Two ways of facing life

By Florence E. Burch

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Title: Two ways of facing life

Author: Florence E. Burch


        
Release date: April 28, 2026 [eBook #78567]

Language: English

Original publication: London: The Religious Tract Society, 1896

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78567


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO WAYS OF FACING LIFE ***

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



[Illustration]



                               TWO WAYS

                                  OF

                             FACING LIFE


                                  BY

                           FLORENCE E. BURCH


                            [Illustration]


                                LONDON
                      THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
            56 PATERNOSTER ROW AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD



                              CONTENTS.

CHAPTER.

     I. YOUNG GREATHEART

    II. TWO WAYS OF FACING LIFE

   III. COURTING SOCIETY

    IV. A LESSON IN CIRCUMSPECTION

     V. THE MONITOR SPEAKS IN VAIN

    VI. HEROES IN BOOKS AND IN REAL LIFE

   VII. MR. GREATHEART AGAIN

  VIII. IN THE STABLE-YARD

    IX. THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER

     X. A VOICE OF WARNING

    XI. A PARTING WORD ABOUT AMBITION

   XII. THE UNIVERSITY AND THE WORKSHOP

  XIII. BUILDING

   XIV. IN THE SCHOOL OF ADVERSITY

    XV. NED VIGUS' SECRET

   XVI. A TIMELY INTERRUPTION

  XVII. ALL THINGS BECOME NEW

 XVIII. A TELEGRAM

   XIX. AN UNLOOKED-FOR HOLIDAY

    XX. SICKNESS UNTO DEATH

   XXI. THE SHINING OF THE RIVER



                               TWO WAYS

                                  OF

                             FACING LIFE

                            [Illustration]

CHAPTER I.

YOUNG GREATHEART.

   "He feels the immortal light of Spirit live
      Within his breast,—but knows not that in years
    To come that warm and flashing ray will give
      The brightest rainbow through the bitterest tears."
                                                ELIZA COOK.

IN the twilight of an October evening, a lad of some seventeen years
was walking briskly homeward along a road leading from the common to
the small country town which was his native place.

He was a well-built lad, tall and strong, and over his shoulder was
slung a basket of carpenter's tools. His features were of that homely
English type which so frequently appears the very reverse of handsome
until fired with an individuality of expression by the awakening of
the soul within; but his eyes were clear with truthfulness and perfect
health, and there was something in the merry whistle that accompanied
his rapid strides which proclaimed his mind to be as sound as his body.

They were no comic ditties of the day he whistled, but wild, free
scraps of old tunes learnt in schoolboy days—airs that every Briton
knows—woven up in strange medley with impromptu interludes, cadences,
and arias never heard before, and in all probability never to be
heard again; for Joseph Adams had "music in his soul," and frequently
expressed the exuberance of his spirits in extempore melody.

He was a couple of miles from home yet; but the way was down a gentle
incline, which made walking no labour, although he had been at work
ever since early morning. Soft, rainy breezes were rustling the dry
leaves in the hedgerow, too, blowing cool and refreshing about his
cheeks and hands; whilst overhead the stars were beginning to show
their timid lights, in striking contrast with the dusky red of the
gas lamps already visible against the dark grey distance. So he paced
steadily on, enjoying the exercise in every muscle of his robust frame.

Twenty minutes' walk brought him into the street. The bustle of the
day was over. Men were returning from their work, tired horses were
retracing their steps to the stable, and Joseph, too, began to have
thoughts of the fireside and tea. A few seconds more, and he was at
the market square. It had been market-day; but the square had emptied
long ago, with the exception of one or two sweet-stalls, at which a
cluster of noisy youngsters were exchanging for lumps of various sticky
compounds the coppers earned by running errands for buyers and sellers.

But at the further side of the market-place, a great commotion was
going on, hoots and shouts and cries. And above them all, a sharp, yet
feeble voice, raised in angry protest.

Joseph recognised it at once. He halted an instant, then swinging
round, made straight for the spot.

A dozen or more young imps were congregated round a little old man,
whose shrivelled face was scarcely visible above their heads as he
turned sharply from side to side, now parrying their attacks with
vigorous thrusts of the stick which he held in his right hand, now
swearing and threatening in a manner the absurdity of which was
rendered only too patent by the tottering uncertainty of his gait and
the wavering movements of his arms. Joseph took in the situation at a
glance, and strode rapidly towards the group.

The little old man, with his queer old-fashioned knee-breeches and
his mania for collecting rubbish, was the butt of no little sport,
which might have found a more legitimate object than the grey-haired
helplessness of a nonagenarian, and Joseph had on more than one
occasion been his champion.

He arrived just in time to see the bits of sticks and paper which the
old man had gathered together in his left hand fly far and wide, as one
of his tormentors caught his wrist with a sudden jerk. The old man,
vociferating loudly, and describing a wide semicircle about his head
with the stick, had stooped to pick them up again. But before he could
do this, he was attacked from the rear, pelted with mud and belaboured
with blows, whilst one youngster who possessed a switch inserted it
under the edge of his cap, and with a dexterous twitch sent it flying
aloft far over the heads of his comrades, by some of whom it was caught
and made to play the principal part in a desperate game of ball.

"Hold there!" shouted Joseph, seizing by the arm one of the boys,
who, however, with a desperate effort freed himself and rushed off in
pursuit of the cap.

But at that moment, Joseph became aware of a new element, against which
he had never had to contend on previous occasions. A few paces apart
were four or five big lads, egging the others on and applauding with
loud guffaws and laughter. But Joseph was nothing daunted.

"You'd better drop this!" he exclaimed, with a sudden snatch wresting
the switch from the hand of its owner, and dealing him a smart stroke
across the shoulders. "It's a shame if you can't respect white hairs!"

As he said these words, one of the big lads rushed forward and aimed a
rough blow at his head. But Joseph was too quick for him, and deftly
parrying the blow, sent his adversary staggering back among the group.

"At him! Give it him!" shouted the others, in expectation of a fight.
But the assailant, who had more bully than real valour about him,
appeared to have had enough of Joseph's fist, and contented himself
with abusive language.

Meanwhile, the old man was doing his best to increase the noise of the
fray, and at the same time to attract his persecutors back to him.

"I'll teach 'em to respect me," he cried, in his querulous, childish
voice, raising himself up from his quest after the scattered treasures,
and striking his stick menacingly upon the ground, whilst his thin
hair bristled in the breeze. "Aha! 'They've' got to come to this, yet.
If I was ten years younger, I'd thrash every shred o' skin off their
backs; that I would. 'A' will!'" the old man added, growing still more
furious, as a sudden gust reminded him of the loss of his cap. "'A'
will!' I'll thrash 'em within an inch o' their lives!"

A roar of laughter greeted these threats, and a chorus of "Old Daddy
David! Old Daddy David!" from those who had remained to witness the
fun between Joseph and his aggressor. Whilst the rest of the crew,
concluding from this triumphant chant that Joseph had abandoned their
victim to his fate, came trooping back to the onset, tossing the cap in
the air as they came.

On perceiving Joseph, however, they hung back.

"Bring that cap here!" shouted the latter, "or it'll be the worse for
you. I'm not going to stand by and see an old man ill-treated. Bring it
back at once, I say!"

But the boys had no intention of giving up the sport so readily. The
cap shot merrily from one to the other, now rising high in the air, now
flying far away over the open space, where it was scrimmaged and fought
for until its colour, by nature black, was completely disguised by dust
and dirt.

At length, as Joseph brought his menaces from the level of mere
generalities to threats in which the words "schoolmaster" and
"father" held prominent places, the young scamps began to consider
the advisability of relinquishing the game. At the very moment when
the old man, having once more possessed himself of all his scraps
and sticks, was raising his head with a view to adding his weight to
Joseph threats, the cap was flung back full in his face with a force
which sent him staggering backwards and would have made him fall, had
not Joseph caught him by the arm. As it was, all his treasures were
once more scattered on the ground, to the infinite delight of his
persecutors, who, having spent their ingenuity, fled from the spot with
a whoop and a parting chorus of "Old Daddy David!"

During this occurrence, two figures had been crossing the square, and
hearing the noise had come up to see what was going on. On ascertaining
the nature of the disturbance, however, they at once turned aside to
pursue their way.

"Daddy is in good hands," remarked the taller and darker of the two.

"Yes," remarked the other, a fair-haired youth of seventeen, who
had his arm linked through that of his companion; "a new species of
knight-errantry that!"

"One which doesn't commend itself to my taste," returned the first
speaker. "When I have any surplus energy to bestow on 'redressing human
wrongs,' I will devote it to the service of 'Fair Ladyes,' not to
scrimmaging with small boys for the property of a doting old idiot who
ought to be safe in the Union."

Joseph had been too much taken up to observe their approach, but this
last remark caught his ear, and looking round, he recognised the
speaker. He stood gazing after them for a moment, stung by the sneering
tone in which the words were said. But quickly recollecting the old
man, he set to work beating and brushing the unfortunate cap.

"Now, Daddy," he said, as he restored it to him, "you and I had better
get home. Never mind about the bits and scraps," he added, as the old
man went on feeling and scraping after them with his stick. "They can
lie there till to-morrow. You'll be wanting to get into your corner by
the fire now, and have some tea."

But Daddy David was set upon recovering his treasures.

"It has taken me ever since the forenoon to collect them," he said.
"And d'ye think I'll go home without 'em 'cause those blackguardly
little chaps don't know what's due to white hairs!" he cried, striking
his stick on the ground. "Not I! I'll stop here till midnight, but I'll
take 'em home; that a' will!" And he returned to his quest.

Finding that he was bent upon securing them, and determined not
to leave him to the risk of meeting those boys again, Joseph
good-naturedly assisted him to pick them up, and forthwith proceeded to
pilot him across the square to the turning where he lived. Then wishing
him "good-night," he left him on the doorstep alternately invoking
blessings on the head of his deliverer, and all sorts of evils—possible
and absurd—upon the hearths and homes of those who had so far forgotten
the respect they owed to his advanced years.

"Funny they can't let him alone," Joseph said to himself as he turned
away. "Not much to be wondered at, though, all things considered. He's
an odd little fellow; and that is such a queer craze of his—always
scraping up those useless scraps of rubbish."

But here his reflections were brought to an abrupt termination. Coming
up the street towards him was the very same young fellow who had
uttered the disparaging remark about his knight-errantry. He was about
a year or so Joseph's senior, just at that age when youths are regarded
as young men by nobody but themselves. Like the latter, he was tall
and well-built, but of slighter stature, and with a tinge of darker
blood in his veins. A glance by broad daylight, however, would have
sufficed to tell that they were related, though further scrutiny would
have revealed the fact that fortune had smiled very unfairly on the two
branches of the old stock which the youths represented.

Neville Adams was first cousin to Joseph. But his father having
inherited a little house property in his right of "eldest son," and
having besides married a wife with money, had risen from the position
of a working carpenter to that of master builder, whilst his brother
Joseph—whose only son is the hero of our story—still continued to take
wages of him.

Riches do not always prove a blessing, especially when they are not the
direct result of personal exertion. Benjamin Adams was getting on in
the world; making money fast, people said. He had given his children
high-sounding names, Neville and Wilhelmina, and sent them to a good
school when they entered their teens. Later on, he had built his own
house, his brother Joseph working at it with the other men; and now it
was furnished in the newest style, and Mrs. Adams held up her head and
began to seek well-to-do acquaintances. But the old tie of brotherhood
was forgotten; and if Neville had more polished manners than Joseph,
he lacked something of the latter's honesty and candour; whilst
twelve-year-old Ruth promised to be of a far sweeter disposition than
her cousin Mina, though the latter could play the piano brilliantly and
paint on satin.

The salutations between the two lads was a very fair index of the terms
they were on, as well as of their difference of character. Joseph's
"good-night" was frank and hearty, Neville's refined and affected. But
neither attempted to stop and speak, for Neville had acquaintances
who would not care to associate with Joseph, and the latter had been
schooled accordingly.

It gave him little more than a passing thought just then, however, for
a hundred yards or so more brought him within sight of home, and in a
few minutes, he was entering the keeping-room, where his father was
already seated at his tea.

His mother was anxiously waiting to welcome him back to the cosy
fireside.

"You're late, Joseph," she said, glancing up admiringly at his tall
form, as he swung his basket of tools from his shoulder and passed
through to the kitchen with it.

"So would you be, if you'd been fighting Daddy David's battles,"
responded Joseph, who was washing his hands under the tap. "Young
scamps!" he added, as he returned. "I gave one of them something to
remember."

"You can't do any good, Joseph," said his mother. "You cannot always be
at Daddy's elbow."

"But when I am, I guess I won't see him knocked about," rejoined the
lad, with spirit, as he helped himself to bread and butter. "You
wouldn't feel very proud of me if I did, eh! mother?"

"'I' shouldn't," cried Ruth, gazing up at her brother with evident
reverence, very pretty to see. "You're like Mr. Greatheart, Joey."

"That's why you're not afraid of lions when I'm by, eh?" said Joseph,
glancing over his cup with a mischievous look.

Thereby "hung a tale." Ruth was foolishly timid of dogs, and the last
time they were out together, Joseph had made her go right up to a big
farmyard dog with whom he was on particularly good terms, and pat his
shaggy head. But it had been a very painful exercise of courage, and
the little girl was rather tender on the subject. However, Joseph was
too kind to tease, so he went on with his tea.

"They'll find themselves on the wrong side when Mr. Girling comes down
on there," he remarked presently.

"What's that?" inquired his father, looking up from his paper.

"Only that I mean to report the names of one or two," replied Joseph;
"and if Mr. Girling doesn't cane them soundly, he's not the man I
take him for. If I were schoolmaster, I know I wouldn't teach my boys
astronomy and botany, and leave them ignorant of their duty with
respect to the aged."

"You had much better not interfere, Joseph," said his mother, fearful
lest her boy should bring trouble on his own head. "You've done your
duty by the old man, and no good ever comes of meddling."

"Not with other people's business," returned Joseph; "but it seems
to me 'this' is my business, mother. I never was the one to stand
by and see even a toad hacked to pieces; and do you think I can see
that helpless old man tormented? Not I! I'll get some of them soundly
flogged for their pains."

"You'll only make enemies," expostulated Mrs. Adams.

"What! Amongst those little chaps?" laughed Joseph. "Small harm 'that'
will do me."

"The thing is," remarked his father, "Mr. Girling won't cane them.
Corporal punishment gets a schoolmaster into difficulties."

"They 'do' use it, though," said Joseph, thinking of his own school
days; "and if Mr. Girling has a spark of right feeling, he won't hold
back for fear of a summons from any of 'their' parents."

"Well! You will do no harm, if you do no good," rejoined his father,
returning to his paper; and there the matter dropped.

But Joseph had not forgotten it. When tea was finished, he took up a
journal to read. But after turning it over for a few minutes, he got
up, saying, "I suppose I can run down to Mr. Girling's, father. I want
him to know of it at once."

Mr. Adams just looked up to nod permission and bid him not be long; and
Joseph, taking his cap, slipped out.

A momentary shade of disappointment crossed Ruth's face, for he often
helped her with her lessons in the evening, and played draughts when
the books were done with. But Mr. Greatheart was a great hero in her
estimation, and she had become almost as deeply interested in the
proposed flogging of those boys as Joseph himself; so she got her books
and set patiently to work by herself.



CHAPTER II.

TWO WAYS OF FACING LIFE.


   "Let us then be up and doing,
      With a heart for any fate;
    Still achieving, still pursuing,
      Learn to labour and to wait."
                                   LONGFELLOW.

TO Joseph's infinite satisfaction, Mr. Girling was at home, and he
was at once ushered into a little back room, where the latter, seated
before a table covered with volumes of all shapes and sizes, was poring
over his studies.

Mr. Girling was unmistakeably a book-worm; a single glance sufficed to
ascertain that. A hard frown knit his brow, as he bent over the paper
before him, and so absorbed was he that he seemed hardly to remark
Joseph's entrance. He simply looked quickly up, as the lad obeyed his
"Come in," nodding towards a chair with the words, "Sit down a minute,"
and returned to his task, frowning more intently than ever as he ran
over the words half aloud.

It was Greek he was translating, and Joseph smiled involuntarily as the
unintelligible sounds caught his ear. But the smile died away almost
immediately. The schoolmaster's face was so sallow and careworn, so
lined and furrowed, that it looked more like the countenance of a man
of fifty, than that of one who was barely thirty-five. Joseph decided
very peremptorily in his own mind that the bargain was not worth the
price.

"Better far have a sound digestion," he said to himself, "than such
tightly-packed brains."

And Joseph was right in a certain degree. But he was ignorant of the
motive that prompted such unremitting toil. Mr. Girling's salary was
very small, and a widowed mother and an invalid sister were dependent
on his exertions; so the noble fellow was wearing away his own life in
the endeavour to fit himself to secure greater comfort for them.

After a short space of time during which Mr. Girling appeared to Joseph
to have consulted half the books on the table, he raised his head,
and throwing himself back in his chair in a manner which plainly told
how weary he was, prepared to learn the object of Joseph's visit. But
the frown vanished in an instant,—he kept that for his books,—and the
kindliest light imaginable shone in his grey eyes as he looked at the
fresh young face before him.

"Have you come for a Greek lesson, Joseph?" he asked, with a smile,
passing one hand behind his back, which evidently ached with continuous
stooping forward.

Joseph shook his head. "Greek wouldn't be of much use to 'me,' sir," he
answered.

"Probably not," rejoined the schoolmaster; "though I know more than one
lad your age who is learning it."

"I can read my carpenter's rule without it," said Joseph.

"Just so; but that isn't all that life consists in."

"There'll be more carpenter's rule than Greek in mine, I fancy,"
returned Joseph. "I've done with school, and chosen my trade."

"And you'll do right to stick to it. Depend upon it, it's the only way
to get on; but do not forget that you have a 'mind' as well as hands
to work with—and, above all, that this is what distinguishes you from
the brutes. Cultivate and store your mind—if not with 'Greek,' with
'something' worth learning. All knowledge is useful; and you need not
condemn your brains to starvation because you have chosen to follow
your father's trade. What do you do with yourself of an evening now?"

"I read, sir—"

"Ah!—"

"And I help Ruth—that's my sister—with her lessons—"

"Good! We learn most of all in teaching others, because we have
to search out 'the reason why,' before we can give them the least
instruction. Lads at school generally take as much as possible for
granted. And if they 'do' chance upon a reason for anything, they say
at once, 'Ah! So it is,'—without stopping to make sure that it's clear
to them 'why' it is. That habit gained me a good many floggings once
upon a time, for when I came to be questioned, I was dumb. But it is
altogether different when you are called upon to explain the same thing
to another. You are 'obliged' to look into reasons."

Joseph was beginning to like Mr. Girling. He had never conversed with
him before, having left school before the latter came into office, and
had no idea he could speak so pleasantly. He had well-nigh forgotten
what he had come for.

"You've got a good many books, sir," he said, looking round at the
shelves on which Mr. Girling's small library was arranged.

Mr. Girling smiled. "More than you have read in your whole lifetime, I
suppose," he said. "They seem few enough to me, though. You would be
welcome to any of them, only I am afraid they would not be of a nature
to interest you—unless it is this one." And reaching out his hand
without rising, Mr. Girling took down a volume. "If you haven't read
it," he added, handing it to Joseph, "take it home and see how you like
it; and when you have finished it, come and tell me your impression of
it."

Joseph took the book, ascertained that it was new to him, and having
thanked Mr. Girling, was about to make some further remark, when the
schoolmaster interrupted him.

"You haven't yet told me what brought you here," he said.

Whereupon Joseph unfolded the history of Daddy's wrongs and his own
championship. Mr. Girling's eyes grew bright as he listened.

"Well done!" he exclaimed, "I like you for that. I wouldn't give much
for a lad who could stand by and see grey hairs insulted. But I do not
know that I can visit the offence with the cane. My cane is for the
punishment of offences committed against school discipline; and I do
not use it even then, if it can be avoided. However, I am glad you told
me, and I shall not forget to speak of it to-morrow."

Joseph's countenance fell.

"They deserve a caning, sir," he said, in a disappointed tone of voice.

"They 'do,'" rejoined the schoolmaster heartily; "and had I been on the
spot, I should have done as you did, beyond a doubt. But I have not
much faith in the power of the cane."

"Mr. Outhwaite had," said Joseph.

"My predecessor? Ah! I've heard he used it pretty freely, and you seem
to know something about it. But tell me candidly, now, didn't you defy
its authority 'when you were out of its reach?'"

Joseph could not refrain from laughing as he admitted this fact. "You
know what boys are made of, sir," he said.

"And I was one myself, once," rejoined the schoolmaster. "The cane is a
very convincing argument as long as the tingle lasts; but if boys can
only be made to listen to their own consciences—'to the voice of reason
within them'—they will not need it."

"They will obey themselves, in a manner of speaking, sir."

"Exactly. I see you catch my meaning quickly. Well, we have all to
remember that we are 'children of a larger growth,' as Dryden says,
and that—metaphorically speaking—we may spare ourselves a good many
floggings by listening to the voice which God has put within us. If
we can only come to see how virtue is its own reward, we shall have
far less inclination to tread 'the pleasant paths of vice'—as they are
ignorantly called. Now I am going to ask you to do me a favour."

Mr. Girling rose and crossed the room, and diving his hands into the
bottom of a little cupboard which flanked the chimney-piece, brought
out a parcel tied up in brown paper. "My boots," he said, holding it
up to view. "I was going to carry them round to Sandy David presently,
which would have taken me ten minutes—precisely the time you have been
here. You pass the top of his street on your way home; and if you will
kindly leave them with him, I shall be enabled to make up the Greek I
have lost in talking to you."

Joseph willingly undertook the commission, and again thanking Mr.
Girling for the book, and receiving a parting injunction to come and
give his report upon it as soon as he had made acquaintance with the
contents, he set out.

The house where Sandy David lived, along with his aged father, was—as
we have seen—not far distant from the market-place. The turning was
narrow and dirty, and the buildings were more or less dilapidated for
want of repair. Sandy's, in common with the rest, had a good many
odds to fight against in presenting any sort of appearance. The worm
had been at work for years upon the wood, and the weather-worn paint
truthfully declined to conceal the fact. The constant dripping of
spouts in rainy seasons, too, had rotted the plaster, so that great
leprous patches disfigured the walls, which, in places, were eaten away
to the skeleton.

In Mrs. David's time, in spite of these disadvantages, there had been
evident signs of painstaking within, for she was a woman who believed
in a whitened step and a bit of clean window muslin, and would keep
her room tidy in spite of the dirty nature of Sandy's avocation. But
when she sickened, things rapidly went wrong, for she had no daughter
to keep the place straight, and poor Sandy was one of those despondent
characters who relinquish every bit of hope when evil days close in,
and allow everything to sink with them.

The step soon became the colour of the road. The curtains gradually
changed from white to ashy brown, until they seemed to have put on a
mourning tint for the mistress who was being carried from the narrow
doorway to her last resting-place. And there they still hung, although
summer had given place to autumn since that sad occurrence.

Joseph did not remark all this; he simply rapped on the door with his
knuckles, and hearing a melancholy voice say, "Come in," lifted the
latch and entered.

On one side of the hearth sat old Daddy, drumming with the fingers of
one hand upon the wooden arm of his chair, whilst in the other, he
clutched his stick, as though ready at any moment to set off upon his
search after rags and paper, a heap of which was accumulating in the
corner behind him.

Opposite, seated on a low stool, surrounded by his tools and numerous
odd scraps of leather and boots in various stages of progress, was
Sandy, slowly plying his awl on the soles of a high-low which he was
mending. He evidently knew the shape of a parcel of boots pretty
quickly, for he gave it a keen glance as Joseph advanced. Then dropping
his eyes on to his work again, without so much as returning the
latter's "Good evening," waited until he should be pleased to announce
his business.

"Mr. Girling's boots, to be soled and heeled," said Joseph, holding
them out towards him.

Sandy David put down his tool, and taking the parcel in his hand,
proceeded in silence to untie the string.

"To be soled and heeled," he repeated sententiously, after having duly
examined them. Then setting them down by his side, he picked up the
awl, and went on with the sole of the high-low.

Having discharged his errand, Joseph was about to leave the room, the
atmosphere of which was somewhat oppressive. But meanwhile, Daddy had
recognised him, and the sight of his gallant defender revived his
indignation.

"Aha!" he cried, in his sharp, cracking voice. "I'll pay them out—the
young rascals—that a' will!" And he got up and began to flourish about
with his stick, as if the boys were still compassing him on every hand.

At a word from Sandy, however, he sat down again, and contented himself
with muttered threats.

"It was you that took his part against the boys then, I suppose?" said
Sandy, looking up with a little more show of interest than he had
hitherto betrayed.

Joseph replied in the affirmative.

"And they had better not give me occasion again," he added.

"He's always getting into scrapes," remarked Sandy; "poor old Daddy! He
don't often find any one to side with him—all the more thanks to you
for what you did. It's a shame, the way they serve him."

"That a' will!" suddenly chimed in Daddy, bursting out again.

"It's a wonder he keeps a whole skin," continued Sandy, without heeding
the interruption. "I expect the secret is, he can't resist. It's the
way of the world. Those that 'will' hold up their heads get their necks
broken when they are compelled to go through low doorways. It's not
worth while, to my thinking. A few years more or less, and we shall
all be dust. Why should we strive and struggle to be looked up to by
others?"

"That depends," said Joseph, answering the shoemaker's words, which in
reality had been addressed to himself, rather than to any one else. "I
suppose if it's something in ourselves that others look up to, it's
worth striving for."

Sandy shook his head. "There's nothing lasting," he said.

Joseph did not answer. He had a sort of general impression that
uprightness and knowledge were lasting; and that when a man came to
his final account, he would enter the new life with a better start for
having cultivated and refined his own nature, and done what he could to
improve himself; but his ideas on the subject were rather dim, so he
said nothing.

"I began life with the same notions as you," Sandy went on. "I thought
a good deal depended on the strength of my own arm, and my mind was
made up about getting ahead; so I went at it with a will. But I soon
found out—what you'll learn—that 'the race is not to the swift,' 'time
and chance happen to all,'—and as long as I can keep a roof over my
head and life in my body, I'm content."

Indifferent, he should have said. Contentment means something more
cheerful than the sulky indifference of a man who is too helpless and
lazy to exert himself to mend matters. He should also have taken into
account a fact which Joseph's father mentioned when the former was
recounting what had passed between them.

"A man who makes up his mind to get ahead," he said, "must let
public-houses alone. If Sandy David had begun life with the idea that
he would have to give an account of the time and money that went in
that way, as well as of all the faculties of mind and body that were
given him to improve, he might have shown a more cheerful countenance
now; and perhaps have had his poor wife with him still."



CHAPTER III.

COURTING SOCIETY.

   "We laugh heartily to see a whole flock of sheep jump because one did
so; might not one imagine that superior beings do the same by us, and
for exactly the same reason?"—GREVILLE.

THAT same evening, Neville Adams and his sister were entertaining some
friends at Aylesdere, as they had styled the new house.

Mr. and Mrs. Adams were away at Bournemouth, so the young people
were rejoicing in entire freedom from restraint, and being even more
determined than their parents to mount the social ladder, were making
the best of their opportunities to cultivate certain new acquaintances,
whose patronage, as they were well aware, would be advantageous to
them. This being the first "party" they had given, they were somewhat
excited about it, and Neville was already on his way home when Joseph
passed him on his return from seeing Daddy safe.

Walter Anderson—the companion who had made such a sneering remark on
Joseph's knight-errantry—had gone on to fetch his violin, upon which
difficult instrument he flattered himself he had attained considerable
proficiency.

Cicely Anderson, who bore a striking resemblance to her brother, and
one or two other girl friends were already in the drawing-room with
Mina when Neville came in, and the latter was hovering about in a state
of nervous uncertainty, making himself generally agreeable and wishing
that some of the gentlemen of the party would turn up. He had not long
enjoyed this comfortable state of things, however, when a pretentious
knock announced an arrival.

"That's not 'Walter,' surely," cried Neville, starting up. "It must
be—but let's wait and see." And walking slowly back to the piano with
affected indifference, he began to look over the music which Cicely had
brought.

Time was when Neville would not have hesitated a moment about opening
the door to "any" of his friends; but things had changed since then.
The door which surmounted the imposing flight of steps at Aylesdere
opened into a spacious well-lighted entrance hall, and Neville's recent
introduction into the interiors of such "upper class" establishments
had taught him that it was customary for the servant to answer all
knocks.

It had "not" taught him that when a man spends some hundreds a year
more than he has been in the habit of doing, it makes him smaller
instead of greater, if it forces him to subject every impulse of
friendship or inclination to its arbitrary rules and fashions, since
true greatness consists in freedom from all rules save that of
conscience.

But Neville had special reasons for wishing to be duly ceremonious
on this particular occasion. Amongst those whom he had asked to make
one of their number that evening was a young man whose father held a
decidedly good position in the town. To secure his acquaintance and
obtain an entrance into his circle would be a splendid advance, and he
was therefore desirous of making the best possible impression. Nor was
Mina one whit behind him in this respect; she did not, however, wish
Cicely and her other friends to divine her thoughts, so she feigned
ignorance.

"You 'are' provoking, Neville," she exclaimed. "You might say who it
is."

"I might say wrong," returned Neville. "There is a stout oaken door
between me and the object of my conjectures."

"But you know whom you have asked. Is it Joe Tomlinson? Or Ned
Burleigh? Or Mr. Willis?"

Neville shook his head with an air of profound secrecy.

"None of them," he said; "though Mr. Willis is coming another time. He
said he should have been delighted to have done so this evening, only
he had a prior engagement. It's—never mind who it is. Wait and see."

Cicely looked from one to the other with evident interest. At the
commencement of her acquaintance with Mina, she had been the "greater"
of the two, now she was glad to creep into society under the latter's
wing, grateful at not being cast off.

Mina was not unobservant of the effect produced on her, as well as
on the other two girls, who had already drawn themselves up, as if
they expected some one of well-nigh royal importance. She, too, gave
a turn to her drapery, and posed herself so as to show off to greater
advantage the bangles which glittered on her wrist. Silver had only
just come into vogue at the time, and Mina was very proud of the set
which her father had given her on her birthday.

"You 'are' disagreeable, Neville!" she whined, with a pretence pout, as
she arranged them.

But at the same moment, the door was flung open, and the servant
announced, "Mr. Horace Grandpont."

Mina's anticipations were fulfilled. The newcomer was a tall, fair
young man, with high, narrow shoulders, and clothes of a decidedly
fashionable cut. In the ordinary course of description, the countenance
takes precedence of figure and attire, but the two facts above referred
to form such a concise index to his character, that it is advisable
to mention them first. The weak, contracted shoulders betokened,
if not actual contempt for athletics, at least such total want of
practical acquaintance with them that physical strength and power of
usefulness evidently had no place in the owner's idea of what a man
should be; whilst the precise set of his clothes, and the dandyfied
style of his neckcloth, in which glittered a diamond pin, proclaimed
him one with whom appearance had far more weight than worth. As to his
features, they were of a somewhat aristocratic stamp, as was also his
complexion—if lack of colour is any proof of high birth. His eyes were
moderately large, but pale and lustreless, whilst the expression of his
mouth, shaded by a delicate moustache, was weak and conceited in its
stereotyped affability.

He was one of those vain characters ever ready to barter patronage
for the small coin of homage, unaware all the while that such homage
is itself nothing more than a species of spurious patronage bestowed
for the sake of what it will purchase.

Mr. Horace Grandpont entered the room with a fashionable bow, and
having shaken hands with Neville, who hastened forward to meet him with
tell-tale "empressement," allowed himself to be presented to Wilhelmina
and the others.

"Delightfully mild weather, this!" he remarked to Neville, as he seated
himself.

Neville was on the point of replying, when the knocker went again—this
time less ostentatiously. Mina betrayed no symptoms of suspense, but
Cicely's eyes brightened.

"That is Walter," she said, in a timid undertone.

But it proved otherwise. The opening door disclosed to view a short,
dark, Merry-Andrew faced fellow, by name Tom Rawlinson, who came
into the room all smiles and hilarity, but subsided into a state
of diffident quiescence upon being introduced to Horace Grandpont.
Apparently the latter was to be the lion of the party, and every one
else was going to forfeit their own self-esteem for the privilege of
bowing down to him.

Before he had fairly said, "How d'ye do?" another knock announced
Walter, who made up the sum-total of the visitors expected.

"Where is the instrument, Pattie?" inquired Neville, with a view to
breaking the silence which succeeded his entrance.

"Out in the hall," replied Walter, in the same mild undertone as his
sister had made use of.

"Too modest to bring it in?" remarked Horace Grandpont encouragingly.
"What is it? A German concertina?"

"A violin," replied Walter impressively, a trifle hurt at the banter
implied in the other's question.

   "'Fiddle-de-dee sang clear and loud,
     And his trills and his quavers astonish'd the crowd,—'"

quoted Tom Rawlinson under his breath. "Why didn't somebody remind me
to bring my banjo?"

"And with a tambourine and bones, we might have had the Christy
Minstrels," cried Mina. "I could play the tambourine, I'm sure," and
flinging out her hands after the manner of the Italian women whom she
had seen in the streets, she shook them until her bangles jingled
merrily.

"My great-grandfather's hand-organ would have been the brightest
thought, after all," said Tom Rawlinson, whose spirits were fast
recovering from the shock of his introduction to the "lion." "It only
takes one at a time to grind that, which is an advantage in such a
limited company as the present, because the rest can listen and throw
coppers. There isn't a cat we could metamorphose into a monkey, I
suppose—'Jacopo,' with a frilled shirt and tall hat?"

"Had your great-grandfather really a hand-organ, Mr. Rawlinson?" asked
Cicely, in her interest forgetting her constraint, as well as the
absurdity of the idea.

She was a pretty-looking girl when behaving naturally; a fair-haired,
simple English girl with wonderfully truthful eyes and an unaffected
ring in her voice. Tom thought so, as she looked up at him.

"Didn't you know?" he replied, with mock seriousness. "Used to go round
for coppers just before the invention came out. I could show you his
photo at home, monkey and all. He was a handsome young fellow then;
used to attract crowds of people, and make so much money that he had to
carry his bag to the Bank of England every evening to get the pennies
changed for gold. They were the big, old-fashioned copper ones in those
days, you know, and they say it was the weight of them that caused his
death."

"For shame, Tom!" cried Neville. "He's only gammoning you, Cicely.
Never believe Tom's flights of imagination. You only need examine his
chronology to know that his stories won't hold together."

Cicely coloured uncomfortably. But her brother came to the rescue.

"Talking about crowds and great-grandfathers," he said, "Neville and I
witnessed an exciting scene as we came across the market-place;—Joseph
Adams defying the imps of the wicked one on behalf of old Daddy
David. One of them had twisted his cap off, and it was making swift
acquaintance with aerial regions, whilst the old fellow's hair streamed
in the wind."

Joseph was the last person in the world whom it was advisable to make
the topic of conversation just then. But most of the young people cried
shame on Daddy's tormentors, whilst Cicely, who had always felt an
interest in her old playmate since the days when they all attended the
National School together, cried out,—

"It's just like Joseph to take his part, too. I remember he always
sided with the weak ones at school."

Neville bit his lip and gave Mina a glance which plainly said, "For
goodness' sake stop that girl's tongue!"

His horror may readily be imagined when Horace Grandpont inquired,—

"Pray, who may this Joseph be? He seems a born hero."

But Neville had risen. "You sing, Grandpont!" he said. "I suppose your
songs are waiting in modest retirement along with the violin. Mina,
open the piano."

Mina rose to comply, followed by Horace Grandpont, who politely
anticipated her every movement, and Neville went for the music, leaving
the question unanswered. Whilst Cicely—feeling instinctively that she
had made an unfortunate blunder—turned to Ada and Lizzie Williams, who
as yet had scarcely spoken a word.

Mina had a flexible touch, and knew how to show off in a superficial
sort of way. She was not afraid to dash into an extempore prelude,
and having a good memory, could play numberless snatches of operatic
melodies and popular airs, tra-la-la-ing to them effectively here and
there with her voice. When she was tired of playing, Horace brought her
his roll of music to select from, and she accompanied him in a song,
after which she must needs reward him with a sentimental ballad from
her own repertoire.

Meanwhile, Walter having taken out his violin and surreptitiously
tuned it up, Cicely was called upon to render the pianoforte part,
whilst her brother scraped away in very meritorious though decidedly
amateur fashion. Then Tom was asked for a recitation, which he declined
to give until Cicely promised to follow it with a song. Cicely was
so nervous, however, that her naturally sweet and birdlike voice was
almost inaudible; and Mina had the bad taste to set off her failure by
following immediately with a second specimen of her own talent.

After this, she and Horace Grandpont kept the music almost entirely
in their own hands, until some of the others, becoming tired of being
listeners, proposed "proverbs" and "bouts-rhimés" and "consequences."
And a long string of games succeeded.

It was getting late, and supper had just been announced, when Tom
Rawlinson, who had been showing off his skill in thought-reading,
approached Cicely.

"Now, Miss Anderson," he said, "won't you give us another song before
we go into the dining-room?"

Cicely tried to excuse herself, not desirous of passing through the
ordeal a second time, and Mina was evidently not anxious for the delay.
But Tom would not take a refusal, and sat down to accompany her, whilst
the others, who had already risen from their seats, stood waiting to
pair off.

It was rather trying; but nothing is so hard to do a second time;
and Cicely had, moreover, a little tincture of determination in her
composition, which sometimes came into prominence in a most unexpected
way when she was put upon her mettle.

In the first verse, her tones were decidedly tremulous, and she had
evident difficulty in reaching the higher notes. But in the second,
she mastered her nervousness, and her voice—entirely free from the
affectation and impurity of tone which characterized Mina's—resounded
clear and bell-like through the room.

Horace was listening with great interest; all the more so, perhaps,
from the fact that Cicely's first attempt had misguided his judgment as
to her capabilities.

But, unfortunately for the safe issue of the song, Cicely was a trifle
near-sighted. In bending forward to see the words, her arm approached
too near the candle, the hanging lace of her sleeve caught fire, and
before any one knew what was happening, her arm was enveloped in a
sheet of flame.

The song came to an abrupt termination, and Wilhelmina screamed. But
Tom sprang up, and seizing Cicely's arm with both hands, crushed out
the flames; though not before she was seriously hurt. The mischief
did not end there, however. Some loose music, which had been thrown
carelessly upon the piano, had ignited from the burning sleeve, and now
blazed up.

[Illustration]

The room was a scene of confusion. The girls screamed and rushed to
the door, and the servants, hearing the noise, came running from the
kitchen, whilst Neville, fearing to burn his hands, looked wildly about
him for something to beat out the flames with. But Walter, regardless
of personal considerations, seized hold of the flaring pile, flung it
on the floor, and seizing the hearthrug, soon had the fire under.

"Three pairs of burnt hands!" he exclaimed, when it was safely
extinguished. "How did it all come about?"

Nobody knew; it had happened so quickly.

"I suppose I put my arm too near the light in trying to see the words,"
said Cicely, whose voice was beginning to quiver with the pain of her
wrist. "I do not know them very well."

"Then you shall wear glasses to punish you," said her brother, blowing
on his own scorched palms.

But Tom saw how Cicely was suffering, and cut this pleasantry short.

"For goodness' sake, don't joke till our burns are bound up," he
exclaimed. "Get some oil, somebody; salad—anything," turning to the
servants, one of whom rushed to the dining-room and returned with the
cruet.

"Now, a handkerchief, anything—quick!" And deftly anointing the poor
girl's arm from the contents of the cruet, he bound it carefully round.

It was not a very merry supper-party. The smoke stain on the
drawing-room ceiling and the blistered lid of the piano were quite
sufficient to damp Neville and Mina's spirits. And although Tom, with
his inexhaustible fund of good humour, endeavoured to cut jokes over
the awkward manner in which he was obliged to handle his knife and
fork, neither he nor Walter could quite forget the smart. Besides this,
Mr. and Mrs. Adams had placed a restriction upon the hour to which
their entertainments should be kept up, and the limit was already past;
therefore, immediately after supper, the guests took leave.

"Thus ends our first party!" remarked Neville, as he repaired to the
drawing-room with Mina to survey the damage once more before retiring
for the night. "I wonder how the 'pater' will take it. But I say, Mina,
that girl must learn a little more discretion if she wishes to be asked
with our new set. I don't want Joseph introduced on all occasions."

"I'll represent matters to her," said his sister.

And then they went to their rooms.



CHAPTER IV.

A LESSON IN CIRCUMSPECTION.

   "The grip of an old friend's hand ill suits the wearing of a brand new
glove; and he whose tongue would learn the jargon of the court must
forget he ever spoke in common ears."—ANON.

THE next afternoon Wilhelmina dressed herself to make calls, and went
to inquire how Cicely's arm was progressing.

The Andersons' establishment was very homely after Aylesdere. It was in
the town, and had only iron railings in front, instead of a sweep of
lawn and gravel path; and the door opened so close upon the staircase
that the visitor was obliged to step aside before it could be closed
by the servant, who for the time was converted into a species of
bas-relief on the wall behind it. The sitting-rooms, too, with their
low-pitched ceilings and old-fashioned stoves, were decidedly cramped
in comparison with the oak-panelled dining-room with its old English
furniture, and the spacious drawing-room, in which such a museum of
rarities and knick-knacks were exhibited.

But, after all, what could be expected? A house taken on lease is never
so well-appointed as one specially designed by the taste of the owner.
Moreover, Mr. Anderson had been far outstripped by his old friend
Adams,—with whom, by the bye, he had often shared his pennyworth of
goodies when a boy, and whose father had been a schoolfellow of his own
sire in the days when the latter boasted by far the smarter nankeens
and blouse.

But for this fact, Neville and Mina might possibly have dropped the
Andersons entirely. This being impossible on account of the old link
between the respective parents, they were content to flatter their
own vanity by patronising them, taking every available opportunity of
making them feel that if they were desirous of being admitted into such
high society, they must watch very carefully for their cue.

As will readily be imagined, the object of Mina's mission to Cicely
on the afternoon in question was of this nature. Neville had reminded
her of it at the breakfast-table, and Mina had her own reasons for
being quite ready to fall in with any suggestions of his regarding the
furtherance of their acquaintance with the Grandponts.

Unconsciously, both she and Neville were preparing to sell themselves
for the paltry price of a petty ambition, the utmost realization of
which was totally inadequate to satisfy the cravings of a nature in
which the human joins hands with the divine.

Mina found Cicely alone in the sitting-room, with her arm in a sling,
listlessly amusing herself with a book.

"I knew you would come," she said, as Mina sat down beside her. "It is
so dull, not being able to do anything."

"And I have been longing for a chat," cried Mina, who had had no
opportunity overnight of ascertaining her impressions concerning the
party and its "lion." "What do you think of Horace Grandpont? 'Isn't'
he nice?"

"Yes," replied Cicely, in a doubtful tone, which contrasted sadly
with the truthful expression of her eyes. She should have said "not
altogether;" for "yea" should be yea, and "nay," nay; and if neither of
these words will express the thoughts, the utterance of them becomes a
lie. But Cicely's genuine nature was not entirely suppressed yet, and
her real thoughts "would" out. "He is very gentlemanly," she added;
"only—"

"Only? Surely you haven't found a fault in him?" exclaimed Mina. "I
think him perfect. What is your 'only'?"

Cicely was at a loss. To find fault with Mina's beau-ideal was to run
the risk of being credited with very bad taste.

"Well!" Mina ejaculated triumphantly, as she still hesitated. "You
needn't be afraid to say. I shall not be jealous of you for not liking
him, you know. Doesn't he sing well?"

Cicely readily yielded assent to this. Horace Grandpont's voice was
of a very passable quality, and he had heard sufficient professional
singing to enable him to pick up a pretty good style. He could go
through any number of the ballads of the day with a fair amount of good
taste, nautical subjects being his favourites, because their peculiarly
spirited swing suited his style and made them easy to catch up.

"He sings very well indeed," Cicely admitted; "and he seems very
good-natured and entertaining; but somehow I'm not at my ease with him."

"Oh! That is perfectly natural," returned Mina. "You will soon get over
it, though, if you see much company,—that is, if you are much at our
house. But, Cicely, my dear, you must be a little more circumspect.
Didn't you observe how annoyed Neville was?"

"At what?" Cicely was on the point of asking.

But she remembered her blunder about Joseph, and her face began to grow
uncomfortably hot again.

"I didn't think," she said. "We all used to be such good friends
together; and it seems so strange, to have to give up old friends for
new acquaintances."

Mina felt reproved for the moment, in spite of herself; but she quickly
recovered. "I daresay it does at first sight," she answered; "but when
you come to reflect: how could we possibly introduce Joseph into our
drawing-room, with his plebeian ways and clownish clothes? Only fancy
him! And of course, if we do not introduce him, we do not want to talk
about him."

Cicely was silent. She saw the justice of her friend's words, but not
the rightness of them. "He is your cousin, you see," she said, after a
few minutes' pause.

"Oh! Cousins are not much to each other," returned Mina indifferently.
"Very often they are not even acquainted."

"But you are," urged Cicely. "Why! We all went to school together."

"Well! For goodness' sake, don't mention that. I've been to
boarding-school since, and do not want it known that I ever was inside
the National till the bazaar last spring. That was where I first saw
Horace Grandpont, Cicely."

Cicely said, "Was it?"

And Mina continued,—

"As regards our being cousins, you know, of course, it is a blood
relationship, and such ties are sacred in a certain way." (She did not
stop to specify in "what" way, or she might have added, "in the sight
of Him who ordained them.") "But when one brother makes his way, as
papa as done, I do not see that the others can justly expect him to tie
himself down to their slow pace."

"Is it through any fault of Joseph's father that he has not done the
same as your papa?" asked Cicely, willing to find a way out of the
difficulty. "If the younger brother had remained poor through his own
slothfulness or prodigality, there would be perfect justice in leaving
him behind in the race."

But Mina's answer put this out of the question.

"Not exactly, I suppose," she said. "Papa is the eldest son, and of
course all the house property descended to him. It was not so very
much; but it enabled him to gain a start."

"That doesn't seem fair," said Cicely. "It is enough to sow discord
among brothers that all the house property should go to one. Why
shouldn't it be equally divided? If Joseph's father had received an
equal share, he might have done as well as yours, although neither
would have been quite so rich."

Mina looked as if she thought such a change in the disposition of
things far from desirable.

"It's the law," she answered, somewhat testily; "and I suppose neither
you nor I can propose to alter the laws of the country. Besides, mamma
has money of her own. Her family is a very old one. She wants papa to
have a genealogical tree made. People think so much of that, you know."

"I suppose they do," said Cicely, beginning to wonder that it had never
occurred to "her" to inquire what noble root her own family had sprung
from.

"Tyrrel is a very old name," continued Mina, "and we expect to be able
to trace our branch of it right back to the time of William Rufus."

"I never can exactly see why those who have any worth in themselves
should not be as much respected as those who are only well descended,"
said Cicely thoughtfully, after a pause, during which she had been
ostensibly arranging her sling more comfortably, but in reality
reflecting over Mina's words. "It always appears to me that one's 'own'
merit must be of more value than ever so much nobility on the part
of one's ancestors, who perhaps after all only had large estates and
plenty of wealth."

"Of course, as far as that goes," replied Mina, "merit is always merit,
wherever it exists; and the Bible estimate would be just about what
you say—that personal worth is of more value than outward possessions.
But that holds good in religious communities whose members despise all
worldly blessings, rather than in society."

Cicely was silent.

"I don't mean to say," continued Mina, "that society ignores the Bible
estimate. Of course it mustn't set itself up against the Bible. And
nobody ought to be tolerated who isn't morally upright, and all that
sort of thing—even if he dined off gold every day of his life. But then
well-to-do people generally are all that they ought to be. They are
surrounded by so many refinements. And after all, if you meet with any
genius or merit in members of the lower orders, it may generally be
referred to their remote connection with some ancient family. So there,
again, you see descent is everything."

Cicely was silenced; but her conviction that the Bible estimate must be
the correct one for "every" class of society was struggling against her
anxiety to curry favour at Aylesdere, and she was not convinced.

"It isn't as if these less refined people were absolutely dependent on
us for society," continued Mina. "There are plenty of companions far
more suited to Joseph than Neville and myself. There really is very
little in common between us."

"Still he is your cousin," returned Cicely, warming at the mention of
Joseph. "You need not invite him to meet your other friends; but it
does not seem right to cast him off entirely. His father and yours are
brothers; and the Bible says, 'He that loveth not his own brother—'"

"Oh! There was no society then," said Mina lightly; "besides, I
shouldn't cast him off altogether. I should speak to him if we met, of
course—unless I chanced to be walking with Horace Grandpont's sister,
whom I intend to 'cultivate.' I might take measures not to see him, in
that case," she added, in a sudden burst of truthfulness.

Cicely attempted no further argument, and the conversation turned upon
other topics, for which Joseph and the whole question connected with
him were speedily forgotten—at any rate on Mina's side.

The afternoon sped rapidly away, and Mina finally allowed herself to be
persuaded into staying to tea, to beguile Cicely's loneliness, leaving
immediately afterwards, however, as Horace was coming to play chess
with Neville.



CHAPTER V.

THE MONITOR SPEAKS IN VAIN.

   "When two voices parley with a human citadel, that which speaks on the
side of self-interest will be victorious; but woe to that city which
opens its gates to an enemy of the realm, for the days of its peace are
numbered."—ARMY CHAPLAIN.

WILHELMINA went home flattering herself that she had said quite
sufficient to convince Cicely of the necessity of being more
"circumspect," as she termed it. As regarded the latter's arguments,
she smiled to herself as she thought them over, and extracted her
fair share of fun out of them for Neville's edification at their next
"tête-à-tête."

"Quoting the Bible to me!" she laughed. "The idea! She looked very much
like quoting the Bible when Tom Rawlinson asked her to sing last night.
She has no intention of turning her voice to perpetual psalms, I know.
Ah! Well; she must make her own choice, and satisfy her lively little
conscience in her own fashion."

Which was precisely what Cicely was endeavouring to do. In her own
heart, she felt that to do as Mina wished was mean and unworthy; but
the leaven of ambition had already begun to work with such power in her
heart, that she was by no means decided as to what course she herself
should pursue with regard to her old playmate.

Before a week had passed, she was put to the test. As the burn began to
heal, Mina proposed to take her for a walk. At first Cicely would not
hear of appearing in the public streets with her arm in a sling. But
Mina ridiculed her so unmercifully, and Mrs. Anderson declared it was
such an absurd affectation of sensitiveness to condemn herself to the
house for such a trifle, that she at length yielded. And it was agreed
that immediately after lunch next day, they should meet and have a good
two hours together out of doors.

Accordingly, shortly before two o'clock, Cicely, having been assisted
to dress by her mother, sallied forth to the rendezvous, the injured
arm comfortably adjusted, and carefully wrapped up to protect it from
the chill of the autumn wind.

Now Cicely's home was not far from Joseph's, and it so happened that,
the interval between one and two being his dinner hour, he was just
returning to work when she started, and they met.

Cicely's face became uncomfortably hot as she descried him afar off,
for she could not but remember the unworthy motives which had actuated
certain of her thoughts with regard to him, and her resolve to pass him
by was shaken. Meanwhile Joseph had recognised her, and his honest face
flushed with pleasure at the idea of exchanging greetings. A moment
more, and the look of his beaming countenance would have ended the
struggle in his favour; but at that very instant, Cicely became aware
that Mina was in sight, and her right of judgment deserted her.

Joseph was on the opposite side of the way. Nothing would be more
easy than to pass him by as if in a hurry. But as he drew nearer, he
perceived the sling.

In an instant, Cicely calculated the result. He would be sure to cross
over and inquire how she had hurt herself, and whilst they stood
talking, Mina would come up. The situation would not only be awkward,
but the whole blame of it would be thrown upon her.

Without further reflection, Cicely steeled her heart to what appeared
the only course by which she could avert the calamity. Fixing her eyes
upon her friend as the latter tripped along the pavement towards her,
she feigned not to have perceived Joseph until, just as they were
opposite each other, she glanced across—quite as if by chance—and gave
him a passing nod of recognition. Before she could recover from the
flutter into which this little stratagem had thrown her, Joseph was
already many paces behind, and she was face to face with Mina.

"I was terribly afraid of your sling," the latter said, as they went
on together. "I made certain he would come right across to know what
was the matter; and of all things in the world, it would have been most
inopportune; but you managed splendidly. I saw you fix your eyes on me.
The look of determination you assumed amused me intensely."

Cicely was almost startled. How observant Mina was! How she seemed to
read her through and through, to the very motives which prompted her
actions—motives of which she herself had scarcely been aware in the
hurry of the moment. She was far from comfortable during the first half
mile of their walk, though she tried to conceal it from Mina. It did
not escape the latter, however, but she only exerted herself all the
more to let Cicely see how thoroughly she approved of her behaviour.
By degrees, the impression wore off, and Cicely quieted her conscience
with the conviction that she was on the right side with Mina.


In the meantime, Joseph had pursued his way somewhat disappointed at
Cicely's conduct, and not a little puzzled. He felt convinced that she
had seen him coming, but what reason she could possibly have had for
looking past him in so determined a manner, he could not understand. It
occupied his thoughts all the way to work, but no longer; for Joseph
was not one to work with his hands alone. "With both hands earnestly"
meant that his whole mind must be in what he was about, and if he
whistled, it was only because that required no thought.

A few days later, however, something further occurred to deepen the
mystery.

It was Sunday, and being an unusually mild day for the late time of
year, Joseph had walked down to the Sunday-school to meet Ruth, in
order to take her for a stroll outside the town. The way by which they
had chosen to return lay across some fields by a regular gravelled
path, interrupted wherever the hedges intersected it by little
"patience" gates. Passing through one of these, they encountered
Walter and Cicely together with a girl whose name Joseph knew—Annie
Cleveland—but with whom he had no acquaintance.

Cicely's arm was no longer in a sling; but it was still bound up with a
kerchief in place of a glove, and Joseph naturally conceived the idea
of stopping to ask her what was the matter with it.

Walter, on the other hand, whose conduct towards Joseph had been
very cool of late, determined upon preventing any such possibility;
for Annie Cleveland was one of the new set—a great friend of Alice
Grandpont's. So, holding the gate open for Annie, and quickly slipping
through after her with the merest nod to Joseph, he left Cicely to
follow. But the latter could not have been more completely caught in a
trap. Before she could pass through, Joseph accosted her.

There was nothing for it but to remain behind and answer his inquiries,
which Cicely did as concisely as she could. Then glancing uneasily
after Walter and Annie, who were already some distance ahead, without
so much as a word to Ruth, she muttered an excuse and hurried on.

Joseph was hurt, not so much at her haste,—that perhaps was
unavoidable, as Walter was disinclined for the interruption; but
because there was something so altered in her manner, something so
constrained and cold. He thought so much about it that Ruth found him
duller company than usual, and began to try her powers of conversation
in such a pointed manner that Joseph took the hint, and—good brother
that he was—threw off his annoyance and laid himself out to please her.

But as soon as he was alone, he began to think about it again; and try
as he would, he could imagine no reason for the change.

The very next afternoon, the problem was solved. Joseph had occasion
to leave the workshop to go with a message to the other side of the
town. On the way, he followed his cousin Mina and her new friend the
whole length of a street, and thus had an opportunity of observing the
affected style of their conversation and manners. He understood now the
change in his cousin; but this was not all. Just as he overtook them,
Cicely and Annie Cleveland turned the corner. The meeting was evidently
by appointment, for they stopped to greet Alice and Mina, and the
four girls, after spending several moments in vivacious consultation,
continued their way together; but not before Cicely had seen Joseph. He
was sure of that. Their eyes had met as she turned the corner, but she
had quickly averted hers, feigning not to perceive him, and so he had
passed on. But it was all as clear as daylight to him now.

"Neville and Mina are extending their acquaintances among the 'nobs,'"
he said graphically to himself; "and Walter and Cicely are hanging on.
Well! I don't want to be a disgrace to them, if they're ashamed of me;
that's certain."

Nevertheless, Joseph was stung to the quick; for a person must be very
truly great to be above minding the contempt of others. For several
days, the workshop appeared an intolerably dull, uninteresting sort of
place, and he whistled very little. Ruth's unguarded moves at draughts,
too, failed to excite the usual amount of amusement. After that, Joseph
recovered his spirits, though he did not forget.


During this time Mina's friendship with Alice Grandpont and Annie
Cleveland had been growing rapidly, flourishing, like most weeds, on
shallow soil; but, like them, in constant danger of being scorched and
withered by adversity or caprice. The days were spent for the most part
in frivolous conversation, reading together the novels of the day,
looking over fashion-books, planning in secret how they might outdo
each other in little matters of dress, and wasting hours of gossip over
useless fancy-work. The evenings were idled away at one or other of the
three houses, and Mina, for one, felt terribly miserable if anything
occurred to make her stay at home so much as once in the week. Even
Sunday was no exception to the rule; and service came to be regarded as
an hour and a half which must be "got through" before they would be at
liberty to enjoy each other's society.

It was not to be wondered at that Mina's character was rapidly
deteriorating under such influence, and it was well for both her and
Neville that Mr. and Mrs. Adams returned at the end of the month.
For although the hearts of both parents were set upon the worldly
advancement of their children, their riper experience deterred them
from going such lengths in the pursuit.

Mina was no longer at liberty to invite her new friends when and how
she pleased, and her mother expected that a reasonable proportion of
her evenings should be passed at home. But the restraint only rendered
her peevish and unamiable. Having once tried her own wings, and tasted
the delights of liberty, she could not bring herself to acknowledge any
authority but her own, and her mother's was a very unwelcome fetter.

Thus she went on, wasting her youth in utter forgetfulness that "it
is not always May;" consuming her oil without a thought of the coming
eventide; building upon the shifting sands of time, when the only home
of her immortal soul must be a house "not made with hands, eternal in
the heavens."



CHAPTER VI.

HEROES IN BOOKS AND IN REAL LIFE.

   "We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
    In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
    We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
    Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best."
                                                        BAILEY.

ONE thing that materially assisted Joseph in recovering from his
annoyance was the perusal of Mr. Girling's book.

It had lain neglected for nearly a week, for the first dip into it
had not proclaimed the contents to be of a very attractive nature,
and he had other more amusing books on hand. When they were finished,
however, he returned to it, and set to work patiently to read from the
beginning. He had not proceeded far when he became deeply interested.
It proved to be the life-story of a man who, by sheer force of will and
superiority of intellect, raised himself from the ranks to be a light
among his fellows; and who, amid all his labours,—for the needful gold
as well as in pursuit of knowledge,—found leisure to go about "doing
good," spreading among the poor and neglected the gospel of good news
which had filled his own heart.

Joseph became intensely fascinated, all the more so from the fact that,
like himself, the hero had been despised by those whom accident of
birth and social position had placed above him. He eagerly devoured
page after page, until at the end, he asked himself the question, "Why
should not I, too, by my own exertions, raise myself to an equality
with my cousins, or even outstrip them?" And a great ambition awoke
within him to rise from his low estate, and, though "a carpenter's
son," to ascend the hill of greatness.

But this was at bedtime, and the light of day shows up many a detail of
which candle-light takes no note. With the morning, came two or three
sober facts which made his "mountain" look more rugged and steep.

His work must be continued all the same. He must choose some particular
branch of knowledge in which to excel; for to flounder about the entire
field of learning would be, in colloquial phrase, to strive after
becoming Jack-of-all-trades and master of none. The chief difficulty
here was that Joseph felt no particular aptitude or inclination for any
one subject. He was a sensible lad, capable of appropriating a fair
amount of information, but, like many others, with no special genius
for anything.

However, the book was finished, and must be returned. Accordingly,
selecting Saturday evening, as Mr. Girling's most leisure time, he
sallied forth with the volume under his arm, and made his way to the
house where the schoolmaster lodged. He found him, as before, deep in
his studies; but Mr. Girling looked up with a smile as he entered, and
at once laying down his pen, gave him a hearty welcome.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you, sir," Joseph began; "but you made me
promise—"

"To come as soon as the book was finished," rejoined Mr. Girling; "and
you've kept your word. I'm glad to see you. Human beings are better
than books, sometimes."

"I should think they are, sir," said Joseph. "You must get awfully
fagged, night after night."

"And day after day. School is more tiring, by far, although I have
human material to operate on there."

"That is your work, you see, sir," said Joseph. "I don't know that I
get fagged over my carpentering, though. It may make my limbs ache, but
a night's rest sets them to rights."

"Ah!" returned Mr. Girling, with a smile. "I am not at liberty to
whistle over my work; and therein lies a difference. On the other
hand, you have no particular reason for wanting to be at something
else; and therein lies a second difference. When a man longs to be
doing something more congenial to his taste, he feels tied down by his
ordinary work. Still, 'being what I am, I am resolved to be it nobly,'
as Joanna Baillie says, and to make the best of my spare time for my
own ends."

"You remind me of the hero of that book, sir," said Joseph.

"Do I? He was a bit of a hero, wasn't he?"

"He was, sir."

"His was the first 'life' that stirred my ambition."

"Was it?" Joseph was surprised, and yet not altogether so.

It seemed scarcely possible that any one could read it without being
moved to higher aspirations; yet he had never thought of Mr. Girling,
the schoolmaster,—the man of grave demeanour and furrowed brow,—as
having been influenced by the reading of a book. It brought him nearer
to his own level.

"The thing is," he continued; "it doesn't seem possible for ordinary
people to do as he did. He had a genius, and I have none. I'm fond of
reading, and anxious to cultivate my mind—in short, to raise myself;
but I've no special wish to study anything in particular."

Mr. Girling gazed at him for a few minutes with an expression of
peculiar interest. He could plainly see, although the lad had not said
it in so many words, that his ambition had been stirred.

"You are like a great many others," he said; "you have not yet found
out which way your ambition is leading you. Don't let it give you the
slip, and sooner or later it will mark out its own path. It is a sturdy
plant if it grows in a healthy soil."

"It's dangerous, according to the copy-books," remarked Joseph.

"Because, like many a good quality, it has two possible scopes for
its energies. Fire may destroy property, or drive the industry of
a country; electricity may take life—with a wink of its eye, as it
were—or burrow under the Atlantic with the news of a life spared. In
the same manner, many of the noble qualities which make the world's
heroes have their opposite development in its villains."

Joseph looked inquiringly.

"For instance," explained the schoolmaster, seeing that he did
not quite understand the application of the examples, "the
clear-sightedness and penetration which makes a good statesman, may
assume the shape of cunning and sharp dealing. Zeal may take the form
of bigotry, prudence that of cowardice, bravery of brutality; and the
stronger a man's character, the further he will go in one direction or
the other, for only the weak are content with a middle course. That is
to say, that just as a stream which has force enough to do the miller
good service, may wash away the foot-bridge, so a man who is capable by
nature of doing the world good service, is by the same nature capable
of being very base."

"But surely all qualities are not like that, sir," said Joseph
reflectively. "Truth and integrity, for instance."

"Because they are the result of force of character, which has already
found a channel to run in," replied Mr. Girling. "By the bye, what
struck you as the noblest part of our hero?"

Joseph considered a moment.

"His courage and steadfastness," he answered.

"You mean," rejoined Mr. Girling, "the steadfastness which enabled him,
in spite of all his poverty and fatigue, to go on slowly and surely
toiling upwards. That was not what struck me most.

"It showed great perseverance and determination," continued Mr.
Girling. "But something further is proved by the fact that in the
midst of all his privations, when mind and body must often have been
well-nigh worn out, he could still find leisure to gather poor children
round him on the Sabbath, or to carry consolation to the sick and
hopeless. He must have had that Spirit in his heart who is the best
director of all our energies, and never distorts or misapplies our
noble qualities. Strength of will, ambition, perseverance, and learning
are all good, but the grace of God is better, because it is the
mainspring and guide of all true knowledge."

Joseph had not thought much about this aspect of the question. But
as Mr. Girling spoke, another point of resemblance between him and
the hero occurred to his mind. He recollected now having heard Ruth
speak of him as one of the teachers at the Sunday-school. He had never
referred that fact to the grace of God in his heart before, simply
because Sunday-school teachers had always appeared to him in the light
of so many mere machines, and he had never troubled himself to inquire
what motive power had set them at work. He now began to reflect, for
the first time in his life, that voluntary self-sacrifice such as
that entailed by their labours must be prompted by some very powerful
incentive. "The grace of God," Mr. Girling called it; what that meant,
he only knew at present in a vague theoretical way.

Little more was said on the subject just then, and Mr. Girling went on
to talk of other things connected with the place of his birth, which
was among the mining districts of Wales, and concerning which he could
give many interesting details. From this they passed to other topics,
and finally, on learning that Joseph had a liking for history, Mr.
Girling lent him a book containing an account of the struggles for
religious freedom among the Dutch.

Shortly after this, Joseph left.



CHAPTER VII.

MR. GREATHEART AGAIN.

   "Some will hate thee, some will love thee;
      Some will flatter, some will slight;
    Cease from man, and look above thee,
       'Trust in God, and do the right!'"
                                   NORMAN MACLEOD.

MR. GIRLING had taken a great fancy to Joseph and a firm friendship
rapidly sprang up between them. Joseph eagerly devoured the books which
the schoolmaster lent him. And by talking over his impressions of what
he read, acquired a habit of forming opinions for himself—in this way
not only laying up a store of useful information, but developing mental
muscle, and acquiring healthy views on many questions of social and
political importance.

In the meantime, his new friend did not permit him to overlook the
works of nature in his study of man. He himself was very familiar
with natural history, and, as the spring advanced, invited Joseph to
accompany him in his weekly ramble. The latter was surprised to find
how conversant he was with the life of the animal and vegetable world,
as well as with the deeper secrets wrested from nature by the progress
of science. He said so, one day.

"How have you found time to accumulate so much knowledge?" he asked.

"Little by little, and 'line upon line,'" replied Mr. Girling, "which
is the secret of most learning. When I was your age, every spare moment
was devoted to searching into these things, and in verifying what I
read, as far as possible, by personal observation. And I am still at
school in this respect. It is a study of such never-ending interest,
that the more one knows, the more there is to be learnt; and the deeper
one searches, the more one becomes convinced of the greatness and love
of the Creator."

But something further was also to result from their friendship. Joseph
expressed regret one day that, Mr. Girling being occupied at the
Sabbath-school on Sunday afternoons, they could not take walks on that
day also.

"It always does me good to talk to you," he said, "and I'm sure the
air would benefit you. My father said the other night that you would
certainly work yourself into a decline, if you stuck so hard to your
books."

Mr. Girling could not help smiling. "Never fear for me," he said. "I am
well enough. Moreover, I am in the path of duty, where less harm will
come to me than anywhere else. Besides, there is something higher than
the ways of nature to be learnt; that is why the Sabbath was given to
man."

Joseph felt reproved. He half fancied he had shocked Mr. Girling, and
hastened to inquire whether he regarded it as wrong to indulge in
walking on Sundays.

"I always attend service morning and evening," he said. "Of course it
would not be right to neglect that, but surely in the afternoon—"

"Not wrong. No study which brings us to a more perfect knowledge of God
can be wrong upon any day. But I have found a higher means than even
that. I learn by teaching others."

Joseph was silent.

"Why not join us, Joseph?" said Mr. Girling, presently. "And we will
have our stroll afterwards."

Joseph hesitated, objecting that he had done with Sunday-school two
years since. Mr. Girling, however, told him that he would not be
by any means the eldest member of the class, and the upshot of the
conversation was that Joseph yielded, and was thenceforth one of the
most regular attendants. He was surprised to find how much interesting
matter for thought arose out of the chapter. Most of the members of the
class were sensible, serious-minded young men, who, after seeking to
find out privately all that they could about the subject in hand, met
together and conversed freely about it, whilst Mr. Girling's thorough
knowledge of the Greek text enabled him to throw new light upon many
otherwise obscure passages, and thus the hour passed both pleasantly
and profitably to all.

Meanwhile, Joseph's admiration for Mr. Girling was increasing more
and more. He was so full of wisdom, so able to counsel, and yet so
brotherly and sociable, that the lad did not long wonder at the
strong influence which his words exerted over those with whom he came
in contact, and he, too, began to think of such work as the noblest
possible to his ambition.

Something happened one Sunday to determine him upon fitting himself to
undertake it.

A scarcity of teachers brought the superintendent to the door of the
class-room, with the request that one of the young men would come and
fill an empty place. But no one was inclined to go. They had never
attempted such a thing before, and enjoyed their hour too much to
desire any change. But a different spirit actuated Joseph. He not only
liked to listen to Mr. Girling's words, but longed to copy his actions.
Here was an opportunity. He seized it, and volunteered.

The class he had to take was composed of some twelve or fourteen little
boys of an age when teaching must be very interesting to induce them
to sit quiet. Between inexperience and the fear of hearing his own
voice, Joseph failed utterly. He confessed this to Mr. Girling on the
way home, and expressed his determination to conquer the difficulty,
saying that henceforth he intended to do all in his power to become a
Sunday-school teacher.

"So my ambition has marked out a good path for itself at last!" he
added.

Mr. Girling felt that Joseph had a great deal yet to learn before
"the live coal from off the altar" would touch his lips; at the same
time, he saw that he was in earnest. And a few evenings later, he had
practical proof of this fact. He was sitting quietly at his studies
when the lad made his appearance with a second-hand Greek Testament and
grammar, and begged for a lesson, in order that he might be able to go
on puzzling it out by himself.

It was slow work at first, for his education at the public school had
taken very little account of languages, and he had no special gift for
them. But assiduity did its best to supply the place of genius, and
with Mr. Girling's help, he soon made satisfactory progress.

At Easter, however, Mr. Girling went home to spend the holiday with his
mother and sister.

"Don't keep too hard at your Greek while I am away," he said, as Joseph
stood wishing him good-bye the night before Good Friday, with his books
under his arm. "That alone can never make a true man of you. Go out
into the fields and woods. There is far more to be learned there at
this season of resurrection."

Joseph did not forget these words.


There was no service at the chapel, so shortly after breakfast, he
slipped out, intending to take the shortest cuts to gain a road which
led out to a wood some miles beyond the town.

Daddy was in the market-place at his usual occupation. He looked up as
Joseph passed.

"Nice day! Aha!" he exclaimed, with a twinkle of enjoyment in his
glazed eyes. "Is it Good Friday, could ye tell me? My Sandy don't know
nothin' 'bout Sundays and feast days; but I always likes to go to
church!"

Joseph replied in the affirmative. "Don't you hear the bells going for
service, Daddy?" he added.

"Na-a-a!" the old man bleated, with a childish laugh. "Time was when I
could 'a' heerd 'em. It ain't much comes to my dull old ears now. But
I must be getting back for a brush up and my Sunday black. Thank ye
kindly—thank ye kindly!" And away Daddy tottered, feeling the ground
with his stick as he went, not turning to the right or to the left to
pick anything up, but only facing about occasionally and glaring round
to make sure which direction he was going in.

Joseph continued his walk somewhat amused. "I wish him safely there,"
he said to himself. "School holidays are bad weather for Daddy."

The woods were beautiful beneath the April sunlight, still leafless,
but bursting with life at every turn. Bud, seed-leaf, and moss changing
the dull brown of winter to tender green, primroses peeping from the
carpet of dead leaves, violets scenting the air from their hidden
nooks, whilst streamlets rippled and gurgled, as they brought down
the blessing of recent rains from the hill-tops, and every bough was
instinct with melody and song.

Coming up the road, Joseph had whistled. But here, he was silent. It
seemed like entering a temple, where it was sacrilege to add a sound
to the great anthem that was rising up; and his heart "stood still to
hear." But it was like listening to some grand cathedral music as its
words float upward on the wondrous strains, unheard. It was grand, it
was wonderful, but its full meaning was lost to him. For to understand
the true message of the spring, it is needful to know that faithful
promise of Him who is "the resurrection and the life":—

   "Whosoever believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and
whosoever liveth and believeth in Me, shall never die."

Joseph wandered on, enjoying his idleness and the fresh morning air,
and exercising the habit of observation which intercourse with the
schoolmaster had aroused. And in this manner, time passed rapidly on.
He was on the point of retracing his steps to the roadway, when his
attention was suddenly attracted by the barking of a dog.

Joseph halted and looked round, supposing that he must have come nearly
out on the further side of the wood. In that case, the easier way would
be to continue a little farther, and return by a different road from
that by which he had come. But as he stood, undecided which course to
pursue, he distinguished other sounds—cries as of persons in terror and
distress.

They were evidently in the direction of the brook, from which he had
now deviated some little distance. Without a moment's hesitation,
Joseph directed his steps thitherward. The undergrowth was so thick
at this part that it was impossible to gain a glimpse of what was
happening. But the dog was barking furiously now, and the cries became
increasingly distressed every instant.

Joseph hurried forward, plunging through the thickest tangle,
regardless of face and hands, and in a few minutes emerged in the
opening at the bottom of which the streamlet ran. There, beyond the
brook, at the further side of the space were several girls, amongst
whom he at once recognised his cousin Mina and Miss Grandpont,
almost screaming in their terror at a huge, surly mastiff which was
threatening to tear them in pieces.

Young Greatheart did not stop to think twice. Looking hastily round
for something to arm himself with, he seized a stout club of dead wood
which the wind had brought down, and rushed to the rescue, clearing the
brook at a bound, and calling loudly to the dog to come off. But the
infuriated animal, descrying a more worthy opponent, transferred his
hostile advances to Joseph, and a serious conflict ensued.

The brute had no intention of yielding an inch of ground, and his fangs
looked fearfully blood-thirsty as he bared them at every growl. Joseph
began to have serious misgivings as to the issue. But he kept his eye
coolly fixed on the adversary, holding him at bay with his club, in
hopes that if—as seemed likely from the end of chain that dangled from
his collar—he had broken loose from the gamekeeper's lodge, his master
would hear the fray and come after him. But the minutes sped on, and
this hope seemed forlorn.

Each moment, the conflict grew more desperate. In vain, Joseph shouted
and threatened with his club; every instant the enraged brute seemed
about to spring at his throat. At last, in a desperate effort, he
struck him a blow across the muzzle, but the rotten wood snapped and
flew into the air, leaving only a short stump in his hand.

The dog was taken off his guard for an instant. But Joseph's weapon was
gone, and the next minute the animal had turned and was rushing upon
him with redoubled fury, amid the cries and screams of the girls, who
stood rooted to the spot, paralysed with fear. Not, however, before
Joseph had drawn and unclasped his knife, which, fortunately for the
safety of his life, was an unusually strong one. Nerving himself to
meet the worst, he clutched it firmly in his right hand, and stooping
slightly forward, awaited his enemy.

For a few seconds, the dog hesitated, as though uncertain what lay
behind this defiance. Then with a sudden growl, he sprang forward. But
Joseph was ready, and his good blade served him faithfully. With a yelp
of pain, the brute fell back, weltering in his blood, and panting in
his death-struggle. Another well-aimed blow, and all was over.

At that moment, a man in velveteens appeared, and before Joseph had
recovered breath sufficiently to speak, stood looking down at the
slaughtered animal.

"You'll have to answer for this, young man!" said he roughly.

"You may thank me that you haven't something worse to answer for,"
returned Joseph, drawing a long breath to steady his voice, which was
still a-quiver with excitement and exertion. "I came upon him attacking
those young ladies; and but for me, they might have been in his place
by now."

"You're trespassing," growled the man. "You've no business here at all."

"I was not here," returned Joseph. "I was some distance yonder, the
other side of the brook. I have no doubt the young ladies were ignorant
of the fact that they were on forbidden ground."

"If people won't take the trouble to read notice-boards, they must run
their own risks," grumbled the man. "Anyhow, you've lost me a valuable
dog, and you'll have to answer for it."

"All right," said Joseph. "My name is Joseph Adams." And taking a last
look at his slain foe, he turned on his heel, leaving the man to remove
the body.

The girls were still looking on. Joseph approached them, wiping the
stains of blood from his hands. He now perceived, for the first time,
that Cicely and Annie Cleveland were among their number.

"I hope you have not been very much frightened," he said. "It was
fortunate I chanced to hear you."

"It was, indeed," replied Mina, forced into politeness by such a
benefit as that which she had just received at his hands. "We had no
idea we were trespassing."

"Woods are dangerous places for young ladies to be in, alone," returned
Joseph. "I should advise you to avoid them for the future. I hardly
like to think how it might have ended," he added, with an involuntary
glance towards Cicely.

"I do not fancy we shall venture again very soon, after such an
adventure," remarked Miss Grandpont, who had been silently studying
their deliverer as he spoke. "I, for one, have been quite enough
frightened to take warning for the future. I am sure we can never thank
you sufficiently."

The words were said with the most heart-felt graciousness, and Alice
Grandpont's eyes glittered like black diamonds as she looked her
gratitude.

But Joseph's natural address was equal to the occasion. With a
bow which would have done credit to any gentleman in the land, he
replied,—"Your safety is all the thanks I need."

Then glancing towards Cicely, whose face was very white, he added, "If
you have all recovered sufficiently, I think we had better make our way
out of the place. I shall be glad to give you my protection as far as
the roadway."

The girls willingly accepted his offer, and went on with him, Cicely
and Mina walking behind in silence, Alice and Annie conversing
vivaciously on the subject of their encounter.

"It is not right for such a savage creature to be at large," remarked
Alice. "Supposing the school children had strayed here gathering
primroses for the Easter decorations, what a horrible tragedy might
have occurred!"

"According to that man, they have no business here, and must take their
chance," returned Joseph. "But the brute had evidently snapped his
chain. Didn't you see the broken end hanging to his collar?"

"Oh! We were too much alarmed to see anything but his horrid fangs!"
cried Annie.

"But we did not come across any notice to trespassers," said Alice.

"And the children certainly would not have observed it, if they had,"
put in Annie; "for they creep in anywhere; and there are not notices at
every gap in the hedge."

"That is the gamekeeper's strong point," answered Joseph. "No one has a
right to enter the wood by surreptitious ways, and if people will not
take the trouble to go to the correct entrance, where they may learn
whether or not they have a right to go in, they must run the risk."

In this way they chatted on, as they went back along the brookside. But
every now and then Joseph cast a glance back at Cicely, and he could
not help fancying that she looked very conscience-stricken, as well as
overcome by the terror she had passed through.

On reaching the gate of the wood, Joseph prepared to leave his fair
"protégées," and after again receiving very warm thanks—especially from
Alice Grandpont and Annie, he turned to pursue his way.


"Really we must have slipped back into the Middle Ages!" remarked
Alice. "What an adventure!"

"And what a knight-errant!" added Annie Cleveland. "Pity he is only a
carpenter's son!"

"He's a fine fellow, whoever he is," returned Miss Grandpont. "I should
have no objection to his riding by my palfrey!"

"Hush!" exclaimed Annie. "He will hear what you say."

"Perhaps he might not be annoyed," laughed Alice. "For all his fine
speech about 'our safety being ample reward,' the youth has a heart, by
the way in which he looked at me as he said it."

But Joseph had heard—though not Miss Grandpont's eulogy. "Only a
carpenter's son!" The words stung him to the quick. After he had risked
his life to save her, too.

Meanwhile, Alice's curiosity concerning him had been growing.

"Who is this carpenter's son?" she asked. "He gave the name of Adams."

"Why! Don't you know?" cried Annie. "A cousin of Mina's."

"Nonsense," retorted Alice—"except as we are all cousins in Adam."

"But he is, really," returned Annie; "and no joking in the matter."

"What a thousand pities he isn't something better, then!" exclaimed
Alice.

"Yes; poor Mina is terribly ashamed of him," said Annie, looking
mischievously round at Mina, whose face was uncomfortably hot.

"But the thing is, he is nobody to be ashamed of," exclaimed Alice.
"How well he expresses himself! Give him a fashionable tailor, and a
few society airs, and I could mention several whom he would throw into
the shade."

"Still, Mina could hardly ask him to her evenings, as he is."

"More's the pity!" sighed Alice.



CHAPTER VIII.

IN THE STABLE-YARD.

   "All the windy ways of men
    Are but dust that rises up,
    And is lightly laid again."
                                  TENNYSON.

MINA was terribly annoyed when she came to reflect over what had
happened in the wood. In common with the others, she had been terribly
frightened, but of all persons in the world, Joseph was the last
to whom she would have chosen to be beholden; and, worse than all,
the affair had been the means of revealing to Alice the unfortunate
relationship between them. If the man carried out his threats to summon
Joseph for the loss of the dog, the whole thing would be blazed abroad,
and would go right through her new circle. The only course before her
now would be openly and avowedly to cut him.

With Cicely, it had been far different. Being of a more sensitive
nature, and entertaining, moreover, far more regard for Joseph than
his own cousin did, the terror had caused a very severe shock to her
system, and she had been quite unable to throw it off.

It pursued her in her dreams, and by day she could think of nothing
else, whilst a still small voice within whispered that her preservation
was undeserved. Her mother, observing how pale and languid she was,
urged her to seek all possible amusement. But for this, Cicely had
no heart. Finding she did not rally, her parents at length deemed it
advisable to call in a doctor, who at once ordered change of scene. And
Cicely was accordingly sent off to an aunt in the country.

Meanwhile Mina's worst fears were realized. The gamekeeper, backed by
his master—an irascible old squire, who had a seat on the bench—served
Joseph with a summons for killing the dog. And Mina, Alice, and Annie
had to appear as witnesses.

In spite of the equitable view of the case that the deed had been done
in defence of life, the old squire's weight carried the day, and Joseph
was fined for his gallant act, whilst the young ladies escaped with a
warning;—the squire graciously forbearing to prosecute for trespass, in
consideration of their sex. At this juncture, however, Mr. Grandpont,
who had accompanied his daughter to the court, stepped forward and
announced his intention of paying the fine, since it had been incurred
in the noble defence of his daughter and her friends.

This generous sentiment was hailed with loud applause.

But Joseph Adams, the elder, was above begging off a paltry sum in this
way. In a few plain, though respectful words, he declined the favour,
saying that since in the judgment of the bench, his son had justly
incurred the fine, he should prefer paying it himself. And laying down
the money, he left the court with the young hero.

This piece of honest pride did not tend to reconcile matters between
Joseph and his cousins. Had his father been content that he should
cringe to Mr. Grandpont, he might have been fondled as a dog that has
done some faithful act; but true nobility does not care for the bone
flung by patronage. Joseph had done his duty because it came in his
path, not for any petty motives of self-interest.


So things went on as before.

The others, Joseph rarely met. When they chanced to do so, it was
out of doors, where they could usually continue to feign ignorance
of his presence. And as for Joseph, though he still remembered the
contemptuous tone of the epithet "carpenter's son," he had ceased to
trouble himself much about it.

He had determined that though his trade made him their inferior, by
that truer right, personal worthiness, he would become something which
even they would be compelled to respect. What that "something" was
to be, and the method by which it was to be attained, was at present
undecided; but the resolve was strengthening every day, and he was
willing for the present to be despised. Little Ruth's indignation
amused him vastly.

"It 'is' a shame, Joey!" she exclaimed. "To think that you should have
risked being torn in pieces in order to save them from that horrible
dog, and even now they don't invite you to their parties."

"The best of it is, I don't particularly want to go," returned Joseph,
taking three of Ruth's men off the board and huffing her for a move
which in her indignation she had failed to see. "I can't help thinking
of a verse in the Psalms, 'I had rather be a door-keeper in the house
of the Lord, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness.'"

"Oh, Joseph!" expostulated his mother. "You shouldn't speak so of your
uncle's house."

"Well, mother," persisted the lad, "it 'is' wicked to grasp after
grandeur and finery until you forget that you're mortal."

"But it is just as wrong to say spiteful things: 'Charity suffereth
long.'"

"I'm not a bit spiteful at heart, mother," returned the lad, with a
frank look that spoke for itself, "as I think I proved on Good Friday.
I'm content they should go their own way; though I mean to show them,
some of these days, that I'm not so much to be despised as they think."

"All I know is that I hate Mina," said Ruth; "and I'm going to crown a
king, Joey."

"And I'm going straight to victory over the corpses of three of your
men," returned her brother. "Look out, Ruth, angry passions don't pay;
they unnerve for action, and surely if I can afford to forgive them,
you can. They'll see their mistake some day, for 'he that exalteth
himself shall be humbled.'"

Mr. Girling's advice on the subject was very salutary. "Let them be,"
he said; "a man's life wouldn't be worth much if he spent it in running
after other people's crazes. The struggles to 'sail down the stream
with the silver pots,' as Thackeray puts it, gives the 'brass pots'
more trouble than satisfaction. Be what your best ambitions prompt, and
let the gusts of fortune sweep by unheeded."

It was not all smooth sailing, however. Horace Grandpont had been
intensely disgusted with what he termed "the old sawyer's impudence,"
and being of just the petty nature to take every opportunity of venting
his spite, Joseph's evident indifference riled him not a little.

At last, however, things came to an open climax. Mr. Grandpont was
having some greenhouses built, and Joseph and his father were at work
on them. Joseph had on more than one occasion been annoyed by Horace's
insolent bearing when lounging round to inspect progress, but as long
as his father was by, the young aristocrat was cautious not to overstep
the bounds of prudence. One day, however, Joseph being there alone
with the other men, he went beyond all bounds, and raised the young
carpenter's just indignation.

The building operations were going on near the stables, and Horace,
who had been following the hunt, was riding his mare into the yard. He
had come in through the garden, from which the yard was separated by a
little low gate, which he could not easily open without dismounting.
Horace drew in his rein and waited a few seconds, choosing to assume
that Joseph would run forward to open it. Finding these expectations
remained unfulfilled, he rapped impatiently on the side-post with his
whip, calling out in a tone of haughty command,—

"Ho, there! Come and open this gate for me!"

Joseph had heard the horse's hoofs, and purposely stood with his back
turned. He went on with his planing.

"Ho, there!" shouted young Grandpont again. "Can't you hear?"

Joseph looked up.

"Come, somebody!" he said, raising his voice. "Don't you hear the young
gentleman calling?"

But none of the men stirred.

"It's 'you' I'm calling!" roared young Grandpont, now irritated beyond
power of control. "Look alive, I say; I'm waiting to come through."

Joseph straightened himself up, and put down his plane, then commenced
walking deliberately towards the gate.

"I didn't recognise myself," he remarked, in an ironical tone.

"I didn't ask you to," returned the other; "I only told you to open the
gate. Come! Hurry up!"

Joseph was quite close by this time. He stopped dead at these words.

"Haven't you a groom anywhere about, Mr. Grandpont?" he asked, without
offering to lay hand on the gate.

"It's of no consequence to you whom I have about!" retorted Horace.
"Will you undo the gate or not?"

"Oh! As to that, I am always ready to oblige," returned Joseph,
preparing to comply. "But it is of some consequence whether or not your
groom is at hand, because I am not yours to command, in a 'literal'
sense, and nobody else seems inclined to obey. I should like to remind
you that I am not here to be bullied. I am a workman, I know, and I am
not ashamed of it; but in my uncle's employ, not yours."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when young Grandpont, now in
an ungovernable rage, aimed a smart blow at him with the handle of his
whip.

"Take that!" he cried. "And learn not to stand arguing with your
superiors!"

It was a mere rap, and fell across his hat, but caught it with
sufficient force to dislodge it and send it flying on the ground.

The assault was absurd enough, but it was more than Joseph could
endure. The blood rushed to his face, and he made a quick step forward,
as if to seize the horse's bridle, then, rapidly recovering himself, he
turned on his heel and quietly picked up his hat.

"You had better call your groom, Mr. Grandpont," he said, as he brushed
and replaced it. Then, hesitating a moment, as Horace turned the
horse's head to go back through the garden, he changed his mind. "It is
not always so great to conquer as to forgive," he said, half aloud, as
he retraced his steps to open the gate.



CHAPTER IX.

THE ONLY SON OF HIS MOTHER.

   "The sap is bitter in the bark,
      That sweetens in the fruit above;
    And spirits toiling through the dark
      Shall reach at last their light of love."
                                       GERALD MASSEY.

JOSEPH purposely refrained from speaking of his encounter with Horace
Grandpont before Ruth, so tea-time passed over without any allusion to
it, and afterwards he had plenty to divert his mind from the occurrence
in the shape of his own Greek and Ruth's arithmetic.

Mr. Adams had been attending a funeral that afternoon, and had not yet
come in. He had told his wife not to expect him early, as he should
take the opportunity of making a call, at the other side of the town,
upon some one with whom he had a little matter of business to arrange;
but it was getting late. Ruth had been upstairs an hour or more, and
Joseph was beginning to feel sleepy over his Greek. At length, with a
desperate yawn, which plainly showed his usual bedtime was past, he
closed his books and pushed them away.

"Father didn't expect to be so late as this," he said.

"No," replied his mother. "I can't think what has delayed him. But that
need not keep you up, Joseph. You have to be stirring early, and want
your rest. How are the greenhouses getting on?"

Joseph had commenced another gape and stretch at the bare mention of
rest, but his mother's question about the greenhouses recalled Horace's
conduct. The yawn came to a premature end, and he was just about to
relate what had taken place, when a well-known step outside made his
mother jump up and lay aside her work.

"There's father at last," she exclaimed, at once commencing
preparations for dishing up the bacon she had been keeping hot for his
supper. "I knew he couldn't be much longer."

Mr. Adams looked worn and tired when he came in. He brightened up at
the smell of the bacon, however.

"Always the one to have a bit of something nice for me after a tiring
day," he said, with a grateful smile at his wife. "I don't know what I
should do without you, after all, Mary."

"'After all!'" exclaimed his wife, as she placed the dish before him
and removed the cover. "There's a funny thing to say! You didn't think
of trying, did you?"

"One of us will have to do without the other, some day," returned Mr.
Adams, a trifle gloomily. "I often think of that when I'm helping to
bury the dead out of sight. 'One' must go 'first.'"

"I thank God the choice is not in our hands," said the wife reverently.

"I shouldn't know which way to choose if it were," rejoined Mr. Adams.
"I'm better fitted to go through the world alone than you; but for
that, I'd rather go first. They say widowers are easily consoled; but I
wouldn't care to live without you."

"It will all be ordered for the best," said his wife solemnly. "But
come, Joseph," she added, in a more cheery tone, "you're dull to-night.
You talk as if you had been making your will."

"No need of much making," laughed Mr. Adams, suddenly clearing his
brow, as if struck by a comical thought. "Brother Benjamin might well
make his. I heard to-day that he and Edward Anderson were heavily
staked in this new Building Society. It's quite true about the
waggonette, too, in addition to the dog-cart; and young Neville is to
go to Oxford. When a man can afford all that expense, it's well for a
lawyer to see all square, in case of a casualty."

Neville going to Oxford! Joseph almost started, and his heart was
filled with burning envy. Why must he be condemned to labour with his
hands, while this empty-headed cousin of his went to college, to learn
vicious ways and squander his father's income?

Not that Joseph envied him his idleness and luxury, his white hands and
well-cut clothes. But he had a great ambition, and the very opportunity
which would be the first step towards realizing it was denied to him
and given to another, incapable and undesirous of using it.

Joseph was roused from his thoughts by a question from his father
relating to the greenhouses. After reporting progress, Joseph told him
of Horace Grandpont's insolence, with his usual truthfulness neither
adding to nor taking from the plain statement of facts.

Mr. Adams looked serious. "It isn't advisable you should come to open
hostilities," he said. "Working-people—and we are that, Joseph—"

"I know we are that," interrupted Joseph, somewhat bitterly.

"And nothing to be ashamed of either," interposed his mother; "so long
as we do our duty in our own sphere of life, and owe no man anything.
But you're not getting on with your supper, father."

Mr. Adams had allowed his knife and fork to lie idle for some time.
He now pushed his plate away, saying, "No more, Mary. It seems to go
against me; I feel rather queer."

And driving his chair back, he turned towards the fire and spread out
his hands to the glow.

"As I was about to say," he continued, in a minute or so;
"working-people can't afford to quarrel with their bread and butter.
And though I never was one to cringe to my superiors where they had no
right to demand it, I don't believe in that spirit of general equality
which makes a man forget that his employer's money must be bought with
respect. It's quite true he's made of the same blood, and a hundred
years hence, king and beggar will both be dust, but it's the same
spirit that's at the bottom of Communism and Nihilism, and all such
great evils, and can't be productive of good. God Almighty permits
differences of rank, and as long as we don't forfeit our self-respect,
we needn't be ashamed to act in accordance with our position in life.
But you did very well, my boy; and you played a very Christian part at
the last."

"I hope he felt ashamed of himself," remarked Joseph.

"I hope he did," echoed his father; "for his own sake. It's a bad thing
for a young man with a long life ahead of him, to start with the notion
that the world was made for his express gratification. If he doesn't
meet with a pretty decided pull up before he gets out of bounds, he'll
cut a sorry figure in his old age. Riches will not serve him against
God's justice. There are stern laws in this world that will not yield
even to 'the pick-lock that never fails;' and working against them
wastes time and muscle, and wears us out in the end."

Soon after this, Mrs. Adams went out into the kitchen, and Joseph—by
this time thoroughly tired—said good-night. He was not half-way up to
his room, when he heard his father call. Thinking that the latter had
something to tell him about the morning's work, he turned at once and
obeyed the summons, dropping down the stairs two or three steps at a
time.

His father was sitting just as he had left him, with his elbows resting
on his knees, and his eyes apparently fixed on the fire; but he did not
stir when Joseph entered. Probably he did not hear; for the lad had
pulled off his boots for the night, and run upstairs without them. So
after waiting an instant by the door, Joseph approached.

"Here I am, father," he said. "Did you want me?"

Mr. Adams raised his head slightly at these words. "I wish you would
call your mother," he said, in a hollow voice. "I feel so curious."

He was deathly pale, and his lips were livid. There was a strange look
on his face, which Joseph had never seen before. Springing to his side
with an instinctive fear lest he should fall forward on the bars, he
placed the unresisting man back in his chair, and dragged it a few
paces from the hearth, then hurried out to find his mother, calling her
as he went.

She was not in the kitchen, so he passed out and met her just returning
from putting the padlock on the fowl-house.

"Your father usually does this," she began; but Joseph interrupted her.

"Father wants you," he said. "He doesn't feel well."

"He came in tired," returned his mother, never dreaming of the awful
blow that was awaiting her. "I'll be with him directly I've called the
cat in."

"You had better come at once," said Joseph urgently. "There is
something serious the matter."

And without further delay, he hastened back.

His mother followed immediately.

Mr. Adams was sitting back in his arm-chair as his son had placed him,
with his head sunk on his breast, and his hands hanging lifelessly
on his knees. One glance was enough. Even as they reached his side,
a faint sound escaped from his lips, and his head sank lower on his
breast.

"The brandy, Joseph, quick! A doctor! Oh, my poor husband!"

Swift as lightning Joseph obeyed; then leaving his mother with the
dying, or the dead, he sped from the house and down the street.

The nearest doctor lived within ten minutes' walk. Joseph reached his
door in less than five, and rang the bell as if he would tear it down.

"Not at home!"

Without waiting to ask further questions, the lad rushed on, careless
that his stockinged feet felt each stone on the road. In turning a
sharp corner, he came straight into the arms of his cousin and Horace
Grandpont, lounging idly, cane in hand, but disentangled himself
without a word, scarcely knowing who they were, and sped on, on to Dr.
East's, where, panting and well-nigh exhausted, he awaited an answer.

"Not at home, nor likely to be in all night."

For a moment, Joseph stood dismayed. His father dying, and no doctor
to be had! Then he remembered that he had left Dr. Abel's without
ascertaining whether he was expected in, and thither he retraced his
steps.

The carriage was just driving into the stable-yard as he arrived at the
surgery door. Breathlessly, he stated his errand.

The doctor gave orders to turn the horse's head, and springing to the
box, in less than a minute Joseph was once more at home.

But it was too late. No help could avail. The last breath was drawn ere
Joseph left the house; and his mother was a widow.



CHAPTER X.

A VOICE OF WARNING.

   "Life's little stage is a small eminence,
    Inch high the Grave above: that home of man,
    Where dwells the multitude: we gaze around;
    We read their monuments; we sigh; and while
    We sigh, we sink; and are what we deplored;
    Lamenting or lamented, all our lot!"
                                               YOUNG.

MINA had been spending that evening with Alice Grandpont. It had been
somewhat against her mother's wish; but the young lady was gradually
developing such a strong will of her own that it began to require
considerable courage to offer resistance, once an intention was fixed
in her head. Mina had found out how to get her own way; and her mother
being a weak, foolish woman, failed to recognise the irreparable
mischief she was doing to her child's character in thus yielding to her
petulance.

Mina had been rather vexed that Horace was not at home. The
tennis-courts were just marked out on the lawn, and she had been
looking forward to an opportunity of showing off her skill. But young
Grandpont had other amusements besides those which home society
afforded, and it happened that on this particular occasion, he
had found them more enticing. Neville, too, had been enjoying the
additional importance which the prospect of his college career gave
him in the eyes of the "swells," into whose society his intimacy with
Grandpont had introduced him. He had promised, however, to fetch Mina
home; so, shortly before the limit countenanced by his father, he and
Horace turned their steps homeward.

Mina was getting fidgety.

"What 'should' I do if Neville were to forget me?" she said. "Papa is
so strict about his being the least bit behind time that if he chanced
to be hurried, he might very easily forget to call here. Neville finds
it an awful bore. He wishes papa were as easy as mamma. He thinks I
have a fine time of it; but he doesn't know what it is to be a girl."
And Mina looked as if she felt terribly ill-used; but Alice took a
different view of the matter.

"I think you're a very lucky girl," she said, "considering that you
are only just 'out.' Why, at your age, I was still at school, and as
strictly kept as waxwork. We did manage to have some fun, unbeknown to
the Lady Abbess; but it was all amongst ourselves, of course. As to
Neville, he will not forget to come."

And Alice involuntarily bridled her neck in a manner which plainly
told that her reasons for this conviction were of a somewhat personal
nature. "If he should," she added, "I daresay Horace will not object
to a moonlight stroll. Look!" And drawing the curtain aside from the
French window, she pointed to the glimmering light which was rapidly
spreading over the eastern sky.

"There they are!" cried Mina, as footsteps on the gravel caught her ear.

Alice threw open the window, and the girls stepped out on to the
terrace; and the young men, hearing their voices, came round from the
drive to join them.

"Ready, Mina?" exclaimed Neville. "I nearly overlooked you. What! No
hat on? I expected to find you waiting. Time's up."

"And he's not ambitious of practising up for the proctors by flying
shoeless and hatless through the town, like a certain young party whom
I chastised for his insolence in the stable-yard this afternoon,"
said Horace. "What do you think is the latest novelty, Sis? Your
much-admired knight of Good Friday tearing down street barefoot, with
his hair bristling in the breeze."

"I can't think what he was about," remarked Neville.

"I only know he pretty nearly knocked the breath out of me," returned
Horace.

"Well, but who? Who?" cried Mina and Alice in a breath.

"Who but Joseph Adams, the carpenter's son, the cousin of whom Miss
Mina is so proud," replied young Grandpont.

But time was getting on, so Neville hurried Mina off, Alice insisting
that she and her brother should accompany them to the turn of the road,
where they parted.

Mr. Adams was on the steps looking out for them when they reached
Aylesdere. His displeasure relaxed somewhat on seeing them together,
and he contented himself with a mild remonstrance at the lateness of
the hour.

He had scarcely put up the bars and followed them to the dining-room,
where their mother was dozing by the fireside, when a single knock at
the door was heard.

"Who can that be at this time of night?" said Mr. Adams. "The servants
are in bed, I suppose, my dear?"

His wife replying in the affirmative, he went himself and undid the
bolts. He remained so long absent, however, that Neville—declaring the
mysterious caller must be some person of evil intent—could not long
repress his curiosity. He was just on the point of going to satisfy it,
when his father returned. His brow was knit, and his face wore a pained
expression. He walked into the room and right up to the hearth without
speaking. Then, as he stood, with his head bent and his hands behind
him, he said,—

"Bad news, wife!—My brother Joseph—His heart, they say—He is—"

"What?" inquired his wife.

"It was quite sudden. He is dead."

A profound silence followed these words. No one spoke, and the jasmine
on the outer wall rattled with a strange, mysterious sound against the
window panes. Mr. Adams stood with bent head and contracted forehead.
Sudden death is always awful; and although of late years, the dead man
had been no more to him that a workman, in this supreme moment, the tie
of brotherhood, with its many memories of school and early days, held
good.

Mrs. Adams had roused from her nap at the intelligence, and now sat
looking before her in uncomfortable gloom. Her husband's brother was
nothing to her—had not so much as once crossed her threshold since the
house was finished; but he had passed that bourne whence no traveller
returns.

Mina glanced first at the mirror, wondering whether black would be
considered necessary, then at Neville, who walked moodily to the window
to part the curtains and peep through the venetians, less to ascertain
the cause of the tapping than to break the spell. Then the marble
timepiece in the hall struck half-past eleven.

Mr. Adams heard it, and raised his head with a deep-drawn breath.

"Poor Joseph!" he said to himself. "I must go round at once, I
suppose." And with these words, he left the room.

Directly he was gone, Neville left the window and sauntered slowly
across the room with his hands in his pockets, kissed his mother on the
forehead, nodded to his sister, and escaped to his room, where he had
soon forgotten that he, too, was mortal.

As for Mina, she waited about for some time, longing to broach the
subject of the hated mourning, but held back by a feeling that it
was scarcely decent to do so while the warmth of life was yet in her
uncle's body. At length, ascertaining that her mother had no objection
to being left to wait alone, she followed Neville's example and went
to bed, where she occupied herself with regretting the probability of
having to lay aside one and another of her favourite costumes, until
eventually she fell asleep, to dream that Horace Grandpont thought
black far more becoming to her creamy complexion than colours.

By the morning she would have forgotten the whole occurrence, had it
not been for the dream.



CHAPTER XI.

A PARTING WORD ABOUT AMBITION.

   "Workman of God! Oh, lose not heart,
      But learn what God is like;
    And in the darkest battle-field
      Thou shalt know where to strike."
                                          ANON.

WHEN the first days with their dull weight of blinding grief had
passed, and the fresh earth lay over the beloved form of the husband
and father, it became necessary for the widow to consider her position
and think of ways and means.

Through the kindness of her brother-in-law, whose heart had been opened
by the warning voice of death, her husband had been laid with the
remains of his father, and the funeral conducted free of expense. But
although her own life seemed buried with the dead, the living remained
to be thought of.

Joseph Adams had been an eminently steady man; and had saved a good
deal since his marriage. A portion of his son's weekly earnings, too,
had always been placed in the Savings Bank. But though this money would
go some way towards eking out future earnings, it was a comparatively
small sum, and would soon be swallowed up unless some further source of
income were devised.

Joseph and his mother had many a conversation on the subject.

Mrs. Adams' sewing-machine would be a great assistance, if she happened
to be fortunate in obtaining work. And Joseph was at an age when the
apprenticeship which he had served under his father would stand him in
good stead. But, somehow, both he and his mother felt that to depend
upon his uncle's favour would be to lean upon a broken reed. It was
imperative that he should not only be assured of regular work, but
that he should stand a fair chance of bettering himself. But no other
opening seemed at hand.

The summer passed, and pinch as they might, the savings had to be
largely drawn upon for the rent. This state of things could not last
long; but which way to turn they knew not.

Joseph's Greek books had lain neglected on the shelf ever since the
night his father died; for they could bring in no money, and he had no
heart for mere self-cultivation now. His dream was at an end, and stern
life had commenced for him. No outlook but the carpenter's bench to the
day of his death.

Of his cousins, he had seen nothing. Neville had taken a severe cold,
and they had been at St. Leonards ever since, in order that his health
might be thoroughly re-established by the beginning of October term,
when his Oxford career was to commence. Walter had quite deserted him
for Tom Rawlinson and Annie Cleveland's brother; and he did not care
to seek other acquaintances. After work hours, he gave himself up to
the cultivation of the garden, which was henceforward to be devoted to
crops of a useful nature. And early morning often saw him, though tired
alike in body and spirit, doing a thousand and one little things for
his mother, in order that he might lessen her labours for the day.

The Sunday class was given up, so that he might spend the afternoon
reading to her while she rested on the couch, and he had scarcely seen
Mr. Girling since the day when the latter came to offer his condolences
on the subject of their bereavement.

One Saturday evening, however, on going to answer a knock, Joseph found
him at the door.

His face brightened at the sight of his old friend, and he conducted
him to the keeping-room with genuine pleasure.

Mr. Girling's conversation was grave, though cheerful. It was meet
he should be serious in that darkened home, but there was an entire
absence in his manner of that complimentary gloom so offensive to deep
grief. He was not the man to hold his tender-heartedness up to view by
showing off his funeral paces. He sympathized as truly as an outsider
can, for he had known the same trouble; but his sympathy was of that
practical kind which strives to lighten the cloud, rather than to draw
it up in denser mist. He even refrained, with well-bred delicacy, from
referring to their loss until they spoke of it; and then his words were
so free from pious cant, so full of feeling and strong religious hope,
that the load seemed lighter for having been shared with him.

Before long they had even taken him into confidence with regard to
their anxiety for the future.

"I only know of one plan," he said, after listening attentively to all
the details of their position; "and that I hardly like to propose."

The scheme he had in view was as follows:—That Joseph should leave
home and enter into the employment of a friend of his—a builder in
London—who, if he knew the necessitous circumstances of the case, would
be certain to interest himself in the lad's advancement.

The widow was startled, and the tears came into her eyes. Joseph had
been such a support to her in her trial, and at the idea of his going
right away, many thoughts rushed into her mind,—her own loneliness, the
emptiness of the home, the dangers of a London life. Still, if it must
be, she would not be the one to stand in his way.

"But he has been so much to me," she said.

"And will be more yet," rejoined Mr. Girling warmly. "But think my
proposition over quietly together," he added; "and if you wish it, I
will see my friend about it. Next week, I leave here for London myself."

"Leave here!" cried Joseph. "You are not going away?"

"Yes," he replied. "My turn has come at last. I have obtained the post
for which I have been working. My term here ends this week, and on
Monday I leave, to spend a little while with my mother and sister until
my new duties commence."

"You have a mother and sister, too, then?" said the lad.

"A widowed mother,—yes, I have known just your trouble, Joseph;—only my
sister is not the hearty lass your Ruth is. Our poor little Ellen has
not moved from off her back since her tenth year, and she is one and
twenty now. Poor Nellie! She will be glad to have me nearer."

Joseph was silent. Here was trouble heavier than his own; yet how
strong the man had been in bearing it. He said something to that effect.

"Not so strong as Nellie," Mr. Girling replied. "Twelve years on that
couch, and not so much as a murmur. Time was when I used to pray God to
take her; but I thank Him now that He has spared her to us. For when
we were weak, she was brave; and it was her words and her example that
inspired me with the ambition for which I live."

The twilight had deepened into dusk, and they could not see each
other's faces; but Mr. Girling's voice was full of emotion, and Mrs.
Adams was deeply touched.

"God bless you for telling me that!" she murmured. "I had forgotten
that I had blessings as well as trials."

"So I have come to say good-bye," Mr. Girling said, after a long pause,
rising and taking his hat. "And if I can be of any service to you, you
will not fail to let me know. This address will always find me."

The widow took the envelope which he held out, and again thanking him
as she returned the cordial pressure of his hand, she proceeded to
light her lamp, whilst Joseph went with him to the door.

Here Mr. Girling paused. He wanted to say something more to the lad
than a mere good-bye.

"I shall hear from you soon," he said; "and whether you decide to
remain here or to make a fresh start, I shall hope for news of your
prosperity. In the meantime, keep a good heart. You see ambition has
not played me false; it has held me to my work until I have beaten out
a better track."

"And I have had to give mine up," said Joseph bitterly.

"Nay, my friend," returned the schoolmaster, "no need to do that!"

"No help for it," replied Joseph. "There is no prospect for me now but
the workshop and the carpenter's bench."

"And the 'crown of righteousness that fadeth not away,'" added his
friend. "And remember this, Joseph, ambition which has not that for
its aim is a dead and useless thing. Let yours be—as mine has been—to
glorify the God-man, Christ Jesus, who sanctified all human work by
handling those tools in the workshop at Nazareth; let your life be the
copy of His: lowly pure, and true; ever faithful to present duty; and
be your path what it may, you have nothing to fear. It is marked out
for you, and will lead to an eternal rest."

Joseph wrung his friend's hand in silence, and they parted.



CHAPTER XII.

THE UNIVERSITY AND THE WORKSHOP.

   "We sail the sea of life—a 'calm' one finds,
    And 'one' a tempest—and, the voyage o'er,
    Death is the quiet haven of us all."
                                        WORDSWORTH.

ONE morning in the following October—just a twelvemonth from the
commencement of our story—Joseph took a third-class ticket for London,
and stood on the platform, waiting for the train that was to hurry him
away from the familiar scenes of his birth to a new life.

It had been a hard choice to make—even for the lad, with all his
natural curiosity to see the world. To the lonely widow it had seemed
like parting with her only stay. But she had recognised that it must
be; and with many tears, she had commended him to the care of the
orphan's God, praying that He who had seen fit to deprive her boy
thus early of his earthly father, would preserve him among the many
temptations of his new venture, and bring out of this bitter trial the
sweet fruit of a noble, Christ-like life.

There was not a sadder heart that morning than that which beat in the
breast of the fatherless lad. The sight of the tears which his mother
had vainly tried to force back at parting had almost broken him down.

"You must take care of mother, and be her brave little comforter," he
said to Ruth, as he kissed her tearful face; "she will have no one but
you, now."

And he had hurried away with pale face and swimming eyes, scarcely
trusting himself to turn for the last wave of their hands as he left
the street.

The platform was empty when he arrived at the station, for he was
early. But soon the passengers began to collect, and porters hurried to
and fro, whilst he stood waiting, in a dream of sad bewilderment.

Had he been less absorbed in his thoughts, he would have observed a
well-known dog-cart drive up to the station gate, from which a young
man of fashionable appearance lightly leapt, raising his hat with
graceful gallantry to the young lady to whom he had resigned the reins,
as he gave her a last smile and ran up the steps.

It was Mina Adams in the trap, and the young exquisite was Neville,
going off to Oxford to commence his new and brilliant career. A few
minutes afterwards, he emerged from the ticket-office followed by a
porter, to whom he was giving directions about his luggage. The man
pointed down the platform, whither it had already been conveyed, and
both went to inspect it. Even then it is doubtful whether Joseph would
have perceived him, but for the fact that, in passing, his cousin
jostled him with his elbow, turned to beg his pardon, and their eyes
met.

In spite of all Neville's pettiness and pride, he was not altogether
devoid of kind-heartedness, and even in that quick glance there was
something in his cousin's face that touched his better nature. But the
train was due, and there was little time to spare, so, throwing him a
careless nod, he hurried on.

But something was missing amongst the luggage, and he came back to
search for it in the cloak-room. Presently he appeared once more, this
time preceded by the porter with the lost portmanteau. He hesitated as
he passed Joseph, looking at him with a sidelong glance, as if to read
his face; then turning back, he approached him. He could afford to be a
little kind just then.

"Going to London, Joseph?" he asked.

Joseph replied in the affirmative.

"So am I," returned Neville. "Term begins next week. You've heard I'm
going to Oxford?"

Joseph replied in a monosyllable. The question had touched a sore
place, and he was disinclined to enter into conversation for the bare
gratification of his cousin's vanity. "I am going to try my fortune,"
he added, after a few minutes' silence.

"Ah! To stay?"

"If things turn out well."

"What lines are you going upon?"

Neville looked up suddenly as he asked the question. He had been
expecting Horace Grandpont would have run down to the station to give
him a last good-speed on his journey, and the click of the signal had
just given warning that the train was in sight.

"The old lines," Joseph replied, in a tone of patient resignation. "I
have no other prospect," he added.

But Neville had scarcely heard the answer, for at that moment the
dog-cart again drove up, and young Grandpont, scarcely waiting for the
horse to stop, sprang out and rushed on to the platform, whilst Mina,
who had met him hurrying up and driven him on, sat eagerly craning her
neck to see if he would be in time.

Neville had recognised him in an instant, and started off.

"All success to the enterprise!" he called back as he went.

And the next minute, the locomotive steamed alongside.


The last Joseph saw of them was from the window of the compartment in
which he had taken his seat, as they dashed past to the first-class
carriages.

A few minutes later, the guard had answered the signal, "All right."
And the station, his old home, all he held dear in the world, was left
behind.

At first, it required a powerful effort to check the rising lump in his
throat; but there were strangers in the compartment, so turning to the
window, by which he had secured a corner, he endeavoured to interest
himself in passing objects.

His efforts availed little, however. Every station at which they
stopped, it seemed as if he must get out and return home. Then he
remembered Neville, and how unconcerned he appeared about leaving home;
and he fell to envying his cousin's many advantages and opportunities.
It was hard to recall his easy, untroubled manner and faultless toilet
without a pang of jealousy. But as he glanced down at his own homely
suit, which his mother had cleaned and bound anew with her own hands,
a better feeling took possession of him; he remembered the hero of the
book he read a year ago, and Mr. Girling's example; and his thoughts of
Neville were less bitter.

One thing had struck him particularly. Neville's former robust look
was gone. His face was thinner than it used to be, and his complexion
had a transparency more usual to a girl than to a young man close upon
twenty. There were dark circles round his eyes, too, which gave him a
haggard appearance, as if he had been indulging in late hours. Joseph
had not taken in all these details; but the general effect had not
escaped him, nor the delicate whiteness of his hand as he stood holding
his cigar between his finger and thumb. But his mind speedily reverted
to subjects nearer and dearer to his heart, and before long a certain
station which he knew from hearsay to be half-way was passed.

A singular change came over his feelings as he noted this fact. The
yearning to return seemed conquered by the knowledge that every throb
of the engine was bringing him nearer to his unknown future; and he
began to look forward.

The country through which he was passing was flat and marshy, and the
early morning mist still lay heavily upon it. A canal—beyond which all
was dense fog—ran parallel with the line at this part, and a horse was
faintly visible drawing an unseen freight along the water's surface, as
he paced slowly down the towing-path. He seemed to be walking along the
very edge of the world, and the idea entered Joseph's mind how nearly
this picture resembled his own future with its close-drawn veil.

Soon signs of approaching London were manifest—higher, dirtier houses,
crowding more closely upon each other, and a more leaden colour in the
fog. Then they crossed other lines, and neat, suburban villas took
the place of marshes and back streets. Soon these were passed, and
buildings thickened until little else but chimney-pots, sooty roofs,
and builders' yards, piled with huge stacks of timber, were visible
through the thick air. Then Bishops-gate, with its gloomy half light
and grimy archways, was reached, and finally Liverpool Street Station,
with its vast roof and deafening clash and clang.

For an instant, Joseph stood there bewildered—alone among many. Then,
as he gazed into the faces of the numberless fellow-beings who hurried
past him without a thought, a sudden strength came over him.

Firmly grasping the little portmanteau, which—together with his basket
of tools—constituted his only worldly possession, he pushed his way
through the throng and left the station—a man among men.



CHAPTER XIII.

BUILDING.

               "No feverish dream of care,
   But a high pathway into freer air,
   Lit up with golden hopes and duties fair."
                                               ANON.

WE pass over the interval which elapsed before Joseph reached his
final destination. To any one in the least degree familiar with the
ways of the great city, the details are simple enough. To Joseph, as
will readily be imagined, they were far less so. Once at Broad Street
Station, however, there remained nothing but to take the next train
to Canonbury, and there to seek out the address on the card which Mr.
Girling had forwarded to him.

But Mr. Glover, the gentleman to whom he had been recommended, was
out when he arrived, and the man of whom he made his inquiries seemed
doubtful when he would return. So after parleying for some minutes,
half in expectation of being asked to wait, he expressed his intention
of calling again within an hour, and turned out to trudge up and down
in the neighbourhood, carrying bag and baggage with him.

He was getting rather hungry by this time. It was close upon mid-day,
and he had breakfasted at seven, making but a poor meal of it, in spite
of his mother's solicitude. There was a little parcel of sandwiches in
the portmanteau, but he could not eat them in the open street. So he
wandered on, hoping that after seeing Mr. Glover, he would be able to
form some more definite idea concerning his future method of procedure.

But an hour seemed a long while to wait, and it struck him that, at
the expiration of that time, he might fail to find the gentleman in.
As this possibility presented itself to his mind, he recollected that
his mother had said he could get a glass of milk and a bun at any
confectioner's in the neighbourhood. He at once determined to look out
for one, thinking that at any rate this would be something to stay his
appetite until an opportunity offered for making a more substantial
meal.

He had noticed more than one on his way from the station, but exactly
how to return to that point Joseph did not know. He had come through a
good many back streets to find Mr. Glover's place of business, and felt
somewhat chary about losing his bearings.

An old gentleman was coming along the pavement towards him, and,
emboldened by his remarkably benevolent appearance, Joseph ventured
upon asking if he would kindly direct him to a street, the name of
which he remembered as one of the principal thoroughfares.

He was a plump, little dot of a man, with a genial manner that inspired
confidence at once. He readily complied with Joseph's request, giving
him his instructions clearly and concisely, and even taking the trouble
to repeat them, in order that there might be no mistake about the
number of turnings to right and left. Joseph thanked him and turned on
his way, cheered by the friendly tones and beaming countenance which
seemed like the first ray of sunshine that had fallen across his path.

"I like his face," he said to himself. "I wonder if I shall ever see
him again. I've heard my poor father say that in London it is a rare
chance if you meet the same person twice."

This occasion, however, was destined to prove the exception to the
rule. Having without difficulty found a confectioner's, and procured
his refreshment, which was more than acceptable after his protracted
fast, he at once hurried back, fearing lest he should have stayed away
too long, though in reality he had been barely half an hour. To his
great satisfaction, the object of his search had already returned,
and his surprise may best be imagined when, on being ushered into the
office, he found himself in the presence of the very same old gentleman
whose countenance had so impressed him in the street. The latter
recognised him immediately.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, looking up from some papers over which he was busy.
"We have met before. I wonder it did not occur to me who you were
when you spoke to me just now. If you had inquired your way here, I
should have suspected your identity; but you were bound in the wrong
direction."

Joseph explained the nature of his errand, adding that his mother had
supplied him with sandwiches, but that he had nowhere to eat them.

The old gentleman instantly inquired what refreshment he had taken at
the confectioner's, and upon learning its light nature, considerately
bade him sit down and enjoy his sandwiches, adding that he himself had
some letters to prepare for the post, and should be more at liberty to
talk with him a little later on.

Joseph, nothing loth, obeyed, and a good half-hour elapsed before
Mr. Glover spoke again. At the end of that time, the letters being
despatched, he turned to him anew.

"Now you are in a more fit condition to proceed to business," he said.
"You know, of course, that I have a recommendation concerning you from
my friend Mr. Girling, who has informed me of all the sad circumstances
which have led to your present step. As I understand it, you have come
to London to make your way."

Joseph assented.

"Well, you know," Mr. Glover continued, "that is by no means a magic
process. I frequently find young men imagining that they have only to
break free from parental restraint, and get away from all the clogs of
the old home, to have a fortune at their fingers' ends. I want to point
out to you that this is not the case; a fortune has to be worked for,
and there are several qualities which no amount of coaxing can replace.
Industry, perseverance, and integrity; without them you may as well at
once give up all idea of succeeding."

Joseph intimated that he had every intention of trying to be all that
Mr. Glover's words implied.

"Yes," rejoined the old gentleman, "I believe you have, not only from
what I have heard of you, but because I can read a good deal in a face.
You are fresh from the country, where God's pure air and sunshine make
mind as well as body sound. Don't allow town life and ambition to crowd
out what you have learned there. Never descend to an action or permit a
thought which would not bear the light of that free sunshine. But as I
was saying, 'getting on' is no magic process. It has to be worked for,
and the trade you have chosen is a very apt illustration of the manner
in which you must set about it. You must have a good foundation—dug
out, mind! not raised up—beginning below the surface, which to an
ignorant person might appear sheer waste and loss of time. Then brick
against brick, layer upon layer, beam and joist in their place; no
hurry—each operation in its proper turn, until the slates crown all. No
beginning half-way. Are you content to do that?"

Joseph hesitated. It is hard to be content to wait under some
circumstances.

"There's no choice, sir," he answered.

"Just so; and it is one step forward to be aware of that. But are
you willing it should be so, because perseverance will not hold out
else? And we shall have that old story over again of the mason who
ran up his wall in a hurry, without using his plumb-line to make sure
it was perpendicular, and before the edifice reached completion, it
fell. It was only one brick a trifle out that began the mischief;
but in the same way, out of an overweening haste to achieve success,
arise dishonesty, unscrupulousness in work, lax notions of right and
wrong; and a building with one false layer in it will not stand the
test of time, much less of eternity. You will need to be 'steadfast,
immoveable, for as much as you know that your labour'—even such
labour as you earn your daily bread by—'is not in vain in the
Lord'—consecration to whose service is the only sure foundation."

Joseph was silent.

"I am willing to do anything, sir," he said presently,—"to work early
and late to advance myself. Six months ago, I could have afforded to
wait. Now I can only submit to what is just and inevitable."

He would have added more; but Mr. Glover interrupted him.

"I know, I know," he said. "'The only son of his mother, and she a
widow.' You have a motive for pushing on which no one can but respect.
See that you keep it pure, and it will lead you right. Meanwhile, I am
going to help you all I can. You will of necessity have to begin low,
in order that I may judge of your capability. But true merit is always
its own reward; and according to your diligence will be your chance of
advancement."

Joseph thanked him for this kind expression of goodwill, and Mr.
Glover, having arranged all details of work and wage, went on to talk
to him about his home and early associations, at the same time giving
him a good deal of counsel, which to one in his present position could
not fail to be both useful and beneficial.

"And now," he concluded, "there is one thing more; you will need a
lodging."

Joseph assented, adding that he was about to ask his advice on this
point. But Mr. Glover's forethought had already been at work on his
behalf, and he now handed Joseph the address of a man—Ned Vigus, by
name—for many years well-known to himself, with whom he would be likely
to find a comfortable home at a moderate rate of payment.

Then taking out his watch, he rose, saying that his dinner hour was at
hand, and told Joseph to accompany him, in order that he might put him
in the way of finding where Mr. Vigus lived.

After about seven minutes' walk, Mr. Glover halted at the top of a
street, and pointing to a house at the further end, left Joseph to
pursue his way to his new quarters alone.



CHAPTER XIV.

IN THE SCHOOL OF ADVERSITY.

   "Haste not! rest not! calmly wait;
    Meekly bear the storms of fate;
      Duty be thy polar guide—
      Do the right, whate'er betide!
    Haste not! rest not! conflict past,
    God shall crown thy work at last!"
                         _Translated from_ GOETHE.

BUT for one circumstance, Mina would have missed her brother
dreadfully. She was so much at Alice Grandpont's now, that the void
left by his departure was pretty well filled up.

At first, Mr. Adams made grave objections to her being there so
frequently. He liked her at home sometimes in the evening, he said; and
it was not well that Horace should so constantly escort her home. But
his wife, who had gradually come over to Mina's way of looking at the
question, pooh-poohed his strict notions of propriety, until at length,
he yielded.

If "Mina was to make her way in society," the foolish mother urged,
"she could not do better than cultivate the Grandponts; and as to
Horace seeing her home at night, it often happened that his sister or
Annie Cleveland was with them, and if not—it was hard if a young man
was not to be allowed any opportunity of paying attention to a girl."

So Mina was allowed to go on idling away her time over her frivolities,
and growing less amiable every time that anything happened to interfere
with her plans for amusement.

Books she rarely touched now, except the latest fashionable literature
from the circulating library, to which she had persuaded her mother to
subscribe, in order that she might keep pace with Alice in devouring
all the latest novels. Her mornings were mostly spent in sewing frills
on her dresses or fastening fresh flowers in her hats, in making
alterations in the set of a pannier, or in consulting the fashion-books
for the most recent style of bow and neckerchief. Her music was
entirely neglected, with the exception of such superficial attention
as enabled her to accompany a ballad or dash through a drawing-room
fantasia; and painting, for which she had manifested considerable
talent at school, was altogether thrown on one side, as being too
decidedly quiet an occupation for one whose life was rapidly becoming
all show.

Being less at home than formerly, she saw far less of Cicely Anderson.
She could ask her to her own "evenings," but she could not make others
invite her to theirs. And as she found that Cicely's modest home
prevented her finding favour in their sight, she became more shy of
thrusting her upon them.


Meanwhile Cicely, on her side, could not but feel that Mina was casting
her off. If she tried to make an appointment for a walk, Mina more
often than not had a prior engagement, or a headache which must be
nursed up, in order that she might be fit for the evening. If Cicely
begged her to come and have one of their old quiet evenings at home,
ten chances to one Mina would urge that her papa complained of her
being out so often; and she herself never asked Cicely now, except
when she was going to be quite alone, and either had no other means of
passing a dull evening, or wanted the gratification of exhibiting the
latest additions to her wardrobe.

Poor Cicely felt it keenly.

"I never thought she would serve me so," she said to her mother one
evening, as they sat at work in the little sitting-room.

It was a very cosy little snuggery, when the crimson curtains were
drawn and the work-table brought close up to the fire. But it was not
large enough to hold Mina and her friends; and in proportion as this
conviction settled in Cicely's mind, she was becoming discontented
with it—forgetting all the old associations, which had once made it so
much dearer than any other place on earth. She looked round it with a
dissatisfied air as she spoke.

"It's the fruits of living in a little pokey place like this," she
continued, in an injured tone. "I wish we could move into a larger
house, mother. You would see the change at once. What a difference it
made to Mina!"

"Perhaps some day we shall," returned Mrs. Anderson; "though I do not
know that we shall be any happier for it. 'A man's life consisteth not
in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.'"

"But position does, mother."

"That is not always happiness, my child. Position depends upon the
judgment which the world forms from external appearances. Happiness
depends upon what we are in our own selves, and in God's sight."

Cicely was silent for a minute or two.

"Mina is happy," she said presently. "See what a jolly time she has of
it!—Always out, spending the evening where there are half-a-dozen or
more nice people."

"And see what a 'jolly' time I should have of it, if you adopted the
same course," said Mrs. Anderson, looking up with a laugh. "I can
hardly fancy my Cicely feeling easy about leaving her mother always by
herself."

Cicely looked ashamed. "Not always, mother!" she cried. "I shouldn't
want to do that. Then sometimes it would be our turn to entertain, and
you would share the fun."

"After all," Mrs. Anderson went on, by and by, "I wonder if Mina's
happiness is more than skin deep. I was thinking just now, when
you spoke of her father's altered circumstances having made such a
difference to her, I noticed a change last time she was here, and it
struck me as an unfavourable one. I should not think she is nearly so
amiable as she used to be;—certainly not one half so amiable as her
little cousin Ruth—whom, by the bye, you have not asked to tea for a
long while. I have been wondering whether we could not put a little
sunshine into two lives, which must sometimes be very sad and dreary
now Joseph is away, by asking her and her mother to spend a quiet
evening with us now and then. Perhaps we might find out in that way
that there is some good in not being able to entertain large parties;
for we could not ask them to join us in merry-making so soon after
their heavy trial."

This was a hard thrust home, for Cicely had acted in very much the same
manner by Joseph and Ruth as Mina had done by her. The still small
voice of conscience did not fail to remind her of it, and she sat for
some time without speaking.

Her mother was the first to break the silence.

"Mina's happiness is not worth much if it will not bear the test of
adversity," she said. "Do you suppose it is deeply rooted enough to
survive misfortune? If her father's health gave way, or he lost his
money, so that they had to move back into a smaller house, would her
friends follow her? And could she ever be content to give up her
gaieties and pleasures?"

"But such a thing is so unlikely, mother," Cicely objected.

"Yet not impossible. Her father's riches cannot protect him against
the hand that laid his brother low; and he is as liable as any one to
the casualties that have wrecked other fortunes. However, some day we
may be able to take a larger house; meanwhile, let us be careful to
use every opportunity God has given us of laying the foundations of a
building which no caprice of fortune can overthrow."

Nothing further was said on the subject just then, but as Cicely
glanced round the room again from time to time, she began to feel
heartily ashamed of having allowed such discontent to creep into her
heart.

Presently, her father came in. He was unusually late, and appeared
tired and dejected. All Cicely's efforts to distract him failed, and
she went to bed wondering what could be the matter.

After breakfast next morning, as soon as he had started to business,
her mother called to her.

"Cicely, my child," she said. "You remember what we were talking about
yesterday evening?"

"Yes, mother; and I am a wee bit ashamed, too. I think, if you are
willing, I will run over this afternoon and fetch Mrs. Adams and Ruth
in to tea."

"Not to-day, dear. Papa has had some trouble. Do you recollect what you
said about Mina—how unlikely it was any reverse should come near her?"

"Yes, mother; you do not mean—"

"We are not so rich," continued her mother, "and cannot bear losses so
well even as they."

"And papa has lost some money? Is that what made him so weary last
night? Never mind, mother. Forget all I said last night. We are very
happy as we are."

"As we are, dear; but—"

Cicely looked questioningly in her mother's face. She was just
beginning to realize the possibility of a great trouble at hand.

"But what, mother?" she asked. "Don't be afraid to tell me, and you
shall see how strong I can be. I am not so silly as my words implied
last night."

"Your father is almost ruined, my child. He hardly knows the extent
of his loss yet; but we must at once give up all needless expense and
economize in every possible way."

For a moment, Cicely was silent. Then she threw her arms around her
mother's neck. "Never mind, mother dearest," she cried. "We will give
up our servant to begin with. I promise you a better maid-of-all-work
than ever swept your carpets yet. I am going to disgrace myself utterly
in Mina's eyes," she added, with her old bright laugh; "and she shall
have just cause for 'cutting me.'"

Cicely's words were braver than her heart. She foresaw how much
privation their change of fortunes meant, and her fears were more than
realized when at length her father ascertained the full extent of his
loss. The Building Society, in which the whole of his capital was
invested, had become insolvent, and every penny was gone.

She saw at once that all intercourse with Mina—whose father had
prudently withdrawn his money on the very eve of the disaster—was now
at an end. But her mind was perfectly free from any feeling of envy at
the knowledge that the former had escaped the blow which had brought
such trouble to her own home, whilst the conviction that her presence
and help were so much needed there proved a very wholesome antidote for
the annoyance caused by Mina's neglect.

Gradually her every thought and interest clustered about her home, and
her happiness came to be in exerting herself to the utmost to smooth
the trial to her parents, and to lessen its bitterness to Walter—who,
as one of Neville's parasites, felt it keenly.

Such are often the blessings of worldly loss, which calls us away from
the pursuit of self-centred pleasures to those unselfish duties, the
faithful discharge of which alone can build up and enrich the character.

Still there were many disagreeables to be endured, and not least among
these was that of encountering any of the girls whose acquaintance
she had made at Mina's parties. So much did she dread this, that but
for one fact, she would scarcely have had courage to venture outside
the door. The maidservant having been dismissed immediately with
the payment of her month's wages, there was no one to run errands.
So Cicely must needs put her natural shrinking on one side, and go
herself. It was not long, however, before this trial assumed a less
terrible aspect; and she determined simply to do the right, regardless
of what any self-constituted censor might do or say.


On returning from the butcher's one morning, she descried Mina coming
along on the opposite side of the way. Cicely involuntarily glanced
down at her own dress, which, though neat, was unquestionably shabby.
She had started early, thinking thus to escape annoyance; but there
was no help for it, and consoling herself with the recollection that
Mina was not long-sighted, she took refuge in the hope that the latter
would not trouble herself to cross over and speak to her. But Mina
had a motive for not passing by on the other side. She wanted to
let Cicely feel that things must be different between them for the
future; and although she intended to hint it as kindly as the nature
of circumstances would permit, she intended that there should be no
mistaking her words.

She crossed the road as soon as she perceived Cicely, and approached
her with the most elaborate, expressions of sympathy. "I am so sorry
for you," she exclaimed. "It is indeed the heaviest trial that could
have befallen you."

Cicely smiled cheerfully. "I cannot agree with you there," she replied.
"I have been strengthening mamma with the thought that it is by no
means the worst that might have happened. After all, what is the loss
of a little money, to make oneself so miserable about?"

"But, from what I understand, it is by no means a slight loss,"
returned Mina. "I heard that your father was utterly ruined; and that
you had given up your servant, and were going to live in very poor
style."

Cicely coloured slightly, not only at the words which Mina in her
selfish thoughtlessness had used, but also because she herself had
spoken in a manner which would bear a double construction. She did not
wish Mina to imagine that she was trying to disguise the extent of
their downfall. She was too proud to desire to purchase her esteem by
means of dissimulation.

"It is quite true," she said. "We dismissed Jane the day after we
learnt papa's misfortune, and I am getting my hand in at housework,
whilst mamma attends to the cooking. We intend, if possible, to obtain
pupils or take in needlework to help. I meant that the loss of money is
a comparatively small disaster when we still have what is so much more
precious to us—the love of our dearest friends."

"Well! I am glad you can look at it in that light," Mina returned. "But
it will be bad for you. It will be in everybody's mouth, and you will
not be able to go into society at all. You couldn't possibly. No one
would recognise you, and—"

"Oh! I shall not mind that," replied Cicely, with an inkling of what
was in her late friend's mind. "I have not been into society much, you
know, since you have left off asking me. After all, the heaviest burden
will fall on papa and mamma; and my happiness will consist in trying to
prevent them from feeling it."

Mina again expressed her "true sympathy" and "sincere sorrow," and
passed on her way, exulting in the certainty that her stratagem had
been successful.

"At any rate," she said to herself, "she will not come unless I ask
her."


Meanwhile Cicely hurried back to her morning's duties with a sense of
relief that the dreaded encounter with Mina was over. She felt that
having thus made full confession of their poverty, she did not care
whom she met, and that it mattered little who talked of it, since
she herself had not been ashamed to own it. Her face was so full of
brightness when she went in, that her mother observed it and wondered.
But Cicely soon enlightened her.

"Mina evidently intends to seize the excuse," she said, "and give me up
entirely."

"'Seize the excuse,' Cicely?"

"I mean that having told her exactly how things stand, and enlightened
her as to my present humble position in the household," (with an
expressive glance at the large apron she was tying on), "she has
given me to understand that I shall not be wanted henceforth in her
aristocratic circle."

Mrs. Anderson looked surprised. "You are not wise to make the most of
our poverty," she said. "It is likely to damage your prospects."

"These are my 'prospects' for the present, mamma," replied the girl,
waving her hands over carpets and furniture, as if to denote her
domestic capacity; "and 'honesty is always the best policy.' I am quite
relieved now that Mina has given me my formal dismissal."

"You ought not to be glad she has acted so unworthily," objected Mrs.
Anderson.

"Oh it is perfectly natural from her point of view," returned Cicely
indulgently. "She will be wiser some day, perhaps; poor Mina!"



CHAPTER XV.

NED VIGUS' SECRET.

                "If faith were left untried,
   How could the might that lurks within her then
   Be shown?"
                                        WORDSWORTH.

JOSEPH found his new quarters very comfortable, and was soon thoroughly
at home with his mates in the workshop, at the same time giving ample
fulfilment to the expectations which Mr. Glover had been led to
entertain concerning him. His new employer was a good, Christian man,
who had for many years been an active worker among the young, and had
given many a lad a start in life which no thanks could repay. Joseph's
frank, honest ways had taken a firm hold on his fancy from the very
first; and he had judged Mr. Girling's estimate to be a correct one.
The lad's industry and intelligence, coupled with the thorough manner
in which all his work was executed, were not long in corroborating his
good opinion.

At the same time, Joseph made good progress in knowledge of his trade.
At home, his opportunities for improvement had been comparatively
small; but in an extensive business like Mr. Glover's, and favoured
as he was by his employer's goodwill, he had every chance of making
his way. The weekly letter which he never failed to send home,
together with as much of his earnings as he could spare, was both
cheerful and amusing, lightening the widow's heart with its account
of his prosperity and well-being, and always containing some humorous
description or anecdote to give little Ruth food for her lively chatter.

All this while, the Vigus family—of which he had by this time quite
become one—was not without its influence upon Joseph; and a word as to
the members composing it will not be out of place here. It consisted
of Ned Vigus, his old father, and his daughter Nancy. Joseph was not
the only lodger; indeed, the staple of Mr. Vigus' income appeared to
proceed from the rent of his rooms; for he himself was paralysed on
the right side, and unable to move from his chair without assistance,
whilst his father, though apparently well in health, was long past work.

The first floor of the house was let to a young married couple with two
children, whose voices were frequently heard in loud rebellion against
the parental discipline. The second had been inhabited for years by
a middle-aged tailor and his wife; whilst the family occupied the
basement during the day-time, ascending to the third and top floor for
the hours of rest.

Miss Vigus took in dressmaking, and went about every day of the week,
except Sunday, with the front of her bodice stuck full of pins, whilst
Ned himself, whose hand had fortunately recovered part of its use,
was perpetually busy over fretwork, for which—through Mr. Glover's
kindness—he always found a ready sale.

Joseph was very much interested in this, and finding that Mr. Vigus
frequently drew his own patterns, he fetched down his father's box
of compasses, and amused himself in the evenings with tracing fresh
devices, many of which met with unqualified approbation, and earned
the paralysed man's warmest gratitude; for, as he said, variety was
the great thing in fancy-work. In return, he taught Joseph how to use
the fret-saw, and in this way, a good understanding speedily sprang up
between them.

Ned Vigus was by no means dull company either. Having been a tally-man
in his active days, he had journeyed about many parts of the country,
accumulating a good deal of interesting information and practical
knowledge, and Joseph had so many questions to ask that Nancy often
declared they greased the wheels of her machine with their animated
conversation.

One thing which impressed Joseph particularly about both Ned and his
daughter was their perpetual cheerfulness. In spite of the monotony of
their lives, they never seemed out of patience, either with their lot
or with each other. This had struck him all the more vividly because,
from the very first, he had been forcibly reminded of Sandy David by
the paralysed man, as he sat bending over his work on his low seat by
the fire opposite his little, old father. But what a contrast they
formed! Sandy, peevish and morose, because life was hard and work
tedious, cynical and crushed by the weight of his many trials; Ned
Vigus, with a yet heavier trial—the loss of bodily power, yet cheerful
and hopeful, full of courage to do whatever his remaining strength
would permit. The comparison was very much in favour of the latter, and
the more Joseph knew of him, the more he began to understand the source
of his strength.

Mr. Vigus had never referred to his affliction but once, upon the first
night of Joseph's sojourn in the house, and then in terms of such
unmurmuring faith and resignation, that the lad never forgot his words.

Nancy had already lighted her grandfather up to bed, and Joseph was
somewhat astonished to see Ned sit idly looking on, whilst she cleared
up his work and put it away for the night. But when all was ready, and
the fire raked out, the mystery was solved. Approaching his chair,
and putting both arms round him, she helped him to his feet, and then
giving him the support of her shoulder prepared to assist him in his
toilsome journey to the top of the house.

It was a pitiful sight, and Joseph's countenance must have expressed
his thoughts pretty plainly, for half-way across the room, Ned Vigus
stopped.

"You didn't know I was like this," he said.

Joseph replied that he had wondered to see him sit so still in his
chair. "But you are so full of good spirits," he added, "that I should
never have guessed it possible you were so heavily afflicted."

Ned Vigus smiled. "Nancy, here," with an affectionate glance at his
daughter, "knows the secret of it; and pray God you may learn it some
day. When you can trust your Saviour so entirely as to feel that all
your life, good and ill alike, is in the hands of a loving Father, you
will find it easy to be 'careful for nothing.' I often think, when I'm
talking about the old days, I used to be just like a bird on the wing,
free as the air, seeking my meals from place to place, as it were,
and returning to the nest at night; and now I'm caught and caged; but
I shall be fed, for not a sparrow falleth to the ground without our
Father's knowledge.

"I wouldn't have believed it possible at one time," he went on, "but
that I should pine and die in this confinement; but, as I say, it makes
all the difference to know it's in the Father's hands. He has taken
away many things I should have liked to keep,—my dear wife and my only
son, my bodily strength and my liberty; but He has left me more—the
peace which the world can neither give nor take away."

Joseph was silent.

"Everything that He sends me is for some good end," Mr. Vigus
continued, "although I cannot understand it all;—even this nightly
journey up my Hill Difficulty," he added, as he prepared to hobble out
of the room. "But it's the only bit of hard work I do during the day,
and it's harder far for poor Nancy; but she knows my secret, and all
things work together for our good."

Joseph thought of these words when he was alone in his room. They
seemed to throw a new light upon religion, which until then had only
been, as it were, a grand, mysterious fable, grown real by constant
telling over. The Bible had been familiar to him from infancy, but only
as a wonderful book of adventure. Its battles had delighted him, its
terrible denunciations of sin had thrilled him with awe, whilst the New
Testament, with its marvellous star of Bethlehem, its miracles, its
cross-crowned Calvary, and its day of Pentecost, had filled him with a
kind of holy reverence.

But it had not made him realize that the same God who watched over
that pilgrim host amid all its journeyings, could make a way through
the desert for him, neither had it taught him that the Saviour who
suffered death for the sins of the whole world, longed for the trust
and obedience of each one for whom His gift of salvation was wrought
out. Never having, in his boyish carelessness, felt the need of help
and guidance, he had neither coveted nor sought to appropriate those
free gifts which alone could impart full satisfaction.

But with his father's death, life had changed its aspect. Was he not
like Abraham, journeying away from the land of his birth to a strange
country?—Like Jacob, awakening, in his first loneliness, to the sense
that God was all about him, though he "knew it not"? Would not trials
and difficulties beset his future? And what strength had he with which
to meet them?—What certainty that something real and changeless lay
beyond the ever-shifting Will-o'-the-Wisps of earth?

A deep hunger had awakened within him a longing for the things which
perish not; and when he knelt by his bedside, according to the custom
of his childhood, they were no longer empty words that ascended from
his lips. In the great book of record, it was written of him that night:

   "Behold, he prayeth."

From this time forward, Joseph's life was different. He was more in
earnest than ever; but ambition was no longer simply the struggle to
achieve greatness; it was sanctified by the longing to glorify God,—so
to conform every action to the Divine will that the perfect peace of
God might rule his life. He was at length bent upon that search of
which Christ said,—

   "Seek, and ye shall find."

So time went on, and Christmas drew near, when he was looking forward
to a meeting with his mother and Ruth, and two whole days in the old
home.



CHAPTER XVI.

A TIMELY INTERRUPTION.

         "Time strips our illusions of their hue,
   And one by one in turn, some grand mistake,
   Casts off its bright skin yearly, like the snake."
                                                   BYRON.

MINA had great anticipations for Christmas week. There were to be
unusually grand doings at the Grandponts', and having promised to help
Alice with the decorations, she expected to be there nearly every day
up to Christmas Eve.

Besides this, Neville would be home for the vacation, and, apart from
her anxiety to hear of all his doings, she expected that Aylesdere
would be somewhat livelier during his stay.

Horace Grandpont professed to see through the enthusiasm with which she
expressed herself on the subject, and diverted himself with teasing
her about it. "It was all sham and nonsense," he declared. "Just as if
girls ever expected any one really to believe their protestations of
devotion to their brothers," he exclaimed one evening, as he lounged in
the study, where Mina and Alice were working at their preparations.

"Oh! You are horrid," Mina cried. "What sister could help being devoted
to such a noble fellow as Neville! I would do anything in the world for
him."

"I daresay," returned young Grandpont, mischievously, "if you thought
there was anything to be wheedled out of him. I know what you're
thinking about,—next Commem. and the Oxonian dons. Now, don't blush!"

"I'm not blushing," retorted Mina, pressing her hands to her face. "Am
I, Alice?"

"I've something better to do than look," replied Alice, without raising
her eyes from her work. "I know I shouldn't object to a brother at
Oxford in view of Commem."

"Ally knows she doesn't care for brothers," Horace ran on. "Don't you,
Sis?"

"Other people's are more amusing, certainly," laughed Alice,
truthfully. "But perhaps, if I had been blessed with a larger selection
to choose from, I might have found one more to my taste. You're not a
very obliging specimen, Mr. Horace. Why don't you help me to cut out
this cardboard?"

"Because I agree with your theory, and cannot do two things at once,"
returned her brother. "'Other people's sisters' want my assistance just
now. What's good for—What is it, Mina?"

Mina shook her head; but Alice cried shame.

"The idea of descending to such vulgar sayings," she exclaimed, in a
severe tone of voice.

"Oh! You're quite out," replied Horace coolly. "I never quote proverbs
in society. I was about to remark that what is good for seasoning is
not always agreeable sweetening. Helping one's sister may be a very
beneficial exercise of patience, but otherwise it is not to be desired."

"Really, you are a pattern brother!" cried Alice, jumping up. "I was
going to give you the pleasure of fetching something for me; but I hate
unwilling service. I shall fetch it myself, now."

"You positively tempt me to quote a proverb, now," said Horace. "I know
of one which would apply so splendidly: 'Revenge sometimes has a reflex
action.' I wonder upon whom you imagine the punishment will fall most
heavily—yourself, or me?"

"I only wish Neville were here," retorted Alice.

"He doesn't seem in any hurry to come back," remarked Horace. "Term
was over last week. I imagine he finds Oxford livelier than this old
place. There are some stunning young ladies there; too; 'sweet girl
graduates,' and all that sort of thing."

Alice deigned no reply to this remark, not choosing any one to imagine
that it made the least difference to her how charming Neville Adams
found the fair Oxonians. "Why didn't Ned Burleigh come, or Mr. Willis?"
she said, as she crossed the room. "They would have worked like slaves
for me."

As soon as the door closed on Alice, her brother left his chair for a
seat on the sofa beside Mina.

"You are a sly little hypocrite, Mina," he said, bending forward and
looking up in her face. "You know it's all nonsense about caring so
much for Neville, don't you? I should be jealous if I thought you meant
it."

Mina bent her head still lower. "Jealous of Neville!" she said, with a
pretence pout. "You are not my brother."

"I should be awfully jealous if he were your cousin," said Horace. "But
you haven't any cousins you care about, have you, Miss Mina?" he added,
pretending to pinch her arm. "Except Sir Knight-Errant; and I don't
mind how fond you are of him, now that he's safe in London."

"But of course he will come home for Christmas," said Mina wickedly;
"and if you are not good, I will turn conscience-stricken, and take my
poor cousin into favour."

"I'll turn father confessor, first," cried Horace, "and give you a
dispensation to ease you of your scruples, on certain conditions. I
should like to confess you, Mina; I'd make you confess to some dreadful
sins; and you shouldn't choose your penances, either. This is the way.
Give me your hand."

"Horace, don't be so silly," cried Mina, pulling her hand away, and
blushing very prettily.

"I'm not silly. I want to show you," said Horace, again possessing
himself of her hand.

"Without the penances, then," said Mina, yielding; "because it's only
make-believe."

"Don't you wish it was real?"

"I shouldn't like you a bit if you were a horrid old priest," cried
Mina.

"You like me best as I am? 'Silence gives consent,'" he added, as Mina
only answered by a little pout. "Confession number one. Now; lay your
hand in mine, so,—" transferring it from his left palm to his right.
"What a pretty little hand it is!"

"That isn't what the priests say," objected Mina.

"But then I'm not a real priest, you see. They don't allow their
penitents to dictate to them, though. Now; confession number two. Would
you like everybody to be like me?"

Mina looked down at her little hand lying in his, and made no answer.

"Come!" said Horace, moving a little closer to her. "You must answer.
Would you?"

Mina pouted, and said, "No."

"Why not?" Horace asked, looking up coaxingly.

"Because—because—I shouldn't know which to like best," she answered,
trying to draw her hand away.

But Horace only held it more tightly. "No, no," he said, "not so easily
escaped, my lady-love."

"Oh, Horace!" cried Mina, half-frightened. "Do be serious."

"I am, Mina. No one else is my lady-love. Now, one question more."

Horace's face was very near hers, and his voice was low and soft.

Mina's heart beat, and she changed colour rapidly. There was only one
question he could possibly be going to ask. Oh if only Alice would
remain upstairs one minute longer!

But Alice was in happy unconsciousness of what was passing. At that
moment, she was descending the staircase, and before Horace could
think of a question to ask, she was at the door. The effect was like
magic. Before she had time to enter, Mina's hand was on her work, and
Horace was sitting up as properly as possible; the only tell-tales
being Mina's high colour and Horace's position by her on the sofa.
He, however, affected to be engaged in showing her a more easy method
of doing what she was about, and presently deigned to go and render a
little assistance to his sister, who at length declared that she must
disturb Mina if he persisted in withholding it any longer.

Mina was dreadfully disappointed at Alice's inopportune return. To be
Mrs. Horace Grandpont was such a desirable fate; and she could think of
no other question which he could be going to ask her than whether her
heart was his.

It must be confessed her extensive course of novel-reading had taught
her to picture a somewhat different scene for such an occasion; neither
would she have chosen gaslight in the study as the most fitting time
and place. The bowery shade of a conservatory, a moonlight walk, or a
pic-nic in the wood, would have suited her romantic taste far better.
But these were secondary considerations after all, and faded into
insignificance by the side of the question itself. She cared little, if
only the interrupted "tête-à-tête" were resumed.

But no opportunity occurred. Alice had no further occasion to leave
them, and soon afterwards they were called into the dining-room to
supper.

The walk home was Mina's only remaining hope.

The evening was fine, and the moon at the full; moreover Alice did not
propose to accompany them, as she sometimes would, and Mina's heart
fluttered with expectation. But not one hairbreadth beyond gallantry
did Horace Grandpont go. And after walking a whole mile with her under
that soft, witching light, he left her at her father's door without
having extorted the confession which she was so ready to make.

In plain point of fact, he had only been amusing himself with her, as
he had done with many other girls before, and had not the slightest
intention of binding himself by an engagement, until he should have the
good fortune to conquer the heart of an heiress.



CHAPTER XVII.

ALL THINGS BECOME NEW.

   "Who carry music in their heart,
    Through dusky lane and wrangling mart;
    Plying their daily task with busier feet
    Because their secret souls some holier strain repeat."
                                                        KEBLE.

THE meeting of Joseph and his mother and sister at Christmas would
have been a very happy one, but for the absence of him whose face and
voice they missed. Little Ruth was ready to devour her brother after
their long separation, whilst the widow was overjoyed to find him the
same good, loving son as ever, and, above all, to gather from his
conversation that, far from having become callous through contact with
the world, more serious thoughts were beginning to occupy his mind.

But the holiday was short, and the third morning found Joseph, almost
before the day was awake, returning once more to London. He had seen
nothing of his old companions, nor had he sought to do so—the whole of
his time being spent in doing little things about the house and garden,
which his father would have done, had he been there. The fowl-house was
in terrible need of repair, and there was a fresh lot of wood in the
coal-house, which required a pair of strong arms and a well-sharpened
axe to reduce to a useable condition. The cabbage bed wanted clearing
too, and, in spite of his mother's entreaties that he would enjoy
his well-earned respite from labour, he set to work to root up the
old stumps and dig it, in order that she might be able to sow the
spring crops without incurring the expense of obtaining the otherwise
necessary assistance. It is needless to say that he reaped his reward,
returning to his work the happier for the full assurance of conscience
that he had done his utmost to help her.

But a further pleasure was in store for him. On arriving at his
lodgings that evening, he not only found a hearty welcome awaiting
him from each member of the family, to whom his two days' absence had
seemed an age; but his old friend the schoolmaster, having been over to
Canonbury to see Mr. Glover, had called at Ned Vigus', determined not
to go back without seeing his old friend.

Joseph could not help noticing how much better in health he looked. But
he was not long in accounting for this, on learning that his mother and
sister were now living with him, and that thus he was no longer lonely
and anxious, as of old. Mr. Girling finished by giving him a hearty
invitation from his mother to come and spend the following Sunday
afternoon with them.


Accordingly, after dinner, on the day appointed. Joseph set out for
Dalston, where Mr. Girling now resided, and after about an hour's
pleasant walk, he arrived at the correct address.

Mrs. Girling herself opened the door to his knock. She was very like
her son, Joseph saw at a glance; a gentle, mild-faced woman, with the
same lines of care on her forehead, but the same smile, which, lighted
up not the mouth alone, but the whole face, like a gleam of bright
sunshine over a landscape. She seemed to know Joseph at once, and gave
him a very cordial welcome.

"My son has not returned yet," she said. "He could not rest until he
had found out some good work to do. I was anxious at first to persuade
him to be idle on Sunday, as he works so unremittingly all the week.
But he says that 'the labour he delights in' is far greater recreation."

Joseph began to apologise for coming so soon, saying that, not knowing
exactly how long it would take him to walk the distance, he feared he
was too early. But Mrs. Girling would not hear of this.

"It was my invitation," she said; "and I am very glad to have you until
Edward comes in."

Joseph thanked her, and they proceeded to the sitting-room.

"I thought you must be so lonely sometimes with no home to go to for
your Sundays," she said, on the way; "so Nellie and I decided that you
must come to us sometimes."

Nellie was lying on her couch near the window, eagerly watching the
door. Her quick ear had caught Joseph's voice, and her face brightened
as her mother entered.

"Well, mother!" she exclaimed.

"Well, my child. Here is Joseph."

Nellie looked intently at him as he advanced, with an expression of
contentment, which seemed plainly to say that she identified him as the
Joseph whom her brother had pictured to her. Then she put out her hand.

"Yes; this is Joseph," she said, welcoming him with the same peculiar
smile. "I know you quite well already," she added. "Edward tells
me so much about every one he knows; and he has described you very
faithfully."

Joseph remembered Mr. Girling's words about poor little Ellen, and as
he looked at the frail little figure that had hardly changed during
those twelve years of suffering, he too seemed to have known her
always. He took her hand very gently, afraid of hurting her. But she
clasped his with a firm pressure, which contrasted strongly with the
idea of her helpless condition.

"You will not mind being called Joseph?" she said, with frank
simplicity. "That is how we always speak of you."

Joseph assuring her that nobody ever called him anything else, and that
he should much prefer it, Mrs. Girling placed a chair for him, and he
sat down near the couch.

Nellie had evidently been looking forward to this visit, for her face
was bright with excitement, and she had numberless questions to ask
about his home and native place. Joseph was surprised to find how
intimately she was acquainted with all her brother's old surroundings;
but he was even more astonished to find her so full of life and fun.
He had been accustomed to regard a confirmed invalid as a person who
needed cheering and amusing, and had imagined her the perfection of
resignation,—full of sweet thoughts about heaven, and meekly bearing
her cross until it should be God's will to call her home. But he
found her happy and even merry; able to entertain as well as to be
entertained, and so frank and good-humoured that it was impossible not
to be at home with her.

When Mr. Girling came in, he found them talking as if they had been
friends for years.

He looked very much gratified; but Nellie cried out before he could
speak.

"Oh! Edward, you ought to have been a painter. Your portraits are so
faithful!"

"Are they?" returned her brother, shaking Joseph by the hand, and
passing on to give his sister the kiss without which he never
entered or left the house; "and you have identified Joseph to your
satisfaction."

It was rapidly getting dark by this time, so Mr. Girling wheeled her
couch nearer the fire, and taking a seat near its head, completed the
circle.

When they were all comfortably seated, Nellie began to ask about his
afternoon's work, and Joseph observed again how much she knew about
the members of his class. It was quite apparent that they were no mere
names, but that her brother had talked of them to her until they had
become vivid realities. But her manner changed as she spoke of them.
A sweet seriousness came over her, and her eyes grew wistful as he
told her how one and another of the wayward ones were becoming more
attentive and respectful.

"You will win them all one by one, Edward," she said at last. "You are
sure of that, you know."

Her brother only answered her with a look. There was evidently a
confidential understanding between them on this point.

But suddenly Nellie's eyes glittered with the mischievous expression
which Joseph had noticed when anything struck her as particularly funny.

"How about the 'tea and muffins?'" she asked. "Did they all accept?—Or
was Pope Gregory still too much upon his dignity to accept an
invitation to take tea with your little sister?"

"No; they are all coming next Saturday," replied her brother,
reflecting her laugh; "and Pope Gregory is amongst the most anxious."

Gregory was "senior member" of the class, surnamed "Pope" on account of
his sententious ways, and Mr. Girling was constantly "treading upon his
corns" by some inadvertency or other. Like most touchy people, he was a
frequent subject of ridicule, but of late even he had caught something
of his teacher's gentle spirit, and grown more amiable.

"Do you think he is really changing?" asked Nellie, growing serious
again.

"I am sure of it," replied her brother; "though he is the last one I
should have dared to hope for."

"'Dared,' Edward? 'The wind bloweth where it listeth.'"

"I know. But it seemed so impossible."

"To you, Edward; but 'our sufficiency is of God.'"

"And so Pope Gregory is coming," she said, presently, after some
moments' silence. "I quite long to see a real live Pope. Why shouldn't
Joseph come too?"

"Ah! Why not? The very thing I was about to propose," said Mrs. Girling.

But Joseph demurred. "I shall feel like an interloper," he objected.

"There is an easy way out of that difficulty," observed Mr. Girling;
"let me introduce you as the new member."

"The great attraction of the evening," added Nellie, "sotto voce."

"Just what I was thinking of," returned Joseph, who had not caught
Nellie's mischievous remark, whereupon a laugh was raised at his
expense. Upon the joke being explained, however, he declared himself
perfectly willing to be the "grand attraction," if anything beyond
tea and muffins was considered indispensable. And Mrs. Girling having
expressed her hearty approval of the arrangement, and added a general
invitation to Joseph to take tea with them on Sunday, went downstairs
to prepare the meal.


Sunday afternoons at Dalston became the rule rather than the exception
after this, and pleasant times they were. The more familiar Joseph
became with his new friends, the more happy he was in their society,
until their house seemed like a second home to him, and Mr. Girling an
elder brother.

But perhaps Nellie's influence over him at this time was stronger then
any one's. It filled him so full of wonder that she could be so happy,
condemned as she was to pass her life in that one small room, for ever
lying on her couch. And he would sit and watch her by the hour as she
talked, longing to learn the secret of her cheerful patience.

At last, one evening, all unasked, she told him. Joseph had been alone
with her for some time, and having discovered how keenly she enjoyed
exercising her faculty for getting to know people from description,
he had been endeavouring to outrival her brother in the art of
portraiture. The Vigus family happened to be on the canvas.

Nellie was delighted. "You are nearly as clever as Edward," she
exclaimed. "I know all about Mr. Vigus now; and as for Nancy, I should
feel at home with her at once, for I always like people who have a
quiet way of doing more than they pretend to, and never letting others
see that they are tired. It must be a great reward to have made people
happy without their ever guessing how much it cost you. But I cannot do
that, you see, for I never have a chance of getting tired, lying here."

"I should have thought you would be always tired," said Joseph. "Day
after day the same; I would a thousand times rather have my limbs ache
ever so much."

Nellie smiled.

"It would be so funny for a great strong fellow like you to lie here,"
she said. "It is different for me, I'm used to it, and then I'm so
happy."

"That's just what I can't make out," returned Joseph. "It's what
puzzles me about Mr. Vigus too."

"You haven't learned how," said Nellie.

"And I suppose I can't, without being in your place," rejoined Joseph.

Nellie looked up quickly, as if to read his face. She almost fancied
he meant that it was not worth learning at such a price. But his eyes
were fixed on her with their usual truthful expression; there was no
doubting that he intended the words just as he said them.

"Oh, yes! You can," she answered; "because the same Hand that laid me
here placed you where you are."

"But I often want to be somewhere else. I'm very discontented sometimes
with having to be a carpenter."

"Why?"

Nellie asked the question with such ingenuous eagerness, that Joseph
could not repress a smile. After all, how could she understand worldly
ambitions from her sofa in the sitting-room?

"Well, you see," he replied, "I might be better off and more of a
gentleman, more useful, perhaps—"

"Than where God has placed you?" she interrupted. "Oh! Joseph, you're
wrong. He must know best."

"I suppose He must," said Joseph slowly. "I can't quite see it, though."

Nellie lay still, looking at him as he sat leaning forward with his
eyes fixed upon the fire.

"It is all so simple to me," she said presently, "that I hardly know if
I can explain it to you. But it seems to me like this. If I tried to
understand why God had deprived me of so many things that others enjoy,
or how it can possibly be better for me, or any one else, that I should
never be able to take an active part in life, I should have to confess
that His ways are past finding out; but do not I know that He loves me?
And if He loves me, will He not give me all that is best? So I have
only just to go on trusting Him without ever asking why."

Joseph did not answer. The strong lad, who went so actively to his work
every day, and appeared to take such a vivid interest in all that came
in his way, was yet hungering after something that would satisfy his
higher nature, for, though born a carpenter's son, he was, by Divine
right, an heir of the Most High God.

"How do you know?" he said, presently. "I want to do my duty, and I try
to believe that God hears my prayers for guidance; but He seems such a
long way off; you speak almost as if you could see Him."

Nellie smiled a beautiful, holy, peaceful smile that he never forgot.
"That is how it must have appeared to the Jews after they lost God's
visible presence," she said; "but it is all different now to us
Christians. 'The Son, who is in the bosom of the Father, He hath
declared Him,' unto us. We know that all things are ours: 'for we are
Christ's, and Christ is God's.'"

They did not have much further opportunity for conversation just then,
for Mrs. Girling came up with the tea-tray, and her son, who had stayed
behind to look up an absent member of his class, returned.

But Joseph went home with these words in his mind, and somehow as they
rested there, their meaning grew upon him,—how that the great God,
whose purity is such that He cannot look upon sin, whose power and
majesty are infinite, whose nature is incomprehensible, is yet revealed
to each one of us, His finite children, by the human life of the
God-man Christ Jesus, who, though He was "equal with God," took upon
Him our nature, in order that He might raise us to our true sonship.

When Joseph retired to his room that evening, he sat far into the
night, reading over again many of the passages so familiar to his
memory, each of which was full of new meaning. Then, as his candle
burned low and flickered in the socket, he extinguished the dying
wick, and, with a feeling of perfect peace he had never experienced
before, knelt in the darkness in grateful thanksgiving to God for His
unspeakable gift, for the conscious and abiding presence of Him "whom
to know is life eternal."


Joseph was up betimes next morning and off to work while the light of
day was still pale, as he had been every week since Christmas. But
somehow everything seemed changed. It was the same world and the same
work, but he himself was different. He was consciously a child of God,
and all things had become new. There were the same disagreeables and
hardships to be encountered, there was the same need of diligence in
order to earn a livelihood; but there was no longer any disgrace in
his white apron and carpenter's basket. If he was a builder according
to his earthly vocation, he was also a citizen of that kingdom "whose
builder and maker is God," and honourable so long as he was faithful to
his calling. So he went about his work with a light heart and a shining
countenance, full of faith and hope.

It was a fresh job they were engaged on, repairing some old houses,
which had recently passed into the hands of a more enterprising owner.
They had long been falling into decay, and considerable expenditure
would be necessary before the inheritance would be made worth much, but
Mr. Glover's estimate having proved satisfactory to the mind of the new
landlord, orders had been given to proceed at once. The scaffold-poles
had already been partially erected on the previous Saturday, and
operations were going busily forward.

There were some window and door-frames wanted, and Joseph was to go to
work on these; but measurements had yet to be taken, and there would be
nothing doing in the workshop until after breakfast, so he had hurried
off to the houses to make himself generally useful there, and had at
once found scope for his activity in stripping down the rotten plaster
from the upper storey, preparatory to putting up new laths.

The third house in the row stood back a little from the corner of that
upon which Joseph was engaged, and here the scaffold was still being
prepared. The uprights were already planted, and the first cross-poles
secured, and two men—one on a ladder, and the other on the platform
near Joseph—were fixing the second stage. The cross-pole was already
partly raised to its place, the lower end resting temporarily upon the
roofing of the doorway, whilst the man at the upper part endeavoured
to push it further out, in order to bring it within reach of the
ladder. But either from want of proper leverage power, or from lack of
management on the workman's part, he seemed unable to effect this, and
he was looking round for assistance.

[Illustration]

Joseph had paused an instant to watch progress, and perceiving the
difficulty, offered his help.

"I'll give you a hand in a moment, Stacey," he called out, preparing to
lay his tool down.

But as he said the words, the pole slipped from its resting-place,
striking heavily against the ladder and pushing it out of the
perpendicular, to the imminent danger of the man upon it.

Joseph saw his peril and sprang forward, shouting to a labourer below,
to steady the ladder. But just as he reached Stacey's side, the latter,
with a vigorous effort had hauled the pole back again, and the upper
end swinging round and catching Joseph in the side, swept him from the
stage.

A cry and a thud was all the men heard. The labourer hurried to the
spot, the man whose safety had been so dearly purchased hastily
descended, and passers-by rapidly began to congregate, whilst
Stacey—the unintentional cause of the disaster—stood aloft, unable to
stir or to leave hold of the pole.



CHAPTER XVIII.

A TELEGRAM.

          "Repine not, O my son;
   In wisdom and in mercy heaven inflicts
           Its painful remedies."
                                         SOUTHEY.

ABOUT three weeks previous to the events related in the last chapter,
Mina was with her again spending the evening friend Alice Grandpont.

Times had been rather dull there lately, for Horace had been much less
at home of late, and Mina was usually obliged either to leave quite
early, or to depend upon a servant to take her home. On this particular
evening, however, his sister was expecting him home from London, where
he had been for several days, and as he was always as attentive as ever
to Mina whenever they met, the latter was pluming herself upon her good
fortune in being upon the spot to welcome him.

Horace had gone to town rather suddenly, intending to stay a few days
only, but had written by the next morning's post to inform his mother
that he purposed prolonging his visit a week or so beyond his original
intention.

For this determination, he gave no reason whatever, and Alice had
observed her father's brow cloud upon receiving the intelligence.
Whether the latter had written to Horace or not, she did not know. But
a few days later, she received a few lines appointing a certain time
for his return, and enclosing a message "to the 'pater'" to the effect
that he would give his reasons by word of mouth when they met. Alice
fancied her father was somewhat put out on reading the letter; but
nothing further was said, and the matter passed.

The following evening, however, Mr. Grandpont had come in suddenly, and
after a brief interview with his wife had started hurriedly for London,
not even waiting to take any refreshment.

"I cannot imagine what possessed papa," Alice remarked, as she and Mina
sat together over their crewel work. "I encountered him in the hall a
few minutes before he started, and he nearly overthrew me in his hot
haste. If only I had known it, Burton was putting Poster to, and I
might have driven to the station with him; but I had not the faintest
idea he was going. It is so unlike papa to scurry in that fashion."

"Mrs. Grandpont knows of course?" inquired Mina, whose curiosity was
very quickly roused by the idea of a mystery.

"Mamma either doesn't know or chooses not to tell," replied Alice.
"'Business' is the utmost I can extract from her. But if she is in the
dark, it is certainly not by her own choice, for she has been very
moody ever since. In fact—don't feel offended, my dear!—that was partly
why I was so anxious for you to come. Mamma was such dull company, that
I was positively afraid of a fit of 'the blues.'"

"Anyhow, Horace will be in soon, I suppose," said Mina, unable to
conceal the fact that this consideration had more interest for her than
anything else. "What train did you say you expected him by?"

"All in good time, my dear," replied her friend, with provoking
coolness. "Don't be in such a hurry. I'm very good company, I believe.
He has missed this train, surely. I sent Burton down to meet him; but
he must have returned before now."

At that moment a sound of wheels caught Alice's ear.

"That's Poster!" she cried, hurrying to the window. "I know the sound
of his hoofs."

Then, as she watched the lamps of the dog-cart, "What a shame! Burton
is driving straight to the yard. No Horace!"

The next train was not due until half-past eight, so Mina had to
swallow her disappointment and make the best of Alice's society for
another hour.

Presently Mrs. Grandpont joined them; but she was unusually
pre-occupied, and Mina saw at once that Alice was not mistaken.
Something was wrong.

In process of time, the half-past eight train became over-due, and
still no Horace. Alice had consulted her watch a good many times. At
last, she could be silent no longer.

"Five minutes to nine!" she exclaimed. "What can Horace mean?"

She glanced up at her mother as she said the words. The latter was
sitting with her hands resting upon her work, gazing before her into
the fire, with her lips compressed and a pained expression on her
face. She did not reply for some minutes; then she repeated quietly,
"Five minutes to nine; and the train was due three minutes before the
half-hour. He cannot intend to return this evening."

To hear her calm voice, no one would have suspected the agony of
suspense that was torturing her. A few minutes later she spoke again.
"Mina, my dear," she asked, "is any one coming to fetch you? Because
if not, I will ring for one of the servants. They must not be late
to-night."

Mina, dreadfully disappointed, but not caring whether or no she stayed
any longer once Horace was actually given up, replied in the negative,
and putting up her work, in obedience to Mrs. Grandpont's request, went
to Alice's room for her wraps.

"Mamma is so fidgety about the servants being a little late," the
latter remarked, as she tripped upstairs with her arm round her
friend's waist; "and she appears to have thoroughly made up her mind
that Horace has no intention of keeping faith with us to-night,
although there are two trains yet by which he might reasonably return."


Mina found her father and mother in the dining-room when she went in,
the former just preparing to come and fetch her home.

"What a dear, good old daddy it is to trouble so much about me!" she
began, in her usual petted way. But something in her father's face
checked her.

He took off his comforter at once. "I did not expect you so soon,
Mina," he said; "but I am glad you had the good feeling to come away
immediately. You were quite right to do so. Has Mr. Grandpont returned?"

"No, papa; I do not think they are expecting him to-night. They were
expecting Horace; but they had given him up when I left."

Mr. Adams took several turns up and down the rug, then went out into
the hall and removed his overcoat. Mina was crossing the room to carry
her wraps upstairs when he returned.

"It is a dreadful trial for them, if it be true, as I fear it must be,"
he said to his wife as he entered.

Mina paused half-way, and looked from one to the other.

Her father read her inquiry.

"It may not be true," he said, in answer. "There is just that bare
possibility, but it is better you should know at once, Mina. It is said
that Horace Grandpont has been guilty of making love to the daughter
of an old friend of his father's, in order that he might rob her
jewel-case to pay the debts which he has incurred at the gaming-table;
and I fear it is only too true. Unless his father was in time to
overtake him, he is now on his way to the Colonies."

Mina stood rooted to the spot, unable to find a single word. "They do
not know it," she said at last. "Alice does not, at least."

"I fear it is only too true," her father repeated.

Before Mina had time to recover from the shock of this intelligence, a
sharp ring at the bell brought the housemaid hastily from the kitchen.
The next minute she entered with a telegram. Mr. Adams' face clouded as
he read it. His wife and Mina watched him anxiously.

"Business, Benjamin?" the former at length inquired, finding that he
vouchsafed no information concerning its purport.

"N—no, not exactly," he replied hesitatingly. "From Oxford. Neville has
run out of money—and—is unwell."

"Unwell!" exclaimed his wife, rising and hurrying towards him. "It is
nothing serious?"

"I think I had better go to him," Mr. Adams said, still holding the
telegram. "He is out of money, you see."

"Is he seriously ill?" cried Mrs. Adams, snatching the telegram.

It was from the house where Neville lodged, and was worded as follows:—

   "Come at once. Your son is ill with congestion of the lungs, and has no
cash in hand."

For a minute or two Mrs. Adams stood reading the words over and over
as if unable to believe them. Then turning to her husband, in a firm,
decided voice she said, "I must go at once."

In half an hour's time, the father and mother were on their way to
catch the last train for London, where they hoped to be in time for
the night mail to Oxford. And Mina—bewildered, unstrung, and terrified
beyond measure—was left alone.



CHAPTER XIX.

AN UNLOOKED-FOR HOLIDAY.

   "Nor love thy life, nor hate; but whilst thou liv'st
   Live well; how long, how short, permit to heaven."
                                                   MILTON.

ON returning to consciousness, Joseph became aware of a crowd of
people, a buzz of voices, and intense pain in his left arm.

For the moment, he had lost all recollection of what had occurred,
and could only utter a faint moan. But as his senses came back, he
remembered the ladder, and glanced quickly towards it.

"Is Richards safe?" he asked.

"Here," answered the man, pushing forwards towards him. "I'm afraid
you've paid dearly, poor lad!"

"I'm all right," gasped Joseph, catching his breath with the pain as he
tried to move, "except this arm. It must be broken."

"Do you think you can walk?" asked Richards.

"I can try," answered the brave fellow, wincing again, but quickly
recovering himself. "I'm only a bit shaken."

"And well you may be!" remarked an onlooker who, having satisfied
himself that life was preserved, was preparing to turn on his way. "It
came near being an ugly business."

"Stupid job, attempting to haul a pole without a rope to it," remarked
another. "It was a lucky escape; a mere chance, as one may say."

The crowd now began to disperse, whilst those who had no special reason
for hurry commenced discussing the various conjectures put forth as
to how the accident happened, and so on. But one man chose to take up
a different aspect of the question. He was a painter who frequently
worked in Mr. Glover's employ, and was well-known as a freethinker and
scoffer.

"'No such thing as chance,' they say," he jeered. "It's all 'design';
ruled and predestined by a wise Providence. What about a slip like
that, I wonder! I suppose your preachers can make it come right
somehow. 'All things work together for good,' they say. Don't tell me!
How about the widowed mother? She wouldn't find much 'good' in losing
her only support. There's more chance than Providence in the matter."

Joseph caught these words and looked round. "Who said that?" he asked.

"Me," answered the man; "right enough. You can't make much out o' this
job to 'thank the Lord for,' I'll lay," he added.

"That He has spared my life," returned Joseph; "I do thank Him for
that."

"Ah! Of course; not so bad but it might have been worse. A very
cheerful principle to go upon too! Suppose, now, it had been the neck
instead of the arm. Not much 'good' to be worked out o' that, hey?"

Joseph looked him steadily in the face. He well knew the man's creed.

"My poor mother would have found comfort," he answered; "and as for
myself, I am not afraid of death. 'For me to live is Christ, and to die
is gain.'"

The man uttered a loud guffaw. "Take my advice and drop that cant," he
said. "It won't serve you against a scaffold-pole."

"It will serve me beyond the grave some day," answered Joseph firmly;
"and you cannot affirm that much of any belief you hold, Mr. Robbins."

The man looked somewhat taken aback by the lad's boldness. But at this
juncture Richards interfered, saying, that as soon as Joseph felt able
to try and move, it would be advisable to get him to a doctor's. So
they forthwith set about helping him to his feet and taking him to the
nearest surgery.

His arm was found to be broken in two places. But beyond a few bruises
and a severe shaking, he had escaped without further injury. And after
having the broken limb attended to, he was able to proceed home to his
lodgings, where his good friends, Ned Vigus and Nancy, received him
with expressions of the deepest concern.

"No fear for me," was Joseph's cheerful reply. "I shall do well enough
with a little of your nursing, Miss Vigus; though I'm afraid I shall
give you some trouble with this helpless bundle of splints hanging
round my neck."

"Never mind about that," responded Miss Vigus warmly, "so that I
haven't any bad news to tell your poor mother. That's all I think of."

"That was all I thought of at first," said Joseph. "A fall like that
confuses the brains somewhat. I was too much 'astonished' to have many
ideas left. The principal thing seemed to be alive, and to know that
I wasn't hopelessly maimed. But it begins to strike me that I didn't
particularly want an idle time just now. I shall have to ask you for
credit, Mr. Vigus. I sent all my surplus cash to my mother on Saturday;
and I shan't be in working trim yet awhile."

"Oh! If it comes to that, we can but go shares in the accident,"
returned good Ned Vigus. "Your patterns have been a wonderful help to
my fretwork; and Nancy's needle is very busy just now, with the spring
season coming on. But, unless I'm much mistaken, Mr. Glover will make
that all straight. He's a Humane Society all to himself, is Mr. Glover;
and he'll have a gold medal ready for you."

Ned Vigus was right. On going down to the works after breakfast, Mr.
Glover heard all the particulars of Stacey's unlucky manœuvre, and
before the day was over, he came round to see the disabled hero.

"Well!" he said cheerily, after some talk. "You didn't ask me for a
holiday, or perhaps I might not have been so ready to give you one. But
you will have to lie by for a month or so, and the best thing you can
do is to go home and get some country air to set you up."

Joseph hesitated, uncertain how to take these words. "I don't know,
sir," he replied. "I can't go home to be a burden to my mother. And as
Mr. Vigus is willing to let my bill run, I think I had better remain
here. I must get to work as soon as possible, and right myself by
degrees."

But Mr. Glover shook his head.

"Miss Nancy doesn't want an invalid about, in the midst of all this
dressmaking," he said; "and your mother will be glad enough to have you
to nurse. When I speak of giving a holiday, I don't mean making you
the loser. So you can set off with a clear conscience as soon as the
doctor grants permission; and don't return until you can use your arm
properly."

Joseph hastened to express his sense of his employer's kindness,
whilst Ned Vigus nodded a "signe d'intelligence" at Nancy, thoroughly
satisfied at this fulfilment of his own prediction. And after a little
further conversation, Mr. Glover left.


The following week, Joseph—having previously written to his mother
to expect him—once more took train home, and was soon answering
endless questions concerning his disaster by the fireside in the old
keeping-room.

It was some considerable time before a subject of such vital interest
could wear itself out, especially as the helpless arm acted the part
of a perpetual reminder. But at length, Joseph began to make inquiries
about some of his old acquaintances—more especially the Andersons, of
whose downfall he had of course already heard. Walter, he now learned,
had left home, whilst Cicely still remained with her parents,—their
mainstay and comforter, in her dauntless courage and indomitable energy.

Then Mrs. Adams went on to relate what she knew of the cause and
circumstances of Horace Grandpont's flight from the country, adding,
"It has completely crushed his poor father and mother. But what else
could possibly result from a bringing-up which taught him to regard
pleasure as the main end of life, and himself as the principal person
in the world?"

Joseph remembered the adventure in the stable-yard, the day his father
died. "Riches are not everything after all, mother," he said.

"Your aunt and uncle are in trouble, too," Mrs. Adams continued.
"Neville has been seriously ill. They have been with him at Oxford for
the last month, and yesterday they brought him home."

Joseph expressed sincere concern upon hearing of the danger through
which his cousin had passed. Since the accident which had come so near
taking his own life, death had become more of a reality to him; and in
proportion as he himself could face it fearlessly, was he enabled to
appreciate the solemn aspect of such an illness to one who had lived so
carelessly.

"Let us hope it may be the means of good to him," he said. "It may have
been sent to save him."

The same thought had been in his mother's mind. She was by no means
ignorant of the perils of university life, for a pleasure-seeking young
man devoid of religious principle. And from hints she had gathered, she
had reason to believe that the commencement which her nephew had made
was such as could only bring sorrow and disgrace upon his parents.

However, Neville's danger for the present seemed past. The weather
was in his favour, and as soon as he had had time to recover from the
fatigue of his journey, he was seen driving out with Mina—well muffled
up, it is true, and looking a mere ghost of his former self, but still
so far recovered that he was able to benefit by the invigorating
influence of the mild spring air. His spirits seemed high, as usual.

Joseph met him one day, when out for a walk with Ruth. He was talking
in an animated way to Mina as they drove gaily along; and he nodded
carelessly to Joseph, and even turned his head with evident curiosity
on perceiving the sling.

But Joseph never forgot the look of his face. His cheeks were flushed
and his eyes bright; but not with the vigour of returning health. Folly
and imprudence had undermined the strength which otherwise might have
resisted the fatal tendency inherited from his mother's family, and the
stamp of consumption was on his brow. The transparent skin, the hectic
colour, the unnatural lustre of his eyes, all told that the hidden fire
was eating away his life, and that death had sealed him for its own.

Before that week was over, a wearing cough had come on, and in
consequence of a change of wind, he was confined to the house. He never
went out again.



CHAPTER XX.

SICKNESS UNTO DEATH.

                 "More things are wrought by prayer
   Than this world dreams of."

       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

        "What are men better than sheep or goats,
   If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer,
   Both for themselves and those who call them friends?"
                                              TENNYSON.

JOSEPH'S holiday sped rapidly on towards its termination.

It had been prolonged beyond what had been anticipated; for the bone,
being badly broken, was somewhat slow in healing, and a considerable
time elapsed before the parish doctor, who had the case in hand, would
hear of the splints being removed. At length, however, the arm was
pronounced to be fully mended, and Dr. Abel gave his patient permission
to resume work the following week; and he had only five days more to
call his own.

Meanwhile, Mr. Glover had been as good as his word, every Saturday
sending him a remittance to the full amount of his week's wages. And
it was not until long afterwards that Joseph learned how the good old
gentleman, with the true instinct of benevolence, had at the same time
been in communication with Dr. Abel, in order that he might be certain
the lad did not fall into the snare of abusing his kindness by making
the most of the accident.

These last five days were precious, for although Joseph, anxious to
be at work once more, was chafing at his forced idleness, he had so
grown to his home again that to tear himself away seemed like making
the start anew. Whilst on the other hand, his mother and Ruth could not
bear the thought of missing the manly support to which they had thus
become so accustomed.

Ruth had wonderfully improved during his absence, and his brotherly
pride in her was very pretty to behold.

"Only thirteen, mother, and quite a little woman," he would say, as he
watched her going about her work, whilst Mrs. Adams sat busy with her
needle. "She will be worth two of Mina, with all her boarding-school
airs."

And he would take his hat and walk down to school with her every
morning, carrying her books as if she were the daintiest lady in the
land; for Joseph's chivalry was of that perfect kind which extends its
acts of courtesy to a sister, as well as to her young lady friends.


One morning—the Wednesday of his last week—he returned with a very
serious face. Mrs. Adams was busy washing out some little things
which were wanted ready for his departure, and not finding her at her
sewing-machine, he went out to the wash-house and stood near her,
looking on in silence.

Presently he spoke.

"I have just seen old Atherby, mother," he said, "who used to work for
Uncle Benjamin along with father; and he tells me very bad news of
Neville."

His mother glanced up from her suds.

"Of Neville!" she exclaimed. "Why, we thought him in a fair way to
recovery. Ruth saw him out walking, the day after you met him driving
near the Warren."

"Yes; but they didn't know how his constitution was undermined; and he
has taken fresh cold. One lung is completely gone, and the other—he is
dying!" he burst out suddenly, unable to control his feelings. "They
say he cannot last many days." And Joseph walked away, vainly trying to
compose his face.

There had not been much love lost between the cousins in former days;
but the fault had been on Neville's side, and there was a painful
mixture of thoughts in the mind of the young Christian.

"Without God and without hope," he had added, to himself, as he told
his mother the sad intelligence.

Presently, he came back.

"I must see him before—before I go away, mother," he said. "Do you
think—"

Mrs. Adams shook her head, finishing the question for him.

"I cannot say," she answered. "Trouble sometimes softens the heart;
but—"

"They could not refuse me, mother. We used to play together. What does
it matter to Neville if I wear shabby clothes, when he has only days
to live? I cannot let him die without a word. How can he face death? I
must see him."

His mother was silent, seeing how deeply he was moved.

"You can but make the attempt," she said.

"I will," he rejoined; "this very afternoon. I care not how they treat
me, so that they let me see him." And he remained lost in thought.

Ruth came into dinner bright as usual, and wondered to find her brother
so abstracted. But her face rapidly changed in sympathy when she heard
the news.

"Poor Mina!" she exclaimed, at once putting herself in the position of
the heart-broken sister. "How I wish she would let me comfort her; and
I said once that I hated her."


About the middle of the afternoon, Joseph went out, directing his steps
towards Aylesdere.

It was a sunny day, warm and genial, and as the streets were left
behind for the more open roads, the twitter of song-birds and the
rustle of budding trees filled the air with sounds of life; but Joseph
did not heed. His thoughts were full of his cousin.

Arrived at the door, he knocked lightly and waited in painful
uncertainty.

In a minute or so, a servant-maid appeared. She hesitated, upon
learning his errand, but said she would go and see, and Joseph was left
standing in the hall. The girl knew him very well, and was not sure how
his visit would be received. After some time, however, she returned,
and requesting him to follow her, led the way upstairs.

Mina was on the landing. She advanced in a hurried manner, and put out
her hand in silence.

"It is kind of you to think of coming," she said, in a constrained
voice. "Neville wishes to see you; but you must be very quiet. He
cannot bear much."

Joseph noticed a great change in her appearance since the last time he
had seen her out driving with her brother. All her colour was gone, and
her eyes, swollen and heavy with anxiety and watching, seemed unable to
meet his. The expression of her face was one of hopeless sadness. She
at once conducted him to the sick-room.

Neville was lying raised on his pillows, his arms thrown languidly on
the coverlet, and the room was faint with the eau de Cologne with which
Mina had been bathing his temples.

Joseph saw him at once from the doorway, and knew that there was
no hope. His eyes were fixed eagerly upon it and his fingers moved
restlessly as Joseph entered, as if anxious to meet his. Neither spoke;
but there was no need of words, for Neville knew he had been unworthy,
and Joseph held the poor, wasted hand with a tender pressure which
seemed to speak forgiveness of all past wrongs. In a moment, they
understood each other.

Mina had followed Joseph to the bedside and placed a chair for him. She
now retreated to the window and took up a book, feigning to read, and
there was a long pause, during which Joseph sat gazing pitifully at the
emaciated form before him.

"Do you suffer much?" he asked at length.

Neville shook his head. "Only weakness," he replied faintly. "My
strength is less every hour, I can feel it going. It is hard," he
added, "hard."

"It is only going home," Joseph said gently.

"It is dying," the young man answered, with a shudder. "But I have no
right to complain, I have lived for pleasure, and I must die without
hope!" And he turned his face away, as if unable to endure the daylight.

Joseph heard a stifled sob. Mina was crying bitterly with her face
buried in her hands.

"I cannot die; I dare not die!" Neville groaned.

"Have you no faith in God?" Joseph asked earnestly. "'Though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for
"Thou art with me."'"

"Not with 'me,'" he interrupted. "I have lived without God, and I must
meet it alone—with all my sins."

"'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow;
though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool,'" Joseph quoted.

But Neville shook his head.

"'As the tree falls, so it must lie,'" he said, hopelessly. "I must
reap my own harvest."

"But Jesus died that all might be forgiven," Joseph pleaded. "No matter
what your sins are, if only you repent, and truly turn to Him, all will
be well."

"Too late, too late!" he moaned.

"Not while you have breath to cry to Him for pardon."

"I dare not."

"'Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out.' Believe His word,
Neville."

"Oh! If only I had come sooner!" And the wretched young man groaned in
spirit.

"It is never too late," Joseph still urged. "Neville, have faith in
God's Word. Think of the dying thief: 'Lord, remember me,' and Christ's
answer: 'This day shalt thou be with Me in paradise.' Cry to Him for
pardon, He never turns away from prayer."

"I cannot pray."

"It is only asking for what you need—as you would ask your earthly
father."

"Pray for me."

Without a moment's hesitation, Joseph knelt by the bedside, and with
his hands clasped upon the coverlet poured out his heart in earnest
pleading that the peace of God in Christ might come to his cousin's
troubled conscience.

He had never prayed aloud before, and emotion seemed at first almost to
choke utterance. But everything was forgotten in his intense fervour
save his dying cousin's need, and his own power to prevail. When he
ceased, Neville was lying with his eyes closed, and a peaceful look
over his features. These strong words of faith and confidence had
seemed to bring God nearer; and for the moment he was at rest. But he
was exhausted with the excitement of talking, and remained perfectly
still. In a few minutes, he opened his eyes.

"Thank you," he murmured, "thank you. Come again."

Joseph promised, and gently pressing his hand turned to go.

Mina was standing near. She gave him her hand with an averted face.
"You are better than we deserve," she said, in a broken voice.

Joseph's eyes filled with tears. "I wish I could help you," he said.

"You can," Mina cried; "for you can pray; and there is no other help.
Come again;—if you can forgive us."

"When may I come?"

"When you please. To-night, if you will."

Again Joseph promised. And with a full heart, he left the house.



CHAPTER XXI.

THE SHINING OF THE RIVER.

   "The Christian is God Almighty's gentleman."
                                               HARE.

AFTER tea, Joseph returned to the house of death.

A veil of cloud had dimmed the sky, and the twilight was creeping
slowly on, as one by one the busy sounds of day hushed into silence;
but where the sun had sunk, there lay a belt of living radiance,—sure
prophecy of the rising of another dawn, and symbol of those words of
hope: "At evening time it shall be light."

Mina met Joseph in the hall, and asked him to go up at once, as she was
giving her papa his tea.

In the sick-room, he found his aunt, who, though outwardly civil to him
for the sake of humouring her boy's whim, seemed constrained and cold
in her manner. She remained in the room the whole of the evening. And
as Joseph, anxious not to intrude, kept in the background, there was
no opportunity for further conversation with his cousin. But Neville
appeared comforted by his presence, and thanked him for coming, with a
very speaking smile.

Mina was in and out a good deal; but she, too, seemed shy and uneasy,
and scarcely spoke to him.

As soon as Mr. Adams came up, he took leave.

Mina was waiting at the foot of the staircase. "Come to-morrow," she
said. "Do not mind mamma. She hardly knows what she is doing; but she
is glad to have you here if it comforts Neville."

Joseph asked if he might come in the morning; but Mina shook her head.

"The doctor will be here," she said, "and Neville will be too much
exhausted to see you. If there should be any change, I would send for
you," she added, with tearful eyes. "You would come at any time, if
Neville wanted you?"


The next afternoon and evening were spent there. But even in that
short space, a great change was perceptible in the dying young man.
His breath came in quicker gasps, and his face was more sunken and
transparent. He had scarcely spoken during the morning, except to
inquire if there had been any news from Horace Grandpont yet.

Upon learning that nothing had been heard since a letter which had
arrived some days before by a homeward-bound vessel, he said, "I should
have liked to know of his safe arrival; but that cannot be. It will be
a sad warning to him when he hears."

He asked, too, if any of his old chums had been to inquire after him,
and on being told that Tom Rawlinson and another had called that very
morning, he seemed grieved that they had not been brought upstairs.

"I should have liked to speak to them again," he said. And a little
later, "Poor, merry old Tom! It would have been well for him to see me.
He doesn't know what death is."

But he looked up with a smile of contentment as Joseph stood once more
by his bedside.

"You are so 'strong,'" he said, as the robust young carpenter bent over
him.

"I wish I could give you some of my strength," the latter returned,
thinking Neville referred to physical power.

But Neville shook his head.

"That cannot be," he said; "and I must go 'alone.'"

That thought "alone" seemed his one terror. In his life of gaiety and
carelessness, he had never been accustomed to commune with his own
heart, and now that he was called upon to tread that path where neither
friends nor pleasures can follow, the awful silence of its solitude
appalled him. For the Comforter was not with him.

A Bible, from which Mina had been reading, was lying on the bed. Joseph
took it in his hand and commenced turning over the pages, reading here
and there of how the Son of God came to die for sinful men and bid them
come to Him.

But Neville pointed to a leaf turned down. It was at the account
of the young man who had gone away sorrowful because of his "great
possessions."

"He went to Christ in vain," he said. "'It is easier for a camel to go
through a needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of
heaven.' I have enjoyed my good things, and I have nothing left."

In vain, Joseph spoke of the Saviour who came to seek and to save
those who were lost; in vain, he prayed with him. That one feeling was
uppermost—that he could not dare thus at the twelfth hour to offer
his wasted life to the God whom he had neglected. But still he begged
Joseph to stay with him; and the latter, full of yearning and pity,
needed no urging, and scarcely left his bedside.


At length, Sunday arrived. Joseph had been with his cousin all the
morning, for Mina—feeling that the end was very near—had sent for him,
and begged him to stay all day. And Joseph, distressed beyond measure
at the thought of having to desert him on the morrow, had been talking
very earnestly as he watched his life rapidly ebbing away.

Neville had been lying for some time with his eyes closed. Presently,
he opened them. The others were at dinner, and the two cousins were
alone together.

"You will be at work to-morrow," he said faintly.

Joseph replied affectionately that he would give anything to be able to
stay.

"I shall need no one long," Neville replied; "and the world cannot stop
for me. I would give worlds to change places with you."

By and by he spoke again. "You forgive me for having despised you?" he
said.

"Fully and freely," Joseph hastened to answer. "You do not doubt that."

"I know it," he said with emotion, extending his hand.

Joseph took it very tenderly. "Why cannot you believe in Christ's
forgiveness?" he asked earnestly. "I have done so little to show mine;
but He died on the cross out of His great love to men."

"If only I could see Him and hear Him, as I hear you!"

"You can see Him, if you will but believe. Listen:

   "'At even, when the sun did set, they brought unto Him all that were
diseased, and them that were possessed with devils . . . and He healed
them.'

   "And He 'went about all Galilee . . . preaching the Gospel of the
kingdom, and healing all manner of sickness . . . among the people.'

"Think of Him going about weary and footsore, laying His hands on
the sick, taking little children in His arms; reviled, but never
reviling; mocked and scourged and spat upon, but bearing all for your
sake. Cannot you see Him, Neville? No king riding to victory in pomp
and splendour, but the lowly carpenter of Nazareth, who had made
acquaintance with want and toil, and was 'tempted like as we are.'"

"'Yet without sin'—'without sin'—"

"'The Friend of sinners'—the Son of God, who 'though He was rich, for
our sakes became poor, that we through His poverty might be made rich.'
Can you doubt that He loved you?"

Neville's eyes were fixed intently on Joseph's face, as if to read his
inmost heart.

"Could you talk so, with death before you, and a wasted life behind?"
he asked. "'Oh! It is awful to face death!'"

Joseph's eyes filled with tears. "Oh! If only I could change places
with you!" he cried. "Neville, I am not afraid. Do believe it—I am not
afraid to die—for I know that my Redeemer liveth. And He has said,—

   "'Because I live, ye shall live also.'

"Trust Him as you are, with all your past life,—sins, follies,
carelessness—no matter what—known only to yourself and to Him,—and cry,—

   "'Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief!'"

"'Help Thou mine unbelief!'"

It was the first prayer he had uttered, and it seemed to bring peace
to his soul,—like the peace that comes to an erring child when its
stubborn will is conquered, and its weary head at length rests upon the
bosom that knows its penitence, and pities and forgives.

"'Help Thou mine unbelief!'" he repeated again and again.

He spoke very little more, and Joseph scarcely left the room, except to
snatch a morsel of refreshment. The minutes sped on. The brightness of
the afternoon declined with the westering sun; the last horizontal rays
spent their golden light, and as the shadows of the twilight crept on,
they gathered around the death-bed.

Joseph would have stood aside, feeling that there were other, nearer
claims than his. But his dying cousin clung to his hand, as though he
gained courage from its strong grasp, and his lips moved from time to
time to form the words which Joseph repeated for him:

   "'Help Thou mine unbelief,—'"

the only anchor of his soul, as the billows closed over it.

Little by little, the breath came fainter and more faintly from his
unclosed lips, and the helpless lids closed, then a happy smile and one
deep-drawn sigh, and all was over.

The father stood with dry eyes and icy heart, and the mother's anguish
burst forth in a low wail. But Joseph's voice rose clear and calm, as
he knelt with the lifeless hand still clasped in his, in thanksgiving
that the struggle was at an end—the darkness of death exchanged for the
brightness of eternal day.

Then gently unclasping the hand, and rising from his knees, he pressed
one last kiss upon the peaceful brow, and putting his arm around his
cousin, led her gently from the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was dark when Joseph left Mina. The stars were shining coldly
overhead, and the night air blew keen and chilly. It was strange to
walk home, and know that the heart which had but just learned to love
Him was for ever stilled in death;—that though the morrow would find
him toiling once more at his humble avocation, the hopes and ambitions
of that life, whose prospects had been so bright, were for ever at an
end. But amid the sorrow and regret was one feeling stronger than aught
else, a feeling of deep thankfulness that through the "accident," which
had come so near costing him his life, he had been enabled to brighten
with the hope of immortality his cousin's last hours.

The people were coming out of the different places of worship as
he passed through the town, and here and there friends in twos and
threes were bidding each other good-bye as they took their several
ways home—among them a young man and a girl, who shook hands and
separated as Joseph approached, the former hurrying off in the opposite
direction, the latter coming on towards him.

A moment later, he was face to face with Cicely Anderson whom, by a
singular chance, he had not seen once during the whole of his six
weeks' holiday. They recognised each other, and stopped as if by mutual
consent.

"Have you seen your cousin?" Cicely asked, after the first greeting.
"Tom Rawlinson has been telling me he cannot live through the night,
and that you have been with him."

"I have just come away. It is all over."

The news was sudden, and Cicely was very much shocked. For some
minutes, neither spoke.

Then Joseph turned to walk a little way back with her, and tell her
about the last few days.

He found her, too, changed since last they met—taught in the school of
adversity to look beneath the surface for true happiness.

But Cicely had long had something on her mind.

"Joseph," she said frankly, as he was about to wish her good-night, "we
are old schoolfellows, and ought to be friends. Has it ever hurt you
that I neglected you for those who were grander and richer? Can you
forgive and forget?"

"Everything," was Joseph's cordial answer.

"I have been humbled, too," Cicely continued; "and in striving to do my
lowliest duties faithfully, I have found out how to be really happy.
And I have learnt to estimate character at its true worth. Will you
forgive me, and like me again as you used to do?"

"In the old school days, when I was your hero?—Days that can never
return," he added sadly. "Yes. But tell me one thing before I say
good-bye. You like me better than Tom Rawlinson?"

"Poor Tom! Oh! Yes. But he is trying to be better; and we must do our
best to help him on."

       *       *       *       *       *

Daddy was already in the market-place when Joseph crossed it on his way
to the station next morning, scraping busily with his stick for his
odds and ends of treasure, and stopping now and again to chafe one hand
against his jacket, as the keen morning air chilled and numbed it.

But suddenly, he paused and looked upward, then faced about and seemed
to listen. Then perceiving Joseph, made a few steps towards him.

"Could ye tell me, is this Sunday?" he asked. "It seems like yesterday
I was in the church; but I tho'ght I heard a sound of bells, and my
poor old head is so stupid now."

It was the passing-bell tolling for Neville's death; the last sound
that Joseph heard as the station was left behind.


Several years have elapsed since then, and that same bell has counted
out the venerable age of poor old Daddy David.

Meanwhile, the carpenter's son, no longer despised for his calling, has
returned to his native place. His mother and Ruth no longer live in the
little house where the latter was born, for Joseph is in partnership
with his uncle, and has built himself a pleasant little villa near
Aylesdere, where Cicely is now once more a constant visitor. For,
although her father's affairs have never recovered from the heavy
losses he sustained, and she still has to brave the contempt of those
who look down upon economy and thrift, Joseph has not despised her for
her low estate, and she is one day to call Mina "cousin."

With this love in his heart, and the hopes of owning—at some not far
distant date—a happy home of his own, Joseph is working steadily on, a
good master because in time past he learnt to fill a workman's place,
and, above all, because he early chose as the pattern of his life the
great Exemplar—the God-man;—of whom it was said by those who marvelled
at His wisdom and His words,—

   "Is not this the carpenter's Son?"



                             THE END.






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