tell ye.” - -“An’ we’n summat to say, too,” said Luke, firmly. “Mother, I know very -well what you’re goin’ to say, an’ I’ll ha’ my say out first. You an’ -Mester Barnes here are goin’ to make a match on’t. Well, Maimie an’ me -has been talkin’ a bit, an’ though we’re not wishful any way to hurt your -feelin’s, we’ve made up our minds, both on us, as we’ll not stop here to -have strangers set over us.” - -Farmer Barnes whistled, and Mrs Wharton, whose wits, as has been said, -moved slowly, looked a trifle alarmed. - -“So what we’ve settled,” continued Luke, resolutely, yet looking from his -mother to the farmer, with a kind of compassion, for he felt that the -blow which he found himself obliged to deal them, was of a staggering -nature, “what we’ve made up our minds to do is to get wed to each other -and go away to earn our own livin’s.” - -“An’ a very good notion too,” said Jim approvingly, sidling the while -towards Mrs Wharton, and winking solemnly as he intercepted her somewhat -startled gaze. “’Tis a very good job as ye’ve settled the matter that -way, my lad—’twas the very thing me an’ your mother was thinkin’ o’ -proposin’ to ye.” - -“Eh, feyther, ye’d never be so cruel as to want to turn me fro’ the -door,” gasped Maimie, her ready tears bursting forth. - -“Well,” exclaimed Luke, “an’ that’s a pretty thing, I will say. Have ye -the face to tell me, mother, as you an’ Mester Barnes had made it up -between ye to get shut of us—your own flesh ’an blood, for the sake o’ -takin’ up wi’ each other?” - -Barnes, who had by this time reached Mrs Wharton’s chair, gave her a -warning nudge with his elbow, and winked again. - -“Nay, lad, me an’ your mother is not for turnin’ ye out, but if you an’ -our Maimie have settled everything between yourselves we haven’t nothin’ -to say, have we Lizzie? ’Tis a very good thing for young folks to earn -their own livin’—a very good thing.” - -Luke and Maimie looked at each other blankly. The bomb which they had -expected to discharge with such deadly effect had unaccountably fizzled -off; nobody seemed a penny the worse for it. On the contrary, this plan, -which they had expected to be so strenuously opposed, appeared to suit -the older couple to a nicety. - -“Well,” said Luke, drawing a long breath, “what I says I’ll stick to. If -you’ll keep your word to me, Maimie, I’ll keep mine to you. ’Tis a bit -hard to turn out of the old place after bein’ brought up to look for -somethin’ so different, an’ I doubt you’ll find it a bit hard too, my -lass, to settle down in a little small cottage—I doubt if your mother -were alive—or my poor feyther, as thought such a dale o’ me—” - -He broke off, choking; there were tears in his blue eyes. - -Mrs Wharton could stand it no longer; rising hurriedly from her chair, -she pushed the farmer on one side, and, squeezing herself round the -table, threw her arms round Luke’s neck. - -“Nay, my lad,” she cried, “nay, dunnot believe it. Dunnot think as your -mother could ever be that ’ard. Ye shannot be treated no worse nor if -your feyther wer alive—maybe a bit better, for our gaffer were wonderful -masterful, and I doubt he’d not be the one to turn out to make room for -thee the same as I’m thinkin’ o’ doin’.” - -Luke, who had been warmly returning his mother’s embrace, now jerked up a -somewhat ruffled head, his flushed face disclosing distinct traces of -tears. - -“What’s that ye say, mother?” he asked. - -Meanwhile Jim had been shaking his head waggishly at Maimie, and -uplifting an admonitory forefinger. - -“Well, of all the little noddies! So I’m goin’ to turn thee out, am I, -to shift for thysel’. Water’s thicker nor blood, I s’pose, ho, ho, ho!” - -He laughed prodigiously at his own wit, and Maimie dashed away her tears -and smiled a doubtful smile. - -“Mester Barnes and me,” said Mrs Wharton solemnly, “have made up we’re -minds for to get wed, him bein’ in want of a missus an’ me bein’ that -awful lonesome wi’out your poor feyther, Luke, as I feel I mun put -soombry in’s place.” - -“Very well said,” interpolated the farmer, in a deep and admiring growl. - -“At same time,” continued Mrs Wharton, “we both knows our dooty to our -childer, an’ we think the best way o’ settlin’ the matter ’ud be for me -to live here at arter we are wed, and for you, Luke, to stop on at the -Pit wi’ Maimie for your missus. Mester Barnes an’ me,” she added, -looking towards her newly-chosen partner for confirmation of her words, -“’ull give an eye to things from time to time—me inside an’ him out. An’ -ye’ll have to pay me rent for the place, ye know, Luke—” - -“Allowin’ yoursel’ a fair profit, o’ course,” interposed Farmer Barnes, -“a fair profit.” - -“An’ Mester Barnes bein’ a lovin’ feyther, an’ mindful o’ what his poor -missus ’ud wish,” continued the widow, “’ull help ye to start, my lad—for -stock an’ that. Ah, ye may be sure we’s both do the best we can for our -own flesh an’ blood.” - -Luke smiled broadly on his future stepfather, and gripped his sunburnt -hand, murmuring heartily: “’Tis very well done o’ you, I’m sure. Very -handsome—ah, that ’tis.” - -Maimie had crossed over to Mrs Wharton and was uttering on her side -profuse expressions of gratitude and satisfaction. - -Jim Barnes himself, however, looked slightly puzzled, and presently took -occasion to murmur surreptitiously in Mrs Wharton’s ear: - -“Ye had the last word arter all, Lizzie, my dear!” - - - - -THE MISSUS’S CHAIR - - -WHEN the congregation of St Mary’s Church, Thornleigh, came gaily forth -on Christmas Day, pausing in the porch and on the steps, and almost -blocking the gateway as they exchanged cheery greetings and good wishes -with friends and neighbours, old Joe Makin loitered behind. He spoke to -no one, scarcely venturing to show himself, it would appear, till the -merry groups had dispersed and the last gleeful youngster had come -clattering down from his place in the choir, and scampered off to join -the family circle. - -When all at last was still, Joe came slowly out, pulling his hat-brim -down over his eyes, and looking neither to right nor to left. Instead -of, however, descending the steps that led to the lich-gate he went -hobbling round to the rear of the church, and then paused before one of -the graves. - -The headstone bore the name of Annie, only child of Joseph and Mary -Makin, and recorded her death as having taken place at a date full -thirty-five years distant. Lower down was another inscription in memory -of the aforesaid Mary Makin, who had departed this life, it seemed, but a -few months before that very Christmas Day. - -Joe looked round to assure himself that no one was in sight, and then, -stooping stiffly, endeavoured to brush away with his hand the slight -sprinkling of snow which had fallen on the little mound. Drawing a pair -of scissors from his capacious pocket, he clipped the grass here and -there where it had grown rank, muttering to himself the while. - -“’Tisn’t much harm, I don’t think—nay, it canna be much harm, though it -is Christmas Day, just to fettle it up a bit for our Mary. Hoo allus -liked everything gradely—eh, that hoo did. Now hoo must have a bit o’ -green to mak her know ’tis Christmas—ah, and the little ’un too. Annie -shall have a sprig wi’ some pratty berries on’t.” - -He took from beneath his coat two sprigs of holly, and after some -difficulty succeeded in sticking them upright into the half-frozen -ground, the larger one at the head of the grave, the smaller, all gay -with red berries, at the foot. - -“Theer, owd lass,” he said, straightening himself at last, “thou shall -have a bit o’ green at head o’ thy bed same as ever—eh, I could wish I -were a-layin’ theer aside o’ thee—Can’st thou see the berries, little -wench, wheer thou art, up yon?—Well—I mun be off a-whoam now. Eh, but -the grave looks gradely.” - -Somewhat comforted by this reflection he turned about, and set off -homewards. - -There were few loiterers in the village street; every one was indoors, -either preparing for, or already partaking of, the Christmas dinner. -When Lancashire folks make merry they like, as they say, to have plenty -“to mak’ merry wi’.” For weeks, nay, months past, thrifty housewives had -been looking forward to this day, and not a little self-denial had been -practised in order to ensure the keeping of it with becoming lavishness. -From every house that Joe passed issued sounds of cheerful bustle, jests -and laughter; he could see the firelight glancing on the window-panes, -and catch glimpses of wonderful decorations in the way of cut paper and -greenery. Here and there a little head would be pressed against the -shining pane to watch for some belated guest; now and again he would hear -a greeting exchanged between one and another; “Merry Christmas, owd lad!” -“The same to you, man!” And then the chairs would draw up and there -would be a clatter of plates, and a very babel of acclamations would -declare the goose or the bit o’ beef to be the finest that ever was seen. -Joe was going to have a goose for his Christmas dinner; he had always -subscribed to a goose club in his missus’s time, and he had not yet -learned to get into new ways; but the thought of that goose of which he -was to partake in absolute solitude served only to increase his -melancholy. - -Poor Mary! how she would have enjoyed it—and she lay yonder in the cold -ground. - -When he arrived at his cottage he took the door-key from its usual -hiding-place behind the loose brick under the ivy, and let himself in. - -Widow Prescott, who “did for him” now, had made everything ready before -she had taken her departure for her own home. A savoury smell came from -the oven where the goose and the pudding (sent as usual from the Hall) -were keeping hot; the cloth was laid, the hearth swept up; the good woman -had even garnished the place with a sprig of green, here and there; but -the table was laid for one, and the missus’s chair stood against the -wall. Joe stood still and looked at it, slowly shaking his head. - -“Eh, theer it stands,” he said, speaking aloud, according to his custom, -“theer it stands. Eh dear, an’ her and me have sat opposite to each for -such a many years! And theer’s the cheer empty, and here am I all by -mysel’, and it’s Christmas Day!” - -He wiped his eyes and shook his head again; then he slowly divested -himself of his hat and coat, which he hung up behind the door, set the -goose and potatoes on the table, and sat down. - -“For what we are about to receive—” began Joe, dismally, and then he -suddenly got on to his feet again. “I’ll have that theer cheer at the -table as how ’tis,” said he, and hobbled across the floor towards it. - -Then, as though struck by a sudden thought, he continued in an altered -voice, “Pull up, missus, draw a bit nearer, lass. That’s it. Now we’s -get to work.” - -He dragged the chair over to the table, and set a plate in front of it, -and a knife and fork, and reached down a cup from the dresser. - -“We’s have a cup o’ tea jest now,” said he; “thou allus liked a cup o’ -tea to thy dinner.” - -Returning to his place he sat down once more. - -“I’ll mak’ shift to think thou’s theer,” he said. “I’ll happen be able -to eat a bit if I can fancy thou’s theer. I reckon thou’rt very like to -be near me somewheer, owd lass; thou an’ me as was never parted for a day -for nigh upon forty year, ’tisn’t very like as thou’d let me keep -Christmas all by mysel’.” - -He was so busy talking to himself that he did not notice that the latch -of the house door, which opened directly into the place, was lifted, as -though by a hesitating hand, and that the door itself was softly pushed a -very little way open. - -Taking up the carving-knife he cut a slice from the breast of the goose. - -“Wilt have a little bit?” he asked, looking towards the empty chair. - -“Yes, please,” said a little voice behind him; the door was opened and -closed again, and little feet came pattering hastily across the floor. - -Joe dropped the knife and fork and looked round; a small figure stood at -his elbow, a dimpled face surmounted by a very mop of yellow curls, was -eagerly lifted to meet his gaze. - -“Hullo!” cried Joe. - -“Hullo!” echoed the little creature, and catching hold of his sleeve, the -child added in a tone of delighted anticipation, “Please, I could like a -bit.” - -“Why, whose little lass are you?” inquired the old man. “And what brings -ye out on Christmas Day? Why, thou’rt starved wi’ cowd, an’ never a hat -a-top of all they curls, an’ not so much as a bit o’ shawl to hap thee -round. What’s thy name, my wench?” - -“Jinny, please, Mr Makin,” announced she; “Jinny Frith. I am John -Frith’s little lass—John o’ Joe’s, ye know.” - -“I know,” said he; “and what brings ye out in the cowd?” - -Here the little face became overcast, and the little lip drooped. - -“Mother put me in the wash-house,” said she. “Hoo wouldn’t let me sit at -table; hoo put me in the wash-house, and I saw your fire shinin’ through -the window, and I thought I’d come and ax ye to let me come in and warm -mysel’.” - -“Well, an’ so I will,” returned Joe, heartily. “Put ye in the -wash-house, did hoo? Well, and that’s a tale. Hoo’s thy stepmother, -isn’t hoo? Ah, I mind it now, I mind hearin’ thy feyther ’ad getten a -new wife.” - -Jinny nodded, “An’ a lot o’ new childer!” she announced. “There’s Tommy, -an’ Teddy, an’ Maggie, an’ Pollie, mother brought ’em all wi’ her.” - -“Ah, she was a widow, was she?” queried Joe, interested. - -“An’ there’s quite a new baby,” continued Jinny, opening her eyes wide, -“a new, little, wee baby. That’s my own sister. Hoo’s so bonny, nobbut -when hoo cries. Hoo cried jest now along o’ me makin’ a noise, and -mother was some mad.” - -“Well, but your mother didn’t ought to have put ye in the wash-house for -that,” returned Joe. “You didn’t go for to wakken the babby a-purpose. -Theer, coom nigh the fire and warm thysel’ a bit. Eh, what little cowd -hands. What’s that theer on thy arm?” - -Jinny turned her chubby arm and examined the mark reflectively. - -“I know!” she cried, “’twas where mother hit me with a spoon yesterday. -I wer’ reachin’ for the sugar.” - -“Hoo hit ye, did hoo?” cried Joe, with a sort of roar. “My word! the -woman mun ha’ a hard heart to hit a little lass same as thee. What was -feyther doing, eh?” - -“Feyther was eatin’ his breakfast,” responded Jinny. “He said hoo didn’t -ought to hit me—and then hoo got agate o’ bargein’ at him.” - -“Well, well,” commented Joe, who had been chafing the little cold hands -throughout the recital, “the poor man’s pretty well moidered, I reckon. -But coom! the goose ’ull soon be as cowd as thee if we don’t give over -talkin’ an’ start eatin’. Thou’d like a bit o’ goose, wouldn’t thou?” - -“Eh, I would!” cried Jinny, with such whole-souled earnestness that he -laughed again. - -Breaking from him she clambered into the chair opposite to his own—poor -Mary’s chair. And there she sat, her feet a long way from the floor, but -the better able on that account to give certain little kicks to the table -in token of ecstasy. - -Joe looked across at her: how strange to see that chubby face, and golden -head, in the place of the kindly wrinkled countenance which had so often -smiled affectionately back at him from between the closely pleated frills -of Mary’s antiquated cap! But the chair was no longer empty, and, though -Joe sighed as he took up his knife and fork, he thought that the tangible -vision of the expectant little face was, on the whole, more conducive to -dispel loneliness than the most determined attempts at make-believe. - -“Hoo’s not theer,” he muttered; “hoo’ll never be theer no more, but it’s -a good job as yon little lass chanced to look in—’tis better nor the -wash-house for the little thing, as how ’tis.” - -Who shall say how Jinny revelled in the goose, and the stuffing, and the -apple-sauce—particularly in the apple-sauce? It was pleasant to see the -solemnity with which she presently selected the biggest potato in the -dish, and, sliding down from her chair, marched round the table to bestow -it on her host. - -“You deserve it,” said she, with a quaintly condescending air—“you are so -good. Besides you are the owdest,” she added as an after thought. - -“Well, to be sure!” ejaculated Joe, leaning back in his chair the better -to clap his hands. - -Then, of course, Jinny was obliged to peel the potato for Joe, and to cut -it up for him; she would in fact have liked to feed him, had not a timely -suggestion as to the advisability of continuing her own dinner recalled -her attention to that very important matter. - -When the pudding came, she insisted on measuring plates to make quite -sure that Joe was not defrauding himself of any portion of his just -share; and was altogether so judicious and patronising, not to say -motherly, that the old man partook of the repast to an accompaniment of -perpetual chuckles. His delight was greatest, perhaps, when Jinny -insisted on “siding” the dinner things at the conclusion of the meal, a -task which she accomplished with most business-like dexterity. One by -one she carried away dishes and plates—having first taken the precaution -of setting the buttery door ajar—then she swept up the floor, and folded -the cloth, in a somewhat lop-sided manner it must be owned, but with an -air which left no doubt of her own consciousness of efficiency. - -“I’ll wash up by and by,” she remarked, as she returned to Joe’s side. - -“Eh, we’ll not ax thee to do that,” replied he. “Thou art a wonderful -little lass. Thou art, for sure! And nobbut six! Thou’s a gradely -headpiece under they curls o’ thine.” - -“My curls is all comin’ off,” remarked Jinny, with a little toss of the -head that carried them. - -“What!” cried Joe, almost jumping from his chair. - -“Mother’s goin’ to cut them all off,” explained the child. “They take -such a time brushin’ out—and sometimes hoo pulls ’em an’ hoo’s vexed when -I cry. So hoo says, Off they must come. Daddy axed hoo to leave ’em -till Christmas, but I ’spect hoo’ll have ’em off to-morrow.” - -“Well, that beats all!” cried Joe, as profoundly moved with indignation -as though the decree had gone forth that Jinny must lose her head instead -of her hair. “I should think that any woman as is a woman, or for the -matter o’ that, anybody wi’ a heart in their breast, ought to be glad and -proud to comb out they curls. For the matter o’ that I’d be willin’ to -comb ’em out mysel’, if that’s all the trouble. Coom over here of a -mornin’, my wench, with thy brush an’ comb, and I’ll see to you.” - -“Will ye, Mr Makin?” said Jinny, clapping her hands. “Eh, ye are good! -Didn’t I say ye was good? The goodest mon—I—ever—did—see,” she added -with emphasis. “I wish I was your little lass,” she remarked, after a -pause. - -“Do ye?” returned Joe, setting aside the pipe which he had been about to -fill, and drawing her towards him. “Ye’d never like to live wi’ an owd -mon same as me,” he pursued in a hesitating tone. “Nay, of course, ye -wouldn’t; ye’d be awful dull.” - -Jinny shook her head till her curls made a yellow nimbus. “I wouldn’t!” -she cried with emphasis. “I’d love to live here wi’ you, Mr Makin. -You’d be my daddy then, wouldn’t ye? Were you ever a daddy, Mr Makin?” - -“A long time ago,” said Joe, “I had a little lass o’ my own, and she’d -curly hair mich the same as thine and bonny blue e’en. Her little bed is -up yon in the top chamber.” - -“If I was your little lass I could sleep in her little bed, couldn’t I?” -returned Jinny, who was a practical young person. “Daddy’s got a lot of -new childer—and I could like to have a new daddy. I’d like _you_ for my -daddy, Mr Makin,” she insisted. - -“Well,” returned Joe, uplifting her dimpled chin with his rugged -forefinger, “’tis a notion that; I reckon I could do wi’ thee very well.” - -“I’d sleep—in—that—little—bed—up—yon,” resumed Jinny, in a sort of chant, -“and I’d sit in this here chair.” - -With some difficulty she dragged over the missus’s chair to the opposite -side of the hearth, and climbed into it. There she sat with her curly -head leaning against the back, a little hand on each of its wooden arms, -and her chubby legs dangling. It was the missus’s chair, but Joe did not -chide the presumptuous little occupant. On the contrary, he gave a sort -of one-sided nod at her, and winked with both eyes together. - -“Now you are as grand as the Queen,” said he. - -While they were chuckling together over this sally, there came a sound of -hasty steps without, followed by a knock on the door; and John Frith -thrust in his head. - -“Eh, thou’rt theer!” he cried. “My word, Jinny, what a fright thou’s -gi’en me. I thought thou was lost.” - -Joe removed his pipe from his mouth, and gazed at the newcomer sternly. - -“Hoo’s here, reet enough,” he returned. “Sit still, Jinny,” as the -child, abashed, began to get down from the chair; “thou’s no need to -stir—coom in if ye are coming, John,” he added, over his shoulder, “an’ -shut yon door. The wind blows in strong enough to send us up the -chimbley—Jinny and me.” - -John obediently closed the door, and came forward. He was a big, -loose-limbed, good-natured looking fellow, without much headpiece the -neighbours said, but with his heart in the right place. As he now -advanced, his face wore an expression, half of amusement, half of -concern. - -“Eh, whoever’d ha’ thought of her runnin’ off here!” he ejaculated. -“Theer’s sich a to-do at our place as never was. Some on ’em thought -hoo’d fallen down the well. Eh, Jinny, thou’lt catch it from mother. -Why didn’t thou stop i’ th’ wash-house?” - -Jinny began to whimper, but before she could reply, Joe Makin took up the -cudgels in her defence. - -“Stop in the wash-house indeed!” cried he. “Yo’ did ought to be ashamed -o’ yo’rsel’, John Prescott. Stop in th’ wash-house on Christmas Day, to -be starved wi’ cowd, an’ clemmed wi’ hunger. ‘I dunno how yo’ can call -yo’rsel’ a mon an’ say sich a thing—yo’, as is her feyther an’ all.” - -“Eh, dear o’ me,” cried John, “’tis enough to drive a mon distracted, -what wi’ one thing an’ what wi’ another. I ax naught but a quiet life. -Jinny, hoo woke the babby, and the missus, hoo got in one of her -tantrums, an’ the childer was all fightin’ an’ skrikin’, an’ the whole -place upside down—eh, theer’s too many on ’em yonder an’ that’s the -truth, but if I say a word hoo’s down on me.” - -“Yo’re a gradely fool to ston’ it, then!” retorted Joe. “The mon should -be gaffer in his own house.” - -“Oh, I don’t say but what he ought to be,” responded John, with a -sheepish smile, “but ’tis easier said than done, mon: I weren’t a-goin’ -to leave the little lass in the wash-house,” he added in an explanatory -tone, “I were goin’ to let her out reet enough on the quiet. I’d saved a -bit o’ dinner for her, too—” - -“Oh, yo’ had, had yo’?” interrupted Joe, ironically. “Coom now, that’s -summat. You weren’t goin’ to let her clem on Christmas Day—well done! -’Twas actin’ like a mon, that was—yo’ may be proud o’ that, John. I tell -yo’ what,” cried Joe, thumping the table, “since yo’ take no more thought -for your own flesh an’ blood nor that, yo’ may mak’ a present o’ the -little lass to me.” - -“Mak’ a present!” stammered the other, staring at him. - -“Ah,” returned Joe, sternly, “you don’t vally her no more nor if hoo wer’ -an owd dish-clout—lettin’ her be thrown out in the wash-house an’ all—but -I’m made different. Your house is too full, yo’ say—well mine’s -empty—awful empty,” he added with something like a groan. “Theer’s too -many on yo’ yon, at your place—well, then, I’ll take Jinny off ye.” - -John still stared at him without speaking, and Joe continued vehemently. - -“I say I’ll take her off yo’. There’ll ’appen be more peace at yo’r -place when the little wench is out of the road; an’ they curls o’ hers -may stop on her head instead o’ being cut off an’ thrown in the -midden—an’ if hoo axes for a bit o’ sugar hoo shan’t get hit wi’ a spoon. -Theer now,” he summed up sternly. - -John scratched his head and reflected. Jinny was his own flesh and -blood, and he loved her after his fashion; but there was no doubt things -were very uncomfortable at home, and if she were not there, there was -likely to be more peace. If Joe really meant what he said he might be -worth hearkening to. - -“Yo’ seem to have taken a wonderful fancy to the little lass,” he said -hesitatingly; “hoo’s a good little lass enough, but—I reckon yo’re -laughin’ at me.” - -“I wer’ never more in earnest i’ my life,” said Joe. “Coom, it mun be -one way or t’other. Mun I have her?” - -“Oh, you can have her reet enough!” returned the father, with a -shamefaced laugh. “Would ye like to live here, Jinny?” - -“Eh, I would!” she cried. “Eh, that I would! He shall be my new daddy.” - -A pang shot through her own father’s heart. - -“An’ yo’ll think no more o’ the owd one now, I reckon,” he said. - -Jinny looked from one to the other quickly. - -“Two daddies!” she said emphatically, adding after a pause. “Two daddies -and no mother—that’s what I’d like.” - -“Poor little lass!” said John, with something like a groan. “I reckon -thou would; I doubt I can’t blame thee.” - -“’Tis settled, then; I can keep her?” cried Joe eagerly. - -“Ah,” returned John, backing towards the door, “’tis reet—yo’ can keep -her.” - -As the door closed behind him, Jinny returned to her big elbow chair, and -once more taking possession of it, folded her hands on her lap and -announced triumphantly that she was the little missus. - -“Bless thy bonny face,” cried Joe, “and so thou art.” - - - - -THE RULES O’ THE HOUSE - - -JINNY WHITESIDE had kept herself without being beholden to anybody since -she found herself an orphan at the age of twenty-eight. She took in -washing, she went out charing; during her spare hours she worked in her -garden; but her main source of income came from letting her two small -spare bedrooms. Her cottage was situated at such a convenient distance -from the little wayside station, that the constantly changing porters who -earned their living there, invariably became her lodgers. - -One sunshiny May day the outgoing porter took leave of his -landlady—having been removed to a more important station—and after giving -him a hearty Godspeed, she stood watching his departing figure, until she -was presently hailed by the voice of the porter who had come to take his -place. Looking round, she observed that his eyes were fixed on her with -a gaze that was half-amused and half-enquiring. Jinny Whiteside was a -pleasant enough sight that bright morning. She wore the bedgown and -petticoat which many of her neighbours condemned as old-fashioned, but -which she would have scorned to discard; her print sleeves were rolled up -high on her sturdy arms, her fair hair shone like satin, and her sunburnt -face was smooth and comely still in spite of her five-and-thirty years. - -“Good day to yo’, missus,” said the new porter. - -“Good day,” returned Jinny, removing her arms from the gate on which she -had been leaning. “Yo’n coom about the lodging, I reckon?” - -“How dun yo’ know that?” said he. “Theer’s other cotes i’ this place -besides yo’rs.” - -“Cotes enough,” agreed Jinny. “Yo’ can go an’ see ’em if yo’n a mind.” - -“I reckon I’ll have a look round here first,” retorted he. “’Tis a -pratty place, an’ I doubt by the looks on yo’ yo’re wan as ’ud mak’ a mon -comfortable.” - -Jinny, with an unmoved face, led the way into the cottage and piloted him -upstairs, throwing open the door of the room just vacated by her last -lodger. The newcomer stepped past her with a laugh; the highest part of -the sloping ceiling touched his head. - -“Not mich room to turn,” he observed. - -“Yo’n no need to turn, wi’out it’s to turn in,” replied Jinny, surveying -him calmly, with her hand resting on her hip; “or mayhap,” she continued -reflectively, “yo’d fancy turnin’ out. I’m not one to beg and pray yo’ -to lodge wi’ me again your will.” - -“How mich are you axin’?” said the visitor, grinning appreciatively at -this sally. - -She named her terms, adding, “Tak’ it or leave it.” - -“I’ll tak’ it,” said he. “Theer, that job’s sattled. Now then, -missus—Mrs Whiteside; that’s yo’r name, isn’t it?” - -“_Miss_ Whiteside,” corrected Jinny, preceding him down the stairs, “I -were never wed.” - -“Oh,” said he, with a quizzical look, “what were the lads about? Well, -Miss Whiteside, I hope you are satisfied?” - -“I’ll let yo’ know that at the week-end,” said Jinny. “What met yo’r -name be?” - -“Luke Kershaw,” responded he. - -“Well, ’tis as good a name as any other. Theer’s one thing, Luke, yo’ -mun keep to the rules o’ the house. Yo’ll find out about ’em soon -enough,” she added, in reply to his questioning look. “Fetch yo’r things -now, I mun get agate wi’ my wark.” - -When Luke returned dinner was set forth, and his fellow-lodger, who was -likewise his fellow-servant at the railway station, was already seated. -Miss Whiteside set before them a deep dish, containing thick slices of -bacon done after the incomparable rustic fashion, and emitting a most -appetising odour; and jerking open the oven-door, produced therefrom a -tin full of smoking potatoes, nicely browned in dripping, which she -rapidly proceeded to transfer to the hot dish lying ready to hand before -the fire. - -“My word,” exclaimed Luke, rubbing his hands, “this is what yo’ may call -a gradely do, John. Does yon lass treat yo’ so well every day?” - -“Noan so ill,” interpolated Jinny, “though ’tisn’t always bacon day. Now -then, pull up, an’ we’s ax a blessin’.” - -Luke duly drew his chair to the table, but instead of folding his hands -and bending his head after the manner of his comrade, stared at Miss -Whiteside with a sarcastic smile. Jinny eyed him sharply, dumped a -portion of bacon and potatoes on a plate, and remarking with some -asperity— - -“Christians get sarved first in this cote,” handed it to John. Then, -turning abruptly to Luke, and keeping her big spoon poised in the air, -she added: “Mayhap yo’ didn’t know sayin’ grace at meal-times is one o’ -my rules.” - -“Naw, I didn’t,” admitted Kershaw, still grinning. - -“Well, yo’ know now, then,” resumed Jinny, “an’ don’t yo’ be for -forgettin’ it.” - -She helped him to his allotted portion, but, as Luke jealously imagined, -curtailed his allowance of bacon fat, though she had generously spooned a -large quantity of it into John’s plate. - -He made no remark, however, and fell to with appetite, remarking after a -pause, that the folks at the public hadn’t sent up his little beer-barrel -yet. - -“Thot’s another thing,” said his landlady, raising her eyes from her -plate. “I ought haply to ha’ named it this morn, for ye’ll ha’ the -trouble o’ takin’ back that order now. I don’t allow nobry to sup beer -i’ this place.” - -“Eh! my word!” cried Luke, supplementing the ejaculation with an oath. -“Yo’ want it all yo’r own way i’ this cote, I reckon.” - -“I don’t allow no ill language neither,” observed Jinny. “If yo’ can’t -get along wi’out usin’ bad words yo’ needn’t be at the trouble of -unpackin’ that box o’ yo’rn.” - -“Theer, don’t get vexed,” put in John, in a stage whisper to his fellow -workman. “Humour her a bit, mon. Yo’ll not rue it at arter, an’ so I -tell yo’. A mon met search far an’ wide afore he found hisself so weel -done-to as we find ourselves here.” - -“What mun I drink then?” cried Luke sullenly. “Dry water!” - -“Yo’ can have coffee same as the rest on us,” returned Jinny. “It’s -b’ilin’ on the fire now, an’ ’ull be ready as soon as yo’ are, I doubt. -Ate yo’r bacon an’ don’t let’s hear so mich talk.” - -“Is talk forbidden too?” enquired Luke, with a dawning smile. - -“Not when it’s gradely talk,” responded his hostess. “If yo’n anything -to say, say it, but I’ll not be moidered wi’ grumblin’s an’ growlin’s.” - -John plunged at once into an account of a chance meeting with an old -crony of his, who was also, it seemed a friend of Miss Whiteside’s, -describing with a good deal of dry humour his encounter with this -gentleman, who was, it appeared, more nor a little set up since he had -shifted to Liverpool. Jinny seemed much tickled, and interrupted the -speaker every now and then by a burst of laughter—very fresh and pleasant -laughter, her blue eyes twinkling the while in a way that was equally -pleasant. She was in such a good humour that at the conclusion of the -repast Luke was emboldened to produce his pipe, and, after tentatively -polishing it on his coat sleeve, held it out to her. - -“Can I smoke,” he asked ingratiatingly, “or is that again the rules too?” - -“Well,” said Miss Whiteside, surveying him reflectively, “if yo’ was ony -kin o’ mine I’d ha’ summat to say to yo’, but if yo’ choose to weer yo’r -brass on baccy it’s nobry’s business but yo’r own. It keeps yo’ quiet, -an’ so long as yo’ stick to coffee for yo’r drink, theer’s no harm in’t -as far as I can see. Say grace afore yo’ leave the table though.” - -This time Luke, if he did not openly join in the devotions, had the good -taste to sit quiet, and to keep his features composed and his eyes -downcast till the “Amen,” after which he lit his pipe and fell to smoking -in silence. John, who was no smoker, adjourned to the bench in the -porch, and, drawing a newspaper from his pocket, began to read. -Meanwhile Jinny “sided” the things, singing to herself in a high, clear -voice. Presently, catching up a bucket, she went out; the creaking of a -windlass was heard, and in another minute she returned, the pail brimming -over with water. - -“Yo’n a well here, I see,” observed Luke, removing his pipe. “I couldn’t -make out what the screeching was. Yo’ are rale owd-fashioned folks -hereabouts.” - -“Noan the war for thot,” said Jinny. “Yo’ Manchester folks is so -stuck-up yo’ reckon to find pumps an’ taps an’ sich like i’ th’ country. -But yo’ll ha’ to put up wi’ us same as yo’ find us. When yo’r for -cl’anin’ yo’, yo’ll ha’ to fill bucket for yo’rsel’, same as John -yonder.” - -“Eh, I’ll fill it,” responded Luke; “’tisn’t so very mich trouble. I’d -ha’ filled yon for yo’ too if I’d ha’ knowed what yo’ was arter.” - -“Nay, I’d as soon do for mysel’, thank yo’,” retorted Jinny. “I never -was one as fancied bein’ behowden to folks. Theer, ’tis striking one,” -as the cuckoo-clock on the chimney-piece gave out a quavering note, “yo’d -best be steppin’.” - -Luke rose, pocketed his pipe, and followed John, who had already folded -up his newspaper and left his place in the porch. They walked away -together in silence until they were out of earshot, and then Luke, with a -slow grin and a backward jerk of his head towards the cottage, remarked:— - -“Th’ owd lass seems awful religious.” - -“She’s thot,” agreed John, “but she’s one o’ the better mak’ for all -that. She dunnot preach nowt as she dunnot put i’ practice, mon.” - -“Well, I dunnot howd wi’ bein’ put upon as how ’tis,” retorted Luke -defiantly. “I’m one as dunnot like to sup coffee when I’ve a mind to sup -beer, an’ to be set down to say grace, same as if I was a babby.” - -“We’re all babbies here,” said John, with a grin. “I could laugh by -times of a Sunday morn, when we all sets out for church same as the -infants in the school.” - -“Church!” exclaimed Luke, his voice becoming almost falsetto in its -indignation. “Tell yo’ what—she’ll find she’s got hold o’ the wrong mak’ -o’ chap for they games. ’Twas a rule as I made long ago.” - -John laughed to himself in a way which increased the new porter’s ire. - -“What do yo’ mean by that?” he enquired sharply; “theer’s nought to laugh -at as I can see.” - -“I’m nobbut thinkin’ yo’ll change yo’r tune afore long, same as the rest -on us,” returned the other. “We all has to give in to Miss Whiteside. -Jem Phillips, as has just gone, he thought he’d have his own way about -comin’ home late fro’ the public, but she soon let him know.” - -“I’ll let her know then,” growled Luke, in the depths of his brown beard. - -That very evening his resolution was put to the test. He had preserved -an ominous and gloomy silence throughout supper, which, though plentiful -and comfortably served, was rendered in a manner distasteful to him by -the compulsory devotions which had preceded it; and observed in a loud -voice at its conclusion, that he intended to step out to the “Blue Lion.” -Jinny received the information disapprovingly but calmly. - -“I’m not responsible for what yo’ do outside o’ this house; yo’ can be as -great a fool as yo’ like,” she said. “As long as yo’ coom back sober, -an’ not too late,” she added with emphasis. “Ten’s my hour for going to -bed; I don’t say but what I met stretch a point now an’ then, an’ stop up -till half-past ten, but folks as comes home later nor that ’ull find -theirsel’s locked out.” - -“Eleven’s closin’ time,” said Luke, sulkily. “I suppose yo’ think -yo’rsel’ better able to make laws nor the government.” - -“I makes laws for my own house,” responded Miss Whiteside with dignity. -“I always kept my ’ouse respectable, an’ I’ll go on doin’ of it. No -house can be respectable as takes a lodger out o’ they crowd o’ shoutin’, -singin’ wastrels as nobbut cooms whoam when they’re turned out o’ the -public. If one o’ my lodgers is sich a noddy as to go to the public at -all he mun walk out o’ his own free will, an’ not wait to be turned out.” - -“Of his own free will, indeed!” commented Luke, with an angry laugh; -“theer’s not mich free will left to ony chap as bides i’ this cote.” - -“Please yo’rself an’ yo’ please me,” said Jinny. “I don’t want to keep -nobry here against their will, but if yo’ reckon to lodge here yo’ must -do same as I tell yo’.” - -“I’ve more nor half a mind to tak’ yon wench at her word,” muttered -Kershaw, as he strode away, accompanied by John, whom he had persuaded to -join him for a single glass, though, as the latter explained, in a -general way he was temperance. - -“Yo’ll do same as the rest on us—yo’ll give in. Eh, mon, yo’ll not rue -it I tell yo’; I’ve been a dale ’appier an ’a dale better sin’ Miss -Whiteside took me in hand. An’ Mary Frith, as I’m keepin’ coompany with, -says often an’ often she blesses the day I went to lodge wi’ her.” - -They went into the “Blue Lion,” and John duly had his glass, and departed -amid the mirth of the assembled company. One facetious person enquired, -with apparent innocence, but nudging his neighbour the while, if Luke did -not intend to accompany him. - -“We know the rules o’ the ’ouse,” he cried. “Miss Whiteside ’ull be on -the lookout for ye, lad.” - -Luke’s only response was to order himself another three-penn’orth; but -being further pressed, he announced with great valour his intention of -showing yon wumman as she’d not get the better of him. Nevertheless, -when ten o’clock drew near, he began to fidget. Would Jinny really carry -out her threat of locking him out if he did not appear at the appointed -time? It was raining heavily, someone had recently reported, he was -tired, and the memory of the snug little room under the roof appealed to -him forcibly; moreover he would infallibly become the laughing-stock of -the place if Jinny was as good as her word. When another quarter of an -hour had passed, therefore, he arose, stretched himself, and remarked -with feigned unconcern, that he was dog tired and would be glad to turn -in. The wag aforesaid pulled out a huge Waterbury watch. - -“Mak’ the best use o’ yo’r legs, mon,” he exclaimed. “Yo’ have but ten -minutes to do the job. She’ll be gettin’ the bolt ready ’iled.” - -Luke deemed it best to feign unconsciousness of the other’s meaning, and -went slouching out of the house with as much dignity as was compatible -with a devil-may-care aspect. He whistled loudly as he sauntered down -the lane, but once he had fairly left the inn and its occupants behind, -he took to his heels and ran. As he approached Jinny’s cottage, he -observed with alarm that there was no light in the kitchen windows, -though, as he sent the little gate swinging on its hinges, a faint ray -shot through the keyhole of the door. He lifted the latch but the door -did not yield. Then he struck the upper panel heavily with his clenched -fist. - -“Yo’d best open this door, missus,” he shouted out, in a voice thick with -anger, “else I’d think nothin’ at all o’ breakin’ it down.” - -There was a grinding of bolts within, and the door was flung open, -revealing Miss Whiteside, flat candlestick in hand. - -“Now look yo’ here, missus,” cried Luke, propping the door open with his -broad shoulder, “a bargain’s a bargain! Half-past ten was the time yo’ -named an’ it wants three minutes to that now.” - -“It does nought o’ the kind,” responded Jinny indignantly. “Cuckoo’s -gone five minutes sin’.” - -“Cuckoo’s wrong then,” retorted Luke roughly, and he dangled his watch in -the flickering light in order to confute her. Just as Jinny was shrilly -asserting her belief in the infallibility of her cuckoo, the church clock -struck the half-hour. - -“Theer! What do yo’ mak’ o’ thot?” cried Luke, restoring his watch to -his fob, and stepping past her; “church clock can’t be wrong, can it?” - -Jinny, unexpectedly confounded, fell to re-bolting the door again without -speaking, and her lodger, triumphant in the consciousness of having had -the last word, marched up to bed. - -Luke was awake early on the following morning, yet, when he came -downstairs to draw up a bucketful of water from the well, he found that -his hostess must have been astir long before him. The kitchen had been -scrubbed and sanded, a bright fire burnt on the hearth, and a most -savoury smell of coffee and bacon greeted his nostrils. Moreover, Miss -Whiteside, kneeling before the fire, was toasting a large round of bread. - -“Yon smells gradely,” said Luke, pausing in the doorway. - -Jinny glanced over her shoulder. - -“It’s yo’,” she remarked. “I got yo’r breakfast in good time, knowing -yo’ have to be on duty o’ mornin’s.” - -“Coom,” said Kershaw with a gleeful swing of the bucket, “that’s reet. I -call that proper thoughtful. I reckoned I’d happen have to tak’ a bite -along wi’ me, seein’ it’s so early.” - -“Nay,” responded Jinny graciously, as she scraped the burnt corner off -the toast; “I’m for sendin’ a man off to his wark wi’ some heart in -him—wi’out it’s too early for him to have a appetite. Poor John ’ull -have to come back for his breakfast. I couldn’t expect the lad to be -hungry at five o’clock i’ the mornin’, though I made him a nice cup o’ -tea before he went, an’ I’ll do the same by yo’ next week when ’tis yo’r -turn to be the early bird.” - -“Well, yo’re something like a stirrin’ body—I’ll say that!” cried Luke -approvingly; and he hurried out to the well, filled his bucket, and -performed his ablutions, all with the least possible loss of time, for -really the sights and smells in that comfortable kitchen made him feel -most uncommonly hungry. - -Jinny had finished toasting the second round by the time he appeared, and -was covering the table with a coarse, clean, white cloth. - -“Now then,” cried Luke in high good humour, “if the meal’s ready the mon -is.” - -He set a chair in Jinny’s place, and fetched another for himself, and was -about to sit down, when Jinny, who had methodically arranged plates and -cups upon the table, glanced at him reprovingly. - -“Prayers first,” she remarked. - -“Well, I’m ready—fire away,” grunted Luke, bending his head and folding -his hands in the approved fashion. - -“Grace is one thing,” observed Jinny, “an’ prayers another. Yo’ll go -down on your knees, Luke Kershaw, along o’ me an’ say a word to yo’r -Maker afore yo’ breaks bread i’ this house.” - -“I’m d—d if I do!” shouted Luke, thumping the table. “I’m about tired o’ -bein’ missus’d an’ so I tell yo’. Pray away as much as yo’ like, Miss -Whiteside—I’ll step outside an’ yo’ can call me when yo’re ready.” - -Jinny shot a glance at him, and then, with the precision which -characterised all her actions, removed one plate, one cup and saucer, and -one knife and one fork from the table. - -“Them as hasn’t the decency to thank the Giver, dunnot want the gifts,” -she observed, and flopped down on her knees by the settle in the corner. - -“What mak’ o’ talk’s that?” enquired Luke somewhat shamefacedly. - -“Yo’ know well enough,” responded she. “This here’s a Christian house, I -say, an’ I’ll not set at table wi’ nobry as dunnot begin the day as a -Christian should.” - -Luke made a step towards the door, and then glanced back at the hearth. -The two rounds of toast standing at right angles to each other were as -brown as brown could be; the bacon was done to perfection. - -“A mon must eat,” he said, speaking more to himself than to her. “A chap -can’t do his work wi’out he’s fed, but I’ll look out for another lodgin’ -afore the day goes by.” - -Jinny, with her head buried in her hands, was too much absorbed to heed -him. Luke, after another moment’s hesitation, came shambling across the -kitchen, and popped himself down beside her. - -“Dunno be too long, that’s all,” he observed in a wrathful whisper. - -Miss Whiteside glanced at him between her fingers, and then obligingly -began to pray aloud. The devotions in which Luke was invited, or rather -commanded, to share, were not of very long duration, and something about -the simple, familiar words evoked in him an unwonted sense of shame, -which was increased by Jinny’s comment on concluding: - -“’Twere scarce worth while to make such a fuss, were it?” - -He relinquished the idea of seeking lodgings elsewhere, and moreover -unpacked and stowed away his few possessions with a certain sense of -satisfaction. Jinny herself came upstairs before he had finished, and -immediately took possession of such garments as required mending. The -day passed peacefully away. Luke, in fact, was lamb-like throughout the -ensuing week, not only as regarded saying his grace and refraining from -protest when the need for beer at the midday meal made itself felt, but -even returning home from the “Blue Lion” before the church clock struck -ten. All in fact went smoothly until Saturday evening when Jinny -announced, in her sharp, imperative manner, that she expected “both lads” -to be ready for church at a quarter to eleven sharp. - -“It’ll take us all that time to get theer,” she observed, with the corner -of her eye on Luke. - -“Yo’d best look sharp an’ see that yo’re ready,” observed the latter, -addressing himself to John. - -“He knows right enough,” said Miss Whiteside quickly. “It’s yo’ as ’ull -have to look sharp.” - -“I’m not goin’,” rejoined Kershaw firmly. - -“Nay, but you are,” responded Jinny, uplifting her voice. “’Tis the rule -o’ the house. I’ve never had a lodger yet as didn’t go to church.” - -“Yo’ll have one now, then,” retorted Luke, tapping the ashes out of his -pipe and rising. - -“There’s sausages for breakfast to-morrow,” remarked Jinny, with apparent -irrelevance. - -Luke burst out laughing:— - -“Yo’ think I’m a child, I doubt,” he said. “No breakfast for a bad lad. -Well, it won’t hurt me to go wi’out my breakfast for once. I’m not goin’ -to church—I tell yo’ plain. Yo’ have yo’r rules an’ I have mine. I fell -out wi’ a parson once as took on hissel’ to interfere wi’ me, an’ I says -to him what I says to yo’—‘I’ll never set foot ’ithin a church again’—an’ -I wunnot.” - -He got up and went out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Jinny -was nonplussed for once; but nevertheless, following her elementary mode -of procedure, prepared such an appetising breakfast on the following -morning, as she hoped would touch the heart of even the most hardened -sinner. Luke, however, did not put himself in the way of being softened; -he rose even earlier than his landlady; dressed himself sullenly in his -working-clothes, and went off for a solitary ramble along the shore. - -The Rector met Miss Whiteside on her way to church. - -“What, only one companion!” he cried, laughing. - -“Only one, sir,” said Jinny, dropping a staid curtsey. - -“How is that? I thought there were no black sheep in your fold.” - -“Step a bit up the road, John, do,” remarked Jinny in a loud aside; as -soon as this injunction had been obeyed, she turned to the Rector. “I -doubt my new lodger’s a black ’un—leastways not altogether black. He -keeps all my rules nobbut this ’un. He’ve dropped beer an’ bad words, -an’ he says his prayers an’ grace an’ all, an’ he comes a-whoam by -ten—but he says ’tis his rule not to go to church—I don’t know how to -mak’ ’un do it, that’s the worst on’t. I’ve mended all his clothes this -week so I can’t get even wi’ un wi’ leavin’ ’em in holes. He didn’t have -no breakfast this mornin’ but I can’t go on cuttin’ off his victuals for -long. The mon works ’ard, an’ wants ’em.” - -The Rector laughed. - -“Have you ever tried persuasion?” he said. “Sometimes when threats fail -coaxing prevails. He can’t be a bad fellow if he does all you say.” - -“Well, I wouldn’t say he was bad,” she agreed meditatively. “I never -thought o’ tryin’ persuasion,” she added. “My way is to serve ’em out if -they don’t do what I tell ’em.” - -The Rector laughed again: - -“‘A spoonful of honey catches more flies than a pint of vinegar’,” he -remarked; “have you ever heard that saying?” - -Jinny had not, but conceded that it met be true enough; she followed John -with a pensive look. - -Kershaw did not return for dinner, nor yet for tea; he did not, in fact, -put in an appearance until late in the evening, when, if truth be told, -he was considerably the worse for drink. He went straight upstairs to -bed without pausing a moment in the kitchen. - -Next morning, when he came in for his breakfast, this being his week for -early duty at the station, he expected a severe lecture, but Jinny set -his food before him with a pleasant smile. - -“Oh,” growled Luke sarcastically, “yo’ll gie me summat to eat to-day, -will yo’? Well, I can do wi’ a bit at after yesterday. Bread and cheese -were my dinner yesterday. I had to walk nigh upon six mile afore I could -get it.” - -“Yo’r dinner was waitin’ for yo’ here,” responded Jinny, with mild -dignity. “’Twas keepin’ hot for yo’ all the afternoon.” - -“I thought haply yo’ was goin’ to punish me by makin’ me clem all day. -Yo’ was some mad wi’ me, wasn’t yo?” - -“Nay, nay,” replied Jinny, still mildly, “not mad. I were nobbut sorry.” - -All that week she redoubled her attentions to Luke, and when Saturday -night came he was astonished and abashed when she put a little parcel -into his hands. It contained a tie of the brightest hues and the richest -texture obtainable for a shilling. - -“If yo’ll weer that to-morrow, Luke,” she said graciously, “I’ll feel -proper proud steppin’ along aside of yo’.” - -Luke gazed hesitatingly, first at the tie, then at Jinny’s beaming face; -then folding up the little packet he tendered it back to her. - -“I couldn’t tak’ it on false pertences,” he faltered. “I’m no -church-goer.” - -Jinny swallowed down what appeared to be a lump in her throat. “Keep it -all the same, an’ weer it to-morrow,” she said. “Theer’s one thing yo’ -can do. Yo’ll not ha’ no objections to waitin’ outside the gate for me, -an’ walkin’ home along of me?” - -Luke eyed her suspiciously, but consented after a moment’s hesitation, -reflecting that she could not possibly force him to go in. - -He duly sat on the wall outside the church on the following day, and -escorted Miss Whiteside home, feeling somewhat ashamed of himself, as he -noted her chastened air and heard the heavy sigh which now and then -escaped from her. - -That afternoon, however, her continued affability emboldened him to make -a request on his own account. It was such a lovely day, and he was -free—would not Miss Whiteside go for a walk with him? Jinny, startled, -began to refuse with her usual abruptness, but checked herself midway, -and consented instead. - -They strolled out together along a narrow path, which led past meadows -and cornfields to a little wood. While they sat there, resting on a -mossy bank, the church bells began to ring, now on one side of them, now -on the other. Luke glanced sarcastically at his companion. - -“I reckon yo’re wishin’ yo’rself theer an’ not here?” - -Jinny looked up with a start. - -“Wheer?” she asked, and turned very red. Luke stared, laughed, and then -suddenly grew serious, blushing too. Silence reigned for a moment and -then he said: - -“I doubt I’d best tell yo’ why I’m so set again church-goin’. ’Tisn’t -altogether along o’ not wishin’ to be put upon. When I were a young chap -a parson comed between me an’ the lass I were a-coortin’.” - -“Oh, indeed,” said Jinny distantly. - -“Ah, he did. She was a sarvent lass an’ couldn’t get out above once a -fortnight. I didn’t see so mich on her I could afford to lose the time -she spent in church, and parson he barged at her for not goin’. Well, I -geet my back set up along of it, an’ I towd her one day she mun mind me -an’ not parson. Well she wouldn’t, so I gave up a-walkin’ wi’ her, an’ -she took up wi’ another chap, an’ I promised mysel’ I’d never go to -church again as long as I lived—an’ I’ve kept my word.” - -“Well, if yo’ll excuse me, I think yo’re nothing but a noddy!” cried -Jinny, with decidedly more vinegar than honey in her tone. She sprang to -her feet, shaking out her dress. - -“I doubt I will go to church arter all,” she added. - -“Nay, a promise is a promise,” returned Luke, catching her by the arm. -“Sit yo’ down again, an’ tell me why yo’ reckon I’m a noddy.” - -“Well, a body can’t think it anything but foolish to go on a-keepin’ up -spite along of a wench same’s that,” cried she, twitching away her arm, -but making no further effort to leave him. “She couldn’t be worth mich -if she could go takin’ up wi’ another chap so quick.” - -“That’s true,” agreed Luke. “She was in a hurry to forget me.” - -“She mun ha’ been a leet-minded snicket not worth frettin’ arter,” -pursued Jinny warmly. “An’ she can’t ha’ had a bit o’ sperrit neither. -She ought to ha’ stood up to yo’ an’ showed yo’ yo’ was doin’ her no harm -an’ yo’rself no good. If I’d ha’ bin in her shoes—” She stopped short, -colouring again to the roots of her hair. - -“Set yo’ down again, do,” said Luke persuasively. “What ’ud yo’ ha’ done -if yo’d been in her shoes, Jinny?” - -Jinny sat down, but for once in her life was dumbfounded; she did not -dare raise her eyes to Luke’s face. - -“Theer’s no knowin’ what yo’ met ha’ done wi’ me if yo’d ha’ bin in -Mary’s shoes,” he went on. “Yo’ve a wonderful manageable way wi’ yo’, -Miss Whiteside.” - -“I don’t seem able to manage yo’ though,” said Jinny inconsequently. -“I’ve had lodgers, a-mony of ’em, an’ I’ve took a interest in ’em all, -an’ they allus did what I wanted—all of ’em, nobbut yo’. Yo’re the first -as ever refused to do what I axed yo’.” - -“Coom,” cried Luke indignantly. “I’m sure I’ve gived in to yo’ more’n -I’ve ever gived in to a wumman before. I’ve done all as yo’ axed me—nay, -yo’ didn’t ax me, yo’ ordered me, an’ I’m not one as likes to be ordered -by a wumman—but I gived in all but the one thing—I’ve gived yo’ my rayson -for that.” - -“’Twasn’t no rayson at all,” said Jinny. “Coom now, Luke, yo’ owned up -to me about that a minute ago. Coom, I’ll not order yo’ no more—I’ll ax -yo’ gradely—happen yo’ll do it if I ax yo’ proper?” - -Her blue eyes were shining with eagerness, her lips were parted with an -arch smile. - -“Happen I would,” admitted Luke. “Let’s hear yo’ do it.” - -“Well then Luke, ha’ done wi’ foolishness,” she said in her most -persuasive tones. “Promise yo’ll coom to church same as any other -Christian.” - -“That’s not axin’ me proper,” said Luke. “I care nowt at all about any -other Christian. Say it this way, Jinny—‘Will yo’ coom to church wi’ -me?’” - -“Will yo’ coom to church,” she began falteringly, and then broke off for -Luke had seized her hand—“Whativer are yo’ drivin’ at?” - -“Theer, I’ll ax the question mysel’,” cried Luke. “Will _yo’_ go to -church wi’ _me_, Jinny? If yo’ll gie me your promise, I’ll walk i’ your -footsteps all my days, my dear.” - -Jinny presumably gave her promise, for when they presently emerged from -the wood they were walking arm-in-arm. Whether he subsequently fulfilled -his resolve of following meekly in her footsteps, is a moot point, for -Luke was a person of strong individuality; but Jinny liked him none the -less for that, and one thing is certain: she saw to it that he kept the -rules of the house. - - - - -LADY LUCY - - -JOHN COTLEY closed his account-book—blotting the last entry carefully, -for he was an orderly man—and laid it in its accustomed place in the -drawer of his high desk. Then, rising from the tall stool on which he -had been seated for an hour and more, he passed his hands across his -brow, and looked through the mullioned window at the fast darkening -landscape. - -“It grows late,” quoth he. “Molly will be in a taking at my keeping -supper waiting so long, but I must stretch my legs first, after all this -sitting.” - -As he stood in the wainscotted hall without, in the act of taking down -his hat, he was startled by loud rapping at the great wooden gates of the -yard, which had been closed and bolted for the night, together with the -sound of several voices raised in unison. He threw open the hall-door -and stood for a moment on the threshold, listening; and the rapping was -repeated, and the voices called—some gruffly and some shrilly:— - -“Let us in—you there! Let us in! What, is everyone in the place dead or -deaf?” - -John went slowly down the flagged path between the lavender hedges, and -began with a grating, grinding sound to draw back the heavy bolts, the -voices on the other side of the stout oak portals keeping up, meanwhile, -a running commentary of impatient ejaculations, intermingled with little -bursts of laughter. - -“Now, good fellow, who ever you may be, put a little goodwill into your -efforts.” - -“Fie! what a disagreeable noise! Sir, ’tis to be wished that your master -would expend a pennyworth of oil on this screeching ironwork.” - -“La! what a time the rascal takes! Pray, Hodge, or Giles, or whatever -thy name may be, tell us who lives here. We had thought you deaf; and -now, faith, it would seem as if you were dumb.” - -“Nay, Tufty, do not distract the poor yokel. These rustics have not wit -enough to attend to more than one thing at a time. Tug away at thy bolt, -good man, and let us in; it grows chilly here.” - -At length, with a final shriek, the last bolt was withdrawn from its -rusty hasp, and the doors parted in the middle under John’s hand; then, -removing his round hat, he was preparing, with his usual gravity, to -enquire the reason of this unexpected visit, when, with many expressions -of relief and satisfaction, a party of what seemed to be very grand folk -brushed past him into the enclosure. There was a rustling of silken -skirts, a waving of long feathers—a diffusion of sweet strange -odours—such odours as had never yet greeted the honest country nostrils -of John Cotley, though they would have been familiar enough to any -frequenter of high company in town; odours of powder and pomatum, and the -scented bags that women of fashion lay among their tuckers. Thus the -ladies filed past, one, two, and three; and then the gentlemen came—very -fine gentlemen, indeed. John could see, even in the dim light, the -glitter of gold lace and sparkling buckles, the pale gleam of -silk-stockinged legs and powdered heads. - -“La, how sweet it smells,” cried one of the ladies. “What is it? Roses, -think you—gilly-flowers? Nay, ’tis lavender! See these ghostly hedges -are all of lavender.” - -“Madam,” cried one of the gallants, “’twould please me better could I -smell some savoury stew. Ghostly, did you say? I vow the whole place -looks ghostly. Not a light in all those ancient windows.” - -“Pray, you there, you, fellow; leave the gate and try and find thy -tongue. Does anybody live here, and is it possible to obtain refreshment -and a night’s lodging?” - -“I live here,” said John, somewhat ruffled by the tone. “As to your -second question, before answering it I will first ask one or two of my -own. What may this company be, and why do they seek admittance into my -house at such an hour?” - -“Why, what a churl is this!” - -“By gad, ’tis his house, Harry. We’ve been discussing the place in the -presence of its owner; but we must needs be civil, it seems, if we would -dine and sleep under cover. Sir, you behold a noble company of -travellers, or, if you prefer it, a travelling company of noblemen and -ladies, journeying from Bristol Hotwells, where they have been sojourning -for the good of their health. Their coach, having taken a wrong turn, -has inconveniently broken down on that abominable mixture of marsh and -stones which you are pleased in these parts to term a road. As it is -late and the ladies are hungry and tired, the gentlemen athirst, the best -horse lame, the front wheel damaged, and the postboy drunk, we deem it -better to push no further to-night. Therefore, finding no inn within a -radius of ten miles, and descrying your house—which seemed to us a -building of some importance—we have come to throw ourselves upon your -hospitality for the night.” - -“Sir,” returned John simply, “I am sorry for your misfortune, and will do -my best to entertain you, though, being a plain man and a bachelor, I -fear the accommodation I can offer you is not such as these ladies are -accustomed to.” - -“Well said, man! you can but do your best,” cried the gentleman called -Harry, clapping John on his brawny shoulder. “Come, lead the way, and -we’ll all promise not to be over fastidious. Something to drink.” - -John led the way into the house, baring his head as he passed the ladies, -and the party trooped after him into a panelled parlour, where the dim -outlines of cumbrous articles of furniture might be discerned in the -dusk. Drawing a tinder-box from his pocket, he struck a light, and -having ignited the candles on the mantelshelf, turned to face his -visitors. - -The flickering light revealed to them the sunburnt face and well-knit -figure of a man of about five-and-twenty, with brown hair and brown eyes, -and an expression of shy kindliness. - -As he looked in bewilderment from one to the other of his guests, dazzled -by the medley of fine clothes and trinkets, here marking the gleam of -white teeth, there a pair of dancing eyes, yonder the flutter of powdered -locks, out of the confusion there seemed to detach itself—one face. A -small face, round which the hair fell in natural curls untouched by -powder; laughing eyes, a mouth at once sweet and roguish; a bloom that -even John’s unsophisticated eyes instantly recognised as being wholly -natural, yet such as he had never beheld on the solid cheeks of the -rustic damsels of the neighbourhood. - -Forgetful of his good manners, Cotley stared mutely at this lovely face, -until recalled to himself by a murmur of amusement from the rest of the -party. - -“When you have recovered your tongue, mine host, we shall be glad if you -will introduce yourself,” remarked one of the gentlemen. “I myself must -own to no little curiosity about you. Pray, man, are you a hermit, that -you live thus in what seems to be absolute solitude? Split me, if I’ve -seen a living soul about the place except yourself!” - -“Sir,” returned the other, with a start and a blush, “my name is John -Cotley, at your service. I am, as I think is easily seen, a gentleman of -somewhat limited means. Had you come before sundown you might have -observed a few of my labourers busy on the premises—when they leave, I -own, with the exception of my old housekeeper, I am alone in the house.” -Looking round on the curious and surprised faces he added, stiffly, with -a certain boyish pride: “My family met with reverses before I succeeded -to this small estate, and, if I am to live here at all, I must perforce -practise great economy and see but little company.” - -“Poor fellow!” said a soft voice, which was not meant to reach his ears; -but John heard nevertheless, and marked that the bright eyes of the -youthful beauty were fixed on him with an expression at once of interest -and compassion. - -But the others were not so considerate— - -“Economy!” quoth Tufty, with a grimace. - -“Sir,” cried Harry earnestly, “you have my sympathy, but I trust for all -our sakes that there is at least some drinkable beer to be had on your -premises.” - -“Or at any rate a dish of tea,” put in one of the elder ladies. “Pray, -sir, let the matter have your attention, for I assure you we are -positively faint.” - -“A roast fowl would not come amiss,” added the other matron, whose -appearance was indeed suggestive of good-living, for her large person -seemed to be bursting out of her silk sacque, and her face was as plump -as it was good-humoured. “Such a thing should easy be come by in the -country—a platter of ham and eggs with it.” - -She paused, looking almost beseechingly at her bewildered entertainer. - -“Speed, sir,” chimed in Tufty, “speed—despatch for heaven’s sake!” - -“Sirs,—ladies, I go at once,” cried John, starting towards the door. -“Meanwhile be seated, I beg. I regret with all my heart I have no good -entertainment to offer you, but I will do my best.” - -He hastened from the room, shouting lustily for “Molly,” and, after what -seemed to the impatient guests an interminable delay, the heavy door was -thrown open, and an old woman entered, carrying a tablecloth. The master -of the house followed, bearing a tray, on which, in the midst of a -shining array of plates and glasses, knives and forks, a toby jug of -goodly proportions occupied the place of honour. They proceeded, -awkwardly enough, to lay the table, and the housekeeper, having retired, -presently returned, staggering under the weight of another huge tray, on -which were set forth such homely viands as the house could provide: a -round of cold salt beef, a crusty loaf, a dish of ham and eggs. When all -was set upon the table John stood hesitating a moment, and then going -straight up to the owner of the unpowdered curls begged leave to hand her -to a chair. - -“’Fore George, the manners of these country bumpkins want mending as well -as their gates!” cried Tufty. “Sir, do you not see that Her Grace is yet -standing?” and he waved his hand in the direction of the stout lady -already alluded to. - -“Her Grace!” stammered John, somewhat taken aback, and then he added -bluntly— - -“Madam, I will come back for you so soon as I have conducted this lady to -the table.” - -“Why, sir,” returned she, with a jolly laugh, “I protest I like your -unceremoniousness. ’Tis a refreshing change. And after all you could -not be expected to divine my quality. ’Tis not often, I wager, that you -entertain a Duchess in this solitary place.” - -“Madam,” responded John gravely, “I must own that I have never before -been privileged to offer hospitality to persons of such consequence; but -I can truthfully say that my desire to serve you is not more ardent than -before my knowledge of your station. I would fain do all in my power to -succour and entertain any lady in distress.” - -“Very prettily said,” returned she. “There, my good sir, we will -dispense with ceremony for to-night. Pray sit by Lady Lucy since your -unbiassed choice has fallen on her. My friend, Lord Tuftington, will -escort me; and you, Lady Olivia, will no doubt allow Sir Harry to be your -companion.” - -“Faith, madam, so that we may at once attack that round of beef, I have -no objection to make,” responded Lady Olivia, hurrying towards the board. - -Meanwhile Molly stood gaping, and John himself was a little taken aback -on hearing of the exalted rank of all his self-invited guests. Yet, with -a certain natural dignity, he took his place as master of the house, and -proceeded to dispense hospitality. - -He soon found, indeed, that these noble folks were as affable in manner -as gay in humour. Sir Harry proceeded to pour out foaming beakers of ale -for as many of the company as desired to partake of it; and, somewhat to -John’s surprise, everyone with the exception of Lady Lucy accepted this -homely beverage; even Her Grace the Duchess quaffed her tumbler with -unfeigned approval. Lord Tuftington served the ham and eggs, and Lady -Olivia, with great good-humour and a firm hand, cut slices from the -crusty loaf which she laughingly tossed across the table to each member -of the party. - -Meanwhile Lady Lucy sat toying with an egg, speaking little, though every -now and then her face lit up with smiles over some ridiculous sally from -Tufty or Sir Harry. Once or twice John caught a curious glance shot at -him from beneath her long curling dark lashes, and with each of them he -felt as though that manly heart of his, hitherto untouched by love for -woman, were being drawn from out his bosom. Fain would he have sat by -her side in mute ecstacy, but his guests plied him incessantly with -questions, and appeared to be excessively diverted by the simplicity of -his answers. - -All at once the Duchess threw down her knife and fork with a little -scream— - -“Lord!” she cried, “we have left that booby of a postboy to his own -devices. What if he should have made off with all our property! Quick, -somebody, see to him!” - -“Nay, Duchess,” returned Tufty, with his mouth full, “the fellow was dead -drunk, and the best horse dead lame—they will stick in the mud safe -enough till morning.” - -“But surely our valises should be brought in?” cried Lady Olivia. “If by -any accident the fellow should abscond, we shall arrive in town without -so much as a change of linen.” - -“Madam, we are all in the like plight,” observed Sir Harry; “and in any -case, if the lad had given us the slip he would be miles away by now, and -it would be useless to pursue him.” - -“You cannot, I am sure, be serious,” said Lady Lucy, looking from one to -the other with large, startled eyes. “You would not be so inhuman as to -leave the poor man exposed to the weather all night. And the -horses—think of the horses. Surely they too need food and shelter.” - -Neither of the gentlemen seemed in the least touched by her appeal, and, -though the Duchess and Lady Olivia continued loud protestations and -entreaties, both Sir Harry and Lord Tuftington continued their repast -without offering to move. - -John looked from one to the other of these worthies with astonished -disapproval. Indeed, from the first, both gentlemen had impressed him -unfavourably. Their voices were loud, their laughter excessive: Lord -Tuftington interlarded his conversations with strange expletives, while -Sir Harry helped himself perpetually from the beer-jug. He was surprised -to observe on nearer view that the latter’s dress was at once tawdry and -slovenly; his gold lace was tarnished, his ruffles soiled; as he held the -jug aloft on one occasion, John actually detected a rent in his fine -peach-coloured coat. - -After a pause, broken only by the lamentations of the elder ladies, Lucy -turned hesitatingly to her host— - -“Do you not think, sir,” she said pathetically, “that it is cruel to -leave the poor horses standing in the road all night?” - -“Ma’am,” cried John, starting up, “with your leave I will at once go and -see after them.” - -“And bring my valise, good sir,” besought Lady Olivia—“the smallest -valise in the boot.” - -“Pray, Mr Cotley, try to bring all our property—all at least that is -portable.” - -“Certainly, ladies,” returned John, “I shall be happy to carry some of -the baggage myself, and to direct your servant to bring the remainder -hither.” - -“I am obliged to you, sir,” replied the Duchess, with a somewhat -embarrassed air, “but you must know that with the exception of the -postboy we are unattended at present.” - -“’Tis a pity, indeed, my dear,” put in Lady Olivia, “that we should have -left all our servants behind.” - -“But, ladies, remember,” put in Sir Harry, with half-tipsy gravity, “that -we are travelling incog.” - -“Perhaps the postboy may help me,” said John. - -When he reached the scene of the catastrophe, however, he found the -fellow so hopelessly intoxicated, that it was clear no help was to be -expected from him, and he was forced to seek assistance from some of his -own work-people who lived in a little hamlet about a mile from his house. -It was more than an hour, therefore, before he returned home, himself -leading the horses, while a couple of stout lads staggered in his wake -laden with the ladies’ luggage, the post-boy having by his directions -been lifted inside the empty vehicle, which had been drawn up under the -hedge for the night. - -He found the parlour empty, save for Sir Harry, who lay stretched half -across the table, while upstairs all was merry bustle. Old Molly was -distractedly hastening from one room to another with her warming-pan, -while Lord Tuftington stalked behind her, laden with warm blankets and -piles of lavender scented sheets. The ladies had volunteered to make the -beds, and with much chatter and laughter the work proceeded. They often -changed their minds with regard to the apartment which each intended to -occupy, and the trunks were in consequence dragged from room to room; -some half unpacked disgorging their finery in the passage—in fact such a -scene of confusion had never before been witnessed within the quiet walls -of Cotley Grange. - -But at last some measure of order was restored: the babel of voices and -laughter ceased; the last door banged for the last time: the last light -was extinguished, and by-and-by all the house was still. - -John, too, retired to bed, but only to toss feverishly from side to side, -with throbbing head and leaping pulses. Now he would thrill with delight -as he recalled the kind look which Lady Lucy had cast upon him when he -bade her good night: now a pang of despair would pierce his very soul as -he thought of how she would leave on the morrow, and of how, in all -probability, he would never set eyes on her again. - -He rose with dawn and went out of doors; his men would soon arrive, but, -before allotting them their daily tasks, he sought to regain some measure -of his usual composure. Pacing up and down the garden at the rear of the -house—if in truth the sweet wilderness of tangled greenery and lush -grass, and borders where flowers and weed embraced each other might be -dignified with such a name—he inhaled the pure chill air of the September -morning, throwing open coat and waistcoat as though the fresh blast could -allay the fever in his breast. The swallows were already on the wing, -now circling aloft against the pearly sky, now dipping until they -appeared to brush the dewy grass; a robin was piping on a lichened -apple-bough, and to poor John Cotley the sweet shrill notes seemed to -carry a message at once poignant and delightful. - -“Why did she come here!” he groaned; and in another moment he was asking -himself distractedly how he had contrived to exist before seeing her. - -The sun had not yet risen high in the heavens, and the dew still lay in -silver sheets upon the meads, when Lady Lucy, having left her chamber, -was minded to take to take a walk abroad. She had protected her head -with a scarf which was lifted by the strong autumn breeze, so that its -fringes and her clustering curls were alike set dancing; and she had -thrust her little feet into thin slippers with very high heels, most -unfit for the wanderings on which she was bent; but nevertheless, having -first tripped down the flagged path between the lavender hedges, and -found the gates still closed, she had stolen up the weed-grown track that -led round the house, and made her way through the shrubberies, laughing -as the wet leaves flapped in her face, and peering round her with curious -delighted eyes. And suddenly, pushing through an overgrown arch of yew -and holly that had once been clipped into fantastic shapes, she came face -to face with John Cotley, standing stock-still in the middle of the -alley, with one hand pressed to his brow and the other clutching at his -bosom. Then what must Lady Lucy do on her perceiving the young man’s -violent start and blush, but burst into the sweetest, gayest little trill -of laughter, while poor John first reddened to the roots of his -disordered hair, and then grew pale as death, and drew his coat and -waistcoat together hastily, and stammered at last as she laughed on— - -“Madam, I crave your pardon—I—I humbly crave your pardon.” - -“For what, my good sir?” cried she. “For taking a morning stroll in your -own grounds, or for being discovered in such a profound reverie? Nay, -sir, it is rather I who should ask pardon for breaking in so suddenly on -what seemed to be very serious reflections, and for laughing so rudely. -But I vow it was droll and unexpected to find you could assume so tragic -an air—and then your start—your look of surprise! Pray, sir, did you -think I had fallen from the clouds?” - -John blushed again, and, finding that she continued to look upon him -smilingly and very kindly, took courage, and said gently— - -“’Twas folly in me to appear surprised, madam, for I believe that angels -do sometimes descend from the clouds.” - -“Vastly well, sir,” said she. “Pray where did you learn to pay -compliments? I had thought they were not easily come by in the country.” - -“Nay, madam,” sighed poor John, ruefully. “I fear I should prove a poor -scholar were I to attempt to learn the art of flattery. In saying that -you appear to me to be an angel I did but speak the truth.” - -Lady Lucy stopped laughing, and hung down her head in a manner quite -inexplicable to John Cotley. - -“An angel!” she said. “Ah, sir, what do you know of me.” - -“Only what my eyes have shown me, madam,” said John, and then emboldened -by a certain timid protest in her downcast face, he added warmly, “only -what my heart has told me.” - -And in some unaccountable fashion John Cotley’s tongue was loosed, and he -found himself telling Lady Lucy all manner of strange things. About his -loneliness, and of how during his somewhat melancholy life he had never -hitherto met with a woman whom he could love; of how at first sight of -her he had fallen a victim to one of those sudden passions of which he -had sometimes heard, but in which he had never hitherto believed; of how -absolutely hopeless he knew it to be, what misery, and yet what joy. His -face glowed as he spoke, and his eyes were bright with a kind of fierce -triumph: she should hear, she should know—at least she should know. - -Her colour came and went as she listened; now her eyes were drawn to -John’s, as though fascinated, now they sought the ground; once or twice -she caught her breath with a little gasp. - -“But a few moments ago,” said John, “I was telling myself that I wished I -had never seen you; and now, though I may never see you again, I thank -Heaven that this hour at least is mine. One hour, madam, out of a -lifetime; it is not much, but at least it is something to look back on.” - -“To look back on,” she repeated, with an odd expression, and an attempt -at lightness. “Surely, sir, it is better to look forward. I, for one, -care not for giving way to gloomy thoughts. The whole world lies before -us. I, you must know, am about to be introduced to it for the first -time: why should not you, too, seek to make a figure in it? Why bury -yourself for ever in this solitude?” - -“Why, madam,” cried John excitedly, “would you have me seek my fortune in -London? Oh, if I thought there were the slightest hope—” - -“Nay, good friend, I spoke not of hope,” returned she; “our ways, as you -very truly say, lie apart, and perhaps it is better so; were you to meet -me in town, you might think more lowly of me than you do at present.” - -“How could that be?” he exclaimed eagerly, adding, however, despondently, -“but it is folly for me even to talk of such a thing. How could I, plain -John Cotley, the unpretending country gentleman, with threadbare clothes -and light purse, hope to make my way into the circles which you will -adorn. You, who will be courted by the highest in the land, admired by -all the fashionable world. Dukes, I suppose,” cried the poor fellow, -gloomily, “Dukes and Marquises will be fighting for the privilege of -kissing your hand.” - -“Oh yes,” she rejoined, with a careless shrug, “there will be plenty of -that, I dare say.” Then, seeing his melancholy face, she added with an -arch smile. “But London is a large place, so large that even besides the -fashionable folk of whom you speak there might be room for honest John -Cotley. And what though there be a whole horde of noble admirers coming -to Court and applaud me! Is a worthy country gentleman for that obliged -to hold aloof? Sir, I tell you in the great world of London there are -many places where a man may see the object of his admiration. There are, -to begin with, places of entertainment, such as Vauxhall, Ranelagh, and -the like, and then there are the playhouses. Now, as a matter of fact, -did you chance to be at Sadler’s Wells Theatre on this day se’en-night -you would see me there.” - -“At a playhouse!” cried simple John, all in a turmoil of emotion. -“Madam, I have never been at such a place in my life. My parents held -that play-going was folly, if not worse, and indeed even were I so minded -I have had no opportunities of frequenting such resorts. But to see -you—if I thought there were a hope of seeing you— But no, you are -mocking me. Even if I were to go there, how should I venture to intrude -my company upon you?” - -“You are faint-hearted, in fact,” said she, while a wicked little dimple -came and went about her lips, “and you remember the adage, ‘Faint -heart’—” - -John looked at her bewildered, enraptured, and mystified. Her words -appeared to encourage what had seemed to him a perfectly wild and -preposterous hope, but her manner was at once gay and repellent. As he -stood earnestly considering her in the endeavour to fathom her meaning, -she ceased laughing, and fixed her eyes upon him with a gaze that was -serious and almost sad. - -“Nay,” she said, “I speak foolishly. Do not come to town, Mr Cotley; -better remain here in your tranquil and solitary home, and think upon me -sometimes kindly. Think of this hour, an hour that is all peace and -innocence and brightness. Come, shall we walk? I have a mind to explore -these alleys.” - -She drew her scarf more closely round her, and looked about her, her face -bright with a child’s curiosity and pleasure, her momentary gravity -forgotten. “Oh, the roses,” she cried, and clapped her hands. “And -those sober old gilly-flowers, how sweet they are. And what a forest of -Michaelmas daisies! Pray, Mr Cotley, will you gather me a posy?” - -It is needless to say how eagerly John fulfilled her behest, and with -what a distracting mixture of pleasure and longing he saw her fasten the -flowers at her waist. - -Slowly they paced about the moss-grown paths. Once she stumbled, and he -enquired breathlessly if she would take his arm. What wondering bliss -when she agreed; how that strong arm of his thrilled under the light -pressure! What a sweet, sweet, brief dream it was! All too brief, -indeed, for while they yet wandered side by side among the sunlit green a -shrill voice was heard calling from the house, and Lucy, withdrawing her -hand from his arm, gave a little impatient sigh. - -“They are calling me; I must go in.” - -“Wait a moment,” cried John peremptorily; his voice was hoarse, his eyes -seemed to burn in his pale face, “let us part here, since we must part.” - -She, too, had grown pale; but, after a moment’s pause, seemed to struggle -against the contagion of his emotion. - -“Pooh,” she said, with a little jarring note in her voice, “who knows? -After all we may meet yet. Some folks say the world is a small place.” - -“No, no,” he cried fiercely, “’tis you, yourself, who have said it, -madam. You go out of my life this day; my one hour is wellnigh over, but -a moment of it remains. Let it at least be full; give me something to -remember it by.” - -Trembling in spite of herself, she looked at him, as much in earnest now -as he: - -“What would you have?” she said almost in a whisper. “This?” - -She detached one of the roses from her nosegay and held it out to him -with shaking fingers. - -“I would have more, madam,” he cried, and, bending, took both her hands -in his and kissed them many times with a vehemence which startled her. - -“Good-bye,” she said, and her slight form wavered like a reed, “good-bye, -poor John, dear John, try to think well of me always. And now, let me -go.” - -But John had fallen on his knees in the green bower, and his face, as he -uplifted it, seemed bright with a kind of white radiance. - -“Oh, love,” he cried in a broken whisper, “love, stoop to me!” - -He drew her gently towards him, and she did not resist, and they kissed -each other shyly, tenderly, wonderingly, as the first man and woman may -have kissed beneath the blossoming trees of Eden. - -Then the shrill cry came nearer, and there was a sound of pattering feet, -and in a moment she was gone, and John Cotley was left alone to awake -from his dream. - - * * * - -One week after the events which had so disturbed the placid current of -John Cotley’s life, that unwise young gentleman might have been discerned -making his way into Sadler’s Wells Play-house amid a crowd of more -seasoned play-goers. - -He had struggled fruitlessly against the overpowering desire to see Lady -Lucy again; everything indeed had seemed to point out the folly of his -enterprise; the prejudices of a lifetime, the oft-repeated axioms of -those whom he had loved and lost, his own diffidence, the absolute -hopelessness of his passion, but none of these considerations had been -strong enough to outweigh the memory of the girl’s tantalising words: -“Did you chance to be at Sadler’s Wells Playhouse on this day se’en-night -you would see me there!” And then again, “You remember the adage, ‘Faint -heart’—.” - -Surely no one could say that John Cotley’s heart was faint this evening; -on the contrary, it beat so loud and strong that he wondered his -neighbours did not turn to look at him. When he entered the building and -took his seat the whole place seemed to swim round him, and the play-bill -fluttered in his hand. But by-and-by he began to regain his -self-possession; the lights which had danced before his gaze settled -steadily in their places, and he took courage to rise and cast a -searching glance round the house; but strain his eyes as he might he -could not discover Lady Lucy. The house, indeed, seemed packed from pit -to topmost gallery, but amidst all the rows and rows of faces hers was -missing. After concluding his futile search for the twentieth time he -sat down disconsolately, and, to hide his confusion on perceiving the -amused and curious stare of his neighbours, he fell to examining his -play-bill. At first the words floated meaninglessly before his eyes, but -by-and-by one of them took shape and assumed, indeed, an odd familiarity. - -“_Lord Tuftington_”—_Lord Tuftington_! Why, surely that was the name of -one of the invaders of Cotley Grange on that never-to-be-forgotten -evening. Lord Tuftington! How did his name come to be there? But stop! -Here was another that he knew, “_Sir Harry Highflyer_.” And here again, -“_The Duchess of Flummery_,” and again, “_Lady Olivia Pouncebox_,” and -here—here actually was the name of all others sacred to him, “_Lady Lucy -Mayflower_!” _Lady Lucy_! - -He sat staring at the paper for a moment, and then, scarce knowing what -he did, turned to one of his neighbours— - -“Pray, sir, is it not a strange thing for such a noble company to give a -performance in a public place?” - -The man stared, and laughed. - -“Sir, I fail to understand you. Where, in heaven’s name, would you have -them perform if not in a public place? How else should we see them -play?” - -“’Tis for charity, no doubt,” cried John, scarcely heeding him, and -speaking in a white heat of passionate indignation. “But to me it seems -degrading that they should thus expose themselves, so that all who pay a -certain price are free to gape at them.” - -The man gazed at him blankly for a moment, and then burst out laughing. - -“I presume, sir, this is your first visit to a playhouse, and truly, I -think, with these sentiments, you would have done better to keep away. -But as for the performance being given for charity— Faith, if you were -to make such a suggestion to the manager he would tell you that charity -began at home, I fancy. By the time he has paid his company, and -defrayed the cost of the scenery—” - -“Paid the company,” interrupted John, “why, sir, do you mean to tell me -that persons of such quality would condescend to play for hire? -High-born ladies like—like the Duchess—” - -His neighbour positively gaped, and then bending forward gazed at him -narrowly— - -“Sir,” he said, “I believe you are purposely acting the buffoon; you seek -to impose on me by affecting an impossible ignorance—” - -“Upon my soul, sir,” cried simple John, who was now quite pale and could -hardly speak for agitation, “’tis my first visit to such a place, and I—I -happen to know some of these ladies and—” - -“So?” said the other with a grin. “Well, good country cousin, I will -take pity on your innocence. These titles here are wholly fictitious, as -indeed I think is easily seen; these names to the right are those which -either belong properly to the actors and actresses, or are assumed by -them for their greater convenience. Mrs Scully, for instance, who plays -Lady Olivia, chooses rather to call herself Mrs Swynnerton, because the -name has a better sound, while as for Miss Fitzroy, who is set down for -the part of Lady Lucy, that I am sure must be an assumed name, but as it -is the lady’s first appearance upon the boards, my information concerning -her is scanty. I am informed that she is a pretty little creature, and -likely to prove attractive. Now, sir, let me request that you will sit -still. I assure you it is quite unnerving to see you bouncing about in -your seat. Sit down; the curtain will rise in a moment; and let me -inform you, since the business is novel to you, that the first duty of -the playgoer is to refrain from disturbing the rest of the audience.” - -John sat still; indeed, once the curtain had risen, he remained so -absolutely motionless that he might have been turned to stone. - -The play, which at the time of its production enjoyed an ephemeral -popularity, but has since passed into oblivion like its author, abounded -in strained situations. The sentiment was superabundant, the humour -forced and occasionally verging upon coarseness, but Lady Lucy, who -sustained one of the principal parts, won tumultuous applause from first -to last. John saw her smiling upon her fictitious lover as she had -smiled upon him, he heard her voice, her light laugh, he marked certain -little tricks of manner, which, though he had known her for so brief a -space, seemed engraven upon his memory—and his jealous heart seemed like -to burst within him. He felt ashamed, nay, personally degraded by the -publicity into which she had thrust herself. Good God! That her beauty, -her charm, her pretty ways should be thus pilloried! That any coarse -brute who sate aloft in the gallery was free to make his comment because -he had paid his sixpence! That nothing should be sacred; that she should -prattle of love, and weep mock tears, there in the glare of the -footlights before all these curious, insolent eyes, as though he and she -had never clasped hands and stammered secrets in the sanctity of the -solitary dawn. Oh! Heavens, it was too much! - -The intensity of his gaze drew hers towards him before she had been very -long upon the scene, and she appeared to falter for a moment, but -speedily recovered her self-possession. - -At the end of the first act, while he was still staring blankly at the -lowered curtain, someone touched him on the shoulder, and, as he turned -round, thrust a note into his hand. He tore it open quickly, and found -it contained but a line:—“Come to the stage door when the play is over.” -Turning to speak to the messenger, he found that he had already gone. - -When Lady Lucy next came on the stage she played with even greater spirit -and vivacity than before, but by-and-by stole a questioning glance at -John; and John gravely nodded. A thousand times, indeed, he had a mind -to leave the place and to set eyes on her no more; and still he lingered. -With each succeeding act Miss Fitzroy further captivated the house, and -the curtain descended at last amid tumultuous applause. - -Slowly and gloomily John rose, and after many enquiries found his way to -the stage door, standing there motionless while streams of gay folk -passed and repassed before his eyes. - -All at once he felt a hand upon his arm. A slender, cloaked figure was -beside him, and two bright eyes were gazing at him eagerly from the -depths of a quilted silk hood. - -“John,” whispered Lady Lucy’s voice, “here I am, John. I have given them -all the slip that I might talk to you for a moment. You must know that I -have had quite an ovation—they say that my fortune is made and that all -London will be ringing with my name to-morrow; and now tell me, what did -you think of it—how did you like me?” - -“What did I think of it?” groaned John. “My dear, it nearly broke my -heart!” - -He saw the eager eyes flash, and felt the hand upon his arm tremble with -anger. - -“What!” she was beginning wrathfully, but broke off and continued in a -softer tone: “You are vexed, I suppose, because I deceived you?” - -“Nay, madam, ’tis not that. I had liefer you had told me the truth, yet -that is a small matter. But that you should thus exhibit yourself—” - -She snatched away her hand. - -“You would have kept me all to yourself, I suppose?” - -“God knows I would!” said he. - -“And you have the face to tell me so. You would have me stifle my -ambition—make nothing of my talent—throw away the fame and fortune which -are now actually within my grasp? And pray, John Cotley, what would you -leave me?” - -“Peace of mind,” said Cotley. “Honour—” - -“Sir, do you mean to insult me? Surely these things must be mine in any -walk of life.” - -“Madam, they are endangered by the course you would pursue. Give it up, -I beg of you—I entreat it of you. You cannot already have forgotten what -has passed between us—does it give me no right over you?” - -“You are in truth a strange man,” said she petulantly, “though I believe -you love me well in your own odd fashion,” and here the little hand stole -back again to his arm. “But it is a selfish fashion, John. You would -take everything from me—what would you give me in return?” - -“All that I am,” said John. “All that I have. My love, my home, myself. -I came round to this place to offer them to you once and for all.” - -The very intensity of his passion made his voice sound stern, and Lady -Lucy once more jerked away her hand, and tossed her head. - -“Upon my word, sir, you are mighty cool. Pray do you expect me to jump -at this proposal? I believe you do. I believe you would have me on my -knees with gratitude for your condescension. Really it is laughable. -Here am I with the world at my feet, and you—you would have me give up my -whole career at your command and follow you like some meek patient -Grizzel to that dreary home of yours. And you make this noble offer once -for all, do you? You are not disposed to renew it, should I venture to -hesitate?” - -“No,” said John Cotley: “I am not to be trifled with. It must be now or -never.” - -“Then it shall be never!” said Lady Lucy. - - * * * - -Seven years passed by, and John Cotley tilled his fields, and sowed, and -reaped, and rode abroad in summer heat and wintry frosts. He was a hard -man, his labourers said, and the neighbours gibed at him for being -morose; and John Cotley went on his way without heeding them, though day -by day the lines about mouth and eyes deepened, and silver threads, which -had no business there, increased among his brown locks. - -One March afternoon he was driven indoors by a heavy fall of snow—one of -those late storms which are all the more severe because so untimely. He -was standing, drumming impatiently on the windowpane, and thinking with -vexation of the fruit-blossom which would be blighted, and the young -growth of root and blade which must be checked, when of a sudden, through -the muffled stillness there came a sound of imperative knocking at the -double gate. The men were at work in the woodshed at the rear of the -house, old Molly, who had grown deaf of late, was busy in the kitchen: -only the master was aware of the summons, and he paused a moment as -though in doubt before responding to it. - -The knocking came again, hurried and urgent. John Cotley threw open the -window and called aloud— - -“The gate is not locked: you can come in.” - -He saw the latch partly lifted and then fall back again, and the knocking -was resumed, a woman’s voice crying out at the same time— - -“Sir, it is too heavy for my strength. I pray you, let me in.” - -John started and caught his breath; then hastened from the room, with -long swinging strides, and down the snow-covered path. The gate creaked -upon its hinges, and the figure of a lady, cloaked and hooded, stood -revealed; her hooped skirt almost filled the half-opened door, and as she -stepped past John and hurried up the sloping path that lay between the -lavender hedges—ghostly now beneath their weight of snow—she left behind -her a little track of narrow-soled high-heeled shoes—each print of that -light foot marking on the snow what seemed to be the impression of a -flower and a leaf. Not a word said she, but pressed on till she reached -the house, and indeed the snow was piled upon her shoulders and filled -the creases in her hood. - -Once safe in the hall she turned and curtsied to John, who had followed -close upon her heels, and then, throwing back her hood, revealed to him -an unforgettable face in which he nevertheless saw much that was strange -and new. There was new beauty to begin with, but beauty of a different -order to that young delicate bloom which he remembered; there was a roll -in the bright eyes which had not used to be there; a somewhat languishing -smile wreathed the lovely lips. As she loosed her mantle and let it drop -from her shoulders, she revealed a form in which full womanly symmetry -had replaced the almost fragile grace of early girlhood. - -“John Cotley,” she said, “I have come once more to throw myself upon your -hospitality. ’Tis true my coach has not broken down, but the storm is -unpleasant, and progress is slow, and I am not ill-pleased at the -prospect of warming and refreshing myself before proceeding further. -Therefore, recognising the aspect of the country, and calling to mind -that you lived in these parts, I desired my servants to halt for an hour, -and bethought me that I would come and take you by surprise.” - -“Madam,” said John, “you do indeed take me by surprise.” - -She stole at him a curious, somewhat anxious glance—but soon laughed, and -raised her eyebrows and shoulders with an affected gesture— - -“Fie, sir! is that all you can find to say to me? I vow your manners -have grown rusty during these seven years. I protest when I visited you -last you had more politeness. Do you wish, sir, to forbid me entrance?” - -“By no means, madam. Pray come in. Such entertainment as this poor -house can afford shall be yours.” - -He led the way into the parlour, and soon was on his knees by the hearth -kindling a fire. Outside, the snow drifted past the window, and within -all was silence, save for the rustling of Lady Lucy’s silken garments as -she breathed quickly, and the click of flint and steel. The tinder -caught at last, and by-and-by the flame leaped in the chimney. Then John -Cotley rose from his knees, and found Lady Lucy earnestly considering -him. - -“You have not changed much, John, these seven years.” - -“Have I not, madam?” said he. - -“The place,” she went on, “the place is so oddly familiar I could almost -fancy that I had been here yesterday.” - -“Could you indeed, madam?” said John. - -Leaning forward in the flickering light, and with that earnest expression -she looked wonderfully, perilously like the other Lady Lucy whom he had -once known. He averted his eyes, and began to move slowly towards the -door. She followed him with a curious intent gaze. - -“’Tis a pity that it should be snowing, John,” she said, and the soft -voice sounded almost caressing. “I have a mind to see the garden. If by -chance it clears up by-and-by, I shall ask you to conduct me there.” - -“Nay, madam,” said John, pausing in the doorway, and turning upon her a -very resolute face, “the garden would scarcely be worth your notice.” - -“Do you suppose I have forgotten it?” whispered she. “Shall I ever -forget that sunny morning, and the roses, and—” - -“Nay, forget it, madam,” said John, sternly. “I assure you the roses are -dead.” - -And then he went away and left her, and presently old Molly came, all in -a flutter of wonder and delight. - -“’Tis herself, sure,” she cried, peering into the beautiful pensive face -of the visitor; “’tis Lady Lucy. Master come to me and says, says he, -‘Get tea ready, and everything of the best,’ he says, ‘A lady has come -who must be well attended to’; but he didn’t never say it was your -ladyship. Dear, my lady, what a merry company you was, to be sure. Do -you mind how you all made your own beds. I’ll wager your ladyship has -never made your bed since.” - -“Yes, yes,” said Lady Lucy, “I have made my own bed, Molly, and I must -lie on it.” - -She sate very silent and thoughtful after this; but when refreshments -were served, and John Cotley came to do the honours of his table, she -became once more all smiles and gaiety, prattling very prettily about the -great world and the folk who dwelt there, and running on from one topic -to another without appearing to notice her host’s gravity and silence. -All at once, turning to him with a challenging air, she said: “In this -solitary retreat of yours, Mr Cotley, I presume the news of my doings and -successes have not reached you?” - -“Madam,” he returned, with an added shade of coldness in his tone, “I -must own that I have failed to keep count of your triumphs.” - -“Why, that is the less surprising since, according to my flatterers, my -triumphs are past reckoning. Do you remember, sir;” and here, leaning -her elbows on the table and resting her chin upon her hands, she darted a -penetrating glance towards him—“do you remember, sir, a conversation -which we once had at early dawn? I, at least, recollect it very well. -Though you were unaware at the time of the career I had chosen, you made -several curiously apt forecasts.” - -“Madam,” returned John, “I regret to say that my memory is not as good as -yours.” - -She bit her lip, but soon recovered herself. Tilting back her head -slightly, and looking at him through her narrowed lids, she continued— - -“You prophesied, as I recollect, that I should be courted by the highest -in the land; admired by all the rank and fashion of London. ‘Dukes;’ -said you—and I vow you would have laughed had you but known the gloomy -despair of your face—‘dukes and marquises will be fighting for the -privilege of kissing your hand.’ Well, your words have come true; many -grandees have come a-courting me; this hand of mine has been kissed by -royalty. And yet, John Cotley, ’tis a weary life. Empty flattery, -tiresome praise—a feather-headed crew that flutter round me with -unmeaning smiles and foolish compliments. Not one true man among them.” - -As she paused, he bowed stiffly. - -“Amid all my success I am sick at heart,” she went on, excitedly. “I -long for a home; I long to find a loyal heart, a hand that I could rely -on.” - -“I regret to hear, madam,” said Cotley, as she paused again, “that events -have not justified your expectations.” - -She looked at him fixedly for a moment, and then smiling archly, went on— - -“And you tell me you have forgotten this conversation of ours? Now, I -can recall it word for word. When I first emerged from under the leafy -archway yonder”—with a wave of the hand—“you were standing thus”— - -She rose to her feet and struck an attitude, head bent, one hand pressed -to her brow, the other clutching at the ruffles at her breast. “And I -was so rude as to laugh; do you remember?” - -“You have the advantage of me, madam,” said John Cotley, sternly. - -She continued as though she had not heard him, and with a little tremor -in her voice. “You said some pretty things about my being an angel, and -I asked you what you knew of me; and you said that you knew only what -your eyes had shown you, and what your heart had told you. Oh, John, -does your heart tell you nothing now?” - -“I do not understand you,” said John, steadily. - -“To be sure you have forgotten all that passed. I suppose, too, that you -have forgotten about those wanderings of ours in the alleys yonder, when -the leaves were green, and the roses were blowing. I stumbled once, and -you made me take your arm, and I felt it trembling beneath my hand. -Think of that, Mr Cotley! Were you not a foolish youth in those days? -And so we walked together, and told each other wonderful things, and I -asked you to think kindly of me always. Ah, John, I fear you have not -kept your word.” - -He, too, had risen and stood before her, rigid, with hands dropping by -his side, and a grey face. - -“Then they called me,” she went on, with a thrill in her musical voice, -her face earnest now and glowing, “they called me—there was but one -moment left: I gave you a flower, but you said it was not enough—you took -my hands and—” - -Bending forward suddenly she seized his; they were limp and cold as ice; -“You took my hands,” she repeated, her voice still vibrating, her eyes -fixed passionately on his, “you fell on your knees at my feet as I kneel -to you now, you said, you said—oh, let me say it!—“Love, love, stoop to -me!” - -John Cotley gave one glance at the pleading, upturned face, at the -beautiful eyes swimming in tears, and then he withdrew his hands. - -“You have surpassed yourself, madam,” he said. “You are certainly a -marvellous actress. Your rendering of the scene was absolutely perfect.” - -She was on her feet in a moment, dashing the tears from her eyes and -laughing unsteadily. - -“I was determined to convince you of my powers,” cried she, in a voice -which feigned lightness though it was husky and ill-assured. “There, you -should feel proud, Mr Cotley, that so famed a personage should give you a -performance all to yourself. . . . The storm shows no signs of abating, -I fear, so I will not trespass further on your hospitality. I am much -obliged to you, Mr Cotley, for your entertainment, and now I think I will -take my leave. My cloak and hood lie yonder—I thank you”—as he assisted -her to put them on. “Now, sir, if you will have the kindness to open the -gate I will pursue my way.” - -They were out of the house by this time, and she passed in front of him -towards the gate. When she reached it she paused, and curtsied with -averted eyes. - -“Farewell, sir, I have to thank you for your generosity and kindness. I -need trouble you to come no further.” - -He watched the figure move away with stately undulating grace, and when -it was lost in the white mist he closed the gate with a heavy sigh. -There lay the tracks in front of him, flower and leaf, flower and leaf, -those just made showing sharp and clear, the others already -half-obliterated; by nightfall all alike would have vanished. The light -feet would intrude no more upon his path. - -Going indoors he stood for a moment by the hearth, and then drawing a -note-book from his bosom, took from the little leather pocket beneath the -cover a small paper packet which he proceeded to unfold. Within lay the -crumbling and discoloured remnants of what once had been a rose. - -“Let it go with the rest!” said John Cotley, and stooping he dropped it -among the embers. - -A little flame caught it, leaped up, flickered, and died away. - - - - -A PRISONER OF WAR - - -IT is nearly a hundred years ago now since that golden October evening -which made such a change in Molly Rainford’s life; the blue-eyed children -to whom she used to tell the story have long since been laid to rest, and -her grandchildren—old men and women now—have almost forgotten it. Even -the neighbours have ceased to wonder at the odd name which they bear, and -do not realise that were it not corrupted and mispronounced, it would -have a still stranger sound in their ears. - -On this fine October evening then, many, many years ago, Molly Rainford -was setting the house-place to rights, before the return of her father -and his men from the wheatfield, where they had been at work since dawn. -It was worth while growing wheat in those days, as Farmer Joe could tell -you, but it took long to cut, and the arms grew weary that wielded the -sickle, and the sweat poured down the brown faces. Old Winny the -servant, and even Susan, the lass who occasionally came in to help, had -been all day in the field too, helping with other women-folk to bind the -sheaves. Molly would have been there herself, but that somebody was -wanted to go backwards and forwards between house and field with food and -drink for the labourers. Indeed, what with carrying the ten o’clock -“bagging,” the big noonday dinner, and the four o’clock “drinkings,” -Molly’s arms and feet ached pretty well, but she could not sit down to -rest yet; she must bestir herself, “straighten up” the house, and set out -the supper—bread and cheese, cold bacon, and plenty of small beer. - -As she moved about the flagged room, intent on her own thoughts, she did -not at first hear a low hurried tap at the outer door, which stood open; -and it was not until a figure passed hurriedly through it, and stepped -from the passage into the kitchen itself, that she turned round with a -great start. - -She saw a young fellow of about middle height, with a well-knit and -curiously graceful figure, fair hair, closely cropped, and blue eyes set -in a face which, though pale and startled now, had nevertheless a certain -winsomeness about it. His clothes were soiled and ragged, and his feet -were bare, yet at the very first sight of him Molly realised that he was -no tramp. - -“Don’t scream,” he said in a low voice, and throwing out his hand -pleadingly. - -“I weren’t goin’ to scream,” returned Molly, briefly and calmly, and -thereat the stranger smiled—a very pleasant smile, with a flash of white -teeth, and a merry twinkle in the eyes. - -Molly blushed all over her apple-blossom face, and dropped her head, upon -which the brown hair would never lie as smoothly as she wished; but -presently, overcoming her shyness, she fixed her honest grey eyes upon -him and said seriously: “What might you please to want, sir?” - -“I will tell you the truth,” said the man. “I have escaped from prison. -I want you to give me shelter here for a few days, until the hue and cry -is over, and then—” - -“’Scaped from prison!” ejaculated Molly. “I don’t say as I won’t scream -now,” and she made as though she would rush past him to the door. But -the other stopped her. - -“I am not a criminal,” he said. “I have done no wrong except to fight -for my own land.” - -“Dear o’ me,” said Molly. “And where may that be? I doubt we are -fighting most of the world just now.” - -“I am a Frenchman,” returned he. “My name is Jean Marie Kerenec.” - -“Well, that’s a name,” cried Molly, and dropped upon a chair. “Jammery, -d’ye say? But you speak English quite sensibly.” - -“I was a fisherman by trade,” said Jean, “and used besides to do a bit of -trade with your country, and your folks came over to us, and so I learned -to speak your language when I was quite a little boy. And then I’ve been -so long in an English prison, you see. When the war broke out I became a -marine, and was taken prisoner with my mates by an English man-o’-war, -and I’ve been in prison two—three years now. Life in an English -prison-ship is not gay, I tell you.” - -“You shouldn’t fight against us, you see,” said the girl. “Well, I’m -sure I don’t know what I’m to do. You’re welly clemmed, I -reckon?—hungry, I mean,” seeing that he stared at her. “Sit down and eat -a bit.” - -She pointed to the great wooden settle, but he remained standing until -she returned with a plate of bread and meat and a jug of beer. Going -towards her as she was crossing the kitchen, and moving swiftly and -gracefully on his bare feet, as some lithe creature of the woods, he took -her burden from her, and, placing it on the table, sat down, and fell to -with right good will. - -Molly went on with her work, eyeing her visitor from time to time. Once, -happening to intercept her glance, he smiled at her brightly. - -“I’m sure I don’t know whatever my father will say,” muttered Molly. -“He’ll haply be angry with me for letting you stop.” - -“Is he a hard man?” enquired Jean, his face falling. - -“Nay, when father’s not crossed there’s no kinder man in the whole o’ -Lancashire. But if you go the wrong way to work wi’ him! Poor Teddy, my -brother, did that, and my father turned him out. He’s sorry enough about -it now, poor father is, for Ted went and ’listed and hasn’t never been -home since.” - -The stranger laid down his knife and fork and looked at her earnestly. -“If your brother were taken prisoner,” he said, “would not he, your -father, be glad if he were treated kindly? If he had a chance of coming -home, and only wanted just what I want now, shelter for a few days to -help him, what would your father say if one refused him?” - -“There’s something in that,” said Molly, and the glance which she threw -at the young stranger was much softer and more encouraging than her -words. - -An hour or two wore away, and Molly finished tidying, and spread the long -tables, and fed the chickens, and set her dairy to rights. In all these -operations Jean Marie Kerenec assisted her, and he told her the most -wonderful things the while, so that now her eyes brightened with -astonishment, and now her bonny cheek grew pale with alarm, and sometimes -her red lips would droop and tears of compassion would hang upon her -lashes. But she thought her new friend an heroic and most delightful -personage. - -When the shadows had crept over the face of the land and the first bat -circled round the house, the tramp of clogged feet, and the sound of many -voices, announced the return of the harvesters. - -“You’d best hide,” said Molly, struck with a sudden thought. “Yes, hide -in the buttery till the folks are abed and my father is having his glass -comfortable by the fire; then I’ll tackle him.” - -So into the buttery Jean Marie disappeared, and prudent Molly locked the -door and put the key in her pocket. Presently he heard the farmer come -stamping in in his top-boots, and a series of thuds in the passage, which -meant that the men, having duly “washed them” at the pump, were now -respectfully divesting themselves of their clogs. He heard old Winny -groaning over the fatigues of the day, and Susan giggling with some -rustic admirer, and the quick tread of Molly’s feet on the flags as she -hastened up and down the table. Then a roar from Farmer Rainford— - -“Hurry up, wilt thou, lass? Wheer’s the moog? I’m that dry I could very -near drink water. ‘Is the field nigh cut?’ says thou. No, nor half-cut” -(and here the farmer rapped out an oath or two); “the lads don’t work -near so well as they used to do: nor the wenches neither. There’s -storm-weather about. Thou might ha’ made shift to come out a bit before -supper—another pair of hands is worth summat, I tell thee.” - -Another pair of hands! Jean Marie rubbed his own in the darkness, and -drew a long breath. Here was a lever by which he might help his cause. - -Presently the scraping back of benches denoted that the meal was at an -end, and soon the sound of retreating voices announced that the tired -folk had withdrawn to their beds in attic or outhouse. Then Jean Marie -heard Molly speaking in a low muffled tone, which somehow conveyed to him -the impression that she was bending over her father; and then a bellow -from the old man made the prisoner spring backwards from the door. - -“A Frenchy in my house! What the—the—” - -“Eh, father, just think if it were our Teddy as had got loose from prison -over yon, and wanted a helpin’ hand.” - -“Our lad’s noan sich a fool as to get put in prison.” - -“Nay, but he might; and the Lord might do the same to us as we do to yon -poor chap.” - -“Don’t tell me, ye silly wench, as the Lord ’ud go for to treat a good -honest Englishman same as a fool of a Frenchy.” - -“He looks just like an Englishman, father, and he speaks English much the -same as we do. He seems as nice as could be, and that handy going about -the kitchen.” - -“Sir,” called out Jean Marie from the place of his concealment, his voice -sounding thin and strange through the keyhole; “Sir, I could help with -the reaping; you said you wanted another pair of hands.” - -“What’s that?” cried Farmer Joe, and then he fell a-laughing. “Why, -there’s sense in what the chap says—I’m terribly short-handed just now. -Come out, sin’ thou’rt theer, and let’s have a look at thee.” - -The door being unlocked, Jean emerged from the buttery, and stepped -lightly across the floor on his bare feet. Taking up his position -opposite old Rainford, he first extended for inspection a pair of -powerful hands, and then, pulling up his ragged shirt-sleeves, displayed -the magnificent muscles of his arms. - -“Will that do?” he enquired quaintly. - -The farmer slapped him on the back, with a roar of laughter. - -“That’ll do, my lad; that’ll do,” he cried. “Od’s bobs, they arms ’ud do -credit to an Englishman! Coom, we’s see how mich work thou can get -through to-morrow. How long dost thou want to bide here?” - -“Till the end of the week, if I may.” - -“Ah, that’ll do well enough; we’s have finished field by then. How wilt -thou get away, think’st thou?” - -“A friend of mine will meet me a little further down the coast in a -fishing-boat. You see, I am trusting you, sir. I am sure you will keep -my secret.” - -“You may be sure, lad. I’m not the mon to betray yo’.” - -“I’ve been thinkin’,” put in Molly, “we must lend Mester John some o’ our -Ted’s cloo’es, and a pair o’ clogs, and we must tell folks—I think we’d -best tell folks as he’s a friend o’ yours as has coom to help wi’ the -harvest.” - -This plan was put into execution. To the work-people it seemed natural -enough that “Mester” had called in additional help in the emergency, and -the intimate terms on which the new comer seemed to be with the daughter -of the house lent credit to the supposition. - -Jean Marie worked manfully in the wheat-field, but in the evenings, and -every spare moment during the day, he was at Molly’s side. He pumped -water for her, carried her pail, swept up her kitchen, and even lit the -fire before she came down in the morning. He had such pleasant ways -withal, and such a kindly smile, that it was no wonder Molly smiled on -him in return, and that the work-people soon began to whisper that she -and the “Liverpool mon” were “coortin’.” - -On the evening of the third day, work being finished, and Jean -outstripping his mates, and finding Molly alone in the kitchen, was -greeted by her so cordially that somehow—he never quite knew how—he found -his arm round her waist, and words of love leaping to his lips. She was -an angel, a darling; he would never love anyone but her, and she must -love him too; he must go away now, but when the war was over he would -come back, and they must be married. - -“But my father will never allow it,” stammered Molly, making no attempt, -however, to disengage herself. - -And at this most inopportune moment in walked Farmer Joe. The state of -things that ensued can be imagined. The old farmer’s fury; Jean Marie’s -protestations; Molly’s tearful and inconsequent assurances, first, that -she knew nothing about it, and that it wasn’t her fault, secondly, that -“as how ’twas” she would never have any other sweetheart. - -After a time, however, peace was in some measure restored; the young -folks silently resolved to achieve their end, while Farmer Joe loudly -announced that, as the chap was bound to leave in two-three days, he’d -keep his word to him for this time, but he’d be domned if he didn’t give -him up if ever he showed his face there again. - -After that he interfered no more, and though he was well aware that Jean -and Molly continued their courting on the sly, he left them alone, and, -except for an occasional sarcasm anent “Frenchies” and “frog-eaters,” -made no attempt to molest Jean. - -On the morning of the day fixed for the young man’s departure, however, -he received news which changed his contemptuous indifference into active -hatred and fury. He came staggering into the kitchen with an ashy-white -face and starting eyeballs. Parson Bradley had been with him, and had -announced to him the death of his son, Teddy, in foreign parts. - -“They’n killed him,” he cried. “Those domned Frenchies ha’ killed my -lad. See, here’s his name in th’ paper parson brought me. Eh, my -lad—and I druv him fro’ the door! And now they’n killed him, the domned -raskils!” - -Molly gave a cry, and flung her apron over her head, and Jean came -forward, full of genuine distress and sympathy. But at sight of him the -old man’s face became suddenly suffused with a rush of returning colour; -he babbled with inarticulate rage, and shook his fist threateningly. - -“Soombry ’ll pay for this,” he cried, as soon as he could speak. “I’ll -not have no murderers in my house. I’ll have blood for blood. Does not -the Book say ‘an eye for an eye’? I’ll have life for life, I tell yo’. -I’ll revenge my son!” - -“Oh, father, father,” wept Molly, throwing herself at his feet, “dunnot -say that! Dunnot look at John so wicked! He’s innocent, poor lad. The -Book says more nor they things; it says, ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the -Lord,’ and, ‘Do as yo’ would be done by.’ We’n killed hundreds and -thousands of Frenchmen, I reckon, but if poor Teddy were alive in the -hands of his enemies yo’d think it a cruel thing if he were made to -answer for it.” - -With a volley of oaths the farmer was stooping forward to thrust her -away, when there sounded of a sudden a tramping of feet without, and a -heavy knock at the door. - -“They’ve come for me!” said Jean, turning very pale. “Molly, my loved -one, they will take me away; we shall—never meet again. Let us thank God -for these happy days.” - -She had risen and flown to him, and his arms were about her, when the -knocking came again, loud and continuous. - -“Open there, in the King’s name!” cried an imperious voice. - -“Curse yo’, Molly, go to the door!” growled her father. - -“Go, sweetheart,” said Jean, releasing her. - -“Oh, father,” gasped Molly, as she crept with lagging steps across the -room, “father, remember—yo’ gave your word!” - -The door swung back, and in an instant the room, as it seemed to Molly, -was full of soldiers. Their leader, after a brief glance round, which -took in, apparently without any deep interest, the old man leaning -forward in his chair, the trembling girl, and the fair-haired young -labourer standing in the background, addressed himself to the master of -the house. - -“You are Farmer Rainford, I presume? I am in search of an escaped French -prisoner of war, who, it is supposed, is in hiding in this neighbourhood. -A suspicious-looking French craft has been hovering about Formby Cove -since yesterday. May I ask if you’ve seen any stranger about your -premises during the last few days?” - -Old Joe lifted his heavy eyes, and gazed at the speaker stolidly, but -without saying a word. - -“Please to excuse my father, sir,” faltered Molly, coming quickly -forward, “We’n just had bad news—terrible bad news, and he’s upset. We’n -just heard as my only brother was killed by the French. See, there’s his -name in the paper—Corporal Edward Rainford of the King’s Own.” - -She snatched the paper from her father’s hand as she spoke, and pointed -out the marked place with a trembling finger. Joe made an inarticulate -sound, and then clapped his hand before his mouth. - -“That’s a pity,” said the officer, with momentary compassion. “Well, Mr -Rainford, we won’t trouble you. You can tell us what we want to know, my -girl. You haven’t noticed any stranger about the place lately? Your -labourers are all known to you? No ragged-looking fellow has come to the -door to beg for alms?” - -Molly had been shaking her head vigorously. - -“No, sir! oh no, sir!” she now cried eagerly. “There’s nobody about but -our own folks as has worked for us ever sin’ I can remember; and there’s -nobody in this house but my father and mysel’, and old Winny the servant, -and my sweetheart there.” - -“Oh!” said the officer, laughing, “that’s your sweetheart, is it? He -seems a likely lad. Why isn’t he out fighting for his country?” - -“Oh, please sir, I couldn’t spare him!” cried Molly, laughing with white -lips. “It ’ud fair break my heart if anything was to happen to him.” - -Her feigned laughter was strangled by her sobs. Her father uttered a -groan, and let his head drop forward into his hands. - -“Dom they raskil Frenchies!” he cried: “they’n been and killed my only -son!” - -“Come, men,” said the officer, “we’ll take ourselves off. This is not a -likely place for a French prisoner to take refuge in. You’d soon give -him up, wouldn’t you, Mr Rainford?” - -Joe Rain ford raised his head and looked at him steadily. - -“Yo’n heerd what my lass telled yo’,” he said, doggedly; “there isn’t -nobry here, nobbut me, and her,—and her sweetheart!” - - - - -THROUGH THE COTTAGE WINDOW - - -THE gable end of the cottage faced the shore, and I first became -conscious of the window by the sudden appearance of a faint light behind -its narrow panes. It was a stormy evening, the wind sweeping down -between the dunes in sudden gusts that caught up the sand from their -steep sides—which were indeed but sparsely covered with stargrass—and -sent it driving seawards in blinding eddies. I had wandered overlong -about the damp stretch of shore that bordered the remains of the -submarine forest, interested first by the curious contrasts of colour to -be noticed there—the silvery sweep of sand sloping downwards to the dusky -purplish brown of the remnants aforesaid, in the irregular surface of -which little pools and rivulets of water reflected the sky; the -blue-green of the star-grass interspersed with patches of dwarf willows -and bilberry plants, the foliage of which at this season had taken on a -variety of tints. Later on, when the tide had come roaring and leaping -in, I had been attracted by the magnificence of its fury, and had watched -wave after wave roll towards me, gathering and swelling as though with -suppressed rage, and finally breaking with a boom that went echoing -through the hills, while the spray dashed ever higher and higher. -Fascinated as I had been by the sight, I did not notice that the early -autumnal sunset was over, until a sudden roller, more adventurous than -its fellows, came rushing to my very feet, and, turning hurriedly to -escape from it, I observed that the world behind me was wrapped in gloom, -save for the lingering glare at the horizon. Almost at the moment that I -became aware of the approach of night, I became also conscious that the -gusts of wind before alluded to no longer carried stinging clouds of sand -with them, but were laden with a cold mist of rain almost as painful to -meet, a mist which, indeed, as I hastily threaded my way through the -yielding sand, soon turned to a downpour. - -Clearly, unless I wished to be drenched as well as benighted on this -lonely waste, I must at once seek shelter; and, while I was -disconsolately wondering whither I should bend my steps, a sudden ray of -light drew my attention to the little habitation I had before noticed. -Drawing my cloak closely round me I made my way thither with all the -speed I could muster, and knocked loudly at the closed door; but my -summons passed unheeded, being most probably unheard in the increasing -fury of the gale; and, after repeated raps on the panels and rattlings of -the latch, I went round to the window, in the hope that my efforts to -attract attention might meet with some success from this point. No -curtain hung behind the panes, and pressing my face close to them I -peered into the room within. It was a small kitchen, kept with a -neatness and cleanliness which one learns to expect among north-country -folk. A small fire burnt upon the hearth, and a candle flickered in a -tin sconce over the homely mantle-shelf. By the light of these I -descried the figure of a woman sitting by the hearth; her hands were -folded on her lap, and her eyes were fixed upon the fire. She might have -been any age between fifty and sixty; the slight and erect form, and -handsome face, rendered remarkable by strongly-marked black brows, would -incline one to name the lesser figure, had not the deep lines about eyes -and mouth, and the snow-white, if still abundant hair, inclined one to -think her an older woman. - -But I was in no mood to examine or criticise just then; with my face -still close to the casement I tapped sharply on the topmost pane. The -woman started, and turned her face towards me, grasping the elbows of her -chair with both hands, but not otherwise attempting to move. I tapped -again, more impatiently. Still remaining seated she stretched out both -arms towards the window, a smile breaking over her face. Such a strange -smile! Tender, even yearning, and yet one might almost say, fearful. - -Losing patience, I tapped again, and nodded. With arms still stretched -out she slowly left her chair and dropped upon her knees. - -Then taking advantage of a momentary lull in the storm I shook the crazy -casement and shouted: - -“Let me in; I shall be wet to the skin!” - -At length she rose hurriedly to her feet; then, shading her eyes with her -hand, made her way towards me. - -“Eh, dear!” she cried, as she drew near; “it’s not him—’tis a wumman!” - -“Oh, do let me in,” I pleaded. “See how it rains! I only ask for -shelter until the storm is over.” - -She signed to me to go round to the door, and in another moment my feet -were on the sanded floor within. - -“Dear o’ me,” she cried, “yo’re wet, ma’am; yo’re terrible wet. I wish -I’d ha’ heerd yo’ before, but wind and rain were makkin’ sich a din I -didn’t notice nothin’.” - -“And when you did notice, you took me for a ghost, I think,” I said, -laughing, but feeling still a little aggrieved. - -No trace of the strange expression which I had noticed on her face when I -had first summoned her lingered there as she admitted me, but at these -careless words of mine I saw it come again. - -“Coom nigh the fire,” she said, after a pause, during which she had gazed -at me as one half awake. - -“Did you take me for a ghost?” I persisted, as I drew near the hearth. - -“I took yo’ fur—summat,” she answered doggedly. Then, after a moment’s -silence, she began to press me hospitably to dry my “shoon,” and informed -me that she would “mak’ tay in a two-three minutes.” - -“Yo’re out late,” she added presently, gazing at me as I basked in the -comfortable warmth. “Dun yo’ coom fro’ far?” - -“I have walked along the shore from Saltleigh,” I said. “I am staying at -the inn there. It is not very far. When the storm is over I shall make -my way back by road.” - -“Ah,” she commented, bending down to fill the little brown teapot from -the now bubbling kettle. - -As she did so I caught sight of the glitter of a wedding-ring upon the -gnarled brown hand. - -“Do you live here all alone?” - -“Ah,” affirmatively. - -“You’ve been married, I see.” - -She nodded. - -“Your husband is dead, I suppose?” Again the curious look, but no -answer. I repeated my question. - -“I reckon he is dead, ma’am,” she replied in a low voice. “Yigh, I met -say I know he’s dead. It’s thirty-five year sin’ he went—he mun be -dead.” - -“Did he not die here, then?” - -“Nay, ma’am, he wur a sailor. He deed at say on jest sich a night as -this. He deed, and he thought on me.” - -The smile which I had seen once before, which held so much of love, and -yet had in it a suggestion of fear, hovered about her lips again for a -moment, and was gone. - -“Tay’s drawed nice now,” she said in a different tone. “Will yo’ please -to pull up, ma’am?” motioning me to draw my chair nearer the table. -“I’ve soom leet cake here as I’ll toast in a minute, but I have na’ a bit -o’ butter, I’m sorry to tell yo’; yo’ mun mak’ shift wi’out.” - -As I murmured my thanks for the generosity with which she had set before -me the best her house contained, and emphatically assured her that I -infinitely preferred light cake without butter, my hostess reseated -herself in her elbow-chair, and gazed at me, while I ate and drank, with -evident satisfaction. But she did not speak, and each furtive glance -that I sent in her direction increased my curiosity. - -It was such a handsome face, with its great dark eyes, its still -beautiful colouring, its expression of reserved strength, of patience, -of—what was it? Expectation or longing? A little of both, perhaps, but -all placid and contained. - -“You must be very lonely,” I said, pushing away my cup at length, and -leaning back in my chair. She looked up quickly, sighed, and suffered -her hands to drop together in her lap. - -“I am that,” she said, half to herself. - -“How long were you married before you lost your husband?” - -“Nobbut a year,” she returned; “scarce a year.” - -“So short a time! How very sad. It must have seemed hard to you that he -should go to sea and leave you—but of course he had to do it.” - -“Yigh, ma’am, he had to do it—but I took it very ill.” - -Her voice had sunk, so that the words were scarcely audible; it seemed to -me that there were tears in the dark eyes. Impulsively leaving my chair -I knelt down by her side, taking the worn hands in mine. - -“It is all forgiven now,” I said. “The few hasty words are forgotten, -but the memory of the love remains.” - -“Ah,” she said, still speaking half to herself, “all’s forgiven now—all -wur forgiven long sin’—before he deed. He thought of me before he deed, -and loved me jest same as ever. He looked at me so lovin’—God rest him! -He was never one to bear a grudge.” - -“But I thought you said he died at sea.” - -“Yigh, he deed at say, fur sure,” she added, looking at me as though in -surprise; “but I knowed he loved me and forgave me.” - -“Some of his comrades told you all about it, I suppose?” - -“Nay, nay, nobry towd me—nobbut hissel’. His mates was all drownded, -too; naught was niver heerd on ’em at arter ship sailed that last time. -Noan of ’em ever coom back—nobbut him, and he coomed to nobry but me.” - -“Do you mean that his spirit came back?” I asked, half-incredulously, -half awe-stricken. - -“Ma’am, I can’t reetly tell you how he coom back, but it was him. He -coomed to tell me he wur dead, and to let me know as he’d forgive me.” - -“Was nothing ever heard of his ship?” I enquired. - -“Naught was niver heerd of ship, nor captain, nor crew,” she said. “Noan -of ’em coom back, nobbut my Will.” - -The wind raging round the house drove the rain fiercely against the -little window, and I glanced towards it fearfully; then, laughing -inwardly at my own folly, I turned to the woman again. - -“Don’t you think it may have been fancy?” I said. “You are so lonely -here, you see, and you had been fretting perhaps because of your little -quarrel, and because you had, I suppose, no news of him. And then you -imagined you saw his face—at the window—was it? he used perhaps to come -to the window—” - -“Ah,” she interrupted, “he all’ays coom theer—all’ays fro’ the time when -he wur a little lad. He’d coom theer, and press his face to the window, -and tap three times same as yo’ did to-neet—he all’ays tapped three -times. And I used to look up from my little stool i’ the corner and nod -at him, and at arter a bit get up and stale out when feyther and moother -wurna lookin’—fur they’d all’ays barge if they cotched me playin’ wi’ -Will Davis. The Davises were cocklin’ folk—very rough—a bad lot ’twas -said, and my feyther didn’t reckon to let me go wi’ ’em. But my Will, he -was never same as t’others—a gradely little lad he wur, good at’s books -and never up to no mischeef. ‘I’ll noan be a cocklemon same as my -feyther,’ he’d say; ‘when I goo to say I’ll goo a bit fur’er off. I’ll -sail fur, wheer theer’s no lond an’ no houses, an’ no naught, nobbut -wayter, wayter, wayter—same as it says in my book.’ Folks thought it a -wonderful thing to see a little chap same as him goin’ so reg’lar to -school. But t’other lads ’ud laugh at him for goin’ barefoot; poor Will, -he hadn’t niver a shoe to his foot.” - -She broke off to laugh softly to herself; her eyes were again fixed, on -the fire, and her mind had evidently conjured up a vivid picture of the -lad as he had been in bygone days. - -“Eh, I mind when he’d coom patterin’ ower th’ weet sand to this place -he’d leave tracks o’s little bare feet all round the house; and my -feyther ’ud barge and sauce me terrible if he coom out and saw them. - -“‘Yon little raskil Will’s been here again,’ he’d say; ‘my word, I’ll -thrash him if I cotch him here.’ - -“And moother, hoo’d tak’ me by the ear, and drag me across the kitchen -and sit me down on my stool i’ th’ corner wi’ my patchwork. ‘If thou -dar’s so mich as say a word to yon agin’, hoo’d say, ‘I’ll fetch -birch-rod to thee.’ - -“But ’tweren’t o’ no use. Soon as ever I’d hear the three taps, and see -the roguish e’en o’ Will laughin’ in at me through the window, I’d mak’ -my way to him soom gate. Yigh, I wur terrible headstrong. Poor -mother—hoo’d a done better to ha’ takken rod to me—but hoo never did more -nor talk—hoo thought the warld o’ me, and so did my feyther.” - -“Were your parents alive when you married?” I inquired, breaking in upon -the somewhat lengthy silence which ensued. - -“Nay, ma’am, they deed both on ’em, when I wur eighteen year of age. My -aunt coomed to live wi’ me then for a bit, but we didn’t get on so well. -Will had been sailorin’ for nigh upon five year then, and I only seed him -now and agin. Eh, I mind well the time he coom at arter feyther and -moother deed. I had my blacks on, fur it were market day, and me and my -aunt had been down to th’ village. We had afallin’ out as we coom we’re -ways awhoam again, and my aunt hoo’d gone straight to her chamber, and -hoo said hoo didn’t want no tay, and hoo’d pack up and go next morn and -leave me alone, for I wur but an ill-mannered, ill-tempered wench. Well, -I coom in and sot me down here in cheer, and I got a-gate o’ cryin’, for -I wur feelin’ quite undone to think o’ my aunt goin’ that gate, and I wur -thinkin’ how lonely I was, and what a miserable thing it war for a lass -to be left same as me wi’out feyther nor moother, when all of a sudden I -heerd Will knockin’ at the pane. Didn’t I jump up, and didn’t I run out, -and didn’t he cotch me in’s arms and kiss me same as nobry’d ever kissed -me afore! ‘Why, my lass,’ says he, ‘wast thou cryin’? I never see those -bonny e’en o’ thine wi’ tears in ’em afore. Why, what wast thou cryin’ -for, Molly?’ - -“I looked up in his face—eh, it was a bonny face, and so kind and anxious -like, that I fair burst out again. ‘Coom, lass,’ says he, ‘we’s ha’ no -more tears, but thou mun tell me all about it.’ ‘Eh, well,’ says I, ‘I’m -cryin’ because I am a cross, bad-tempered lass and nobry can’t a-bear to -live i’ th’ house wi’ me.’ ‘Coom, is that all?’ says he, and he laughed -till he fair shook; ‘I know soombry as could manage very well to live i’ -th’ same house as thee. Coom, give over—I thought ’t were summat war -when I see thee i’ thy blacks and all.’ - -“‘Nay, but it is war,’ says I, ‘feyther and moother are dead o’ the -fever, and I am left wi’ nobry but my aunt Jane, and her and me cannot -agree, and we had words coomin’ awhoam fro’ market, and hoo says hoo -wunnot live wi’ me no more.’ - -“‘Eh, dear, eh, dear, there’s a tale,’ says he; ‘coom, will Aunt Jane eat -me, dost thou think, if I ax to coom in?’ - -“Hoo cannot eat thee if hoo wants to,’ says I, howdin’ up my head. ‘This -house belongs to me now, and I am missus.’ We were steppin’ inside then, -and Will put his two hands o’ my shoulders and turned my face to the -leet. - -“‘Thou’rt missus, art thou?’ says Will, ‘but thou’ll’t tak a master soom -day, my wench.’ - -“‘Master,’ says I, half laughin’ and half cryin’; ‘I dunno. I don’t -fancy callin’ nobry my master.’ - -“He looked down at me so earnest for a bit, and then he smiled. ‘Dunnot -tell me that tale,’ says he. ‘Who was it I see cryin’ when I looked in; -cryin’, because hoo was so lonely?’ - -“‘I don’t want a master, as how ’tis,’ said I. - -“‘Well then,’ says he, ‘give it another name. Say husband, Molly.’ - -“‘And what husband?’ says I, knowin’ very well what he was at, but -lettin’ on I didn’t understand. ‘Not a farmer,’ says I, ‘for I’m not -good enough to be a farmer’s missus; and not a cottager’s,’ says I, ‘for -I’m too good to be a poor man’s slave; and not a soldier fur sure, for -soldiers goes to the wars and gets killed; and not a sailor—’ - -“‘And why not a sailor, Molly,’ says he. ‘Sailors has half a dozen wives -they sayn,’ I answered him back as impudent as you please, ‘and what good -would it do me t’ wed wi’ a mon who was always at say?’ - -“‘Sailors gets paid off ship now and again; then they likes to think -there’s a little whoam and a little wife waitin’ for ’em. ’Tis a -miserable thing,’ says he, ‘to know as theer’s nobry lookin’ out for yo’, -nobry as cares whether you are dead or wick, no place wheer yo’re made -welcome.’ - -“‘Poor Will,’ says I, wi’ my face turned away, and my e’en cast down. - -“‘Nay,’ says he, ‘it’s not poor Will, for Will knowed theer wur soombry -thinkin’ on him, and soombry lookin’ out for him.’ - -“‘Will tak’s too much conceit in hissel’,’ says I, makkin’ shift to spake -’ard like. But he geet his arm round me again and pulled round my face -to leet, an’ then it wur all ower wi’ me—he see plain enough as he’d -spokken truth.” - -She relapsed into silence again, her face wearing a soft and tender smile -that made it look almost young. - -“So when he came to court you he looked at you first through the window?” -said I. - -Her face changed. - -“Yigh, ma’am; and it wur theer he took his last look at me afore he went -away and left me. We’d been married then a good few month and I niver -thought he’d be for leaving me again till I noticed as he wur gettin’ a -bit onsattled-like. And wan neet he sot up in bed and shriked out, -‘Say’s callin’ me, Molly! say’s callin’ me.’ I towd him ’twere nonsense -and he mun ha’ been dreamin’, and he said no moor, but next day he went -wanderin’ up and down, up and down, yon by the shore. An’ he didn’t seem -like hissel’. And a two’three days at arter a letter coom for him, and -when he read it he went first red and then white as a sheet. ‘What does -it say?’ I axed. ‘It’s fro’ my owd captain,’ says he. ‘He wants me to -jine th’ ship agin. Molly, Molly,’ says he; ‘I towd thee say was callin’ -me.’ ‘Nay, Will, dunnot be a fool,’ says I. ‘Thou mun write and tell -captain as thou’s wed and has gettin’ wark upo’ dry lond, and as he mun -look out for soombry else.’ But Will he coom aroun’ table to me and -looked into my e’en, an’ his own face were half-sorrowful, and -half-j’yful. ‘Nay, my lass,’ says he, ‘but I mun go. Sailors same as me -connot live long wi’out they feel the wayter under them. I’s not be long -away fro’ thee, my bonny wench—captain says it ’ull be nobbut a short -v’yage, an’ I’ll be fain to get awhoam again—but I feel as I mun go.’ I -pulled his two hands down and I pushed him fro’ me. ‘Thou’rt be fain to -get back,’ says I—‘nay, but thou’rt fain to go. I tell thee if thou goes -I’ll ne’er ha’ no more to say to thee. If thou can do wi’out me I can do -wi’out thee.’ And then I geet agate o’ cryin’. ‘Eh,’ I said, ‘I didna -think thou’d sarve me that gate. Thou’rt a false ’ard-’arted deceivin’ -felly—that’s what thou art, Will Davis! What brought thee here wi’ thy -soft words, an’ thy lovin’ ways—lees all on ’em—to tak’ all as I had, and -mysel’ along wi’ it—to tee me, hand and foot, and then to go away and -leave me?’ I throwed apron over my head and sobbed like a child, but my -cheeks were as hot as two coals wi’ anger. First Will tried to pull away -th’ apron, but I held fast and stopped my ears as soon as ever he began -o’ speakin’, and arter a bit he gave o’er, and went away whistlin’. I -wouldna speak a word all that day, nor yet the next, though I see him -gettin’ together his things and makkin’ ready. - -“Late i’ th’ arternoon he coom and stood by my cheer. - -“‘My wench,’ says he, ‘sin’ thou wunnot speak to me nor look at me, I may -as well be off at wonst. Captain towd me jine him soon as ever I could.’ -My heart wur like lead, but I kept my face turned away from him. ‘Well,’ -says I, ‘sin’ thou wants to go, thou can go for aught I care.’ He stood -a bit longer, and then he stooped his face down to mine. ‘Coom, Molly,’ -he says, ‘gie us a kiss, and let’s part good freends. Thou’rt a bit -vexed still, but when thou cooms to think it ower thou’lt see I wur -nobbut reet. A man mun stick to the lot he’s chose.’ - -“‘And what about the wife he’s chose?’ cries I. And I pushed away his -face and pushed back cheer. ‘Nay, I’ll noan gi’e thee a kiss. Go thy -ways and leave me.’ He waited a bit longer, but I didn’t turn my head; -and then he took up his bundle and went out. I heard his step on th’ -sand, very slow and lingerin’, and then I heard his tap on th’ window. -‘Coom, my wench,’ he called out; ‘gi’e us a look then. Gi’e us a look -sin’ thou’lt gie me naught else.’ - -“But I hitched my cheer round and turned my back on him. Eh, my lad! -Eh, my poor lad, I might ha’ seen thy bonny face then and I wouldna look. -Eh, I wonder the Lord didna strike me down dead that day for my wicked -pride and anger.” - -She brought down one clenched hand upon the open palm of the other with -such sudden fiery energy that for a moment the veil of years was lifted, -and I saw before me the passionate, resentful girl-wife who has sent her -husband from her with such a sore and angry heart. - -By-and-by I saw tears upon her withered cheeks, and gently patting the -nearest hand I said consolingly, “Do not fret; it is all over long ago, -and you know you told me you felt he had forgiven you.” - -“Ah, that’s true,” she sighed, lifting the corner of her apron to her -eyes with her disengaged hand. “I knowed that long ago. I’ll tell yo’ -about it. It seems to coomfort me like to talk about him. ’Twas jest -sich a neet as this—I wur sittin’ nigh to fire thinkin’ on him—he’d been -gone a good few months then, and I began o’ wonderin’ how soon I met -reckon to see him back, and to plan what a welcome I’d gi’e him. Eh, I -wur ashamed o’ mysel’ and my ill-tempers by that time, and I thought soon -as ever I see him comin’ I’d run and throw my arms round’s neck and ax -his parden. And then I’d bring him in, I thought, and set him i’ th’ -cheer here, and tell him that the wife and the whoam would always be -ready and waitin’ for him. But all on a sudden I bethought mysel’ that -it wur a very stormy neet, and I geet all of a shake thinkin’ of him out -yon on the dark wayter, and every time the big waves ’ud lep up an’ roar -upo’ the shore, I’d beat my breast and pray to the Lord to ha’ mercy on -the folks at say, and not to let my dear lad dee wi’out I see him agin -and knowed he forgive me. It got to be a dark neet, but I couldna go to -bed, but sot here cryin’ and prayin’ by the fire till the cowd grey morn -coom. And then there coom a quiet minute, as if storm was howdin’ back -for summat, and I heard plain the three taps o’ th’ window as Will always -made, and I looked up and there he wur, lookin’ at me and smilin’ so -lovin’. I jumped up fro’ my cheer—this here cheer as was stood in this -here corner jest as it is now, and I ran towards window, and I see him -plain—as plain as I see you jest now. His face were a bit pale, and the -wayter wur drippin’ fro’s hair, and fro’s cloo’es—he was as weet as weet. -But he stood there smilin’, and lookin’ at me lovin’. - -“‘Bide a bit,’ says I, ‘I’ll oppen door in a minute.’ And I ran to door, -and oppened it, and wind and rain coom rushin’ in. Down yon on the shore -I could hear waves rushin’ and roarin’—I could scarce mak’ my voice heerd -wi’ th’ din. ‘Coom in, Will,’ says I, ‘coom in. Dunnot stond theer i’ -th’ wind and the rain. Coom in to thy wife.’ But nobry answered, and -then I run round the corner, wrastlin’ wi’ the wind as was near liftin’ -me off my feet, and when I come to the window there weren’t nobry theer. -Eh, you may think how I skriked out. I run round the house agin and -looked in at door, but theer warn’t nobry inside, and then I coom out -agin, and sarched and sarched, an’ called an’ called, but I heerd naught -but wind and rain, and the waves thunderin’ o’ th’ beach. - -“An’ then I knew he wur dead.” - -Her voice, which had been lifted excitedly as she told her tale, dropped -at its close, and the hand, which had twitched convulsively in mine, lay -passive once more. It was an eerie tale, but convincing withal, and my -eyes again stole towards the window nervously. - -“Did you think he had come again when I knocked to-night, then?” I -inquired, after a pause. - -She nodded. - -“Have you ever seen him or his spirit since the night you told me of?” - -“Nay, ma’am, but I’m all’ays waitin’ for him.” - -“You think he will come?” - -“I know he’ll come,” she said. “Eh, I wish to the Lord he would coom. I -am longing for’t.” - -“Yet when I looked in I thought you seemed—almost frightened.” - -“I am afeared,” she returned in a low voice, “but I’m not afeard o’ -him—I’m afeared o’ what he’ll bring when he cooms. And yet, God knows, -I’ll be fain to—” - -“What do you mean?” - -“Nay, never mind. Maybe ’tis foolish talk. . . . The rain has gived -ower now, ma’am, and yo’d happen do well to mak’ a start.” - -There was no disputing the advisability of this course, and I took my -leave, promising to come and see the old woman again on my next visit to -the neighbourhood. - -Two years passed, however, before I again found myself in that part of -the world, and even then I had been staying at Saltleigh for a week or -two before I could make time to betake myself to the cottage on the -lonely dunes. I walked along the shore as I had done on that former -occasion, and, as I drew near, my eyes instinctively sought the little -window which had played so important a part in the old woman’s story, and -I stared in surprise at its altered aspect. The ledge behind the -casement hitherto left blank—no doubt because Molly would tolerate no -intervening objects between her and the panes on which her eyes loved to -linger—was now closely packed with flower pots; gay scarlet geraniums -pressing forward to the light. I quickened my steps, but before I could -reach the house a yet more astonishing sight appeared amid the clusters -of bloom; neither more or less than the laughing face of a little child, -which peered curiously out at me, and was by-and-by supplemented by two -fat, dimpled hands, which hammered gleefully upon the glass. - -Full of forebodings I knocked at the cottage door, which was presently -opened by a tall young woman with a baby in her arms. - -“I came to see Molly Davis,” I said hesitatingly. “Is she—is she—” - -“Eh, ma’am, hoo’s dead,” returned the young woman, answering my wistful -look rather than the unfinished sentence. “Hoo deed nigh upon a year -ago—last autumn it wur. Poor soul, hoo was glad to go, I doubt, for hoo -was but ’onely here.” - -“Do you know—what she died of? Was she long ill?” - -“Hoo seemed to be failin’ like, but hoo wasn’t not to say sick. Eh, it -gived every one a turn when they coom and found her.” - -“Do you mean to say they found her dead?” - -“Yigh, ma’am, little Teddy down yon fro’ Frith’s farm coom up wi’ the -milk—hoo couldn’t fotch it for hersel’ for two-three weeks afore hoo -died—he hommered at door and couldna get no answer, and then he run round -to window, and theer he found her, poor body, leein’ close under it on -her face. He ran down to farm and they coom and brok’ oppen door and -fotched doctor, but doctor said hoo’d been dead for mony hours. . . . -Dunnot tak’ on ma’am”—for I was weeping—“coom in and set yo’ down. I -doubt it giv’ yo’ a turn to hear o’ poor Molly goin’ that way. But we’ll -all ha’ to go when we’re turn cooms,” she added philosophically. - -Wiping my eyes I went into the little kitchen which I remembered so well; -its aspect was changed and modernised. A gay square of oil-cloth covered -the tiled floor, the walls were decked with gaudily coloured pictures; -Molly’s great elbow-chair was gone, and in its place stood a horsehair -covered sofa. - -“Ah, we’s all ha’ to go when we’re turn cooms,” repeated my new hostess -with the gloomy relish, with which your rustic enunciates such -statements; “and Molly, hoo were fain to goo. Onybody could see that as -coom to see her laid out—so peaceful hoo looked, wi’ a smile upon her -face.” - -“She was found under the window you say?” - -“Ah! Her knittin’ wur throwed on the floor nigh to her cheer, and hoo’d -knocked down a stool on the way to the window—doctor said hoo’d wanted to -oppen it and let in fresh air, very likely—for her arms were stretched -out towards it. But hoo didn’t ha’ time, poor soul, hoo was took afore -hoo could get theer. Eh, dear, yes. That was the very way they found -her, lyin’ on her face wi’ her arms stretched out, and smilin’—smilin’ -quite joyful like.” - -So there had been no fear at the last—no fear either of Will himself or -of the grim comrade who had accompanied him. Molly’s presentiment had -been realised; the much loved spirit of her husband had come to seek and -sustain her in the last solemn moment. Stormy youth and lonely -middle-age had alike been forgotten; for Molly the end had been peace. - -And as I took my way homewards to the sound of the gentle lapping waves, -I thought of her, not as she had described herself to me, handsome, -wilful, impetuous; not as I had seen her, expectant, regretful—not even -starting forward at the sound of the well-known signal, or lying prone -with outstretched arms upon the floor. No, I pictured to myself the -placid face smiling on the pillow, the folded hands at rest, every line -of the quiet figure bearing the imprint of a peace that would never more -be broken. - - - - -APRIL FOOLS - - -THE late spring dusk had at length fallen; the horses had been led home -from the plough, which remained in characteristic Dorset fashion at the -angle of the last furrow, the merciful twilight hiding the rich coating -of rust with which a lengthy course of such treatment had endued it; the -elder labourers had donned their coats, and lit their pipes, and gone -sauntering homewards along the dewy grass border of the lane. Farmer -Bellamy had laid aside his pinner—the last cow having long been milked -and sent pasturewards in the rear of her fellows—and likewise smoked -ruminatively in the chimney corner; his wife faced him, a large basket at -her feet containing sundry arrears of mending, a sock upon her outspread -left hand, a needle threaded with coarse yarn in the other. It was -getting too dark to darn now, and she wondered impatiently why Alice and -Lizzie did not come in to light the lamp and do their share of -needlework. - -But Mrs Bellamy’s daughters formed part of a little group of men and -girls who had gathered round the low stone wall at the extremity of the -yard; the central point of interest being a certain flat-topped gatepost -which marked off the entrance to a disused pig-sty. Lizzie Bellamy was -bending over this, her face in close proximity to the paper on which she -was writing, her eyes strained in the endeavour to make the most of such -light as yet remained. A boy, standing near her, held, at a convenient -angle, a penny ink-bottle which he obligingly tilted each time that she -required to dip her pen; occasionally in Lizzie’s increasing excitement, -the pen missed its mark, whereupon he seized it in his stumpy fingers and -guided it to its rightful destination. - -Little spasmodic bursts of laughter escaped the writer every now and -then, and a kind of smothered chorus of giggles was kept up by the -bystanders; while from time to time one of the more adventurous squinted -over her shoulder, being admonished in return by a vigorous dig from the -girl’s elbow. - -At last she threw back her head and dropped her pen with a laughing -exclamation— - -“I d’ ’low that’ll do.” - -“Read it, read it!” cried the others. - -“Somebody’ll have to light a match, then,” retorted she. - -Jem Frisby produced one, struck it on the wall, and stepped forward. - -The light fell on the girl’s face—a good-looking one enough, of the -dark-eyed, red-cheeked Dorset type—and illuminated now one, now another, -of her companions. All these faces were young, all bore the same -expression of expectant, mischievous glee. - -“‘MY DEAR GILES,’” read Lizzie, “‘I take up my pen to write these few -lines to let you know a wish what’s long been in my mind—” - -“I d’ ’low it ’ud be better if ye did put ‘What’s been in my mind since -the death o’ Missus Neale,’” suggested a tall lad, with a smothered roar -of laughter. - -“No, ’twouldn’t do at all,” said Lizzie. “It ’ud put him in mind o’ the -poor body, and he’d be that down-hearted he wouldn’t have no fancy for -cwortin’ Hannah. Keep quiet, else I can’t read. There, the match be out -now; ’tis your fault.” - -“Let the maid alone till she’ve a-read us what she’ve a-wrote,” growled -somebody from the darkness, which seemed intense now that the little -flickering light had vanished. Jem struck another match, and Lizzie -continued, reading quickly— - -“‘You must find it terr’ble hard to manage without no missus; an’ I’m -beginning to feel lonesome now I be gettin’ into years—’” - -“I d’ ’low that’ll sp’ile her chances!” exclaimed someone in the -background. Lizzie twisted her head round angrily: - -“Nothin’ o’ the kind; Giles ’ud never look at nobody without it were a -staid ’ooman. Second match is near out now. I won’t be bothered readin’ -the letter to ye at all if ye keep on a-interruptin’ of I. Well— - -“‘I’ve been a-thinkin’ we might do worse nor make a match. I could do -for you, and you’d be company for I. Besides’—here Lizzie’s voice -quavered with laughter—‘I’ve took a mortal fancy to you, Giles, an’ think -you the handsomest man ever I see. My heart have been yours two year an’ -more. If you think well on the notion you might meet me to-morrow in the -Little Wood at breakfast time.—Yours truly, - - “HANNAH PETHIN. - -“‘_P.S._—As I’m feelin’ a bit timid along o’ writin’ this here letter, -I’d be obliged if ye’d kindly not mention it when we meets face to -face.’” - -The match had burnt itself out a moment or two previously, but Lizzie -remembered her composition sufficiently well to recite it without such -aid, and was rewarded for the effort by shouts of approving laughter. - -“The very thing!” exclaimed one. - -“The last touch is the best!” cried another; while all united in -declaring the letter to be “jist about clever.” - -“I’ll pop it under his door late to-night!” cried Jem. “So soon as I’m -sure he be asleep. Now, let’s write his to her.” - -“You’d better do that,” said Lizzie. “The two writin’s mustn’t be the -same, an’ she’d know my hand along o’ my makin’ out the milk bills.” - -“Hold the match, then, somebody,” cried Jem. “Here, ’Ector, catch hold; -an’ mind ye keep it studdy. Give me the pen, Liz.” - -He took up his position at the flat stone, and was so long in squaring -his elbows, arranging the pen in his clumsy fingers, and thrusting his -tongue into his cheek—a necessary preliminary to rustic letter -writing—that Hector announced that the match was burning him, before he -had begun work in earnest. - -“Hold hard a minute!” cried another man. “Best be thinkin’ out what you -want to say afore we lights another. It comes terr’ble expensive on -matches, an’ it’s enough to put anybody off to have to start to light one -in the middle of a line.” - -“True, true!” agreed the others. - -Lizzie, flushed with her recent triumph, again took the lead— - -“‘DEAR HANNAH—’” - -“Best put ‘Miss Pethin’” suggested Rose Gillingham, one of the -dairymaids. - -“He do never call her anything but Hannah,” retorted Lizzie; “an’ they’ve -been workin’ together now for nigh upon ten year.” - -“That’s the very reason she’ll think he’s more in earnest-like; she’ll be -terr’ble pleased if he treats her so respectful.” - -There was something in that, the others agreed, and even Lizzie gave way, -and it was decided that the amorous document should begin after the -somewhat distant fashion suggested by Rose. - -“Well now,” resumed Lizzie—“‘I write these few lines to say as I’ve been -a-turnin’ over somethin’ in my mind, as I hope you’ll be glad to hear. -Bein’ a widow-man, I feels mysel’ by times at a terr’ble loss, an’ I be -wishful to take a second—’” - -“Bain’t that comin’ to the p’int a bit too quick?” interrupted Rose. - -“Lord, no!” interpolated Jem very quickly. “Mercy me, it’ll take I all -my time to get that much in. We have but the one sheet of paper, look -see; an’ there’ll be a deal o’ writin’ in what ye’ve thought on a’ready.” - -“‘There’s nobody,’” went on Lizzie, disregarding both disputants, “‘my -dear Miss Pethin, what I could like better to fill the empty post nor -yourself—’” - -“I never knowed a post could be empty,” said some facetious bystander, -who was, however, nudged and hushed into silence. - -“‘I do think you the vittiest maid in the whole o’ Dorset,’” pursued the -intrepid author, being unable, however, to proceed with her composition -for some moments, owing to the storm of ironical applause; for, indeed, -the destined recipient of this tender document was not only “a staid -’ooman,” but had never, at any period of her life, possessed any claim to -good looks. - -“‘If ye think well on my offer, will ye meet I at the Little Wood at -breakfast-time to-morrow? But, as I’m a shy man by natur’, I’d thank ye -not to say nothin’ about me havin’ wrote to ye. - - “‘Your true and faithful, - - “‘GILES NEALE.’” - -When the hubbub of applause had subsided, a match was duly lighted, and -Jem set to work. His task concluded, after much labour and consequent -burning of matches, the document was read aloud, directed, and handed -over to Lizzie, who undertook to slip it under Hannah’s door before -retiring to rest herself. - -“If she do say anythin’ to I about it, I’ll tell her I did hear a man’s -foot goin’ through the cheese-room very late,” she added, giggling. - -“Well, then, us’ll all post ourselves behind the hedge at back o’ the -Little Wood,” cried Rose, jubilantly; “an’ then us’ll all run out an’ -call ‘April Fools!’ so soon as they’ve a-made it up.” - -“’Ees,” agreed Lizzie, “but don’t you sp’ile sport by runnin’ out too -soon. Best wait till brewery whooter goes, an’ then all run out -together—that’s the ticket.” - -The resolution was carried unanimously, and the party separated for the -night. The female section made its way towards the farmhouse, for the -two milkmaids employed by Farmer Bellamy in addition to his own stalwart -daughters, lodged on the premises; while the men and boys betook -themselves to the little cluster of houses, a kind of off-shoot from the -village proper, in which they had their homes. - -Hannah Pethin was usually the first of that busy household to awake, and -it was her duty to call her less alert companions. When, on the morning -of this momentous first of April, she jumped out of bed, she stood for a -moment or two rubbing her eyes and staring. There, in the centre of the -very small patch of boarded floor which intervened between her bed and -the door, lay a large white envelope, which bore her name in bold -characters— - - “MISS HANNAH PETHIN.” - -“’Tis for me,” she said to herself, after gazing at this object for a -minute or two. It generally took Hannah some little time to grasp an -idea, but this one presented itself in a concrete form. “Dear, to be -sure, I wonder what anyone can be writin’ to me for?” - -She had pulled on her stout knitted stockings, and assumed the greater -part of her underwear, before it occurred to her to open the letter and -ascertain its contents. Even then she grasped the paper with a diffident -finger and thumb, and turned it over and over before she could make up -her mind to embark on its perusal. - -“Dear!” she exclaimed, looking at the end in true feminine fashion, “’Tis -from Giles!” - -Her eyes opened wider and wider as she read the line which preceded the -signature. “Your true and faithful.” She turned over the page, the -colour deepening in a countenance already ruddy as the brick floor of the -milk-house which she so frequently scrubbed. - -“Well!” she ejaculated at last, drawing a long breath, “’Tis a -offer—that’s what it be! Who’d ha’ thought o’ me gettin’ a offer!” - -She mused for a little time, her face wreathed in smiles, and spelt over -the letter again with increasing satisfaction. - -“‘_Meet I at the Little Wood at breakfast-time to-morrow_’—that’s -to-day.” Hannah’s wits were brightening under the influence of this -unexpected stroke of good fortune. “‘I’d thank ye not to say nothin’ -about me havin’ wrote.’. . . Well, an’ that’s well thought on. I d’ -’low I be jist so shy as he, an’ it ’ud ha’ been terr’ble arkward to ha’ -talked about sich a letter as this here. . . . ‘I be wishful to take a -second’—well, the man couldn’t speak plainer. . . . ‘The vittiest maid!’ -_Fancy_ him sayin’ that!” - -At this period of her meditations Hannah was constrained to cross the -room on tip-toe to the window, near which a small square looking-glass -was suspended from a nail. She surveyed her own image with some -curiosity but no little satisfaction, as with Giles’s eyes; regretted -that her hair was growing grey about the temples, but consoled herself -with the fact that it was still abundant and curly, and finally smiled -broadly to herself. - -“I d’ ’low if I do for him it’s all right!” - -Suddenly she recollected with a start that if she was to be at the tryst -at the hour named, she would have to get through her intervening labours -with more than usual celerity. - -A few minutes later a whirlwind-like form burst into the room where -Lizzie and Alice Bellamy still lay, wrapped in slumber. - -“Get up, ’tis past the time, an’ there’s a deal to be done.” - -Lizzie sat up, at first very cross, but recovering good humour as -recollection came with increasing consciousness. - -“Here, Hannah, wait a bit, what be in sich a stew for?” She poked Alice, -who still lay under the blankets, with her elbow. “Have anythin’ strange -happened? You do look so queer—an’ I do declare you’ve a-made yourself -quite smart.” - -“Nonsense, nonsense!” responded Hannah quickly, “What could ha’ happened -at this time o’ marnin’? I be in a hurry to get forward wi’ my work, -that’s all!” - -“Oh, is that all? We slept a bit late, Alice an’ me, along o’ bein’ -disturbed by hearin’ a man’s steps i’ the cheese-room late last night; -did you chance to hear ’em?” - -She poked the sleepy Alice again, and even through her half-closed lids -that damsel perceived the conscious expression which overspread poor -Hannah’s face. Before they had time, however, to ply her with further -queries the latter had fled from the room, and after a vigorous thump or -two on the door of the room shared by her fellow milkmaids, and a more -respectful summons to the farmer and his wife, went hammering downstairs -in her hobnailed boots to begin her work. - -“She bain’t a-goin’ to be late at the meetin’ place ye mid be sure!” -cried Lizzie, and Alice roused herself sufficiently to chuckle. - -The feverish zeal with which Hannah subsequently applied herself to her -various duties astonished her mistress, who was wont to consider her -unduly slow of a morning. This zeal, however, seemed to be shared by the -other occupants of the farmhouse—no one who was in the secret wanted to -be late; everyone was determined to arrive at the Little Wood in time to -witness the meeting of the unconscious couple. At breakfast-time, -therefore, the yard was practically deserted, and the plotters were -safely ensconsed behind the thick quickset hedge which bounded the little -copse, and commanded a good view of the gap through which the lovers must -enter. - -“I knowed she’d be first!” cried Lizzie, with a giggle, as Hannah’s -square figure came in sight. - -“She’ve a-got a red ribbon under her collar,” whispered Alice, “Look how -she’ve a-done herself up! She’ve curled her hair I d’ ’low.” - -“No, no, her hair curls na’trel. Giles ’ull think hisself in luck,” -cried Jem, with a wink. “There, I’ve half a mind to try and cut en out -if he don’t turn up soon. She _be_ a vitty maid, jist about!” - -“‘The vittiest maid in the whole o’ Darset!’” quoted his neighbour. - -Meanwhile Hannah slowly approached, a maidenly shyness checking her too -eager feet. It would be more seemly for Giles to be there before her, -she had thought, and she had not started till five minutes past eight by -the cuckoo clock. He was probably already in the wood, looking at her. -She reddened at the thought and tripped in the long grass, recovering -herself with an awkward lurch. But there was a bright colour in her -cheeks, and a pleasantly expectant light in her eyes, perceiving which, -the onlookers nudged each other. - -Passing through the gap Hannah gave one quick glance round, and finding -that Giles was not there, stood for a moment with a look of blank -disappointment, then, as the church clock struck eight she smiled to -herself. - -“I d’ ’low farm clock be fast,” she remarked aloud, and forthwith, -deeming herself to be alone, devoted herself to the improvement of her -appearance. She shook out her skirts, took off and retied the bow of red -ribbon; passed the loosened locks about her brow round her toil-worn -finger, and finally, shading her eyes with her hand, gazed somewhat -anxiously in the direction of the village. - -“Here he be!” whispered Jem all at once. He had crawled a little way on -his stomach in order to obtain a better view. - -Hannah, perceiving Giles at the same moment, modestly withdrew from the -gap, and sitting down at the foot of a twisted thorn-tree began nervously -to pluck and chew the scarcely unfolded leaves of wood sorrel which grew -beneath it. The heavy tread drew nearer, and presently Giles’ figure -appeared in the gap. - -Hannah looked up bashfully, a tentative smile hovering about her lips. -Giles smiled too, very broadly, and stood contemplating her so long that -the interested waiters craned their heads in the endeavour to ascertain -the cause of the silence. - -“He be jist a-lookin’ at her,” muttered Alice. - -“An’ she be a lookin’ up at he this way,” responded Lizzie, with a leer -which was a malicious exaggeration of poor Hannah’s uncertain smile. - -“So you be a-settin’ on the ground?” hazarded Giles at last. - -He squeezed himself through the gap and came a step nearer. He was a -thick-set man, with a broad, good-humoured, stupid face, which was now -all creased and puckered with an odd expression that partook as much of -anxiety as pleasure. - -“Bain’t ye afeared o’ catchin’ cold?” he pursued, illuminated by a sudden -idea. - -“I’ll get up if you like,” stammered Hannah. - -“Nay now,” said Giles, “I don’t know as I would.” - -He grinned till his eyes positively disappeared as he lowered himself to -the ground beside her. - -“How’s that?” he enquired. - -Hannah was at a loss to answer, and, after a moment’s pause, he thrust -his hand into his pocket and drew out a large hunch of bread and cheese - -“Best make the most of our time,” he remarked. “We’m ploughin’ to-day. -Hain’t you brought your breakfast?” he asked, pausing in the midst of -mastication. - -“I didn’t think about breakfast,” faltered Hannah. - -“Didn’t ye now?” said Giles. - -He looked reflectively at his portion, and then, apparently deciding that -there was only enough for one, continued to dispose of it, albeit with an -uneasy and apologetic air. The silence that ensued was so long that the -onlookers began to exchange glances somewhat blankly. It would be dull -if Giles merely ate his breakfast while Hannah sat by—that was an -everyday occurrence. Presently, however, Hannah took the initiative. - -“Mr Neale,” she said, “did you want to speak to me?” - -Giles, with a large lump of bread in his cheek, turned upon her a glance -that was half alarmed and half humorous. - -“Well, I be come,” he said. “B’ain’t that enough? Deeds an’ not words -is my motto.” - -“Well, an’ I be come,” said Hannah, with some spirit. “I be come because -I did think ye mid ha’ summat to say to I.” - -Giles looked at her knowingly, and remarked with a meaning jerk of his -head— - -“I d’ ’low us do understand each other.” - -Hannah, pleased but still uncertain, laughed feebly, and began to pleat -the hem of her immaculate white apron. - -“I didn’t never expect nobody to be carryin’ on about my bein’ a vitty -maid,” she said presently, in a low voice—not so low, however, but that -she was overheard by the delighted spies. - -“No,” agreed Giles heartily. “Ye wouldn’t be like to expect that—no, -sure.” - -Hannah was taken aback for the moment, but remembering Giles’ shyness, -thought his unwillingness to pursue the complimentary vein which had so -much astonished her in his letter, was due to that, and forebore to be -offended. - -“’Tis true ye must feel yerself by times at a terr’ble loss,” she -continued after a pause. - -Giles reflected— - -“Well, I haven’t got on so bad so far,” he observed. “Nay, I haven’t got -on so bad. But I don’t say—” here he gulped down a huge morsel and his -natural timidity at the same time. “But I don’t say as I shouldn’t get -on better wi’ a ’ooman to do for me. I don’t say as I shouldn’t. I -can’t say no fairer than that.” - -He paused, and then, with a leer that was distinctly amorous, edged -himself a little nearer to her. “Seein’ as some folks as needn’t be -mentioned have a-took a fancy to I—” - -“Lard, Mr Neale,” interrupted Hannah coyly. “Whatever did put sich a -notion into your head?” - -Again Giles fixed his twinkling eyes upon her with a glance that was -unutterably knowing, and returned— - -“Ye wouldn’t be here if ye hadn’t, would ye now?” - -Hannah gave an assenting giggle, and Giles, after a moment’s hesitation, -put his arm round her waist, repeating exultantly: - -“Would ye now? Not that I ever set up to be a handsome man, ye know,” he -added more seriously. - -“Handsome is as handsome does,” exclaimed Hannah, in so heart-whole a -fashion that Giles did not ask himself if the compliment were somewhat -left-handed. - -“Well, if your ’eart’s mine, that’s enough,” went on Giles, after an -interval devoted to conscientious endeavours to recall the exact wording -of the portentous letter. “I’m willin’—there, ye have it plain. I’m -willin’.” - -“Well,” said Hannah, “I’m sure I’m very thankful to ye, Giles. I be -proud to think as I be your ch’ice, an’ I’ll do my very best for to make -ye comfortable an’ happy.” - -Giles, pleasantly conscious that this courtship, unlooked for though it -might have been, was progressing on lines that were eminently orthodox -and satisfactory, eyed her approvingly for some moments, and then, with a -burst of enthusiasm, tightened his grip of her solid waist, and -exclaimed— - -“I d’ ’low I be ’appy an’ comfortable now.” - -During the subsequent pause Jem Frisby thrust his sunburnt face between -the catkin-tipped willow saplings which protruded from his corner of the -hedge, and almost choked with laughter as he announced— - -“They be a-kissin’ of each other!” - -The middle-aged lovers sat on for some time in extreme enjoyment of the -situation. The spring sunshine fell across their knees and their sturdy -clasped hands; the birds sang over their heads, the twisted boughs of the -old thorn waved in the light breeze, the leaf-buds, already green though -not yet unfolded, flashing like jewels in the light. The bank beneath -the hedge was gay with celandines, and the air was sweet with the scent -of primroses, with which the place was carpeted, though few of the -flowers were yet in full bloom. - -Giles and Hannah were scarcely conscious of their surroundings, yet in -some indefinite way these added to their blissful state. Just as Giles, -with that twinkle in his eyes which heralded, as Hannah had perceived, -some particularly ardent speech, had nudged her meaningly and enquired -“What about bein’ called home,” the church clock struck nine, and at the -same time the blare of the brewery “whooter” fell upon their ears. -Simultaneously with these sounds, others, even more discordant than the -hooter startled the pair, who scrambled to their feet in time to see a -row of gesticulating figures surmounted by grinning faces, spring up from -behind the hedge, which they had believed to shelter them. - -“April fools, haw, haw!” . . . “I d’ ’low ye be a proper pair on ’em!” - -“April fool, Hannah! Giles, ye be an April fool!” - -“We took in the pair o’ ye nicely!” - -This was the chorus which greeted their bewildered ears, interspersed -with shouts of laughter, while fingers were pointed and heads were shaken -waggishly. Giles was the first to recover his self-possession. - -“What be the meanin’ o’ this?” he enquired angrily. “It’s too bad if a -man can’t step out to have a quiet word wi’ a ’ooman!” - -“More particular when the ’ooman’s took sich a mortal fancy to ’en!” -interpolated Lizzie, holding her sides. - -“Yes,” cried Alice, quick to take up her cue. “Why, Hannah’s heart have -a-been yours two year an’ more. I’m sure I don’t wonder at it,” she -added, “Sich a ’andsome man as you be.” - -“Who’s been a-tellin’ ye about that?” growled Giles, turning very red. - -“Ask Hannah!” ejaculated Lizzie, in a voice that was scarcely articulate -for laughter. “Ask the vittiest maid in the whole o’ Darset.” - -“Giles,” exclaimed Hannah tremulously, “somebody must ha’ read your -letter to me.” - -The jeers and laughter redoubled, and Jem exclaimed triumphantly— - -“Somebody read it, an’ somebody wrote it!” - -“Wasn’t it Giles?” faltered Hannah, turning pale beneath her tan, and -beginning to tremble violently. Some instinct of womanly compassion -suddenly sobered Alice. Pushing through the hedge she made her way to -Hannah’s side. - -“’Twas but a joke, my dear,” she explained somewhat shamefacedly. -“There, ’tis the first of April, ye see, an’ we jist thought we’d play ye -a bit of trick. ’Twas made up jist for fun. We wrote Giles a letter in -your name asking him to meet ye here an’ sayin’—sayin’—” - -“What did ye say?” interrupted Hannah, the colour rushing back to her -shamed, distressed face. “Oh, Mr Neale, you thought it was me. I’d -never ha’ wrote no letter, I’d never ha’ been so bold. I—I wouldn’t ha’ -come here wi’out I thought ’twas you as axed me. I had a letter this -marnin’ signed in your name. I thought ’twas from you—I thought—” -Breaking off suddenly she raised her apron to her eyes. - -Giles made a step towards her, pushed Alice roughly on one side, and -jerked the apron down. - -“Give over cryin’,” he exclaimed gruffly. “Let’s get at the rights o’ -this. I must have a look at that there letter—give it to me.” - -“Oh, I’d never have the face,” Hannah was beginning when he silenced her -with the reiterated command in a raised voice— - -“Give it to me, I say! I’ll ha’ the rights o’ this—dalled if I don’t!” - -Very reluctantly Hannah drew the fateful missive from her bosom, a -suppressed titter once more breaking the silence which had reigned since -the jest had threatened to take a serious turn. Giles unfolded the -letter, read it slowly, and then, with an impassive face, handed it back -to its original recipient. - -“You can keep it,” he remarked. “It’s my letter right enough.” - -“Well, that is a good ’un!” exclaimed the irrepressible Jem. - -Giles glowered round at him. - -“It’s my letter,” he repeated doggedly. “It’s my name what’s signed at -the end, an’ every word what’s in it be mine.” - -“Giles!” exclaimed Hannah, almost inarticulately. Giles turned -majestically towards her. - -“It’s right, I tell ’ee,” he said firmly. “I’m not a great hand at -letter-writin’, an’ as like as not if I’d ha’ tried for to put down what -be in my mind I shouldn’t ha’ done it so clever. I’m much obliged to -you, neighbours,” he added, raising his voice, and looking triumphantly -round at the astonished faces. Then, with a sudden shout of laughter he -exclaimed— - -“Who’s April fools now?” - -“Well, there, I’ll say you have the best o’ it, Giles,” said somebody -good-humouredly. “I be right down glad the matter be going to end this -way.” - -“Thank ye,” said Giles. - -“We be to wish ye j’y, be we?” said Lizzie, with a scarcely perceptible -toss of her head. - -“I d’ ’low ye be,” he affirmed gravely. - -“Well, I be pure glad, Hannah, my dear, I’m sure,” said Alice, smiling -doubtfully at Hannah as she backed through the hedge. - -Hannah made no response; she, too, was looking doubtful, almost piteous, -as she gazed at Giles’ unmoved countenance. - -The company filed away, feeling somewhat flat; the joke had unaccountably -missed fire. Jem, who was the last to pass through the gap, made a final -attempt to put Giles out of countenance. - -“’Tis easy seen you be a man o’ taste, Giles,” he called out. “She be -the vittiest maid in the whole o’ Darset, bain’t she?” - -“She be,” assented Giles with fervour, “jist about.” - -He strode towards the hedge, and stood watching the somewhat -depressed-looking little procession which filed across the field. When -it had disappeared behind the big hayrick at the corner, he turned to -Hannah. She had again thrown her apron over her head, and was weeping -behind it. He went towards her and pulled it down—very gently this time. - -“We have the best of it, I think,” he observed. - -“Oh, Giles,” sobbed she. “You must think—oh, I don’t know what you must -think!” - -“I do think what’s wrote in my letter,” said Giles. - -“Nay now, you couldn’t,” said Hannah, but there was an unconscious appeal -in her voice. “You couldn’t ever think I was a vitty maid.” - -“Well, don’t you think I be a ’andsome man, my dear?” cried Giles, -advancing, his broad face beaming with good-humoured smiles towards her. - -“I do, indeed I do,” cried Hannah with eager enthusiasm. “There, I do -think ye be the handsomest and nicest man ever I did see. Handsome is as -handsome does. An’ I d’ ’low you’ve acted handsome.” - -“Well, if you think so, I’m satisfied,” responded Giles; then, after a -pause, he added with his most knowing twinkle— - -“Since we agree so well I d’ ’low we mid jist so well fall over pulpit at -once.” - - * * * * * - - PRINTED BY - TURNBULL AND SPEARS, - EDINBURGH - - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STEPPING WESTWARD*** - - -******* This file should be named 66833-0.txt or 66833-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/6/8/3/66833 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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