Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Three.“Ould Crow,” the Knife-Grinder.“Knives to grind!—scissors to grind!—tools to grind!—umbrels to mend!”These words were being uttered in a prolonged nasal tone by an old grey-haired man of a rather comical cast of countenance in one of the streets in the outskirts of the town of Bolton. It was about a week after the sad death of Frank Oldfield that we come upon him. Certainly this approach to the town could not be said to be prepossessing. The houses, straggling up the side of a hill, were low and sombre, being built of a greyish stone, which gave them a dull and haggard appearance. Stone was everywhere, giving a cold, comfortless look to the dwellings. Stone-paved roads, stone curbs, stone pathways—except here and there, where coal-dust and clay formed a hard and solid footway, occasionally hollowed out by exceptional wear into puddles which looked like gigantic inkstands. High stone slabs also, standing upright, and clamped together by huge iron bolts, served instead of palings and hedges, and inflicted a melancholy, prison-like look on the whole neighbourhood.It was up this street that the old knife-grinder was slowly propelling his apparatus, which was fitted to two large light wheels. A very neat and comprehensive apparatus it was. There was the well-poised grindstone, with its fly-wheel attached; a very bright oil-can, and pipe for dropping water on to the stone; various little nooks and compartments for holding tools, rivets, wire, etcetera. Everything was in beautiful order; while a brass plate, on which was engraved the owner’s name, blazed like gold when there was any sunshine to fall upon it. At present the day was drizzling and chilly, while the huge volumes of smoke from a whole forest of factory chimneys tended to impart a deeper shade of dismalness to the dispiriting landscape. The old man himself was plainly a character. No part of his dress seemed as if it could ever have been new, and yet all was in such keeping and harmony that every article in it appeared to have faded to a like degree of decay by a common understanding. Not that the component parts of this dress were such as could well have been contemporaries on their being first launched into the world, for the whole of the old man’s personal outward clothing might almost have been mapped off into divisions—each compartment representing a different era, as the zones on a terrestrial globe enclose differing races of plants and animals. Thus, his feet were shod with stout leather shoes, moderately clogged, and fastened, not by the customary clasps, but by an enormous pair of shoe-buckles of a century old at least. His lower limbs were enclosed in leathern garments, which fastened below the knee, leaving visible his grey worsted stockings. An immense waistcoat, the pattern of which was constantly being interrupted by the discordant figuring of a large variety of patches—inserted upside down, or sideways, or crossways, as best suited—hung nearly to his knees; and over this he wore a coat, the age and precise cut of which it would have puzzled the most learned in such things to decide upon. It probably had been two coats once, and possibly three may have contributed to its formation. It was clearly put together for use and not for ornament—as was testified by its extreme length, except in the sleeves, and by the patches of various colours, which stood out upon the back and skirts in startling contrast to the now almost colourless material of the originals. On his head the old man wore a sort of conical cap of felt, which looked as though it had done service more than once on the head of some modern representative of Guy Fawkes of infamous memory. And yet there was nothing beggarly about the appearance of the old knife-grinder. Not a rag disfigured his person. All was whole and neat, though quaint and faded. Altogether, he would have formed an admirable subject for an artist’s sketch-book; nor could any stranger pass him without being struck with pleasure, if he caught a glimpse of his happy face—for clearly there was sunshine there; yet not the full, bright sunshine of the cloudless summer, but the sunshine that gleams through the storm and lights up the rainbow.“Knives to grind!—scissors to grind!”The cry went on as the old man toiled along. But just now no one appeared to heed him. The rain kept pattering down, and he seemed inclined to turn out of his path and try another street. Just then a woman’s voice shouted out,—“Ould Crow—Ould Crow! Here, sithee! Just grind me these scissors. Our Ralph’s been scraping the boiler lid with ’em, till they’re nearly as blunt as a broom handle.”“Ay, missus, I’ll give ’em an edge; but you mustn’t let your Ralph have all his own way, or he’ll take the edge off your heart afore so long.”The scissors-grinding proceeded briskly, and soon a troop of dirty children were gathered round the wheel, and began to teaze the old man.“I’ll warm thee!” he cried to one of the foremost, half seriously and half in joke.At last the scissors were finished.“I’ll warm thee, Ould Crow!” shouted out the young urchin, in a mimicking voice, and running up close to him as he was returning to his wheel.The long arm of the knife-grinder darted forward, and his hand grasped the lad, who struggled hard to get away; and at last, by a desperate effort, freed himself, but, in so doing, caused the old man to lose his balance. It was in vain that he strove to recover himself. The stones were slippery with the wet: he staggered a step or two, and then fell heavily forward on his face. Another moment, and he felt a strong arm raising him up.“Are you much hurt, old friend?” asked his helper, who was none other than Jacob Poole.“I don’t know—the Lord help me!—I’m afeerd so,” replied Old Crow, seating himself on the kerb stone with a groan.“Those young rascals!” cried Jacob. “I’d just like to give ’em such a hiding as they’ve ne’er had in all their lives afore.”“Nay, nay, friend,” said the other; “it wasn’t altogether the lad’s fault. But they’re a rough lot, for sure; not much respect for an old man. Most on ’em’s mayster o’ their fathers and mothers afore they can well speak plain. Thank ye kindly for your help; the Lord’ll reward ye.”“You’re welcome, old gentleman,” said Jacob. “Can I do anything more for you?”“Just lend me your arm for a moment; there’s a good lad. I shall have hard work, I fear, to take myself home, let alone the cart.”“Never trouble about that,” said Jacob, cheerily. “I’ll wheel your cart home, if you can walk on slowly and show me the road.”“Bless you, lad; that’ll be gradely help—‘a friend in need’s a friend indeed.’ If you’ll stick to the handles, I’ll make shift to hobble on by your side. I’m better now.”They turned down a by-street; and after a slow walk of about a quarter of a mile—for the old man was still in considerable pain, and was much shaken—they arrived at a low but not untidy-looking cottage, with a little outbuilding by its side.“Here we are,” said the knife-grinder. “Now come in, my lad. You shall have your tea, and we’ll have a chat together arterwards.”Old Crow pulled a key out of his pocket, and opened the house door. The fire was burning all right, and was soon made to burst into a cheerful blaze. Then the old man hobbled round to the shed, and unbolting it from the inside, bade Jacob wheel in the cart. This done, they returned into the kitchen.“Sit ye down, my lad,” said the knife-grinder. “Deborah’ll be back directly; the mills is just loosed.”“Is Deborah your daughter?” asked Jacob.The old man shook his head sorrowfully.“No; I’ve never a one belonging me now.”“That’s much same with myself,” said Jacob. “I’ve none as belongs me; leastways I cannot find ’em.”“Indeed!” exclaimed the other. “Well, we’ll talk more about that just now. Deborah, ye see, is widow Cartwright’s wench; and a good wench she is too, as e’er clapped clog on a foot. She comes in each morn, and sees as fire’s all right, and fills kettle for my breakfast. Then at noon she comes in again to see as all’s right. And after mill’s loosed, she just looks in and sets all straight. And then, afore she goes to bed, she comes in, and stretches all up gradely.”“And are you quite alone now?”“Quite. But I’ve a better Friend as never leaves me nor forsakes me—the Lord Jesus Christ. I hope, my lad, you know summat about him.”“Yes; thank the Lord, I do,” replied Jacob. “I learned to love him when I was far away in Australia.”“In Australia!” cried the old man. “Deborah’ll be glad to hear what you have to say about Australia, for she’s a brother there. And how long have you been come back from yon foreign land?”“Not so very long; but I almost wish as I’d never been.”“And why not?”“’Cos I shouldn’t have knowed one as has caused me heavy sorrow.”Poor Jacob hid his face in his hands, and, spite of himself; the tearswouldooze out and trickle through his fingers.“Come, my lad,” said his new friend, compassionately; “you mustn’t fret so. You say you love the Lord; well, he will not leave you comfortless.”“It’s the drink, the cursed drink, as done it,” said the other, half to himself.“Well, my lad; and if youhavebeen led astray, and are gradely sorry for it, there’s room in the Lord’s heart for you still.”“Nay, it isn’t that. I’m a total abstainer to the back-bone, and have been for years.”“The Lord be praised!” cried Old Crow, rising from his seat, and grasping the hand of his companion with all his might. “I shall love you twice over now. I’m an old teetotaller myself; and have been these many years. Come, you tell me your tale; and when we’ve had our tea, I’ll tell you mine.”Jacob then told his story, from his first encountering Captain Merryweather at Liverpool, till the time when he lost sight of his young master.“And now, old friend,” he concluded, “I’m just like a ship afloat as don’t know which way to steer. I’m fair weary of the sea, an’ I don’t know what to turn myself to on land.”“Perhaps we may set that right,” replied the old man. “But here’s Deborah; so we’ll just get our tea.”The kitchen in which they were seated was a low but comfortable apartment. There was nothing much in the way of furniture there, but everything was clean and tidy; while the neat little window-curtain, the well-stuffed cushion in the old man’s rocking-chair, and the broad warm rug on the hearth, made of countless slips of cloth of various colours dexterously sewn together, showed that loving female hands had been caring for the knife-grinder’s comfort. Deborah was a bright, cheery-looking factory-girl, who evidently loved the old man, and worked for him with a will. The tea was soon set out, Deborah joining them by Old Crow’s invitation. Jacob had much to tell about Australia which deeply interested both his hearers, especially Deborah. When the tea-things were removed, and Old Crow and Jacob were left alone, the former said,—“Come; friend Jacob, draw thy chair to the fire. Thou hast given me thy tale, and a sad one it is; now thou shalt hear mine.”They drew closer up on to the hearth, and the old man proceeded with his story.“I were born and reared in a village many miles from Bolton; it makes no odds where it were, my tale will be all the same. My fayther and mother were godly people, and taught me to love the Lord by precept and example too. I worked in the pit till I were about twenty; when one day, as my butty and me was getting coal a long way off from the shaft, the prop nearest me began to crack, and I knowed as the roof were falling in. I sung out to him, but it were too late. I’d just time to save myself, when down came a big stone a-top of him, poor lad. I shouted for help, and we worked away with our picks like mad; and by the help of crows we managed to heave off the stone. The poor young man were sadly crushed. We carried him home as softly as we could; but he were groaning awful all the way. He were a ghastly sight to look on as he lay on his bed; and I’d little hope for him, for he’d been a heavy drinker. I’d talked to him scores of times about it, but he never heeded. He used to say— ‘Well, you’re called a sober man, and I’m called a drunkard; but what’s the difference? You takes what you like, and I takes what I like. You takes what does you good, and I takes what does me good.’ ‘No,’ says I, ‘you takes what does you harm.’ ‘Ah, but,’ says he, ‘who’s to say just where good ends and harm begins? Tom Roades takes a quart more nor me, and yet he’s called to be a sober man; I suppose ’cos he don’t fuddle so soon.’ Well, but to come back to my poor butty’s misfortune. There he lay almost crushed out of all shape, with lots of broken bones. They sends for the doctor, and he says— ‘You must keep him quiet. Nurse him well; and whatever ye do, don’t let him touch a drop of beer or spirits till I give ye leave.’ Well—would ye believe it?—no sooner were doctor’s back turned than they pours some rum down the poor lad’s throat, sure as it’d do him good. And so they went on; and the end on it was, they finished him off in a few days, for the poor fellow died mad drunk. Arter that I couldna somehow take to the pit again, and I couldn’t have anything more to do with the drink. I said to myself; ‘No one shall take encouragement to drink fromyouany more.’ So I joined a Temperance Society, and signed the pledge. I’d saved a little money, and looked about for summat to do. I hadn’t larning enough to go into an office as a writer; and I wouldn’t have gone if I had, for I should have wasted to skin and bone if I’d sat up all the day on a high stool, scrat, scratting with a pen, and my nose almost growing to the papper. So I bethowt me as I’d larn to be a knife-grinder. It’d just suit me. I could wander about from place to place, and have plenty of fresh air, and my liberty too. So I paid a chap to teach me the trade, and set myself up with my cart and all complete. But after a bit, my fayther and mother died; and I felt there were one thing as I were short on, and that were a wife. My brothers and sisters had all gotten married; so I wanted a home. But I wasn’t going to take up with any sort; I meant to get a real good wife, or I’d have none at all. Well, I found one just the right make for me—a tidy, loving Christian she were. I loved my home, and were seldom off more nor two or three days at a time, when I took my cart a little further nor usual. We never had but one child; and she were a girl, and as likely a wench as were to be found in all the country round. She were a good daughter to me, Jacob, for many a long year; for her mother died when she were but ten year old, and I didn’t wed again. Poor Rachel! she were no ordinary wench, you may be sure. She were quite a little woman afore she were as high as my waistcoat. All the neighbours used to say, ‘He’ll get a good wife as gets your Rachel;’ and I used to say, ‘Well, I don’t want her to leave me, but I’ll ne’er say No if she keeps company with a fellow as loves his Bible and hates the drink.’ Well, there were an old widow in our village as made a great profession of religion. She were always at chapel and meeting, and as full of pious talk as an egg’s full of meat. Our Rachel thought her almost too good for this sinful world; but somehow I couldn’t take to her myself. I feared she were not the right side out. I had many a talk with Ruth Canters—for that were her name. She were always a-sighing o’er the wickedness of the neighbours, and wishing she knew where she could find a young woman as’d suit her son for a wife. I didn’t like her looks always, and I thought as there were a smell of spirits sometimes, as didn’t suit me at all. But she were ever clean and tidy, and I never see’d any drink in the house. There were always the Bible or some other good book at hand, and I couldn’t prove as all were not right. Howsever, her Jim took a fancy to our Rachel, and she to him. So they kept company, and were married: and the widow came to live with us, for Rachel wouldn’t hear of leaving me. Jim were a good young man, honest and true, and a gradely Christian. But now our Rachel began to suspect as summat was wrong. I were often away with my cart for three or four days together; and when I were at home I didn’t take so much notice of things, except it always seemed to me as widow Canter’s religion tasted more of vinegar nor sugar—there were plenty of fault-finding and very little love. Says I to Rachel one day, when we was by ourselves, ‘Thy mother-in-law’s religion has more of the “drive” nor the “draw” in’t.’ The poor thing sighed. I saw there were summat wrong; but I didn’t find it out then.”“Ah,” interrupted Jacob, “it were the drink, of course. That’s at the bottom of almost all the crime and wickedness.”“You’re right, my lad,” continued the other, with a deep sigh. “Ruth Canters drank, but it were very slily—so slily that her own son Jim wouldn’t believe it at first; but he were obliged to at last. Oh, what a cheating thing is the drink! She were never so pious in her talk as when she’d been having a little too much; and nothing would convince her but that she were safe for heaven. But I mustn’t go grinding on, or I shall grind all your patience away. Rachel had a little babe—a bonny little wench. Oh, how she loved it—how we both loved it! Poor Rachel!”The old man paused to wipe away his tears.“Well, it were about six months old, when Rachel had to go off for some hours to see an aunt as were sick. She wouldn’t take the babe with her, ’cos there were a fever in the court where her aunt lived, and she were feart on it for the child. Old Ruth promised to mind the babe gradely; and our Rachel got back as quick as she could, but it were later nor she intended. Jim were not coming home till late, and I were off myself for a day or two. When our Rachel came to the house door, she tried to open it, but couldn’t; it were fast somehow. She knocked, but no one answered. Again she tried the door; it were not locked, but summat heavy lay agen it. She pushed hard, and got it a bit open. She just saw summat as looked like a woman’s dress. Then she shrieked out, and fell down in a faint. The neighbours came running up. They went in by the wash-house door, and found Ruth Canters lying dead agen the house door inside, and the baby smothered under her. Both on ’em were stone dead. She’d taken advantage of our Rachel being off to drink more nor usual, and she’d missed her footing with the baby in her arms, and fallen down the stairs right across the house door. Our Rachel never looked up arter that; she died of a broken heart. And Jim couldn’t bear to tarry in the neighbourhood; nor I neither. Ah, the misery, the misery as springs from the cursed drink! Thank the Lord, Jacob, over and over again a thousand times, as he’s given you grace to be a total abstainer.”There was a long pause, during which the old man wept silent but not bitter tears.“Them as is gone is safe in glory,” he said at last; “our Rachel and her babe, I mean; and I’ve done fretting now. I shall go to them; but they will not return to me. And now, Jacob, my lad, what do ye say to learning my trade, and taking shares with me? I shan’t be good for much again this many a day, and I’ve taken a fancy to you. You’ve done me a good turn, and I know you’re gradely. I’m not a queer chap, though I looks like one. My clothes is only a whim of mine. They’ve been in the family so long, that I cannot part with ’em. They’ll serve outmytime, though we’ve patched and patched the old coat till there’s scarce a yard of the old stuff left in him, and he looks for all the world like amapof England, with the different counties marked on it.”“Well, Mayster Crow,” began Jacob in reply; but the other stopped him by putting up his hand.“Eh, lad, you mustn’t call meMaysterCrow; leastwise, if you do afore other folks, they’ll scream all the wits out of you with laughing. I’m ‘Old Crow’ now, and nothing else. My real name’s Jenkins; but if you or any one else were to ask for Isaac Jenkins, there’s not a soul in these parts as’d know as such a man ever lived. No; they call me ‘Old Crow.’ Maybe ’cos I look summat like a scarecrow. But I cannot rightly tell. It’s my name, howsever, and you must call me nothing else.”“Well, then, Old Crow,” said Jacob, “I cannot tell just what I’m going to do. You see I’ve no friends, and yet I should have some if I could only find ’em.”“Have you neither fayther nor mother living then?” asked the old man.“I cannot say. My mother’s dead. As for the rest—well, it’s just this way, Old Crow, I’m a close sort o’ chap, and always were. I left home a fugitive and a vagabond, and I resolved as I’d ne’er come back till I could come as my own mayster, and that I’d ne’er tell anything about my own home and them as belonged me, till I could settle where I pleased in a home of my own. But I learnt at the diggings as it were not right to run off as I did, for the Lord sent us a faithful preacher, and he showed me my duty; and I came back with my mind made up to tell them as owned me how God had dealt with me and changed my heart. But I couldn’t find nor hear anything about ’em at the old place. They’d flitted, and nobody could tell me where. So I’d rayther say no more about ’em till I’ve tried a bit longer to find ’em out. And if I cannot light on ’em arter all, why then, I’ll start again, as if the past had never been, for it were but a dark and dismal past to me.”Old Crow did not press Jacob with further questions, as he was evidently not disposed to be communicative on the subject of his early history, but he said,—“Well, and suppose you take to the grinding; you can drive the cart afore ye, from town to town, and from village to village, as I’ve done myself scores and scores of times, and maybe you’ll light on them as you’re seeking. It’s strange how many an old face, as I’d never thought to see no more, has turned up as I’ve jogged along from one place to another.”“Ah,” exclaimed Jacob, “I think as that’d just suit me! I never thought of that. I’ll take your offer then, Old Crow, and many thanks to ye, and I hope you’ll not find me a bad partner.”So it was arranged as the old man suggested, and Jacob forthwith began to learn his new trade.It was some weeks before he had become at all proficient in the knife-grinding and umbrella-mending arts; and many a sly laugh and joke on the part of Deborah made him at times half-inclined to give up the work; but there was a determination and dogged resolution about his character which did not let him lightly abandon anything he had once undertaken. So he persevered, much to Old Crow’s satisfaction, for he soon began to love Jacob as a son, and the other was drawn to the old man as to a father. After a while Jacob’s education in his new art was pronounced complete, not only by the old knife-grinder himself but even by Deborah, critical Deborah, who declared that his progress was astonishing.“Why,” she said, addressing Old Crow, “when he first took to it, nothing would serve him but he must have mother’s old scissors to point; and he grund and grund till the two points turned their backs t’one on t’other, and looked different ways, as if they was weary of keeping company any longer. And when he sharped yon old carving-knife of grandfather’s, you couldn’t tell arter he’d done which side were the back and which side were the edge. But he’s a rare good hand at it now.”And, to tell the truth, Deborah greatly prized a new pair of scissors, a present from Jacob, with the keenest of edges, the result of his first thoroughly successful grinding; indeed, it was pretty clear that the young knife-grinder was by no means an object of indifference to her. The public proclaiming of his vocation in the open streets was the most trying thing to Jacob. The very prospect of it almost made him give up. Deborah was very merry at his expense, and told him, that “if he were ashamed, she wouldn’t mind walking in front of the cart, the first day, and doing all the shouting for him.” This difficulty, however, was got over by the old man himself going with Jacob on his first few journeys, and introducing him to his customers; after which he was able to take to his new calling without much trouble. But it was quite plain that Old Crow himself was too much injured by his fall to be able to resume the knife-grinding for many months to come, even if indeed, he were ever able to take to it again. But this did not distress him, for he had learned to trace God’s hand, as the hand of a loving Father, in everything. Though old and grey-headed, he was hearty and cheerful, for his old age was like a healthy winter, “kindly, though frosty;” for “he never did apply hot and rebellious liquors to his blood.” Spite of his accident, these were happy days for him, for he had found in Jacob Poole one thoroughly like-minded. Oh, the blessings of a home, however humble, where Christ is loved, and the drink finds no entrance; for in such a home there are seen no forced spirits, no unnatural excitements! It was a touching sight when the quaint old man, having finished his tea, would bring his rocking-chair nearer to the fire, and bidding Jacob draw up closer on the other side, would tell of God’s goodness to him in times past, and of his hopes of a better and brighter home on the other side of the dark river. Deborah would often make a third, and her mother would join them too at times, and then Jacob would tell of the wonders of the deep, and of the distant colony where he had sojourned. Then the old man would lay aside the tall cap which he wore even in the house, displaying his scattered white hairs, and would open his big Bible with a smile,—“I always smile when I open the Bible,” he said one day to Jacob, “’cos it’s like a loving letter from a far-off land. I’m not afraid of looking into’t; for, though I light on some awful verses every now and then, I know as they’re not for me. I’m not boasting. It’s all of grace; but still it’s true ‘there is therefore now no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus,’ and I know that through his mercy I am gradely in him.”Then they would sing a hymn, for all had the Lancashire gift of good ear and voice, after which the old man would sink on his knees and pour out his heart in prayer. Yes, that cottage was indeed a happy home, often the very threshold of heaven; and many a time the half-drunken collier, as he sauntered by, would change the sneer that curled his lip at those strains of heartfelt praise, into the tear that melted out of a smitten and sorrowful heart, a heart that knew something of its own bitterness, for it smote him as he thought of a God despised, a soul perishing, a Bible neglected, a Saviour trampled on, and an earthly home out of which the drink had flooded every real comfort, and from which he could have no well-grounded hope of a passage to a better.

“Knives to grind!—scissors to grind!—tools to grind!—umbrels to mend!”

These words were being uttered in a prolonged nasal tone by an old grey-haired man of a rather comical cast of countenance in one of the streets in the outskirts of the town of Bolton. It was about a week after the sad death of Frank Oldfield that we come upon him. Certainly this approach to the town could not be said to be prepossessing. The houses, straggling up the side of a hill, were low and sombre, being built of a greyish stone, which gave them a dull and haggard appearance. Stone was everywhere, giving a cold, comfortless look to the dwellings. Stone-paved roads, stone curbs, stone pathways—except here and there, where coal-dust and clay formed a hard and solid footway, occasionally hollowed out by exceptional wear into puddles which looked like gigantic inkstands. High stone slabs also, standing upright, and clamped together by huge iron bolts, served instead of palings and hedges, and inflicted a melancholy, prison-like look on the whole neighbourhood.

It was up this street that the old knife-grinder was slowly propelling his apparatus, which was fitted to two large light wheels. A very neat and comprehensive apparatus it was. There was the well-poised grindstone, with its fly-wheel attached; a very bright oil-can, and pipe for dropping water on to the stone; various little nooks and compartments for holding tools, rivets, wire, etcetera. Everything was in beautiful order; while a brass plate, on which was engraved the owner’s name, blazed like gold when there was any sunshine to fall upon it. At present the day was drizzling and chilly, while the huge volumes of smoke from a whole forest of factory chimneys tended to impart a deeper shade of dismalness to the dispiriting landscape. The old man himself was plainly a character. No part of his dress seemed as if it could ever have been new, and yet all was in such keeping and harmony that every article in it appeared to have faded to a like degree of decay by a common understanding. Not that the component parts of this dress were such as could well have been contemporaries on their being first launched into the world, for the whole of the old man’s personal outward clothing might almost have been mapped off into divisions—each compartment representing a different era, as the zones on a terrestrial globe enclose differing races of plants and animals. Thus, his feet were shod with stout leather shoes, moderately clogged, and fastened, not by the customary clasps, but by an enormous pair of shoe-buckles of a century old at least. His lower limbs were enclosed in leathern garments, which fastened below the knee, leaving visible his grey worsted stockings. An immense waistcoat, the pattern of which was constantly being interrupted by the discordant figuring of a large variety of patches—inserted upside down, or sideways, or crossways, as best suited—hung nearly to his knees; and over this he wore a coat, the age and precise cut of which it would have puzzled the most learned in such things to decide upon. It probably had been two coats once, and possibly three may have contributed to its formation. It was clearly put together for use and not for ornament—as was testified by its extreme length, except in the sleeves, and by the patches of various colours, which stood out upon the back and skirts in startling contrast to the now almost colourless material of the originals. On his head the old man wore a sort of conical cap of felt, which looked as though it had done service more than once on the head of some modern representative of Guy Fawkes of infamous memory. And yet there was nothing beggarly about the appearance of the old knife-grinder. Not a rag disfigured his person. All was whole and neat, though quaint and faded. Altogether, he would have formed an admirable subject for an artist’s sketch-book; nor could any stranger pass him without being struck with pleasure, if he caught a glimpse of his happy face—for clearly there was sunshine there; yet not the full, bright sunshine of the cloudless summer, but the sunshine that gleams through the storm and lights up the rainbow.

“Knives to grind!—scissors to grind!”

The cry went on as the old man toiled along. But just now no one appeared to heed him. The rain kept pattering down, and he seemed inclined to turn out of his path and try another street. Just then a woman’s voice shouted out,—

“Ould Crow—Ould Crow! Here, sithee! Just grind me these scissors. Our Ralph’s been scraping the boiler lid with ’em, till they’re nearly as blunt as a broom handle.”

“Ay, missus, I’ll give ’em an edge; but you mustn’t let your Ralph have all his own way, or he’ll take the edge off your heart afore so long.”

The scissors-grinding proceeded briskly, and soon a troop of dirty children were gathered round the wheel, and began to teaze the old man.

“I’ll warm thee!” he cried to one of the foremost, half seriously and half in joke.

At last the scissors were finished.

“I’ll warm thee, Ould Crow!” shouted out the young urchin, in a mimicking voice, and running up close to him as he was returning to his wheel.

The long arm of the knife-grinder darted forward, and his hand grasped the lad, who struggled hard to get away; and at last, by a desperate effort, freed himself, but, in so doing, caused the old man to lose his balance. It was in vain that he strove to recover himself. The stones were slippery with the wet: he staggered a step or two, and then fell heavily forward on his face. Another moment, and he felt a strong arm raising him up.

“Are you much hurt, old friend?” asked his helper, who was none other than Jacob Poole.

“I don’t know—the Lord help me!—I’m afeerd so,” replied Old Crow, seating himself on the kerb stone with a groan.

“Those young rascals!” cried Jacob. “I’d just like to give ’em such a hiding as they’ve ne’er had in all their lives afore.”

“Nay, nay, friend,” said the other; “it wasn’t altogether the lad’s fault. But they’re a rough lot, for sure; not much respect for an old man. Most on ’em’s mayster o’ their fathers and mothers afore they can well speak plain. Thank ye kindly for your help; the Lord’ll reward ye.”

“You’re welcome, old gentleman,” said Jacob. “Can I do anything more for you?”

“Just lend me your arm for a moment; there’s a good lad. I shall have hard work, I fear, to take myself home, let alone the cart.”

“Never trouble about that,” said Jacob, cheerily. “I’ll wheel your cart home, if you can walk on slowly and show me the road.”

“Bless you, lad; that’ll be gradely help—‘a friend in need’s a friend indeed.’ If you’ll stick to the handles, I’ll make shift to hobble on by your side. I’m better now.”

They turned down a by-street; and after a slow walk of about a quarter of a mile—for the old man was still in considerable pain, and was much shaken—they arrived at a low but not untidy-looking cottage, with a little outbuilding by its side.

“Here we are,” said the knife-grinder. “Now come in, my lad. You shall have your tea, and we’ll have a chat together arterwards.”

Old Crow pulled a key out of his pocket, and opened the house door. The fire was burning all right, and was soon made to burst into a cheerful blaze. Then the old man hobbled round to the shed, and unbolting it from the inside, bade Jacob wheel in the cart. This done, they returned into the kitchen.

“Sit ye down, my lad,” said the knife-grinder. “Deborah’ll be back directly; the mills is just loosed.”

“Is Deborah your daughter?” asked Jacob.

The old man shook his head sorrowfully.

“No; I’ve never a one belonging me now.”

“That’s much same with myself,” said Jacob. “I’ve none as belongs me; leastways I cannot find ’em.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the other. “Well, we’ll talk more about that just now. Deborah, ye see, is widow Cartwright’s wench; and a good wench she is too, as e’er clapped clog on a foot. She comes in each morn, and sees as fire’s all right, and fills kettle for my breakfast. Then at noon she comes in again to see as all’s right. And after mill’s loosed, she just looks in and sets all straight. And then, afore she goes to bed, she comes in, and stretches all up gradely.”

“And are you quite alone now?”

“Quite. But I’ve a better Friend as never leaves me nor forsakes me—the Lord Jesus Christ. I hope, my lad, you know summat about him.”

“Yes; thank the Lord, I do,” replied Jacob. “I learned to love him when I was far away in Australia.”

“In Australia!” cried the old man. “Deborah’ll be glad to hear what you have to say about Australia, for she’s a brother there. And how long have you been come back from yon foreign land?”

“Not so very long; but I almost wish as I’d never been.”

“And why not?”

“’Cos I shouldn’t have knowed one as has caused me heavy sorrow.”

Poor Jacob hid his face in his hands, and, spite of himself; the tearswouldooze out and trickle through his fingers.

“Come, my lad,” said his new friend, compassionately; “you mustn’t fret so. You say you love the Lord; well, he will not leave you comfortless.”

“It’s the drink, the cursed drink, as done it,” said the other, half to himself.

“Well, my lad; and if youhavebeen led astray, and are gradely sorry for it, there’s room in the Lord’s heart for you still.”

“Nay, it isn’t that. I’m a total abstainer to the back-bone, and have been for years.”

“The Lord be praised!” cried Old Crow, rising from his seat, and grasping the hand of his companion with all his might. “I shall love you twice over now. I’m an old teetotaller myself; and have been these many years. Come, you tell me your tale; and when we’ve had our tea, I’ll tell you mine.”

Jacob then told his story, from his first encountering Captain Merryweather at Liverpool, till the time when he lost sight of his young master.

“And now, old friend,” he concluded, “I’m just like a ship afloat as don’t know which way to steer. I’m fair weary of the sea, an’ I don’t know what to turn myself to on land.”

“Perhaps we may set that right,” replied the old man. “But here’s Deborah; so we’ll just get our tea.”

The kitchen in which they were seated was a low but comfortable apartment. There was nothing much in the way of furniture there, but everything was clean and tidy; while the neat little window-curtain, the well-stuffed cushion in the old man’s rocking-chair, and the broad warm rug on the hearth, made of countless slips of cloth of various colours dexterously sewn together, showed that loving female hands had been caring for the knife-grinder’s comfort. Deborah was a bright, cheery-looking factory-girl, who evidently loved the old man, and worked for him with a will. The tea was soon set out, Deborah joining them by Old Crow’s invitation. Jacob had much to tell about Australia which deeply interested both his hearers, especially Deborah. When the tea-things were removed, and Old Crow and Jacob were left alone, the former said,—

“Come; friend Jacob, draw thy chair to the fire. Thou hast given me thy tale, and a sad one it is; now thou shalt hear mine.”

They drew closer up on to the hearth, and the old man proceeded with his story.

“I were born and reared in a village many miles from Bolton; it makes no odds where it were, my tale will be all the same. My fayther and mother were godly people, and taught me to love the Lord by precept and example too. I worked in the pit till I were about twenty; when one day, as my butty and me was getting coal a long way off from the shaft, the prop nearest me began to crack, and I knowed as the roof were falling in. I sung out to him, but it were too late. I’d just time to save myself, when down came a big stone a-top of him, poor lad. I shouted for help, and we worked away with our picks like mad; and by the help of crows we managed to heave off the stone. The poor young man were sadly crushed. We carried him home as softly as we could; but he were groaning awful all the way. He were a ghastly sight to look on as he lay on his bed; and I’d little hope for him, for he’d been a heavy drinker. I’d talked to him scores of times about it, but he never heeded. He used to say— ‘Well, you’re called a sober man, and I’m called a drunkard; but what’s the difference? You takes what you like, and I takes what I like. You takes what does you good, and I takes what does me good.’ ‘No,’ says I, ‘you takes what does you harm.’ ‘Ah, but,’ says he, ‘who’s to say just where good ends and harm begins? Tom Roades takes a quart more nor me, and yet he’s called to be a sober man; I suppose ’cos he don’t fuddle so soon.’ Well, but to come back to my poor butty’s misfortune. There he lay almost crushed out of all shape, with lots of broken bones. They sends for the doctor, and he says— ‘You must keep him quiet. Nurse him well; and whatever ye do, don’t let him touch a drop of beer or spirits till I give ye leave.’ Well—would ye believe it?—no sooner were doctor’s back turned than they pours some rum down the poor lad’s throat, sure as it’d do him good. And so they went on; and the end on it was, they finished him off in a few days, for the poor fellow died mad drunk. Arter that I couldna somehow take to the pit again, and I couldn’t have anything more to do with the drink. I said to myself; ‘No one shall take encouragement to drink fromyouany more.’ So I joined a Temperance Society, and signed the pledge. I’d saved a little money, and looked about for summat to do. I hadn’t larning enough to go into an office as a writer; and I wouldn’t have gone if I had, for I should have wasted to skin and bone if I’d sat up all the day on a high stool, scrat, scratting with a pen, and my nose almost growing to the papper. So I bethowt me as I’d larn to be a knife-grinder. It’d just suit me. I could wander about from place to place, and have plenty of fresh air, and my liberty too. So I paid a chap to teach me the trade, and set myself up with my cart and all complete. But after a bit, my fayther and mother died; and I felt there were one thing as I were short on, and that were a wife. My brothers and sisters had all gotten married; so I wanted a home. But I wasn’t going to take up with any sort; I meant to get a real good wife, or I’d have none at all. Well, I found one just the right make for me—a tidy, loving Christian she were. I loved my home, and were seldom off more nor two or three days at a time, when I took my cart a little further nor usual. We never had but one child; and she were a girl, and as likely a wench as were to be found in all the country round. She were a good daughter to me, Jacob, for many a long year; for her mother died when she were but ten year old, and I didn’t wed again. Poor Rachel! she were no ordinary wench, you may be sure. She were quite a little woman afore she were as high as my waistcoat. All the neighbours used to say, ‘He’ll get a good wife as gets your Rachel;’ and I used to say, ‘Well, I don’t want her to leave me, but I’ll ne’er say No if she keeps company with a fellow as loves his Bible and hates the drink.’ Well, there were an old widow in our village as made a great profession of religion. She were always at chapel and meeting, and as full of pious talk as an egg’s full of meat. Our Rachel thought her almost too good for this sinful world; but somehow I couldn’t take to her myself. I feared she were not the right side out. I had many a talk with Ruth Canters—for that were her name. She were always a-sighing o’er the wickedness of the neighbours, and wishing she knew where she could find a young woman as’d suit her son for a wife. I didn’t like her looks always, and I thought as there were a smell of spirits sometimes, as didn’t suit me at all. But she were ever clean and tidy, and I never see’d any drink in the house. There were always the Bible or some other good book at hand, and I couldn’t prove as all were not right. Howsever, her Jim took a fancy to our Rachel, and she to him. So they kept company, and were married: and the widow came to live with us, for Rachel wouldn’t hear of leaving me. Jim were a good young man, honest and true, and a gradely Christian. But now our Rachel began to suspect as summat was wrong. I were often away with my cart for three or four days together; and when I were at home I didn’t take so much notice of things, except it always seemed to me as widow Canter’s religion tasted more of vinegar nor sugar—there were plenty of fault-finding and very little love. Says I to Rachel one day, when we was by ourselves, ‘Thy mother-in-law’s religion has more of the “drive” nor the “draw” in’t.’ The poor thing sighed. I saw there were summat wrong; but I didn’t find it out then.”

“Ah,” interrupted Jacob, “it were the drink, of course. That’s at the bottom of almost all the crime and wickedness.”

“You’re right, my lad,” continued the other, with a deep sigh. “Ruth Canters drank, but it were very slily—so slily that her own son Jim wouldn’t believe it at first; but he were obliged to at last. Oh, what a cheating thing is the drink! She were never so pious in her talk as when she’d been having a little too much; and nothing would convince her but that she were safe for heaven. But I mustn’t go grinding on, or I shall grind all your patience away. Rachel had a little babe—a bonny little wench. Oh, how she loved it—how we both loved it! Poor Rachel!”

The old man paused to wipe away his tears.

“Well, it were about six months old, when Rachel had to go off for some hours to see an aunt as were sick. She wouldn’t take the babe with her, ’cos there were a fever in the court where her aunt lived, and she were feart on it for the child. Old Ruth promised to mind the babe gradely; and our Rachel got back as quick as she could, but it were later nor she intended. Jim were not coming home till late, and I were off myself for a day or two. When our Rachel came to the house door, she tried to open it, but couldn’t; it were fast somehow. She knocked, but no one answered. Again she tried the door; it were not locked, but summat heavy lay agen it. She pushed hard, and got it a bit open. She just saw summat as looked like a woman’s dress. Then she shrieked out, and fell down in a faint. The neighbours came running up. They went in by the wash-house door, and found Ruth Canters lying dead agen the house door inside, and the baby smothered under her. Both on ’em were stone dead. She’d taken advantage of our Rachel being off to drink more nor usual, and she’d missed her footing with the baby in her arms, and fallen down the stairs right across the house door. Our Rachel never looked up arter that; she died of a broken heart. And Jim couldn’t bear to tarry in the neighbourhood; nor I neither. Ah, the misery, the misery as springs from the cursed drink! Thank the Lord, Jacob, over and over again a thousand times, as he’s given you grace to be a total abstainer.”

There was a long pause, during which the old man wept silent but not bitter tears.

“Them as is gone is safe in glory,” he said at last; “our Rachel and her babe, I mean; and I’ve done fretting now. I shall go to them; but they will not return to me. And now, Jacob, my lad, what do ye say to learning my trade, and taking shares with me? I shan’t be good for much again this many a day, and I’ve taken a fancy to you. You’ve done me a good turn, and I know you’re gradely. I’m not a queer chap, though I looks like one. My clothes is only a whim of mine. They’ve been in the family so long, that I cannot part with ’em. They’ll serve outmytime, though we’ve patched and patched the old coat till there’s scarce a yard of the old stuff left in him, and he looks for all the world like amapof England, with the different counties marked on it.”

“Well, Mayster Crow,” began Jacob in reply; but the other stopped him by putting up his hand.

“Eh, lad, you mustn’t call meMaysterCrow; leastwise, if you do afore other folks, they’ll scream all the wits out of you with laughing. I’m ‘Old Crow’ now, and nothing else. My real name’s Jenkins; but if you or any one else were to ask for Isaac Jenkins, there’s not a soul in these parts as’d know as such a man ever lived. No; they call me ‘Old Crow.’ Maybe ’cos I look summat like a scarecrow. But I cannot rightly tell. It’s my name, howsever, and you must call me nothing else.”

“Well, then, Old Crow,” said Jacob, “I cannot tell just what I’m going to do. You see I’ve no friends, and yet I should have some if I could only find ’em.”

“Have you neither fayther nor mother living then?” asked the old man.

“I cannot say. My mother’s dead. As for the rest—well, it’s just this way, Old Crow, I’m a close sort o’ chap, and always were. I left home a fugitive and a vagabond, and I resolved as I’d ne’er come back till I could come as my own mayster, and that I’d ne’er tell anything about my own home and them as belonged me, till I could settle where I pleased in a home of my own. But I learnt at the diggings as it were not right to run off as I did, for the Lord sent us a faithful preacher, and he showed me my duty; and I came back with my mind made up to tell them as owned me how God had dealt with me and changed my heart. But I couldn’t find nor hear anything about ’em at the old place. They’d flitted, and nobody could tell me where. So I’d rayther say no more about ’em till I’ve tried a bit longer to find ’em out. And if I cannot light on ’em arter all, why then, I’ll start again, as if the past had never been, for it were but a dark and dismal past to me.”

Old Crow did not press Jacob with further questions, as he was evidently not disposed to be communicative on the subject of his early history, but he said,—

“Well, and suppose you take to the grinding; you can drive the cart afore ye, from town to town, and from village to village, as I’ve done myself scores and scores of times, and maybe you’ll light on them as you’re seeking. It’s strange how many an old face, as I’d never thought to see no more, has turned up as I’ve jogged along from one place to another.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Jacob, “I think as that’d just suit me! I never thought of that. I’ll take your offer then, Old Crow, and many thanks to ye, and I hope you’ll not find me a bad partner.”

So it was arranged as the old man suggested, and Jacob forthwith began to learn his new trade.

It was some weeks before he had become at all proficient in the knife-grinding and umbrella-mending arts; and many a sly laugh and joke on the part of Deborah made him at times half-inclined to give up the work; but there was a determination and dogged resolution about his character which did not let him lightly abandon anything he had once undertaken. So he persevered, much to Old Crow’s satisfaction, for he soon began to love Jacob as a son, and the other was drawn to the old man as to a father. After a while Jacob’s education in his new art was pronounced complete, not only by the old knife-grinder himself but even by Deborah, critical Deborah, who declared that his progress was astonishing.

“Why,” she said, addressing Old Crow, “when he first took to it, nothing would serve him but he must have mother’s old scissors to point; and he grund and grund till the two points turned their backs t’one on t’other, and looked different ways, as if they was weary of keeping company any longer. And when he sharped yon old carving-knife of grandfather’s, you couldn’t tell arter he’d done which side were the back and which side were the edge. But he’s a rare good hand at it now.”

And, to tell the truth, Deborah greatly prized a new pair of scissors, a present from Jacob, with the keenest of edges, the result of his first thoroughly successful grinding; indeed, it was pretty clear that the young knife-grinder was by no means an object of indifference to her. The public proclaiming of his vocation in the open streets was the most trying thing to Jacob. The very prospect of it almost made him give up. Deborah was very merry at his expense, and told him, that “if he were ashamed, she wouldn’t mind walking in front of the cart, the first day, and doing all the shouting for him.” This difficulty, however, was got over by the old man himself going with Jacob on his first few journeys, and introducing him to his customers; after which he was able to take to his new calling without much trouble. But it was quite plain that Old Crow himself was too much injured by his fall to be able to resume the knife-grinding for many months to come, even if indeed, he were ever able to take to it again. But this did not distress him, for he had learned to trace God’s hand, as the hand of a loving Father, in everything. Though old and grey-headed, he was hearty and cheerful, for his old age was like a healthy winter, “kindly, though frosty;” for “he never did apply hot and rebellious liquors to his blood.” Spite of his accident, these were happy days for him, for he had found in Jacob Poole one thoroughly like-minded. Oh, the blessings of a home, however humble, where Christ is loved, and the drink finds no entrance; for in such a home there are seen no forced spirits, no unnatural excitements! It was a touching sight when the quaint old man, having finished his tea, would bring his rocking-chair nearer to the fire, and bidding Jacob draw up closer on the other side, would tell of God’s goodness to him in times past, and of his hopes of a better and brighter home on the other side of the dark river. Deborah would often make a third, and her mother would join them too at times, and then Jacob would tell of the wonders of the deep, and of the distant colony where he had sojourned. Then the old man would lay aside the tall cap which he wore even in the house, displaying his scattered white hairs, and would open his big Bible with a smile,—

“I always smile when I open the Bible,” he said one day to Jacob, “’cos it’s like a loving letter from a far-off land. I’m not afraid of looking into’t; for, though I light on some awful verses every now and then, I know as they’re not for me. I’m not boasting. It’s all of grace; but still it’s true ‘there is therefore now no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus,’ and I know that through his mercy I am gradely in him.”

Then they would sing a hymn, for all had the Lancashire gift of good ear and voice, after which the old man would sink on his knees and pour out his heart in prayer. Yes, that cottage was indeed a happy home, often the very threshold of heaven; and many a time the half-drunken collier, as he sauntered by, would change the sneer that curled his lip at those strains of heartfelt praise, into the tear that melted out of a smitten and sorrowful heart, a heart that knew something of its own bitterness, for it smote him as he thought of a God despised, a soul perishing, a Bible neglected, a Saviour trampled on, and an earthly home out of which the drink had flooded every real comfort, and from which he could have no well-grounded hope of a passage to a better.

Chapter Twenty Four.Found.Four years had passed away since Jacob Poole raised the old knife-grinder from his fall in the street in Bolton. All that time he had made his abode with the old man, traversing the streets of many a town and village far and near, and ever returning with gladness to his new home. His aged friend had never so far recovered from his accident as to be able to resume his work. He would occasionally go out with Jacob, and help him in some odd jobs, but never again took to wheeling out the machine himself. He was brighter, however, than in even more prosperous days, and had come to look upon Jacob as his adopted son. It was understood, also, that Deborah would ere long become the wife of the young knife-grinder. There was one employment in which the old man delighted, and that was the advocating and forwarding, in every way in his power, the cause of Christian total abstinence. For this purpose he would carry suitable tracts with him wherever he went, and would often pause in fine weather, when he accompanied Jacob Poole on his less distant expeditions; and, sitting on a step or bank, as the case might be, while the wheel was going round, would gather about him old and young, and give them a true temperance harangue. Sometimes he met with scoffs and hard words, but he cared little for them; he had his answer ready, or, like his Master, when reviled he opened not his mouth. Some one called him “a canting old hypocrite.”“Nay, friend,” he replied, “you’re mistaken there. I’m not a hypocrite. A hypocrite’s a man with two faces. Now, you can’t say you have ever seen me with two faces. I’ve seen many a drunkard with two faces—t’one as makes the wife and childer glad, and t’other as makes their hearts ache and jump into their mouths with fear. But you’ve ne’er seen that in a gradely abstainer.”“You’re a self-righteous old sinner,” said another.“I’m a sinner, I know,” was Old Crow’s reply; “but I’m not self-righteous, I hope. I don’t despise a poor drunkard; but I cannot respect him. I want to pull him out of the mire, and place him where he can respect hisself.”But generally he had ready and attentive listeners, and was the means of winning many to the good way; for all who really knew him respected him for his consistency. And Jacob was happy with him, and yet to him there was one thing still wanting. He had never in all his wanderings been able to discover the least trace of those whom he was seeking, and the desire to learn something certain about them increased day by day. At last, one fine July evening, he said to his old companion,—“Ould Crow, I can’t be content as I am. I must try my luck further off. If you’ve nothing to say against it, I’ll just take the cart with me for a month or six weeks, and see if the Lord’ll give me success. I’ll go right away into Shropshire, and try round there; and through Staffordshire and Derbyshire.”“Well, my son,” was the reply, “you’ll just do what you know to be right. I won’t say a word against it.”“And if,” added Jacob, “I can’t find them as I’m seeking, nor hear anything gradely about ’em, I’ll just come back and settle me down content.”“The Lord go with you,” said the old man; “you’ll not forget me nor poor Deborah.”“I cannot,” replied Jacob; “my heart’ll be with you all the time.”“And how shall we know how you’re coming on?”“Oh, I’ll send you a letter if I ain’t back by the six week end.”So the next morning Jacob started on his distant journey. Many were the roads he traversed, and many the towns and villages he visited, as he slowly made his way through Cheshire into Shropshire; and many were the disappointments he met with, when he thought he had obtained some clue to guide him in his search.Three weeks had gone by, when one lovely evening in the early part of August he was pushing the cart before him, wearied with his day’s work and journey, along the high-road leading to a small village in Shropshire. The turnpike-road itself ran through the middle of the village. On a dingy board on the side of the first house as he entered, he read the word “Fairmow.”“Knives to grind!—scissors to grind!—umbrels to mend!” he cried wearily and mechanically; but no one seemed to need his services. Soon he passed by the public-house—there was clearly no lack of custom there, and yet the sounds that proceeded from it were certainly not those of drunken mirth. He looked up at the sign. No ferocious lion red or black, urged into a rearing posture by unnatural stimulants, was there; nor griffin or dragon, white or green, symbolising the savage tempers kindled by intoxicating drinks; but merely the simple words, “Temperance Inn.” Not a letter was there any where about the place to intimate the sale of wine, beer, or spirits.Waggons were there, for it was harvest-time, and men young and old were gathered about the door, some quenching their thirst by moderate draughts of beverages which slaked without rekindling it; others taking in solid food with a hearty relish. A pleasant sight it was to Jacob; but he would not pause now, as he wished to push on to the next town before night. So he urged his cart before him along the level road, till he came to a turn on the left hand off the main street. Here a lovely little peep burst upon him. Just a few hundred yards down the turn was a cottage, with a neat green paling before it. The roof was newly thatched, and up the sides grew the rose and jessamine, which mingled their flowers in profusion as they clustered over a snug little latticed porch. The cottage itself was in the old-fashioned black-timbered style, with one larger and one smaller pointed gable. There was a lovely little garden in front, the very picture of neatness, and filled with those homely flowers whose forms, colours, and odours are so sweet because so familiar. Beyond the cottage there were no other houses; but the road sloped down to a brook, crossed by a little rustic bridge on the side of the hedge furthest from the cottage. Beyond the brook the road rose again, and wound among thick hedges and tall stately trees; while to the left was an extensive park, gradually rising till, at the distance of little more than a mile, a noble mansion of white stone shone out brightly from its setting of dark green woods, over which was just visible the waving outline of a dim, shadowy hill. Jacob looked up the road, and gazed on the lovely picture with deep admiration. He could see the deer in the park, and the glorious sunlight just flashing out in a blaze of gold from the windows of the mansion. He sighed as he gazed, though not in discontent; but he was foot-sore and heart-weary, and he longed for rest. He thought he would just take his cart as far as the cottage, more from a desire of having a closer view of it than from much expectation of finding a customer. As he went along he uttered the old cry,—“Knives to grind—scissors to grind.”The words attracted the notice of a young man, who came out of the cottage carrying a little child in his arms.“I’ll thank you to grind a point to this knife,” he said, “and to put a fresh rivet in, if you can; for our Samuel’s took it out of his mother’s drawer when she was out, and he’s done it no good, as you may see.”Jacob put out his hand for the knife, but started back when he saw it as if it had been a serpent. Then he seized it eagerly, and looked with staring eyes at the handle. There were scratched rudely on it the letters SJ.“Where, where did you get this?” he cried, turning first deadly pale, and then very red again. The young man looked at him in amazement. “Who, who are you?” stammered Jacob again.“Who am I?” said the other; “why, my name’s John Walters. I am afraid you’re not quite sober, my friend.”But just then a young woman came out from the cottage, leading by the hand a boy about five years old. She looked round first at her husband and then at the knife-grinder with a perplexed and startled gaze. The next moment, with a cry of “Betty!” “Sammul!” brother and sister were locked in each other’s arms,—it was even so—the lost were found at last.

Four years had passed away since Jacob Poole raised the old knife-grinder from his fall in the street in Bolton. All that time he had made his abode with the old man, traversing the streets of many a town and village far and near, and ever returning with gladness to his new home. His aged friend had never so far recovered from his accident as to be able to resume his work. He would occasionally go out with Jacob, and help him in some odd jobs, but never again took to wheeling out the machine himself. He was brighter, however, than in even more prosperous days, and had come to look upon Jacob as his adopted son. It was understood, also, that Deborah would ere long become the wife of the young knife-grinder. There was one employment in which the old man delighted, and that was the advocating and forwarding, in every way in his power, the cause of Christian total abstinence. For this purpose he would carry suitable tracts with him wherever he went, and would often pause in fine weather, when he accompanied Jacob Poole on his less distant expeditions; and, sitting on a step or bank, as the case might be, while the wheel was going round, would gather about him old and young, and give them a true temperance harangue. Sometimes he met with scoffs and hard words, but he cared little for them; he had his answer ready, or, like his Master, when reviled he opened not his mouth. Some one called him “a canting old hypocrite.”

“Nay, friend,” he replied, “you’re mistaken there. I’m not a hypocrite. A hypocrite’s a man with two faces. Now, you can’t say you have ever seen me with two faces. I’ve seen many a drunkard with two faces—t’one as makes the wife and childer glad, and t’other as makes their hearts ache and jump into their mouths with fear. But you’ve ne’er seen that in a gradely abstainer.”

“You’re a self-righteous old sinner,” said another.

“I’m a sinner, I know,” was Old Crow’s reply; “but I’m not self-righteous, I hope. I don’t despise a poor drunkard; but I cannot respect him. I want to pull him out of the mire, and place him where he can respect hisself.”

But generally he had ready and attentive listeners, and was the means of winning many to the good way; for all who really knew him respected him for his consistency. And Jacob was happy with him, and yet to him there was one thing still wanting. He had never in all his wanderings been able to discover the least trace of those whom he was seeking, and the desire to learn something certain about them increased day by day. At last, one fine July evening, he said to his old companion,—

“Ould Crow, I can’t be content as I am. I must try my luck further off. If you’ve nothing to say against it, I’ll just take the cart with me for a month or six weeks, and see if the Lord’ll give me success. I’ll go right away into Shropshire, and try round there; and through Staffordshire and Derbyshire.”

“Well, my son,” was the reply, “you’ll just do what you know to be right. I won’t say a word against it.”

“And if,” added Jacob, “I can’t find them as I’m seeking, nor hear anything gradely about ’em, I’ll just come back and settle me down content.”

“The Lord go with you,” said the old man; “you’ll not forget me nor poor Deborah.”

“I cannot,” replied Jacob; “my heart’ll be with you all the time.”

“And how shall we know how you’re coming on?”

“Oh, I’ll send you a letter if I ain’t back by the six week end.”

So the next morning Jacob started on his distant journey. Many were the roads he traversed, and many the towns and villages he visited, as he slowly made his way through Cheshire into Shropshire; and many were the disappointments he met with, when he thought he had obtained some clue to guide him in his search.

Three weeks had gone by, when one lovely evening in the early part of August he was pushing the cart before him, wearied with his day’s work and journey, along the high-road leading to a small village in Shropshire. The turnpike-road itself ran through the middle of the village. On a dingy board on the side of the first house as he entered, he read the word “Fairmow.”

“Knives to grind!—scissors to grind!—umbrels to mend!” he cried wearily and mechanically; but no one seemed to need his services. Soon he passed by the public-house—there was clearly no lack of custom there, and yet the sounds that proceeded from it were certainly not those of drunken mirth. He looked up at the sign. No ferocious lion red or black, urged into a rearing posture by unnatural stimulants, was there; nor griffin or dragon, white or green, symbolising the savage tempers kindled by intoxicating drinks; but merely the simple words, “Temperance Inn.” Not a letter was there any where about the place to intimate the sale of wine, beer, or spirits.

Waggons were there, for it was harvest-time, and men young and old were gathered about the door, some quenching their thirst by moderate draughts of beverages which slaked without rekindling it; others taking in solid food with a hearty relish. A pleasant sight it was to Jacob; but he would not pause now, as he wished to push on to the next town before night. So he urged his cart before him along the level road, till he came to a turn on the left hand off the main street. Here a lovely little peep burst upon him. Just a few hundred yards down the turn was a cottage, with a neat green paling before it. The roof was newly thatched, and up the sides grew the rose and jessamine, which mingled their flowers in profusion as they clustered over a snug little latticed porch. The cottage itself was in the old-fashioned black-timbered style, with one larger and one smaller pointed gable. There was a lovely little garden in front, the very picture of neatness, and filled with those homely flowers whose forms, colours, and odours are so sweet because so familiar. Beyond the cottage there were no other houses; but the road sloped down to a brook, crossed by a little rustic bridge on the side of the hedge furthest from the cottage. Beyond the brook the road rose again, and wound among thick hedges and tall stately trees; while to the left was an extensive park, gradually rising till, at the distance of little more than a mile, a noble mansion of white stone shone out brightly from its setting of dark green woods, over which was just visible the waving outline of a dim, shadowy hill. Jacob looked up the road, and gazed on the lovely picture with deep admiration. He could see the deer in the park, and the glorious sunlight just flashing out in a blaze of gold from the windows of the mansion. He sighed as he gazed, though not in discontent; but he was foot-sore and heart-weary, and he longed for rest. He thought he would just take his cart as far as the cottage, more from a desire of having a closer view of it than from much expectation of finding a customer. As he went along he uttered the old cry,—

“Knives to grind—scissors to grind.”

The words attracted the notice of a young man, who came out of the cottage carrying a little child in his arms.

“I’ll thank you to grind a point to this knife,” he said, “and to put a fresh rivet in, if you can; for our Samuel’s took it out of his mother’s drawer when she was out, and he’s done it no good, as you may see.”

Jacob put out his hand for the knife, but started back when he saw it as if it had been a serpent. Then he seized it eagerly, and looked with staring eyes at the handle. There were scratched rudely on it the letters SJ.

“Where, where did you get this?” he cried, turning first deadly pale, and then very red again. The young man looked at him in amazement. “Who, who are you?” stammered Jacob again.

“Who am I?” said the other; “why, my name’s John Walters. I am afraid you’re not quite sober, my friend.”

But just then a young woman came out from the cottage, leading by the hand a boy about five years old. She looked round first at her husband and then at the knife-grinder with a perplexed and startled gaze. The next moment, with a cry of “Betty!” “Sammul!” brother and sister were locked in each other’s arms,—it was even so—the lost were found at last.

Chapter Twenty Five.Mutual Explanations.“Father, father!” cried Betty, rushing into the house, “come hither; here’s our Sammul come back.”“Eh! What do ye say? Our Sammul come back?” exclaimed a well-known voice, and Johnson hurried out and clasped his son to his heart. “Eh! the Lord be praised for this,” he cried, with streaming eyes. “I’ve prayed, and prayed for it, till I thought it were past praying for; but come in and sit ye down, and let me look at you.”Samuel was soon seated, with the whole household gathered round him.“Itishis own self, for sure,” said Betty. “O Sammul, I never thought to see you no more.”“I should scarce have knowed you, had I met you on the road,” said his father, “you’re so much altered.”“Ay,” said his sister; “he’s gotten a beard to his face, and he’s taller and browner like, but his eye’s the same—he’s our Sammul, sure enough. You’ll not be for flitting again for a-while,” she said, looking at him half playfully and half in earnest.“No,” he replied; “I’ve had flitting enough for a bit. But eh, Betty, you’ve growed yourself into a gradely woman. And this is your husband, I reckon, and these are your childer; have you any more?”“No,” said John Walters; “these two are all. Well, you’re heartily welcome, Samuel. I’m glad to see you. Betty’ll leave fretting now.”“Ay, and fayther too,” cried Betty. “O Sammul, I amsoglad to see you. I’ve prayed, and fayther’s prayed too, scores of times; and he’s had more faith nor me—though we’ve both begun to lose heart—but we’ve never forgot ye, Sammul. Oh, I shall be happy now. The Lord’s too good to me,” she said, with deep emotion; “as the blessed Book says, ‘My cup runneth over’—ay, it do for sure—I’ve got the best husband as ever woman had, (you needn’t be frowning, John, it’s true); and I’ve got fayther, and they’re both total abstainers, and gradely Christians too, and now I’ve got our Sammul.”“And he’s a total abstainer,” said Samuel, “and, he humbly hopes, a gradely Christian.”“Oh, that’s best, that’s best of all,” cried his sister, again throwing her arms around him. “Oh, Sammul, Iamso glad to see you—you can’t wonder, for you’re all the brothers I have, and I’m all the sistersyouhave; you can’t wonder at it, John.”“I’m not wondering at anything but the Lord’s goodness,” said her husband, in a husky voice, and wiping his eyes.“Here, Sammul,” exclaimed Betty to her eldest child, “get on your Uncle Sammul’s knee, and hug him with all your might. Eh! I didn’t think this morn as I should have to tell you to say ‘Uncle Sammul.’ He’s called arter yourself. If you hadn’t been off, he’d a been John or Thomas, maybe. But our John knowed how I longed to have him called Sammul, so we’ve called the babe John Thomas, arter the fayther and grandfayther. And now you’ll want your tea, and then we must all have a gradely talk when childers in bed.”Oh, what a happy tea that was! The cart was drawn into a shed, and Samuel sat gazing through the door, hardly able to eat or drink for happiness. What a peaceful picture it was! Betty was bustling in and out of the room, radiant with delight, sometimes laughing and sometimes crying, tumbling over the children, misplacing the tea-things, putting the kettle on the fire without any water in it, and declaring that, “she’d lost her head, and were good for nothing,” all which delighted her husband amazingly, who picked up the children by turns, and corrected his wife’s mistakes by making others himself; while Thomas Johnson sat in a corner smiling quietly to himself, and looking with brimming eyes at his son, as being quite satisfied for the time without asking questions. Samuel leaned back in his seat, as one who has accomplished the labour of a life, and would rest a while. The house door stood ajar, and he could see the roses and jessamine straggling in through the porch, the sunny road, the noble trees on its farther side, while a herd of cattle slowly made their way towards the brook. Every now and then, when the back door opened, (as it did many a time more than was necessary, for Betty often went out and returned without remembering what she had gone for), he could see the neat, well-stocked garden, with its hives of bees against the farthest wall, and its thriving store of apple and plum trees, besides all sorts of useful vegetables. He looked round the room, and saw at a glance that neatness, cleanliness, and order reigned there. He looked at a small side-table, and marked among its little pile of books more than one copy of the Word of Life, which told him that the brighter world was not kept out of sight; he could also gather from the appearance of the furniture and articles of comfort that surrounded him, that his beloved sister’s lot was in earthly things a prosperous one. As they drew their chairs to the tea-table, which was at last furnished and arranged to Betty’s complete satisfaction, and John had reverently asked a blessing, Samuel said,—“Fayther, you’re looking better than ever I saw you in my life.”“Yes, I don’t doubt, my lad, you never seed me in my right mind afore; I were a slave to the drink then. I’d neither health of body nor peace of mind—now, thank the Lord for it, I enjoy both.”“Have you heard, Sammul?” asked Betty,—she tried to finish her sentence but could not, and the tears kept dropping on to her hands, as she bowed down her head in the vain endeavour to conceal them.“She’s thinking of her poor mother,” said John in a soothing tone.“Yes; I’ve heard about it,” replied her brother sadly. There was a long pause, and then Samuel asked, “Did you know as I’d been back to Langhurst?”“No,” replied his father; “we heard as a stranger had been asking about me and mine, but nobody knowed who it was.”“We never got no letter from you, Sammul,” said his sister; “there was a man as would have seen as we got it, if any letter had come for us arter we flitted.”“I never wrote; but I ought to have done; it were not right,” replied Samuel; “and when I see’d it were my duty, it were too late for writing, for I were coming home myself.”“Weel,” said Betty, “we have all on us much to ask, and much to tell; but just you finish your tea, and I’ll put the childer to bed; and then you and John can take a turn round the garden, if you’ve a mind, while I clear the table and tidy up a bit.”And now, by common consent, when Betty had made all things straight, the whole party adjourned to the garden, and brought their chairs under an old cherry-tree, from which they could see the distant mansion with its embowering woods, and the sloping park in front. Samuel sat with his father on one side and Betty on the other, one hand in the hand of each. John was on the other side of his wife holding her other hand.“You know, John,” she said with a smile, “I only gave you the one hand when we were wed, so our Sammul’s a right to t’other. And now, tell us all, Sammul dear, from the very first. You needn’t be afraid of speaking out afore our John; he knows all as we know, and you must take him for your brother.”“I’ll do so as you say, Betty; and when I’ve told you all, there’ll be many things as I shall have to ax you myself. Well, then, you remember the night as I went off?”“I shall ne’er forget it as long as I live,” said his sister.“Well,” continued Samuel, “I hadn’t made up my mind just what to do, but I were resolved as I wouldn’t bide at home any longer, so I hurried along the road till I came to the old pit-shaft. I were just a-going to pass it by, when I bethought me as I’d like to take a bit of holly with me as a keepsake. So I climbed up the bank, where there were a fine bush, and took out my knife and tried to cut a bit; but the bough were tough, and I were afraid of somebody coming and finding me, so I cut rather random, for my knife were not so sharp, and I couldn’t get the branch off at first, and as the bank were rather steep, I slipped about a good deal, and nearly tumbled back. Just then I heard somebody a-coming, and I felt almost sure it were fayther; so I gave one great pull with my knife, the branch came in two all of a suddent, and the knife slipped, and gave my left hand a great gash. I kept it, however, in my hand, but I slipped in getting back into the road, and dropped it. I durstn’t stop long, for the man, whoever he were, came nearer and nearer, so I just looked about for a moment or two, and then I set off and ran for my life, and never saw my poor knife again till your John gave it me to sharpen an hour since.”“Eh, Sammul,” cried Betty, with a great sigh of relief, “you little thought what a stab your knife’d give your poor sister. I went out, same night as you went off, to seek you, and coming home from Aunt Jenny’s I seed a summat shining on the road near the old pit-shaft, for moon were up then; it were this knife o’ yourn. I picked it up, and oh, Sammul, there were blood on it, and I saw the bank were trampled, and oh, I didn’t know what to make on it. I feart ye’d been and kilt yourself. I feart it at first, but I didn’t arter a bit, when I’d time to bethink me a little. But I’ve kept the knife ever since; you shall have it back now, and you mustn’t charge us anything for grinding it.”“Poor Betty!” said her brother, “I little thought what sorrow my knife would bring you.”“Well, go on, it’s all right now.”“When I’d run a good way,” continued Samuel, “I began to think a bit what I should do with myself. One thing I were resolved on—I’d make a fresh start—I’d forget as I’d ever had a home—I’d change my name, and be my own mayster. It were not right—I see it now—I were misguided—it were not right to my poor Betty, my loving sister—it were selfish to leave her to bear all the trouble by herself, and it were not right by you, fayther, nor by poor dear mother. I should have borne my trials with patience, and the Lord would have made a road through ’em; but I’ve prayed to be forgiven, and, bless the Lord, he’s brought good out of evil. Arter a while, I thought as I’d walk to Liverpool, and see if I couldn’t work my passage to America or Australia. I didn’t wish any one to know where I was gone, so I never wrote. I wished to be as dead to all as had gone before. It were the third day arter I left Langhurst that I got to Liverpool. I were very foot-sore, and almost famished to death, for I hadn’t had a gradely meal since I left home. I were standing near a public, feeling very low and done, when some sailor chaps as was drinking there began to chaff me, and one was for giving me some beer and grog, but I wouldn’t taste. Just then a Captain Merryweather, commander of the barqueSabrina, comes up. He hears what was going on, and takes me to a temperance inn and gives me a good breakfast, and asks me if I’d go with him to Australia as cabin-boy.”“To Australia!” exclaimed both Thomas and Betty; “have you really been to Australia, Sammul?”“Ay, that I have, and back again too. Well, I were right glad to go with the captain, more particularly arterwards, as I seed Will Jones a-coming out on a public, and I thought if he’d a seen me, he might talk on it at Langhurst. When captain axed me if I’d go with him, he wanted to know my name. Eh, I were never so taken aback in all my life. I couldn’t tell what to say, for I’d made up my mind as I’d drop the name of Samuel Johnson, but I hadn’t got any other at hand to take to. So he axes me my name again. All at once I remembered as I’d see’d the name ‘Jacob Poole’ over a little shop in a lane near the town, so I thought, ‘that’ll do;’ so says I, when he axed me my name again, ‘Jacob Poole.’ But I were nearly as fast next time as he called to me, for when he says, ‘Jacob,’ I takes no notice. So he says again, ‘Jacob Poole,’ in a loud voice, and then I turns round as if I’d been shot. I wonder he didn’t find me out. But I’m used to the name now. I hardly know myself as Samuel.”“And which must we call you?” asked Betty, with a merry twinkle in her eyes. “Eh! fancy, ‘Uncle Jacob,’ ‘Brother Jacob.’ And yet it’s not a bad name neither. I were reading in John to our Sammul t’other day about Jacob’s well—that were gradely drink; it were nothing but good spring wayter. But go on, Sammul—Jacob, I mean.”Samuel then proceeded to describe his voyage, his attachment to Frank Oldfield, his landing in Australia, and subsequent separation from his master till he joined him again at Tanindie. He then went on to tell about his life at the diggings, and his conversion under the preaching of the faithful missionary.“I began to see then,” he continued, “as I’d not done the thing as was right. I talked it over with the minister; and I made up my mind as I’d come home again and find you out.”Then he told them of his voyage back to England, and of his landing with his master at Liverpool.“Well, then,” he proceeded, “as soon as I could be spared I went over to Langhurst. I went to our old place and opened the door. There were none but strange faces. ‘Where’s Thomas Johnson?’ says I. ‘Who do ye say?’ says a woman as was by the hearth-stone. ‘Thomas Johnson? he don’t live here.’ ‘Where does he live then?’ says I again. ‘There’s nobody o’ that name in Langhurst,’ says the woman. It were night when I got there, so I wasn’t noticed. Then I went to old Anne Butler’s, and I thought I’d not say who I were, for I were always a closeish sort o’ chap; and if fayther and our Betty had flitted, I didn’t want to have all the village arter me. So I just went to old Anne’s. She didn’t know me a bit. So I got talking about the village, and the folks as had come and gone; and I let her have her own way. So she goes from t’one to t’other, till at last she says, ‘There’s poor Tommy Johnson, as used to live in the stone row; he’s flitted with his wench Betty, and nobody knows where they’ve gone.’ ‘That’s strange,’ says I, ‘what made ’em flit that fashion?’ ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘they’d a deal of trouble. Thomas wasn’t right in his head arter his lad Sammul went off, so he took up with them Brierleys, and turned teetotaller; and then his missus,’—but I canna tell ye what she said about poor mother. I were fair upset, ye may be sure, when she told me her sad end; but old Anne were so full of her story that she didna heed anything else. Then she said, ‘Many of his old pals tried to turn poor Tommy back, but they couldn’t, but they nearly worritted him out of his life. So one night Tommy and his Betty went clean off, and nobody’s heard nothing no more on ’em, nor of their Sammul neither; and what’s strangest thing of all, when they came to search the house arter it were known as Tommy had flitted, they found some great letters sticking to the chamber-floor in black and red; they was verses out of the Bible and Testament. The verse in black were, “No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of God;” t’other verse, in red, were, “Prepare to meet thy God.” Some thought as the old lad had put ’em there; other some said, “The old lad’s not like to burn his own tail in the fire.” Howsever, verses were there for several days; I seed ’em myself: but one stormy night there came a terrible clap of thunner, and an awful flash of lightning, and it went right through chamber of Tommy’s house, and next morn letters were all gone, and nothing were left but a black mark, like a great scorch with a hot iron.’ This were old Anne’s tale. I didn’t tarry long in her house, for I didn’t want to be seen by any as knowed me; but I went to many of the towns round about to see if I could hear anything about fayther, but it were no good; so I went back to Liverpool arter I’d been off about ten days.” Samuel then gave them an account of the sad tidings that awaited his return, and then added,—“I didn’t know what to do, nor where to go, but I prayed to the Lord to guide me, and lead me in his own good time to fayther and our Betty, and the Lord has heard me, and he’s done it in his own gracious way.”He then recounted his meeting with Old Crow, the knife-grinder, and his subsequent history to the time when, on that very evening, he was led in the good providence of his heavenly Father to turn down the lane to the little cottage.“The Lord be praised, the Lord be praised!” exclaimed poor Johnson, when the story was finished. “Surely goodness and mercy he’s been to us all. And, oh, he’s been very good in bringing back our Sammul.”“We shall have a rare family gathering when we all meet, Old Crow, Deborah, and all,” said Betty. “There’ll be fayther, and our John, and our Sammul, and our Jacob, and our Deborah, and Old Crow, and little Sammul, and the babe. We must get the squire to build us another cottage.”“Ah, Betty, my own sister,” said Samuel, “it does my heart good to hear your voice once more. Add now I want fayther to tell his tale. I want to know all about the flitting, and the black and red letters, and all, and how you came to light on this lovely spot.”Johnson raised himself in his chair, and prepared to speak. What a wondrous change Christian total abstinence had made in his whole appearance. The prominent animal features had sunk or softened down, the rational and intellectual had become developed. He looked like a man, God’s thinking and immortal creature now; before, he had looked more like a beast, with all that was savage intensified by the venom of perverted intelligence. Now he sat up with all that was noble in his character shining out upon his countenance, specially his quiet iron determination and decision, in which father and son were so much alike. And there was, hallowing every line and look, that peace which passeth understanding, and which flows from no earthly fountain.“Sammul, my lad,” he said, “God has been very good to me, for I can say, ‘This my son was lost, and is found.’ He’s given me a cup brimful of mercies; but the biggest of all is, he’s sent us our Sammul back again. But I will not spin out my tale with needless talk, as you’ll be impatient to know all about our flitting. You’ll remember Ned Brierley?”“Ay, well enough,” said his son.“Well, Ned were my best friend on earth, for you must know it were he as got me to sign the pledge. That were arter I got well arter the explosion. Ye heard of the explosion?”“Yes,” replied Samuel; “I heard on it arter I left Langhurst.”“It were a marvellous mercy,” continued his father, “as I were spared. I’d halted rather ’tween two opinions afore, but when I left my sick-bed I came forward, and signed. Then Ned Brierley and all the family flitted, for the mayster’d given him a better shop somewhere in Wales. That were a bad job for me. I’d a weary life of it then. I thought some of my old mates ’ud a torn me in pieces, or jeered the very life out of me. Then, besides, you were not come back to us; and I were very down about your poor mother, so that I were casting about to see if I couldn’t find work somewhere at a distance from Langhurst, where I could make a fresh start. It were in the November arter the explosion that same total abstinence chap as got yourself to sign came to our house, and axed me to tell my experience at a meeting as was to be held in Langhurst on the twenty-third of the month. I’d sooner have had nothing to do wi’t, but our Betty said she thought I were bound to speak for the good of the cause, so I told the gentleman as I would. Now, you may just suppose as my old mates at the ‘George’ were in a fury when they heard of this, and some on ’em were resolved to sarve me out, as they called it, though I’d done ’em no harm. So they meets at Will Jones’s house, a lot on them, and makes a plot to get into our house the night afore the meeting, and scratch my face over with a furze bush while I was asleep, and rub lamp-black and gunpowder all over my face, so as I shouldn’t be able for shame to show myself at the meeting. But it so happened as Will Jones’s lad John were under the couch-chair, hiding away from his fayther, all the time they was arranging their plans, and he heard all as they was saying. So Will Jones’s wife Martha sends the lad to tell our Betty when the men was gone. She’d promised not to say anything herself, but that didn’t bind the lad, so he came and told. What were we to do? Why, just the right thing were being ordered for us. Do ye remember old Job Paynter, the bill-sticker?”“Ay, for sure I do,” replied Samuel. “He were a good Christian man, and a thorough total abstainer.”“You’re right there, Sammul,” said his father; “now old Job’s uncle to our John here. I’d seen a good deal of old Job of late. He’d taken to me and our Betty, and used often to call and have a cup of tea with us. He knowed how I wished to get away from Langhurst; and one night he says to me, ‘I’ve a nephew, John Walters, down at Fairmow, in Shropshire. He’s one of the right sort. I heard from him a while since as his squire wants a steady man to overlook a small colliery as he’s got on his estate. The man as is there now’s taken to drinking, so the squire’s parting with him in December. Would you like me to mention yourself to my nephew?’ You may be sure, Sammul, I were very thankful for the chance. But it wasn’t chance—the word slipped out of my mouth; but I’ve done with chance long since—it were the Lord’s doing. So old Job wrote to our John about it, and the end were, the squire offered the place to me. I got Job to keep it quite snug, for I didn’t want my old mates to know anything about it. This were all settled afore I’d agreed to speak at the meeting. So when we found, from Martha Jones’s lad, what my old mates was up to, I talked the matter over with old Job Paynter, and we hit upon a plan as’d just turn the tables on ’em, and might do ’em some good. It were all arranged with our John as we should be at liberty to come to his cottage here till the place were ready for me at the colliery. Then Job and I talked it over, and it were settled as our Betty should go to her aunt’s at Rochdale, and take all her things with her, and meet me on the twenty-third of November at Stockport. Job was to come to our house on the twenty-second. So, a little afore nine, he slips in when it were very dark, and brings a lot of old letters with him ready cut out, and some paste. You must know as he’d a large quantity of old posters by him as had been soiled or torn. So he cuts what black letters he wants out of these, and some red ’uns too, enough to make the two texts, ‘No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of God,’ and ‘Prepare to meet thy God.’ Then Job and me goes quietly up-stairs, and I holds the candle while he pastes the words on the chamber-floor. Then we rolls up some old bits of stuff into a bundle, and lays ’em on my bed, and puts the old coverlid over ’em. Then Job and me leaves the house, and locks the door; and that, Sammul, is last I’ve seen of Langhurst.”“And what about the thunder and lightning as scorched out the letters?” asked Samuel.“Only an old woman’s tale, I’ll be bound,” said his father. “You may be sure the next tenant scoured ’em off.”“And now,” said John Walters, “it comes to my turn. Father and Betty came down to our house on the twenty-third of November. My dear mother was living then. I was her only son. I was bailiff then, as I am now, to Squire Collington of the Hall up yonder. Father worked about at any odd jobs I could find him till his place were ready for him, and Betty took to being a good daughter at once to my dear mother. She took to it so natural, and seemed so pleased to help mother, and forget all about herself, that I soon began to think, ‘If she takes so natural to being a good daughter, she’ll not find it hard maybe to learn to be a good wife.’ And mother thought so too; and as Betty didn’t say, ‘No,’ we were married in the following spring.”“Yes, Sammul,” said Betty, laughing and crying at the same time; “but I made a bargain with John, when we swopped hearts, as I were to leave a little bit of mine left me still for fayther and our Sammul.”Thomas Johnson looked at the whole group with a face radiant with happiness, and then said,—“The Lord bless them. They’ve been all good childer to me.”“We’ve always gotten the news of Langhurst from Uncle Job,” said Betty. “He settled with the landlord about our rent, and our few odd bits of things; and he was to send us any letter as came from yourself.”“And so you’ve been here ever since?”“Yes. Our John’s mother died two years since come Christmas; and then fayther came to live with us. He’d had a cottage of his own afore, with a housekeeper to look arter him.”“And is your squire, Mr Collington, a total abstainer?”“Ay, he is, for sure, and a gradely ’un too. He’s owner of most of the land and houses here. The whole village belongs to him; and he’ll not have a drop of intoxicating drinks sold in it. You passed the public. You heard no swearing nor rowing, I’ll warrant. You’ll find church, and chapel too, both full of Sundays; and there’s scarce a house where the Bible isn’t read every night. Ah! the drink’s the great curse as robs the heart of its love, the head of its sense, and the soul of its glory!”

“Father, father!” cried Betty, rushing into the house, “come hither; here’s our Sammul come back.”

“Eh! What do ye say? Our Sammul come back?” exclaimed a well-known voice, and Johnson hurried out and clasped his son to his heart. “Eh! the Lord be praised for this,” he cried, with streaming eyes. “I’ve prayed, and prayed for it, till I thought it were past praying for; but come in and sit ye down, and let me look at you.”

Samuel was soon seated, with the whole household gathered round him.

“Itishis own self, for sure,” said Betty. “O Sammul, I never thought to see you no more.”

“I should scarce have knowed you, had I met you on the road,” said his father, “you’re so much altered.”

“Ay,” said his sister; “he’s gotten a beard to his face, and he’s taller and browner like, but his eye’s the same—he’s our Sammul, sure enough. You’ll not be for flitting again for a-while,” she said, looking at him half playfully and half in earnest.

“No,” he replied; “I’ve had flitting enough for a bit. But eh, Betty, you’ve growed yourself into a gradely woman. And this is your husband, I reckon, and these are your childer; have you any more?”

“No,” said John Walters; “these two are all. Well, you’re heartily welcome, Samuel. I’m glad to see you. Betty’ll leave fretting now.”

“Ay, and fayther too,” cried Betty. “O Sammul, I amsoglad to see you. I’ve prayed, and fayther’s prayed too, scores of times; and he’s had more faith nor me—though we’ve both begun to lose heart—but we’ve never forgot ye, Sammul. Oh, I shall be happy now. The Lord’s too good to me,” she said, with deep emotion; “as the blessed Book says, ‘My cup runneth over’—ay, it do for sure—I’ve got the best husband as ever woman had, (you needn’t be frowning, John, it’s true); and I’ve got fayther, and they’re both total abstainers, and gradely Christians too, and now I’ve got our Sammul.”

“And he’s a total abstainer,” said Samuel, “and, he humbly hopes, a gradely Christian.”

“Oh, that’s best, that’s best of all,” cried his sister, again throwing her arms around him. “Oh, Sammul, Iamso glad to see you—you can’t wonder, for you’re all the brothers I have, and I’m all the sistersyouhave; you can’t wonder at it, John.”

“I’m not wondering at anything but the Lord’s goodness,” said her husband, in a husky voice, and wiping his eyes.

“Here, Sammul,” exclaimed Betty to her eldest child, “get on your Uncle Sammul’s knee, and hug him with all your might. Eh! I didn’t think this morn as I should have to tell you to say ‘Uncle Sammul.’ He’s called arter yourself. If you hadn’t been off, he’d a been John or Thomas, maybe. But our John knowed how I longed to have him called Sammul, so we’ve called the babe John Thomas, arter the fayther and grandfayther. And now you’ll want your tea, and then we must all have a gradely talk when childers in bed.”

Oh, what a happy tea that was! The cart was drawn into a shed, and Samuel sat gazing through the door, hardly able to eat or drink for happiness. What a peaceful picture it was! Betty was bustling in and out of the room, radiant with delight, sometimes laughing and sometimes crying, tumbling over the children, misplacing the tea-things, putting the kettle on the fire without any water in it, and declaring that, “she’d lost her head, and were good for nothing,” all which delighted her husband amazingly, who picked up the children by turns, and corrected his wife’s mistakes by making others himself; while Thomas Johnson sat in a corner smiling quietly to himself, and looking with brimming eyes at his son, as being quite satisfied for the time without asking questions. Samuel leaned back in his seat, as one who has accomplished the labour of a life, and would rest a while. The house door stood ajar, and he could see the roses and jessamine straggling in through the porch, the sunny road, the noble trees on its farther side, while a herd of cattle slowly made their way towards the brook. Every now and then, when the back door opened, (as it did many a time more than was necessary, for Betty often went out and returned without remembering what she had gone for), he could see the neat, well-stocked garden, with its hives of bees against the farthest wall, and its thriving store of apple and plum trees, besides all sorts of useful vegetables. He looked round the room, and saw at a glance that neatness, cleanliness, and order reigned there. He looked at a small side-table, and marked among its little pile of books more than one copy of the Word of Life, which told him that the brighter world was not kept out of sight; he could also gather from the appearance of the furniture and articles of comfort that surrounded him, that his beloved sister’s lot was in earthly things a prosperous one. As they drew their chairs to the tea-table, which was at last furnished and arranged to Betty’s complete satisfaction, and John had reverently asked a blessing, Samuel said,—

“Fayther, you’re looking better than ever I saw you in my life.”

“Yes, I don’t doubt, my lad, you never seed me in my right mind afore; I were a slave to the drink then. I’d neither health of body nor peace of mind—now, thank the Lord for it, I enjoy both.”

“Have you heard, Sammul?” asked Betty,—she tried to finish her sentence but could not, and the tears kept dropping on to her hands, as she bowed down her head in the vain endeavour to conceal them.

“She’s thinking of her poor mother,” said John in a soothing tone.

“Yes; I’ve heard about it,” replied her brother sadly. There was a long pause, and then Samuel asked, “Did you know as I’d been back to Langhurst?”

“No,” replied his father; “we heard as a stranger had been asking about me and mine, but nobody knowed who it was.”

“We never got no letter from you, Sammul,” said his sister; “there was a man as would have seen as we got it, if any letter had come for us arter we flitted.”

“I never wrote; but I ought to have done; it were not right,” replied Samuel; “and when I see’d it were my duty, it were too late for writing, for I were coming home myself.”

“Weel,” said Betty, “we have all on us much to ask, and much to tell; but just you finish your tea, and I’ll put the childer to bed; and then you and John can take a turn round the garden, if you’ve a mind, while I clear the table and tidy up a bit.”

And now, by common consent, when Betty had made all things straight, the whole party adjourned to the garden, and brought their chairs under an old cherry-tree, from which they could see the distant mansion with its embowering woods, and the sloping park in front. Samuel sat with his father on one side and Betty on the other, one hand in the hand of each. John was on the other side of his wife holding her other hand.

“You know, John,” she said with a smile, “I only gave you the one hand when we were wed, so our Sammul’s a right to t’other. And now, tell us all, Sammul dear, from the very first. You needn’t be afraid of speaking out afore our John; he knows all as we know, and you must take him for your brother.”

“I’ll do so as you say, Betty; and when I’ve told you all, there’ll be many things as I shall have to ax you myself. Well, then, you remember the night as I went off?”

“I shall ne’er forget it as long as I live,” said his sister.

“Well,” continued Samuel, “I hadn’t made up my mind just what to do, but I were resolved as I wouldn’t bide at home any longer, so I hurried along the road till I came to the old pit-shaft. I were just a-going to pass it by, when I bethought me as I’d like to take a bit of holly with me as a keepsake. So I climbed up the bank, where there were a fine bush, and took out my knife and tried to cut a bit; but the bough were tough, and I were afraid of somebody coming and finding me, so I cut rather random, for my knife were not so sharp, and I couldn’t get the branch off at first, and as the bank were rather steep, I slipped about a good deal, and nearly tumbled back. Just then I heard somebody a-coming, and I felt almost sure it were fayther; so I gave one great pull with my knife, the branch came in two all of a suddent, and the knife slipped, and gave my left hand a great gash. I kept it, however, in my hand, but I slipped in getting back into the road, and dropped it. I durstn’t stop long, for the man, whoever he were, came nearer and nearer, so I just looked about for a moment or two, and then I set off and ran for my life, and never saw my poor knife again till your John gave it me to sharpen an hour since.”

“Eh, Sammul,” cried Betty, with a great sigh of relief, “you little thought what a stab your knife’d give your poor sister. I went out, same night as you went off, to seek you, and coming home from Aunt Jenny’s I seed a summat shining on the road near the old pit-shaft, for moon were up then; it were this knife o’ yourn. I picked it up, and oh, Sammul, there were blood on it, and I saw the bank were trampled, and oh, I didn’t know what to make on it. I feart ye’d been and kilt yourself. I feart it at first, but I didn’t arter a bit, when I’d time to bethink me a little. But I’ve kept the knife ever since; you shall have it back now, and you mustn’t charge us anything for grinding it.”

“Poor Betty!” said her brother, “I little thought what sorrow my knife would bring you.”

“Well, go on, it’s all right now.”

“When I’d run a good way,” continued Samuel, “I began to think a bit what I should do with myself. One thing I were resolved on—I’d make a fresh start—I’d forget as I’d ever had a home—I’d change my name, and be my own mayster. It were not right—I see it now—I were misguided—it were not right to my poor Betty, my loving sister—it were selfish to leave her to bear all the trouble by herself, and it were not right by you, fayther, nor by poor dear mother. I should have borne my trials with patience, and the Lord would have made a road through ’em; but I’ve prayed to be forgiven, and, bless the Lord, he’s brought good out of evil. Arter a while, I thought as I’d walk to Liverpool, and see if I couldn’t work my passage to America or Australia. I didn’t wish any one to know where I was gone, so I never wrote. I wished to be as dead to all as had gone before. It were the third day arter I left Langhurst that I got to Liverpool. I were very foot-sore, and almost famished to death, for I hadn’t had a gradely meal since I left home. I were standing near a public, feeling very low and done, when some sailor chaps as was drinking there began to chaff me, and one was for giving me some beer and grog, but I wouldn’t taste. Just then a Captain Merryweather, commander of the barqueSabrina, comes up. He hears what was going on, and takes me to a temperance inn and gives me a good breakfast, and asks me if I’d go with him to Australia as cabin-boy.”

“To Australia!” exclaimed both Thomas and Betty; “have you really been to Australia, Sammul?”

“Ay, that I have, and back again too. Well, I were right glad to go with the captain, more particularly arterwards, as I seed Will Jones a-coming out on a public, and I thought if he’d a seen me, he might talk on it at Langhurst. When captain axed me if I’d go with him, he wanted to know my name. Eh, I were never so taken aback in all my life. I couldn’t tell what to say, for I’d made up my mind as I’d drop the name of Samuel Johnson, but I hadn’t got any other at hand to take to. So he axes me my name again. All at once I remembered as I’d see’d the name ‘Jacob Poole’ over a little shop in a lane near the town, so I thought, ‘that’ll do;’ so says I, when he axed me my name again, ‘Jacob Poole.’ But I were nearly as fast next time as he called to me, for when he says, ‘Jacob,’ I takes no notice. So he says again, ‘Jacob Poole,’ in a loud voice, and then I turns round as if I’d been shot. I wonder he didn’t find me out. But I’m used to the name now. I hardly know myself as Samuel.”

“And which must we call you?” asked Betty, with a merry twinkle in her eyes. “Eh! fancy, ‘Uncle Jacob,’ ‘Brother Jacob.’ And yet it’s not a bad name neither. I were reading in John to our Sammul t’other day about Jacob’s well—that were gradely drink; it were nothing but good spring wayter. But go on, Sammul—Jacob, I mean.”

Samuel then proceeded to describe his voyage, his attachment to Frank Oldfield, his landing in Australia, and subsequent separation from his master till he joined him again at Tanindie. He then went on to tell about his life at the diggings, and his conversion under the preaching of the faithful missionary.

“I began to see then,” he continued, “as I’d not done the thing as was right. I talked it over with the minister; and I made up my mind as I’d come home again and find you out.”

Then he told them of his voyage back to England, and of his landing with his master at Liverpool.

“Well, then,” he proceeded, “as soon as I could be spared I went over to Langhurst. I went to our old place and opened the door. There were none but strange faces. ‘Where’s Thomas Johnson?’ says I. ‘Who do ye say?’ says a woman as was by the hearth-stone. ‘Thomas Johnson? he don’t live here.’ ‘Where does he live then?’ says I again. ‘There’s nobody o’ that name in Langhurst,’ says the woman. It were night when I got there, so I wasn’t noticed. Then I went to old Anne Butler’s, and I thought I’d not say who I were, for I were always a closeish sort o’ chap; and if fayther and our Betty had flitted, I didn’t want to have all the village arter me. So I just went to old Anne’s. She didn’t know me a bit. So I got talking about the village, and the folks as had come and gone; and I let her have her own way. So she goes from t’one to t’other, till at last she says, ‘There’s poor Tommy Johnson, as used to live in the stone row; he’s flitted with his wench Betty, and nobody knows where they’ve gone.’ ‘That’s strange,’ says I, ‘what made ’em flit that fashion?’ ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘they’d a deal of trouble. Thomas wasn’t right in his head arter his lad Sammul went off, so he took up with them Brierleys, and turned teetotaller; and then his missus,’—but I canna tell ye what she said about poor mother. I were fair upset, ye may be sure, when she told me her sad end; but old Anne were so full of her story that she didna heed anything else. Then she said, ‘Many of his old pals tried to turn poor Tommy back, but they couldn’t, but they nearly worritted him out of his life. So one night Tommy and his Betty went clean off, and nobody’s heard nothing no more on ’em, nor of their Sammul neither; and what’s strangest thing of all, when they came to search the house arter it were known as Tommy had flitted, they found some great letters sticking to the chamber-floor in black and red; they was verses out of the Bible and Testament. The verse in black were, “No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of God;” t’other verse, in red, were, “Prepare to meet thy God.” Some thought as the old lad had put ’em there; other some said, “The old lad’s not like to burn his own tail in the fire.” Howsever, verses were there for several days; I seed ’em myself: but one stormy night there came a terrible clap of thunner, and an awful flash of lightning, and it went right through chamber of Tommy’s house, and next morn letters were all gone, and nothing were left but a black mark, like a great scorch with a hot iron.’ This were old Anne’s tale. I didn’t tarry long in her house, for I didn’t want to be seen by any as knowed me; but I went to many of the towns round about to see if I could hear anything about fayther, but it were no good; so I went back to Liverpool arter I’d been off about ten days.” Samuel then gave them an account of the sad tidings that awaited his return, and then added,—

“I didn’t know what to do, nor where to go, but I prayed to the Lord to guide me, and lead me in his own good time to fayther and our Betty, and the Lord has heard me, and he’s done it in his own gracious way.”

He then recounted his meeting with Old Crow, the knife-grinder, and his subsequent history to the time when, on that very evening, he was led in the good providence of his heavenly Father to turn down the lane to the little cottage.

“The Lord be praised, the Lord be praised!” exclaimed poor Johnson, when the story was finished. “Surely goodness and mercy he’s been to us all. And, oh, he’s been very good in bringing back our Sammul.”

“We shall have a rare family gathering when we all meet, Old Crow, Deborah, and all,” said Betty. “There’ll be fayther, and our John, and our Sammul, and our Jacob, and our Deborah, and Old Crow, and little Sammul, and the babe. We must get the squire to build us another cottage.”

“Ah, Betty, my own sister,” said Samuel, “it does my heart good to hear your voice once more. Add now I want fayther to tell his tale. I want to know all about the flitting, and the black and red letters, and all, and how you came to light on this lovely spot.”

Johnson raised himself in his chair, and prepared to speak. What a wondrous change Christian total abstinence had made in his whole appearance. The prominent animal features had sunk or softened down, the rational and intellectual had become developed. He looked like a man, God’s thinking and immortal creature now; before, he had looked more like a beast, with all that was savage intensified by the venom of perverted intelligence. Now he sat up with all that was noble in his character shining out upon his countenance, specially his quiet iron determination and decision, in which father and son were so much alike. And there was, hallowing every line and look, that peace which passeth understanding, and which flows from no earthly fountain.

“Sammul, my lad,” he said, “God has been very good to me, for I can say, ‘This my son was lost, and is found.’ He’s given me a cup brimful of mercies; but the biggest of all is, he’s sent us our Sammul back again. But I will not spin out my tale with needless talk, as you’ll be impatient to know all about our flitting. You’ll remember Ned Brierley?”

“Ay, well enough,” said his son.

“Well, Ned were my best friend on earth, for you must know it were he as got me to sign the pledge. That were arter I got well arter the explosion. Ye heard of the explosion?”

“Yes,” replied Samuel; “I heard on it arter I left Langhurst.”

“It were a marvellous mercy,” continued his father, “as I were spared. I’d halted rather ’tween two opinions afore, but when I left my sick-bed I came forward, and signed. Then Ned Brierley and all the family flitted, for the mayster’d given him a better shop somewhere in Wales. That were a bad job for me. I’d a weary life of it then. I thought some of my old mates ’ud a torn me in pieces, or jeered the very life out of me. Then, besides, you were not come back to us; and I were very down about your poor mother, so that I were casting about to see if I couldn’t find work somewhere at a distance from Langhurst, where I could make a fresh start. It were in the November arter the explosion that same total abstinence chap as got yourself to sign came to our house, and axed me to tell my experience at a meeting as was to be held in Langhurst on the twenty-third of the month. I’d sooner have had nothing to do wi’t, but our Betty said she thought I were bound to speak for the good of the cause, so I told the gentleman as I would. Now, you may just suppose as my old mates at the ‘George’ were in a fury when they heard of this, and some on ’em were resolved to sarve me out, as they called it, though I’d done ’em no harm. So they meets at Will Jones’s house, a lot on them, and makes a plot to get into our house the night afore the meeting, and scratch my face over with a furze bush while I was asleep, and rub lamp-black and gunpowder all over my face, so as I shouldn’t be able for shame to show myself at the meeting. But it so happened as Will Jones’s lad John were under the couch-chair, hiding away from his fayther, all the time they was arranging their plans, and he heard all as they was saying. So Will Jones’s wife Martha sends the lad to tell our Betty when the men was gone. She’d promised not to say anything herself, but that didn’t bind the lad, so he came and told. What were we to do? Why, just the right thing were being ordered for us. Do ye remember old Job Paynter, the bill-sticker?”

“Ay, for sure I do,” replied Samuel. “He were a good Christian man, and a thorough total abstainer.”

“You’re right there, Sammul,” said his father; “now old Job’s uncle to our John here. I’d seen a good deal of old Job of late. He’d taken to me and our Betty, and used often to call and have a cup of tea with us. He knowed how I wished to get away from Langhurst; and one night he says to me, ‘I’ve a nephew, John Walters, down at Fairmow, in Shropshire. He’s one of the right sort. I heard from him a while since as his squire wants a steady man to overlook a small colliery as he’s got on his estate. The man as is there now’s taken to drinking, so the squire’s parting with him in December. Would you like me to mention yourself to my nephew?’ You may be sure, Sammul, I were very thankful for the chance. But it wasn’t chance—the word slipped out of my mouth; but I’ve done with chance long since—it were the Lord’s doing. So old Job wrote to our John about it, and the end were, the squire offered the place to me. I got Job to keep it quite snug, for I didn’t want my old mates to know anything about it. This were all settled afore I’d agreed to speak at the meeting. So when we found, from Martha Jones’s lad, what my old mates was up to, I talked the matter over with old Job Paynter, and we hit upon a plan as’d just turn the tables on ’em, and might do ’em some good. It were all arranged with our John as we should be at liberty to come to his cottage here till the place were ready for me at the colliery. Then Job and I talked it over, and it were settled as our Betty should go to her aunt’s at Rochdale, and take all her things with her, and meet me on the twenty-third of November at Stockport. Job was to come to our house on the twenty-second. So, a little afore nine, he slips in when it were very dark, and brings a lot of old letters with him ready cut out, and some paste. You must know as he’d a large quantity of old posters by him as had been soiled or torn. So he cuts what black letters he wants out of these, and some red ’uns too, enough to make the two texts, ‘No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of God,’ and ‘Prepare to meet thy God.’ Then Job and me goes quietly up-stairs, and I holds the candle while he pastes the words on the chamber-floor. Then we rolls up some old bits of stuff into a bundle, and lays ’em on my bed, and puts the old coverlid over ’em. Then Job and me leaves the house, and locks the door; and that, Sammul, is last I’ve seen of Langhurst.”

“And what about the thunder and lightning as scorched out the letters?” asked Samuel.

“Only an old woman’s tale, I’ll be bound,” said his father. “You may be sure the next tenant scoured ’em off.”

“And now,” said John Walters, “it comes to my turn. Father and Betty came down to our house on the twenty-third of November. My dear mother was living then. I was her only son. I was bailiff then, as I am now, to Squire Collington of the Hall up yonder. Father worked about at any odd jobs I could find him till his place were ready for him, and Betty took to being a good daughter at once to my dear mother. She took to it so natural, and seemed so pleased to help mother, and forget all about herself, that I soon began to think, ‘If she takes so natural to being a good daughter, she’ll not find it hard maybe to learn to be a good wife.’ And mother thought so too; and as Betty didn’t say, ‘No,’ we were married in the following spring.”

“Yes, Sammul,” said Betty, laughing and crying at the same time; “but I made a bargain with John, when we swopped hearts, as I were to leave a little bit of mine left me still for fayther and our Sammul.”

Thomas Johnson looked at the whole group with a face radiant with happiness, and then said,—

“The Lord bless them. They’ve been all good childer to me.”

“We’ve always gotten the news of Langhurst from Uncle Job,” said Betty. “He settled with the landlord about our rent, and our few odd bits of things; and he was to send us any letter as came from yourself.”

“And so you’ve been here ever since?”

“Yes. Our John’s mother died two years since come Christmas; and then fayther came to live with us. He’d had a cottage of his own afore, with a housekeeper to look arter him.”

“And is your squire, Mr Collington, a total abstainer?”

“Ay, he is, for sure, and a gradely ’un too. He’s owner of most of the land and houses here. The whole village belongs to him; and he’ll not have a drop of intoxicating drinks sold in it. You passed the public. You heard no swearing nor rowing, I’ll warrant. You’ll find church, and chapel too, both full of Sundays; and there’s scarce a house where the Bible isn’t read every night. Ah! the drink’s the great curse as robs the heart of its love, the head of its sense, and the soul of its glory!”

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