path: root/78433-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78433 ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.



[Illustration: "WHAT ARE YOU DOING THERE?"]



                           [Illustration]

                          NORTHCLIFFE BOYS.


                        BY CHARLOTTE O'BRIEN

             AUTHOR OF "BASIL; OR, HONESTY AND INDUSTRY,"
                    "BEN HOLT'S GOOD NAME," ETC.


                               LONDON:
                       RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
           56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD;
                         AND 164, PICCADILLY.



                         ————————————————————
              WILLIAM RIDER AND SON, PRINTERS, LONDON.



                              CONTENTS.

CHAPTER.

     I. GEORGE'S HOME

    II. GEORGE AT WORK

   III. GOOD NEWS

    IV. TEMPTATION

     V. GOOD FOR EVIL

    VI. IN THE HOSPITAL

   VII. IN THE NEW HOME



                           [Illustration]

                          NORTHCLIFFE BOYS.

                           [Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

GEORGE'S HOME.

AUTUMN winds were blowing in Northcliffe, and the streets and lanes
were thickly strewn with the fallen leaves. It was a cold, damp
afternoon, and everything looked dull and cheerless—everything and
everybody, with one exception, and that was a boy about twelve years
of age who was half running, half walking along the lane leading from
Greychurch to Northcliffe and who whistled merrily as he went along, a
strongly built lad, tall for his age, with a fair, ruddy Saxon face.
He was well known in Northcliffe, and everybody had a good word to say
for him. Always ready to do a kind turn for any one, every little child
liked George Horbrook; and every dog in the town wagged his tail as the
good-natured boy went by.

At the turning of the road which led into the town, a group of big boys
were standing.

"Hollo," cried one of them to George as he was hurrying by, "where have
you been?"

"To Greychurch, to see Mr. Day."

"What for?"

"He has promised to take me on as a mason's boy, and I am to go to work
at the new terrace to-morrow morning."

Very happy was the tone in which these words were spoken, and very
brightly sparkled the speaker's large blue eyes.

"'You!'" cried the boy who had first spoken. "'You!' Why, you've never
carried a hod in your life."

"I suppose I can learn," said George.

"May be so; but Mr. Day has said over and over again he would never
take a boy who didn't know something about his work. Why, it was only
a week or two ago that any father asked him to take 'me,' and he
wouldn't."

"All I know is, he has promised to take 'me,'" cried George, laughing;
"and won't I try and please him, that's all! I am to have four
shillings a week to begin with."

Fred Giles muttered something about it not being fair, and Tom Hunt,
another of the boys said,—

"You'll be glad enough to have done with school, that's one thing,
George."

"No such thing, Tom. I should have liked to stay a year longer at
school; but father and mother want even my little help, so I'm glad to
go to work for their sakes."

"You won't come to the Sunday school either now, I suppose?" said Fred.

George's merry laugh sounded above the wind. "Mr. Day don't work his
boys on Sundays," he said.

"None of your impudence, George!" cried Fred, in a surly tone. "You
know what I mean very well. You will be your own master now, and will
not care about the Sunday school."

"Just the other way, Fred. The Sunday school will help to keep me
straight; and as to being my own master, teacher says no one who reads
his Bible can ever call himself that."

"Your good luck has turned your head I think, George," cried Fred
jeeringly; "but you needn't try to preach to us, because—"

Here the boys set up a loud laugh. We have all our weak points, and
George's was not liking to be laughed at.

He answered angrily, "I am not preaching, and I know very well what I
mean, and—"

"Tell us, then."

"I mean, I mean!" cried George, getting more angry and more confused
every moment.

"He 'doesn't' know what he means," said Fred, in a taunting voice.

George's passion was at its height, and he rushed forward with uplifted
arm to strike Fred, when all in a moment the arm raised in anger fell
quietly by his side, and with a great effort, he gulped down the bitter
words just ready to issue from his lips, and stood breathless but calm
before the group of boys.

"He's afraid!" they cried with one voice.

"I 'am afraid' of doing any more wrong," said poor George, very humbly.
"I lost my temper, and I am very sorry for it; but all the time I did
know what I meant to say, and that was that the Bible says, 'Neither be
ye called masters; for "one" is your Master, even Christ.' Teacher made
us learn that text the other day, and explained to us how that every
one on earth, from the king to the beggar, is God's servant, and how we
ought all to try to be good and profitable servants."

"We want no more preaching, George," said Tom Hunt, interrupting him.
"All I know is, it's a shame you should be taken on by Mr. Day, when
Fred Giles, who is nearly twice your size, has been refused."

The boys moved off as they spoke, and George, glad to be free from
them, continued his way home; but he no longer whistled as he went. Why
had Mr. Day refused to take Fred Giles? And was it really the unfair
thing the boys had called it? Not at all.

Mr. Day had all the right on his side. He knew Fred Giles to be an idle
boy. He had already been in several situations in the town, but had
been discharged from them all before he had been in them many weeks. In
his last place, there had been strong suspicions against his honesty;
and although nothing was fully proved against him, his good name had
suffered greatly.

Well might Solomon say, "A good name is better than riches." Fred's
parents also did not bear the best of characters in the town; and all
these things are taken into consideration by people when about to
engage a boy.

"I will have nothing to do with that boy," is a common remark; "his
father is a drunkard, and what can you expect from the son?" Or, "I
should be afraid to try that girl; her mother is an idle woman, who has
never taught her daughter habits of industry and tidiness." And thus
the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children.

George Horbrook's parents were very poor, but no one had a word to say
against them. Poverty is no crime; and the Horbrooks had tried to bring
up their children honestly and respectably; and where they had failed
to do so, every one felt the fault had not been theirs.

George himself was a good and steady boy, his chief fault being that of
a too hasty temper. At school he had done so well that the master had
offered to keep him for another year free of expense to his parents,
in consideration of the help he was able to give with some of the
little boys. But the Horbrooks were so badly off, in consequence of the
father's illness, that even the trifle George might be able to earn was
a great object to them.

When Mr. Day had been spoken to about George, he said,—

"That boy comes of a good stock; and the schoolmaster gives him a good
character for truthfulness and industry. I want another young hand just
now, and I will give him the preference, although he knows nothing of
the work."

So much for the value of a good name!

When George reached home and told the good news about his engagement to
Mr. Day, his mother's pale and anxious face brightened up with a smile
of thankfulness. Her husband had been laid up for many months through
an injury he had received from the fall of a heavy stone upon his foot.
There was no chance of his being able to work for some length of time,
and meanwhile there were nine children, only one of whom was older than
George, and that one, who should have been the comfort and stay of his
parents, was a source of the deepest sorrow and anxiety to them.

It was a very poor home where the Horbrooks lived, only two rooms, and
a third scarcely bigger than a cupboard. Mrs. Horbrook had at one time
rented a larger cottage, and had earned some money by letting her spare
rooms, but the owner of the house had wanted to reside in it himself,
so the Horbrooks were obliged to leave, and there was no other vacant
cottage to be had in all Northcliffe but the small one they now lived
in.

Good cottages were very scarce in the town, and the report that a rich
lady who owned land in Northcliffe was about to have some cottages
built was hailed with joy by the overcrowded poor.

"Where's father, mother?" said George, as he took his baby sister from
her and sat down to nurse it.

The child had been fretful all day, but Mrs. Horbrook always said no
one could quiet a baby like her George. And certain it was that no
sooner had he taken the little one in his arms than it began to crow
and smile at him.

Janet Horbrook, a womanly little girl of nine years, used to say that
it was George's "dancing eyes" that quieted babies so well.

"Your father's gone up to Dr. Bertram, George," said his mother, in
answer to his question. "His foot has pained him more than usual
to-day; and it was as much as he could do to limp along with the help
of his crutches."

[Illustration: MINDING BABY.]

"And where's Edwin, mother?"

"He's gone to Moor Park with a message from Dr. Bertram, and he is to
have sixpence for going. I gave him a penny to add to it, and he will
bring home a loaf for your suppers. He should be back by this time, but
it was a long way for him to go. Dr. Bertram sent for you to go, but
you were not at home."

Mrs. Horbrook had scarcely finished speaking when Edwin entered the
cottage. He had a large loaf in his arms, and a lot of dripping which
Mrs. Bertram had told her cook to give him.

The children were soon seated round the table, and were enjoying their
supper when their father returned home. There was a sad and suffering
look on his face, which not even the sight of the children and their
supper nor the good news about George could dispel. He sat down by the
fire, and sighed deeply.

"What is it, John?" whispered his wife. She laid her hand upon her
husband's arm as she spoke, and looked brightly into his face.

"Matter enough, Susie dear. Dr. Bertram says he can do no more for me
here, and that I must go to one of the large hospitals in London. He
told me it is only losing time staying here."

"But if you do go to London, does he say you will soon get quite well,
John?"

"No, Susie, he is not sure, and he prepared me for the worst, and said
that—"

"That what, John?" said his wife, her cheek growing pale with her fear
of what the answer might be.

"Not that I should die, dear wife, but that it might be I should—have
to lose my foot."

"Oh, John!"

"It is not for myself I mind, Susie; it is when I think of you and all
the young ones!"

John Horbrook's voice grew thick as he spoke, and the tears ran down
his cheeks.

"Father, 'I'll' take care of mother whilst you are away," said a manly
young voice at his side. "She shall never want whilst I can work."

"Bless you for your good, brave words, my boy!" said his father. "I
know you will do your best, although that will be but little for some
time to come."

"But I shall get on, father, I 'know' I shall. And who knows how soon I
may be able to make a home for you?"

George's parents both felt that they could not be quite cast down when
God had given them such a son?



[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

GEORGE AT WORK.

LONG after the younger children had gone to bed, husband and wife sat
talking over the new trial which had fallen upon them. George had gone
up to the school to tell the master of his engagement by Mr. Day, and
little Janet sat at the table as quiet as a mouse, darning stockings.

Mrs. Horbrook spoke hopefully, although her heart was very sad.

"When you first came in and told me all sudden like about having to go
away, I felt so taken aback; it all seemed so blank, so dreary, and
then our little George spoke out so manfully. He little knows the good
his words did me. And now, John, I seem as if I could look it all in
the face, and trust in God that it will all be for our good."

"Well said, Susie," replied her husband; "and Dr. Bertram will be kind
to you whilst I am away, and he has promised to give me a letter to one
of the head surgeons who is a friend."

"And who knows but that in London you may chance to hear something of
poor Tom?"

"May be so, wife, though they say London is a large place,—a mighty
large place."

Neither John nor his wife had ever been out of the Isle of Wight, and
would have had considerable difficulty in realizing the fact that
London contains sixty times as many people as there are in the "whole"
of the isle of Wight! Yet such is the fact, so there seemed but little
prospect of John Horbrook coming across his son Tom.

Tom Horbrook had had every chance of doing well in life. He was a
quick boy, and his parents had been able by strict economy to pay
for his being taught a trade. But, unfortunately, Tom was fond of
mixing with the wild and unsteady lads of the town; every town has its
good-for-nothing portion of the population, and Northcliffe had its
share. Over and over again did Tom's parents warn him of the ruin he
was bringing on himself. At length, some money was missing from his
master's counting-house, and grave suspicions fell upon Tom Horbrook.
He disappeared suddenly from Northcliffe, and from that day no one had
ever heard of or from him.

"If he had but written me one line!" his mother would exclaim, in the
bitterness of her sorrow.

Two years had passed away since he left Northcliffe, and most people
thought Tom Horbrook had met with some sudden death. Not so his mother,
she clung to the conviction that "Tom would write some day." And every
night the little ones prayed for their lost brother Tom; whilst Janet,
in the quiet of her tiny room which she shared with her two younger
sisters, never failed to ask God to "make Tom write to poor mother."
And so matters stood when Mrs. Horbrook spoke of the chance of her
husband meeting with his son in the far-off city of London.

When George returned home, he was accompanied by Mr. Gilbert, the
schoolmaster.

"I hope I'm not intruding by coming so late," he said, as Mrs. Horbrook
rose to get him a chair. "But George was telling me about your trouble,
and I came round to see if I could be of any use to you."

"It is very good of you, Mr. Gilbert, I'm sure," answered John
Horbrook. "It was a great shock to my wife and me just at first, but I
think we see matters a little differently now; not but what it 'is' a
trial, however we may try to make the best of it."

"There's no doubt about that," said the schoolmaster; "but, like many
other trials, it may prove to be a blessing, that is, if used rightly."

"We were talking about that very thing before you came in," said Mrs.
Horbrook. "But if the worst should happen," she continued, and her
voice "would" tremble in spite of all her efforts to steady it, "what
could John do if he returned home a—"

She could not bring herself to say the word "cripple," but Mr. Gilbert
understood what she meant.

"It was just on that very point I wished to speak to your husband, Mrs.
Horbrook. It is the part of a Christian man to look troubles in the
face. If your husband should lose the use of his legs, he has still his
hands to fall back upon. And George showed me only last week a pair of
boots which he said his father had mended for him."

"John can do anything with his hands," said his wife proudly.

"Then let him take heart, and be assured that if God in His wisdom sees
fit to close up one path of life to him, He will open another. There is
plenty of work here for shoemakers and shoe-menders. And I will speak
to my brother when your husband returns, and I know he will give him
employment."

"I know something of shoemaking," said John Horbrook, "for when I was a
boy, my father bound me to a shoemaker. But I was not a strong lad, and
so much sitting did not agree with me. And after working at my trade
for more than a year, I was obliged to give it up, and seek out-door
employment."

"All right, Horbrook, see if you don't turn out a first-rate shoemaker,
if occasion requires it of you. And how about George? It seems a pity
that he should lose what knowledge he has gained; and we all know how
soon anything forgotten that we make no use of. I have been telling
him, therefore, that whenever he has a spare hour in the evening, and
likes to come round to my house, I shall be pleased to give him a
little help. In that way, we can manage so that at all events, he shall
not forget what he has already learned; and he may add something to his
stock of knowledge. No man can rise nowadays without some education.
Nay, no thanks, Mrs. Horbrook, I am only doing as I would be done by."

"Mr. Gilbert has promised to teach me a little drawing, father," said
George,—"the very thing I always longed for so very much!"

"It will be useful to him in his trade," replied the schoolmaster. "I
saw a little sketch he made on a slate one day of some flowers one of
the children had brought to school. Now a mason, with anything like
a taste for drawing, will soon rise in the world. It was only this
afternoon I was speaking to one of the stonemasons who are working at
the new church. He was carving a group of flowers for the top of one of
the pillars; and he told me that he can earn with ease seven or eight
shillings a day."

"If 'I' should ever be able to do that!" cried George.

"There is no reason why you should not some of these days. Meanwhile,
accustom yourself to sketch from nature—a leaf, a fern, a flower, you
are surrounded by such things here. And the habit of copying nature
will help you materially. No matter how roughly the thing is done; a
bit of common chalk will serve you as well as a pencil. But I must now
bid you good night; and if I can help you in any way, be sure and let
me know."

As he spoke, he shook John Horbrook warmly by the hand.

And when he left the cottage, George and his parents sat for some time
talking over the kind and hopeful words which had done them so much
good.

George was up with the lark the next morning, and whistled as he went
off to work.

Very few of the men had arrived when he reached the building. But the
foreman was already there, and told George he was glad to see him come
in good time, and that he hoped he would continue to do so.

A lad about two years older than George whispered to one of the
men something about "new brooms sweeping clean," and looked at the
new-comer with no very friendly glance. George took no notice, however,
and was soon busy filling a hod with mortar, and carrying it up a
ladder to one of the masons. This man, upon whom George was to wait,
was a steady, industrious workman; and Mr. Day had told the foreman
that he wished George to be under him.

"I'm glad to see Mr. Day has taken you on, Horbrook," he said; "and I
hope you will do well for your father's sake. We have trouble with boys
sometimes; they are apt to answer impertinently, and one cannot expect
that the men will put up with that."

George worked well that day. The man upon whom he waited had never once
to tell him to make haste with the mortar. And although, long before
the day's work was over, George felt his shoulder becoming painful, he
kept to his work as if nothing were the matter.

Matthew Hale said he had never had a better boy to wait on him; and
George's eyes shone with pleasure, for Matthew was a man of few words,
and not given to praise.

Larkins, the boy who had sneered at George in the morning, overheard
what Matthew Hale said, and exclaimed, "So you are going to set up for
a pattern boy, are you?"

"I am only going to try and do my duty," answered George quietly.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER III.

GOOD NEWS.

WITHIN a week from the time of George's engagement by Mr. Day, his
father left Northcliffe for London. Having made up his mind to follow
Dr. Bertram's advice, it was clear that the sooner he did so the
better. There was plenty to do in those few days, and Mrs. Horbrook was
but too glad to be so fully employed, as it kept her from thinking too
much. The last evening came.

George carried his father's box up to the station, and Mr. Day gave him
leave to go with his mother the next morning to see his father off.
Edwin was there also. And Janet longed to go, but there would have then
been no one to mind baby, so the unselfish child remained quietly at
home, and no one but God knew what it had cost her. She watched them
all from the cottage window, until a turn in the road hid them from her
sight, and a few tears rolled down her cheeks. This was all.

The next moment she was amusing baby. And when baby went to sleep, she
got the little ones ready for school, and had scarcely done so when her
mother returned from the station, looking so pale and sad that Janet
was glad the little ones were out of the way.

"Did father get off all right, mother?" she asked, when Mrs. Horbrook
was seated at the little table with a cup of hot tea before her.

"Yes, dear, all right; and he seemed in tolerable spirits too; but it
was a sore trial—a sore trial."

Janet had never seen her mother weep so before.

"Don't ye cry, mother," she whispered; and she threw a pair of loving
arms round her mother's neck.

"You are a great comfort to me, my little Janet," said her mother, as
she returned her caress.

No one but the little girl knew the joy caused by those few words.
Often had she envied George his power of helping his parents, but now
it seemed as if she also would be of some use.

"I am so glad, mother."

Janet's tears flowed fast, and little by little Mrs. Horbrook drew from
her child how she had longed for the day when she too should be big
enough to earn money, and how she had feared she was an expense at home.

"Why, what would baby do without Janet, I wonder?" said her mother.
"And Polly, and Lucy, and Harry? Why, you are my right hand, dear
child."


"Why were you not up at the station to see father off Janet?" asked
George when he came home from work.

"There would have been no one to see to baby, George, and Edwin seemed
to want to go so much."

"You are a good little thing, Janet."

"I am sure I didn't think Janet cared a bit about going," said Edwin,
whose conscience was whispering to him that he had not acted quite
unselfishly, "or I would have stayed with baby."

"And how did you get on at work to-day, George?" asked his mother.

"Very well," he replied; "my shoulder pained me far less than
yesterday. Matthew Hale says I have got over the worst of it, and that
I shall soon feel no pain at all."

George spoke very cheerfully, and his mother little thought that he had
something to trouble him, for all he seemed so gay.

Larkins was jealous of him already. He had soon found out that George
meant to work, and that he was not going to be "one of them," as Ned
expressed it. By "them" he meant the set of idle boys in Northcliffe.

Larkins himself was obliged to work, or he would have starved, for he
had a step-father who would never support him in idleness; but every
spare minute he could find, he made one of the gang of idlers.

George still went to the Sunday school, and this was one great cause of
the unkindness of Larkins, who never let pass an opportunity of doing
him an unkind action. One day, George asked his teacher what he ought
to do, for at times such unkindness was very hard to bear.

"Your course is very plain, George," she said. "We must bear anything
rather than do what we know would be displeasing to God. It is He alone
whom you need fear. There was once a very good man who used to say
those very words: 'I fear God, and therefore there is none other that I
need fear.'"


Nearly a week had elapsed since John Horbrook had left home, when one
evening, as George entered the cottage after leaving work, he found his
mother sitting by the fire, her face radiant with happiness, and an
open letter lying upon her lap.

"Such good news, George," said Mrs. Horbrook, in answer to her
son's inquiring look. "He has met with such kindness, and seems so
comfortable. How wrong I was to doubt even for a moment! But sit down,
and you shall hear all he says." The letter was as follows:

   "MY DEAR WIFE,—I dare say you have been longing to hear from me, and
perhaps thinking I might have written sooner, but I thought it better
to wait till I could tell you what the doctors say of my case, and it
was only yesterday that Mr. A., the surgeon, looked at my foot. I have
met with the greatest kindness ever since I left home. There was a
gentleman in the railway carriage from Portsmouth to London who talked
to me a great deal, and saw me into a cab when we got to London.

   "Oh, Susie, but London is a mighty place. No chance of meeting with
poor Tom, I fear. We went over a bridge across the Thames, and there
were more church steeples than I could count, and such a number of
ships in the river that their masts looked like Northcliffe Copse
in winter. The bridge, although it is much wider than any road in
Northcliffe, was so choked up with waggons and carriages that the cab I
was in came to a standstill, and there was such a noise that I thought
something must be the matter; so I put my head out of the window, and
asked the driver what it was. He only laughed, and told me that there
was nothing more the matter than what happens every day on London
Bridge, owing to the immense number of conveyances passing over it at
the same time.

   "But if you could but see the hospital, wife! There isn't so fine a
building in all Northcliffe; and the wards, as they call them, that is
the rooms we are in, are as neat and clean and comfortable as possible.
And the nurses are so kind, and the doctors too. And now for the good
news which I have left till the last. They say Mr. A. is the first
surgeon in London, and he it is who saw my foot yesterday. He says he
hopes to be able to make a cure of me, and that in two months' time I
shall be able to go home again. He told me it would have been almost
impossible for me to have got cured in Northcliffe, for there I could
not have the care I have here.

   "My leg is now put into a sort of frame, which they call a 'cradle,'
so that I cannot move any part of the limb. And then, lest I should
grow weary with lying so long upon an ordinary bed, I have a water-bed
to lie on, which never gets out of shape. Mr. A. is so good and kind.
He said, 'You may rely upon my doing everything in my power for you,
Horbrook; but you know I am only an instrument in God's hands. You must
pray to Him to bless my efforts.'

   "This is the good news, dear wife, and I know it will help to cheer you
during my long absence. My love to all our dear children. How thankful
I am they have not to live in London, wonderful place as it is! The air
is so different from that of Northcliffe, and sometimes a thick yellow
fog hangs over the whole place. I did not see one rosy-cheeked child as
we drove through London from the station, all the poor little things
had such thin white faces.

   "Give my duty to Dr. and Mrs. Bertram, and tell them how grateful I
feel for all they have done for us.

                             "Your loving husband,

                                    "JOHN HORBROOK."



[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV.

TEMPTATION.

   "Let no man say when he is tempted, I am tempted of God: for God cannot
be tempted with evil, neither tempteth He any man: but every man is
tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed."—JAS. i.
13, 14.

"MOTHER, I do so wish I could find out any way to keep the wet from
coming into your bedroom as it does."

"It would be a good thing, George. Your father spoke to the landlord
about it some weeks back; but he doesn't seem inclined to do anything
about it. What is wanting is a good coat of paint on the outer wall;
but paint costs money, and we have none to spare just now."

Mrs. Horbrook was not strong. She had a bad cough; and George knew
that Dr. Bertram had told her to avoid anything like damp as much as
possible.

"But if I got the paint from Mr. Day, mother, I know he would let me
have it at cost price, and I could put it on myself."

"We must not think of it yet, George. I haven't a penny to spare this
week; it will be as much as I shall do to have the rent money ready on
Monday."'

"Mother, I wish you hadn't thought of my going to the night school—that
will cost sixpence a week."

"But it is sixpence well spent, George. I'd rather do without my tea
than that you shouldn't go to the night school. Your father and I both
feel that we have taken you from school sooner than we should have
liked to do had things been different, and the night school will give
you a chance of still learning something. Let's see, to-night is the
first lesson, is it not?"

"Yes, mother; and haven't I heard enough about it from Larkins and the
other boys? Mr. Day wanted them to join, but they wouldn't and I am the
only one of his young hands who has done so. Matthew Hale says I have
done right, and that knowledge is always useful, and Mr. Day will take
a class himself."

"I am glad you are with so good a master, and so long as you give him
satisfaction, you can afford not to mind what any one else says."

Somewhat of a discontented spirit came over George as he went to work
that morning. Why were they so poor that, they could not even afford
a little paint, which might be the means of keeping his mother in
health? And Mr. Day had such quantities of paint, too. He had seen it
the previous day all put ready in one of the rooms of the new houses,
ready for the painters to begin work the following morning. And just
a little, a very little of all that quantity would do all he wanted,
would keep out the wet from his mother's room.

How watchful we ought to be over our thoughts! Our blessed Saviour,
when speaking to His disciples about the sins of a man's heart, places
at the head of the black list "evil thoughts." Let us never forget
this; thoughts are the parents of words and deeds. And an evil deed
would never be done unless an evil thought had first of all sprung up
and been cherished in the heart. Let us pray for grace to keep our
thoughts in order.

George did not check the growing feeling of discontent in his heart,
and from coveting some of his master's paint, the thought came into
his mind, "He would never miss a little, and I could easily take some
whilst the men are at dinner."

It was Satan who thus tried to tempt George when he found him giving
way in the first instance. The next moment, however, George shuddered
at the thought of his heart, and asked God for His grace to withstand
the temptation. But it is most true that no one can ever give
encouragement to a bad feeling of any kind without suffering from it
more or less.

George had, by God's grace helping him, put away the dishonest thought,
but his face did not wear its usually bright and cheerful expression,
and he had loitered somewhat on the road, so that he was a little late
at his work. Matthew Hale was not there, having met with a slight
accident the previous day, and George found himself placed to wait
upon another of the workmen, who was a man of violent temper, and who
accosted George in no very friendly manner.

"Come, come, youngster, I've been waiting for you ever so long. You
won't find such tricks answer with me, I can tell you. Now look sharp,
or I'll find a way to make you!"

At any other time, George would have held his tongue—the most prudent
thing he could do,—but he was out of sorts this morning. He gave an
angry reply, upon which the man threatened to box his ears for him if
he said another word.

George went about his work in a sullen mood, and nothing seemed to go
well with him that morning. During the dinner-hour each of the boys
took it in turn to stay in the room where all the men's tools, etc.,
were kept. It was Larkins's turn that day, but somehow at twelve
o'clock he was not to be found, and George took his place. All the
paint happened to be in the room, and as he sat in a corner eating his
dinner, he had time to think calmly over all that had passed that day.
He felt ashamed of himself. He had been angry and impertinent, and,
worse than all, had coveted what did not belong to him.

When he had eaten his dinner, he lay down behind a large heap of wood
shavings. There was a carpenter's bench in the room, and he made many
resolves to do better for the future. As he lay concealed by the
shavings, he heard some one coming up the stairs. He was in no mood for
talking, and lay quite still, supposing it to be one of the workmen
returning somewhat early to fetch his tools. Whoever the person was, he
crept about so quietly that George's curiosity was excited, and raising
himself quietly on his elbow, he peeped through a gap in the shavings,
and saw, not one of the men as he had expected, but Larkins creeping
stealthily towards that part of the room where the paint was placed. He
had an old paint-pot in his hand, and he looked round him from time to
time, as if he fancied he was being watched.

It is very true, as a great poet says, that "conscience doth make
cowards of us all," and Larkins's conscience was anything but quiet at
that moment. When George saw who it was, and what he was about to do,
he held his breath with amazement and horror. Was Larkins really going
to steal the paint? And if so, what was it right for George to do?

His heart beat so violently that he could hear it thumping against
his waistcoat. For one moment he could think of nothing but gratitude
to God that he had been enabled to put away the temptation which had
assailed him. The next moment, and he was planning how he might best
stop Larkins before he committed the crime. He knew enough of Larkins
to feel sure that he would never forgive him if he thought George
guessed what he was about to do. There was not a moment to be lost,
for Larkins had reached the spot where the paint was. A sudden thought
seemed to strike George. He coughed slightly, and then yawned aloud, as
if awaking from a sleep.

Larkins started, and dropped the paint-pot in his fright. A moment
afterwards, he recovered himself, and asked in an angry tone who was
there.

"It's only me, Larkins," said George, yawning.

"And what do you do there, playing the spy?"

"I am no spy, Larkins. The foreman could not find you at twelve
o'clock, and I had to stay here in your place, that's all."

"And what made you hide yourself there, then?"

"Indeed I did not do it to hide. I felt tired and wanted to be quiet a
little, that's all."

Larkins stared George full in the face. "Are you sure you are telling
me the truth, and that you were not on the watch up in that corner
there?"

"What should I be watching for, Larkins?" said George.

"That's true," replied the boy, who had been thrown off his guard;
"there was nothing to watch for. As for me, I went down the town as
soon as the dinner-hour arrived to get this paint-pot for one of the
men, and I have only just come back."

Larkins was telling an untruth, and George knew it was one, but he
said nothing more on the subject, rejoicing that Larkins had been
interrupted, and hoping that he might not make the attempt again, but
be led, as he had been, to resist the temptation. But there was a great
difference between George and Larkins.

God's Holy Spirit had striven with George's evil heart and had enabled
him to conquer. But God in His Holy Bible has expressly said, "My
Spirit shall not always strive with man," and there comes a time when
God withdraws His Holy Spirit, and leaves a man's heart to sin and
Satan.

Larkins had thrown away all the means of doing well. He had neglected
all good advice, had left off going to God's house, never went to the
Sunday school, never read his Bible; and now God had "left him to
himself." We all know how wicked our hearts are by nature. What then
must be the state of him whom God leaves to himself?

George went to work again in a better spirit. His quiet hour had done
him good; and although Beavis, the man upon whom he had to wait, was
more exacting than ever, and never spoke to George but in an angry
tone, still the boy kept from answering him, and so avoided a quarrel.

Shortly before they left off work, George had filled his hod with
mortar, and was hastening to a fresh part of the building, where Beavis
had commenced a party wall on the top story, when he saw the ladder
upon which Beavis had just mounted tremble violently. It had been
insecurely placed, and in another moment, Beavis might have fallen to
the ground. George threw down his hod of mortar, rushed to the spot,
and held the ladder firmly at the base till further help came. Amongst
those who came running was Larkins.

"I didn't know Beavis was such a friend of yours," he said to George,
"that you should run to help him as you did."

"The Bible teaches me to return good for evil, Larkins," said George,
very quietly.

Beavis said nothing to George about what he had done for him, but
George fancied he was less impatient than he had been during the former
part of the day. The other men praised George loudly for his presence
of mind.

"Some boys," they said, "would have stood staring at the ladder till it
fell, but George had acted at once."

Mr. Day came to the works before the men were dismissed, and George
almost thought the foreman must have said something about it to him,
for the master was kinder than usual to George, and told him he should
expect to see him at the night school that evening.

"I wish more of the boys of the neighbourhood were going to join,"
he said; "but perhaps when once a beginning is made, it will tempt
others to do so. By-the-bye, George," he added, "I passed by your
mother's cottage to-day. It seems in a very bad state, the outer wall
particularly,—at least one part of it. Does not the wet come in?"

"It does indeed, sir. Mother's bedroom is very, very damp, and it makes
her cough much worse. And Dr. Bertram says she is very delicate. Father
asked the landlord to do something to it, but he says he can't afford
it, and that if we like to leave, we are quite welcome to do so, as he
could get plenty more offers for the cottage directly. There are so few
houses here for poor people, sir."

"Mrs. Clay, of Newchurch, is about to build some new cottages, George.
Your father must try for one of them."

"But they won't be ready for a year, will they, sir? And I hear Mrs.
Clay don't want to let them to such large families, if she can help it."

"Meanwhile, George, a little paint would soon stop the wet from coming
in at that particular place, at all events. I wonder you, a handy boy,
haven't thought of that before. You could find time of an evening, or
by getting up an hour earlier in the morning."

"I've thought of it again and again, sir."

"Yes, but thinking of it won't do it, George."

"But I can't do any more than think about it, sir, for mother has no
money to spare for paint. You don't know how very poor we are, sir. And
mother has denied herself several little things so that I should be
able to attend the night school. Now poor father is away, we have hard
work to pay our way. Please don't think that I wouldn't do anything for
mother that I could, sir, only we have not the means to get any paint."

George's eyes filled with tears as he spoke, and Mr. Day took out his
handkerchief and blew his nose violently, as if he had a bad cold.

He said nothing more to George just then, but when all the men were
gone, and George was still busy putting away certain things ready
for the morrow, Mr. Day came to him and said, "I will give you a
little paint, George, to stop the damp from coming into your mother's
room. I believe you to be a good son, and so far you have given me
satisfaction. Come with me, and you shall have the paint at once."

Mr. Day was astonished at the boy's gratitude. "He could not have
seemed more grateful if I had given him a hundred times as much," he
said to himself.

He little knew all that was passing in George's mind—how grateful he
felt to God who had kept him from yielding to the dishonest thought of
the morning, and how humble and ashamed he felt at having for a moment
harboured such a thought.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.

GOOD FOR EVIL.

   "The trivial round, the common task,
    Will furnish all we need to ask;
    Room to deny ourselves,—a road
    To bring us daily nearer God."

"I SHALL have a good hour at home before I need get ready for the
evening school," thought George, as he went away from his work, "and
I can do a good deal of painting in an hour. How glad I am that it is
moonlight so early!"

When he reached home, however, he found his mother looking out for
him. Baby had been fretful all day, and Mrs. Horbrook had been longing
for George's return, knowing that he would be able to nurse his little
brother for an hour whilst she and Janet got the washing out of the
way. So George had to give up his painting for that evening; and so
good-humouredly did he do it that the baby was never better nursed,
whilst Janet and her mother soon put everything to rights.

"What paint is this, George?" said Mrs. Horbrook, as she came upon the
paint-pot, which George had put away in the back kitchen.

"It's a secret, mother, or rather it was a secret, for now you've found
out part, I may as well tell you the rest. Master gave me the paint
himself, so that I may paint that part of the cottage wall where the
wet comes in. And I meant to have done it to-night when I came home
from work,—only—" George paused.

"Only you nursed your little brother instead, eh, George?" said his
mother. "You are a kind son and a good brother, and an excellent nurse
into the bargain."

"And I'll try to be a good painter too to-morrow morning, mother. I
mean to be up as soon as it is light; and this shall be the last night
you will have to sleep with the damp coming through into your bedroom."

Janet took baby when it was time for George to "tidy himself" and
get ready for the evening school, and so he was ready in very good
time. His mother looked at him with loving pride. There was not a
brighter-looking boy in all Northcliffe; and no one who had seen him
that evening would have guessed that he had been disappointed in
something on which he had set his heart.

"Thank God for giving me such a son as George," thought Mrs. Horbrook,
as he left the cottage. "If only my poor Tom had been like him!" And
the smile upon her face faded away, and a tear took its place.


George found nearly twenty boys assembled in the Sunday schoolroom,
which had been kindly lent by the clergyman for the evening classes.
Several of the inhabitants attended to take a class, Mr. Day, George's
master, amongst the rest.

The greater number of the boys present were, like George, engaged
at work during the day, and were desirous not only to keep up the
knowledge they had already acquired, but to add something to the stock.

Mr. Day spoke a few words to the lads before the lessons commenced,
telling them how he had been himself, when a boy, as poor as any one of
them, and how, by diligently trying to improve the little knowledge he
possessed, he had, with God's blessing, risen to his present position
in the world.

"There were no night schools in my young days," he said, "and I
found it uphill work sometimes. My advice to you all is, get all the
knowledge you can whilst you are young. 'Knowledge is power,' for it
will enable you to make your way in life.

"An ignorant man is like some one living in a darkened house; and every
piece of useful knowledge is like a ray of sunlight piercing through
the darkness. Let the light in at as many windows of your house as you
can.

"Another blessing attending night schools is that it keeps boys
from bad company. It is not when a lad is at work that he gets into
mischief, it is in his hours of idleness:

   "'Satan finds some mischief still
     For idle hands to do.'

"But a boy who attends an evening school has something better to think
of than wasting his leisure hours. I only wish I could see every
Northcliffe boy who has time on his hands here to-night. And I would
suggest to each of you now present that you do your best to persuade
your companions to follow your example."

Then the boys had lessons in reading, writing, and arithmetic. And
the clergyman told them that by the next time, he hoped to be able to
arrange about the drawing class.

George walked home with a neighbour's son—John Baker by name,—who told
him of a quarrel he had overheard that evening as he was coming to
school between Jem Larkins and his step-father.

"Larkins was getting a terrible beating," said John, "and was crying
out for mercy."

John knew that Larkins was no friend of George, and expected to hear
George express pleasure at his having got into trouble. Instead of
which, George seemed rather sorry than otherwise, and asked John if he
knew what the quarrel was about.

"It was something about some paint, for I heard his step-father say
more than once,—

"'Didn't I tell you I must have some paint to-day?'

"And then he struck Jem again; and I could not hear what answer Jem
made. I suppose he had neglected some errand his step-father had sent
him upon. He's a terrible idle boy, is Jem, unless he is made to do
anything."

George walked along by his companion's side without answering the last
remark. A strange thought had come across his mind. What if Jem's
step-father had bade him steal some of the paint, and had beaten him
for not having done so? It seemed more than likely that such was the
case. A feeling almost of pity for his old enemy came over George's
mind.

"I was never taught by my parents to be dishonest," he thought. "If I
had been, should I now be any different from Jem?"

John Baker thought George in a very dull mood, and finding that he did
not care to talk, he left him to go home alone.

George walked on for some way, pondering over what he had heard, and
then all of a sudden broke out into a loud whistle. It was a clear,
triumphant sound, telling of a victory gained over self. George was
merrier than ever that evening, and amused his mother and Janet with
an account of all that had gone on at the night school. He said not a
word about Larkins, however, and went to bed with the determination of
rising with the lark the following morning.


He woke long before daybreak, so anxious was he to begin painting, and
by the time he had dressed himself, and got a pair of steps from a
neighbour's yard (he had asked for the loan of them the night before),
it was light enough for him to begin work. It was only in one part that
the wall required painting. And George found that he should have enough
paint and to spare, even after he had given the wall a second coat.

His face beamed with pleasure as he made this discovery. What was he
going to do with the paint he should have left? No doubt he would be
glad to paint a certain chest which his father had once given him. A
coat of paint would make it as good as new, and it looked very shabby
at present. George had often longed to be able to paint it. He had
finished giving the first coat to the cottage wall long before it was
time for him to go to work. Upon entering the cottage, he found Janet
busy at work lighting the fire.

"Have you got all that paint to spare, George?" she cried, as she
looked into the paint-pot.

"I must paint the wall over again to-night, Janet; but even then I
shall have a good bit of paint to spare."

"Then you can do your chest, George, and my stool, and Edwin's little
cart, and—"

"Nay, nay, Janet, I have something else to do with my paint," cried
George, as he put about half of that which remained into an old
paint-pot belonging to his father, and left the cottage, carrying the
rest with him.

Larkins lived in the same street as George Horbrook. He was standing
moodily at the door of his father-in-law's cottage, thinking over the
events of the last night, when he saw George Horbrook approaching,
paint-pot in hand.

He put on a sort of defiant look, for he thought George was come to
make game of him.

George felt a little awkward, and seemed hardly to know how to begin.

"What do you want?" asked Jem, in a surly tone.

"Do you want any paint?" said George, in a hesitating voice.

"None of your impudence here!" cried Jem, furiously. "You'd better be
off, I can tell you, if that's what you come for."

"You don't understand me, Jem. I meant it for the best. I have had some
paint given me to do our cottage wall where the wet came in, and I
have some left; and I heard that you were wanting some paint, and so I
thought I would bring it to you. And if it will be of any good to you,
you are heartily welcome to it. It is not very much, but it will be
better than nothing."

No pen can describe the change which came over Jem's face. The
defiant frown disappeared as if by magic; and a softened look, half
incredulous, half wondering, took its place.

"Why do you do this to 'me,' George?"

It was a difficult question to answer, and George had to think for a
few seconds before he could express his meaning clearly; then he said,—

"I wish to be kind to you, Jem, and to show you that I did not bear
malice. The Bible says we are to be kind to one another, and that we
are to try to do as we would be done by. I want to be friends with
you and all the other boys if I can. And it isn't often I have the
opportunity of doing anything for anybody, for I am very poor, you
know."

Almost before George had finished his somewhat stammering speech, Jem
Larkins had seized him by the hand.

"And is the paint 'really' for me, old fellow?"

"Oh yes, Jem; do you think I don't mean what, I say?"

"I don't deserve this of you, George. But if I don't take your part
through thick and thin after this, if I don't fight all your battles
for you, if I don't—"

"Please don't say any more, Jem; and I'd rather you wouldn't fight
about me, indeed I would. I am very glad the paint will be of use to
you, and if you will only think kindly of me, and—and—"

"And what, George? I promise anything."

"Don't promise, Jem, but if you will only try to—to—"

George could not finish his speech, but Jem seemed to know all he
wished to say.

"I know what you mean, and I 'will' try, George."

"Ask God to help you, Jem. We cannot help ourselves."

The clock struck the hour for work, and Jem only grasped George's hand
again. He did not speak, but taking the paint-pot, he went in-doors,
whilst George hastened to his work. He whistled merrily as he went
along, and his eyes literally "danced" with pleasure. And yet his chest
would still remain shabby and unpainted, and Janet's stool too, and
Edwin's cart. Truly it "is more blessed to give than to receive," and
George Horbrook had found it to be so.


A few days afterwards, during the dinner-hour, Jem Larkins came to the
place where George was sitting trying to draw a spray of ivy. He had
acted up to Mr. Gilbert's advice, and not a day passed by in which he
did not find time to draw something or another. Jem came and looked
over his shoulder.

"How industrious you are, George!"

"It is better than wasting one's time, Jem."

There was a pause of a few moments, and then Jem spoke again:

"How much does going to the night school cost, George?"

"Only fourpence a week, unless you learn drawing too."

"I should like to go if I could," said Jem.

"All right, Jem, it will be the best thing you ever did, it will—"

"I'll tell you why I should like it, George; it isn't because of the
learning I should get. I am a great dunce, and I don't think I shall
ever make much of books, but the reason I want to go is—you know what I
promised you this morning, George. Well, somehow, I think I should be
more out of the way of being tempted to do wrong if I had something to
do in the evening. You see if I went to the night school, I couldn't
be with the boys in the town, and I know it will be hard to break with
them, and I do want to keep my promise, and—"

George put down his drawing, and seized Jem by the hand.

"I am so glad, Jam; I have been longing for you to go, but I didn't
like to ask you."

"How strange it seems for you to be so glad about me, George!" said Jem.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI.

IN THE HOSPITAL.

   "My voice Thou hear in the morning, O Lord; in the morning will I
direct my prayer unto Thee."—PSA. v. 3.

IT was a cold, foggy morning in November. Even at Northcliffe the sun
could hardly pierce through the misty clouds, but in London it was far
worse.

All the lamps were lighted in the streets and shops, and a thick yellow
fog hung over everything.

The gas was lighted, too, in the hospital where John Horbrook lay. It
was a very large ward in which he was placed, and there were many beds
in it—upwards of twenty. There was rarely a bed vacant, for there is
much pain and sickness in the world, and there are numbers of poor
people who have not the means to pay for a doctor, and who are only
too thankful to avail themselves of hospitals, where the poorest man
or woman has as much skill and attention bestowed upon them as if they
were rich. Everything in the long ward is as clean as possible, and
were it not for the look of pain and suffering upon many of the faces,
one might almost think an hospital a place of enjoyment.

John Horbrook's bed was about the middle of one of the rows extending
down each side of the room. The patients have just finished breakfast,
and John is reading aloud to them from his Bible. He had always done
so at home, and it was one of the few home customs he could follow in
that great London hospital. He had begun the very morning after his
admission. They were strange, rough men some of them in the ward, and
the thought had crossed John's mind,—

"Perhaps they will not listen to me, and maybe they will make game of
me."

But God helped him to do what he knew was the right thing. And so the
very first morning, as soon as breakfast was over, he said,—

"My mates, I have always been used to read a little from God's Holy
Word every day to my dear ones at home, and I should be sorry to leave
off the good habit. No one can tell how short his time may be on
earth, but for us who are all suffering from some accident or illness,
the time may be nearer than to other men. With God's blessing, then,
it surely must be good for us to read some little of His message to
us all; we should be but too ready to listen to the message from an
earthly king."

There was silence for several minutes after John Horbrook ceased
speaking.

And then a man who occupied the bed next to that of John, and who was
very ill, said in a low voice,—

"It be long years since I have heard any one speak as you have done,
and then it was my mother who spoke. When you began, I made up my mind
not to listen to you, but your words touched me. My mother used to call
us her 'dear ones'—it is so long ago! The doctor told me yesterday I
couldn't get better, and I, for one, am quite willing to hear you read."

"I don't want any 'cant!'" said a gruff voice from an opposite bed.

The speaker was a porter who had met with a severe accident whilst
lifting some heavy weight. He followed up the explanation with some
oaths, and then relapsed into silence.

Several other patients said they "didn't care about anything of the
kind, but that if John liked to read, they couldn't stop him; they were
not bound to listen."

Some few seemed glad at the proposal, and one old man, who was rather
hard of hearing, asked the nurse to let him move nearer the middle of
the room as soon as there was a bed vacant.

So John began to read, and none interrupted him. After that first
morning, it was easy work, and it soon became quite to be looked
forward to by many who had at first been quite indifferent to it.

The sick man in the bed next to John Horbrook's grew daily worse and
worse, and at length died. But almost his last words were thanks to God
for having sent him such a friend as John.

"I had got to be so hardened," he said, "but you have brought back to
me all that mother taught me long ago, and I can now die in peace,
trusting in God's forgiveness for the sake of His dear Son."

He died the night before the foggy November morning spoken of at the
beginning of this chapter. And so one of the beds by John Horbrook's
side became vacant.


It was late in the same afternoon, and the fog was becoming thicker
as night came on. Many accidents took place in the streets, the fog
making it almost impossible for drivers to see foot passengers when
crossing the different thoroughfares. About five o'clock, there was a
stir at the door of the ward, and then some men appeared carrying some
one upon a stretcher. Two of the house surgeons walked by the side of
the stretcher, and the bearers of it stopped at the vacant bed next to
which John lay.

No sound had until then come from the man who was being carried, but
when the surgeons prepared to lift him from the stretcher on the bed,
he uttered a loud groan.

"Another bad fog accident," whispered one of the bearers in answer to a
question from John; "he has been run over by an omnibus, and has both
legs broken."

John Horbrook shuddered, and partly drew the little curtain at the head
of his bed, that he might be spared some of the sad scene which he knew
must follow. But he could not close his ears; and very heartrending
were the cries of the sufferer as the surgeons examined his injuries.
John saw by the expression of their faces that the case was a hopeless
one.

"So young, too," whispered one of the nurses; "he can't be twenty."

"Where do your friends live, my poor fellow?" said the surgeon, quietly.

There was no answer, and the question was repeated.

"Friends? I ain't got any." This was said in a low voice.

"Where do you live, then?"

"Anywhere—nowhere!"

The last word was uttered in a loud and desperate tone of voice, and
John Horbrook started at the sound, and drew back his bed-curtains to
try and see the speaker. He could not get a sight of his face, however,
for the surgeons we're standing between the two beds. But he lay
straining his ears to catch the next words which might be spoken.

"You are very badly hurt," said the same surgeon who had first spoken,
"and I thought you might like some one to be sent for. Have you no
parents living? You must still be very young."

A groan was the only answer. And the surgeon, after giving a few
directions to the nurse, left the ward.

John Horbrook heard them whisper to each other as they passed by his
bed that the sufferer would not live through the night.

"Amputation would be of no good—the injuries are too great."

The nurse gave the poor fellow a composing draught, according to the
doctor's orders, and very soon the patient's mind began to wander. He
talked enough now, but in a rambling, unconnected way.

A strange suspicion had taken possession of John's mind. This was no
other than "Tom, his Tom," who lay dying beside him. He could see
his face plainly now; but there was nothing in that to recall the
fresh-coloured, hearty boy Tom Horbrook had once been.

John took out his Bible, and in a trembling voice began reading aloud
the parable of the prodigal son, turning his head towards the bed on
which the young man lay. No one present ever forgot that reading, or
the scene that followed.

"Oh, my mates!" continued John, when he had finished the parable. "This
message is to every one of us, this message of love and mercy is to
'all,' even to the greatest sinner that ever lived, if he will but
repent and come to his Saviour.

   "'Oh wonderful redemption,
       God's remedy for sin
     The door of heaven is open
       And you may enter in.'"

Something in the last few words, and the tone in which they were
uttered, seemed to strike upon the sufferer's ear.

"The door is shut, the door is shut!" he muttered.

"Knock, and it shall be opened," said Horbrook.

"I said I never would go back again," muttered the young man; "and now
I can't knock."

John raised himself in his bed as much as it was possible for him to
do with his limb still confined in the cradle or frame in which it
was placed, and bent a long and searching look at the youth's face.
In the face, old before its time, in the sunken cheeks and bloodshot
eyes, he read a sad record of sin and punishment. But he must have read
something else as well, for those near him were startled by his next
words.

"Tom Horbrook, 'my son,' speak to me!"

A few seconds' pause, and then, as if the long-forgotten voice had made
itself heard, the young man turned partly round towards John's bed.

"Who calls Tom Horbrook? I tell you I won't come,—I'm old enough to be
my own master,—I said I would be—and—what's all this pain? Where am
I? I— I won't send to father, I'm—my own master!" And he burst into a
mocking laugh, which soon subsided into a moan of pain.

"Tom, 'my son!'"

"'Your' Tom!" Again the tone of voice calmed him for a moment. "I'm
nobody's Tom, I ain't."

"Tom, 'my son!'" And John sobbed aloud.

"Is that mother crying? Did she cry when I went away?"

"She cried and prayed for you night and day, Tom; she has never
forgotten you."

"Why cannot I see her then? Why is it so dark? And why—but I'm my own
master, and I won't go back."

Then he began rambling again, and never recovered his senses until
just before the last. All the time, he seemed to be living over again
in memory his life of sin; and then the pain he suffered was intense,
until at length mortification set in, and from that time, he gradually
sank.

The surgeons had been to see him again, though they could do nothing
for him. But, touched by John Horbrook's sad story of his long-lost
son, they ordered the two beds to be put close together. And all
through that long night, the father watched his dying boy, praying only
that a few minutes' consciousness might be granted him before he died.

Just as the cold grey light of morning was breaking in the sky, Tom
Horbrook fixed his eyes upon his father with a look of recognition.

"Tom, 'my Tom,' do you know me?"

"Father, my father!" The voice was hollow and very faint, but it was
very music to John Horbrook's heart.

"Father, pray, I CAN'T pray, father; father,—'my' father!"

They were Tom's last words, though it was some little time before he
died.

John Horbrook prayed with all his heart and soul that God would have
mercy upon his dying son. And though Tom never spoke again, he more
than once pressed his father's hand as it lay clasped in his. Then the
pressure relaxed, and all was over.

No one can tell what penitent thoughts God may in His infinite mercy
have put into Tom's sinful heart. But such a death should be a solemn
warning to all who live a godless life.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VII.

IN THE NEW HOME.

THE winter had given place to spring before John Horbrook returned to
Northcliffe.

The death of his son had very much retarded his recovery, and had
thrown him back some weeks. It was some time before he could find
courage to write and tell his wife that the Tom of her prayers had been
found only to be lost again, for there was so little of hope in his
son's death—nothing to cling to in his memory. But the news had to be
told, and when once the letter was written, John felt as though a great
weight had been taken from him, and his health improved from that time.

Poor Mrs. Horbrook felt the blow very keenly, but she knew how
necessary it was for her to avoid adding to her husband's grief by
dwelling too much upon her own. So for his sake, she wrote quite a
cheerfully resigned letter, and no one but God knew how much she
suffered. The letter was full of resignation to God's will and faith in
His mercy, and gave great relief to her husband, who had dreaded the
effect of the bad news upon his wife. And thus they mutually bore each
ether's burdens, and in so doing fulfilled the law of Christ.

At length, when the snowdrops were blooming in the hedges, and the
primroses clustering in all the sheltered nooks, Mrs. Horbrook received
a letter from her husband, telling her he hoped to be home in three
days. The time passed quickly in joyful preparation, and when the day
arrived, Mrs. Horbrook, George, and Janet were at the station in good
time, waiting for the train which was to bring home their long-absent
husband and father. Edwin had taken care that Janet should go this
time, and had remained at home to nurse the baby.

As the train came up to the platform, Janet felt her mother's hand rest
for a moment heavily on her shoulder. Then she hastened forward to
welcome her husband, paler and thinner than he was, but able to walk
quite well without even the help of a crutch or stick.

"Thank God!" was all she could say.

That evening there was much to be told on both sides. Very good news
about George, who had received a prize for a chalk drawing of some ivy
berries and leaves, which had been sent to London to compete at the
annual exhibition of the works of the different branch schools of art.
The prize was a handsome set of drawing instruments.

Four months of steady industry and good conduct on George's part
had placed him high in his master's good opinion. And even his
fellow-labourers were brought to own that there were, after all, many
worse than George Horbrook. So much for perseverance in well-doing.


Dr. Bertram came to see John Horbrook the day after his return. He
examined his foot, and talked about the future.

"The foot will never be quite as strong as it was before," he said;
"and I think it would be better for you to take up your trade as
a shoemaker. Gilbert was telling me yesterday, he can always find
constant employment for a steady hand."

"I am sure it would be a good plan," said John; "but before I can do
that, I must get into a larger cottage, and that's not an easy matter
in Northcliffe, where small houses are so scarce."

"But you haven't seen the new cottages since you came back, Horbrook.
They will be ready by Midsummer. You must try for one of them."

"There will be twenty applicants for those cottages, sir. And I dare
say Mrs. Clay will give the preference to people better to do than we
are, and who have smaller families."

"We must see what can be done," said Dr. Bertram.

George had been for some weeks past working at the new cottages, Mr.
Day being the builder of them. Every day George wished more and more
that his parents could get one of them when finished. They were so
convenient, and had so much room; and behind each was a good piece of
garden ground.

"I think I should have nothing left to wish for if mother had only such
a house as that," thought George, "now that father is likely to get
plenty of work, and that I'm getting on too."

He began to whistle one of his merriest tunes out of the very gladness
of his heart, at the mere thought of what a happy home it would be. It
was his dinner-hour, and he was amusing himself as usual by drawing. He
was no longer obliged to use a piece of rough chalk, as at first, for
some pencils and prepared chalks and a drawing-book had accompanied the
drawing instruments. And this day he was sketching some primroses and
large arum leaves which he had gathered in the copse close by.

He rarely spent more than twenty minutes at his dinner, so that he got
a good bit of time every day for drawing.

The sound of wheels made him look up from his work, and he saw a little
pony carriage, in which were two ladies, stopping in front of the new
buildings. None of the men had yet returned, so George was the only
person on the premises. The ladies were Mrs. and Miss Clay. They had
been away from Northcliffe for some months, and this was their first
visit to the cottages since their return.

Mrs. Clay called to George to mind the pony whilst she and her daughter
went in to look at the buildings.

"What are you doing here all alone?" they asked of George.

"I was drawing, ma'am; it is the dinner-hour, and I always try and find
time to draw a little."

[Illustration: MRS. CLAY VISITS THE NEW COTTAGES.]

"I am very fond of drawing," said Miss Clay; "show me what you are
doing."

George fetched his book, and both Mrs. and Miss Clay praised his
sketches very much.

"What do you wish to be when you grow up?"

"A mason, ma'am. I should like to be able to carve flowers in stone,
like they are doing at the new church. And masons like that earn a
great deal of money."

"And what would you do with so much money?"

"I'd pay the rent of one of these cottages for father and mother,—that
is if you'd let one to them, ma'am."

Mrs. Clay smiled.

"And why do you think I would not do so?"

"Because we are so many in family, ma'am," said George, in a sorrowful
voice. "But I believe it would be the making of mother if she could
only breathe the pure air up here, instead of living in the damp,
crowded place she is obliged to."

"What is your name?" asked Mrs. Clay, who was amused at George's manner.

"George Horbrook, ma'am. And I hope you won't mind my speaking out so
bold, for it's all a dream, you know. I am only a boy now, and it will
be long before I am a master mason." And the boy sighed.

"It is a very proper ambition, George, and does you credit. Was it your
father of whom I heard as having been in the hospital?"

"Yes, ma'am, the very same; he is much better, but Dr. Bertram thinks
his foot will never be quite strong again. And as father is as good at
shoemaking as he is at mason's work, he is thinking of taking to it for
his trade, only he hasn't a place to work in,—our cottage is so small,
and there are so many of us."

"How many, George?" asked Mrs. Clay.

"Ten, counting father and mother," said George; "and I am the only one
of the children who earns anything."

As George spoke, Mr. Day came up, and Mrs. and Miss Clay went with him
over the cottages, leaving George minding the pony. He could not help
fancying that Mrs. Clay was talking about him to Mr. Day, for he saw
them look towards where he was standing and watching, and they always
smiled as they did so.

"Who knows," thought George, "what may happen?"

Mrs. Clay gave him sixpence for minding the pony, wished him good-bye
with a kind smile, but said not one word about the cottage.

"I knew we should be too many for her," said poor George to himself as
he went to his work.


Several weeks passed away, and John Horbrook had found plenty of work.
Moreover a kind neighbour had given him the loan of a sort of outhouse,
in which he was able to work. But this could only be during the summer
months, and it became indispensable that he should find a larger
cottage before the next winter.

The new cottages were in the meantime fast approaching completion, and
the applications for them were very numerous. George knew all this, and
his heart sank within him as he thought of his cherished dream. With
this one exception, everything was prospering with him. He knew that
Mr. Day was satisfied with him, and his readiness to do a good turn for
anybody had overcome the ill-feeling which many of the men had at first
cherished towards him. It really was next to impossible for them to
continue harbouring ill feelings towards so thoroughly good-natured a
boy as George.

Since the affair of the paint, too, Larkins had been George's firm
friend. And although it might be thought that the friendship of such a
boy was not much worth having, still he had great influence with the
other boys, and had become a very different character since the day
when George had given him the paint. He was now a regular attendant,
not only at the night school, but also at the Sunday school, and very
often during the course of a long and useful life, Jem Larkins would
speak of his becoming acquainted with George Horbrook as being the
turning-point in his life.


At length the cottages were finished, and a day was fixed upon
for deciding who were to be the tenants. There were nearly thirty
applications for the twelve cottages, and it was quite clear that many
must be disappointed.

Mrs. Clay found it quite difficult to make a selection, and she
consulted Mr. Day on the subject.

"I want to get tenants whose character and prospects render it likely
that they will be able to pay their rent regularly, and I should
certainly like to avoid overcrowding the cottages. By-the-bye, Mr. Day,
one of your boys was speaking to me about a cottage for his parents.
What sort of people are the Horbrooks?"

"There is not a better lad in Northcliffe than George," replied the
builder, "and there is not a more deserving family than his. But they
are but struggling as yet, although I think the father is in a fair way
to get on. They are a very large family though," he concluded, with a
smile.

"That shall not be an obstacle, if I find a party truly deserving,"
said Mrs. Clay. "I confess I was quite taken with the boy's earnest
way of pleading for his parents. I am sure he is a good son; and good
children are generally found to have good parents."

"All I can say is," replied Mr. Day, "that if I had a cottage to
let, I would as soon take John Horbrook for a tenant as any man in
Northcliffe, not because he is a well-to-do man, for he is very poor,
but because he bears a good name, and has brought up his children well.
His boy George will be a first-rate mason some of these days."

That same evening, George was preparing his lessons for the night
school, and Mrs. Horbrook was busy ironing, when Mrs. Clay's pony
carriage stopped at the door.

"Oh, mother!" cried George, and he said afterwards that he felt his
heart jump up into his mouth, and that he hardly knew how he opened the
door.

Mrs. Clay beckoned him to come and speak to her.

"You remember what we were talking about the last time we met?" she
said.

"I couldn't forget it, ma'am; it was about your cottages."

"And you have still the same wish to get one for your parents?"

"Yes, ma'am!" cried George, with sparkling eyes.

"Would your father like to be my tenant?"

"Here comes father himself, ma'am, and I know what he'll say if you
only just ask him."

"I am come to offer you one of my new cottages, Horbrook," said Mrs.
Clay, as John came forward with a bow. "You bear an excellent character
in Northcliffe, and so does your son George; and I shall have much
pleasure in taking you for a tenant."

John Horbrook made a still lower bow, to give him time to think what he
should say. It so took him by surprise, it seemed all too good to be
true, there must be some mistake, and he must tell the lady the whole
truth.

"I cannot thank you enough for your kind offer, ma'am," he said at
last; "but I've heard say you object to large families, and there are
ten of us, ma'am. And we are not very well-to-do in the world, although
if God gives me health and strength, I hope to better myself before
long."

"I know all, Horbrook," said Mrs. Clay, "and I know also that you are a
thoroughly honest man, and merit all that your neighbours say of you. I
repeat the offer I just made to you of one of the new cottages, and I
hope God may grant many years of happiness in it. You have brought up
your son George in the right way too; his master speaks most highly of
him."

John Horbrook's face beamed with honest pride. "He has always been
a good lad, and he was his mother's principal comfort whilst I was
away. It has always been his wish that we should have one of your new
cottages, ma'am."

"It was he who first spoke to me about it," said Mrs. Clay. "And now
you may look upon the matter as settled, and you can take your wife
and choose which cottage you would prefer. You shall have the first
choice," saying which Mrs. Clay drove away, leaving John and his son in
a state of the most perfect happiness.


In less than a fortnight, the Horbrooks were comfortably settled in
their new home, where there was ample room for John to carry on his
trade of shoemaker, and he soon had as much work as he could do.

He was never once behindhand with his rent. And the rent-book,
regularly paid up, was one of the ornaments of the little round table
in the window of their sitting-room. Both he and his wife lived to see
George grow up and become a master mason. And so skilful did he become,
that some of the most beautiful stone carvings in a church recently
built at Northcliffe were executed by him. The other dream of his
boyhood has also been realized, and for some time past the Horbrooks
have lived rent free, their rent being paid for them by their good son.

Jem Larkins became a steady workman, and never ceased to feel grateful
to his friend George, who had been, under Providence, the means of
turning him from his evil ways.

May we not learn from this little history of George Horbrook that God
is nigh unto all that call upon Him; and that in all our trials, if we
ask Him for strength to bear them like Christians, they will in the end
prove to have been helps to us in our homeward course?




*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78433 ***