Chapter Six.

Chapter Six.Duty.Mary Stansfield and Grace Willerly were sitting together, about three weeks after the above conversation, in an arbour in the garden attached to Lady Willerly’s house. Miss Stansfield had come to spend a day or two by special invitation, by way of getting a little change, which she much needed; her aunt having spared her without a murmur, and having accepted the services of a former domestic in her place.“How very kind of your aunt to spare you!” said Grace to her friend; “I hardly expected it, knowing how much she depends upon you.”“Oh yes!” was the reply: “you cannot tell, dear Grace, what a wonderful change has come over my dear aunt. And it is all owing, under God, to the loving faithfulness of our kind friend Colonel Dawson. I scarcely ever get a harsh word or a hard look now; and when I do, my aunt at once calls me to her, and asks me to forgive her. Oh, is it not wonderful? I am sure I blush with shame to think how little I deserve it.”“Yes, it is very wonderful, dear Mary. Certainly our new neighbour is a most earnest and useful man; and he has shown his discernment, too, in getting hold of yourself to work for him in Bridgepath. But I am afraid you will find it very up-hill work; you’ll want the strength of a horse, the patience of Job, and the zeal of an apostle in such a place as that.”“Certainly, I shall want the grace of an apostle,” said the other quietly; “but the work is very delightful, and is more than repaying me already for any little trouble or self-denial it may cost me.”“It is very good of you to say so, Mary; I am afraid the work wouldn’t suit me. I don’t mind making sacrifices—indeed, I think I can truly say it is one of my chief pleasures to make them; but there must be something very depressing in the jog-trot sort of work you are called on to do. I don’t mind anything, so long as it has a little bit of dash in it; but I am afraid I should soon grow weary of a regular grind like yours.”“Oh, but you are quite mistaken about my work at Bridgepath,” said the other, laughing. “There is nothing dull or monotonous about it; and it is such a happiness to see the light of God’s truth beginning to dawn on dark and troubled hearts. And there is one particularly interesting family—I mean John Price’s. You have heard, I dare say, that he was steward to the squire, and that he lost almost everything by his poor master’s extravagance. Poor man, he is bed-ridden now, and I fear had little comfort even from his Bible, for he seemed to have learned little from it but patience. But, oh! How he has brightened up, and his wife and daughter, too, now that they have been led to see that it is their privilege to work and sufferfromsalvation instead offorsalvation.”“I don’t understand you,” interrupted Miss Willerly.“Don’t you? Oh, it makes all the difference. Poor John Price has been reading his Bible, and bearing his troubles patiently, in the hope that at the end he may be accepted and saved through his Saviour’s merits. That is what I mean by workingforsalvation.”“And what else, dear Mary, would you have him do?”“O Grace! This is poor work indeed, working in view of a merely possible salvation. No! What he has learned now is to see that his Saviour, in whom he humbly and truly believes, has given him a present salvation; so that he, and his wife and daughter too, can now say, ‘We love him, because he first loved us.’ And so they work and suffer cheerfully, and even thankfully, from love to that Saviour who has already received them as his own. This is what I mean by workingfromsalvation. Surely we shall work more heartily for one of whom we know that hehassaved us, than for one of whom we know only that he has saved others, and may perhaps save us also in the end.”“I see what you mean, dear Mary, but I never saw it so before. Such a view of God’s love to us personally must take the selfishness out of our good works, because what we do will be done just simply from love to Christ. It is a beautiful way of looking at God’s dealings with us.”“Yes, Grace; and as true and scriptural as it is beautiful. It is just what God sees that we need, and furnishes us with the most constraining motive to serve him, and to deny self in his service.”“I see it,” said Miss Willerly sadly and thoughtfully, after a pause. “I very much fear, dear Mary, that I have been greatly deceiving myself. I have been just simply building up a monument to my own honour and glory out of my heap of little daily crosses.”“Nay, dear Grace, you are dealing too severely with yourself.”“No, I think not. At any rate, I am sadly aware that not the love of Christ, but the love of human applause, has been the constraining motive in my acts of self-denial. I have made such a parade of my willingness to thwart my own will that I might please others, so that while I should have been startled to see a full-grown trumpeter at my side proclaiming my unselfishness, I have all the while been keeping in my service a little dwarf page, who has been sounding out my praises on his shrill whistle.”“You judge yourself hardly, dear Grace; and yet, no doubt, self does enter largely even into our unselfishness. I am sure I have felt it, oh, how deeply! And specially just lately, since I have undertaken this work at Bridgepath.”“You, dear Mary!”“Yes, indeed. And I see now how wisely our heavenly Father ordered his discipline in my case. There was indeed a ‘needs-be’ in my dear aunt’s former harshness and irritability to me; but for that, and for her disparaging remarks on my conduct, I might have been more self-seeking than I am. But the discipline has been changed now, and I trust that the chastisement has not been wholly in vain. What we all want, I am sure, if we are to be true workers for God, is to lift our eyes from self, and keep them steadily fixed on Him who has done so much for us.”“I am sure you are right,” said the other. “I know I wish to do right, and I feel a pleasure in crossing my own inclination when it will gratify others; but then my inmost look has been to the world and its approbation. ‘What will people say? What will people think?’ or, at any rate, ‘What will good people say and think?’ this has been the prominent thought in my heart, I fear.”“Well, dear Grace, I suppose this is so, more or less, with us all. What we want, I think, and comparatively seldom find in these showy and surface days, is a high sense of duty, so that we just act as duty calls, let the world, or good people even, judge of us or speak of us as they please.”“And yet, dear Mary, I think I see a little crevice through which self may creep in even there. I have met some of your ‘duty’ people who have flung themselves so violently against the prejudices of society, or, at any rate, of good people, crying out all the time, ‘Duty, duty! It don’t matter to us what the world thinks,’ that they have given great offence where they might have avoided giving any, and have set up people’s backs against what is good and true.”“I dare say you have met such, dear Grace, and I think you may be talking to one of the class now,” said Miss Stansfield, laughing; “at least, my character and principles would naturally lead me in that direction, for, of course, we are all disposed to carry out our own views to an extreme, if we do not let common sense, enlightened by grace, preserve a proper balance. But, spite of this, I still feel that a high sense of duty in those who love our Saviour is the surest preservative against being carried away by a subtle selfishness, and is the making of the finest and most truly self-denying characters. If I am manifestly in the path of duty, what matters it what is said of me, or who says it? I may then go forward, not, indeed, arrogantly or defiantly—that would be unlike the great Master—but yet firmly and confidently, and God will set me right with the world and with his people in his own good time.”“Ah! I believe you are right,” said her friend, with a sigh. “I wish there were more of such true unselfishness amongst us; I wish I were such a character myself.”“And so you are, dear Grace, in the main. No one can possibly doubt your genuineness and sincerity. You have only just to step up on to the higher platform, and, as your heart’s gaze becomes more fixed on a Saviour known and loved, you will cease to think about how your self-denial looks in the eyes of others, and will feel the cross which you carry after Christ in the path of duty to be easy and his burden light.”“I shall not forget our conversation on this subject,” said Miss Willerly with tears in her eyes. “I always thought that I hated selfishness, but now I see that I have been blinded to my own. I suppose it is very difficult for us to see it in ourselves as it really is, especially in these days when there are so many attractive forms of self-denial. It occurred to me the other day what an odd thing it would be to see how a number of utterly selfish people would get on if thrown together for some weeks, with not a single unselfish person amongst them, and unable to get rid of one another’s company. I feel sure the result would teach an admirable lesson on the misery of a thoroughly selfish disposition.”“I think so too, Grace,” said her companion, much amused. “What do you say to putting a story or allegory together on the subject.”“Capital!” cried Miss Willerly; “it will be something quite in my line I will set about it at once. I shall be able to give myself some very seasonable raps on the knuckles as I go on, and perhaps I may be of use to some of my acquaintance, who might be induced to look through my performance in a friendly way.”“You must let me be the first to see it,” said her friend.“Oh, certainly; and you must give me your free and candid criticisms.”“Yes, I will do so; and I don’t doubt I shall find profit in the reading of it, and a little bit of myself in more than one of your characters.”A fortnight after this conversation Miss Stansfield received from her friend the promised story, which we give in the following chapter.

Mary Stansfield and Grace Willerly were sitting together, about three weeks after the above conversation, in an arbour in the garden attached to Lady Willerly’s house. Miss Stansfield had come to spend a day or two by special invitation, by way of getting a little change, which she much needed; her aunt having spared her without a murmur, and having accepted the services of a former domestic in her place.

“How very kind of your aunt to spare you!” said Grace to her friend; “I hardly expected it, knowing how much she depends upon you.”

“Oh yes!” was the reply: “you cannot tell, dear Grace, what a wonderful change has come over my dear aunt. And it is all owing, under God, to the loving faithfulness of our kind friend Colonel Dawson. I scarcely ever get a harsh word or a hard look now; and when I do, my aunt at once calls me to her, and asks me to forgive her. Oh, is it not wonderful? I am sure I blush with shame to think how little I deserve it.”

“Yes, it is very wonderful, dear Mary. Certainly our new neighbour is a most earnest and useful man; and he has shown his discernment, too, in getting hold of yourself to work for him in Bridgepath. But I am afraid you will find it very up-hill work; you’ll want the strength of a horse, the patience of Job, and the zeal of an apostle in such a place as that.”

“Certainly, I shall want the grace of an apostle,” said the other quietly; “but the work is very delightful, and is more than repaying me already for any little trouble or self-denial it may cost me.”

“It is very good of you to say so, Mary; I am afraid the work wouldn’t suit me. I don’t mind making sacrifices—indeed, I think I can truly say it is one of my chief pleasures to make them; but there must be something very depressing in the jog-trot sort of work you are called on to do. I don’t mind anything, so long as it has a little bit of dash in it; but I am afraid I should soon grow weary of a regular grind like yours.”

“Oh, but you are quite mistaken about my work at Bridgepath,” said the other, laughing. “There is nothing dull or monotonous about it; and it is such a happiness to see the light of God’s truth beginning to dawn on dark and troubled hearts. And there is one particularly interesting family—I mean John Price’s. You have heard, I dare say, that he was steward to the squire, and that he lost almost everything by his poor master’s extravagance. Poor man, he is bed-ridden now, and I fear had little comfort even from his Bible, for he seemed to have learned little from it but patience. But, oh! How he has brightened up, and his wife and daughter, too, now that they have been led to see that it is their privilege to work and sufferfromsalvation instead offorsalvation.”

“I don’t understand you,” interrupted Miss Willerly.

“Don’t you? Oh, it makes all the difference. Poor John Price has been reading his Bible, and bearing his troubles patiently, in the hope that at the end he may be accepted and saved through his Saviour’s merits. That is what I mean by workingforsalvation.”

“And what else, dear Mary, would you have him do?”

“O Grace! This is poor work indeed, working in view of a merely possible salvation. No! What he has learned now is to see that his Saviour, in whom he humbly and truly believes, has given him a present salvation; so that he, and his wife and daughter too, can now say, ‘We love him, because he first loved us.’ And so they work and suffer cheerfully, and even thankfully, from love to that Saviour who has already received them as his own. This is what I mean by workingfromsalvation. Surely we shall work more heartily for one of whom we know that hehassaved us, than for one of whom we know only that he has saved others, and may perhaps save us also in the end.”

“I see what you mean, dear Mary, but I never saw it so before. Such a view of God’s love to us personally must take the selfishness out of our good works, because what we do will be done just simply from love to Christ. It is a beautiful way of looking at God’s dealings with us.”

“Yes, Grace; and as true and scriptural as it is beautiful. It is just what God sees that we need, and furnishes us with the most constraining motive to serve him, and to deny self in his service.”

“I see it,” said Miss Willerly sadly and thoughtfully, after a pause. “I very much fear, dear Mary, that I have been greatly deceiving myself. I have been just simply building up a monument to my own honour and glory out of my heap of little daily crosses.”

“Nay, dear Grace, you are dealing too severely with yourself.”

“No, I think not. At any rate, I am sadly aware that not the love of Christ, but the love of human applause, has been the constraining motive in my acts of self-denial. I have made such a parade of my willingness to thwart my own will that I might please others, so that while I should have been startled to see a full-grown trumpeter at my side proclaiming my unselfishness, I have all the while been keeping in my service a little dwarf page, who has been sounding out my praises on his shrill whistle.”

“You judge yourself hardly, dear Grace; and yet, no doubt, self does enter largely even into our unselfishness. I am sure I have felt it, oh, how deeply! And specially just lately, since I have undertaken this work at Bridgepath.”

“You, dear Mary!”

“Yes, indeed. And I see now how wisely our heavenly Father ordered his discipline in my case. There was indeed a ‘needs-be’ in my dear aunt’s former harshness and irritability to me; but for that, and for her disparaging remarks on my conduct, I might have been more self-seeking than I am. But the discipline has been changed now, and I trust that the chastisement has not been wholly in vain. What we all want, I am sure, if we are to be true workers for God, is to lift our eyes from self, and keep them steadily fixed on Him who has done so much for us.”

“I am sure you are right,” said the other. “I know I wish to do right, and I feel a pleasure in crossing my own inclination when it will gratify others; but then my inmost look has been to the world and its approbation. ‘What will people say? What will people think?’ or, at any rate, ‘What will good people say and think?’ this has been the prominent thought in my heart, I fear.”

“Well, dear Grace, I suppose this is so, more or less, with us all. What we want, I think, and comparatively seldom find in these showy and surface days, is a high sense of duty, so that we just act as duty calls, let the world, or good people even, judge of us or speak of us as they please.”

“And yet, dear Mary, I think I see a little crevice through which self may creep in even there. I have met some of your ‘duty’ people who have flung themselves so violently against the prejudices of society, or, at any rate, of good people, crying out all the time, ‘Duty, duty! It don’t matter to us what the world thinks,’ that they have given great offence where they might have avoided giving any, and have set up people’s backs against what is good and true.”

“I dare say you have met such, dear Grace, and I think you may be talking to one of the class now,” said Miss Stansfield, laughing; “at least, my character and principles would naturally lead me in that direction, for, of course, we are all disposed to carry out our own views to an extreme, if we do not let common sense, enlightened by grace, preserve a proper balance. But, spite of this, I still feel that a high sense of duty in those who love our Saviour is the surest preservative against being carried away by a subtle selfishness, and is the making of the finest and most truly self-denying characters. If I am manifestly in the path of duty, what matters it what is said of me, or who says it? I may then go forward, not, indeed, arrogantly or defiantly—that would be unlike the great Master—but yet firmly and confidently, and God will set me right with the world and with his people in his own good time.”

“Ah! I believe you are right,” said her friend, with a sigh. “I wish there were more of such true unselfishness amongst us; I wish I were such a character myself.”

“And so you are, dear Grace, in the main. No one can possibly doubt your genuineness and sincerity. You have only just to step up on to the higher platform, and, as your heart’s gaze becomes more fixed on a Saviour known and loved, you will cease to think about how your self-denial looks in the eyes of others, and will feel the cross which you carry after Christ in the path of duty to be easy and his burden light.”

“I shall not forget our conversation on this subject,” said Miss Willerly with tears in her eyes. “I always thought that I hated selfishness, but now I see that I have been blinded to my own. I suppose it is very difficult for us to see it in ourselves as it really is, especially in these days when there are so many attractive forms of self-denial. It occurred to me the other day what an odd thing it would be to see how a number of utterly selfish people would get on if thrown together for some weeks, with not a single unselfish person amongst them, and unable to get rid of one another’s company. I feel sure the result would teach an admirable lesson on the misery of a thoroughly selfish disposition.”

“I think so too, Grace,” said her companion, much amused. “What do you say to putting a story or allegory together on the subject.”

“Capital!” cried Miss Willerly; “it will be something quite in my line I will set about it at once. I shall be able to give myself some very seasonable raps on the knuckles as I go on, and perhaps I may be of use to some of my acquaintance, who might be induced to look through my performance in a friendly way.”

“You must let me be the first to see it,” said her friend.

“Oh, certainly; and you must give me your free and candid criticisms.”

“Yes, I will do so; and I don’t doubt I shall find profit in the reading of it, and a little bit of myself in more than one of your characters.”

A fortnight after this conversation Miss Stansfield received from her friend the promised story, which we give in the following chapter.

Chapter Seven.The Selfish Islands.A certain Eastern despot, whose attention had been painfully drawn to the odious character of selfishness, by finding it exhibited in a very marked manner towards himself by some who had, in looking after their own interests, ventured to thwart the royal will, was resolved to get rid of all the most selfish people out of his capital. To that end he made proclamation that on a certain day he would give a grand banquet to all theunselfish people in the metropolis, nothing being needed for admittance to the feast but the personal application of any one laying claim to unselfishness to the lord chancellor for a ticket.The king took this course under the firm conviction that all the most selfish people, being utterly blinded by self-esteem to their own failing, would be the very persons most ready to claim admittance to the banquet; and in this expectation he was not disappointed. But he was a little staggered to find that about a thousand persons, of both sexes and of nearly all ages, applied at the office for tickets of admission and many of them such as had not made their appearance in public for many long years past. Thus, when the feast-day came, bed-ridden men and women arrived at the palace dressed out in silks and satins; gouty men hobbled in without their crutches; and multitudes who had long been incapacitated from doing anything but try the patience of their friends and indulge their own whims, made no difficulty of appearing among the guests. And it was strange, too, to see at the king’s table delicate ladies and chronic invalids, who were never met with at places of worship or benevolent meetings, because the cold or the heat, or their nerves or their lungs made it a duty for them to be keepers at home. There were also present about two hundred spoilt children, whose mothers considered them to be “dear unselfish little darlings,” and about an equal number of young ladies and young gentlemen, whose chief delight had consisted in spending their fathers’ money, and studying their own sweet persons in the looking-glass.Of course, the company behaved with due decorum at the banquet, especially as the king did them the honour of sitting down to table with them, the only exception being on the part of the spoilt children, whom not even the presence of royalty itself could restrain from personal encounters over the more attractive-looking dishes.The banquet over, the king rose and thus addressed his astonished guests:—“I have ascertained from my lord chancellor, whose secretary took down the names and addresses of you all when you applied for your tickets, that he has made careful inquiry into your several characters, and finds that you all belong to a class of persons who greatly trouble our city. You have accepted my invitation professedly as unselfish people, but your estimate of yourselves is the very reverse of that which is held by those who know you best. I have therefore resolved, for the good of the community generally, to transport the whole of you, for a period of six months, to the uninhabited island of Comoro, situate in the midst of the great lake, where you will find ample means for living in health, peace, and comfort, provided you are all and each willing to lay aside your selfishness, and to find your happiness in living for the good of others. And I trust that at the end of the six months, when steamers shall call for you at Comoro, you may all be spared to return to your homes improved in character, more useful members of society, and more fitted to contribute to the real prosperity of this kingdom.”Without waiting for a reply, which was not indeed attempted by any of the guests—for they remained for some moments speechless with amazement—the king retired from the banqueting hall; and the lord chancellor, motioning with his hand for attention, proceeded to state that each of the guests would be expected to be at the station on a day and at an hour specified on a ticket which each would receive; and that every one would be allowed to take with him or her a reasonable but limited amount of personal luggage, but no furniture or heavy and bulky articles. Steamers would be in readiness, at the Lakeside Terminus, to convey the passengers and their goods to the island; and, as no one would be permitted to decline the journey—for all knew that the king’s will was law—the guests would best consult their own interests and comfort by preparing for the removal with as little delay as possible.Having made this statement, the lord chancellor withdrew, leaving the company staring one at another in blank dismay. What was to be done? Nothing but to make the best of it; as for resistance, all knew that it would be useless, and remonstrance equally so. Even the infirm and sickly could hope for no exemption; for as their maladies had not hindered their attendance at the banquet, these could not be now admitted as a plea for excusing them from the removal. Many, indeed, of the young people were highly delighted with the prospect before them, especially the children, who were anxious to be off for Comoro there and then. As for their elders, they retired from the palace with varied feelings; some indignant, some conscience-stricken, and most prepared to lay the blame on some one or more of their neighbours. Indeed, two old gentlemen, who had been lodgers on different floors in the same house for years, but, in consequence of an old quarrel, had never spoken to one another for the greater part of that time, now blocked up one of the exits from the palace, as they stood face to face, furiously charging each other with being the guilty cause of the terrible calamity which had now fallen on themselves and on so many of their fellow-citizens.And now the day of departure had arrived, and the trains for the lake were duly filled with passengers; not, however, till many heartrending scenes had occurred in connection with the luggage. Two young ladies, bosom friends, having hired a van to convey their joint wardrobe and other ornamental effects to the station, were informed, to their tearful despair, that only about one-tenth of the goods could be conveyed to the island. Similarly, three or four fast young men entered the train in a state of desperation bordering on collapse, because the officials had peremptorily turned back a stud of hunters and half-a-dozen sporting dogs. But the most exciting scene of all occurred in the case of an old maiden lady, who, having brought a cart-load of personal necessaries and comforts, which were positively essential to her continued existence, and having been firmly refused the transmission of the greater part of them, declared with the utmost positiveness that the lord chancellor had himself expressly informed all the guests at the banquet that each was at liberty to take an unlimited quantity of goods; nor could any explanation convince her of her mistake. Let them say what they pleased, she had heard the wordunlimited with her own ears: and hearing was believing. The last case which caused any serious difficulty, and which really excited the pity of the porters, was that of an elderly gentleman unfortunate enough to be troubled with a liver, who changed various colours when informed that he must leave behind him an iron-bound box containing some four or five hundredweight of patent and other medicines.At length, all the trains having reached the Lakeside Terminus, the entire party of temporary exiles were duly and speedily conveyed in steamers to the island of Comoro, where they were put on shore with their goods.The climate of the island was delightful, and subject to but few variations, so that nothing was to be feared by the new-comers from inclemency of weather. Care had been also taken by the lord chancellor, to whom the carrying out of the details had been committed, that a sufficient number of tents should be ready for the use of those who chose to avail themselves of them, while building materials and tools had been duly provided, as well as an ample store of provisions.When the last steamer had discharged its passengers and cargo, proclamation was made by a herald that a commissioner from the king would visit Comoro once a month, to hear any complaints and record any misconduct; and that those who should be found guilty of any grave offence would receive condign punishment at the close of the term of banishment.The community was then left to follow its own devices. And what would these be? Of course the obvious thing was for each to look after “number one;” but he soon became painfully conscious that he could not do this without the help of “number two,” and that to obtain this help he must be willing to do his own part. One gentleman, indeed, apparently entirely unconscious of any other duty than that of taking care of himself, set to work at once to make himself as comfortable as circumstances would permit. Having selected the most roomy and convenient tent he could find, he removed his most easily portable possessions into it, and proceeded to regale himself on some cold provisions which he had brought with him. After these were finished, he rang violently several times a hand-bell which he had brought with him, expecting that his valet would at once answer the summons; but he soon found that he could not calculate on his servant’s attendance in Comoro. It was true that the man had come on the same steamer as his master, having been one of the guests at the royal banquet; but he had no thought now of looking after any one but himself, and was, when his master rang for him, busily engaged in a drinking-bout with a few like-minded companions.And what could the females do? The spoilt children had, of course, their mothers with them—for none but selfish mothers would spoil their children—and these mothers with their little ones were preparing to form themselves into a distinct community; but such a frightful contention and uproar arose amongst the children themselves, that before nightfall their parents had to abandon their original idea and seek separate homes among their neighbours. As for the young ladies, they soon managed to enlist the services of the female domestics who had come to the island, and then placed themselves under the protection of two elderly maiden sisters, on the express understanding that their guardians were to be handsomely remunerated for looking after them.The young gentlemen, having no intention to exert themselves unnecessarily, lounged about with cigars in their mouths, and voted the whole thing “a bore;” while several of the elders of both sexes, suppressing for the time the exhibition of their specialities of selfishness, indulged in a prolonged chorus of grumbling and mutual condolence. But, in one way or other, all had been fed and housed before midnight, and sleep buried for a while in forgetfulness the troubles of the bewildered settlers on Comoro.We pass over the first month, and how does the commissioner, on his arrival at the island, find the exiles bearing their lot? Proclamation was at once made that those who had anything to complain of should meet him in a spacious marquee which he had caused to be set up on a large open piece of ground near the shore, immediately on his arrival. He was rather dismayed, however, when he found the place of hearing crowded without a moment’s delay by nine-tenths of the islanders, while many were clamouring outside because unable to obtain admission. After a few moments’ consideration, he ordered his officers to clear the marquee, and then to admit a hundred of the more elderly of each sex. This was done with some considerable difficulty, and the commissioner then addressed himself to a crabbed-looking old gentleman, who had elbowed his way to the front with a vigour hardly to have been looked for in one of his years and apparent infirmities.“May I request, sir, to be informed what it is you have to complain of?” asked the commissioner.“I complain of everything and everybody,” was the reply.“Is thatallyou have to complain of?” the commissioner then asked. Before the old gentleman could frame an answer to this second question, the judge, having paused to give a few moments for reply, exclaimed, “Officer, dismiss this complainant;” and the old man was forthwith removed from the tent in a state of boiling indignation.“And now, madam,” continued the commissioner, addressing a middle-aged lady of dignified mien and commanding stature, “may I ask what is your complaint?”“I complain, sir,” replied the lady sternly, “of general neglect and ill-treatment.”“Excuse me, madam,” was the judge’s reply, “but I can see no evidence of this in your personal appearance. So far from it, that, having met you not unfrequently in the streets of our city, I am constrained to congratulate you on the manifest improvement in health which you have gained from a month’s residence in this delightful climate.—Officer, conduct this lady with all due ceremony to the outside of our court.”“And you, sir,” speaking to a gentleman of very severe countenance, who had been used at home to “show his slaves how choleric he was, and make his bondmen tremble,”—“let me hear what charge you have to allege.”“Charge, Mr Commissioner! Charge enough, I’m sure! Why, I can’t get any one to mind a word that I say.”“Then, I am sure, sir, the fault must be wholly or for the most part your own.—Officer, remove him.”“Has no one anything more definite to complain of?” he again asked, looking round the assembly, which by this time had begun to thin, as it became obvious to all present that no attention would be given to mere vague grumblings.“I’m sure it’s very hard,” sighed a knot of young ladies, who had listened from the outside to what had been going on, and were afraid to speak out more plainly. “We shall be moped to death if we’re kept here any longer,” muttered one or two fast young men, shrugging their shoulders. But to these remarks the commissioner turned a deaf ear; and no one coming forward to lodge any distinct charge against another, the court broke up, and the commissioner proceeded to make a tour of inspection among the islanders.He found, as he had indeed expected to find, that the necessity for exertion, and the peculiarity of the circumstances in which they were now placed, had already got rid of a good deal of the selfishness which had only formed a sort of crust over the characters of many who, in the main, were not without kind and generous feelings; so that the looking after the due supply of provisions, and the cooking of them and serving them to the different families, had been cheerfully undertaken by a duly organised body of young and middle-aged workers of both sexes,—the result of which was, not only an improvement in character in the workers themselves, but also a drawing forth of expressions of gratitude from some who formerly took all attentions as a right, but now had been made to feel their dependence on their fellows. And it was pleasant to see how cordially working men and women were united in striving for the good of the community in conjunction with those who had hitherto occupied a higher social position than themselves.Some, indeed, of the lower orders, whose tastes had been of an utterly low and degraded cast, had been summarily ejected from the island after they had more than once endangered the lives and stores of the islanders in their brutal drunken sprees. They had talked big, indeed, and made at first a show of resistance; but the general body of the exiles had authorised a powerful force of young and middle-aged men to take them into custody, and convey them on a raft, constructed for the purpose, to an island some ten miles distant. Here the rioters were left with a sufficient supply of provisions; a warning being given them that, should they attempt to return to Comoro, they would be put in irons, and kept in custody till they could be brought up before the commissioner. The island being thus happily rid of this disturbing element, there was, at any rate, outward peace among the inhabitants of Comoro, though, of course, there was yet abundance of discontent and bitterness beneath the surface in the hearts of many.As the commissioner was making his way to the shore preparatory to his return to the mainland, he passed a tent from which there issued such deep-fetched sighs that, having obtained permission to enter, he inquired of the inmate the cause of so much trouble.“Ah, sir!” replied the poor sufferer, who was a man some sixty years of age, with grey hair, and a countenance whose expression was one of mingled shrewdness, discontent, and ill-temper, “our sovereign little knows the cruelty he has been guilty of in sending me all alone to a place like this.”“How alone, my friend?” asked the other; “you have plenty of companions within reach.”“Why, sir,” was the poor man’s reply, “I have been torn from the best and most loving of wives—I who am so entirely dependent on her for my happiness—I who love her so tenderly;—alas! Wretched man that I am, what shall I do?”“Do you know this gentleman?” said the commissioner, turning to his secretary, who had accompanied him into the tent.“I know him well, your excellency,” was the reply; “and a more selfish man does not exist. He tells the truth, however, when he says that he is entirely dependent on his wife for his happiness; but it was impossible for her to accompany him hither, as she is the most unselfish of women. On her he has ever made it a practice to vent his chief spleen and bitterness, exacting from her at the same time perpetual service, and rarely repaying her with anything but sneers and insults, holding her up even to the scorn and ridicule of his acquaintance.”As the secretary uttered these words, a burning blush covered the face of the unhappy man, who ceased his sighs and bent his head upon his hands.“My friend,” said the commissioner gently, “I am truly sorry for you; but I am in hopes that your solitude will work for your good. Think over the past with contrition, and be up and joining in some useful work for the good of others; and when you return home, treat your injured, long-suffering, and admirable wife as a human being, a lady, a companion, a friend, an equal, and not, as you have hitherto done, like a slave or a brute beast.”There was no reply, and the commissioner hastened to the shore. He was about to step into the boat that was to convey him to the steamer, when a young man of dandified appearance and affected manner requested to know whether he could have one moment’s private interview with the commissioner before his departure.“Well, sir,” said the other, somewhat impatiently, “you must be brief, for I am anxious to lose no time, as business matters at home are pressing.”“Sir,” said the young man, dropping, at the same time, his affected drawl, “my case is a hard one, and I would ask if you could not grant me a passage home in the vessel by which you are returning.”“On what grounds?” asked the commissioner.“Why, sir, I have an old mother and a sister, both in infirm health, who can hardly get on without me; and it is only just that I should be allowed to return, as my mother, who is a widow, has no other son.”“Do you know this young man?” inquired the commissioner, turning to his secretary.“Far too well, your excellency; he is the clog of his home, the laughing-stock of his companions behind his back, and is despised by all wise and sensible people. He has had situation after situation offered him, in which he could have earned an honest and respectable livelihood, but he has declined one after another as not to his taste. He is far too much of a gentleman, in his own estimation, to enter upon any work that will involve any steady exertion; but he does not scruple to sponge upon his poor mother, to whose support he contributes nothing, and who has barely enough to meet her own needs, while he borrows—that is, appropriates—the savings of his delicate sister, who, though in feeble health, has undertaken tuition, because this brother of hers is too fine a gentleman to live in anything but idleness, and spends those hard-earned savings of hers as pocket-money on his own elegant pleasures and follies.”“Contemptible wretch!” exclaimed the commissioner with flashing eyes; “stay where you are, and learn, if it is possible, by the end of these six months, to see that you have a duty to others as well as to your own despicable self.”Amazed at this exposure and reply, the young man dropped his eye-glass from his eye, and his cigar from his mouth, and stood staring in bewilderment at the commissioner as he sprang into the boat and made for the steamer which was to convey him home.Only one other incident worth recording happened during the commissioner’s subsequent visits; for the discipline involved in their banishment had produced the good result of making the various exiles feel the necessity of bearing and forbearing, giving and taking, and of each doing his and her part in contributing to the comfort and happiness of the whole. The incident referred to happened during the commissioner’s third monthly visit.Soon after his arrival he received a respectful note from the secretary of a Ladies’ Working Committee, requesting him to receive a deputation from their society at the place of audience. This request having been graciously acceded to, and the deputation received by his excellency in due form, the spokeswoman of the party, a young lady in spectacles, expressed the conviction, on behalf of herself and companions, that a sad but no doubt unintentional mistake had been made by his majesty in including themselves in the party sent to Comoro. They were associated, and had been so for years past, as workers together for many benevolent objects and therefore this sending of them to the “Selfish Island” was a double wrong; for it not only threw a slur on their society, whose members were banded together for the purpose of working for the good of others, but it also deprived many suffering ones at home of the help and comfort they had been used to derive from the united and self-denying efforts of these their true and loving friends.The commissioner having listened with due politeness and attention to this address, assured the deputation that the king would be sorry to have done them any wrong, should such prove to have been the case, and that he would duly report the matter to his majesty. He could not, however, release them on the present occasion; but he hoped, after having made full inquiry into the case on his return, that he should be able to bring them, on his next monthly visit, the welcome permission to leave the island.Having returned to Comoro in due time, his first care was to request the Ladies’ Working Committee to meet him again by deputation. This was accordingly done, and the commissioner addressed them as follows:—“I exceedingly regret, ladies, that I cannot promise you any shortening of your time of banishment. His majesty has received your complaint, and has caused due investigation to be made; and the result of that investigation has not led him to make any relaxation in your case. For it has been clearly ascertained that the good works and charitable deeds of which you informed me on my last visit, consisted in your attending to work to which you were not called, to the neglect of duties which plainly belonged to you; and that for any seeming sacrifice you made in the bestowal of your time and labour, you more than repaid yourselves in the applause which you managed to obtain from a troop of ignorant or interested admirers. It would, in fact, appear that your benevolence and labour for others involved no real self-denial in it, but was only, after all, another but less obvious form of selfishness. His majesty admires and respects nothing more than genuine co-operation in working for the benefit of the suffering and the needy; but in your case this stamp of genuineness is found to be wanting. We trust, however, that your present work may prove to be of a better character, and that at the expiry of your exile you will return home prepared to do good from truly pure and unselfish motives.”Murmurs followed, as they had accompanied, this speech, but the commissioner was inexorable.And now at last the six months had come to an end, and the exiles of Comoro flocked to the steamers which were to convey them back to the mainland. The discipline had been with most very salutary. Roughing it for the first time in their lives had been the means with many of smoothing out the wrinkles of grosser selfishness from their characters. Others had learned to look at things through their neighbours’ eyes, and thus had come to think less about themselves and about consulting their own pleasure merely. Some also who had moved up and down in a groove all their previous lives, and had made all about them miserable or uncomfortable by their unbending and ungracious habits, had learned the wisdom, and happiness, too, of bending aside a little from the path of their own prejudices to accommodate a neighbour. Many likewise, having been forced to do things of which, on their first landing on Comoro, they had loudly proclaimed themselves physically incapable, now found, to no one’s surprise so much as their own, that their former impossibilities could henceforth be performed by themselves with ease. While a few, who had been in the habit of glorying in unselfishness as their strong point, had come to detect their own weakness when they got little or no credit from their neighbours for their ambitious acts of self-denial. And one thing was specially worthy of remark,—so far from suffering in health, everyone returned home greatly improved in looks and vigour by this compulsory stay in the clear and bracing atmosphere of Comoro. As for the hypochondriacal gentleman, who had felt so keenly the refusal to be allowed to take his packing-case of medicines with him, he had returned in such a state of spirits that he at once sold his extensive stock of drugs by auction, and gave the money to an hospital for incurables. And, indeed, so great was the gain to the metropolis, in the first place by the absence of the exiles, and afterwards by their altered character, for the most part, on their return to their homes, that the king, when talking over the matter with the commissioner,—whom he had selected for the post as, by general acknowledgment, the most upright, downright, straightforward, honest-minded man in his kingdom,—declared that he should like to try the atmosphere of Comoro himself some day, as it was proved to be so healthy and improving.“I most heartily advise your majesty to do so,” said the commissioner, somewhat bluntly; “and if your majesty will only take the entire cabinet with you, I have little doubt but that the benefit to yourself and your ministers will be most heartily acknowledged and thoroughly appreciated by your subjects on your majesty’s auspicious return.”

A certain Eastern despot, whose attention had been painfully drawn to the odious character of selfishness, by finding it exhibited in a very marked manner towards himself by some who had, in looking after their own interests, ventured to thwart the royal will, was resolved to get rid of all the most selfish people out of his capital. To that end he made proclamation that on a certain day he would give a grand banquet to all theunselfish people in the metropolis, nothing being needed for admittance to the feast but the personal application of any one laying claim to unselfishness to the lord chancellor for a ticket.

The king took this course under the firm conviction that all the most selfish people, being utterly blinded by self-esteem to their own failing, would be the very persons most ready to claim admittance to the banquet; and in this expectation he was not disappointed. But he was a little staggered to find that about a thousand persons, of both sexes and of nearly all ages, applied at the office for tickets of admission and many of them such as had not made their appearance in public for many long years past. Thus, when the feast-day came, bed-ridden men and women arrived at the palace dressed out in silks and satins; gouty men hobbled in without their crutches; and multitudes who had long been incapacitated from doing anything but try the patience of their friends and indulge their own whims, made no difficulty of appearing among the guests. And it was strange, too, to see at the king’s table delicate ladies and chronic invalids, who were never met with at places of worship or benevolent meetings, because the cold or the heat, or their nerves or their lungs made it a duty for them to be keepers at home. There were also present about two hundred spoilt children, whose mothers considered them to be “dear unselfish little darlings,” and about an equal number of young ladies and young gentlemen, whose chief delight had consisted in spending their fathers’ money, and studying their own sweet persons in the looking-glass.

Of course, the company behaved with due decorum at the banquet, especially as the king did them the honour of sitting down to table with them, the only exception being on the part of the spoilt children, whom not even the presence of royalty itself could restrain from personal encounters over the more attractive-looking dishes.

The banquet over, the king rose and thus addressed his astonished guests:—

“I have ascertained from my lord chancellor, whose secretary took down the names and addresses of you all when you applied for your tickets, that he has made careful inquiry into your several characters, and finds that you all belong to a class of persons who greatly trouble our city. You have accepted my invitation professedly as unselfish people, but your estimate of yourselves is the very reverse of that which is held by those who know you best. I have therefore resolved, for the good of the community generally, to transport the whole of you, for a period of six months, to the uninhabited island of Comoro, situate in the midst of the great lake, where you will find ample means for living in health, peace, and comfort, provided you are all and each willing to lay aside your selfishness, and to find your happiness in living for the good of others. And I trust that at the end of the six months, when steamers shall call for you at Comoro, you may all be spared to return to your homes improved in character, more useful members of society, and more fitted to contribute to the real prosperity of this kingdom.”

Without waiting for a reply, which was not indeed attempted by any of the guests—for they remained for some moments speechless with amazement—the king retired from the banqueting hall; and the lord chancellor, motioning with his hand for attention, proceeded to state that each of the guests would be expected to be at the station on a day and at an hour specified on a ticket which each would receive; and that every one would be allowed to take with him or her a reasonable but limited amount of personal luggage, but no furniture or heavy and bulky articles. Steamers would be in readiness, at the Lakeside Terminus, to convey the passengers and their goods to the island; and, as no one would be permitted to decline the journey—for all knew that the king’s will was law—the guests would best consult their own interests and comfort by preparing for the removal with as little delay as possible.

Having made this statement, the lord chancellor withdrew, leaving the company staring one at another in blank dismay. What was to be done? Nothing but to make the best of it; as for resistance, all knew that it would be useless, and remonstrance equally so. Even the infirm and sickly could hope for no exemption; for as their maladies had not hindered their attendance at the banquet, these could not be now admitted as a plea for excusing them from the removal. Many, indeed, of the young people were highly delighted with the prospect before them, especially the children, who were anxious to be off for Comoro there and then. As for their elders, they retired from the palace with varied feelings; some indignant, some conscience-stricken, and most prepared to lay the blame on some one or more of their neighbours. Indeed, two old gentlemen, who had been lodgers on different floors in the same house for years, but, in consequence of an old quarrel, had never spoken to one another for the greater part of that time, now blocked up one of the exits from the palace, as they stood face to face, furiously charging each other with being the guilty cause of the terrible calamity which had now fallen on themselves and on so many of their fellow-citizens.

And now the day of departure had arrived, and the trains for the lake were duly filled with passengers; not, however, till many heartrending scenes had occurred in connection with the luggage. Two young ladies, bosom friends, having hired a van to convey their joint wardrobe and other ornamental effects to the station, were informed, to their tearful despair, that only about one-tenth of the goods could be conveyed to the island. Similarly, three or four fast young men entered the train in a state of desperation bordering on collapse, because the officials had peremptorily turned back a stud of hunters and half-a-dozen sporting dogs. But the most exciting scene of all occurred in the case of an old maiden lady, who, having brought a cart-load of personal necessaries and comforts, which were positively essential to her continued existence, and having been firmly refused the transmission of the greater part of them, declared with the utmost positiveness that the lord chancellor had himself expressly informed all the guests at the banquet that each was at liberty to take an unlimited quantity of goods; nor could any explanation convince her of her mistake. Let them say what they pleased, she had heard the wordunlimited with her own ears: and hearing was believing. The last case which caused any serious difficulty, and which really excited the pity of the porters, was that of an elderly gentleman unfortunate enough to be troubled with a liver, who changed various colours when informed that he must leave behind him an iron-bound box containing some four or five hundredweight of patent and other medicines.

At length, all the trains having reached the Lakeside Terminus, the entire party of temporary exiles were duly and speedily conveyed in steamers to the island of Comoro, where they were put on shore with their goods.

The climate of the island was delightful, and subject to but few variations, so that nothing was to be feared by the new-comers from inclemency of weather. Care had been also taken by the lord chancellor, to whom the carrying out of the details had been committed, that a sufficient number of tents should be ready for the use of those who chose to avail themselves of them, while building materials and tools had been duly provided, as well as an ample store of provisions.

When the last steamer had discharged its passengers and cargo, proclamation was made by a herald that a commissioner from the king would visit Comoro once a month, to hear any complaints and record any misconduct; and that those who should be found guilty of any grave offence would receive condign punishment at the close of the term of banishment.

The community was then left to follow its own devices. And what would these be? Of course the obvious thing was for each to look after “number one;” but he soon became painfully conscious that he could not do this without the help of “number two,” and that to obtain this help he must be willing to do his own part. One gentleman, indeed, apparently entirely unconscious of any other duty than that of taking care of himself, set to work at once to make himself as comfortable as circumstances would permit. Having selected the most roomy and convenient tent he could find, he removed his most easily portable possessions into it, and proceeded to regale himself on some cold provisions which he had brought with him. After these were finished, he rang violently several times a hand-bell which he had brought with him, expecting that his valet would at once answer the summons; but he soon found that he could not calculate on his servant’s attendance in Comoro. It was true that the man had come on the same steamer as his master, having been one of the guests at the royal banquet; but he had no thought now of looking after any one but himself, and was, when his master rang for him, busily engaged in a drinking-bout with a few like-minded companions.

And what could the females do? The spoilt children had, of course, their mothers with them—for none but selfish mothers would spoil their children—and these mothers with their little ones were preparing to form themselves into a distinct community; but such a frightful contention and uproar arose amongst the children themselves, that before nightfall their parents had to abandon their original idea and seek separate homes among their neighbours. As for the young ladies, they soon managed to enlist the services of the female domestics who had come to the island, and then placed themselves under the protection of two elderly maiden sisters, on the express understanding that their guardians were to be handsomely remunerated for looking after them.

The young gentlemen, having no intention to exert themselves unnecessarily, lounged about with cigars in their mouths, and voted the whole thing “a bore;” while several of the elders of both sexes, suppressing for the time the exhibition of their specialities of selfishness, indulged in a prolonged chorus of grumbling and mutual condolence. But, in one way or other, all had been fed and housed before midnight, and sleep buried for a while in forgetfulness the troubles of the bewildered settlers on Comoro.

We pass over the first month, and how does the commissioner, on his arrival at the island, find the exiles bearing their lot? Proclamation was at once made that those who had anything to complain of should meet him in a spacious marquee which he had caused to be set up on a large open piece of ground near the shore, immediately on his arrival. He was rather dismayed, however, when he found the place of hearing crowded without a moment’s delay by nine-tenths of the islanders, while many were clamouring outside because unable to obtain admission. After a few moments’ consideration, he ordered his officers to clear the marquee, and then to admit a hundred of the more elderly of each sex. This was done with some considerable difficulty, and the commissioner then addressed himself to a crabbed-looking old gentleman, who had elbowed his way to the front with a vigour hardly to have been looked for in one of his years and apparent infirmities.

“May I request, sir, to be informed what it is you have to complain of?” asked the commissioner.

“I complain of everything and everybody,” was the reply.

“Is thatallyou have to complain of?” the commissioner then asked. Before the old gentleman could frame an answer to this second question, the judge, having paused to give a few moments for reply, exclaimed, “Officer, dismiss this complainant;” and the old man was forthwith removed from the tent in a state of boiling indignation.

“And now, madam,” continued the commissioner, addressing a middle-aged lady of dignified mien and commanding stature, “may I ask what is your complaint?”

“I complain, sir,” replied the lady sternly, “of general neglect and ill-treatment.”

“Excuse me, madam,” was the judge’s reply, “but I can see no evidence of this in your personal appearance. So far from it, that, having met you not unfrequently in the streets of our city, I am constrained to congratulate you on the manifest improvement in health which you have gained from a month’s residence in this delightful climate.—Officer, conduct this lady with all due ceremony to the outside of our court.”

“And you, sir,” speaking to a gentleman of very severe countenance, who had been used at home to “show his slaves how choleric he was, and make his bondmen tremble,”—“let me hear what charge you have to allege.”

“Charge, Mr Commissioner! Charge enough, I’m sure! Why, I can’t get any one to mind a word that I say.”

“Then, I am sure, sir, the fault must be wholly or for the most part your own.—Officer, remove him.”

“Has no one anything more definite to complain of?” he again asked, looking round the assembly, which by this time had begun to thin, as it became obvious to all present that no attention would be given to mere vague grumblings.

“I’m sure it’s very hard,” sighed a knot of young ladies, who had listened from the outside to what had been going on, and were afraid to speak out more plainly. “We shall be moped to death if we’re kept here any longer,” muttered one or two fast young men, shrugging their shoulders. But to these remarks the commissioner turned a deaf ear; and no one coming forward to lodge any distinct charge against another, the court broke up, and the commissioner proceeded to make a tour of inspection among the islanders.

He found, as he had indeed expected to find, that the necessity for exertion, and the peculiarity of the circumstances in which they were now placed, had already got rid of a good deal of the selfishness which had only formed a sort of crust over the characters of many who, in the main, were not without kind and generous feelings; so that the looking after the due supply of provisions, and the cooking of them and serving them to the different families, had been cheerfully undertaken by a duly organised body of young and middle-aged workers of both sexes,—the result of which was, not only an improvement in character in the workers themselves, but also a drawing forth of expressions of gratitude from some who formerly took all attentions as a right, but now had been made to feel their dependence on their fellows. And it was pleasant to see how cordially working men and women were united in striving for the good of the community in conjunction with those who had hitherto occupied a higher social position than themselves.

Some, indeed, of the lower orders, whose tastes had been of an utterly low and degraded cast, had been summarily ejected from the island after they had more than once endangered the lives and stores of the islanders in their brutal drunken sprees. They had talked big, indeed, and made at first a show of resistance; but the general body of the exiles had authorised a powerful force of young and middle-aged men to take them into custody, and convey them on a raft, constructed for the purpose, to an island some ten miles distant. Here the rioters were left with a sufficient supply of provisions; a warning being given them that, should they attempt to return to Comoro, they would be put in irons, and kept in custody till they could be brought up before the commissioner. The island being thus happily rid of this disturbing element, there was, at any rate, outward peace among the inhabitants of Comoro, though, of course, there was yet abundance of discontent and bitterness beneath the surface in the hearts of many.

As the commissioner was making his way to the shore preparatory to his return to the mainland, he passed a tent from which there issued such deep-fetched sighs that, having obtained permission to enter, he inquired of the inmate the cause of so much trouble.

“Ah, sir!” replied the poor sufferer, who was a man some sixty years of age, with grey hair, and a countenance whose expression was one of mingled shrewdness, discontent, and ill-temper, “our sovereign little knows the cruelty he has been guilty of in sending me all alone to a place like this.”

“How alone, my friend?” asked the other; “you have plenty of companions within reach.”

“Why, sir,” was the poor man’s reply, “I have been torn from the best and most loving of wives—I who am so entirely dependent on her for my happiness—I who love her so tenderly;—alas! Wretched man that I am, what shall I do?”

“Do you know this gentleman?” said the commissioner, turning to his secretary, who had accompanied him into the tent.

“I know him well, your excellency,” was the reply; “and a more selfish man does not exist. He tells the truth, however, when he says that he is entirely dependent on his wife for his happiness; but it was impossible for her to accompany him hither, as she is the most unselfish of women. On her he has ever made it a practice to vent his chief spleen and bitterness, exacting from her at the same time perpetual service, and rarely repaying her with anything but sneers and insults, holding her up even to the scorn and ridicule of his acquaintance.”

As the secretary uttered these words, a burning blush covered the face of the unhappy man, who ceased his sighs and bent his head upon his hands.

“My friend,” said the commissioner gently, “I am truly sorry for you; but I am in hopes that your solitude will work for your good. Think over the past with contrition, and be up and joining in some useful work for the good of others; and when you return home, treat your injured, long-suffering, and admirable wife as a human being, a lady, a companion, a friend, an equal, and not, as you have hitherto done, like a slave or a brute beast.”

There was no reply, and the commissioner hastened to the shore. He was about to step into the boat that was to convey him to the steamer, when a young man of dandified appearance and affected manner requested to know whether he could have one moment’s private interview with the commissioner before his departure.

“Well, sir,” said the other, somewhat impatiently, “you must be brief, for I am anxious to lose no time, as business matters at home are pressing.”

“Sir,” said the young man, dropping, at the same time, his affected drawl, “my case is a hard one, and I would ask if you could not grant me a passage home in the vessel by which you are returning.”

“On what grounds?” asked the commissioner.

“Why, sir, I have an old mother and a sister, both in infirm health, who can hardly get on without me; and it is only just that I should be allowed to return, as my mother, who is a widow, has no other son.”

“Do you know this young man?” inquired the commissioner, turning to his secretary.

“Far too well, your excellency; he is the clog of his home, the laughing-stock of his companions behind his back, and is despised by all wise and sensible people. He has had situation after situation offered him, in which he could have earned an honest and respectable livelihood, but he has declined one after another as not to his taste. He is far too much of a gentleman, in his own estimation, to enter upon any work that will involve any steady exertion; but he does not scruple to sponge upon his poor mother, to whose support he contributes nothing, and who has barely enough to meet her own needs, while he borrows—that is, appropriates—the savings of his delicate sister, who, though in feeble health, has undertaken tuition, because this brother of hers is too fine a gentleman to live in anything but idleness, and spends those hard-earned savings of hers as pocket-money on his own elegant pleasures and follies.”

“Contemptible wretch!” exclaimed the commissioner with flashing eyes; “stay where you are, and learn, if it is possible, by the end of these six months, to see that you have a duty to others as well as to your own despicable self.”

Amazed at this exposure and reply, the young man dropped his eye-glass from his eye, and his cigar from his mouth, and stood staring in bewilderment at the commissioner as he sprang into the boat and made for the steamer which was to convey him home.

Only one other incident worth recording happened during the commissioner’s subsequent visits; for the discipline involved in their banishment had produced the good result of making the various exiles feel the necessity of bearing and forbearing, giving and taking, and of each doing his and her part in contributing to the comfort and happiness of the whole. The incident referred to happened during the commissioner’s third monthly visit.

Soon after his arrival he received a respectful note from the secretary of a Ladies’ Working Committee, requesting him to receive a deputation from their society at the place of audience. This request having been graciously acceded to, and the deputation received by his excellency in due form, the spokeswoman of the party, a young lady in spectacles, expressed the conviction, on behalf of herself and companions, that a sad but no doubt unintentional mistake had been made by his majesty in including themselves in the party sent to Comoro. They were associated, and had been so for years past, as workers together for many benevolent objects and therefore this sending of them to the “Selfish Island” was a double wrong; for it not only threw a slur on their society, whose members were banded together for the purpose of working for the good of others, but it also deprived many suffering ones at home of the help and comfort they had been used to derive from the united and self-denying efforts of these their true and loving friends.

The commissioner having listened with due politeness and attention to this address, assured the deputation that the king would be sorry to have done them any wrong, should such prove to have been the case, and that he would duly report the matter to his majesty. He could not, however, release them on the present occasion; but he hoped, after having made full inquiry into the case on his return, that he should be able to bring them, on his next monthly visit, the welcome permission to leave the island.

Having returned to Comoro in due time, his first care was to request the Ladies’ Working Committee to meet him again by deputation. This was accordingly done, and the commissioner addressed them as follows:—

“I exceedingly regret, ladies, that I cannot promise you any shortening of your time of banishment. His majesty has received your complaint, and has caused due investigation to be made; and the result of that investigation has not led him to make any relaxation in your case. For it has been clearly ascertained that the good works and charitable deeds of which you informed me on my last visit, consisted in your attending to work to which you were not called, to the neglect of duties which plainly belonged to you; and that for any seeming sacrifice you made in the bestowal of your time and labour, you more than repaid yourselves in the applause which you managed to obtain from a troop of ignorant or interested admirers. It would, in fact, appear that your benevolence and labour for others involved no real self-denial in it, but was only, after all, another but less obvious form of selfishness. His majesty admires and respects nothing more than genuine co-operation in working for the benefit of the suffering and the needy; but in your case this stamp of genuineness is found to be wanting. We trust, however, that your present work may prove to be of a better character, and that at the expiry of your exile you will return home prepared to do good from truly pure and unselfish motives.”

Murmurs followed, as they had accompanied, this speech, but the commissioner was inexorable.

And now at last the six months had come to an end, and the exiles of Comoro flocked to the steamers which were to convey them back to the mainland. The discipline had been with most very salutary. Roughing it for the first time in their lives had been the means with many of smoothing out the wrinkles of grosser selfishness from their characters. Others had learned to look at things through their neighbours’ eyes, and thus had come to think less about themselves and about consulting their own pleasure merely. Some also who had moved up and down in a groove all their previous lives, and had made all about them miserable or uncomfortable by their unbending and ungracious habits, had learned the wisdom, and happiness, too, of bending aside a little from the path of their own prejudices to accommodate a neighbour. Many likewise, having been forced to do things of which, on their first landing on Comoro, they had loudly proclaimed themselves physically incapable, now found, to no one’s surprise so much as their own, that their former impossibilities could henceforth be performed by themselves with ease. While a few, who had been in the habit of glorying in unselfishness as their strong point, had come to detect their own weakness when they got little or no credit from their neighbours for their ambitious acts of self-denial. And one thing was specially worthy of remark,—so far from suffering in health, everyone returned home greatly improved in looks and vigour by this compulsory stay in the clear and bracing atmosphere of Comoro. As for the hypochondriacal gentleman, who had felt so keenly the refusal to be allowed to take his packing-case of medicines with him, he had returned in such a state of spirits that he at once sold his extensive stock of drugs by auction, and gave the money to an hospital for incurables. And, indeed, so great was the gain to the metropolis, in the first place by the absence of the exiles, and afterwards by their altered character, for the most part, on their return to their homes, that the king, when talking over the matter with the commissioner,—whom he had selected for the post as, by general acknowledgment, the most upright, downright, straightforward, honest-minded man in his kingdom,—declared that he should like to try the atmosphere of Comoro himself some day, as it was proved to be so healthy and improving.

“I most heartily advise your majesty to do so,” said the commissioner, somewhat bluntly; “and if your majesty will only take the entire cabinet with you, I have little doubt but that the benefit to yourself and your ministers will be most heartily acknowledged and thoroughly appreciated by your subjects on your majesty’s auspicious return.”

Chapter Eight.A Little Mysterious.Mary Stansfield pursued her quiet work at Bridgepath amongst the poor, being welcomed by all, but by none so cordially as by John Price and his family, who seemed quite different people now from what they used to be. And why? Just because they had exchanged resignation for God’s peace. Their characters and conduct were outwardly the same; but there was a new light in them and reflected from them, even the light that shines in hearts where Jesus dwells as a Saviour known and loved, a light which brightens the heavy clouds of earthly sadness and spans them with a rainbow of immortal hope. And not only so, but, in consequence of the entrance of this purer light, a change for the better was taking place in the bodily health of the poor bed-ridden man—for a wounded spirit had had a good deal to do with his physical infirmities—so that there seemed a likelihood that he would be able in time to leave his sick-bed and go forth once more, not indeed to laborious work, but to fill some light post which the colonel had in store for him.It was on a lovely afternoon that he was sitting up in his arm-chair, dressed in clothes which he had never thought to put on again. He was listening to the gentle but earnest voice of Mary Stansfield, as she read to him from the Word of God, and spoke a few loving and cheering words of her own upon the passage she had selected. A shadow fell across her book; she looked up. The colonel and his nephew stood in the open doorway.“Don’t let us interrupt you, Miss Stansfield,” said the former; “I was only looking round with my nephew, who has not been here before, to see how things are going on in Bridgepath. We will call again!”They passed on, and Miss Stansfield resumed her reading. But somehow or other John Price’s attention seemed to wander—he looked disturbed, and fidgeted in his chair; and so his visitor, thinking that he had been read to as long as he could hear with comfort and profit in his weak state, closed the book, and rose to leave.“Oh, don’t go, miss!” cried the old man in a distressed voice. “I’m so sorry; but something as I can’t exactly explain just took away my thoughts and troubled me when the colonel came to the door. But go on, go on, miss; I’m never tired of hearing the good news from your lips.”“No, John,” replied Miss Stansfield; “I think we shall do for to-day. You are not strong enough yet to bear much strain of mind or body; and Colonel Dawson will be coming in directly, and will like to have a word with you, and so, I am sure, will Mr Horace; so I will say good-bye.”The other looked scared and bewildered, and made no reply. “Poor John!” said his kind visitor to herself, as she left the cottage and went on her way; “I am afraid I have tired him. And yet I think there must be something more than that which troubles him.”A few minutes later the colonel and his nephew entered John Price’s house. “Come in, Horace,” said Colonel Dawson; “you have not yet been introduced to one who will, I hope, be spared to be a great helper in the good work in Bridgepath, though he does not look much like a worker at present. But the Lord has been doing great things for him already, and, I doubt not, means to do greater things for him yet.”The young man stepped forward up to the old man’s chair, and held out his hand to him. John Price grasped it eagerly with both his own thin, wasted hands, and looking at him with a half-astonished, half-distressed gaze, said abruptly, in a hoarse, choking voice, “What’s your name?”“My name?” said the young man, smiling at his earnestness. “My name, old friend, is Horace Jackson.”“Horace—Horace!” muttered the other in a tone of great excitement; “it must be—nay, it cannot be—and yet it must be. Are you sure, sir, your name’s Jackson?”The young man, surprised at such a question, was about to reply, when the colonel, coming forward, stooped over the old man and whispered a few words in his ear. The poor invalid immediately sank back in his chair, and covered his eyes with his hand for a moment; then he sat up again, and took part in the conversation, but in a dreamy sort of way, keeping his face steadily turned away from his younger visitor. But as the colonel and his nephew were leaving the cottage, he fixed upon the latter a look so full of anxiety and interest, that it was quite clear that Horace Jackson had opened unwittingly a deep spring of feeling in John Price’s heart, which the old man found it almost impossible to repress. As his visitors retired, Colonel Dawson, looking back, put his finger on his lips, to which sign John Price slowly bent his head.In a few minutes the colonel returned alone. “I have left my nephew at the school,” he said, “to give the children a questioning on what they have been lately learning; and now, John, I shall be able to clear up your doubts and fears, and to set your mind at rest on a subject which I see affects you deeply.” A long and interesting communication was then made by the colonel to his humble friend, at the close of which the invalid seemed as if he could have sprung out of his chair for very gladness, while the tears poured from his eyes, and his lips murmured words of thankfulness.As Colonel Dawson was leaving, he turned and said with a smile, “Remember, John, not a word to any one at present—not till I give you leave.”“All right, sir; you may depend upon me. The Lord be praised!” was the reply; and as the old man said the words, every wrinkle in his careworn face seemed running over with light. But for the present Horace Jackson did not call at his cottage again, though he now and then appeared in the village, and was to be seen on more than one occasion accompanying Miss Stansfield on her return from Bridgepath.And now it began to be rumoured about in the neighbourhood that an attachment was springing up between the colonel’s nephew and Mary Stansfield; and all true-hearted people rejoiced, knowing what a blessing the union of two such earnest workers would prove, as, of course, they would one day, if spared, succeed to the Riverton estate. The world, however, was both surprised and disgusted, having hoped “better things” of the young man. As for the Wilders, they were full of dark and bitter sayings on the subject—the younger Mr Wilder especially, who was never tired of remarking to his acquaintance, when the subject was broached, that “Miss Stansfield had contrived to play her cards well.” This observation was not lost on the busy-bodies and scandal-mongers who abounded in Franchope, as they do in most country-towns, where there is not so much of active business stirring as will furnish sufficient material for gossip to those who love to act as unpaid news-agents in publishing their neighbours’ real or supposed more private doings from house to house.There happened to live at the outskirts of the little town an elderly lady possessed of singular activity in all her members, especially that most unruly one, the tongue. Give her a little bit of local news or a hard saying to report, and she would never rest till she had distributed the information throughout her entire acquaintance, with a little garnish of her own to the savoury dish, according to the taste or appetite of her hearers. Loved by none, feared by all, her calls were received with apparent cordiality, partly from a natural relish in many for questionable news, and partly from a desire to stand well with one who had the reputations of her neighbours and associates more or less in her power. Young Wilder’s remark on Miss Stansfield’s engagement was a choice morsel of scandal to old Mrs Tinderley, and was duly reported in every house to which she had access. But that was not all. Meeting Mary Stansfield herself one day near her aunt’s house, Mrs Tinderley grasped her warmly by the hand—though hitherto they had never done more than just exchange civil greetings by word of mouth—and congratulated her upon her happy prospects. Miss Stansfield, who knew the old lady’s character well, was about to pass on, after a word or two of civil acknowledgment, but the other would not let her part from her so hastily.“My dear,” she exclaimed in an earnest half-whisper, “isn’t it really shameful that people should say the ill-natured things they do, calling you a hypocrite, and selfish of all things in the world? And young Mr Wilder too—to think of his saying that ‘you’ve played your cards well.’ Really, it’s too bad. But, my dear Miss Stansfield, if I were you I wouldn’t mind it.”The old lady paused, expecting to see a blush of vexation and annoyance on her young companion’s face; but she was disappointed.“Thank you, Mrs Tinderley,” replied Mary Stansfield. “I suppose you mean well by repeating to me these foolish remarks. I can assure you that I donotmind them, as my conscience quite acquits me in the matter, and my happiness in no degree depends on the judgment of those who have made or reported them.”So saying, she went quietly on her way, leaving poor Mrs Tinderley in a state of utter bewilderment.To Colonel Dawson the attachment, which was soon avowed on his nephew’s part, was a matter of the sincerest satisfaction; as it was also to the elder Miss Stansfield, who had learned to take great pleasure in the society of Horace Jackson, and to see in him those excellences of a true Christian character which would make him a suitable husband to her invaluable niece. She was pained, however, at the hard things which had been said on the subject, as reported to her by an acquaintance of Mrs Tinderley’s, and spoke to the colonel on the subject.“I am sure, Colonel Dawson,” she said, “dear Mary is without blame in this matter. The idea ofheracting selfishly or ‘playing her cards,’ such a thing is altogether preposterous. I cannot imagine how people can be so wicked as to make such cruel and unjust remarks.”“Ah, my dear friend,” replied the colonel, smiling, “let it pass, the world will have its say. I am sure your dear niece will have no wish, as I know she has no need, to vindicate her character from such aspersions. She has just gone straight forward in the path of duty, and has met Horace while in that path; and to my mind there would be somewhat of selfishness, or, at any rate, of undue self-consciousness, on her part were she to trouble herself, or to allow her friends to trouble themselves, to defend her conduct in this matter. We are, of course, as Christians, to abstain from all appearance of evil, and to give no handle to the enemies of the truth against us or our profession; but it does not, therefore, follow that we are to decline a path which plainly opens before us in God’s providence, just because that path may be a smooth one, or may lead to a position of wealth and influence. To choose another path which will gain us high credit for self-denial, because we turn away from that which is naturally more attractive to ourselves, may after all be only another though subtler form of selfishness. Surely the right course is just to go in honesty of purpose unreservedly where God’s hand is plainly guiding us and he will take care both of our character and of his own cause in connection with that character, as he orders everything else that is really essential to the welfare and usefulness of each of his own dear children.”

Mary Stansfield pursued her quiet work at Bridgepath amongst the poor, being welcomed by all, but by none so cordially as by John Price and his family, who seemed quite different people now from what they used to be. And why? Just because they had exchanged resignation for God’s peace. Their characters and conduct were outwardly the same; but there was a new light in them and reflected from them, even the light that shines in hearts where Jesus dwells as a Saviour known and loved, a light which brightens the heavy clouds of earthly sadness and spans them with a rainbow of immortal hope. And not only so, but, in consequence of the entrance of this purer light, a change for the better was taking place in the bodily health of the poor bed-ridden man—for a wounded spirit had had a good deal to do with his physical infirmities—so that there seemed a likelihood that he would be able in time to leave his sick-bed and go forth once more, not indeed to laborious work, but to fill some light post which the colonel had in store for him.

It was on a lovely afternoon that he was sitting up in his arm-chair, dressed in clothes which he had never thought to put on again. He was listening to the gentle but earnest voice of Mary Stansfield, as she read to him from the Word of God, and spoke a few loving and cheering words of her own upon the passage she had selected. A shadow fell across her book; she looked up. The colonel and his nephew stood in the open doorway.

“Don’t let us interrupt you, Miss Stansfield,” said the former; “I was only looking round with my nephew, who has not been here before, to see how things are going on in Bridgepath. We will call again!”

They passed on, and Miss Stansfield resumed her reading. But somehow or other John Price’s attention seemed to wander—he looked disturbed, and fidgeted in his chair; and so his visitor, thinking that he had been read to as long as he could hear with comfort and profit in his weak state, closed the book, and rose to leave.

“Oh, don’t go, miss!” cried the old man in a distressed voice. “I’m so sorry; but something as I can’t exactly explain just took away my thoughts and troubled me when the colonel came to the door. But go on, go on, miss; I’m never tired of hearing the good news from your lips.”

“No, John,” replied Miss Stansfield; “I think we shall do for to-day. You are not strong enough yet to bear much strain of mind or body; and Colonel Dawson will be coming in directly, and will like to have a word with you, and so, I am sure, will Mr Horace; so I will say good-bye.”

The other looked scared and bewildered, and made no reply. “Poor John!” said his kind visitor to herself, as she left the cottage and went on her way; “I am afraid I have tired him. And yet I think there must be something more than that which troubles him.”

A few minutes later the colonel and his nephew entered John Price’s house. “Come in, Horace,” said Colonel Dawson; “you have not yet been introduced to one who will, I hope, be spared to be a great helper in the good work in Bridgepath, though he does not look much like a worker at present. But the Lord has been doing great things for him already, and, I doubt not, means to do greater things for him yet.”

The young man stepped forward up to the old man’s chair, and held out his hand to him. John Price grasped it eagerly with both his own thin, wasted hands, and looking at him with a half-astonished, half-distressed gaze, said abruptly, in a hoarse, choking voice, “What’s your name?”

“My name?” said the young man, smiling at his earnestness. “My name, old friend, is Horace Jackson.”

“Horace—Horace!” muttered the other in a tone of great excitement; “it must be—nay, it cannot be—and yet it must be. Are you sure, sir, your name’s Jackson?”

The young man, surprised at such a question, was about to reply, when the colonel, coming forward, stooped over the old man and whispered a few words in his ear. The poor invalid immediately sank back in his chair, and covered his eyes with his hand for a moment; then he sat up again, and took part in the conversation, but in a dreamy sort of way, keeping his face steadily turned away from his younger visitor. But as the colonel and his nephew were leaving the cottage, he fixed upon the latter a look so full of anxiety and interest, that it was quite clear that Horace Jackson had opened unwittingly a deep spring of feeling in John Price’s heart, which the old man found it almost impossible to repress. As his visitors retired, Colonel Dawson, looking back, put his finger on his lips, to which sign John Price slowly bent his head.

In a few minutes the colonel returned alone. “I have left my nephew at the school,” he said, “to give the children a questioning on what they have been lately learning; and now, John, I shall be able to clear up your doubts and fears, and to set your mind at rest on a subject which I see affects you deeply.” A long and interesting communication was then made by the colonel to his humble friend, at the close of which the invalid seemed as if he could have sprung out of his chair for very gladness, while the tears poured from his eyes, and his lips murmured words of thankfulness.

As Colonel Dawson was leaving, he turned and said with a smile, “Remember, John, not a word to any one at present—not till I give you leave.”

“All right, sir; you may depend upon me. The Lord be praised!” was the reply; and as the old man said the words, every wrinkle in his careworn face seemed running over with light. But for the present Horace Jackson did not call at his cottage again, though he now and then appeared in the village, and was to be seen on more than one occasion accompanying Miss Stansfield on her return from Bridgepath.

And now it began to be rumoured about in the neighbourhood that an attachment was springing up between the colonel’s nephew and Mary Stansfield; and all true-hearted people rejoiced, knowing what a blessing the union of two such earnest workers would prove, as, of course, they would one day, if spared, succeed to the Riverton estate. The world, however, was both surprised and disgusted, having hoped “better things” of the young man. As for the Wilders, they were full of dark and bitter sayings on the subject—the younger Mr Wilder especially, who was never tired of remarking to his acquaintance, when the subject was broached, that “Miss Stansfield had contrived to play her cards well.” This observation was not lost on the busy-bodies and scandal-mongers who abounded in Franchope, as they do in most country-towns, where there is not so much of active business stirring as will furnish sufficient material for gossip to those who love to act as unpaid news-agents in publishing their neighbours’ real or supposed more private doings from house to house.

There happened to live at the outskirts of the little town an elderly lady possessed of singular activity in all her members, especially that most unruly one, the tongue. Give her a little bit of local news or a hard saying to report, and she would never rest till she had distributed the information throughout her entire acquaintance, with a little garnish of her own to the savoury dish, according to the taste or appetite of her hearers. Loved by none, feared by all, her calls were received with apparent cordiality, partly from a natural relish in many for questionable news, and partly from a desire to stand well with one who had the reputations of her neighbours and associates more or less in her power. Young Wilder’s remark on Miss Stansfield’s engagement was a choice morsel of scandal to old Mrs Tinderley, and was duly reported in every house to which she had access. But that was not all. Meeting Mary Stansfield herself one day near her aunt’s house, Mrs Tinderley grasped her warmly by the hand—though hitherto they had never done more than just exchange civil greetings by word of mouth—and congratulated her upon her happy prospects. Miss Stansfield, who knew the old lady’s character well, was about to pass on, after a word or two of civil acknowledgment, but the other would not let her part from her so hastily.

“My dear,” she exclaimed in an earnest half-whisper, “isn’t it really shameful that people should say the ill-natured things they do, calling you a hypocrite, and selfish of all things in the world? And young Mr Wilder too—to think of his saying that ‘you’ve played your cards well.’ Really, it’s too bad. But, my dear Miss Stansfield, if I were you I wouldn’t mind it.”

The old lady paused, expecting to see a blush of vexation and annoyance on her young companion’s face; but she was disappointed.

“Thank you, Mrs Tinderley,” replied Mary Stansfield. “I suppose you mean well by repeating to me these foolish remarks. I can assure you that I donotmind them, as my conscience quite acquits me in the matter, and my happiness in no degree depends on the judgment of those who have made or reported them.”

So saying, she went quietly on her way, leaving poor Mrs Tinderley in a state of utter bewilderment.

To Colonel Dawson the attachment, which was soon avowed on his nephew’s part, was a matter of the sincerest satisfaction; as it was also to the elder Miss Stansfield, who had learned to take great pleasure in the society of Horace Jackson, and to see in him those excellences of a true Christian character which would make him a suitable husband to her invaluable niece. She was pained, however, at the hard things which had been said on the subject, as reported to her by an acquaintance of Mrs Tinderley’s, and spoke to the colonel on the subject.

“I am sure, Colonel Dawson,” she said, “dear Mary is without blame in this matter. The idea ofheracting selfishly or ‘playing her cards,’ such a thing is altogether preposterous. I cannot imagine how people can be so wicked as to make such cruel and unjust remarks.”

“Ah, my dear friend,” replied the colonel, smiling, “let it pass, the world will have its say. I am sure your dear niece will have no wish, as I know she has no need, to vindicate her character from such aspersions. She has just gone straight forward in the path of duty, and has met Horace while in that path; and to my mind there would be somewhat of selfishness, or, at any rate, of undue self-consciousness, on her part were she to trouble herself, or to allow her friends to trouble themselves, to defend her conduct in this matter. We are, of course, as Christians, to abstain from all appearance of evil, and to give no handle to the enemies of the truth against us or our profession; but it does not, therefore, follow that we are to decline a path which plainly opens before us in God’s providence, just because that path may be a smooth one, or may lead to a position of wealth and influence. To choose another path which will gain us high credit for self-denial, because we turn away from that which is naturally more attractive to ourselves, may after all be only another though subtler form of selfishness. Surely the right course is just to go in honesty of purpose unreservedly where God’s hand is plainly guiding us and he will take care both of our character and of his own cause in connection with that character, as he orders everything else that is really essential to the welfare and usefulness of each of his own dear children.”

Chapter Nine.Ruby Grigg.Horace Jackson had come to take a deep interest in the inhabitants of Bridgepath, especially since his engagement; for Mary Stansfield’s heart was thoroughly in her work in that once benighted place, and she was only too glad to lead one now so dear to her to concern himself in the truest welfare of those in Bridgepath who were still living without thought of any world but this.Things had indeed greatly improved through the diligent and loving exertions of the excellent schoolmaster, who was evidently determined to tread down all opposition that came in his way by the firm and weighty, though gentle, steps of a steady and consistent Christian walk. His task, it is true, was no easy one, for parents and scholars seemed for a time to be in league against all endeavours on his part to remove existing abuses. It was all very right, they allowed, that he should teach the children head-knowledge—this they were content to put up with; but as for his influencing the heart, or inducing them to change their conduct, and thereby to give up the pleasures of sin in which they had so long delighted, this was not to be tolerated; they were determined not to submit to it. And so the boys, when they could no longer carry on their encounters and settle their differences with the fist after school without interruption and remonstrance from the master, revenged themselves for this interference with their privileges by a thousand little sly tricks and bits of mischief at his expense, and with the full approbation, or, at any rate, connivance, of their friends.As for the grown-up people generally, they gave the good master and his loving wife to understand, when they paid friendly visits to the parents of the scholars, that the inhabitants of the hamlet could do just as well if left to themselves; that they were too old now to go to school; and as for the master’s religious teaching, they had already quite as much religion amongst them as was necessary for their comfort and well-being: in fact, the schoolmaster and his wife would best consult their own interests and the peace of the place by being keepers at home and looking after their own household out of school hours.Nor was this all. The good man having, in one of his Sunday evening addresses in the schoolroom, spoken some very plain though kindly words against sinful courses too prevalent in Bridgepath, an assault was made on his little garden one night during the following week, so that when he looked over his flower-beds next morning he found them all trampled over, his rose-trees cut down, and the flower roots torn up and thrown about in all directions.As he rose from the examination of what remained of a favourite tree, his eyes encountered those of one of his most determined opponents in the village. The man was staring over the wall, and when his eyes met those of the schoolmaster, he inquired with a grin how his roses were getting on. With a slight flush on his face, but yet with a smile on his lips, the master replied very slowly, “I shall have to kill some of you for this.” Before the evening this little sentence had been reported in every house in Bridgepath.“So you’re a-going to kill some of us, master. I thought you was one of them peaceable Christians,” sneered a man to the schoolmaster as he was passing by the door of one of the beer-shops, before which a number of men were assembled with their pipes and pots. There was a general scornful laugh at this speech. Nothing dismayed, however, the schoolmaster stood still, and facing his opponent, said, “Yes, I said I would kill some of you, and I mean it; and if you will come up to the schoolroom to-night at eight o’clock, I will tell you all how and why.”“Let’s go and hear him,” said one of the drinkers. “Ay, let us,” said another.By eight o’clock the schoolroom was half filled with men, women, and children. The master was standing at his desk ready to receive them, and when the school clock had struck the hour, began as follows:—“Now, my friends and neighbours, I feel sure that you’ll give me a quiet hearing, as you have come that you may know why I said I must kill some of you. You’ve done me harm, some of you, but I’ve done you none; so the least you can do is to listen to me patiently.”“Ay, ay,” said one or two voices, and there was a hush of earnest attention.The master then unlocked his desk, and taking out a printed paper, read it out clearly and with due spirit and emphasis. It was the admirable tract entitled “The Man who Killed his Neighbour.” When he had finished reading there was a general murmur of satisfaction, and all were deeply attentive as he went on to say, “Now, dear friends, that’s the way I mean to kill some of you: I mean to do it by patience, by kindness, and by returning good for evil, as the good man in the tract did. I’m sorry of course, that my roses have been cut down and my flower-beds trampled on. But let that pass; I shan’t fret over it, nor try to find out who did it. But I do want to get you to believe that my great desire and aim is to do you good; and if I can manage, by God’s help, to persuade you of this, I shall have killed the enemy that is living in your hearts against me, and we shall be happy and good friends.”No one offered any reply, and the meeting broke up; but the master had gained his object. Many who had been set against him were now thoroughly ashamed of themselves; nearly every door was gladly opened to himself and his wife; and one morning, when he came out into his garden, he found that some unknown hands had planted new rose-trees in the place of those which had been destroyed. So the good man was making a way steadily for the spread of the truth.Nevertheless, the evil one had still many devoted followers, especially among the tipplers. As one of these unhappy men was one day emerging from a beer-shop in Bridgepath, with flushed face and uncertain step, he ran against Horace Jackson, who was just then passing through the village. Uttering a loud oath, the man was about to move on, when Horace, catching him by the arm, compelled him to stand still, while he sharply reproved him for his drunkenness and profanity. A little staggered and abashed, the man muttered something that sounded half like an apology; and then, shaking himself free from Horace’s grasp, pointed with his pipe across the green, and said scoffingly, “’Tain’t of no use speaking to me. If you wants a good hard piece to try your hand on, see what you can do with Ruby Grigg yonder;” saying which, he plunged back into the beer-shop.Vexed and annoyed at this encounter, Horace was just about to hasten on, when his eyes fell on the man to whom the poor drunkard had referred him; and who was seated not far-off on the other side of the green, upon the steps of a large travelling van. The young man’s heart died within him as he gazed at the strange uncouth being to whom he was invited to try and do some good.Reuben Gregson, popularly known as “Ruby Grigg,” was anything but a jewel in appearance. He wore at this time a very long coat, whose original colour, whatever it might have been, had now faded into a yellowish dirty brown in those parts which still remained unpatched. Trousers just reaching a little below the knee, and repaired here and there with remnants of staring blue cloth of various shapes and sizes, were succeeded by yellowish grey stockings, and by shoes which, if they ever enjoyed the luxury of blacking, must have last done so at a very remote period. A hat, which had once been black and of some definite shape, but was now rimless, distorted, and of the same faded hue as the coat, being stuck on one side, only partially covered a tangled mass of greyish hair, which radiated wildly in every direction. Beneath the foremost locks were two eyeballs, the one sightless, the other black and piercing, and ever on the move, having to do double duty. A rough, stubbly, and anything but cleanly beard, which was submitted to the razor only on festal occasions, gave an additional wildness to a countenance which was furrowed across the forehead and down either cheek with deep lines blotched and freckled. As for the mouth, it was a perfect study in itself. Usually pretty tightly closed, it displayed when open a small remnant of teeth at irregular intervals, and now grown old and decayed by long service. But, whether open or shut, there was an expression of amused consciousness and cunning about that mouth, as though the owner were living in a chronic state of self-satisfaction at having fairly outwitted somebody. Such was Ruby Grigg in his personal appearance.His caravan, also, was a very original and peculiar structure, manifestly built more for use than ornament, and combining both shop and dwelling. It was formed of boards of various lengths and widths, some painted and others bare, the business part being in front, and arched over with a stout framework which was covered with a tight-fitting tarpaulin; while at the back a square little house, painted uniformly a sober green, and protected by a sloping roof of brown-coloured wood-work, and lighted by two little windows, served as parlour, bedroom, and kitchen to Ruby and his wife.Mrs Gregson, or Sally Grigg as she was usually styled, was not a noticeable person, keeping out of the way as much as possible; and devoting her time and energies to seeing to the due feeding of her husband, his horse and dog, and herself—these forming the entire family, for they had no children—and also to taking care of, and tidying up from time to time, the very miscellaneous wares which were offered for sale in the caravan.Ruby’s affections seemed pretty equally divided between his horse, his dog, and his wife—the two first having probably the best place in his heart. The horse, like its owner, had no external beauty to boast of, and must have numbered many years since the days of its foalhood. There was something rather knowing about its appearance, as though it had contracted a measure of cunning from constant companionship with its master. The dog, whose name was Grip, was one of those nondescript animals which seem to have inherited a mixture of half-a-dozen different breeds, and had a temper as uncertain as its pedigree. While journeying, his place was beneath the caravan, to which he was attached by a light chain, in which position he was a terror to all who might venture near the caravan without his master’s company or permission. When the little party rested for a day or so, Grip had his liberty; which he occasionally abused by appropriating to himself the meals intended for his fellow-dogs, none of whom, however superior to him in size or strength, durst for a moment resist him.Such were the old man and his establishment. His business was that of a miscellaneous salesman, the difficulty being rather to say what he did not than what he did offer to his various customers. The front part of his van was hung with all sorts of hardware, inside and out; but, besides this, there were, within, secret drawers and cupboards containing articles which would not bear exhibition to the public - such as smuggled goods, both wearable and drinkable, which Ruby knew how to procure at a very low price, and could always part with confidentially for a sum which both suited the pockets of the purchasers, and also brought considerable profit to himself. Among his secret wares were also immoral songs, and impure and infidel books, for which he had many eager buyers, especially in such places as Bridgepath. He had his regular rounds, and his special customers, and was in the habit of attending all the feasts and fairs for many miles round.It need hardly be said that poor Ruby knew nothing and cared nothing about better things; his heart was wholly in the world, and in making money as fast as he could, by hook or by crook,—and in this he was succeeding. For though the poor man and his wife were utterly godless, and even profane, yet Ruby was no drunkard; he loved his glass, it is true, but he loved money more, and so he always contrived to keep a clear head and a steady eye and hand. He also took good care of his horse and dog for his own sake, as he wanted to make the best and the longest of their services, and was shrewd enough to know that you cannot get out of anything, whether animate or inanimate, more than is put into it. So self and wife, and horse and dog were all well fed and cared for, and worked harmoniously together.This was the man to whom the poor drunkard pointed his pipe and sneeringly invited Horace Jackson to try and do him good. The young man shrunk at first instinctively from coming in contact with old Reuben. Surely there was abundance of self-denying work in looking after the inhabitants of the hamlet itself; why then need he concern himself about a man who was only a passer through, and had no special claim on his attention? Half-satisfied with these thoughts, Horace Jackson was about to proceed homewards, when it seemed to him that a voice, as it were, said within him, “Accept the work; it may not be in vain.” Though still reluctant, he now felt that he could no longer hang back; so he crossed the green, and greeted the old hawker kindly.Ruby looked up at him with a comical twinkle in his one eye, and, knocking out the ashes from his pipe, observed, “So you be the young gent as is turning all things topsy-turvy in this here village—you and the colonel between you. I’ve heard all about it; and a precious mess you’ll make of it, I doubt.”“My friend,” said Horace, now perfectly relieved from all feeling of disinclination to encounter the old man, “you make a little mistake there: when we came here wefoundthings topsy-turvy already, and we are just trying, by God’s help, to set them upright and straight.”“And I suppose you think as you’re going to do it,” said the other scornfully.“Yes, I hope so,” was the reply. “Come, my friend, now tell me honestly, isn’t it happier for the people of this village to have a good school and a good schoolmaster set down amongst them than to be living as they used to do, without proper instruction for the children, and without any knowledge of God and a better world?”“Can’t say as to that,” said Ruby Grigg doubtfully, and a little sulkily; “there’s lots of people here as likes the old ways better.”“Perhaps so,” said Horace; “but they may be wrong in what they like. Now, I ask you again—tell me honestly—don’t you see a change for the better yourself in Bridgepath?”“Well, I don’t know,” replied the old man, fidgeting about; “it’s been a worse change for me. I ain’t done anything like the business this time as I use doing here, leastways in some things.”Horace had now seated himself by the old man, spite of a deep growl from Grip, whose nearer approach was cut short by a backhanded slap from his master.“Look there now, old friend,” continued the young man. At this moment the school doors were thrown open, and out poured a stream of boys and girls, tumbling one over another in their excitement, and singing gaily as they began to disperse over the green. But all suddenly stopped, for the schoolmaster made his appearance, and all clustered round him. School was over, and what was going to happen now? In former days the sight of the master would have been a signal for every boy and girl to slink out of reach of his observation; but now the master’s coming was hailed with a happy shout, and the young ones vied with one another in getting near him, while the youngest clung to his dress, and all looked up at him with bright and happy smiles. Horace turned towards the old man, and marked a flush on his worn and weather-beaten features. “That’s a sight worth seeing, my friend,” he added; “I think it used not to be so.”Reuben made no answer. His eye seemed to be gazing at something beyond the busy scene before him.“You’ve never had any children of your own, it may be,” said Horace, noticing his absent look.Slowly the old man turned towards his companion, his face was now quite pale, and tears began to steal down its deep furrows. “I’ve never a child now,” he said in a hoarse and troubled voice, “but I had once—a blessed little ’un she were, but she died.”“It may be, friend,” said the young man gently, “that the Lord took her in mercy from the evil to come. Did she die very young?”Reuben Gregson seemed unable to reply for a while, then he said slowly, and apparently with a great effort, “Ay, sir, very young, and she were all the boys and girls I ever had. She were but five year old when she died, but she died happy, poor thing. It’s more nor thirty years now since she left us.”“And she died happy, you say?” asked Horace, deeply touched. “Did she know anything of her Saviour?”“I believe you,” replied the other earnestly, “yes. There were a good young lady—she ain’t living now—as seed her playing about by the roadside one day, and gave her this book.” Ruby drew out from his breast-pocket a large faded leathern case, and from its inmost depths brought out a small picture-book full of coloured Scripture prints. The frontispiece represented our Saviour hanging on the cross, and was much worn, as with the pressure of little fingers. “There, sir,” continued the old man, “the young lady showed her them pictures, and talked to her about ’em, and particular about Him as was nailed to the cross. We was staying on a common near her house for a week or more, and each day that young lady came and had a talk to our little Bessy. And she never forgot what the lady said to her. And so, when she were took with the fever, some weeks arter that, when we was far-off from where the lady lived, her last words was, ‘Daddy, I’m going to Jesus, ’cos he said, “Suffer the little children to come to me.”’ There, sir, I’ve told you now what I haven’t spoken to nobody else these thirty years.”“And won’t you follow your dear child to the better land?” asked Horace kindly; “there’s room in our Saviour’s heart and home for you too.”“I don’t know, I don’t know,” said the other gloomily; “these things ain’t in my line. Besides, I’m too old and too hard now; it’s no use for such as me to think about ’em.”Horace said nothing immediately, but taking out a little New Testament, he read out, without any comment, the parables of the lost sheep and the lost piece of silver. Then he said, “Old friend, I am so glad we have met. Will you accept this little book from me? It will tell you better than I can all about the loving Saviour, who has taken that dear child to himself, and wants you and your wife to follow her.”Without saying a word Ruby clutched the Testament, thrust it into his breast-pocket and then, rising hastily, said, “I wish you good day, sir; maybe we shall meet again. Thank you kindly for the little book.”“Farewell for the present,” said Horace. “Yes, I believe we shall meet again,” and he turned his steps homewards, deeply thankful that he had not declined the work which was so unexpectedly thrust upon him.

Horace Jackson had come to take a deep interest in the inhabitants of Bridgepath, especially since his engagement; for Mary Stansfield’s heart was thoroughly in her work in that once benighted place, and she was only too glad to lead one now so dear to her to concern himself in the truest welfare of those in Bridgepath who were still living without thought of any world but this.

Things had indeed greatly improved through the diligent and loving exertions of the excellent schoolmaster, who was evidently determined to tread down all opposition that came in his way by the firm and weighty, though gentle, steps of a steady and consistent Christian walk. His task, it is true, was no easy one, for parents and scholars seemed for a time to be in league against all endeavours on his part to remove existing abuses. It was all very right, they allowed, that he should teach the children head-knowledge—this they were content to put up with; but as for his influencing the heart, or inducing them to change their conduct, and thereby to give up the pleasures of sin in which they had so long delighted, this was not to be tolerated; they were determined not to submit to it. And so the boys, when they could no longer carry on their encounters and settle their differences with the fist after school without interruption and remonstrance from the master, revenged themselves for this interference with their privileges by a thousand little sly tricks and bits of mischief at his expense, and with the full approbation, or, at any rate, connivance, of their friends.

As for the grown-up people generally, they gave the good master and his loving wife to understand, when they paid friendly visits to the parents of the scholars, that the inhabitants of the hamlet could do just as well if left to themselves; that they were too old now to go to school; and as for the master’s religious teaching, they had already quite as much religion amongst them as was necessary for their comfort and well-being: in fact, the schoolmaster and his wife would best consult their own interests and the peace of the place by being keepers at home and looking after their own household out of school hours.

Nor was this all. The good man having, in one of his Sunday evening addresses in the schoolroom, spoken some very plain though kindly words against sinful courses too prevalent in Bridgepath, an assault was made on his little garden one night during the following week, so that when he looked over his flower-beds next morning he found them all trampled over, his rose-trees cut down, and the flower roots torn up and thrown about in all directions.

As he rose from the examination of what remained of a favourite tree, his eyes encountered those of one of his most determined opponents in the village. The man was staring over the wall, and when his eyes met those of the schoolmaster, he inquired with a grin how his roses were getting on. With a slight flush on his face, but yet with a smile on his lips, the master replied very slowly, “I shall have to kill some of you for this.” Before the evening this little sentence had been reported in every house in Bridgepath.

“So you’re a-going to kill some of us, master. I thought you was one of them peaceable Christians,” sneered a man to the schoolmaster as he was passing by the door of one of the beer-shops, before which a number of men were assembled with their pipes and pots. There was a general scornful laugh at this speech. Nothing dismayed, however, the schoolmaster stood still, and facing his opponent, said, “Yes, I said I would kill some of you, and I mean it; and if you will come up to the schoolroom to-night at eight o’clock, I will tell you all how and why.”

“Let’s go and hear him,” said one of the drinkers. “Ay, let us,” said another.

By eight o’clock the schoolroom was half filled with men, women, and children. The master was standing at his desk ready to receive them, and when the school clock had struck the hour, began as follows:—

“Now, my friends and neighbours, I feel sure that you’ll give me a quiet hearing, as you have come that you may know why I said I must kill some of you. You’ve done me harm, some of you, but I’ve done you none; so the least you can do is to listen to me patiently.”

“Ay, ay,” said one or two voices, and there was a hush of earnest attention.

The master then unlocked his desk, and taking out a printed paper, read it out clearly and with due spirit and emphasis. It was the admirable tract entitled “The Man who Killed his Neighbour.” When he had finished reading there was a general murmur of satisfaction, and all were deeply attentive as he went on to say, “Now, dear friends, that’s the way I mean to kill some of you: I mean to do it by patience, by kindness, and by returning good for evil, as the good man in the tract did. I’m sorry of course, that my roses have been cut down and my flower-beds trampled on. But let that pass; I shan’t fret over it, nor try to find out who did it. But I do want to get you to believe that my great desire and aim is to do you good; and if I can manage, by God’s help, to persuade you of this, I shall have killed the enemy that is living in your hearts against me, and we shall be happy and good friends.”

No one offered any reply, and the meeting broke up; but the master had gained his object. Many who had been set against him were now thoroughly ashamed of themselves; nearly every door was gladly opened to himself and his wife; and one morning, when he came out into his garden, he found that some unknown hands had planted new rose-trees in the place of those which had been destroyed. So the good man was making a way steadily for the spread of the truth.

Nevertheless, the evil one had still many devoted followers, especially among the tipplers. As one of these unhappy men was one day emerging from a beer-shop in Bridgepath, with flushed face and uncertain step, he ran against Horace Jackson, who was just then passing through the village. Uttering a loud oath, the man was about to move on, when Horace, catching him by the arm, compelled him to stand still, while he sharply reproved him for his drunkenness and profanity. A little staggered and abashed, the man muttered something that sounded half like an apology; and then, shaking himself free from Horace’s grasp, pointed with his pipe across the green, and said scoffingly, “’Tain’t of no use speaking to me. If you wants a good hard piece to try your hand on, see what you can do with Ruby Grigg yonder;” saying which, he plunged back into the beer-shop.

Vexed and annoyed at this encounter, Horace was just about to hasten on, when his eyes fell on the man to whom the poor drunkard had referred him; and who was seated not far-off on the other side of the green, upon the steps of a large travelling van. The young man’s heart died within him as he gazed at the strange uncouth being to whom he was invited to try and do some good.

Reuben Gregson, popularly known as “Ruby Grigg,” was anything but a jewel in appearance. He wore at this time a very long coat, whose original colour, whatever it might have been, had now faded into a yellowish dirty brown in those parts which still remained unpatched. Trousers just reaching a little below the knee, and repaired here and there with remnants of staring blue cloth of various shapes and sizes, were succeeded by yellowish grey stockings, and by shoes which, if they ever enjoyed the luxury of blacking, must have last done so at a very remote period. A hat, which had once been black and of some definite shape, but was now rimless, distorted, and of the same faded hue as the coat, being stuck on one side, only partially covered a tangled mass of greyish hair, which radiated wildly in every direction. Beneath the foremost locks were two eyeballs, the one sightless, the other black and piercing, and ever on the move, having to do double duty. A rough, stubbly, and anything but cleanly beard, which was submitted to the razor only on festal occasions, gave an additional wildness to a countenance which was furrowed across the forehead and down either cheek with deep lines blotched and freckled. As for the mouth, it was a perfect study in itself. Usually pretty tightly closed, it displayed when open a small remnant of teeth at irregular intervals, and now grown old and decayed by long service. But, whether open or shut, there was an expression of amused consciousness and cunning about that mouth, as though the owner were living in a chronic state of self-satisfaction at having fairly outwitted somebody. Such was Ruby Grigg in his personal appearance.

His caravan, also, was a very original and peculiar structure, manifestly built more for use than ornament, and combining both shop and dwelling. It was formed of boards of various lengths and widths, some painted and others bare, the business part being in front, and arched over with a stout framework which was covered with a tight-fitting tarpaulin; while at the back a square little house, painted uniformly a sober green, and protected by a sloping roof of brown-coloured wood-work, and lighted by two little windows, served as parlour, bedroom, and kitchen to Ruby and his wife.

Mrs Gregson, or Sally Grigg as she was usually styled, was not a noticeable person, keeping out of the way as much as possible; and devoting her time and energies to seeing to the due feeding of her husband, his horse and dog, and herself—these forming the entire family, for they had no children—and also to taking care of, and tidying up from time to time, the very miscellaneous wares which were offered for sale in the caravan.

Ruby’s affections seemed pretty equally divided between his horse, his dog, and his wife—the two first having probably the best place in his heart. The horse, like its owner, had no external beauty to boast of, and must have numbered many years since the days of its foalhood. There was something rather knowing about its appearance, as though it had contracted a measure of cunning from constant companionship with its master. The dog, whose name was Grip, was one of those nondescript animals which seem to have inherited a mixture of half-a-dozen different breeds, and had a temper as uncertain as its pedigree. While journeying, his place was beneath the caravan, to which he was attached by a light chain, in which position he was a terror to all who might venture near the caravan without his master’s company or permission. When the little party rested for a day or so, Grip had his liberty; which he occasionally abused by appropriating to himself the meals intended for his fellow-dogs, none of whom, however superior to him in size or strength, durst for a moment resist him.

Such were the old man and his establishment. His business was that of a miscellaneous salesman, the difficulty being rather to say what he did not than what he did offer to his various customers. The front part of his van was hung with all sorts of hardware, inside and out; but, besides this, there were, within, secret drawers and cupboards containing articles which would not bear exhibition to the public - such as smuggled goods, both wearable and drinkable, which Ruby knew how to procure at a very low price, and could always part with confidentially for a sum which both suited the pockets of the purchasers, and also brought considerable profit to himself. Among his secret wares were also immoral songs, and impure and infidel books, for which he had many eager buyers, especially in such places as Bridgepath. He had his regular rounds, and his special customers, and was in the habit of attending all the feasts and fairs for many miles round.

It need hardly be said that poor Ruby knew nothing and cared nothing about better things; his heart was wholly in the world, and in making money as fast as he could, by hook or by crook,—and in this he was succeeding. For though the poor man and his wife were utterly godless, and even profane, yet Ruby was no drunkard; he loved his glass, it is true, but he loved money more, and so he always contrived to keep a clear head and a steady eye and hand. He also took good care of his horse and dog for his own sake, as he wanted to make the best and the longest of their services, and was shrewd enough to know that you cannot get out of anything, whether animate or inanimate, more than is put into it. So self and wife, and horse and dog were all well fed and cared for, and worked harmoniously together.

This was the man to whom the poor drunkard pointed his pipe and sneeringly invited Horace Jackson to try and do him good. The young man shrunk at first instinctively from coming in contact with old Reuben. Surely there was abundance of self-denying work in looking after the inhabitants of the hamlet itself; why then need he concern himself about a man who was only a passer through, and had no special claim on his attention? Half-satisfied with these thoughts, Horace Jackson was about to proceed homewards, when it seemed to him that a voice, as it were, said within him, “Accept the work; it may not be in vain.” Though still reluctant, he now felt that he could no longer hang back; so he crossed the green, and greeted the old hawker kindly.

Ruby looked up at him with a comical twinkle in his one eye, and, knocking out the ashes from his pipe, observed, “So you be the young gent as is turning all things topsy-turvy in this here village—you and the colonel between you. I’ve heard all about it; and a precious mess you’ll make of it, I doubt.”

“My friend,” said Horace, now perfectly relieved from all feeling of disinclination to encounter the old man, “you make a little mistake there: when we came here wefoundthings topsy-turvy already, and we are just trying, by God’s help, to set them upright and straight.”

“And I suppose you think as you’re going to do it,” said the other scornfully.

“Yes, I hope so,” was the reply. “Come, my friend, now tell me honestly, isn’t it happier for the people of this village to have a good school and a good schoolmaster set down amongst them than to be living as they used to do, without proper instruction for the children, and without any knowledge of God and a better world?”

“Can’t say as to that,” said Ruby Grigg doubtfully, and a little sulkily; “there’s lots of people here as likes the old ways better.”

“Perhaps so,” said Horace; “but they may be wrong in what they like. Now, I ask you again—tell me honestly—don’t you see a change for the better yourself in Bridgepath?”

“Well, I don’t know,” replied the old man, fidgeting about; “it’s been a worse change for me. I ain’t done anything like the business this time as I use doing here, leastways in some things.”

Horace had now seated himself by the old man, spite of a deep growl from Grip, whose nearer approach was cut short by a backhanded slap from his master.

“Look there now, old friend,” continued the young man. At this moment the school doors were thrown open, and out poured a stream of boys and girls, tumbling one over another in their excitement, and singing gaily as they began to disperse over the green. But all suddenly stopped, for the schoolmaster made his appearance, and all clustered round him. School was over, and what was going to happen now? In former days the sight of the master would have been a signal for every boy and girl to slink out of reach of his observation; but now the master’s coming was hailed with a happy shout, and the young ones vied with one another in getting near him, while the youngest clung to his dress, and all looked up at him with bright and happy smiles. Horace turned towards the old man, and marked a flush on his worn and weather-beaten features. “That’s a sight worth seeing, my friend,” he added; “I think it used not to be so.”

Reuben made no answer. His eye seemed to be gazing at something beyond the busy scene before him.

“You’ve never had any children of your own, it may be,” said Horace, noticing his absent look.

Slowly the old man turned towards his companion, his face was now quite pale, and tears began to steal down its deep furrows. “I’ve never a child now,” he said in a hoarse and troubled voice, “but I had once—a blessed little ’un she were, but she died.”

“It may be, friend,” said the young man gently, “that the Lord took her in mercy from the evil to come. Did she die very young?”

Reuben Gregson seemed unable to reply for a while, then he said slowly, and apparently with a great effort, “Ay, sir, very young, and she were all the boys and girls I ever had. She were but five year old when she died, but she died happy, poor thing. It’s more nor thirty years now since she left us.”

“And she died happy, you say?” asked Horace, deeply touched. “Did she know anything of her Saviour?”

“I believe you,” replied the other earnestly, “yes. There were a good young lady—she ain’t living now—as seed her playing about by the roadside one day, and gave her this book.” Ruby drew out from his breast-pocket a large faded leathern case, and from its inmost depths brought out a small picture-book full of coloured Scripture prints. The frontispiece represented our Saviour hanging on the cross, and was much worn, as with the pressure of little fingers. “There, sir,” continued the old man, “the young lady showed her them pictures, and talked to her about ’em, and particular about Him as was nailed to the cross. We was staying on a common near her house for a week or more, and each day that young lady came and had a talk to our little Bessy. And she never forgot what the lady said to her. And so, when she were took with the fever, some weeks arter that, when we was far-off from where the lady lived, her last words was, ‘Daddy, I’m going to Jesus, ’cos he said, “Suffer the little children to come to me.”’ There, sir, I’ve told you now what I haven’t spoken to nobody else these thirty years.”

“And won’t you follow your dear child to the better land?” asked Horace kindly; “there’s room in our Saviour’s heart and home for you too.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” said the other gloomily; “these things ain’t in my line. Besides, I’m too old and too hard now; it’s no use for such as me to think about ’em.”

Horace said nothing immediately, but taking out a little New Testament, he read out, without any comment, the parables of the lost sheep and the lost piece of silver. Then he said, “Old friend, I am so glad we have met. Will you accept this little book from me? It will tell you better than I can all about the loving Saviour, who has taken that dear child to himself, and wants you and your wife to follow her.”

Without saying a word Ruby clutched the Testament, thrust it into his breast-pocket and then, rising hastily, said, “I wish you good day, sir; maybe we shall meet again. Thank you kindly for the little book.”

“Farewell for the present,” said Horace. “Yes, I believe we shall meet again,” and he turned his steps homewards, deeply thankful that he had not declined the work which was so unexpectedly thrust upon him.

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