FRIARSWOODPOST-OFFICE

BYC. M. YONGE, AUTHOR OF "THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE"

WITH COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONSBYA. G. WALKERSCULPTOR

LONDON:WELLS GARDNER, DARTON, & CO. , LTD. 3 & 4 PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS, E. C. AND 44 VICTORIA STREET, WESTMINSTER, S. W. 

CHAPTER I--THE STRANGE LAD

'Goodness! If ever I did see such a pig!' said Ellen King, as shemounted the stairs. 'I wouldn't touch him with a pair of tongs!'

'Who?' said a voice from the bedroom. 

'Why, that tramper who has just been in to buy a loaf! He is a perfectpig, I declare! I only wonder you did not find of him up here! Thepolice ought to hinder such folk from coming into decent people's shops!There, you may see him now!'

'Is that he upon the bridge--that chap about the size of our Harold?'

'Yes. Did you ever see such a figure? His clothes aren't good enoughfor a scare-crow--and the dirt, you can't see that from here, but youmight sow radishes in it!'

'Oh, he's swinging on the rail, just as I used to do. Put me down, Nelly; I don't want to see any more. ' And the eyes filled with tears;there was a working about the thin cheeks and the white lips, and a longsigh came out at last, 'Oh, if I was but like him!'

'Like him! I'd wish something else before I wished that, ' said Ellen. 'Don't think about it, Alfred dear; here are Miss Jane's pictures. '

'I don't want the pictures, ' said Alfred wearily, as he laid his headdown on his white pillow, and shut his eyes because they were hot withtears. 

Ellen looked at him very sadly, and the feeling in her own mind was, thathe was right, and nothing could make up for the health and strength thatshe knew her mother feared would never return to him. 

There he lay, the fair hair hanging round the white brow with the furrowsof pain in it, the purple-veined lids closed over the great bright blueeyes, the long fingers hanging limp and delicate as a lady's, the limbsstretched helplessly on the couch, whither it cost him so much pain to bedaily moved. Who would have thought, that not six months ago that poorcripple was the merriest and most active boy in the parish?

The room was not a sad-looking one. There were spotless white dimitycurtains round the lattice window; and the little bed, and the walnut ofthe great chest, and of the doors of the press-bed on which Alfred lay, shone with dark and pale grainings. There was a carpet on the floor, andthe chairs had chintz cushions; the walls were as white as snow, andthere were pretty china ornaments on the mantel-piece, many littlepictures hanging upon the walls, and quite a shelf of books upon thewhite cloth, laid so carefully on the top of the drawers. A little tablebeside Alfred held a glass with a few flowers, a cup with some toast andwater, a volume of the 'Swiss Family Robinson;' and a large book ofprints of animals was on a chair where he could reach it. 

A larger table was covered with needle-work, shreds of lining, scissors, tapes, and Ellen's red work-box; and she herself sat beside it, a verynice-looking girl of about seventeen, tall and slim, her lilac dress andwhite collar fitting beautifully, her black apron sitting nicely to hertrim waist, and her light hair shining, like the newly-wound silk of thesilk-worm, round her pleasant face; where the large, clear, well-openedblue eyes, and the contrast of white and red on the cheek, were a gooddeal like poor Alfred's, and gave an air of delicacy. 

Their father had been, as their mother said, 'the handsomest coachman whoever drove to St. James's;' but he had driven thither once too often; hehad caught his death of cold one bitter day when Lady Jane Selby wasobliged to go to a drawing-room, and had gone off in a deep declinefourteen years ago, when the youngest of his five children was not sixweeks old. 

The Selby family were very kind to Mrs. King, who, besides her husband'sclaims on them, had been once in service there; and moreover, had nursedMiss Jane, the little heiress, Ellen's foster-sister. By their help shehad been able to use her husband's savings in setting up a small shop, where she sold tea, tobacco and snuff, tape, cottons, and such littlematters, besides capital bread of her own baking, and varioussweet-meats, the best to the taste of her own cooking, the prettiest tothe eye brought from Elbury. Oranges too, and apples, shewed theiryellow or rosy cheeks at her window in their season; and there wassometimes a side of bacon, displaying under the brown coat the delicatepink stripes bordering the white fat. Of late years one pane of herwindow had been fitted up with a wooden box, with a slit in it on theoutside, and a whole region round it taken up with printed sheets ofpaper about 'Mails to Gothenburg, --Weekly Post to Vancouver's Island'--andall sorts of places to which the Friarswood people never thought ofwriting. 

Altogether, she throve very well; and she was a good woman, whom everyone respected for the pains she took to bring up her children well. Theeldest, Charles, had died of consumption soon after his father, and therehad been much fear for his sister Matilda; but Lady Jane had contrived tohave her taken as maid to a lady who usually spent the winter abroad, andthe warm climate had strengthened her health. She was not often atFriarswood; but when she came she looked and spoke like a lady--all themore so as she gave herself no airs, but was quite simple and humble, forshe was a very good right-minded young woman, and exceedingly fond of herhome and her good mother. 

Ellen would have liked to copy Matilda in everything; and as a firststep, she went for a year to a dress-maker; but just as this was over, Alfred's illness had begun; and as he wanted constant care andattendance, it was thought better that she should take in work at home. Indeed Alfred was such a darling of hers, that she could not have enduredto go away and leave him so ill. 

Alfred had been a most lively, joyous boy, with higher spirits than hequite knew what to do with, all fun and good-humour, and yet verytroublesome and provoking. He and his brother Harold were the monkeys ofthe school, and really seemed sometimes as if they _could not_ sit still, nor hinder themselves from making faces, and playing tricks; but that wasthe worst of them--they never told untruths, never did anything mean orunfair, and could always be made sorry when they had been in fault. Theirold school-mistress liked them in spite of all the plague they gave her;and they liked her too, though she had tried upon them every punishmentshe could devise. 

Little Miss Jane, the orphan whom the Colonel and Mrs. Selby had left tobe brought up by her grandmother, had a great fancy that Alfred should bea page; and as she generally had her own way, he went up to the Grangewhen he was about thirteen years old, and put on a suit thickly sown withbuttons. But ere the gloss of his new jacket had begun to wear off, hehad broken four wine-glasses, three cups, and a decanter, all from notknowing where he was going; he had put sugar instead of salt into thesalt-cellars at the housekeeper's dining-table, that he might see whatshe would say; and he had been caught dressing up Miss Jane's Skyeterrier in one of the butler's clean cravats; so, though Puck, theaforesaid terrier, liked him better than any other person, Miss Jane notexcepted, a regular complaint went up of him to my Lady, and he was senthome. He was abashed, and sorry to have vexed mother and disappointedMiss Jane; but somehow he could not be unhappy when he had Harold to playwith him again, and he could halloo as loud as they pleased, and stampabout in the garden, instead of being always in mind to walk softly. 

There was the pony too! A new arrangement had just been made, that theFriarswood letters should be fetched from Elbury every morning, and thenleft at the various houses of the large straggling district that dependedon that post-office. All letters from thence must be in the post beforefive o'clock, at which time they were to be sent in to Elbury. The post-master at Elbury asked if Mrs. King's sons could undertake this; andaccordingly she made a great effort, and bought a small shaggy forestpony, whom the boys called 'Peggy, ' and loved not much less than theirsisters. 

It was all very well in the summer to take those two rides in the cool ofthe morning and evening; but when winter came on, and Alfred had to startfor Elbury in the tardy dawn of a frosty morning, or still worse, in thegloom of a wet one, he did not like it at all. He used to ride inlooking blue and purple with the chill; and though he went as close tothe fire as possible, and steamed like the tea-kettle while he ate hisbreakfast and his mother sorted the letters, he had not time to warmhimself thoroughly before he had to ride off to leave them--two milesfurther altogether; for besides the bag for the Grange, and all theletters for the Rectory, and for the farmers, there was a younggentlemen's school at a great old lonely house, called Ragglesford, atthe end of a very long dreary lane; and many a day Alfred would havegiven something if those boys' relations would only have been so good as, with one consent, to leave them without letters. 

It would not have mattered if Alfred had been a stouter boy; but hismother had always thought he had his poor father's constitution, andtherefore wished him to be more in the house; but his idleness hadprevented his keeping any such place. It might have been the cold andwet, or, as Alfred thought, it might have been the strain he gave himselfone day when he was sliding on the ice and had a fall; but one morning hecame in from Elbury very pale, and hobbling, as he said his hip hurt himso much, that Harold must take the letters round for him. 

Harold took them that morning, and for many another morning and eveningbesides; while poor Alfred came from sitting by the fire to being aprisoner up-stairs, only moved now and then from his own bed to lieoutside that of his mother, when he could bear it. The doctor came, anddid his best; but the disease had thrown itself into the hip joint, andit was but too plain that Alfred must be a great sufferer for a longtime, and perhaps a cripple for life. But how long might this life be?His mother dared not think. Alfred himself, poor boy, was always tryingwith his whole might to believe himself getting better; and Ellen andHarold always fancied him so, when he was not very bad indeed; but forthe last fortnight he had been decidedly worse, and his heart and hopeswere sinking, though he would not own it to himself, and that and thepain made his spirits fail so, that he had been more inclined to befretful than any time since his illness had begun. 

His view from the window was a pleasant one; and when he was pretty well, afforded him much amusement. The house stood in a neat garden, withgreen railings between it and the road, over which Alfred could see everyone who came and went towards Elbury, and all who had business at thepost-office, or at Farmer Shepherd's. Opposite was the farm-yard; and ifnothing else was going on, there were always cocks and hens, ducks andturkeys, pigs, cows, or horses, to be seen there; and the cow-milking, orthe taking the horses down to the water, the pig-feeding, and the like, were a daily amusement. Sloping down from the farm-yard, the ground ledto the river, a smooth clear stream, where the white ducks looked verypretty, swimming, diving, and 'standing tail upwards;' and there was ahigh-arched bridge over it, where Alfred could get a good view of thecarriages that chanced to come by, and had lately seen all the younggentlemen of Ragglesford going home for the summer holidays, making sucha whooping and hurrahing, that the place rang again; and beyond, therewere beautiful green meadows, with a straight path through them, leadingto a stile; and beyond that, woods rose up, and there was a littleglimpse of a stately white house peeping through them. Hay-making wasgoing on merrily in the field, under the bright summer sun, and the airwas full of the sweet smell of the grass, but there was something sultryand oppressive to the poor boy's feelings; and when he remembered howFarmer Shepherd had called him to lend a hand last year, and how happy hehad been tossing the hay, and loading the waggon, a sad sick feelingcrept over him; and so it was that the tears rose in his eyes, and hemade his sister lay him back on the pillow, for he did not wish to seeany more. 

Ellen worked and thought, and wanted to entertain him, but could notthink how. Presently she burst out, however, 'Oh, Alfred! there's Haroldcoming running back! There he is, jumping over that hay-cock--nottouched the ground once--another--oh! there's Farmer Shepherd comingafter him!'

'Hold your tongue, ' muttered Alfred moodily, as if each of her words gavehim unbearable pain; and he hid his face in the pillow. 

Ellen kept silence for ten minutes, and then broke forth again, 'Nowthen, Alfred, you _will_ be glad! There's Miss Jane getting over thestile. '

'I don't want Miss Jane, ' grumbled Alfred; and as Ellen sprang up andbegan smoothing his coverings, collecting her scraps, and tidying theroom, already so neat, he growled again, 'What a racket you keep!'

'There, won't you be raised up to see her? She does look so pretty inher new pink muslin, with a double skirt, and her little hat and feather, that came from London; and there's Puck poking in the hay--he's lookingfor a mouse! And she's showering the hay over him with her parasol! Oh, look, Alfred!' and she was going to lift him up, but he only murmured across 'Can't you be quiet?' and she let him alone, but went on talking:'Ah, there's Puck's little tail wriggling out--hinder-end foremost--herehe comes--they are touching their hats to her now, the farmer and all, and she nods just like a little queen! She's got her basket, Alfred. Iwonder what she has for you in it! Oh dear, there's that strange boy onthe bridge! She won't like that. '

'Why, what would he do to her? He won't bite her, ' said Alfred. 

'Oh, if he spoke to her, or begged of her, she'd be so frightened! There, he looked at her, and she gave such a start. You little vagabond! I'dlike to--'

'Stuff! what could he do to her, with all the hay-field and FarmerShepherd there to take care of her? What a fuss you do make!' said poorAlfred, who was far too miserable just then to agree with any one, thoughat almost any other time he would have longed to knock down any strangeboy who did but dare to pass Miss Selby without touching his cap; and hervisits were in general the very light of his life. 

They were considered a great favour; for though old Lady Jane Selby was agood, kind-hearted person, still she had her fancies, and she kept heryoung grand-daughter like some small jewel, as a thing to be folded up ina case, and never trusted in common. She was afraid to allow her to goabout the village, or into the school and cottages, always fancying shemight be made ill, or meet with some harm; but Mrs. King being an oldservant, whom she knew so well, and the way lying across only two meadowsbeyond Friarswood Park, the little pet was allowed to go so far to visither foster-mother, and bring whatever she could devise to cheer the poorsick boy. 

Miss Jane, though of the same age as Ellen, and of course with a greatdeal more learning and accomplishment, had been so little used to helpherself, or to manage anything, that she was like one much younger. Thesight of the rough stranger on the bridge was really startling to her, and she came across the road and garden as fast as she could without arun; and the first thing the brother and sister heard, was her voicesaying rather out of breath and fluttered, 'Oh, what a horrid-lookingboy!'

Seeing that Mrs. King was serving some one in the shop, she only noddedto her, and came straight up-stairs. Alfred raised up his head, andbeheld the little fairy through the open door, first the head, and thesmiling little face and slight figure in the fresh summer dress. 

Miss Jane was not thought very pretty by strangers; but that daintylittle person, and sweet sunny eyes and merry smile, and shy, kind, gracious ways, were perfect in the eyes of her grandmamma and of Mrs. King and her children, if of nobody else. Alfred, in his present dismalstate, only felt vexed at a fresh person coming up to worry him, and makea talking; especially one whose presence was a restraint, so that hecould not turn about and make cross answers at his will. 

'Well, Alfred, how are you to-day?' said the sweet gay voice, a littlesubdued. 

'Better, Ma'am, thank you, ' said Alfred, who always called himselfbetter, whatever he felt; but his voice told the truth better than hiswords. 

'He's had a very bad night, Miss Jane, ' said his sister; 'no sleep at allsince two o'clock, and he is so low to-day, that I don't know what to dowith him. '

Alfred hated nothing so much as to hear that he was low, for it meantthat he was cross. 

'Poor Alfred!' said the young lady kindly. 'Was it pain that kept youawake?'

'No, Ma'am--not so much--' said the boy. 

Miss Jane saw he looked very sad, and hoped to cheer him by opening herbasket. 'I've brought you a new book, Alfred. It is "TheCherry-stones. " Have you finished the last?'

'No, Ma'am. '

'Did you like it?'

'Yes, Ma'am. '

But it was a very matter-of-course sort of Yes, and disappointed MissJane, who thought he would have been charmed with the 'Swiss FamilyRobinson. '

Ellen spoke: 'Oh yes, Alfred, you know you did like it. I heard youlaughing to yourself at Ernest and the shell of soup. And Harold readsthat; and 'tis so seldom he will look at a book. '

Jane did not like this quite as well as if Alfred had spoken up more; butshe dived into her basket again, and brought out a neat little packet ofgreen leaves, with some strawberries done up in it, and giving a littlesmile, she made sure that it would be acceptable. 

Ellen thanked vehemently, and Alfred gave feeble thanks; but, unluckily, he had so set his mind upon raspberries, that he could not enjoy thethought of anything else. It was a sickly distaste for everything, andMiss Selby saw that he was not as much pleased as she meant him to be;she looked at him wistfully, and, half grieved, half impatient, shelonged to know what he would really like, or if he were positivelyungrateful. She was very young, and did not know whether it was by hisfault or her mistake that she had failed to satisfy him. 

Puck had raced up after her, and had come poking and snuffling roundAlfred. She would have called him away lest he should be too much forone so weak, but she saw Alfred really did enjoy this: his hand was inthe long rough coat, and he was whispering, 'Poor Puck, ' and 'Good littledoggie;' and the little hairy rummaging creature, with the bright blackbeads of eyes gleaming out from under his shaggy hair, was doing him moregood than her sense and kindness, or Ellen's either. 

She turned to the window, and said to Ellen, 'What a wild-looking ladthat is on the bridge!'

'Yes, Miss Jane, ' said Ellen; 'I was quite afraid he would frighten you. '

'Well, I was surprised, ' said Jane; 'I was afraid he might speak to me;but then I knew I was too near friends for harm to come to me;' and shelaughed at her own fears. 'How ragged and wretched he looks! Has hebeen begging?'

'No, Miss Jane; he came into the shop, and bought some bread. He paidfor it honestly; but I never did see any one so dirty. And there'sAlfred wishing to be like him. I knew you would tell him it is quitewicked, Miss Jane. '

It is not right, I suppose, to wish to be anything but what we are, ' saidJane, rather puzzled by the appeal; 'and perhaps that poor beggar-boywould only like to have a nice room, and kind mother and sister, likeyou, Alfred. '

'I don't say anything against them!' cried the boy vehemently;'but--but--I'd give anything--anything in the world--to be able to runabout again in the hay-field! No, don't talk to me, Ellen, I say--I hatethem all when I see them there, and I forced to lie here! I wish the sunwould never shine!'

He hid his eyes and ears in the pillow, as if he never wished to see thelight again, and would hear nothing. The two girls both stood trembling. Ellen looked at Miss Selby, and she felt that she must say something. Butwhat could she say?

With tears in her eyes she laid hold of Alfred's thin hand and tried tospeak, choked by tears. 'Dear Alfred, don't say such dreadful things. You know we are all so sorry for you; but God sent it. '

Alfred gave a groan of utter distress, as if it were no consolation. 

'And--and things come to do us good, ' continued Miss Jane, the tearsstarting to her cheeks. 

'I don't know what good it can do me to lie here!' cried Alfred. 

'Oh, but, Alfred, it must. '

'I tell you, ' exclaimed the poor boy, forgetting his manners, so thatEllen stood dismayed, 'it does not do me good! I didn't use to hateHarold, nor to hate everybody. '

'To hate Harold!' said Jane faintly. 

'Ay, ' said Alfred, 'when I hear him whooping about like mad, and jumpingand leaping, and going on like I used to do, and never shall again. '

The tears came thick and fast, and perhaps they did him good. 

'But, Alfred, ' said Jane, trying to puzzle into the right thing, 'sometimes things are sent to punish us, and then we ought to submitquietly. '

'I don't know what I've done, then, ' he cried angrily. 'There have beenmany worse than I any day, that are well enough now. '

'Oh, Alfred, it is not who is worse, but what one is oneself, ' said Jane. 

Alfred grunted. 

'I wish I knew how to help you, ' she said earnestly; 'it is so very sadand hard; and I dare say I should be just as bad myself if I were as ill;but do, pray, Alfred, try to think that nobody sent it but God, and thatHe must know best. '

Alfred did not seem to take in much comfort, and Jane did not believe shewas putting it rightly; but it was time for her to go home, so she saidanxiously, 'Good-bye, Alfred; I hope you'll be better next time--and--and--'She bent down and spoke in a very frightened whisper, 'You know when wego to church, we pray you may have patience under your sufferings. '

Then she sprang away, as if ashamed of the sound of her own words; but asshe was taking up her basket and wishing Ellen good-bye, she saw that thestrange lad had moved nearer the house, and timid little thing as shewas, she took out a sixpence, and said, 'Do give him that, and ask him togo away. '

Ellen had no very great fancy for facing the enemy herself, but she madeno objection; and looking down-stairs, she saw her brother Harold waitingwhile his mother stamped the letters, and she called to him, and sent himout to the boy. 

He came back in a few moments so much amazed, that she could see thewhites all round his eyes. 

'He won't have it! He's a rum one that! He says he's no beggar, andthat if the young lady would give him work, he'd thank her; but he wantsnone of her money, and he'll stand where he chooses!'

'Why didn't you lick him?' hallooed out Alfred's voice from his bed. 'Oh!if I--'

'Nonsense, Alfred!' cried Miss Jane, frightened into spirit; 'standstill, Harold! I don't mind him. '

And she put up her parasol, and walked straight out at the house door asbold as a little lioness, going on without looking to the right or left. 

'_If_--' began Harold, clenching his fists--and Alfred raised himselfupon his bed with flashing eyes to watch, as the boy had moved nearer, and looked for a moment as if he were going to grin, or say somethingimpudent; but the quiet childish form stepping on so simply and steadilyseemed to disarm him, and he shrunk back, left her to trip across theroad unmolested, and stood leaning over the rail of the bridge, gazingafter her as she crossed the hay-field. 

Harold rode off with the letters; and Alfred lay gazing, and wonderingwhat that stranger could be, counting the holes in his garments, andtrying to guess at his history. 

One good thing was, that Alfred was so much carried out of himself, thathe was cheerful all the evening. 

CHAPTER II--HAY-MAKING

There was again a sultry night, which brought on so much discomfort andrestlessness, that poor Alfred could not sleep. He tried to bear in mindhow much he had disturbed his mother the night before, and he checkedhimself several times when he felt as if he could not bear it any longerwithout waking her, and to remember his old experience, that do what shewould for him, it would be no real relief, and he should only be sorrythe next day when he saw her going about her work with a worn face and ahead-ache. 

Then every now and then Miss Selby's words about being patient came backto him. Sometimes he thought them hard, coming from a being who hadnever known sickness or sorrow, and wondered how she would feel if laidlow as he was; but they would not be put away in that manner, for he knewthey were true, and were said by others than Miss Jane, though he hadbegun to think no phrase so tiresome, hopeless, or provoking. Peoplealways told him to be patient when they had no comfort to give him, anddid not know what he was suffering. He would not have minded it so muchif only he could have got it out of his head. Somehow it would not lethim call to his mother, if it was only because very likely all he shouldget by so doing would be to be again told to be patient. And then cameMiss Jane's telling him his illness might be good for him, as if shethought he deserved to be punished. Really that was hard! Who couldthink he deserved this wearing pain and helplessness, only because he hadplayed tricks on the butler and housekeeper, and now and then laughed atchurch?

'It is just like Job and his friends, ' thought Alfred. 'I don't want herto come and see me any more!'

Poor Alfred! There was a little twinge here. His conscience could notgive quite such an account as did that of Job! But he did not likerecollecting his own errors better than any of us do, and liked much moreto feel himself very hardly used, and greatly to be pitied. Thereupon heopened his lips to call to his mother, but that old thought aboutpatience returned on him; he had mercy on her regular breathing, thoughit made him quite envious to hear it, and he said to himself that hewould let her alone, at least till the next time the clock struck. Itwould be three o'clock next time. Oh dear, would the night never beover? How often such a round of weary thoughts came again and again canhardly be counted; but, at any rate, poor Alfred was exercising one actof forbearance, and that was so much gain. At last he found, by theincreasing light shewing him the shapes of all the pictures, that he musthave had a short sleep which had made him miss the clock, and he felt agood deal injured thereby. 

However, Mrs. King was too good a nurse not to be awakened by his firstmovement, and she came to him, gave him some cold tea, and settled hispillow so as to make him more comfortable; and when he begged her to letin a little more air, she went to open the window wider, and relieve thecloseness of the little room. She had learnt while living with Lady Janethat night air is not so dangerous as some people fancy; and it was aninfinite relief to Alfred when the lattice was thrown back, and the coolbreeze came softly in, with the freshness of the dew, and the deliciousscent of the hay-field. 

Mrs. King stood a moment to look out at the beautiful stillness of earlydawn, the trees and meads so gravely calmly quiet, and the silver dewlying white over everything; the tanned hay-cocks rising up all over thefield, the morning star and waning moon glowing pale as light of morningspread over the sky. Then a cock crew somewhere at a distance, and Mrs. Shepherd's cock answered him more shrilly close by, and the swallowsbegan to twitter under the eaves. 

'It _will_ be a fine day, to be sure!' she said. 'The farmer will get inhis hay!' and then she stood looking as if something had caught herattention. 

'What do you see, Mother?' asked Alfred. 

'I was looking what that was under yon hay-cock, ' said Mrs. King; 'and Ido believe it is some one sleeping there. '

'Ha!' cried Alfred. 'I dare say it is the boy that would not have MissJane's sixpence. '

'I'm sure I hope he's after no harm, ' said Mrs. King; 'I don't like tohave tramps about so near. I hope he means no mischief by the farmer'spoultry. '

'He can't be one of that sort, or he wouldn't have refused the money, 'said Alfred. 'How nice and cool it must be sleeping in the hay! I'llwarrant he doesn't lie awake. I wish I was there!'

'You'll know what to be thankful for one of these days, my poor lad, 'said his mother, sighing; then yawning, she said, 'I must go back to bed. Mind you call out, Alfred, if you hear anything like a noise in the farm-yard. '

This notion rather interested Alfred; he began to build up a fine schemeof shouting out and sending Harold to the rescue of the cocks and hens, and how well he would have done it himself a year ago, and pinned thethief, and fastened the door on him. Not that he thought this individuallad at all likely to be a thief, nor did he care much for FarmerShepherd, who was a hard man and no favourite; but to catch a thief wouldbe a grand feat. And while settling his clever plan, and making somecompliments for the magistrate to pay him, Alfred, fanned by the coolbreeze, fell into a sound sleep, and did not wake till the sun was high, and all the rest of the house were up and dressed. 

That good sleep made him much more able to bear the burden of the day. First, his mother came with the towel and basin, and washed his face andhands; and then he had his little book, and said his prayers; and somehowto-day he felt so much less fractious than usual, that he asked to betaught patience, and not _only_ to be made well, as he had hitherto done. 

That over, he lay smiling as he waited for his breakfast, and when Ellenbrought it to him, he had not one complaint to make, but ate it almostwith a relish. 'Is that boy gone?' he asked Ellen, as she tidied theroom while he was eating. 

'What, the dirty boy? No, there he is, speaking to the farmer. Will hebeg of him?'

'Asking for work, more likely. '

'I'd sooner give work to a pig at once, ' said Ellen; 'but I do believehe's getting it. I fancy they are short of hands for the hay. Yes, he'spointing into the field. Ay, and he's sending him into the yard. '

'I hope he'll give him some breakfast, ' said Alfred. 'Do you know heslept all night on a hay-cock?'

'Yes, so Mother said, just like a dog; and he got up like a dog thismorning, --never so much as washed himself at the river. Why, he's cominghere! Whatever does he want?'

'The lad?'

'No, the farmer. '

Mr. Shepherd's heavy tread was heard below, and, as Alfred said, Ellenhad only to hold her tongue for them be able to hear his loud tonestelling Mrs. King that the glass was falling, and his hay in capitalorder, and his hands short, and asking whether her boy Harold would comeand help in the hay-field between the post times. Mrs. King gave a readyanswer that the boy would be well pleased, and the farmer promised himhis victuals and sixpence for the day. 'Your lass wouldn't like to cometoo, I suppose, eh?'

Ellen flushed with indignation. She go a hay-making! Her mother wascivilly making answer that her daughter was engaged with her sickbrother, and besides--had her work for Mrs. Price, which must be finishedoff. The farmer, saying he had not much expected her, but thought shemight like a change from moping over her needle, went off. 

Ellen did not feel ready to forgive him for wanting to set her to field-work. There is some difference between being fine and being refined, andin Ellen's station of life it is very difficult to hit the right point. To be refined is to be free from all that is rough, coarse, or ungentle;to be fine, is to affect to be above such things. Now Ellen was reallyrefined in her quietness and maidenly modesty, and there was no need forher to undertake any of those kinds of tasks which, by removing younggirls from home shelter, do sometimes help to make them rude andindecorous; but she was _fine_, when she gave herself a little mincingair of contempt, as if she despised the work and those who did it. LydiaGrant, who worked so steadily and kept to herself so modestly, that noone ventured a bold word to her as she tossed her hay, was just asrefined as Ellen King behind her white blinds, ay, or as Jane Selbyherself in her terraced garden. Refinement is in the mind that loveswhatsoever is pure, lovely, and of good report; finery is in disdainingwhat is homely or humble. 

Boys of all degrees are usually, when they are good for anything, thegreatest enemies of the finery tending to affectation; and Alfred at oncebegan to make a little fun of his sister, and tell her it would be afamous thing for her, he believed she had quite forgotten how to run, anddid not know a rake from a fork when she saw it. He knew she was longingfor a ride in the waggon, if she would but own it. 

Ellen used to be teased by this kind of joking; but she was too glad tosee Alfred well enough so to entertain himself, to think of anything butpleasing him, so she answered good-humouredly that Harold must make hayfor them all three to-day, no doubt but he would be pleased enough. 

He was heard trotting home at this moment, and whistling as he hitched upthe pony at the gate, and ran in with the letter-bag, to snap up hisbreakfast while the letters were sorted. 

'Here, let me have them, ' called Alfred, and they were glad he should doit, for he was the quickest of the family at reading handwriting; but hewas often too ill to attend to it, and more often the weary fretfulnessand languor of his state made him dislike to exert himself, so it was aptto depend on his will or caprice. 

'Look sharp, Alf!' hallooed out Harold, rushing up-stairs with the bagsin one hand, and his bread-and-butter in the other. 'If you find aletter for that there Ragglesford, I don't know what I shall do to you! Imust be back in no time for the hay!'

And he had bounced down-stairs again before Ellen had time to scold himfor making riot enough to shake Alfred to pieces. He was a fine tallstout boy, with the same large fully open blue eyes, high colour, whiteteeth, and light curly hair, as his brother and sister, but he was muchmore sunburnt. If you saw him with his coat off, he looked as if he hadred gloves and a red mask on, so much whiter was his skin where it wascovered; and he was very strong for his age, and never had known whatillness was. The brothers were very fond of each other, but since Alfredhad been laid up, they had often been a great trial to each other--theone seemed as little able to live without making a noise, as the other toendure the noise he made; and the sight of Harold's activity and thesound of his feet and voice, vexed the poor helpless sufferer more thanthey ought to have done, or than they would had the healthy brother beenless thoughtless in the joy of his strength. 

To-day, however, all was smooth. Alfred did not feel every tread ofthose bounding limbs like a shock to his poor diseased frame; and he onlylaughed as he unlocked the leathern bag, and dealt out the letters, putting all those for the Lady Jane Selby, Miss Selby, and the servants, into their own neat little leathern case with the padlock, and sortingout the rest, with some hope there might be one from Matilda, who was avery good one to write home. There was none from her, but then there wasnone for Ragglesford, and that was unexpected good luck. If the oldhousekeeper left in charge had been wicked enough to get her newspaperthat day, Alfred felt that in Harold's place he should be sorely temptedto chuck it over the hedge. Ellen looked as if he had talked ofmurdering her, and truly such a breach of trust would have been a verygrievous fault. 

'The Reverend--what's his name? the Reverend Marcus Cope, Friarswood, near Elbury, ' read Alfred; 'one, two, three letters, and a newspaper. Yes, and this long printed-looking thing. Who is he, Ellen?'

'What did you say?' said Ellen, who was busy shaking her mother's bed, and had not heard at the first moment, but now turned eagerly; 'what didyou say his name was?'

'The Reverend Marcus Cope, ' repeated Alfred. 'Is that another newparson?'

'Why, did not we tell you what a real beautiful sermon the new clergymanpreached on Sunday? Mr. Cope, so that's his name. I wonder if he iscome to stay. --Mother, ' she ran to the head of the stairs, 'the newclergyman's name is the Reverend Mr. Marcus Cope. '

'He don't live at Ragglesford, I hope!' cried Harold, who regarded anyone at the end of that long lane as his natural enemy. 

'No, it only says Friarswood, ' said Ellen. 'You'll have to find outwhere he lives, Harold. '

'Pish! it will take me an hour going asking about!' said Haroldimpatiently. 'He must have his letters left here till he chooses to comefor them, if he doesn't know where he lives. '

'No, no, Harold, that won't do, ' said Mrs. King. 'You must take thegentleman his letters, and they'll be sure to know at the Park, or at theRectory, or at the Tankard, where he lodges. Well, it will be a realcomfort if he is come to stop. '

So Harold went off with the letters and the pony, and Ellen and hermother exchanged a few words about the gentleman and his last Sunday'ssermon, and then Ellen went to dust the shop, and put out the bread, while her mother attended to Alfred's wound, the most painful part of theday to both of them. 

It was over, however, and Alfred was resting afterwards when Haroldcantered home as hard as the pony could or would go, and came racing upto say, 'I've seen him! He's famous! He stood out in the road and metme, and asked for his letters, and he's to be at the Parsonage, and heasked my name, and then he laughed and said, "Oh! I perceive it is theroyal mail!" I didn't know what he was at, but he looked asgood-humoured as anything. Halloo! give me my old hat, Nell--that's it!Hurrah! for the hay-waggon! I saw the horses coming out!'

And off he went again full drive; and Alfred did nothing worse than givea little groan. 

Ellen had enough to do in wondering about Mr. Cope. News seemed tobelong of right to the post-office, and it was odd that he should havepreached on Sunday, and now it should be Tuesday, without anything havingbeen heard of him, not even from Miss Jane; but then the young lady hadbeen fluttered by the strange boy, and Alfred had been so fretful, thatit might have put everything out of her head. 

Friarswood was used to uncertainty about the clergyman. The Rector hadfallen into such bad health, that he had long been unable to do anything, and always hoping to get better, he had sent different gentlemen to takethe services, first one and then another, or had asked the masters atRagglesford to help him; but it was all very irregular, and no one hadsettled down long enough to know the people or do much good in visitingthem. My Lady, as they all called Lady Jane, was as sorry as any onecould be, and she tried what she could do by paying a very good school-master and mistress, and giving plenty of rewards; but nothing could belike the constant care of a real good clergyman, and the people were allthe worse for the want. They had the church to go to, but it was notbrought home to them. The Rector had been obliged at last to go abroad, one of the Ragglesford gentlemen had performed the service for theensuing Sundays, until now there seemed to be a chance that this newclergyman was coming to stay. 

This interested Alfred less than his sister. His curiosity was chieflyabout the strange lad; and when he was moved to his place by the windowhe turned his eyes anxiously to make him out in the line of hay-makers, two fields off, as they shook out the grass to give it the day'ssunshine. He knew them all, the ten women, with their old straw bonnetspoked down over their faces, and deep curtains sewn on behind to guardtheir necks; the farm men come in from their other work to lend a hand, three or four boys, among whom he could see Harold's white shirt sleeves, and sometimes hear his merry laugh, and he was working next to the figurein brown faded-looking tattered array, which Alfred suspected to belongto the strange boy. So did Ellen. 'Ah!' she said, 'Harold ye scrapedacquaintance with that vagabond-looking boy; I wish I had warned himagainst it, but I suppose he would only have done it all the more. '

'You want to make friends with him yourself, Ellen! We shall have younodding to him next! You are as curious about him as can be!' saidAlfred slyly. 

'Me! I never was curious about nothing so insignificant, ' said Ellen. 'All I wish is, that that boy may not be running into bad company. '

The hay-fields were like an entertainment on purpose for Alfred all day;he watched the shaking of the brown grass all over the meadows in themorning, and the farmer walking over it, and smelling it, and spying upto guess what would come of the great rolling towers of grey clouds edgedwith pearly white, soft but dazzling, which varied the intense blue ofthe sky. 

Then he watched all the company sit or lie down on the shady side of thehedge, under the pollard-willows, and Tom Boldre the shuffler and one ortwo more go into the farm-house, and come out with great yellow-ware withpies in them, and the little sturdy-looking kegs of beer, and two mugs togo round among them all. There was Harold lying down, quite at his ease, close to the strange boy; Alfred knew how much better that dinner wouldtaste to him than the best with the table-cloth neatly spread in hismother's kitchen; and well did Alfred remember how much more enjoymentthere was in such a meal as that, than in any one of the dainties that myLady sent down to tempt his sickly appetite. And what must pies and beerbe to the wanderer who had eaten the crust so greedily the day before!Then, after the hour's rest, the hay-makers rose up to rake the hay intobeds ready for the waggons. Harold and the stranger were raking oppositeto each other, and Alfred could see them talking; and when they came intothe nearer hay-field, he saw Harold put up his hand, and point to theopen window, as if he were telling the other lad about the sick boy whowas lying there. 

He was so much absorbed in thus watching, that he did not pay much heedto what interested his mother and sister--the reports which came by everycustomer about the new clergyman, who, it appeared, had been staying inthe next parish till yesterday, when he had moved into the Rectory; andMrs. Bonham, the butcher's wife, reported that the Rectory servants saidhe was come to stay till their master came back. All this and much moreMrs. King heard and rehearsed to Ellen, while Alfred lay, sometimesreading the 'Swiss Robinson, ' sometimes watching the loading of thewains, as they creaked slowly through the fields, the horses seeming toenjoy the work, among their fragrant provender, as much as the humankind. When five o'clock struck, Harold gave no signs of quitting thescene of action; and Mrs. King, in much anxiety lest the letters shouldbe late, sent Helen to get the pony ready, while she herself went intothe field to call the boy. 

Very unwilling he was to come--he shook his shoulders, and growled andgrumbled, and said he should be in plenty of time, and he wished the postwas at the bottom of the sea. Nothing but his mother's orders and thenecessity of the case could have made him go at all. At last he walkedoff, as if he had lead in his feet, muttering that he wished he had notsome one to be always after him. Mrs. King looked at the grimy face ofhis disreputable-looking companion, and wondered whether he had put suchthings into his head. 

Very cross was Harold as he twitched the bridle out of Ellen's hand, threw the strap of the letter-bag round his neck, and gave such are-echoing switch to the poor pony, that Alfred heard it up-stairs, andstarted up to call out, 'For shame, Harold!'

Harold was ashamed: he settled himself in the saddle and rode off, butAlfred had not the comfort of knowing that his ill-humour was not beingvented upon the poor beast all the way to Elbury. Alfred had given agreat deal of his heart to that pony, and it made him feel helpless andindignant to think that it was ill-used. Those tears of which he wasashamed came welling up into his eyes as he lay back on his pillow; butthey were better tears than yesterday's--they were not selfish. 

'Never mind, Alfy, ' said Ellen, 'Harold's not a cruel lad; he'll not goon, if he was cross for a bit. It is all that he's mad after that boythere! I wish mother had never let him go into the hay-field to meet badcompany! Depend upon it, that boy has run away out of a Reformatory!Sleeping out at night! I can't think how Farmer Shepherd could encouragehim among honest folk!'

'Well, now I think of it, I should not wonder if he had, ' said Mrs. King. 'He is the dirtiest boy that ever I did see! Most likely; I wish he maydo no mischief to-night!'

Harold came home in better humour, but a fresh vexation awaited him. Mrs. King would not let him go to the hay-home supper in the barn. The menwere apt to drink too much and grow riotous; and with her suspicionsabout his new friend, she thought it better to keep him apart. She was aspirited woman, who would be minded, and Harold knew he must submit, andthat he had behaved very ill. Ellen told him too how much Alfred hadbeen distressed about the pony, and though he would not shew her that hecared, it made him go straight up-stairs, and with a somewhat sheepishface, say, 'I say, Alf, the pony's all right. I only gave him one cut toget him off. He'd never go at all if he didn't know his master. '

'He'd go fast enough for my voice, ' said Alfred. 

'You know I'd never go for to beat him, ' continued Harold; 'but it wasenough to vex a chap--wasn't it?--to have Mother coming and lugging oneoff from the carrying, and away from the supper and all. Women alwaysgrudge one a bit of fun!'

'Mother never grudged us cricket, nor nothing in reason, ' said Alfred. 'Lucky you that could make hay at all! And what made you so taken upwith that new boy that Ellen runs on against, and will have it he's aconvict?'

'A convict! if Ellen says that again!' cried Harold; 'no more a convictthan she is. '

'What is he, then? Where does he come from?'

'His name is Paul Blackthorn, ' said Harold; 'and he's the queerest chap Iever came across. Why, he knew no more what to do with a prong than thefarmer's old sow till I shewed him. '

'But where did he come from?' repeated Alfred. 

'He walked all the way from Piggot's turnpike yesterday, ' said Harold. 'He's looking for work. '

'And before that?'

'He'd been in the Union out--oh! somewhere, I forgot where, but it's aname in the Postal Guide. '

'Well, but you've not said who he is, ' said Ellen. 

'Who? why, I tell you, he's Paul Blackthorn. '

'But I suppose he had a father and mother, ' said Ellen. 

'No, ' said Harold. 

'No!' Ellen and Alfred cried out together. 

'Not as ever he heard tell of, ' said Harold composedly, as if this werequite natural and common. 

'And you could go and be raking with him like born brothers there!' saidEllen, in horror. 

'D'ye think I'd care for stuff like that?' said Harold. 'Why, hesings--he sings better than Jack Lyte! He's learnt to sing, you know. And he's such a comical fellow! he said Mr. Shepherd was like a big pigon his hind legs; and when Mrs. Shepherd came out to count the scrapsafter we had done, what does he do but whisper to me to know how long ourwithered cyder apples had come to life!'

Such talents for amusing others evidently far out-weighed in Harold'sconsideration such trifling points as fathers, mothers, andrespectability. Alfred laughed; but Ellen thought it no laughing matter, and reproved Harold for being wicked enough to hear his betters made gameof. 

'My betters!' said Harold--'an old skinflint like Farmer Shepherd's oldwoman?'

'Hush, Harold! I'll tell Mother of you, that I will!' cried Ellen. 

'Do then, ' said Harold, who knew his sister would do no such thing. Shehad made the threat too often, and then not kept her word. 

She contented herself with saying, 'Well, all I know is, that I'm surenow he has run away out of prison, and is no better than a thief; and ifour place isn't broken into before to-morrow morning, and Mother's silversugar-tongs gone, it will be a mercy. I'm sure I shan't sleep a wink allnight. '

Both boys laughed, and Alfred asked why he had not done it last night. 

'How should I know?' said Ellen. 'Most likely he wanted to see the wayabout the place, before he calls the rest of the gang. '

'Take care, Harold! it's a gang coming now, ' said Alfred, laughing again. 'All coming on purpose to steal the sugar-tongs!'

'No, I'll tell you what they are come to steal, ' said Haroldmischievously; 'it's all for Ellen's fine green ivy-leaf brooch thatMatilda sent her!'

'I dare say Harold has been and told him everything valuable in thehouse!' said Ellen. 

'I think, ' said Alfred gravely, 'it would be a very odd sort of thief tocome here, when the farmer's ploughing cup is just by. '

'Yes, ' said Harold, 'I'd better have told him of that when I was aboutit; don't you think so, Nelly?'

'If you go on at this rate, ' said Ellen, teased into anger, 'you'll berobbing the post-office yourself some day. '

'Ay! and I'll get Paul Blackthorn to help me, ' said the boy. 'Come, Ellen, don't be so foolish; I tell you he's every bit as honest as I am, I'd go bail for him. '

'And I _know_ he'll lead you to ruin!' cried Ellen, half crying: 'a boythat comes from nowhere and nobody knows, and sleeps on a hay-cock allnight, no better than a mere tramp!'

'What, quarrelling here? 'said Mrs. King, coming up-stairs. 'The lad, Iwish him no ill, I'm sure, but he'll be gone by to-morrow, so you mayhold your tongues about him, and we'll read our chapter and go to bed. '

Harold's confidence and Ellen's distrust were not much wiser the one thanthe other. Which was nearest being right?

CHAPTER III--A NEW FRIEND

The post-office was not robbed that night, neither did the silver sugar-tongs disappear, though Paul Blackthorn was no farther off than the hay-loft at Farmer Shepherd's, where he had obtained leave to sleep. 

But he did not go away with morning, though the hay-making was over. Ellen saw him sitting perched on the empty waggon, munching hisbreakfast, and to her great vexation, exchanging nods and grins whenHarold rode by for the morning's letters; and afterwards, there was atalk between him and the farmer, which ended in his having a hoe put intohis hand, and being next seen in the turnip-field behind the farm. 

To make up for the good day, this one was a very bad one with poorAlfred. There was thunder in the air, and if the sultry heat weighedheavily even on the healthy, no wonder it made him faint and exhausted, disposed to self-pity, and terribly impatient and fretful. He wasprovoked by Ellen's moving about the room, and more provoked by Harold'swhistling as he cleaned out the stable; and on the other hand, Harold waspetulant at being checked, and vowed there was no living in the housewith Alfred making such a work. Moreover, Alfred was restless, andwanted something done for him every moment, interrupting Ellen's work, and calling his mother up from her baking so often for trifles, that shehardly knew how to get through it. 

The doctor, Mr. Blunt, came, and he too felt the heat, having spent hoursin going his rounds in the closeness and dust. He was a rough man, andhis temper did not always hold out; he told Alfred sharply that he wouldhave no whining, and when the boy moaned and winced more than he wouldhave done on a good day, he punished him by not trying to betender-handed. When Mrs. King said, perhaps a little lengthily, how muchthe boy had suffered that morning, the doctor, wearied out, no doubt, with people's complaints, cut her short rather rudely, 'Ay, ay, my goodwoman, I know all that. '

'And can nothing be done, Sir, when he feels so sinking and weak?'

'Sinking--he must feel sinking--nothing to do but to bear it, ' said Mr. Blunt gruffly, as he prepared to go. 'Don't keep me now;' and as Alfredheld up his hand, and made some complaint of the tightness of thebandage, he answered impatiently, 'I've no time for that, my lad; keepstill, and be glad you've nothing worse to complain of. '

'Then you don't think he is getting any better, Sir?' said Mrs. King, keeping close to him. 'I thought he was yesterday, and I wanted to speakto you. My oldest daughter thought if we could get him away to the sea, and--'

'That's all nonsense, ' said the hurried doctor; 'don't you spend yourmoney in that way; I tell you nothing ever will do him any good. '

This was at the bottom of the stairs; and Mr. Blunt was off. He was thecleverest doctor for a good way round, and it was not easy to Mrs. Kingto secure his attendance. Her savings and Matilda's were likely to meltaway sadly in paying him, since she was just too well off to be doctoredat the parish expense, and he was really a good and upright man, thoughwanting in softness of manner when he was hurried and teased. If Mrs. King had known that he was in haste to get to a child with a bad burn, she might have thought him less unkind in the short ungentle way in whichhe dashed her hopes. Alas! there had never been much hope; but shefeared that Alfred might have heard, and have been shocked. 

Ellen heard plainly enough, and her heart sank. She tried to look at herbrother's face, but he had put it out of sight, and spoke not a word; andshe only could sit wondering what was the real drift of the cruel words, and whether the doctor meant to give no hope of recovery, or only todissuade her mother from vainly trying change of air. Her once brightbrother always thus! It was a sad thought, and yet she would have beenglad to know he would be no worse; and Ellen's heart was praying with allher might that he might have his health and happiness restored to him, and that her mother might be spared this bitter sorrow. 

Alfred said nothing about the doctor's visit, but he could eat no dinner, and did not think this so much the fault of his sickly taste, as of hismother's potato-pie; he could not think why she should be so cross as tomake that thing, when she knew he hated it; and as to poor Harold, Alfredwould hardly let him speak or stir, without ordering Ellen down to tellhim not to make such a row. 

Ellen was thankful when Harold was fairly hunted out of the house andgarden, even though he betook himself to the meadow, where PaulBlackthorn was lying on the grass with his feet kicking in the air, andshewing the skin through his torn shoes. The two lads squatted down onthe grass with their heads together. Who could tell what mischief thatrunaway might be putting into Harold's head, and all because Alfred couldnot bear with him enough for him to be happy at home?

They were so much engrossed, that it needed a rough call from the farmerto send Paul back to his work when the dinner-hour was over; whereuponHarold came slowly to his digging again. 

Hotter and hotter did it grow, and the grey dull clouds began to gain ayellow lurid light in the distance; there were low growlings of thunderfar away, and Ellen left her work unfinished, and forgot how hot she washerself in toiling to fan Alfred, so as to keep him in some little degreecooler, while the more he strove with the heat, the more oppressed andmiserable he grew. 

Poor fellow! his wretchedness was not so much the heat, as the dimperception of Mr. Blunt's hasty words; he had not heard them fully--hedared not inquire what they had been, and he could not endure to facethem--yet the echo of 'nothing will ever do him good, ' seemed to ringlike a knell in his ears every time he turned his weary head. Nothing dohim good! Nothing! Always these four walls, that little bed, thiswasting weary lassitude, this gnawing, throbbing pain, no pony, norunning, no shouting, no sense of vigour and health ever again, andperhaps--that terrible perhaps, which made Alfred's very flesh quail, hewould not think of; and to drive it away, he found some fresh toil torequire of the sister who could not content him, toil as she would. 

Slowly the afternoon hours rolled on, one after the other, and Alfred hadjust been in a pet with the clock for striking four when he wanted it tobe five, when the sky grew darker, and one or two heavy drops of raincame plashing down on the thirsty earth. 

'The storm is coming at last, and now it will be cooler, ' said Ellen, looking out from the window. 'Dear me!' she added, there stopping short. 

'What?' asked Alfred. 'What are you gaping at?'

'I declare!' cried Ellen, 'it's the new clergyman! It is Mr. Cope, andhe is coming up to the wicket!'

Alfred turned his head with a peevish sound; he was in the dreary mood toresent whatever took off attention from him for a moment. 

'A very pleasant-looking gentleman, ' commented Ellen, 'and so young! Hedoes not look older than Charles Lawrence! I wonder whether he is comingin, or if it is only to post a letter. Oh! there he is, talking toMother! There!'

A vivid flash of lightning came over the room at that moment and madethem all pause till it was followed up by the deep rumble of the thunder, and then down rushed the rain, plashing and leaping up again, bringingout the delicious scent from the earth, and seeming in one moment tobreathe refreshment and relief on the sick boy. His brow was alreadyclearing, as he listened to his mother's tones of welcome, as she wasevidently asking the stranger to sit down and wait for the storm to beover, and the cheerful voice that replied to her. He did not scold Ellenfor, as usual, making things neat; and whereas, five minutes sooner, hewould have hated the notion of any one coming near him, he now only hopedthat his mother would bring Mr. Cope up; and presently he heard the well-known creak of the stairs under a manly foot, and his mother's voicesaying something about 'a great sufferer, Sir. '

Then came in sight his mother's white cap, and behind her one of the mostcheerful lively faces that Alfred had ever beheld. The new Curate lookedvery little more than a boy, with a nice round fresh rosy face, and curlybrown hair, and a quick joyous eye, and regular white teeth when hesmiled that merry good-humoured smile. Indeed, he was as young as adeacon could be, and he looked younger. He knocked his tall head againstthe top of the low doorway as he came into the room, and answered Mrs. King's apologies with a pleasant laugh. Ellen knew her mother would likehim the better for his height, for no one since the handsome coachmanhimself had had to bend his head to get into the room. Alfred liked thelooks of him the first moment, and by way of salutation put up one of hisweary, white, blue-veined hands to pull his damp forelock; but Mr. Cope, nodding in answer to Ellen's curtsey, took hold of his hand at once, andsoftening the cheery voice that was so pleasant to hear, said, 'Well, myboy, I hope we shall be good friends. And what's your name?'

'Alfred King, Sir, ' was the answer. It really was quite a pleasure notto begin with the old weary subject of being pitied for his illness. 

'King Alfred!' said Mr. Cope. 'I met King Harold yesterday. I've gotinto royal company, it seems!'

Alfred smiled, it was said so drolly; but his mother, who felt a littleas if she were being laughed at, said, 'Why, Sir, my brother's name wasAlfred; and as to Harold, it was to please Miss Jane's little sister thatdied--she was quite a little girl then, Sir, but so clever, and she wouldhave him named out of her History of England. '

'Did Miss Selby give you those flowers?' said Mr. Cope, admiring the roseand geranium in the cup on the table. 

'Yes, Sir;' and Mrs. King launched out in the praises of Miss Jane and ofmy Lady, an inexhaustible subject which did not leave Alfred much time tospeak, till Mrs. King, seeing the groom from the Park coming with theletter-bag through the rain, asked Mr. Cope to excuse her, and went down-stairs. 

'Well, Alfred, I think you are a lucky boy, ' he said. 'I was comparingyou with a lad I once knew of, who got his spine injured, and is laid upin a little narrow garret, in a back street, with no one to speak to allday. I don't know what he would not give for a sister, and a window likethis, and a Miss Jane. '

Alfred smiled, and said, 'Please, Sir, how old is he?'

'About sixteen; a nice stout lad he was, as ever I knew, till hisaccident; I often used to meet him going about with his master, andthought it was a pleasure to meet such a good-humoured face. '

Alfred ventured to ask his trade, and was told he was being brought up towait on his father, who was a bricklayer, but that a ladder had fallenwith him as he was going up with a heavy load, and he had been taken atonce to the hospital. The house on which he was employed belonged to afriend of Mr. Cope, and all in the power of this gentleman had been donefor him, but that was not much, for it was one of the families that noone can serve; the father drank, and the mother was forced to be outcharing all day, and was so rough a woman, that she could hardly be muchcomfort to poor Jem when she was at home. 

Alfred was quite taken up with the history by this time, and kept lookingat Mr. Cope, as if he would eat it up with his eager eyes. Ellen askedcompassionately who did for the poor boy all day. 

'His mother runs in at dinner-time, if she is not at work too far off, and he has a jug of water and a bit of bread where he can reach them; thedoor is open generally, so that he can call to some of the other lodgers, but though the house is as full as a bee-hive, often nobody hears him. Ibelieve his great friend is a little school-girl, who comes and sits byhim, and reads to him if she can; but she is generally at school, or elseminding the children. '

'It must be very lonely, ' said Alfred, perceiving for the first time thatthere could be people worse off than himself; 'but has he no books toread?'

'He was so irregularly sent to school, that he could not read to himself, even if his corner were not so dark, and the window so dingy. My friendgave him a Bible, but he could not get on with it; and his mother, I amsorry to say, pawned it. '

Ellen and Alfred both cried out as if they had never heard of anything soshocking. 

'It was grievous, ' said Mr. Cope; 'but the poor things did not know thevalue, and when there was scarcely a morsel of bread in the house, therewas cause enough for not judging them hardly, but I don't think Jem wouldallow it now. He got some of his little friend's easy Scripture lessonsand the like, in large print, which he croons over as he lies therealone, till one feels sure that they are working into his heart. Thepeople in the house say that though he has been ill these three years, hehas never spoken an ill-tempered word; and if any one pities him, heanswers, "It is the Lord, " and seems to wish for no change. He liesthere between dozing and dreaming and praying, and always seems content. '

'Does he think he shall get well?' said Alfred, who had been listeningearnestly. 

'Oh no; there is no chance of that; it is an injury past cure. But Isuppose that while he bears the Will of God so patiently here, hisHeavenly Father makes it up to him in peacefulness of heart now, and thehope of what is to come hereafter. '

Alfred made no answer, but his eyes shewed that he was thinking; and Mr. Cope rose, and looked out of window, as a gleam of sunshine, while thedark cloud lifted up from the north-west, made the trees and fields glowwith intense green against the deep grey of the sky, darker than everfrom the contrast. Ellen stood up, and Alfred exclaimed, 'Oh Sir, pleasecome again soon!'

'Very soon, ' said Mr. Cope good-humouredly; 'but you've not got rid of meyet, the rain is pretty hard still, and I see the beggarmen dancing alldown the garden-walk. '

Alfred and Ellen smiled to hear their mother's old word for the dropssplashing up again; and Mr. Cope went on:

'The garden looks very much refreshed by this beautiful shower. It is infine order. Is it the other monarch's charge?'

'Harold's, Sir, ' said Ellen. 'Yes, he takes a great pride in it, and sodid Alfred when he was well. '

'Ah, I dare say; and it must be pleasant to you to see your brotherworking in it now. I see him under that shed, and who is that lad withhim? They seem to have some good joke together. '

'Oh, ' said Ellen, 'Harold likes company, you see, Sir, and will take upwith anybody. I wish you could be so good as to speak to him, Sir, forlads of that age don't mind women folk, you see, Sir. '

'What? I hope his majesty does not like bad company?' said Mr. Cope, notat all that he thought lightly of such an evil, but it was his way tospeak in that droll manner, especially as Ellen's voice was a little bitpeevish. 

'Nobody knows no harm of the chap, ' said Alfred, provoked at Ellen forwhat he thought unkindness in setting the clergyman at once on hisbrother; but Ellen was the more displeased, and exclaimed:

'Nor nobody knows no good. He's a young tramper that hired with FarmerShepherd yesterday, a regular runaway and reprobate, just out of prison, most likely. '

'Well, I hope not so bad as that, ' said Mr. Cope, 'he's not a bad-lookingboy; but I dare say you are anxious about your brother. It must be dullfor him, to have his companion laid up;--and by the looks of him, I daresay his spirits are sometimes too much for you, ' he added, turning toAlfred. 

'He does make a terrible racket sometimes, ' said Alfred. 

'Ay, and I dare say you will try to bear with it, and not drive him outto seek dangerous company, ' said Mr. Cope; at which Alfred blushed alittle, as he remembered the morning, and that he had never thought ofthis danger. 

Mr. Cope added, 'I think I shall go and talk to those two merry fellows;I must not tire you, my lad, but I will soon come here again;' and hetook leave. 

Heartily did Ellen exclaim, 'Well, that is a nice gentleman!' and asheartily did Alfred reply. He felt as if a new light had come in on hislife, and Mr. Cope had not said one word about patience. 

Ellen expected Mr. Cope to come back and warn her mother against PaulBlackthorn, but she only saw him stand talking to the two lads till hemade them both grin again, and then as the rain was over, he walked away;Paul went back to his turnips, and Harold came thundering up-stairs inhis great shoes. Alfred was cheerful, and did not mind him now; butEllen did, and scolded him for the quantity of dirt he was bringing upwith him from the moist garden, which was all one steam of sweet smells, as the sun drew up the vapour after the rain. 

'If you were coming in, you'd better have come out of the rain, not stoodidling there with that good-for-nothing lad. The new minister said hewould be after you if you were taking up with bad company. '

'Who told you I was with bad company?' said Harold. 

'Why, I could see it! I hope he rebuked you both. '

'He asked us if we could play at cricket--and he asked the pony's name, 'said Harold, 'if that's what you call rebuking us!'

'And what did he say to that boy?'

'Oh! he told him he heard he was a stranger here, like himself, and askedhow long he'd been here, and where he came from. '

'And what did he say?'

'He said he was from Upperscote Union--come out because he was big enoughto keep himself, and come to look for work, ' said Harold. 'He's a rightgood chap, I'll tell you, and I'll bring him up to see Alfy one of thesedays!'

'Bring up that dirty boy! I should like to see you!' cried Ellen, making_such_ a face. 'I don't believe a word of his coming out of the Union. I'm sure he's run away out of gaol, by the look of him!'

'Ellen--Harold--come down to your tea!' called Mrs. King. 

So they went down; and presently, while Mrs. King was gone up to giveAlfred his tea, there came Mrs. Shepherd bustling across, with her blacksilk apron thrown over her cap with the crimson gauze ribbons. Shewanted a bit of tape, and if there were none in the shop, Harold mustmatch it in Elbury when he took the letters. 

Ellen was rather familiar with Mrs. Shepherd, because she made her gowns, and they had some talk about the new clergyman. Mrs. Shepherd did notcare for clergymen much; if she had done so, she might not have been sohard with her labourers. She was always afraid of their asking her tosubscribe to something or other, so she gave it as her opinion, that sheshould never think it worth while to listen to such a very young man asthat, and she hoped he would not stay; and then she said, 'So yourbrother was taking up with that come-by-chance lad, I saw. Did he makeanything out of him?'

'He fancies him more than I like, or Mother either, ' said Ellen. 'Hesays he's out of Upperscote Union; but he's a thorough impudent one, andowns he's no father nor mother, nor nothing belonging to him. I think itis a deal more likely that he is run away from some reformatory, orprison. '

'That's just what I said to the farmer!' said Mrs. Shepherd. 'I said hewas out of some place of that sort. I'm sure it's a sin for thegentlemen to be setting up such places, raising the county rates, andpampering up a set of young rogues to let loose on us. Ay! ay! I'llwarrant he's a runaway thief! I told the farmer he'd take him to hissorrow, but you see he is short of hands just now, and the men are so setup and grabbing, I don't know how farmers is to live. '

So Mrs. Shepherd went away grumbling, instead of being thankful for thebeautiful crop of hay, safely housed, before the thunder shower which hadsaved the turnips from the fly. 

Ellen might have doubted whether she had done right in helping to givethe boy a bad name, but just then in came the ostler from the Tankardwith some letters. 

'Here!' he said, 'here's one from one of the gentlemen lodging herefishing, to Cayenne. You'll please to see how much there is to pay. '

Ellen looked at her Postal Guide, but she was quite at a fault, and shecalled up-stairs to Alfred to ask if he knew where she should look forCayenne. He was rather fond of maps, and knew a good deal of geographyfor a boy of his age, but he knew nothing about this place, and she wasjust thinking of sending back the letter, to ask the gentleman where itwas, when a voice said:

'Try Guiana, or else South America. '

She looked up, and there were Paul's dirty face and dirtier elbows, leaning over the half-door of the shop. 

'Why, how do you know?' she said, starting back. 

'I learnt at school, Cayenne, capital of French Guiana. ' Sure enoughCayenne had Guiana to it in her list, and the price was found out. 

But when this learned geographer advanced into the shop, and asked for aloaf, what a hand and what a sleeve did he stretch out! Ellen scarcelyliked to touch his money, and felt all her disgust revive. But, for allthat, and for all her fear of Harold's running into mischief, whatbusiness had she to set it about that the stranger was an escapedconvict?

Meanwhile, Alfred had plenty of food for dreaming over his fellowsufferer. It really seemed to quiet him to think of another in the samecase, and how many questions he longed to have asked Mr. Cope! He wantedto know whether it came easier to Jem to be patient than to himself;whether he suffered as much wearing pain; whether he grieved over thelast hope of using his limbs; and above all, the question he knew henever could bear to ask, whether Jem had the dread of death to scare histhoughts, though never confessed to himself. 

He longed for Mr. Cope's next visit, and felt strongly drawn towards thatthought of Jem, yet ashamed to think of himself as so much less patientand submissive; so little able to take comfort in what seemed to sootheJem, that it was the Lord's doing. Could Jem think he had been a wickedboy, and take it as punishment?

CHAPTER IV--PAUL BLACKTHORN

'I say, ' cried Harold, running up into his brother's room, as soon as hehad put away the pony, 'do you know whether Paul is gone?'

'It is always Paul, Paul!' exclaimed Ellen; 'I'm sure I hope he is. '

'But why do you think he would be?' asked Alfred. 

'Oh, didn't you hear? He knows no more than a baby about anything, andso he turned the cows into Darnel meadow, and never put the hurdle tostop the gap--never thinking they could get down the bank; so the farmerfound them in the barley, and if he did not run out against him downrightshameful--though Paul up and told him the truth, that 'twas nobody elsethat did it. '

'What, and turned him off?'

'Well, that's what I want to know, ' said Harold, going on with his tea. 'Paul said to me he didn't know how he could stand the like of that--andyet he didn't like to be off--he'd taken a fancy to the place, you see, and there's me, and there's old Caesar--and so he said he wouldn't gounless the farmer sent him off when he came to be paid this evening--andold Skinflint has got him so cheap, I don't think he will. '

'For shame, Harold; don't call names!'

'Well, there he is, ' said Alfred, pointing into the farm-yard, towardsthe hay-loft door. This was over the cow-house in the gable end; and inthe dark opening sat Paul, his feet on the top step of the ladder, andCaesar, the yard-dog, lying by his side, his white paws hanging down overthe edge, his sharp white muzzle and grey prick ears turned towards hisfriend, and his eyes casting such appealing looks, that he was gettingmore of the hunch of bread than probably Paul could well spare. 

'How has he ever got the dog up the ladder?' cried Harold. 

'Well!' said Mrs. King, 'I declare he looks like a picture I have seen--'

'Well, to be sure! who would go for to draw a picture of the like ofthat!' exclaimed Ellen, pausing as she put on her things to carry homesome work. 

'It was a picture of a Spanish beggar-boy, ' said Mrs. King; 'and thehousekeeper at Castlefort used to say that the old lord--that's LadyJane's brother--had given six hundred pounds for it. '

Ellen set out on her walk with a sound of wonder quite beyond words. Sixhundred pounds for a picture like Paul Blackthorn! She did not know thatso poor and feeble are man's attempts to imitate the daily forms andcolourings fresh from the Divine Hand, that a likeness of the verycommonest sight, if represented with something of its true spirit andlife, wins a strange value, especially if the work of the great master-artists of many years ago. 

And even the painter Murillo himself, though he might pleasantly recallon his canvas the notion of the bright-eyed, olive-tinted lad, restingafter the toil of the day, could never have rendered the free lazy smileon his face, nor the gleam of the dog's wistful eyes and quiver of itseager ears, far less the glow of setting sunlight that shed over all thatwarm, clear, ruddy light, so full of rest and cheerfulness, beautifying, as it hid, so many common things: the thatched roof of the barn, thecrested hayrick close beside it; the waggons, all red and blue, that hadbrought it home, and were led to rest, the horses drooping their meekheads as they cooled their feet among the weed in the dark pond;--theducks moving, with low contented quacks and quickly-wagging tails, in onelong single file to their evening foraging in the dewy meadows; thespruce younger poultry pecking over the yard, staying up a little laterthan their elders to enjoy a few leavings in peace, free from thepersecutions of the cross old king of the dung-hill;--all this left inshade, while the ruddy light had mounted to the roofs, gave brilliance toevery round tuft of moss, and gleamed on the sober foliage of the oldspreading walnut tree. 

'Poor lad, ' said Mrs. King, 'it seems a pity he should come to such arough life, when he seems to have got such an education! I hope he isnot run away from anywhere. '

'You're as bad as Ellen, mother, ' cried Harold, 'who will have it thathe's out of prison. '

'No, not that, ' said Mrs. King; 'but it did cross me whether he couldhave run away from school, and if his friends were in trouble for him. '

'He never had any friends, ' said Harold, 'nor he never ran away. He'snothing but a foundling. They picked him up under a blackthorn bush whenhe was a baby, with nothing but a bit of an old plaid shawl round him. '

'Did they ever know who he belonged to?' asked Alfred. 

'Never; nor he doesn't care if they don't, for sure they could be nocredit to him; but they that found him put him into the Union, and therean old woman, that they called Granny Moll, took to him. She had but oneeye, he says; but, Mother, I do believe he never had another friend likeher, for he got to pulling up the bits of grass, and was near crying whenhe said she was dead and gone, and then he didn't care for nothing. '

'But who taught him about Cayenne?' asked Alfred. 

'Oh, that was the Union School. All the children went to school, andthey had a terrible sharp master, who used to cut them over the headquite cruel, and was sent away at last for being such a savage; but Paulbeing always there, and having nothing else to do, you see, got on everso far, and can work sums in his head downright wonderful. There came aninspector once who praised him up, and said he'd recommend him to a placewhere he'd be taught to be a school-master, if any one would pay thecost; but the guardians wouldn't hear of it at no price, and were quitespiteful to find he was a good scholar, for fear, I suppose, that he'dknow more than they. '

'Hush, hush, Harold, ' said his mother; 'wait till you have to pay therates before you run out against the guardians. '

'What do you mean, Mother?'

'Why, don't you see, the guardians have their duties to those who pay therates, as well as those that have parish pay. What they have to do, isto mind that nobody starves, or the like; and their means comes out ofthe rates, out of my pocket, and the like of me, as well as my Lady's andall the rich. Well, whatever they might like to do, it would not beserving us fairly to take more than was a bare necessity from us, to sendyour Master Paul and the like of him to a fine school. 'Tis for them tobe just, and other folk to be generous with what's their own. '

'Mother talks as if she was a guardian herself!' said Alfred in his funnyway. 

'Ah, the collector's going his rounds, ' responded Harold; and Mrs. Kinglaughed good-humouredly, always glad to see her sick boy able to enjoyhimself; but she sighed, saying, 'Ay, and ill can I spare it, thoughthanks be to God that I've been as yet of them that pay, and not of themthat receive. '

'Go on the parish! Mother, what are you thinking of?' cried both sonsindignantly. 

Poor Mrs. King was thinking of the long winter, and the heavy doctor'sbill, and feeling that, after all, suffering and humbling might not be sovery far off; but she was too cheerful and full of trust to dwell on thethought, so she smiled and said, 'I only said I was thankful, boys, forthe mercy that has kept us up. Go on now, Harold; what about the boy?'

'Why, I don't know that he'd have gone if they had paid his expenses everso much, ' said Harold, 'for he's got a great spirit of his own, andwouldn't be beholden to any one, he said, now he could keep himself--he'dhad quite enough of the parish and its keep; so he said he'd go on thetramp till he got work; and they let him out of the Union with just theclothes to his back, and a shilling in his pocket. 'Twas the first timehe had ever been let out of bounds since he was picked up under the tree;and he said no one ever would guess the pleasure it was to have nobody toorder him here and there, and no bounds round him; and he quite hated thenotion of getting inside walls again, as if it was a prison. '

'Oh, I know! I can fancy that!' cried Alfred, raising himself andpanting; 'and where did he go first?'

'First, he only wanted to get as far from Upperscote as ever he could, sohe walked on; I can't say how he lived, but he didn't beg; he got a jobhere and a job there; but there are not so many things he knows the knackof, having been at school all his life. Once he took up with a man thatsold salt, to draw his cart for him, but the man swore at him so awfullyhe could not bear it, and beat him too, so he left him, and he had livedterrible hard for about a month before he came here! So you see, Mother, there's not one bit of harm in him; he's a right good scholar, and neversays a bad word, nor has no love for drink; so you won't be like Ellen, and be always at me for going near him?'

'You're getting a big boy, Harold, and it is lonely for you, ' said Mrs. King reluctantly; 'and if the lad is a good lad I'd not cast up hismisfortune against him; but I must say, I should think better of him ifhe would keep himself a little bit cleaner and more decent, so as hecould go to church. '

Harold made a very queer face, and said, 'How is he to do it up in thehay-loft, Mother? and he ha'n't got enough to pay for lodgings, nor forwashing, nor to change. '

'The river is cheap enough, ' said Alfred. 'Do you remember when we usedto bathe together, Harold, and go after the minnows?'

'Ay, but he don't know how; and then they did plague him so in the Union, that he's got to hate the very name of washing--scrubbing them over andcutting their hair as if they were in gaol. '

'Poor boy! he is terribly forsaken, ' said Mrs. King compassionately. 

'You may say that!' returned Harold; 'why, he's never so much as seen howfolks live at home, and wanted to know if you were most like old Moll orthe master of the Union!'

Alfred went into such a fit of laughter as almost hurt him; but Mrs. Kingfelt the more pitiful and tender towards the poor deserted orphan, whocould not even understand what a mother was like, and the tears came intoher eyes, as she said, 'Well, I'm glad he's not a bad boy. I hope hethinks of the Father and the Home that he has above. I say, Harold, against next Sunday I'll look out Alfred's oldest shirt for him to puton, and you might bring me his to wash, only mind you soak it well in theriver first. '

Harold quite flushed with gratitude for his mother's kindness, for heknew it was no small effort in one so scrupulously and delicately clean, and with so much work on her hands; but Mrs. King was one who did heralms by her trouble when she had nothing else to give. Alfred smiled andsaid he wondered what Ellen would say; and almost at the same momentHarold shot down-stairs, and was presently seen standing upon Paul'sladder talking to him; then Paul rose up as though to come down, andthere was much fun going on, as to how Caesar was to be got down; for, asevery one knows, a dog can mount a ladder far better than he can descend;and poor Caesar stretched out his white paw, looked down, seemed to turngiddy, whined, and looked earnestly at his friends till they took pity onhim and lifted him down between them, stretching out his legs to theirfull length, like a live hand-barrow. 

A few seconds more, and there was a great trampling of feet, and then inwalked Harold, exclaiming, 'Here he is!' And there he stood, shy andsheepish, with rusty black shag by way of hair, keen dark beads of eyes, and very white teeth; but all the rest, face, hands, jacket, trousers, shoes, and all, of darker or lighter shades of olive-brown; and as to therents, one would be sorry to have to count them; mending them would havebeen a thing impossible. What a difference from the pure whiteness ofeverything around Alfred! the soft pink of the flush of surprise on hisdelicate cheek, and the wavy shine on his light hair. A few months ago, Alfred would have been as ready as his brother to take that sturdy hand, marbled as it was with dirt, and would have heeded all drawbacks quite aslittle; but sickness had changed him much, and Paul was hardly beside hiscouch before the colour fleeted away from his cheek, and his eye turnedto his mother in such distress, that she was obliged to make a sign toHarold in such haste that it looked like anger, and to mutter somethingabout his being taken worse. And while she was holding the smellingsalts to him, and sprinkling vinegar over his couch, they heard the twoboys' voices loud under the window, Paul saying he should never comethere again, and Harold something about people being squeamish and fine. 

It hurt Alfred, and he burst out, almost crying, 'Mother! Mother, nowisn't that too bad!'

'It is very thoughtless, ' said Mrs. King sorrowfully; 'but you knoweverybody has their feelings, Alfred, and I am sorry it happened so. '

'I'm sure I couldn't help it, ' said Alfred, as if his mother were turningagainst him. 'Harold had better have brought up the farmer's wholestable at once!'

'When you were well, you did not think of such things any more than hedoes. '

Alfred grunted. He could not believe that; and he did not feel gentlywhen his brother shewed any want of consideration; but his mother thoughthe would only grow crosser by dwelling on the unlucky subject, so sheadvised him to lie still and rest before his being moved to bed, and wentdown herself to finish some ironing. 

Presently Alfred saw the Curate coming over the bridge with quick longsteps, and this brought to his mind that he had been wishing to hear moreof the poor crippled boy. He watched eagerly, and was pleased to see Mr. Cope turn in at the wicket, and presently the tread upon the stairs washeard, and the high head was lowered at the door. 

'Good evening, Alfred; your mother told me it would not disturb you if Icame up alone;' and he began to inquire into his amusements andoccupations, till Alfred became quite at home with him, and at ease, andventured to ask, 'If you please, Sir, do you ever hear about Jem now?'and as Mr. Cope looked puzzled, 'the boy you told me of, Sir, that felloff the scaffold. '

'Oh, the boy at Liverpool! No, I only saw him once when I was stayingwith my cousin; but I will ask after him if you wish to hear. '

'Thank you, Sir. I wanted to know if he had been a bad boy. '

'That I cannot tell. Why do you wish to know? Was it because he hadsuch an affliction?'

'Yes, Sir. '

'I don't think that is quite the way to look at troubles, ' said Mr. Cope. 'I should think his accident had been a great blessing to him, if it tookhim out of temptation, and led him to think more of God. '

'But isn't it punishment?' said Alfred, not able to get any farther; butMr. Cope felt that he was thinking of himself more than of Jem. 

'All our sufferings in this life come as punishment of sin, ' he said. 'Ifthere had been no sin, there would have been no pain; and whatever wehave to bear in this life is no more than is our due, whatever it maybe. '

'Every one is sinful, ' said Alfred slowly; 'but why have some more tobear than others that may be much worse?'

'Did you never think it hard to be kept strictly, and punished by yourgood mother?'

Alfred answered rather fretfully, 'But if it is good to be punished, whyain't all alike?'

'God in His infinite wisdom sees the treatment that each particularnature needs. Some can be better trained by joy, and some by grief; somemay be more likely to come right by being left in active health; others, by being laid low, and having their faults brought to mind. '

Alfred did not quite choose to take this in, and his answer was halfsulky:

'Bad boys are quite well!'

'And a reckoning will be asked of them. Do not think of other boys. Think over your past life, of which I know nothing, and see whether youcan believe, after real looking into it, that you have done nothing todeserve God's displeasure. There are other more comforting ways ofbringing joy out of pain; but of this I am sure, that none will come hometo us till we own from the bottom of our heart, that whatever we sufferin this life, we suffer most justly for the punishment of our sins. Godbless and help you, my poor boy. Good night. '

With these words he went down-stairs, for well he knew that while Alfredwent on to justify himself, no peace nor joy could come to him, and hethought it best to leave the words to work in, praying in his heart thatthey might do so, and help the boy to humility and submission. 

Finding Mrs. King in her kitchen, he paused and said, 'We shall have aConfirmation in the spring, Mrs. King; shall not you have some candidatesfor me?'

'My daughter will be very glad, thank you, Sir; she is near to seventeen, and a very good girl to me. And Harold, he is but fourteen--would he beold enough, Sir?'

'I believe the Bishop accepts boys as young; and he might be started inlife before another opportunity. '

'Well, Sir, he shall come to you, and I hope you won't think him too idleand thoughtless. He's a good-hearted boy, Sir; but it is a charge when alad has no father to check him. '

'Indeed it is, Mrs. King; but I think you must have done your best. '

'I hope I have, Sir, ' she said sadly; 'I've tried, but my ability is notmuch, and he is a lively lad, and I'm sometimes afraid to be too strictwith him. '

'If you have taught him to keep himself in order, that's the great thing, Mrs. King; if he has sound principles, and honours you, I would hope muchfor him. '

'And, Sir, that boy he has taken a fancy to; he is a poor lost lad whonever had a home, but Harold says he has been well taught, and he mighttake heed to you. '

'Thank you, Mrs. King; I will certainly try to speak to him. You saidnothing of Alfred; do you think he will not be well enough?'

'Ah! Sir, ' she said in her low subdued voice, 'my mind misgives me thatit is not for Confirmation that you will be preparing him. '

Mr. Cope started. He had seen little of illness, and had not thought ofthis. 'Indeed! does the doctor think so ill of him? Do not these casesoften partially recover?'

'I don't know, Sir; Mr. Blunt does not give much account of him, ' and hervoice grew lower and lower; 'I've seen that look in his father's and hisbrother's face. '

She hid her face in her handkerchief as if overpowered, but looked upwith the meek look of resignation, as Mr. Cope said in a broken voice, 'Ihad not expected--you had been much tried. '

'Yes, Sir. The Will of the Lord be done, ' she said, as if willing toturn aside from the dark side of the sorrow that lay in wait for her;'but I'm thankful you are come to help my poor boy now--he frets over histrouble, as is natural, and I'm afraid he should offend, and I'm noscholar to know how to help him. '

'You can help him by what is better than scholarship, ' said Mr. Cope; andhe shook her hand warmly, and went away, feeling what a difference therewas in the ways of meeting affliction. 

CHAPTER V--AN UNWELCOME VISITOR

'The axe is laid to the root of the tree, ' was said by the GreatMessenger, when the new and better Covenant was coming to pierce, try, and search into, the hearts of men. 

Something like this always happens, in some measure, whenever closer, clearer, and more stringent views of faith and of practice are broughthome to Christians. They do not always take well the finding that moreis required of them than they have hitherto fancied needful; and thereare many who wince and murmur at the sharp piercing of the weapon whichtries their very hearts; they try to escape from it, and to forget thedisease that it has touched, and at first, often grow worse rather thanbetter. Well is it for them if they return while yet there is time, before blindness have come over their eyes, and hardness over theirheart. 

Perhaps this was the true history of much that grieved poor Mrs. King, and distressed Ellen, during the remainder of the summer. Anxious asMrs. King had been to bring her sons up in the right way, there wassomething in Mr. Cope's manner of talking to them that brought thingscloser home to them, partly from their being put in a new light, andpartly from his being a man, and speaking with a different kind ofauthority. 

Alfred did not like his last conversation--it was little more than hismother and Miss Selby had said--but then he had managed to throw it off, and he wanted to do so again. It was pleasanter to him to think himselfhardly treated, than to look right in the face at all his faults; he knewit was of no use to say he had none, so he lumped them all up by callinghimself a sinful creature, like every one else; and thus never felt theweight of them at all, because he never thought what they were. 

And yet, because Mr. Cope's words had made him uneasy, he could not restin this state; he was out of temper whenever the Curate's name wasspoken, and accused Ellen of bothering about him as much as Harold didabout Paul Blackthorn; and if he came to see him, he made himself sullen, and would not talk, sometimes seeming oppressed and tired, and unable tobear any one's presence, sometimes leaving Ellen to do all the answering, dreading nothing so much as being left alone with the clergyman. Mr. Cope had offered to read prayers with him, and he could not refuse; buthe was more apt to be thinking that it was tiresome, than trying to enterinto what, poor foolish boy, would have been his best comfort. 

To say he was cross when Mr. Cope was there, would be saying much toolittle; there was scarcely any time when he was not cross; he was hardlycivil even to Miss Jane, so that she began to think it was unpleasant tohim to have her there; and if she were a week without calling, hegrumbled hard thoughts about fine people; he was fretful and impatientwith the doctor; and as to those of whom he had no fears, he would havebeen quite intolerable, had they loved him less, or had less pity on hissuffering. 

He never was pleased with anything; teased his mother half the night, anddrove Ellen about all day. She, good girl, never said one word ofimpatience, but bore it all with the sweetest good humour; but her mothernow and then spoke severely for Alfred's own good, and then he madehimself more miserable than ever, and thought she was unkind and harsh, and that he was very much to be pitied for having a mother who could notbear with her poor sick boy. He was treating his mother as he wastreating his Father in Heaven. 

How Harold fared with him may easily be guessed--how the poor boy couldhardly speak or step without being moaned at, till he was almost turnedout of his own house; and his mother did not know what to do, for Alfredwas really very ill, and fretting made him worse, and nothing could be sobad for his brother as being driven out from home, to spend the longsummer evenings as he could. 

Ellen would have been thankful now, had Paul Blackthorn been the worstcompany into which Harold fell. Not that Paul was a bit cleaner; on thecontrary, each day could not fail to make him worse, till, as Ellen hadonce said, you might almost grow a crop of radishes upon his shoulders. 

Mrs. King's kind offer of washing his shirt had come to nothing. Sheasked Harold about it, and had for answer, 'Do you think he would, afterthe way you served him?'

Either he was affronted, or he was ashamed of her seeing his rags, or, what was not quite impossible, there was no shirt at all in the case; andhe had a sturdy sort of independence about him, that made him always turnsurly at any notion of anything being done for him for charity. 

How or why he stayed on with the farmer was hard to guess, for he hadvery scanty pay, and rough usage; the farmer did not like him; thefarmer's wife scolded him constantly, and laid on his shoulders all themischief that was done about the place; and the shuffler gave him halfhis own work to do, and hunted him about from dawn till past sunset. Hewas always going at the end of every week, but never gone; perhaps he hadundergone too much in his wanderings, to be ready to begin them again; orperhaps either Caesar or Harold, one or both, kept him at Friarswood. Andthere might be another reason, too, for no one had ever spoken to himlike Mr. Cope. Very few had ever thrown him a kindly word, or seemed totreat him like a thing with feelings, and those few had been rough andunmannerly; but Mr. Cope's good-natured smile and pleasant manner hadbeen a very different thing; and perhaps Paul promised to come to theConfirmation class, chiefly because of the friendly tone in which he wasinvited. 

When there, he really liked it. He had always liked what he was taught, apart from the manner of teaching; and now both manner and lessons weredelightful to him. His answers were admirable, and it was not all headknowledge, for very little more than a really kind way of putting it wasneeded, to make him turn in his loneliness to rest in the thought of theever-present Father. Hard as the discipline of his workhouse home hadbeen, it had kept him from much outward harm; the little he had seen inhis wanderings had shocked him, and he was more untaught in evil thanmany lads who thought themselves more respectable, so there was no habitof wickedness to harden and blunt him; and the application of all he hadlearnt before, found his heart ready. 

He had not gone to church since he left the workhouse: he did not thinkit belonged to vagabonds like him; besides, he always felt walls like aprison; and he had not profited much by the workhouse prayers, which wereread on week-days by the master, and on Sundays by a chaplain, who alwayshad more to do than he could manage, and only went to the paupers whenthey were very ill. But when Mr. Cope talked to him of the duty of goingto church, he said, 'I will, Sir;' and he sat in the gallery with theyoung lads, who were not quite as delicate as Alfred. 

The service seemed to rest him, and to be like being brought near afriend; and he had been told that church might always be his home. Hetook a pleasure in going thither--the more, perhaps, that he rather likedto shew how little he cared for remarks upon his appearance. There was agreat deal of independence about him; and, having escaped from theunloving maintenance of the parish, while he had as yet been untaughtwhat affection or gratitude meant, he _would_ not be beholden to any one. 

Scanty as were his wages, he would accept nothing from anybody; he dailybought his portion of bread from Mrs. King, but it was of no use for herto add a bit of cheese or bacon to it; he never would see the relish, andleft it behind; and so he never would accept Mr. Cope's kind offers ofgiving him a bit of supper in his kitchen, perhaps because he was afraidof being said to go to the Rectory for the sake of what he could get. 

He did not object to the farmer's beer, which was sometimes given himwhen any unusual extra work had been put on him. That was his right, forin truth the farmer did not pay him the value of his labour, and perhapsdisliked him the more, because of knowing in his conscience that this wasshameful extortion. 

However, just at harvest time, when Paul's shoes had become very likewhat may be sometimes picked up by the roadside, Mr. Shepherd didactually bestow on him a pair that did not fit himself! Harold came homequite proud of them. 

However, on the third day they were gone, and the farmer's voice washeard on the bridge, rating Paul violently for having changed them awayfor drink. 

Mrs. King felt sorrowful; but, as Ellen said, 'What could you expect ofhim?' In spite of the affront, there was a sort of acquaintance now overthe counter between Mrs. King and young Blackthorn; and when he came forhis bread, she could not help saying, 'I'm sorry to see you in thoseagain. '

'Why, the others hurt me so, I could hardly get about, ' said Paul. 

'Ah! poor lad, I suppose your feet has got spread with wearing those oldones; but you should try to use yourself to decent ones, or you'll soonbe barefoot; and I do think it was a pity to drink them up. '

'That's all the farmer, Ma'am. He thinks one can't do anything butdrink. '

'Well, what is become of them?'

'Why, you see, Ma'am, they just suited Dick Royston, and he wanted a pairof shoes, and I wanted a Bible and Prayer-book, so we changed 'em. '

When Ellen heard this, she could not help owning that Paul was a good boyafter all, though it was in an odd sort of way. But, alas! when next hewas to go to Mr. Cope, there was a hue-and-cry all over the hay-loft forthe Prayer-book. There was no place to put it safely, or if there hadbeen, Poor Paul was too great a sloven to think of any such thing; and asit was in a somewhat rubbishy state to begin with, it was most likelythat one of the cows had eaten it with her hay; and all that could besaid was, that it would have been worse if it had been the Bible. 

As to Dick Royston, to find that he would change away his Bible for apair of shoes, made Mrs. King doubly concerned that he should be a gooddeal thrown in Harold's way. There are many people who neglect theirBibles, and do not read them; but this may be from thoughtlessness orpress of care, and is not like the wilful breaking with good, that it isto part with the Holy Scripture, save under the most dire necessity; andDick was far from being in real want, nor was he ignorant, like Mr. Cope's poor Jem, for he had been to school, and could read well; but hewas one of those many lads, who, alas! are everywhere to be found, whobreak loose from all restraint as soon as they can maintain themselves. They do their work pretty well, and are tolerably honest; but for therest--alas! they seem to live without God. Prayers and Church they haveleft behind, as belonging to school-days; and in all their strength andhealth, their days of toil, their evenings of rude diversion, theirSundays of morning sleep, noonday basking in the sun, evening cricket, they have little more notion of anything concerning their souls than thehorses they drive. If ever a fear comes over them, it seems a long longway off, a whole life-time before them; they are awkward, and in dread ofone another's jeers and remarks; and if they ever wish to be better, theycast it from them by fancying that time must steady them when they havehad their bit of fun, or that something will come from somewhere tochange them all at once, and make it easy to them to be good--as if theywere not making it harder each moment. 

This sort of lad had been utterly let alone till Mr. Cope came; and LadyJane and the school-master felt it was dreary work to train up nice ladsin the school, only to see them run riot, and forget all good as soon asthey thought themselves their own masters. 

Mr. Cope was anxious to do the best he could for them, and theConfirmation made a good opportunity; but the boys did not like to beinterfered with--it made them shy to be spoken to; and they likedlounging about much better than having to poke into that mind of theirs, which they carried somewhere about them, but did not like to stir up. They had no notion of going to school again--which no one wanted them todo--nor to church, because it was like little boys; and they wouldn't beobliged. 

So Mr. Cope made little way with them; a few who had better parents cameregularly to him, but others went off when they found it too muchtrouble, and behaved worse than ever by way of shewing they did not care. This folly had in some degree taken possession of Harold; and though hecould not be as bad as were some of the others, he was fast growingimpatient of restraint, and worried and angry, as if any word of goodadvice affronted him. Driven from home by the fear of disturbing Alfred, he was left the more to the company of boys who made him ashamed of beingordered by his mother; and there was a jaunty careless style about allhis ways of talking and moving, that shewed there was something wrongabout him--he scorned Ellen, and was as saucy as he dared even to hismother; and though Mr. Cope found him better instructed than most of hisscholars, he saw him quite as idle, as restless at church, and as readyto whisper and grin at improper times, as many who had never been trainedlike him. 

One August Sunday afternoon, Mrs. King was with Alfred while Ellen was atchurch. He was lying on his couch, very uncomfortable and fretful, whento the surprise of both, a knock was heard at the door. Mrs. King lookedout of the window, and a smart, hard-looking, pigeon's-neck silk bonnetat once nodded to her, and a voice said, 'I've come over to see you, Cousin King, if you'll come down and let me in. I knew I should find youat home. '

'Betsey Hardman!' exclaimed Alfred, in dismay; 'you won't let her come uphere, Mother?'

'Not if I can help it, ' said Mrs. King, sighing. If there were a thingshe disliked above all others, it was Sunday visiting. 

'You must help it, Mother, ' said Alfred, in his most pettish tones. 'Iwon't have her here, worrying with her voice like a hen cackling. Sayyou won't let her come her!'

'Very well, ' said Mrs. King, in doubt of her own powers, and in haste tobe decently civil. 

'Say you won't, ' repeated Alfred. 'Gadding about of a Sunday, andleaving her old sick mother--more shame for her! Promise, Mother!'

He had nearly begun to cry at his mother's unkindness in running down-stairs without making the promise, for, in fact, Mrs. King had too muchconscience to gain present quiet for any one by promises she might beforced to break; and Betsey Hardman was only too well known. 

Her mother was an aunt of Alfred's father, an old decrepit widow, nearlybed-ridden, but pretty well to do, by being maintained chiefly by herdaughter, who made a good thing of taking in washing in the suburbs ofElbury, and always had a girl or two under her. She had neither had theeducation, nor the good training in service, that had fallen to Mrs. King's lot; and her way of life did not lead to softening her tongue ortemper. Ellen called her vulgar, and though that is not a nice word touse, she was coarse in her ways of talking and thinking, loud-voiced, andunmannerly, although meaning to be very good-natured. 

Alfred lay in fear of her step, ten times harder than Harold's in hismost boisterous mood, coming clamp clamp! up the stairs; and her shrillvoice--the same tone in which she bawled to her deaf mother, and hallooedto her girls when they were hanging out the clothes in the highwind--coming pitying him--ay, and perhaps her whole weight lumbering downon the couch beside him, shaking every joint in his body! His mother'sways, learnt in the Selby nursery, had made him more tender, and moreeasily fretted by such things, than most cottage lads, who would havebeen used to them, and never have thought of not liking to have everyneighbour who chose running up into the room, and talking without regardto subject or tone. 

He listened in a fright to the latch of the door, and the coming in. Betsey's voice came up, through every chink of the boards, whatever shedid herself; and he could hear every word of her greeting, as she saidhow it was such a fine day, she said to Mother she would take a holiday, and come and see Cousin King and the poor lad: it must be mighty dull forhim, moped up there. 

Stump! stump! Was she coming? His mother was answering something toosoft for him to hear. 

'What, is he asleep?'

'O Mother, must you speak the truth?'

'Bless me! I should have thought a little cheerful company was good forhim. Do you leave him quite alone? Well--' and there was a frightfulnoise of the foot of the heaviest chair on the floor. 'I'll sit down andwait a bit! Is he so very fractious, then?'

What was his mother saying? Alfred clenched his fist, and grinned angerat Betsey with closed teeth. There was the tiresome old word, 'Low--ay, so's my mother; but you should rise his spirits with company, you see;that's why I came over; as soon as ever I heard that there wasn't no hopeof him, says I to Mother--'

What? What was that she had heard? There was his mother, probablytrying to restrain her voice, for it came up now just loud enough to makeit most distressing to try to catch the words, which sounded likesomething pitying. 'Ay, ay--just like his poor father; when they bedecliny, it will come out one ways or another; and says I to Mother, I'llgo over and cheer poor Cousin King up a bit, for you see, after all, ifhe'd lived, he'd be nothing but a burden, crippled up like that; and alingering job is always bad for poor folks. '

Alfred leant upon his elbow, his eyes full stretched, but feeling as ifall his senses had gone into his ears, in his agony to hear more; and heeven seemed to catch his mother's voice, but there was no hope in that;it was of her knowing it would be all for the best; and the sadness of ittold him that she believed the same as Betsey. Then came, 'Yes; Ideclare it gave me such a turn, you might have knocked me down with afeather. I asked Mr. Blunt to come in and see what's good for Mother, she feels so weak at times, and has such a noise in her head, just likethe regiment playing drums, she says, till she can't hardly bear herself;and so what do you think he says? Don't wrap up her head so warm, sayshe--a pretty thing for a doctor to say, as if a poor old creature likethat, past seventy years old, could go without a bit of flannel to herhead, and her three night-caps, and a shawl over them when there's adraught. I say, Cousin, I ha'n't got much opinion of Mr. Blunt. Whydon't you get some of them boxes of pills, that does cures wonderful?Ever so many lords and ladies cured of a perplexity fit, by only justtaking an imposing draught or two. '

Another time Alfred would have laughed at the very imposing draught, thatwas said to cure lords and ladies of this jumble between apoplexy andparalysis; but this was no moment for laughing, and he was in despair atfancying his mother wanted to lead her off on the quack medicine; but shewent on. 

'Well, only read the papers that come with them. I make my girl Sallyread 'em all to me, being that she's a better scholar; and the long wordsis quite heavenly--I declare there ain't one of them shorter thanperegrination. I'd have brought one of them over to shew you if I hadn'tcome away in a hurry, because Evans's cart was going out to the merryorchard, and says I to Mother, Well, I'll get a lift now there's such achance to Friarswood: it'll do them all a bit of good to see a bit ofcheerful company, seeing, as Mr. Blunt says, that poor lad is going afterhis father as fast as can be. Dear me, says I, you don't say so, such afine healthy-looking chap as he was. Yes, he says, but it's in theconstitution; it's getting to the lungs, and he'll never last out thewinter. '

Alfred listened for the tone of his mother's voice; he knew he shouldjudge by that, even without catching the words--low, subdued, sad--healmost thought she began with 'Yes. '

All the rest that he heard passed by him merely as a sound, noted no morethan the lowing of the cattle, or the drone of the thrashing machine. Helay half lifted up on his pillows, drawing his breath short withapprehension; his days were numbered, and death was coming fast, fast, straight upon him. He felt it within himself--he knew now the meaning ofthe pain and sinking, the shortness of breath and choking of throat thathad been growing on him through the long summer days; he was being 'cutoff with pining sickness, ' and his sentence had gone forth. He wouldhave screamed for his mother in the sore terror and agony that had comeover him, in hopes she might drive the notion from him; but the dread ofseeing her followed by that woman kept his lips shut, except for his longgasps of breath. 

And she could not keep him--Mr. Blunt could not keep him; no one couldstay the hand that had touched him! Prayer! They had prayed for hisfather, for Charlie, but it had not been God's Will. He had himself manytimes prayed to recover, and it had not been granted--he was worse andworse. 

Moreover, whither did that path of suffering lead? Up rose before Alfredthe thought of living after the unknown passage, and of answering for allhe had done; and now the faults he had refused to call to mind when hewas told of chastisement, came and stood up of themselves. Bred up toknow the good, he had not loved it; he had cared for his own pleasure, not for God; he had not heeded the comfort of his widowed mother; he hadbeen careless of the honour of God's House, said and heard prayerswithout minding them; he had been disrespectful and ill-behaved at myLady's--he had been bad in every way; and when illness came, howrebellious and murmuring he had been, how unkind he had been to hispatient mother, sister, and brother; and when Mr. Cope had told him itwas meant to lead him to repent, he would not hear; and now it was toolate, the door would be shut. He had always heard that there was a timewhen sorrow was no use, when the offer of being saved had been thrownaway. 

When Ellen came in, and after a short greeting to Betsey Hardman, went up-stairs, she found Alfred lying back on his pillow, deadly white, thebeads of dew standing on his brow, and his breath in gasps. She wouldhave shrieked for her mother, but he held out his hand, and said, in alow hoarse whisper, 'Ellen, is it true?'

'What, Alfy dear? What is the matter?'

'What _she_ says. '

'Who? Betsey Hardman? Dear dear Alf, is it anything dreadful?'

'That I shall die, ' said Alfred, his eyes growing round with terroragain. 'That Mr. Blunt said I couldn't last out the winter. '

'Dear Alfy, don't!' cried Ellen, throwing her arms round him, and kissinghim with all her might; 'don't fancy it! She's always gossiping andgadding about, and don't know what she says, and she'd got no business totell stories to frighten my darling!' she exclaimed, sobbing withagitation. 'I'm sure Mr. Blunt never said no such thing!'

'But Mother thinks it, Ellen. '

'She doesn't, she can't!' cried Ellen vehemently; 'I know she doesn't, orshe could never go about as she does. I'll call her up and ask her, tosatisfy you. '

'No, no, not while that woman is there!' cried Alfred, holding her by thedress; 'I'll not have _her_ coming up. '

Even while he spoke, however, Mrs. King was coming. Betsey had spied anold acquaintance on the way from church, and had popped out to speak toher, and Mrs. King caught that moment for coming up. She understood all, for she had been sitting in great distress, lest Alfred should belistening to every word which she was unable to silence, and about whichBetsey was quite thoughtless. So many people of her degree would talk tothe patient about himself and his danger, and go on constantly before himwith all their fears, and the doctor's opinions, that Betsey had neverthought of there being more consideration and tenderness shewn in thishouse, nor that Mrs. King would have hidden any pressing danger from thesick person; but such plain words had not yet passed between her and Mr. Blunt; and though she had long felt what Alfred's illness would come to, the perception had rather grown on her than come at any particularmoment. 

Now when Ellen, with tears and agitation, asked what that Betsey had beensaying to frighten Alfred so, and when she saw her poor boy's look ather, and heard his sob, 'Oh, Mother!' it was almost too much for her, andshe went up and kissed him, and laid him down less uneasily, but he felta great tear fall on his face. 

'It's not true, Mother, I'm sure it is not true, ' cried Ellen; 'sheought--'

Mrs. King looked at her daughter with a sad sweet face, that stopped hershort, and brought the sense over her too. 'Did he say so, Mother?' saidAlfred. 

'Not to me, dear, ' she answered; 'but, Ellen, she's coming back! She'llbe up here if you don't go down. '

Poor Ellen! what would she not have given for power to listen to hermother, and cry at her ease? But she was forced to hurry, or Betseywould have been half-way up-stairs in another instant. She was a hopefulgirl, however, and after that 'not to me, ' resolved to believe nothing ofthe matter. Mrs. King knelt down by her son, and looked at him tenderly;and then, as his eyes went on begging for an answer, she said, 'Dr. Bluntnever told me there was no hope, my dear, and everything lies in God'spower. '

'But you don't think I shall get well, Mother?'

'I don't feel as if you would, my boy, ' she said, very low, and fondlinghim all the time. 'You've got to cough like Father and Charlie, and--though He might raise my boy up--yet anyhow, Alfy boy, if God seesit good for us, it _will_ be good for us, and we shall be helped throughwith it. '

'But I'm not good, Mother! What will become of me?'

'Perhaps the hearing this is all out of God's mercy, to give you time toget ready, my dear. You are no worse now than you were this morning; youare not like to go yet awhile. No, indeed, my child; so if you don't putoff any longer--'

'Mother!' called up Ellen. She was in despair. Betsey was not to bekept by her from satisfying herself upon Alfred's looks, and Mrs. Kingwas only in time to meet her on the stairs, and tell her that he was soweak and low, that he could not be seen now, she could not tell how itwould be when he had had his tea. 

Ellen thought she had never had so distressing a tea-drinking in herlife, as the being obliged to sit listening civilly to Betsey's longstory about the trouble she had about a stocking of Mrs. Martin's thatwas lost in the wash, and that had gone to Miss Rosa Marlowe, becauseMrs. Martin had her things marked with a badly-done K. E. M. , and allthat Mrs. Martin's Maria and all Miss Marlowe's Jane had said about it, and all Betsey's 'Says I to Mother, '--when she was so longing to bewatching poor Alfred, and how her mother could sit so quietly making tea, and answering so civilly, she could not guess; but Mrs. King had thatsense of propriety and desire to do as she would be done by, which is thevery substance of Christian courtesy, the very want of which made Betsey, with all her wish to be kind, a real oppression and burthen to the wholeparty. 

And where was Harold? Ellen had not seen him coming out of church, butmeal-times were pretty certain to bring him home. 

'Oh, ' said Betsey, 'I'll warrant he is off to the merry orchard. '

'I hope not, ' said Mrs. King gravely. 

'He never would, ' said Ellen, in anger. 

'Ah, well, I always said I didn't see no harm in a lad getting a bit ofpleasure. '

'No, indeed, ' said Mrs. King. 'Harold knows I would not stint him in thefruit nor in the pleasure, but I should be much vexed if he could go outon a Sunday, buying and selling, among such a lot as meet at thatorchard. '

'Well, I'm sure I don't know when poor folks is to have a holiday if noton a Sunday, and the poor boy must be terrible moped with his brother soill. '

'Not doing thine own pleasure on My holy day, ' thought Ellen, but she didnot say it, for her mother could not bear for texts to be quoted atpeople. But her heart was very heavy; and when she went up with some teato Alfred, she looked from the window to see whether, as she hoped, Harold might be in Paul's hay-loft, preferring going without his tea tobeing teased by Betsey. Paul sat in his loft, with his Bible on hisknee, and his head on Caesar's neck. 

'Alfred, ' said Ellen, 'do you know where Harold is? Sure he is not goneto the merry orchard?'

'Is not he come home?' said Alfred. 'Oh, then he is! He is gone to themerry orchard, breaking Sunday with Dick Royston! And by-and-by he'll beill, and die, and be as miserable as I am!' And Alfred cried as Ellenhad never seen him cry. 

CHAPTER VI--THE MERRY ORCHARD

Where was Harold?

Still the evening went on, and he did not come. Alfred had worn himselfout with his fit of crying, and lay quite still, either asleep, orlooking so like it, that when Betsey had finished her tea, and againbegan asking to see him, Ellen could honestly declare that he was asleep. 

Betsey had bidden them good-bye, more than half affronted at not beingable to report to her mother all about his looks, though she carried withher a basket of gooseberries and French beans, and Mrs. King walked allthe way down the lane with her, and tried to shew an interest in all shesaid, to make up for the disappointment. 

Maybe likewise Mrs. King felt it a relief to her uneasiness to look upand down the road, and along the river, and into the farm-yard, in thehope that Harold might be in sight; but nothing was to be seen on theroad, but Master Norland, his wife, and baby, soberly taking their Sundaywalk; nor by the river, except the ducks, who seemed to be enjoying theirevening bath, and almost asleep on the water; nor in the yard, exceptPaul Blackthorn, who had come down from his perch to drive the horses infrom the home-field, and shut the stable up for the night. 

She could not help stopping a moment at the gate, and calling out to Paulto ask whether he had seen anything of Harold. He seemed to have a greatmind not to hear, and turned very slowly with his shoulder towards her, making a sound like 'Eh?' as if to ask what she said. 

'Have you seen my boy Harold?'

'I saw him in the morning. '

'Have you not seen him since? Didn't he go to church with you?'

'No; I don't go to Sunday school. '

'Was he there?'

She did not receive any answer. 

'Do you know if many of the boys are gone to the merry orchard?'

'Ay. '

'Well, you are a good lad not to be one of them. '

'Hadn't got any money, ' said Paul gruffly; but Mrs. King thought he saidso chiefly from dislike to be praised, and that there had been someprinciple as well as poverty to keep him away. 

'It might be better if no one had it on a Sunday, ' she could not helpsighing out as she looked anxiously along the lane ere turning in, andthen said, 'My good lad, I don't want to get you to be telling tales, butit would set my heart at rest, and his poor brother's up there, if youcould tell me he is not gone to Briar Alley. '

Paul turned up his face from the gate upon which he was leaning hiselbows, and gazed for a moment at her sad, meek, anxious face, thenexclaimed, 'I can't think how he could!'

Poor Paul! was it not crossing him how impossible it would seem to doanything to vex one who so cared for him?

'Then he is gone, ' she said mournfully. 

'They were all at him, ' said Paul; 'and he said he'd never seen what itwas like. Please don't take on, Missus; he's right kind andgood-hearted, and wanted to treat me. '

'I had rather he had hearkened to you, my boy, ' said Mrs. King. 

'I don't know why he should do that, ' said Paul, perhaps meaning that aboy who heeded not such a mother would certainly heed no one else. 'Butplease, Missus, ' he added, 'don't beat him, for you made me tell on him. '

'Beat him! no, ' said Mrs. King, with a sad smile; 'he's too big a boy forme to manage that way. I can't do more than grieve if he lets himself beled away. '

'Then I'd like to beat him myself if he grieves you!' burst out Paul, doubling up his brown fist with indignation. 

'But you won't, ' said Mrs. King gently; 'I don't want to make a quarrelamong you, and I hope you'll help to keep him out of bad ways, Paul. Ilook to you for it. Good-night. '

Perhaps the darkness and her own warm feeling made her forget thecondition of that hand; at any rate, as she said Good-night she took itin her own and shook it heartily, and then she went in. 

Paul did not say Good-night in answer; but when she had turned away, hishead went down between his two crossed arms upon the top of the gate, andhe did not move for many many minutes, except that his shoulders shookand shook again, for he was sobbing as he had never sobbed since GrannyMoll died. If home and home love were not matters of course to you, youmight guess what strange new fountains of feeling were stirred in thewild but not untaught boy, by that face, that voice, that touch. 

And Mrs. King, as she walked to her own door in the twilight, with bitterpain in her heart, could not help thinking of those from the highways andhedges who flocked to the feast set at naught by such as were bidden. 

A sad and mournful Sunday evening was that to the mother and daughter, aseach sat over her Bible. Mrs. King would not talk to Ellen, for fear ofawakening Alfred; not that low voices would have done so, but Ellen wasalready much upset by what she had heard and seen, and to talk it overwould have brought on a fit of violent crying; so her mother thought itsafest to say nothing. They would have read their Bible to one another, but each had her voice so choked with tears, that it would not do. 

That Alfred was sinking away into the grave, was no news to Mrs. King;but perhaps it had never been so plainly spoken to her before, and hisown knowledge of it seemed to make it more sure; but broken-hearted asshe felt, she had been learning to submit to this, and it might be betterand safer for him, she thought, to be aware of his state, and more readyto do his best with the time left to him. That was not the freshestsorrow, or more truly a darker cloud had come over, namely, the feeling, so terrible to a good careful mother, that her son is breaking out of thecourses to which she has endeavoured and prayed to bring him up--that heis casting off restraint, and running into evil that may be the beginningof ruin, and with no father's hand to hold him in. 

O Harold, had you but seen the thick tears dropping on the walnut tablebehind the arm that hid her face from Ellen, you would not have thoughtyour fun worth them!

That merry orchard was about three miles from Friarswood. It belonged toa man who kept a small public-house, and had a little farm, and a largegarden, with several cherry trees, which in May were perfect gardens ofblossoms, white as snow, and in August with small black fruit of the sortknown as merries; and unhappily the fertile produce of these trees becamea great temptation to the owner and to all the villagers around. 

As Sunday was the only day when people could be at leisure, he chosethree Sundays when the cherries were ripe for throwing open his orchardto all who chose to come and buy and eat the fruit, and of course cakesand drink of various kinds were also sold. It was a solitary spot, outof the way of the police, or the selling in church-time would have beenstopped; but as there may be cases of real distress, the law does notshut up all houses for selling food and drink on a Sunday, so others, where there is no necessity, take advantage of it; and so for miles roundall the idle young people and children would call it a holiday to go awayfrom their churches to eat cherries at Briar Alley, buying and selling ona Sunday, noisy and clamorous, and forgetting utterly that it was theLord's Day, not their day of idle pleasure. 

It was a sad pity that an innocent feast of fruit should be almost out ofreach, unless enjoyed in this manner. To be sure, merries might bebought any day of the week at Briar Alley, and were hawked up and downFriarswood so cheaply that any one might get a mouth as purple as theblack spaniel's any day in the season; but that was nothing to the fun ofgoing with numbers, and numbers never could go except on a Sunday. Butif people wish to serve God truly, why, they must make up their minds tomiss pleasures for His sake, and this was one to begin with; and I ammuch mistaken if the happiness of the week would not have turned outgreater in the end with him. Ay, and as to the owner of the trees, whosaid he was a poor man, and could not afford to lose the profit, Ibelieve that if he would have trusted God and kept His commandment, hisprofit in the long run would have been greater here, to say nothing ofthe peril to his own soul of doing wrong, and leading so many intotemptation. 

The Kings had been bred up to think a Sunday going to the merry orchard athing never to be done; and in his most idle days Alfred would never havedreamt of such a thing. Indeed, their good mother always managed to havesome treat to make up for it when they were little; and they certainlynever wanted for merries, nay, a merry pudding had been their dinner thisvery day, with savage-looking purple juice and scalding hot stones. IfHarold went it was for the frolic, not for want of the dainty; and wrongas it was, his mother was grieving more at the thought of his castingaway the restraint of his old habits than for the one action. One songoing away into the unseen world, the other being led away from the pathsof right--no wonder she wept as she tried to read!

At last voices were coming, and very loud ones. The summer night was sostill, they could be heard a great way--those rude coarse voices ofvillage boys boasting and jeering one another. 

'I say, wouldn't you like to be one of they chaps at Ragglesford School?'

'What lots they bought there on Saturday, to be sure!'

'Well they may: they've lots of tin!'

'Have they? How d'ye know?'

'Why, the money-letters! Don't I know the feel of them--directed tomaster this and master that, and with a seal and a card, and half asovereign, or maybe a whole one, under it; and such lots as they getsbefore the holidays--that's to go home, you see. '

'Well, it's a shame such little impudent rogues should get so muchwithout ever doing a stroke of work for it. '

'I say, Harold, don't ye never put one of they letters in your pocket?'

'For shame, Dick!'

'Ha! I shall know where to come when I wants half a sovereign or so!'

'No, you won't. '

It was only these last two or three speeches that reached the cottage atall clearly; and they were followed by a sound as if Harold had fallenupon one of the others, and they were holding him off, with halloos andshouts of hoarse laughing, which broke Alfred's sleep, and his voice camedown-stairs with a startled cry of 'Mother! Mother! what is that?' Sheran up-stairs in haste, and Ellen threw the door open. The suddendisplay of the light silenced the noisy boys; and Harold came slowly upthe garden-path, pretty certain of a scolding, and prepared to feel it aslittle as he could help. 

'Well, Master, a nice sort of a way of spending a Sunday evening this!'began Ellen; 'and coming hollaing up the lane, just on purpose to wakepoor Alfred, when he's so ill!'

'I'm sure I never meant to wake him. '

'Then what did you bring all that good-for-nothing set roaring andshouting up the road for? And just this evening, too, when one wouldhave thought you would we have cared for poor Mother and Alfred, ' saidshe, crying. 

'Why, what's the matter now?' said Harold. 

'Oh, they've been saying he can't live out the winter, ' said Ellen, shedding the tears that had been kept back all this time, and broke outnow with double force, in her grief for one brother and vexation with theother. 

But next winter seemed a great way off to Harold, and he was put outbesides, so he did not seem shocked, especially as he was reproached withnot feeling what he did not know; so all he did was to say angrily, 'Andhow was I to know that?'

'Of course you don't know anything, going scampering over the countrywith the worst lot you can find, away from church and all, not caring foranything! Poor Mother! she never thought one of her lads would come tothat!'

'Plenty does so, without never such a fuss, ' said Harold. 'Why, whatharm is there in eating a few cherries?'

There would be very little pleasure or use in knowing what a wranglingwent on all the time Mrs. King was up-stairs putting Alfred to bed. Ellenhad all the right on her side, but she did not use it wisely; she wasvery unhappy, and much displeased with Harold, and so she had it all outin a fretful manner that made him more cross and less feeling than washis nature. 

There was something he did feel, however--and that was his mother's pale, worn, sorrowful face, when she came down-stairs and hushed Ellen, but didnot speak to him. They took down the books, read their chapter, and sheread prayers very low, and not quite steadily. He would have liked verymuch to have told her he felt sorry, but he was too proud to do so afterhaving shewn Ellen he was above caring for such nonsense. 

So they all went to bed, Harold on a little landing at the top of thestairs; but--whether it was from the pounds of merry-stones he hadswallowed, or the talk he had had with his sister--he could not go tosleep, and lay tossing and tumbling about, thinking it very odd he hadnot heeded more what Ellen had said when he first came in, and the notiondawning on him more and more, that day after day would come and makeAlfred worse, and that by the time summer came again he should be alone. Who could have said it? Why had not he asked? What could he have beenthinking about? It should not be true! A sort of frenzy to speak tosome one, and hear the real meaning of those words, so as to make surethey were only Ellen's nonsense, came over him in the silent darkness. Presently he heard Alfred moving on his pillow, for the door was open forthe heat; and that long long sigh made him call in a whisper, 'Alf, areyou awake?'

In another moment Harold was by his brother's side. 'Alf! Alf! are youworse?' he asked, whispering. 

'No. '

'Then what's all this? What did they say? It's all stuff; I'm sure itis, and you're getting better. But what did Ellen mean?'

'No, Harold, ' said Alfred, getting his brother's hand in his, 'it's notstuff; I shan't get well; I'm going after poor Charlie; and don't you bea bad lad, Harold, and run away from your church, for you don't know--howbad it feels to--' and Alfred turned his face down, for the tears werecoming thick. 

'But you aren't going to die, Alf. Charlie never was like you, I know hewasn't; he was always coughing. It is all Ellen. Who said it? I won'tlet them. '

'The doctor said it to Betsey Hardman, ' said Alfred; and his cough wasonly too like his brother's. 

Harold would have said a great deal in contempt of Betsey Hardman, butAlfred did not let him. 

'You'll wake Mother, ' he said. 'Hush, Harold, don't go stamping about; Ican't bear it! No, I don't want any one to tell me now; I've beengetting worse ever since I was taken, and--oh! be quiet, Harold. '

'I can't be quiet, ' sobbed Harold, coming nearer to him. 'O Alf! Ican't spare you! There hasn't been no proper downright fun without you, and--'

Harold had lain down by him and clung to his hand, trying not to sobaloud. 

'O Harold!' sighed Alfred, 'I don't think I should mind--at least not somuch--if I hadn't been such a bad boy. '

'You, Alfy! Who was ever a good boy if you was not?'

'Hush! You forget all about when I was up at my Lady's, and all that. Oh! and how bad I behaved at church, and when I was so saucy to Masterabout the marbles; and so often I've not minded Mother. O Harold! andGod judges one for everything!'

What a sad terrified voice it was!

'Oh! don't go on so, Alf! I can't bear it! Why, we are but boys; andthose things were so long ago! God will not be hard on little boys. Heis merciful, don't you know?'

'But when I knew it was wrong, I did the worst I could!' said Alfred. 'Oh, if I could only begin all over again, now I do care! Only, Harold, Harold, you are well; you can be good now when there's time. '

'I'll be ever so good if you'll only get well, ' said Harold. 'I wouldn'thave gone to that there place to-night; but 'tis so terribly dull, andone must do something. '

'But in church-time, and on Sunday!'

'Well, I'll never do it again; but it was so sunshiny, and they were allmaking such fun, you see, and it did seem so stuffy, and so long andtiresome, I couldn't help it, you see. '

Alfred did not think of asking how, if Harold could not help it thistime, he could be sure of never doing so again. He was more inclined todwell on himself, and went back to that one sentence, 'God judges us foreverything. ' Harold thought he meant it for him, and exclaimed, 'Yes, yes, I know, but--oh, Alf, you shouldn't frighten one so; I nevermeant no harm. '

'I wasn't thinking about that, ' sighed Alfred. 'I was wishing I'd been abetter lad; but I've been worse, and crosser, and more unkind, ever sinceI was ill. O Harold! what shall I do?'

'Don't go on that way, ' said Harold, crying bitterly. 'Say your prayers, and maybe you will get well; and then in the morning I'll ask Mr. Cope tocome down, and he'll tell you not to mind. '

'I wouldn't listen to Mr. Cope when he told me to be sorry for my sins;and oh, Harold, if we are not sorry, you know they will not be takenaway. '

'Well, but you are sorry now. '

'I have heard tell that there are two ways of being sorry, and I don'tknow if mine is the right. '

'I tell you I'll fetch Mr. Cope in the morning; and when the doctor comeshe'll be sure to say it is all a pack of stuff, and you need not befretting yourself. '

When Harold awoke in the morning, he found himself lying wrapped in hiscoverlet on Alfred's bed, and then he remembered all about it, and lookedin haste, as though he expected to see some sudden and terrible change inhis brother. 

But Alfred was looking cheerful, he had awakened without discomfort; andwith some amusement, was watching the starts and movements, the gruntsand groans, of Harold's waking. The morning air and the ordinary look ofthings, had driven away the gloomy thoughts of evening, and he chieflythought of them as something strange and dreadful, and yet not quite adream. 

'Don't tell Mother, ' whispered Harold, recollecting himself, and startingup quietly. 

'But you'll fetch Mr. Cope, ' said Alfred earnestly. 

Harold had begun not to like the notion of meeting Mr. Cope, lest heshould hear something of yesterday's doings, and he did not like Alfredor himself to think of last night's alarm, so he said, 'Oh, very well, I'll see about it. '

He had not made up his mind. Very likely, if chance had brought him faceto face with Mr. Cope, he would have spoken about Alfred as the best wayto hinder the Curate from reproving himself; but he had not that rightsort of boldness which would have made him go to meet the reproof he sorichly deserved, and he was trying to persuade himself either that whenAlfred was amused and cheery, he would forget all about 'that thereBetsey's nonsense, ' or else that Mr. Cope might come that way of himself. 

But Alfred was not likely to forget. What he had heard hung on himthrough all the little occupations of the morning, and made him meek andgentle under them, and he was reckoning constantly upon Mr. Cope'scoming, fastening on the notion as if he were able to save him. 

Still the Curate came not, and Alfred became grieved, feeling as if hewas neglected. 

Mr. Blunt, however, came, and at any rate he would have it out with him;so he asked at once very straightforwardly, 'Am I going to die, Sir?'

'Why, what's put that in your head?' said the doctor. 

'There was a person here talking last night, Sir, ' said Mrs. King. 

'Well, but am I?' said Alfred impatiently. 

'Not just yet, I hope, ' said Mr. Blunt cheerfully. 'You are weak, butyou'll pick up again. '

'But of this?' persisted Alfred, who was not to be trifled with. 

Mr. Blunt saw he must be in earnest. 

'My boy, ' he said, 'I'm afraid it is not a thing to be got over. I'll dothe best I can for you, by God's blessing; and if you get through thewinter, and it is a mild spring, you might do; but you'd better settleyour mind that you can't be many years for this world. '

Many years! that sounded like a reprieve, and sent gladness into Ellen'sheart; but somehow it did not seem in the same light to Alfred; he feltthat if he were slowly going down hill and wasting away, so as to have nomore health or strength in which to live differently from ever before, the length of time was not much to him, and in his sickly impatience hewould almost have preferred that it should not be what Betsey kindlycalled 'a lingering job. '

There he lay after Mr. Blunt was gone, not giving Ellen any trouble, except by the sad thoughtfulness of his face, as he lay dwelling on allthat he wanted to say to Mr. Cope, and the terror of his sin and ofjudgment sweeping over him every now and then. 

Still Mr. Cope came not. Alfred at last began to wonder aloud, and askedif Harold had said anything about it when he came in to dinner; but heheard that Harold had only rushed in for a moment, snatched up a lump ofbread and cheese, and made off to the river with some of the lads whomeant to spend the noon-tide rest in bathing. 

When he came for the evening letters he was caught, and Mr. Cope wasasked for; and then it came out that Harold had never given the messageat all. 

Alfred, greatly hurt, and sadly worn by his day of expectation, had noself-restraint left, and flew out into a regular passion, calling hisbrother angry names. Harold, just as passionate, went into a rage too, and scolded his brother for his fancies. Mrs. King, in greatdispleasure, turned him out, and he rushed off to ride like one mad toElbury; and poor Alfred remained so much shocked at his own outbreak, just when he meant to have been good ever after, and sobbing somiserably, that no one could calm him at all; and Ellen, as the onlyhope, put on her bonnet to fetch Mr. Cope. 

At that moment Paul was come for his bit of bread. She found him lookingdismayed at the sounds of violent weeping from above, and he asked whatit was. 

'Oh, Alfred is so low and so bad, and he wants Mr. Cope! Here's yourbread, don't keep me!'

'Let me go! I'll be quicker!' cried Paul; and before she could thankhim, he was down the garden and right across the first field. 

Alfred had had time to cry himself exhausted, and to be lying very still, almost faint, before Mr. Cope came in in the summer twilight. Good Paul!He had found that Mr. Cope was dining at Ragglesford and had run all theway thither; and here was the kind young Curate, quite breathless withhis haste, and never regretting the cheerful party whence he had beencalled away. All Alfred could say was, 'O Sir, I shall die; and I'm abad boy, and wouldn't heed you when you said so. '

'And God has made you see your sins, my poor boy, ' said Mr. Cope. 'Thatis a great blessing. '

'But if I can't do anything to make up for them, what's the use? And Inever shall be well again. '

'You can't make up for them; but there is One Who has made up for them, if you will only truly repent. '

'I wasn't sorry till I knew I should die, ' said Alfred. 

'No, your sins did not come home to you! Now, do you know what theyare?'

'Oh yes; I've been a bad boy to Mother, and at church; and I've beencross to Ellen, and quarrelled with Harold; and I was so audacious at myLady's, they couldn't keep me. I never did want really to be good. Oh!I know I shall go to the bad place!'

'No, Alfred, not if you so repent, that you can hold to our BlessedSaviour's promise. There is a fountain open for sin and alluncleanness. '

'It is very good of Him, ' said Alfred, a little more tranquilly, not inthe half-sob in which he had before spoken. 

'Most merciful!' said Mr. Cope. 

'But does it mean me?' continued Alfred. 

'You were baptized, Alfred, you have a right to all His promises ofpardon. ' And he repeated the blessed sentences:

'Come unto Me, all that travail and are heavy laden, and I will refreshyou. '

'God so loved the world, that He gave His only-begotten Son, to the endthat all that believe in Him should not perish, but have everlastinglife. '

'But how ought I to believe, Sir?'

'You say you feel what your sins are; think of them all as you lie, eachone as you remember it; say it out in your heart to our Saviour, and prayGod to forgive it for His sake, and then think that it cost some of thepain He bore on the Cross, some of the drops of His agony in the Garden. Each sin of ours was indeed of that burden!'

'Oh, that will make them seem so bad!'

'Indeed it does; but how it will make you love Him, and feel thankful toHim, and anxious not to waste the sufferings borne for your sake, andglad, perhaps, that you are bearing some small thing yourself. But youare spent, and I had better not talk more now. Let me read you a fewprayers to help you, and then I will leave you, and come againto-morrow. '

How differently those Prayers and Psalms sounded to Alfred now that hehad really a heart grieved and wearied with the burthen of sin! Thepoint was to make his not a frightened heart, but a contrite heart. 

CHAPTER VII--HAROLD TAKES A WRONG TURN

Mrs. King was very anxious about Alfred for many hours after this visitfrom the Curate, for he was continually crying, not violently, but thetears flowing quietly from his eyes as he lay, thinking. Sometimes itwas the badness of the faults as he saw them now, looking so verydifferent from what they did when they were committed in the carelessnessof fun and high spirits, or viewed afterwards in the hardening light ofself-justification. Now they did look so wantonly hard and rude--unkindto his sister, ruinous to Harold, regardless of his widowed mother, reckless of his God--that each one seemed to cut into him with a sense ofits own badness, and he was quite as much grieved as afraid; he hated thefault, and hated himself for it. 

Indeed, he was growing less afraid, for the sorrow seemed to swallow thatup; the grief at having offended One so loving was putting out the terrorof being punished; or rather, when he thought that this illness waspunishment, he was almost glad to have some of what he deserved; just aswhen he was a little boy, he really used to be happier afterwards forhaving been whipped and put in the corner, because that was like makingit up. Though he knew very well that if he had ten thousand times worsethan this to bear, it would not be making up for his faults, and he feltnow that one of them had been his 'despising the chastening of the Lord. 'And then the thought of what had made up for it would come: and though hehad known of it all his life, and heeded it all too little, now that hisheart was tender, and he had felt some of the horror and pain of sin, hetook it all home now, and clung to it. He recollected the verses aboutthat One kneeling--nay, falling on the ground, in the cold dewy night, with the chosen friends who could not watch with Him, and the agony andmisery that every one in all the world deserved to feel, gathering onHim, Who had done no wrong, and making His brow stream with great dropsof Blood. 

And the tortures, the shame, the slow Death--circumstance aftercircumstance came to his mind, and 'for me, ' 'this fault of mine helped, 'would rise with it, and the tears trickled down at the thought of thesuffering and of the Love that had caused it to be undergone. 

Once he raised up his head, and saw through the window the deep dark-bluesky, and the stars, twinkling and sparkling away; that pale band oflight, the Milky Way, which they say is made of countless stars too faroff to be distinguished, and looking like a cloud, and on it the larger, brighter burnished stars, differing from one another in glory. Hethought of some lines in a book Miss Jane once gave Ellen, which said ofthe stars:

 'The Lord resigned them all to gain The bliss of pardoning thee. '

And when he thought that it was the King of those stars Who was scourgedand spit on, and for the sake of _his_ faults, the loving tears cameagain, and he turned to another hymn of Ellen's:

 'Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee!'

And going on with this, he fell into a more quiet sleep than he had hadfor many nights. 

Alfred had worked up his mind to a point where it could not long remain;and when he awoke in the morning, the common affairs of the day occupiedhim in a way that was not hurtful to him, as the one chief thought wasever present, only laid away for a time, and helping him when he mighthave been fretful or impatient. 

He was anxious for Mr. Cope, and grateful when he saw him coming early inthe day. Mr. Cope did not, however, say anything very new. He chieflywished to shew Alfred that he must not think all his struggle with sinover, and that he had nothing to do but to lie still and be pardoned. There was much more work, as he would find, when the present strongfeeling should grow a little blunt; he would have to keep his will bentto bear what was sent by God, and to prove his repentance by curinghimself of all his bad habits of peevishness and exacting; to learn, infact, to take up his cross. 

Alfred feebly promised to try, and it did not seem so difficult justthen. The days were becoming cooler, and he did not feel quite so ill;and though he did not know how much this helped him, it made it mucheasier to act on his good resolutions. Miss Selby came to see him, andwas quite delighted to see him looking so much less uncomfortable anddismal. 

'Why, Alfred, ' said she, 'you must be much better. '

Ellen looked mournful at this, and shook her head so that Miss Janeturned her bright face to her in alarm. 

'No, Ma'am, ' said Alfred. 'Dr. Blunt says I can never get over it. '

'And does that make you glad?' almost gasped Miss Jane. 

'No, Ma'am, ' said Alfred; 'but Mr. Cope has been talking to me, and madeit all so--'

He could not get out the words; and, besides, he saw Miss Jane's eyeswinking very fast to check the tears, and Ellen's had begun to rain downfast. 

'I didn't mean to be silly, ' said little Jane, in rather a tremblingvoice; 'but I'm sorry--no--I'm glad you are happy and good, Alfred. '

'Not good, Miss Jane, ' cried Alfred; 'I'm such a bad boy, but there aresuch good things as I never minded before--'

'Well then, I think you'll like what I've brought you, ' said Janeeagerly. 

It was a little framed picture of our Blessed Lord on His Cross, alldarkness round, and the Inscription above His Head; and Miss Jane hadpainted, in tall Old English red letters, under it the two words, 'Forme. '

Alfred looked at it as if indeed it would be a great comfort to him to bealways reminded by the eye, of how 'He was wounded for ourtransgressions, and bruised for our iniquities. '

He thanked Miss Jane with all his heart, and she and Ellen soon found aplace to hang it up well in his sight. It was a pretty bright sight tosee her insisting on holding the nail for it, and then playfullypretending to shrink and fancy that Ellen would hammer her fingers. 

Alfred could enjoy the sunshine of his sick-room again; and Ellen and hismother down-stairs told Miss Selby, with many tears, of the happy changethat had come over him ever since he had resigned himself to give uphopes of life. Mrs. King looked so peaceful and thankful, that littleJane could hardly understand what it was that made her so much more atrest. 

Even Ellen, though her heart ached at the hope having gone out, and lefta dark place where it had been, felt the great relief from hour to hourof not being fretted and snarled at for whatever she either did or leftundone. Thanks and smiles were much pleasanter payment than groans, murmurs, and scoldings; and the brother and sister sometimes grew quitecheerful and merry together, as Alfred lay raised up to look over thehedge into the harvest-field across the meadow, where the reaper and hiswife might be seen gathering the brown ears round, and cutting them withthe sickle, and others going after to bind them into the glorious wheatsheaves that leant against each other in heaps of blessed promise ofplenty. 

Paul tried reaping; but the first thing he did was to make a terrible cutin his hand, which the shuffler told him was for good luck! Some of thewomen in the field bound it up, but he was good for nothing after itexcept going after the cattle, and so he was likely to lose all thechance of earning himself any better clothes in harvest-time. 

Harold grumbled dreadfully that his mother could not spare him to goharvesting beyond their own tiny quarter of an acre of wheat. The postmade it impossible for him to go out to work like the labourers; andbesides, his mother did not think he had gained much good in hay-time, and wished to keep him from the boys. 

Very hard he thought it; and to hear him grumble, any one would havethought Mrs. King was a tyrant far worse than Farmer Shepherd, workingthe flesh off his bones, taking away the fun and the payment alike. 

The truth was, that the morning when Harold threw away from him thethought of his brother's danger, and broke all his promises to him in theselfish fear of a rebuke from the clergyman, had been one of the turning-points of his life, and a turning-point for the bad. It had been ahardening of his heart, just as it had begun to be touched, and a lettingin of evil spirits instead of good ones. 

He became more than ever afraid of Mr. Cope, and shirked going near himso as to be spoken to; he cut Ellen off short if she said a word to him, and avoided being with Alfred, partly because it made him melancholy, partly because he was afraid of Alfred's again talking to him about theevil of his ways. In reality, his secret soul was wretched at thethought of losing his brother; but he tried to put the notion away fromhim, and to drown it in the noisiest jokes and most riotous sports hecould meet with, keeping company with the wildest lads about the parish. That Dick Royston especially, whose honesty was doubtful, but who, beinga clever fellow, was a sort of leader, was doing great harm by settinghis face against the new parson, and laughing at the boys who went tohim. Mrs. King was very unhappy. It was almost worse to think of Haroldthan of his sick brother; and Alfred grieved very much too, and took tohimself the blame of having made home miserable to Harold, and driven himinto bad company; of having been so peevish and unpleasant, that it wasno wonder he would not come near him more than could be helped; and aboveall, of having set a bad example of idleness and recklessness, when hewas well. If the tears were brought into his eyes at first by someunkind neglect of Harold's, they were sure to end in this thought atlast; and then the only comfort was, that Mr. Cope had told him that hemight make his sick-bed very precious to his brother's welfare, bypraying always for him. 

Mr. Cope had talked it over with Mrs. King; and they had agreed that asHarold was under the regular age for Confirmation, and seemed so littledisposed to prepare for it in earnest, they would not press it on him. Hewas far from fit for it, and he was in such a mood of impatientirreverence, that Mr. Cope was afraid of making his sin worse by forcingserious things on him, and his mother was in constant fear of losing herlast hold on him. 

Yet Harold was not a bad or unfeeling boy by nature; and if he would buthave paused to think, he would have been shocked to see how cruelly hewas paining his widowed mother and dying brother, just when he shouldhave been their strength and stay. 

One afternoon in October, when Alfred was in a good deal of pain, Mr. Blunt said he would send out some cooling ointment for the wound at thejoint, when Harold took the evening letters into Elbury. Alfred reckonedmuch on the relief this was to give, and watched the ticks of the clockfor the time for Harold to set off. 

'Make haste, ' were the last words his mother spoke--and Harold fullymeant to make haste; nor was it weather to tempt him to stay long, forthere was a chill raw fog hanging over the meadows, and fast turning intorain, which hung in drops upon his eyebrows, and the many-tiered cape ofhis father's box-coat, which he always wore in bad weather. It wasfortunate he was likely to meet nothing, and that he and the pony bothknew the road pretty well. 

How fuzzy the grey fog made the lamps of the town look! Did they disturbthe pony? What a stumble! Ha! there's a shoe off. Be it known that itwas Harold's own fault; he had not looked at the shoes for many amorning, as he knew it was his duty to do. 

He left Peggy with her ears back, much discomposed at being shod in astrange forge, and by any one but Bill Saunders. 

Then Harold was going to leave his bag at the post-office, when, as heturned up the street, some one caught hold of him, and cried, 'Ho! HaroldKing on foot! What's the row? Old pony tumbled down dead?'

'Cast a shoe, ' said Harold. 

'Oh, jolly, you'll have to wait!' went on Dick Royston. 'Come in here!Here's such a lark!'

Harold looked into a court-yard belonging to a low public-house, and sawwhat was like a tent, with a bright red star on a blue ground at the end, lighted up. A dark figure came between, and there was a sudden crackthat made Harold start. 

'It's the unique (he called it eu-ni-quee) royal shooting-gallery, patronized by his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, ' (what a story!)said Dick. 'You've only to lay down your tin; one copper for threeshots, and if you hit, you may take your choice--gingerbread-nuts, orbits of cocoa-nut, or, what's jolliest, lollies with gin inside 'em!Come, blaze away! or ha'n't you got the money? Does Mother keep you tooshort?'

If there was a thing Harold had a longing for, it was to fire off a gun!If there was a person he envied more than another, it was old IsaacCoffin, when he prowled up and down Farmer Ledbitter's fields with an oldblunderbuss and some powder, to keep off the birds!

To be sure it was a public-house, but it was not inside one! And Motherwould call it gambling. Oh, but it wasn't cards or skittles! And if heshot away his half-pence, how should he pay for the shoeing of the pony?The blacksmith might trust him, or the clerk at the post-office wouldlend him the money, or Betsey Hardman. And the time? One shot would notwaste much! Pony must be shod. Besides, Dick and all the rest would sayhe was a baby. 

He paid the penny, threw aside his cap, and took the gun, though afterall it was only a sham one, and what a miss he made! What business hadevery one to set up that great hoarse laugh? which made him so angry thathe had nearly turned on Dick and cuffed him for his pains. 

However, he was the more bent on trying again, and the owner of thegallery shewed him how to manage better. He hit anything but the middleof the star, and just saw how he thought he might hit next time. Nexttime was barely a miss, so that the man actually gave him a gin-drop toencourage him. That made him mad to meet with real success; but it wasthe turn of another 'young gent, ' as the man called him, and Harold hadto stand by, with his penny in his hand, burning with impatience, andfancying he could mend each shot of that young gent, and another, andanother, and another, who all thrust in to claim their rights before him. His turn came at last; and so short and straight was the gallery, that hereally did hit once the side of the star, and once the middle, and thusgained one gingerbread-nut, and three of the gin-drops. 

It would have been his nature to share them with Alfred, but he could notdo so without saying where he had been, and that he could not do, so hegave one to Dick, and swallowed the rest to keep out the cold. 

Just then the town clock struck six, and frightened him. He had beenthere three-quarters of an hour. What would they say at the post-office?

The clerk looked out of his hole as angry as clerk could look. 'Thiswon't do, King, ' he said. 'Late for sorting! Fine, remember--near anhour after time. '

'Pony cast a shoe, Sir, ' said Harold. He had never been so near adownright falsehood. 

'Whew! Then I suppose I must not report you this time! But look out!You're getting slack. '

No time this for borrowing of the clerk. Harold was really frightened, for he _had_ dawdled much more than he ought of late, and though hesometimes fancied himself sick of the whole post business, a complaint tohis mother would be a dreadful matter. It put everything else out of hishead; and he ran off in great haste to get the money from Betsey Hardman, knocking loud at her green door. 

What a cloud of steamy heat the room was, with the fire glowing like ared furnace, and five black irons standing up before it; andclothes-baskets full of heaps of whiteness, and horses with vapoury websof lace and cambric hanging on them; and the three ironing-boards, wheresmoothness ran along with the irons; and the heaps of folded clothes; andBetsey in her white apron, broad and red in the midst of her maidens!

'Ha! Harold King! Well, to be sure, you are a stranger! Don't comenigh that there hoss; it's Mrs. Parnell's best pocket-handkerchiefs, realWalencines!' (she meant Valenciennes. ) 'If you'll just run up and seeMother, I'll have it out of the way, and we'll have a cup of tea. '

'Thank you, but I--'

'My! What a smoke ye're in! Take care, or I shall have 'em all to doover again. Go up to Mother, do, like a good lad. '

'I can't, Betsey; I must go home. '

'Ay! that's the way. Lads never can sit down sensible and comfortable!it's all the same--'

'I wanted, ' said Harold, interrupting her, 'to ask you to lend mesixpence. Pony's cast a shoe, and I had to leave her with the smith. '

'Ay? Who did you leave her with?'

'The first I came to, up in Wood Street. '

'Myers. Ye shouldn't have done that. His wife's the most stuck-up proudbody I ever saw--wears steel petticoats, I'll answer for it. You shouldhave gone to Charles Shaw. '

'Can't help it, ' said Harold. 'Please, Betsey, let me have the sixpence;I'll pay you faithfully to-morrow!'

'Ay! that's always the way. Never come in unless ye want somewhat. 'Twasn't the way your poor father went on! He'd a civil word for everyone. Well, and can't you stop a minute to say how your poor brother is?'

'Much the same, ' said Harold impatiently. 

'Yes, he'll never be no better, poor thing! All decliny; as I says toMother, what a misfortune it is upon poor Cousin King! they'll all gooff, one after t'other, just like innocents to the slaughter. '

This was not a cheerful prediction; and Harold petulantly said he mustget back, and begged for the sixpence. He got it at last, but not tillall Betsey's pocket had been turned out; and finding nothing butshillings and threepenny-bits, she went all through her day's expensesaloud, calling all her girls to witness to help her to account for thesixpence that ought to have been there. 

Mrs. Brown had paid her four and sixpence--one florin and ahalf-crown--and she had three threepenny-pieces in her pocket, andtwopence. Then Sally had been out and got a shilling's-worth of soap, and six-penn'orth of blue, and brought home one shilling; and there wasthe sausages--no one could recollect what they had cost, though theytalked so much about their taste; and five-pence-worth of red-herrings, and the butter; yes, and threepence to the beggar who said he had been inSebastopol. Harold's head was ready to turn round before it was alldone; but he got away at last, with a scolding for not going up to seeMother. 

Home he trotted as hard as the pony would go, holding his head down totry to bury nose and mouth in his collar, and the thick rain plasteringhis hair, and streaming down the back of his neck. What an ill-usedwretch was he, said he to himself, to have to rattle all over the countryin such weather!

Here was home at last. How comfortable looked the bright light, as thecottage door was thrown open at the sound of the horse's feet!

'Well, Harold!' cried Ellen eagerly, 'is anything the matter?'

'No, ' he said, beginning to get sulky because he felt he was wrong; 'onlyPeggy lost a shoe--'

'Lame?'

'No, I took her to the smith. '

'Give me Alfred's ointment, please, before you put her up. He is in sucha way about it, and we can't put him to bed--'

'Haven't got it. '

'Not got it! O Harold!'

'I should like to know how to be minding such things when pony loses ashoe, and such weather! I declare I'm as wet--!' said Harold angrily, ashe saw his sister clasp her hands in distress, and the tears come in hereyes. 

'Is Harold come safe?' called Mrs. King from above. 

'Is the ointment come?' cried Alfred, in a piteous pain-worn voice. 

Harold stamped his foot, and bolted to the stable to put the pony away. 

'It's not come, ' said Ellen, coming up-stairs, very sadly. 

'He has forgot it. '

'Forgot it!' cried Alfred, raising himself passionately. 'He always doesforget everything! He don't care for me one farthing! I believe hewants me dead!'

'This is very bad of him! I didn't think he'd have done it, ' said Mrs. King sorrowfully. 

'He's been loitering after some mischief, ' exclaimed Alfred. 'Taking hispleasure--and I must stay all this time in pain! Serve him right to sendhim back to Elbury. '

Mrs. King had a great mind to have done so; but when she looked at thetorrents of rain that streamed against the window, and thought how wetHarold must be already, and of the fatal illnesses that had been begun bybeing exposed to such weather, she was afraid to venture a boy with sucha family constitution, and turning back to Alfred, she said, 'I am verysorry, Alfred, but it can't be helped; I can't send Harold out in therain again, or we shall have him ill too. '

Poor Alfred! it was no trifle to have suffered all day, and to be toldthe pain must go on all night. His patience and all his better thoughtswere quite worn away, and he burst into tears of anger and cried out thatit was very hard--his mother cared for Harold more than for him, andnobody minded it, if he lay in such pain all night. 

'You know better than that, dear, ' said his poor mother, sadly grieved, but bearing it meekly. 'Harold shall go as soon as can be to-morrow. '

'And what good will that be to-night?' grumbled Alfred. 'But you alwaysdid put Harold before me. However, I shall soon be dead and out of yourway, that's all!'

Mrs. King would not make any answer to this speech, knowing it only madehim worse. She went down to see about Harold, an additional offence toAlfred, who muttered something about 'Mother and her darling. '

'How can you, Alfred, speak so to Mother?' cried Ellen. 

'I'm sure every one is cross enough to me, ' returned Alfred. 

'Not Mother, ' said Ellen. 'She couldn't help it. '

'She won't send Harold out again, though; I'm sure I'd have gone forhim. '

'You don't know what the rain was, ' said Ellen. 

'Well, he should have minded; but you're all against me. '

'You'll be sorry by-and-by, Alfred; this isn't like the way you talksometimes. '

'Some one else had need to be sorry, not me. '

Perhaps, in the midst of his captious state, Alfred was somewhat pacifiedby hearing sounds below that made him certain that Harold was notescaping without some strong words from his mother. 

They were not properly taken. Harold was in no mood of repentance, andthe consciousness that he had been behaving most unkindly, only made himmore rough and self-justifying. 

'I can't help it! I can't be a slave to run about everywhere, andremember everything--pony losing her shoe, and nigh tumbling down withme, and Ross at the post so cross for nothing!'

'You'll grieve at the way you have used your poor brother one of thesedays, Harold, ' quietly answered his mother, so low, that Alfred could nothear through the floor. 'Now, you'll please to go to bed. '

'Ain't I to have no supper?' said Harold in a sullen voice, with a greatmind to sit down in the chimney-corner in defiance. 

'I shall give you something hot when you are in bed. If I treated you asyou deserve, I should send you to Mr. Blunt's this moment; but I can'tafford to have you ill too, so go to bed this moment. '

His mother could still master him by her steadiness and he went up, muttering that he'd no notion of being treated like a baby, and that hewould soon shew her the difference: he wasn't going to be made a slave toAlfred, and 'twas all a fuss about that stuff!

He did fancy he said his prayers; but they could not have been real ones, for he was no softer when his mother came to his bedside with a greatbasin of hot gruel. He said he hated such nasty sick stuff, and gruntedsavagely when, with a look that ought to have gone to his heart, sheasked if he thought he deserved anything better. 

Yet she did not know of the shooting gallery, nor of his false excuses. If he had not been deceiving her, perhaps he might have been touched. 

'Well, Harold, ' she said at last, after taking the empty basin from him, and picking up his wet clothes and boots to dry them by the fire, 'I hopeas you lie there you'll come to a better mind. It makes me afraid foryou, my boy. It is not only your brother you are sinning against, but ifyou are a bad boy, you know Who will be angry with you. Good-night. '

She lingered, but Harold was still hard, and would neither own himselfsorry, nor say good-night. 

When she passed his bed at the top of the stairs again, after hanging upthe things by the fire, he had his head hidden, and either was, orfeigned to be, asleep. 

Alfred's ill-temper was nearly gone, but he still thought himselfgrievously injured, and was at no pains to keep himself from groaning andmoaning all the time he was being put to bed. In fact, he rather likedto make the most of it, to shew his mother how provoking she was, and toreproach Harold for his neglect. 

The latter purpose he did not effect; Harold heard every sound, andconsoled himself by thinking what an intolerable work Alfred was makingon purpose. If he had tried to bear it as well as possible, his brotherwould have been much more likely to be sorry. 

Alfred was thinking too much about his misfortunes and discomforts toattend to the evening reading, but it soothed him a little, and the painwas somewhat less, so he did fall asleep, so uneasily though, that Mrs. King put off going to bed as late as she could. 

It was nearly eleven, and Ellen had been in bed a long time, when Alfredstarted, and Mrs. King turned her head, at the click of the wicket gate, and a step plashing on the walk. She opened the little window, and thegust of wet wind puffed the curtains, whistled round the room, and almostblew out the candle. 

'Who's there?

'It's me, Mrs. King! I've got the stuff, ' called a hoarse tired voice. 

'Well, if ever! It's Paul Blackthorn!' exclaimed Mrs. King. 'Thank yekindly. I'll come and let you in. '

'Paul Blackthorn!' cried Alfred. 'Been all the way to Elbury for me! OMother, bring him up, and let me thank him! But how ever did he know?'The tears came running down Alfred's cheeks at such kindness from astranger. Mrs. King had hurried down-stairs, and at the threshold stooda watery figure, holding out the gallipot. 

'Oh! thank you, thank you; but come in! Yes, come in! you must havesomething hot, and get dried. '

Paul shambled in very foot-sore. He looked as if he were made of moistmud, and might be squeezed into any shape, and streams of rain weredropping from each of his many rags. 

'Well, I don't know how to thank you--such a night! But he'll sleep easynow. How did you come to think of it?'

'I was just coming home from the parson's, and I met Harold putting upPeggy, in a great way because he'd forgotten. That's all, Missus, ' saidPaul, looking shamefaced. 'Good-night to you. '

'No, no, that won't do. I must have you sit down and get dry, ' said Mrs. King, nursing up the remains of the fire; and as Paul's day-garmentsserved him for night-gear likewise, he could hardly help accepting theinvitation, and spreading his chilled hands to the fire. 

As to Mrs. King's feelings, it must be owned that, grateful as she was, it was rather like sitting opposite to the heap in the middle of Mr. Shepherd's farm-yard. 

'Would you take that?' she said, holding out a three-penny piece. 'I'dmake it twice as much if I could, but times are hard. '

'No, no, Missus, I didn't do it for that, ' said Paul, putting it aside. 

'Then you must have some supper, that I declare. '

And she brought out a slice of cold bacon, and some bread, and warmedsome beer at the fire. She would go without bacon and beer herself to-morrow, but that was nothing to her. It was a real pleasure to see thecolour come into Paul's bony yellow cheeks at the hearty meal, which hecould not refuse; but he did not speak much, for he was tired out, andthe fire and the beer were making him very sleepy. 

Alfred rapped above with the stick that served as a bell. It was to begthat Paul would come and be thanked; and though Mrs. King was a littleafraid of the experiment, she did ask him to walk up for a moment. 

Grunt went he, and in rather an unmannerly way, he said, 'I'd rathernot. '

'Pray do, ' said Mrs. King; 'I don't think Alfred will sleep easy withoutsaying thank you. '

So Paul complied, and in a most ungainly fashion clumped up-stairs andstood at the door. He had not forgotten his last reception, and wouldnot come a step farther, though Alfred stretched out his hand and beggedhim to come in. 

Alfred could say only 'Thank you, I never thought any one would be sokind. '

And Paul made gruff reply, 'Ye're very welcome, ' turned about as if hewere running away, and tumbled down-stairs, and out of the house, withouteven answering Mrs. King's 'Good-night. '

Harold had wakened at the sounds. He heard all, but he chose to seem tobe asleep, and, would you believe it? he was only the more provoked!Paul's exertion made his neglect seem all the worse, and he waspositively angry with him for 'going and meddling, and poking his nosewhere he'd no concern. Now he shouldn't be able to get the stuffto-morrow, and so make it up; and of course mother would go and dockPaul's supper out of his dinner!'

If such reflections were going on upon one side of the partition, therewere very different thoughts upon the other. The stranger's kindness haddone more than relieve Alfred's pain: the warm sense of thankfulness hadsoftened his spirit, and carried off his selfish fit. He knew not howkind people were to him, and how ungrateful he had been to punish hisinnocent mother and sister, and so much to magnify a bit ofthoughtlessness on Harold's part; to be angry with his mother for notdriving him out when she thought it might endanger his health and life, and to say such cruel things on purpose to wound her. Alfred felthimself far more cruel than he had even thought Harold. 

And was this his resolution? Was this the shewing the sincerity of hisrepentance through his conduct in illness? Was this patience? Was itbrotherly love? Was it the taking up the cross so as to bear it like hisSaviour, Who spoke no word of complaining, no murmur against Histormentors?

How he had fallen! How he had lost himself! It was a bitter distress, and threw him almost into despair. He prayed over and over to beforgiven, and began to long for some assurance of pardon, and forsomething to prevent all his right feelings and wishes from thus seemingto slip away from his grasp at the first trial. 

He told his mother how sorry he was; and she answered, 'Dear lad, don'tfret about it. It was very hard for you to bear, and you are butlearning, you see, to be patient. '

'But I'm not learning if I don't go on no better, ' sighed Alfred. 

'By bits you are, my boy, ' she said; 'you are much less fractious nowthan you used to be, only you could not stand this out-of-the-way trial. '

Alfred groaned. 

'Do you remember what our Saviour said to St. Peter?' said his mother;'"Whither I go thou canst not follow Me now, but thou shalt follow Meafterwards. " You see, St. Peter couldn't bear his cross then, but hewent on doing his best, and grieving when he failed, and by-and-by he didbear it almost like his Master. He got to be made strong out ofweakness. '

There was some comfort to Alfred in this; but he feared, and yet longed, to see Mr. Cope, and when he came, had scarcely answered his questions asto how he felt, before he said, 'O Sir, I've been a bad boy again, and socross to them all!'

'O Sir, ' said Ellen, who could not bear for him to blame himself, 'I'msure it was no wonder--he's so distracted with the pain, and Haroldgetting idling, and forgetting to bring him the ointment. Why, even thatvagabond boy was so shocked, that he went all the way to Elbury that verynight for it. I told Alfred you'd tell him that anybody would be putout, and nobody would think of minding what he said. '

'Nobody, especially so kind a sister, ' said Mr. Cope, smiling; 'but thatis not what Alfred is thinking of. '

'No, Sir, ' said Alfred; 'their being so good to me makes it all theworse. '

'I quite believe so; and you are very much disappointed in yourself. '

'Oh yes, Sir, just when I wanted to be getting patient, and more like--'and his eyes turned to the little picture, and filled with tears. 

Mr. Cope said somewhat of what his mother had said that he was but ascholar in patience, and that he must take courage, though he hadslipped, and pray for new strengthening and refreshing to go on in thepath of pain his Lord had hallowed for him. 

Perhaps the words reminded Alfred of the part of the Catechism where theyoccur, for he said, 'Oh, I wish I was confirmed! If I could but take theHoly Sacrament, to make me stronger, and sure of being forgiven--'

'You shall--before--' said Mr. Cope, speaking eagerly, but becomingchoked as he went on. 'You are one whom the Church would own as readyand desirous to come, though you cannot be confirmed. You should atonce--but you see I am not yet a priest; I have not the power toadminister the Holy Communion; but I trust I shall be one in the spring, and then, Alfred--Or if you should be worse, I promise you that I wouldbring some one here. You shall not go without the Bread of Life. '

Alfred felt what he said to the depths of his heart, but he could not sayanything but 'Thank you, Sir. '

Mr. Cope, still much moved, laid his hand upon that of the boy. 'So, Alfred, we prepare together. As I hope and long to prepare myself tohave that great charge committed to me, which our Saviour Christ gave toHis Apostles; so you prepare for the receiving of that Bread and that Cupwhich will more fully unite you to Him, and join your suffering to whatHe bore for you. '

'How shall I, Sir?' murmured Alfred. 

'I will do my best to shew you, ' said Mr. Cope; 'but your Catechism tellsyou best. Think over that last answer. '

Alfred's face lighted sweetly as he went over it. 'Why, that's what Ican't help doing, Sir; I can't forget my faults, I'm so afraid of them;and I'm sure I do want to lead a new life, if I didn't keep on being sobad; and thinking about His dying is the best comfort I have. Nor I'msure I don't bear ill-will to nobody, only I suppose it is not charity torun out at poor Mother and Ellen when one's put out. '

'Perhaps that is what you want to learn, ' said Mr. Cope, 'and to get allthese feelings deepened, and more earnest and steadfast. If the longwaiting does that for you, it will be good, and keep you from cominglightly to the Holy Feast. '

'Oh, I could not do that!' exclaimed Alfred. 'And may I think that allmy faults will be taken away and forgiven?'

'All you repent of, and bring in faith--'

'That is what they say at church in the Absolution, ' said Alfredthoughtfully. 

'Rather it is what the priest says to them, ' said Mr. Cope; 'it is theapplying the promise of forgiveness that our Saviour bought. I may notyet say those words with authority, Alfred, but I should like to hopethat some day I may speak them to you, and bring rest from the weight atyour heart. '

'Oh! I hope I may live to that!' said Alfred. 

'You shall hear them, whether from me or from another, ' said Mr. Cope, 'that is, if God will grant us warning. But you need not fear, Alfred, if you thoroughly repent, and put your full faith in the great Sacrificethat has been offered for your sins and the sins of all the world. Godwill take care of His child, and you already have His promise that Hewill give you all that is needful for your salvation. '

CHAPTER VIII--CONFIRMATION

If Harold had known all the consequences of his neglect, perhaps he wouldhave been more sorry for it than as yet he had chosen to be. 

The long walk and the warm beer and fire sent Paul to his hay-nest soheavy with sleep, that he never stirred till next morning he was wakenedby Tom Boldre, the shuffler, kicking him severely, and swearing at himfor a lazy fellow, who stayed out at night and left him to do his work. 

Paul stumbled to his feet, quite confused by the pain, and feeling forhis shoes in the dark loft. The shuffler scarcely gave him an instant toput them on, but hunted him down-stairs, telling him the farmer wasthere, and he would catch it. 

It would do nobody any good to hear the violent way in which Mr. Shepherdabused the boy. He was a passionate man, and no good labourers liked towork with him because of his tongue. With such grown men as he had, hewas obliged to keep himself under some restraint, but this only incitedhim to make up for it towards the poor friendless boy. 

It was really nearly eight o'clock, and Paul's work had been neglected, which was enough to cause displeasure; and besides, Boldre had heard Paulcoming home past eleven, and the farmer insisted on knowing what he hadbeen doing. 

Under all his rags, Paul was a very proud boy, and thus asked, he wouldnot tell, but stood with his legs twisted, looking very sulky. 

'No use asking him, ' cried Mrs. Shepherd's shrill voice at the back door;'why, don't ye hear that Mrs. Barker's hen-roost has been robbed by DickRoyston and two or three more on 'em?'

'I never robbed!' cried Paul indignantly. 

'None of your jaw, ' said the farmer angrily. 'If you don't tell me thismoment where you've been, off you go this instant. Drinking at theTankard, I'll warrant. '

'No such thing, Sir, ' said Paul. 'I went to Elbury after some medicinefor a sick person. '

Somehow he had a feeling about the house opposite, which would not lethim come out with the name in such a scene. 

'That's all stuff, ' broke in Mrs. Shepherd, 'I don't believe one word ofit! Send him off; take my advice, Farmer, let him go where he comesfrom; Ellen King told me he was out of prison. '

Paul flushed crimson at this, and shook all over. He had all but turnedto go, caring for nothing more at Friarswood; but just then, John Farden, one of the labourers, who was carrying out some manure, called out, 'No, no, Ma'am. Sure enough he did go to Elbury to Dr. Blunt's. I was on theroad myself, and I hears him. "Good-night, " says I. "Good-night, " sayshe. "Where be'est going?" says I. "To doctor's, " says he, "arter somestuff for Alfred King. "

'Yes, ' said Paul, speaking more to Farden than to his master, 'and thenMrs. King gave me some supper, and that was what made me so late. '

'She ought to be ashamed of herself, then, ' said Mrs. Shepherdspitefully, 'having a vagabond scamp like that drinking beer at her houseat that time of night. How one is deceived in folks!'

'Well, what are you doing here?' cried the farmer, turning on Paulangrily; 'd'ye mean to waste any more of the day?'

So Paul was not turned off, and had to go straight to his work. It waswell he had had so good a supper, for he had not a moment to snatch a bitof breakfast. It so happened that his work was to go with John Farden, who was carrying out the manure in the cart. Paul had to hold the horse, while John forked it out into little heaps in the field. John was agreat big powerful man, with a foolish face, not a good workman, nor agood character, or he would not have been at that farm. He had eithernever been taught anything, or had forgotten it all; he never went nearchurch; he had married a disreputable wife, and had two or three unrulychildren, who were likely to be the plagues of their parents and theparish, but not a whit did John heed; he did not seem to have much moresense than to work just enough to get food, lodging, beer, and tobacco, to sleep all night, and doze all Sunday. There was not any malice nordishonesty in him; but it was terrible that a man with an immortal soulshould live so nearly the life of the brute beasts that have nounderstanding, and should never wake to the sense of God or of eternity. 

He was not a man of many words, and nothing passed for a long time butshouts of hoy, and whoa, and the like, to the horse. Paul went heavilyon, scarce knowing what he was about; there was a stunned jaded feelabout him, as if he were hunted and driven about, a mere outcast, despised by every one, even by the Kings, whose kindness had been hisonly ray of brightness. Not that his senses or spirits were alive enougheven to be conscious of pain or vexation; it was only a dull drearyheedlessness what became of him next; and, quick clever boy as he hadbeen in the Union, he did not seem to have a bit more sense, thought, orfeeling, than John Farden. 

John Farden was the first to break the silence: 'I wouldn't bide, ' saidhe. 

Paul looked up, and muttered, 'I have nowhere to go. '

'Farmer uses thee shameful, ' repeated John. 'Why don't thee cut?'

Paul saw the smoke of Mrs. King's chimney. That had always seemed like afriend to him, but it came across him that they too thought him a runawayfrom prison, and he felt as if his only bond of fellowship was gone. Butthere was something else, too; and he made answer, 'I'll bide for theConfirmation. '

'Eh?' said John, 'what good'll that do ye?'

'Help me to be a good lad, ' said Paul, who knew John Farden would notenter into any other explanation. 

'Why, what'll they do to ye?'

'The Bishop will put his hand on me and bless me, ' said Paul; and as hesaid the words there was hope and refreshment coming back. He was achild of God, if no other owned him. 

'Whoy, ' said Farden, much as he might have spoken to his horse, 'rum sortof a head thou'st got! Thee'll never go up to Bishop such a guy!'

'Can't help it, ' said Paul rather sullenly; 'it ain't the clothes thatGod looks at. '

John scanned him all over, with his face looking more foolish than everin the puzzle he felt. 

'Well, ' he said, 'and what wilt get by it?'

'God's grace to do right, I hope, ' said Paul; then he added, out of hissad heart, 'It's bad enough here, to be sure. It would be a bad look-outif one hoped for nothing afterwards. '

Somehow John's mind didn't take in the notion of afterwards, and he didnot go on talking to Paul. Perhaps there was a dread in his poor dullmind of getting frightened out of the deadly stupefied sleep it was boundin. 

But that bit of talk had done Paul great good, by rousing him to thethought of what he had to hope for. There was the Confirmation nigh athand, and then on beyond there was rest; and the words came into hismind, 'There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary are atrest. '

Poor, poor boy! He was very young to have such yearnings towards thegrave, and well-nigh to wish he lay as near to it as Alfred King, so hemight have those loving tender hands near him, those kind voices roundhim. Paul had gone through a great deal in these few months; and, usedto good shelter and regular meals, he was less inured to bodily hardshipthan many a cottage boy. His utter neglect of his person was telling onhim; he was less healthy and strong than he had been, and though highspirits, merriment, and the pleasure of freedom and independence, hadmade all light to him in the summer, yet now the cold weather, with hisinsufficient food and scanty clothing, was dulling him and deadening him, and hard work and unkind usage seemed to be grinding his very sensesdown. To be sure, when twelve o'clock came, he went up into the loft, ate his bit of dry bread, and said his prayers, as he had not been ableto do in the morning, and that made him feel less forlorn and downcastfor a little while; but then as he sat, he grew cold, and numb, andsleepy, and seemed to have no life in him, but to be moving like a horsein a mill, when Boldre called him down, and told him not to be idlingthere. 

The theft in Mrs. Barker's poultry-yard was never traced home to any one, but the world did not the less believe Dick Royston and Jesse Rolt tohave been concerned in it. Indeed, they had been drinking up some oftheir gains when Harold met them at the shooting-gallery: and Mrs. Shepherd would not put it out of her head that Paul Blackthorn was in thesecret, and that if he did really go for the medicine as he said, it wasonly as an excuse for carrying the chickens to some receiver of stolengoods. She had no notion of any person doing anything out of pure loveand pity. Moreover, it is much easier to put a suspicion into people'sheads than out again; and if Paul's whole history and each day's doingshad been proved to her in a court of justice, she would still havechiefly remembered that she had always thought ill of him, and that EllenKing had said he was a runaway convict, and so she would have believedhim to the end. 

Ellen had long ago forgotten that she had said anything of the kind; andthough she still held her nose rather high when Paul was near, she wouldhave answered for his honesty as readily as for that of her own brothers. But hers had not been the charity that thinketh no evil, and her idlewords had been like thistle-down, lightly sent forth, but when they hadlighted, bearing thorns and prickles. 

Those thorns were galling poor Paul. Nobody could guess what hisglimpses of that happy, peaceful, loving family were to him. They seemedto him like a softer, better kind of world, and he looked at their fairfaces and fresh, well-ordered garments with a sort of reverence; a kindlook or greeting from Mrs. King, a mere civil answer from Ellen, thosetwo sights of the white spirit-looking Alfred, were like the rays oflight that shone into his dark hay-loft. Sometimes he heard them singingtheir hymns and psalms on a Sunday evening, and then the tears would comeinto his eyes as he leant over the gate to listen. And, as if it wasbecause Ellen kept at the greatest distance from him, he set more storeby her words and looks than those of any one else, was always glad whenshe served him in the shop, and used to watch her on Sunday, looking asfresh as a flower in her neat plain dress. 

And now to hear that she not only thought meanly of him, which he knewwell enough, but thought him a thief, a runaway, and an impostor comingabout with false tales, was like a weight upon his sunken spirits, andseemed to take away all the little heart hard usage had left him, madehim feel as if suspicious eyes were on him whenever he went for his bitof bread, and took away all his peace in looking at the cottage. 

He did once take courage to say to Harold, 'Did your sister really say Ihad run away from gaol?'

'Oh, nobody minds what our Ellen says, ' was the answer. 

'But did she say so?'

'I don't know, I dare say she did. She's so fine, that she thinks no onethat comes up-stairs in dirty shoes worth speaking to. I'm sure she'sthe plague of my life--always at me. '

That was not much comfort for Paul. He had other friends, to be sure. All the boys in the place liked him, and were very angry with the way thefarmer treated him, and greatly to their credit, they admired hissuperior learning instead of being jealous of it. Mrs. Hayward, thesexton's wife, the same who had bound up his hand when he cut it atharvest, even asked him to come in and help her boys in the evenings withwhat they had to prepare for Mr. Cope. He was not sorry to do sosometimes. The cottage was a slatternly sort of place, where he did notfeel ashamed of himself, and the Haywards were mild good sort of folks, from whom he was sure never to hear either a bad or an unkind word;though he did not care for them, nor feel refreshed and helped by beingwith them as he did with the Kings. 

John Farden, too, was good-natured to him, and once or twice hinderedBoldre from striking or abusing him; he offered him a pipe once, but Paulcould not smoke, and another time brought him out a pint of beer into thefield. Mrs. Shepherd spied him drinking it from her upper window, andbelieved all the more that he got money somehow, and spent it in drink. 

So the time wore on till the Confirmation, all seeming like one dullheavy dream of bondage; and as the weather became colder, the poor boyseemed to have no power of thinking of anything, but of so gettingthrough his work as to avoid violence, to keep himself from perishingwith cold, and not to hurt his chilblains more than he could help. 

All his quick intellect and good instruction seemed to have perishedaway, and the last time he went to Mr. Cope's, he sat as if he werestupid or asleep, and when a question came to him, sat with his mouthopen like silly Bill Pridden. 

Mr. Cope knew him too well not to feel, as he wrote the ticket, thatthere were very few of whom he could so entirely from his heart say'Examined and APPROVED, ' as the poor lonely outcast foundling, PaulBlackthorn, who could not even tell whether he were fifteen, sixteen, orseventeen, but could just make sure that he had once been caned by oldMr. Haynes, who went away from the Union twelve years ago. 

'Do you think you can keep the ticket safe if I give it you now, Paul?'asked Mr. Cope, recollecting that the cows might sup upon it like hisPrayer-book. 

Paul put his hands down to the bottom of his pockets. They were all onehole, and that sad lost foolish look came over his wan face again, andstartled Mr. Cope. 

The boys grinned, but Charles Hayward stepped forward. 'Please, Sir, letme take care of it for him. '

Mr. Cope and Paul both agreed, and Mr. Cope kept Charles for a moment tosay, as he gave him a shilling, 'Look here, Charles, do you think you canmanage to get that poor fellow a tolerable breakfast on Saturday beforehe goes? And if you could make him look a little more decent?'

Charles pulled his forelock and looked knowing. In fact, there was alittle plot among these good-natured boys, and Harold King was in it too, though he was not of the Confirmation party, and said and thought he wasvery glad of it. He did not want to bind himself to be so very good. Silly boy; as if Baptism had not bound him already!

Mrs. Hayward put her head out as Paul passed her cottage, and called out, 'I say, you Paul, you come in to-morrow evening with our Charlie and Jim, and I'll wash you when I washes them. '

Good Mrs. Hayward made a mistake that the more delicate-minded Mrs. Kingwould never have made. Perhaps if a pail of warm water and some soap hadbeen set before Paul, he might actually have washed himself; but he wasmuch too big and too shamefaced a lad to fancy sharing a family scrubbingby a woman, whatever she might do to her own sons. But considering thesize of the Hayward cottage, and the way in which the family lived, thissort of notion was not likely to come into the head of the good-naturedmother. 

So she and her boys were much vexed when Paul did not make hisappearance, and she made a face of great disgust when Charles said, 'Never mind, Mother, my white frock will hide no end of dirt. '

'I shall have to wash it over again before you can wear it, I know, ' saidMrs. Hayward. 'Not as I grudges the trouble; he's a poor lost orphant, that it's a shame to see so treated. '

Mrs. Hayward did not know that she was bestowing the cup of cold water, as well as being literally ready to wash the feet of the poor disciple. 

A clean body is a type and token of a pure mind; and though the lads ofFriarswood did not quite perceive this, there was a feeling about them ofthere being something unnatural and improper, and a disgrace toFriarswood, in any one going up to the Bishop in such a condition asPaul. Especially, as Charles Hayward said, when he was the pick of thewhole lot. Perhaps Charles was right, for surely Paul was single-heartedin his hope of walking straight to his one home, Heaven, and he had beendoing no other than bearing his cross, when he so patiently took thebeing 'buffeted' when he did well, and faithfully served his frowardmaster. 

But Paul was not to escape the outward cleansing, and from one of thevery last people from whom it would have been expected. He had justpulled his bed of hay down over him, and was trying to curl himself up soas to stop his teeth from chattering, with Caesar on his feet, when thedog growled, and a great voice lowered to a gruff whisper, said, 'Comealong, young un!'

'I'm coming, ' cried Paul. 

Though it was not Boldre's voice, it had startled him terribly; he was somuch used to ill-treatment, that he expected a savage blow every moment. 

But the great hand that closed on him, though rough, was not unkind. 

'Poor lad, how he quakes!' said John Farden's voice. 'Don't ye beafeard, it's only me. '

'Nobody got at the horses?' cried Paul. 

'No, no; only I ain't going to have you going up to yon big parson allone muck-heap! Come on, and make no noise about it. '

Paul did not very well know what was going to befall him, but he did notfeel unsafe with John Farden, and besides, his lank frame was in thegrasp of that big hand like a mouse in the power of a mastiff. So he lethimself be hauled down the ladder, into an empty stall, where, behold, there was a dark lantern (which had been at bad work in its time), apail, a brush, a bit of soap, and a ragged towel. 

John laid hold of him much as Alfred in his page days used to do of LadyJane's little dog when it had to be washed, but Puck had the advantage inkeeping on his shaggy coat all the time, and in being more gentlyhandled, whereas Farden scrubbed with such hearty good-will, that Paulthought his very skin would come off. But he had undergone the like inthe workhouse, and he knew how to accommodate himself to it; and when hisrough bath was over, though he was very sore, and stiff, and chilly, hereally felt relieved, and more respectable than he had done for manymonths, only rather sorry he must put on his filthy old rags again; andhe gave honest John more thanks than might have been expected. 

The Confirmation was to be at eleven o'clock, at Elbury, and John hadundertaken his morning's work, so that Mr. Shepherd grudgingly consentedto spare him, knowing that all the other farmers of course did the same, and that there would be a cry of shame if he did not. 

Paul had just found his way down the ladder in the morning, with thoughtsgoing through his mind that to him this would be the coming of theComforter, and he was sure he wanted comfort; and that for some hours ofthis day at least, he should be at peace from rude words and blows, whenhe heard a great confusion of merry voices and suppressed laughing, andsaw the heads of some of the lads bobbing about near Mrs. King's garden. 

Was it time already to set off, he wondered, looking up to the sun; butthen those boys seemed to be in an uproarious state such as did not suithis present mood, nor did he think Mr. Cope would consider it befitting. He would have let them go by, feeling himself such a scare-crow as theymight think a blot upon them; but he remembered that Charles Hayward hadhis ticket, and as he looked at himself, he doubted whether he should belet into a strange church. 

'Paul! Paul Blackthorn!' called Harold, with a voice all aglee. 

'Well!' said Paul, 'what do you want of me?'

'Come on, and you'll see. '

'I don't want a row. Is Charlie Hayward there? Just ask him for mycard, and don't make a work. '

'He'll give it you if you'll come for it, ' said Harold; and seeing therewas no other chance, Paul slowly came. Harold led him to the stable, where just within the door stood a knot of stout hearty boys, snortingwith fun, hiding their heads on each other's shoulders, and bending theirbuskined knees with merriment. 

'Now then!' cried Charles Hayward, and he had got hold of the only buttonthat held Paul's coat together. 

Paul was bursting out with something, but George Grant's arms were roundhis waist, and his hands were fumbling at his fastenings. They were eachone much stronger than he was now, and they drowned his voice with shoutsof laughter, while as fast as one garment was pulled off, another was puton. 

'Mind, you needn't make such a work, it bain't presents, ' said GeorgeGrant, 'only we won't have them asking up at Elbury if we've saved theguy to bring in. '

'It is a present, though, old Betty Bushel's shirt, ' said CharlesHayward. 'She said she'd throw it at his head if he brought it backagain; but the frock's mine. '

'And the corduroys is mine, ' said George Grant. 'My! they be a sight toobig in the band! Run in, Harold, and see if your mother can lend us apin. '

'And the waistcoat is my summer one, ' said Fred Bunting. 'He's too bigtoo; why, Paul, you're no better than a natomy!'

'Never mind, my white frock will hide it all, ' said Charles, 'and here'sNed's cap for you. Oh! and it's poor Alfred's boots. '

Paul could not make up his mind to walk all the way in the boots, but tosatisfy the boys he engaged to put them on as soon as they were gettingto Elbury. 

'My! he looks quite respectable, ' cried Charles, running back a littleway to look at him. 

'I wonder if Mr. Cope will know him?' exclaimed Harold, jumping leap-frogfashion on George Grant's back. 

'The maids will take him for some strange gentleman, ' exclaimed JemHayward; 'and why, bless me, he's washed, I do declare!' as a streak oflight from the door fell on Paul's visage. 

'No, you don't mean it, ' broke out Charles. 'Let's look! yes, I protest, why, the old grime between his eyes is gone after all. How did youmanage that, Paul?'

Paul rather uneasily mumbled something about John Farden, and the boysclapped their hands, and shouted, so that Alfred, who well knew what wasgoing on, raised himself on his pillow and laughed. It was rather blunttreatment for feelings if they were tender, but these were rough warm-hearted village boys, and it was all their good-nature. 

'And where's the grub?' asked Charles importantly, looking about. 

'Oh, not far off, ' said Harold; and in another moment, he and Charles hadbrought in a black coffee-pot, a large mug, some brown sugar, a hunch ofbread, some butter, and a great big smoking sausage. 

Paul looked at it, as if he were not quite sure what to do with it. Oneboy proceeded to turn in an inordinate quantity of sugar, another to pourin the brown coffee that sent out a refreshing steam enough to make anyone hungry. George Grant spread the butter, cut the sausage in half, putit on the bread, and thrust it towards Paul. 

'Eat it--s--s, ' said Charles, patting Paul on the back. 'Mr. Cope saidyou was to, and you must obey your minister. '

'Not all for me?' said Paul, not able to help a pull at the coffee, themug warming his fingers the while. 

'Oh yes, we've all had our breakfastisses, ' said George Grant; 'we areonly come to make you eat yours like a good boy, as Mr. Cope said youshould. '

They stood round, looking rather as they would have done had Paul been anelephant taking his meal in a show; but not one would hear of helping himoff with a crumb out of Mr. Cope's shilling. George Grant was a bighungry lad, and his breakfast among nine at home had not been much tospeak of; but savoury as was the sausage, and perfumy as was the coffee, he would have scorned to take a fragment from that stranger, beg him todo so as Paul might; and what could not be eaten at that time, with agood pint of the coffee, was put aside in a safe nook in the stable to bewarmed up for supper. 

That morning's work was not a bad preparation for Confirmation after all. 

Harold had stayed so long, that he had to jump on the pony and ride hisfastest to be in time at the post. He was very little ashamed of notbeing among those lads, and felt as if he had the more time to enjoyhimself; but there were those who felt very sad for him--Alfred, whowould have given so much to receive the blessing; and Ellen, whoseconfirmation was very lonely and melancholy without either of herbrothers; besides his mother, to whom his sad carelessness was suchconstant grief and heart-ache. 

Ellen was called for by the carriage from the Grange, and sat up behindwith the kitchen-maid, who was likewise to be confirmed. Little MissJane sat inside in her white dress and veil, looking like a snowdrop, Alfred thought, as his mother lifted him up to the window to see her, asthe carriage stood still while Ellen climbed to her seat. 

In the course of the morning, Mrs. King made time to read over theConfirmation Service with Alfred, to think of the blessing she wasreceiving, and to pray that it might rest upon her through life. Andthey entreated, too, that Harold might learn to care for it, and bebrought to a better mind. 

'O Mother, ' said Alfred, after lying thinking for sometime, 'if I thoughtHarold would take up for good and be a better boy to you than I havebeen, I should not mind anything so much. '

And there was Harold all the time wondering whether he should be able toget out in the evening to have a lark with Dick and Jesse. 

Ellen was set down by-and-by. Her colour was very deep, but she lookedgentle and happy, and the first thing she did was to bend over Alfred, kiss him, and say how she wished he had been there. 

Then, when she had been into her own room, she came back and told themabout the beautiful large Elbury Church, and the great numbers of younggirls and boys on the two sides of the aisle, and of the Bishop seated inthe chair by the altar, and the chanted service, with the organ soundingso beautiful. 

And then how her heart had beat, and she hardly dared to speak her vow, and how she trembled when her turn came to go up to the rail, but shesaid it was so comfortable to see Mr. Cope in his surplice, looking soyoung among the other clergymen, and coming a little forward, as if tocount out and encourage his own flock. She was less frightened when shehad met his kind eye, and was able to kneel down with a more quiet mindto receive the gift which had come down on the Day of Pentecost. 

Alfred wanted to know whether she had seen Paul, but Ellen had beenkneeling down and not thinking of other people, when the Friarswood boyswent up. Only she had passed him on the way home, and seen that thoughhe was lagging the last of the boys, he did not look dull and worn, as hehad been doing lately. 

Ellen had been asked to go to the Grange after church to-morrow evening, and drink tea there, in celebration of the Confirmation which the twoyoung foster-sisters had shared. 

Harold went to fetch her home at night, and they both came into the housefresh and glowing with the brisk frosty air, and also with what they hadto tell. 

'O mother, what do you think? Paul Blackthorn is to go to the Grange to-morrow. My Lady wants to see him, and perhaps she will make Mr. Poundfind some work for him about the farm. '

Harold jumped up and snapped his fingers towards the farm. 'There's forold Skinflint!' said he; 'not a chap in the place but will halloo forjoy!'

'Well, I am glad!' said Mrs. King; 'I didn't think that poor lad wouldhave held out much longer, winter weather and all. But how did my Ladycome to hear of it?'

'Oh, it seems she noticed him going to church in all his rags, and Mr. Cope told her who he was; so Miss Jane came and asked me all about him, and I told her what a fine scholar he is, and how shamefully the farmerand Boldre treat him, and how good he was to Alfred about the ointment, and how steady he is. And I told her about the boys dressing him upyesterday, and how he wouldn't take a gift. She listened just as if itwas a story, and she ran away to her grandmamma, and presently came backto say that the boy was to come up to-morrow after his work, for LadyJane to speak to him. '

'Well, at least, he has been washed once, ' said Mrs. King; 'but he's soqueer; I hope he will have no fancies, and will behave himself. '

'I'll tackle him, ' declared Harold decidedly. 'I've a great mind to goout this moment and tell him. '

Mrs. King prevented this; she persuaded Harold that Mrs. Shepherd wouldfly out at them if she heard any noise in the yard, and that it would bebetter for every one to let Paul alone till the morning. 

Morning came, and as soon as Harold was dressed, he rushed to the farm-yard, but he could not find Paul anywhere, and concluded that he had beensent out with the cows, and would be back by breakfast-time. 

As soon as he had brought home the post-bag, he dashed across the roadagain, but came back in a few moments, looking beside himself. 

'He's gone!' he said, and threw himself back in a chair. 

'Gone!' cried Mrs. King and Ellen with one voice, quite aghast. 

'Gone!' repeated Harold. 'The farmer hunted him off this morning! Missuswill have it that he's been stealing her eggs, and that there was alantern in the stable on Friday night; so they told him to be off withhim, and he's gone!'

'Poor, poor boy! just when my Lady would have been the making of him!'cried Ellen. 

'But where--which way is he gone?' asked Mrs. King. 

'I might ride after him, and overtake him, ' cried Harold, starting up, 'but I never thought to ask! And Mrs. Shepherd was ready to pitch intome, so I got away as soon as I could. Do you run over and ask, Ellen;you always were a favourite. '

They were in such an eager state, that Ellen at once sprang up, andhastily throwing on her bonnet, ran across the road, and tapped at Mrs. Shepherd's open door, exclaiming breathlessly, 'O Ma'am, I beg yourpardon, but will you tell me where Paul Blackthorn is gone?'

'Paul Blackthorn! how should I know?' said Mrs. Shepherd crossly. 'I'mnot to be looking after thieves and vagabonds. He's a come-by-chance, and he's a go-by-chance, and a good riddance too!'

'Oh but, Ma'am, my Lady wanted to speak to him. '

This only made Mrs. Shepherd the more set against the poor boy. 

'Ay, ay, I know--coming over the gentry; and a good thing he's gone!'said she. 'The place isn't to be harbouring thieves and vagrants, orwho's to pay the rates? My eggs are gone, I tell you, and who shouldtake 'em but that lad, I'd like to know?'

'Them was two rotten nest-eggs as I throwed away when I was cleaning thestable. '

'Who told you to put in your word, John Farden?' screamed Mrs. Shepherd, turning on him. 'Ye'd best mind what ye're about, or ye'll be after himsoon. '

'No loss neither, ' muttered John, stopping to pick up his shovel. 

'And you didn't see which way he was gone?' asked Ellen, looking from thelabourer to the farmer's wife. 

'Farmer sent un off or ever I come, ' replied John, 'or I'd ha' gied un abreakfast. '

'I'm sure I can't tell, ' said Mrs. Shepherd, with a toss of her head. 'And as to you, Ellen King, I'm surprised at you, running after a scamplike that, that you told me yourself was out of a prison. '

'Oh but, Mrs. Shepherd--'

'You ought to be ashamed of yourself, ' interrupted Mrs. Shepherd; 'and Iwonder your mother allows it. But there's nothing like girlsnow-a-days. '

Ellen thought John Farden grinned; and feeling as if nothing so shockingcould ever happen to her again, she flew back, she hardly knew how, toher home, clapped the door after, and dropping into a chair as Harold haddone, burst into such a fit of crying, that she could not speak, and onlyshook her head in answer to Harold's questions as to how Paul was gone. 

'Oh, no one knew!' she choked out among her sobs; 'and Mrs. Shepherd--suchthings!'

Harold stamped his foot, and Mrs. King tried to soothe her. In themidst, she recollected that she could not bear her brothers to guess atthe worst part of the 'such things;' and recovering herself a moment, shesaid, 'No, no, they've driven him off! He's gone, and--and, oh! Mother, Mrs. Shepherd will have it he's a thief, and--and she says I said so. '

That was bad enough, and Ellen wept bitterly again; while her mother andHarold both cried out with surprise. 

'Yes--but--I did say I dare said he was out of a reformatory--and thatshe should remember it! Now I've taken away his character, and he's apoor lost boy!'

Oh, idle words! idle words!

CHAPTER IX--ROBBING THE MAIL

There was no helping it! People must have their letters whether PaulBlackthorn were lost or not, and Harold was a servant of the public, andmust do his duty, so after some exhortations from his mother, he ruefullyrose up, hoping that he should not have to go to Ragglesford. 

'Yes, you will, ' said his mother, 'and maybe to wait. Here's aregistered letter, and I think there are two more with money in them. '

'To think, ' sighed Harold, as he mounted his pony, 'of them little chapsgetting more money for nothing, than Paul did in a month by working theskin off his bones!'

'Don't be discontented, Harold, on that score. Them little chaps willwork hard enough by-and-by: and the money they have now is to train themin making a fit use of it then. '

Harold looked anxiously up and down the road for Paul, and asked Mr. Cope's housekeeper whether he had been there to take leave. No; andindeed Harold would have been a little vexed if he had wished good-byeanywhere if not at home. 

There was a fine white frost, and the rime hung thickly on every spray ofthe heavy branches of the dark firs and larches that overhung the longsolitary lane between the Grange and Ragglesford, and fringed the parkpalings with crystals. Harold thought how cold poor Paul must be goingon his way in his ragged clothes. The ice crackled under the pony's feetas she trotted down Ragglesford Lane, and the water of the ford looked socold, that Peggy, a very wise animal, turned her head towards the foot-bridge, a narrow and not very sound affair, over which Harold hadsometimes taken her when the stream was high, and threatened to be overhis feet. 

Harold made no objection; but no sooner were all the pony's four hoofswell upon the bridge, than at the other end appeared Dick Royston. 

'Hollo, Har'ld!' was his greeting, 'I've got somewhat to say to ye. '

'D'ye know where Paul Blackthorn is?' asked Harold. 

'Not I--I'm a traveller myself, you must know. '

'You, going to cut?' cried Harold. 

'Ay, ' said Dick, laying hold of the pony's rein. 'The police have beendown at Rolt's--stupid fellow left old gander's feet about--Mrs. Barkerswore to 'em 'cause he'd had so many kicks and bites on common--Jesse'stook up and peached--I've been hiding about all night--precious cold itwas, and just waiting, you see, to wish you good-bye. '

Harold, very much shocked, could have dispensed with his farewells, nordid he like the look of his eyes. 

'Thank you, Dick; I'm sorry--I didn't think--but I'm after time--I wishyou'd let go of Peggy. '

'So that's all you have to say to an old comrade!' said Dick; 'but, Isay, Har'ld, I'm not going so. I must have some tin to take me toPortsmouth. I want to know what you've got in that there bag!'

'You won't have that; it's the post. Let go, Dick;' and he pushed thepony forward, but Dick had got her fast by the head. Harold looked roundfor help, but Ragglesford Lane was one of the loneliest places in thecountry. There was not a house for half a mile, and Lady Jane'splantations shut in the road on either side. 

'I mean to have it, ' said Dick, looking coolly up into his face; 'I meanto see if there's any of the letters with a half-sovereign in 'em, thatyou tell us about. '

'Dick, Dick, it would be robbing! For shame, Dick! What would become ofMother and me?'

'That's your look-out, ' said Dick; and he stretched out his hand for thebag. He was four years older than Harold, and much stouter. 

Harold, with a ready move, chucked the bag round to his back, and shoutedlustily in hopes that there might be a keeper in the woods, 'Help!Thieves! He's robbing the post!'

Dick's hoarse laugh was all the answer. 'That'll do, my dear, ' he said;'now you'd best be quiet; I'd be loath to hurt you. '

For all answer, Harold, shouting all the time, dealt him a stroke rightover the eyes and nose with his riding-switch, and made a great effort toforce the pony on in hopes the blow might have made him slacken his hold. But though one moment Dick's arm was thrown over his watering eyes, theother hand held the bridle as firmly as ever, and the next instant hisfist dealt Harold such a blow, as nearly knocked out all his breath. Setting his teeth, and swearing an oath, Dick was pouncing on the boy'sarm, when from the road before them came bursting a meagre thing dartinglike a wild cat, which fell upon him, hallooing as loud as Harold. 

Dick turned in fury, and let go the bridle. The pony backed in alarm. The new-comer was grappling with the thief, and trying to drag him aside. 'On, on; go on, Har'ld!' he shouted, but his strength was far from equalto Dick's, who threw him aside on the hand-rail. Old rotten rail that itwas, it crashed under the weight, and fell with both the boys into thewater. Peggy dashed forward to the other side, where Harold pulled herup with much difficulty, and turned round to look at the robber and thechampion. The fall was not far, nor the water deep, and they had bothrisen, and were ready to seize one another again in their rage. And nowHarold saw that he who had come to his help was no other than PaulBlackthorn, who shouted loudly, 'On, go on! I'll keep him. '

'He'll kill you!' screamed Harold, in despair, ready to push in betweenthem with his horse; but at that moment cart-wheels were heard in theroad, and Dick, shaking his fist, and swearing at them both, shook offPaul as if he had been a feather, and splashing out of the ford on theother side, leapt over the hedge, and was off through the plantations. 

Paul more slowly crept up towards Harold, dripping from head to foot. 

'Paul! Paul! I'm glad I've found you!' cried Harold. 'You've saved theletters, man, and one was registered! Come along with me, up to theschool. '

'Nay, I'll not do that, ' said Paul. 

'Then you'll stay till I come back, ' said Harold earnestly; 'I've got somuch to tell you! My Lady sent for you. Our Ellen told her all aboutyou, and you're to go to her. Ellen was in such a way when she found youwere off. '

'Then she didn't think I'd taken the eggs?' said Paul. 

'She'd as soon think that I had, ' said Harold. 'Why, don't we all knowthat you're one of the parson's own sort? But what made you go offwithout a word to nobody?'

'I don't know. Every one was against me, ' said Paul; 'and I thought I'djust go out of the way, and you'd forget all about me. But I nevertouched those eggs, and you may tell Mr. Cope so, and thank him for allhis kindness to me. '

'You'll tell him yourself. You're going home along with me, ' criedHarold. 'There! I'll not stir a step till you've promised! Why, if youmake off now, 'twill be the way to make them think you have something torun away for, like that rascal. '

'Very well, ' said Paul, rather dreamily. 

'Then you won't?' said Harold. 'Upon your word and honour?'

Paul said the words after him, not much as if he knew what he was about;and Harold, rather alarmed at the sound of the Grange clock striking, gave a cut to the pony, and bounded on, only looking back to see thatPaul was seating himself by the side of the lane. Harold said to himselfthat his mother would not have liked to see him do so after such aducking, but he knew that he was more tenderly treated than other lads, and with reason for precaution too; and he promised himself soon to bebringing Paul home to be dried and warmed. 

But he was less speedy than he intended. When he arrived at the school, he had first to account to the servants for his being so late, and thenhe was obliged to wait while the owner of the registered letter was tosign the green paper, acknowledging its safe delivery. 

Instead of having the receipt brought back to him, there came a messagethat he was to go up to tell the master and the young gentlemen all aboutthe robbery. 

So the servant led the way, and Harold followed a little shy, but morecurious. The boys were in school, a great bare white-washed room, looking very cold, with a large arched window at one end, and formsranged in squares round the hacked and hewed deal tables. Harold thoughthe should tell Alfred that the young gentlemen had not much the advantageof themselves in their schoolroom. 

The boys were mostly smaller than he was, only those of the uppermostform being of the same size. There might be about forty of them, lookingrather red and purple with the chilly morning, and all their eighty eyes, black or brown, blue or grey, fixed at once upon the young postman as hewalked into the room, straight and upright, in his high stout gaitersover his cord trousers, his thick rough blue coat and red comforter, withhis cap in his hand, his fair hair uncovered, and his blue eyes and rosycheeks all the more bright for that strange morning's work. He was awell-mannered boy, and made his bow very properly to Mr. Carter, themaster, who sat at his high desk. 

'So, my little man, ' said the master, 'I hear you've had a fight for ourproperty this morning. You've saved this young gentleman's birthdaypresent of a watch, and he wants to thank you. '

'Thank you, Sir, ' said Harold; 'but he'd have been too much for me ifPaul hadn't come to help. He's a deal bigger than me. '

The boys all made a thumping and scuffling with their feet, as if toapplaud Harold; and their master said, 'Tell us how it was. '

Harold gave the account in a very good simple manner, only he did not saywho the robber was--he did not like to do so--indeed, he would not quitebelieve it could be his old friend Dick. The boys clapped and thumpeddoubly when he came to the switching, and still more at the tumble intothe water. 

'Do you know who the fellow was?' asked Mr. Carter. 

'Yes, I knowed him, ' said Harold, and stopped there. 

'But you had rather not tell. Is that it?'

'Please, Sir, he's gone, and I wouldn't get him into trouble. '

At this the school-boys perfectly stamped, and made signs of cheering. 

'And who is the boy that came to help you?'

'Paul Blackthorn, Sir; he's a boy from the Union who worked at FarmerShepherd's. He's a right good boy, Sir; but he's got no friends, norno--nothing, ' said Harold, pausing ere he finished. 

'Why didn't you bring him up with you?' asked the master. 

'Please, Sir, he wouldn't come. '

'Well, ' said Mr. Carter, 'you've behaved like a brave fellow, and so hasyour friend; and here's something in token of gratitude for the rescue ofour property. '

It was a crown piece. 

'And here, ' said the boy whose watch had been saved, 'here'shalf-a-crown. Shake hands, you're a jolly fellow; and I'll tell my uncleabout you. '

Harold was a true Englishman, and of course his only answer could be, 'Thank you, Sir, I only did my duty;' and as the other boys, whose moneyhad been rescued, brought forward more silver pledges of gratitude, headded, 'I'll take it to Paul--thank you, Sir--thank you, Sir. '

'That's right; you must share, my lad, ' said the school-master. 'It is areward for both of you. '

'Thank you, Sir, it was _my_ duty, ' repeated Harold, making his bow. 

'Sir, Sir, pray let us give him three cheers, ' burst out the head boy inan imploring voice. 

Mr. Carter smiled and nodded; and there was such a hearty roaring andstamping, such 'hip, hip, hurrah!' bursting out again and again, that thewindows clattered, and the room seemed fuller of noise than it couldpossibly hold. It is not quite certain that Mr. Carter did not halloo asloud as any of the boys. 

Harold turned very red, and did not know which way to look while it wasgoing on, nor what to do when it was over, except to say a very odd sortof 'Thank you, Sir;' but his heart leapt up with a kind of warm gratefulfeeling of liking towards those boys for going along with him soheartily; and the cheers gave a pleasure and glow that the coins neverwould have done, even had he thought them his own by right. 

He was not particularly good in this; he had never felt the pinch ofwant, and was too young to care; and he did not happen to wish to buyanything in particular just then. A selfish or a covetous boy would nothave felt as he did; but these were not his temptations. Knowing, as hedid, that the assault had been the consequence of his foolish boastsabout the money-letters, and that he, being in charge, ought to defendthem to the last gasp, he was sure he deserved the very contrary from areward, and never thought of the money belonging to any one but Paul, whohad by his own free will come to the rescue, and saved the bag fromrobbery, himself from injury and disgrace. 

How happy he was in thinking what a windfall it was for his friend, andhow far it would go in fitting him up respectably!

Peggy was ready to trot nearly as fast as he wished her down the lane tothe place where he had left Paul; and no sooner did Harold come in sightof the olive-coloured rags, than he bawled out a loud 'Hurrah! Come on, Paul; you don't know what I've got for you! 'Twas a young gentleman'swatch as you saved; and they've come down right handsome! and here'stwelve-and-sixpence for you--enough to rig you out like a regular swell!Why, what's the matter?' he added in quite another voice, as he had nowcome up to Paul, and found him sitting nearly doubled up, with his headbent over his knees. 

He raised his face up as Harold came, and it was so ghastly pale, thatthe boy, quite startled, jumped off his pony. 

'Why, old chap, what is it? Have you got knit up with cold, sittinghere?'

'Yes, I suppose so, ' said Paul; but his very voice shivered, his teethchattered, and his knees knocked together with the chill. 'The pains runabout me, ' he added; but he spoke as if he hardly knew what he was doingor saying. 

'You must come home with me, and Mother will give you something hot, 'said Harold. 'Come, you'll catch your death if you don't. You shallride home. '

He pulled Paul from his seat with some difficulty, and was furtheralarmed when he found that the poor fellow reeled and could hardly stand;but he was somewhat roused, and knew better what he was about. Haroldtried to put him on the pony, but this could not be managed: he could nothelp himself enough, Peggy always swerved aside, nor was Harold strongenough to lift him up. 

The only thing to be done was for Harold to mount, and Paul to leanagainst the saddle, while the pony walked. When they had to separate atthe ford, poor Paul's walk across the bridge was so feeble andstaggering, that Harold feared every moment that he would fall where therail was broken away, but was right glad to put his arm on his shoulderagain to help to hold him up. The moving brought a little more life backto the poor boy's limbs, and he walked a little better, and managed totell Harold how he had felt too miserable to speak to any one after therating the farmer had given him, and how he had set out on the tramp formore work, though with hope so nearly dead in his heart, that he onlywished he could sit down and die. He had walked out of the villagebefore people were about, so as not to be noticed, and then had foundhimself so weak and weary that he could not get on without food, and hadsat down by the hedge to eat the bit of bread he had with him. Then hehad taken the first lonely-looking way he saw, without knowing that itwas one of Harold's daily rides, and was slowly dragging himself up thehill from the ford when the well-known voice, shouting for help, hadsuddenly called him back, and filled him with spirit and speed that werefar enough off now, poor fellow!

That was a terrible mile and a half--Harold sometimes thought it wouldnever be over, or that Paul would drop down, and he would have to gallopoff for help; but Paul was not one to give in, and somehow they got backat last, and Harold, with his arm round his friend, dragged him throughthe garden, and across the shop, and pushed him into the arm-chair by thefire, Mrs. King following, and Ellen rushing down from up-stairs. 

'There!' cried Harold, all in a breath, 'there he is! That rascal triedto rob me on Ragglesford Bridge, and was nigh too much for me; but _he_there came and pulled him off me, and got spilt into the river, and he'sgot a chill, and if you don't give him something jolly hot, Mother, he'llcatch his death!'

Mrs. King thought so too: Paul's state looked to her more alarming thanit did even to Harold. He did not seem able to think or speak, but keptrocking himself towards the fire, and that terrible shivering shaking himall over. 

'Poor lad!' she said kindly. 'I'll tell you what, Harold, all you can dois put him into your bed at once. --Here, Ellen, you run up first, andbring me a shirt to warm for him. Then we'll get his own clothes dried. '

'No, no, ' cried Harold, with a caper, 'we'll make a scare-crow of 'em. You don't know what I know, Mother. I've got twelve shillings andsixpence here all his own; and you'll see what I won't do with it at oldLevi's, the second-hand clothes man, to-night. '

Harold grew less noisy as he saw how little good the fire was doing tohis patient, and how ill his mother seemed to think him. He quietlyobeyed her, by getting him up-stairs, and putting him into his own bed, the first in which Paul had lain down for more than four months. ThenMrs. King sent Harold out for some gin; she thought hot spirits and waterthe only chance of bringing back any life after such a dreadful chill;and she and Ellen kept on warming flannels and shawls to restore someheat, and to stop the trembling that shook the bed, so that Alfred feltit, even in the next room, where he lay with the door open, longing to beable to help, and wishing to understand what could have happened. 

At last, the cordial and the warm applications effected some good. Paulwas able to say, 'I don't know why you are so good to me, ' and seemedready to burst into a great fit of crying; but Mrs. King managed to stophim by saying something about one good turn deserving another, and thatshe hoped he was coming round now. 

Harold was now at leisure to tell the story in his brother's room. Alfreddid not grieve now at his brother's being able to do spirited things; helaughed out loud, and said, 'Well done, Harold!' at the switching, andrubbed his hands, and lighted up with glee, as he heard of theRagglesford boys and their cheers; and then, Harold went eagerly on withhis scheme for fitting up Paul at the second-hand shop, both Mrs. Kingand Alfred taking great interest in his plans, till Mrs. King hearingsomething like a moan, went back to Paul. 

She found his cheeks and hands as burning hot as they had been cold; theywere like live coals; and what was worse, such severe pains were runningall over his limbs, that he was squeezing the clothes into his mouth thathe might not scream aloud. 

Happily it was Mr. Blunt's day for calling; and before the morning wasover he came, and after a few words of explanation, he stood at Paul'sbedside. 

Not much given to tenderness towards the feelings of patients of hisdegree, Mr. Blunt's advice was soon given. 'Yes, he is in for rheumaticfever--won't be about again for a long time to come. I say, Mistress, all you've got to do is to send in your boy to the Union at Elbury, tell'em to send out a cart for him, and take him in as a casual pauper. Thenthey may pass him on to his parish. '

Therewith Mr. Blunt went on to attend to Alfred. 

'Then you think this poor lad will be ill a long time, Sir?' said Mrs. King, when Mr. Blunt was preparing to depart. 

'Of course he will; I never saw a clearer case! You'd better send himoff as fast as you can, while he can be moved. He'll have a pretty boutof it, I dare say. 

'It is nothing infectious, of course, Sir?' said the mother, a littlestartled by this hastiness. 

'Infectious--nonsense! why, you know better than that, Mrs. King; I onlymeant that you'd better get rid of him as quick as you can, unless youwish to set up a hospital at once--and a capital nurse you'd be! I wouldleave word with the relieving officer for you, but that I've got to go onto Stoke, and shan't be at home till too late. '

Mrs. King's heart ached for the poor forlorn orphan, when she rememberedwhat she had heard of the nursing in Elbury Union. She did not know howto turn him from her door the day he had saved her son from danger suchas she could not think of without shuddering; and yet, what could she do?Her rent and the winter before her, a heavy doctor's bill, and the lossof Alfred's work!

Slowly she went up the stairs again to the narrow landing that held thebed where Paul Blackthorn lay. He was quite still, but there were largetears coursing one after the other from his eyes, his hollow cheeks quiteglazed with them. 

'Is the pain so very bad?' she said in her soft voice, putting her handover his hot forehead, in the way that Alfred liked. 

'I don't--know, ' he answered; and his black eyes, after looking up oncein her face with the piteous earnest glance that some loving dogs have, shut themselves as if on purpose to keep in the tears, but she saw thedew squeezing out through the eye-lashes. 

'My poor boy, I'm sure it's very bad for you, ' she said again. 

'Please, don't speak so kind, ' said Paul; and this time he could notprevent a-sob. 'Nobody ever did so before, and--' he paused, and wenton, 'I suppose they do it up in Heaven, so I hope I shall die. '

'You are vexing about the Union, ' said Mrs. King, without answering thislast speech, or she knew that she should begin to cry herself. 

'I _did_ think I'd done with them, ' said Paul, with another sob. 'I saidI'd never set foot in those four walls again! I was proud, maybe; butplease don't stop with me! If you wouldn't look and speak like that, theplace wouldn't seem so hard, seeing I'm bred to it, as they say;' and hemade an odd sort of attempt to laugh, which ended in his choking himselfwith worse tears. 

'Harold is not gone yet, ' said Mrs. King soothingly; 'we'll wait till hecomes in from his work, and see how you are, when you've had a littlesleep. Don't cry; you aren't going just yet. '

That same earnest questioning glance, but with more hope in it, wasturned on her again; but she did not dare to bind herself, much as shelonged to take the wanderer to her home. She went on to her son's room. 

'Mother, Mother, ' Alfred cried in a whisper, so eager that it made himcough, 'you can't never send him to the workhouse?'

'I can't bear the thought, Alfy, ' she said, the tears in her eyes; 'but Idon't know what to do. It's not the trouble. That I'd take with all myheart, but it is hard enough to live, and--'

'I'm sure, ' said Ellen, coming close, that her undertone might be heard, 'Harold and I would never mind how much we were pinched. '

'And I could go without--some things, ' began Alfred. 

'And then, ' went on the mother, 'you see, if we got straitened, andMatilda found it out, she'd want to help, and I can't have her savingstouched; and yet I can't bear to let that poor lad be sent off, so ill ashe is, and after all he's done for Harold--such a good boy, too, and onethat's so thankful for a common kind word. '

'O Mother, keep him!' said Alfred; 'don't you know how the Psalm says, "God careth for the stranger, and provideth for the fatherless and thewidow"?'

Mrs. King almost smiled. 'Yes, Alf, I think it would be trusting God'sword; but then there's my duty to you. '

'You've not sent Harold off for the cart?' said Alfred. 

'No; I thought somehow, we have enough for to-day; and it goes against meto send him away at once. I thought we'd wait to see how it isto-morrow; and Harold won't mind having a bed made up in the kitchen. '

Tap, tap, on the counter. Some one had come in while they were talking. It was Mr. Cope, very anxious to hear the truth of the strange storiesthat were going about the place. Ellen and Alfred thought it verytiresome that he was so long in coming up-stairs; but the fact was, thattheir mother was very glad to talk the matter over without them. Sheknew indeed that Mr. Cope was a very young man, and not likely to be sowell able as herself, with all her experience, to decide what she couldafford, or whether she ought to follow her feelings at the risk of debtor of privations for her delicate children; but she also knew that thoughhe had not experience, education had given him a wider and clearer rangeof thought; and that, as her pastor, he ought to be consulted; so thoughshe did not exactly mean to make it a matter for his decision (unless, indeed, he should have some view which had not occurred to her), she knewthat he was by far the best person to help her to see her way, and formher own judgment. 

Mr. Cope heard all the story with as much eagerness as the Ragglesfordboys themselves, and laughed quite out loud at Harold's spirited defence. 

'That's a good lad!' said he. 'Well, Mrs. King, I don't think you needbe very uneasy about your boy. When a fellow can stand up like that indefence of his duty, there must be the right stuff in him to be got at intime! And now, as to his ally--this other poor fellow--very kind of youto have taken him in. '

'I couldn't do no other, Sir, ' said Mrs. King; 'he came in so drenched, and so terribly bad, I could do nothing but let him lie down on Harold'sbed; and now Dr. Blunt thinks he's going to have a rheumatic fever, andwanted me to send in to the relieving officer, to have him removed, but Idon't know how to do that; the poor lad doesn't say one word against it, but I can see it cuts him to the heart; and they do tell such stories ofthe nurses at the Union, that it does seem hard to send him there, suchan innocent boy, too, and one that doesn't seem to know how to believe itif one says a kind word to him. ' The tears were in Mrs. King's eyes asshe went on: 'I do wish to let him stay here and do what I can for him, with all my heart, and so does all the children, but I don't hardly knowwhat's right by them, poor things. If the parish would but allow himjust one shilling and sixpence a week out of the house, I think I coulddo it. '

'What, with your own boy in such a state, you could undertake to nurse astranger through a rheumatic fever!'

'It wouldn't make much difference, Sir, ' said Mrs. King. 'You see I amup a good deal most nights with Alfred, and we have fire and candlealmost always alight. I should only be glad to do it for a poormotherless lad like that, except for the cost; and I thought perhaps ifyou could speak to the Guardians, they might allow him ever so little, because there will be expenses. '

Mr. Cope had not much hope from the parish, so he said, 'Mr. Shepherdought to do something for him after he has worked for him so long. Hehas been looking wretchedly ill for some time past; and I dare say halfthis illness is brought on by such lodging and living as he got there. But what did you say about some eggs?'

Mrs. King told him; and he stood a moment thoughtful, then said, 'Well, I'll go and see about it, ' and strode across to the farm. 

When Mr. Cope came back, Ellen was serving a customer. He stood lookingredder than they had ever seen him, and tapping the toe of his bootimpatiently with his stick; and the moment the buyer had turned away, hesaid, 'Ellen, ask your mother to be kind enough to come down. '

Mrs. King came, and found the young Curate in such a state ofindignation, as he could not keep to himself. He had learnt more than hehad ever known, or she had ever known, of the oppression that the farmerand his wife and Tom Boldre had practised on the friendless stranger, andhe was burning with all the keen generous displeasure of one new to suchbase ways. At the gate he had met, going home to dinner, John Fardenwith Mrs. Hayward, who had been charing at the farm. Both had spokenout, and he had learned how far below the value of his labour the boy hadbeen paid, how he had been struck, abused, and hunted about, as wouldnever have been done to one who had a father to take his part. And hehad further heard Farden's statement of having himself thrown away theeggs, and Mrs. Hayward's declaration that she verily believed that thefarmer only made the accusation an excuse for hurrying the lad offbecause he thought him faltering for a fever, and wouldn't have him sickthere. 

This was shocking enough; Mr. Cope had thought it merely the kind-heartedwoman's angry construction, but it was still worse when he came to thefarmer and his wife. 

So used were they to think it their business to wring the utmost theycould out of whatever came in their way, that they had not the slightestshame about it. They thought they had done a thing to be proud of inmaking such a good bargain of the lad, and getting so much work out ofhim for so little pay; in fact, that they had been rather weakly kind ingranting him the freedom of the hay-loft; the notion of his dishonestywas firmly fixed in their heads, though there was not a charge to bringagainst him. This was chiefly because they had begun by setting him downas a convict, and because they could not imagine any one living honestlyon what they gave him. And lastly, the farmer thought the clevereststroke of all, was the having got rid of him just as winter was coming onand work was scarce, and when there seemed to be a chance of his beinglaid up to encumber the rates. Mr. Cope was quite breathless after theanswer he had made to them. He had never spoken so strongly in his lifebefore, and he could hardly believe his own ears, that people could befound, not only to do such things, but to be proud of having done them. 

It is to be hoped there are not many such thoroughgoing tyrants; butselfishness is always ready to make any one into a tyrant, and Mammon isa false god, who manages to make his servants satisfied that they aredoing their duty. 

It was plain enough that no help was to be expected from the farm, andneither Mrs. King nor the clergyman thought there was much hope in theGuardians; however, they were to be applied to, and this would be atleast a reprieve for Paul. Mr. Cope went up to see him, and found Haroldsitting on the top step of the stairs. 

'Well, boys, ' he said, in his hearty voice, 'so you've had a battle, Ihear. I'm glad it turned out better than your namesake's at Hastings. '

Paul was not too ill to smile at this; and Harold modestly said, 'It wasall along of he, Sir. '

'And he seems to be the chief sufferer. --Are you in much pain, Paul?'

'Sometimes, Sir, when I try to move, ' said Paul; 'but it is better whenI'm still. '

'You've had a harder time of it than I supposed, my boy, ' said Mr. Cope. 'Why did you never let me know how you were treated?'

Paul's face shewed more wonder than anything else. 'Thank you, Sir, ' hesaid, 'I didn't think it was any one's business. '

'No one's business!' exclaimed the young clergyman. 'It is every one'sbusiness to see justice done, and it should never have gone on so if youhad spoken. Why didn't you?'

'I didn't think it would be any use, ' again said Paul. 'There was oldJoe Joiner, he always said 'twas a hard world to live in, and that therewas nothing for it but to grin and bear it. '

'There's something better to be done than to grin, ' said Mr. Cope. 

'Yes, I know, Sir, ' said Paul, with a brighter gleam on his face; 'and Iseem to understand that better since I came here. I was thinking, ' headded, 'if they pass me back to Upperscote, I'll tell old Joe that folksare much kinder than he told me, by far. '

'Kinder--I should not have thought that your experience!' exclaimed Mr. Cope, his head still running on the Shepherds. 

But Paul did not seem to think of them at all, or else to take theirtreatment as a matter-of-course, as he did his Union hardships. Therewas a glistening in his eyes; and he moved his head so as to sign down-stairs, as he said, 'I didn't think there was ne'er a one in the worldlike _her_. '

'What, Mrs. King? I don't think there are many, ' said Mr. Cope warmly. 'And yet I hope there are. '

'Ay, Sir, ' said Paul fervently. 'And there's Harold, and John Farden, and all the chaps. Please, Sir, when I'm gone away, will you tell themall that I'll never forget 'em? and I'll be happier as long as I live forknowing that there are such good-hearted folks. '

Mr. Cope felt trebly moved towards one who thought harshness so much morenatural than kindness, and who received the one so submissively, theother so gratefully; but the conversation was interrupted by Harold'sexclaiming that my Lady in her carriage was stopping at the gate, andMother was running out to her. 

Rumours of the post-office robbery, as little Miss Selby called it, hadtravelled up to the Grange, and she was wild to know what had happened toHarold; but her grandmamma, not knowing what highway robbers might beroaming about Friarswood, would not hear of her walking to thepost-office, and drove thither with her herself, in full state, closecarriage, coachman and footman; and there was Mrs. King, with her head inat the carriage window, telling all the story. 

'So you have this youth here?' said Lady Jane. 

'Yes, my Lady; he was so poorly that I couldn't but let him lie down. '

'And you have not sent him to the workhouse yet?'

'Why, no, not yet, my Lady; I thought I would wait to see how he is to-morrow. '

'You had better take care, Mary, ' said Lady Jane. 'You'll have him tooill to be moved; and then what will you do? a great lad of that age, andwith illness enough in the house already!' She sighed, and it was notsaid unkindly; but Mrs. King answered with something about his being sogood a lad, and so friendless. And Miss Jane exclaimed, 'O Grandmamma, it does seem so hard to send him to the workhouse!'

'Do not talk like a silly child, my dear, ' said Lady Jane. 'Mary is muchtoo sensible to think of saddling herself with such a charge--not fit forher, nor the children either--even if the parish made it worth her while, which it never will. The Union is intended to provide for such cases ofdestitution; and depend on it, the youth looks to nothing else. '

'No, my Lady, ' said Mrs. King; 'he is so patient and meek about it, thatit goes to one's very heart. '

'Ay, ay, ' said the old lady; 'but don't be soft-hearted and weak, Mary. It is not what I expect of you, as a sensible woman, to be harbouring amere vagrant whom you know nothing about, and injuring your ownchildren. '

'Indeed, my Lady, ' began Mrs. King, 'I've known the poor boy these fourmonths, and so has Mr. Cope; and he is as steady and serious a boy asever lived. '

'Very likely, ' said Lady Jane; 'and I am sure I would do anything forhim--give him work when he is out again, or send him with a paper to thecounty hospital. Eh?'

But the county hospital was thirty miles off; and the receiving day wasnot till Saturday. That would not do. 

'Well, ' added Lady Jane, 'I'll drive home directly, and send Price withthe spring covered cart to take him in to Elbury. That will be betterfor him than jolting in the open cart they would send for him. '

'Why, thank you, my Lady, but I--I had passed my word that he should notgo to-day. '

Lady Jane made a gesture as if Mary King were a hopelessly weakgood-natured woman; and shaking her head at her with a sort of lady-likevexation, ordered the coachman to drive on. 

My Lady was put out. No wonder. She was a very sensible, managing womanherself, and justly and up-rightly kind to all her dependants; and sheexpected every one else to be sternly and wisely kind in the samepattern. Mrs. King was one whom she highly esteemed for her sense andgood judgment, and she was the more provoked with her for any failure inthese respects. If she had known Paul as the Kings did, it is probableshe might have felt like them. Not knowing him, nor knowing the secretsof Elbury Union, she thought it Mrs. King's clear duty to sacrifice himfor her children's sake. Moreover, Lady Jane had strict laws againstlodgers--the greatest kindness she could do her tenants, though oftenagainst their will. So to have her model woman receiving a strange boyinto her house, even under the circumstances, was beyond bearing. 

So Mrs. King stood on her threshold, knowing that to keep Paul Blackthornwould be an offence to her best friend and patroness. Moreover, Mr. Copewas gone, without having left her a word of advice to decide her one wayor the other. 

CHAPTER X--CHRISTMAS DAY

Things are rather apt to settle themselves; and so did Paul Blackthorn'sstay at the post-office, for the poor boy was in such an agony of painall night, and the fever ran so high, that it was impossible to think ofmoving him, even if the waiting upon him in such suffering had not madeMrs. King feel that she could not dismiss him to careless hands. Hispatience, gratitude, and surprise at every trouble she took for him werevery endearing, as were the efforts he made to stifle and suppress moansand cries that the terrible aches would wring from him, so as not todisturb Alfred. When towards morning the fever ran to his head, and hedid not know what he said, it was more moving still to see that theinstinct of keeping quiet for some one's sake still suppressed his voice. Then, too, his wanderings shewed under what dread and harshness his lifehad been spent, and what his horror was of a return to the workhouse. Inhis senses, he would never have thought of asking to remain atFriarswood; but in his half-conscious state, he implored again and againnot to be sent away, and talked about not going back, but only being leftin a corner to die; and Mrs. King, without knowing what she was about, soothed him by telling him to lie still, for he was not going to thatplace again. At day-break she sent Harold, on his way to the post, foran order from the relieving officer for medical attendance; and, aftersome long and weary hours, the Union doctor came. He said, like Mr. Blunt, that it was a rheumatic fever, the effect of hardship andexposure; for which perhaps poor Paul--after his regular meals, warmclothing, and full shelter, in the workhouse--was less prepared than manya country lad, whose days had been much happier, but who had beenrendered more hardy by often going without some of those necessarieswhich were provided for the paupers. 

The head continued so much affected, that the doctor said the hair mustbe taken off; which was done by old Master Warren, who singed the horsesin the autumn, killed the pigs in the winter, and shaved the men onSaturday night. It was a very good thing for all parties; and he wouldtake no pay for his trouble, but sent down a pitcher with what he called'all manner of yarbs' steeping in it, with which, as he said, to 'fermentthe boy's limbs. ' Foment was what he meant; and Mrs. King thought, as itwas kindly intended, and could do no harm, she would try if it would doany good; but she could not find that it made much difference whether sheused that or common warm water. However, the good will made Paul smile, and helped to change his notion about its being very few that had anycompassion for a stranger. So, too, did good Mrs. Hayward, who, when hewas at the worst, twice came to sit up all night with him after her day'swork; and though she was not as tender a nurse as Mrs. King, treated himlike her own son, and moreover carried off to her own tub all the clothesshe could find ready to be washed, and would not take so much as amouthful of meat or drink in return, struggling, toil-worn body as shewas. 

The parish, as might have been foreseen, would afford nothing but thedoctor to a chance-comer such as Paul. If he needed more, he might comeinto the House, and be passed home to Upperscote. 

But by the time this reply came, Mrs. King not only felt that it would bealmost murder to send a person in such a state four miles on a Novemberday, but she was caring so much for her patient, that it sounded almostas impossible as to send Alfred away. 

Besides, she had remembered the cup of cold water, she had thought of thewidow's cruse of oil and barrel of meal, and she had called to mind, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me;' and thereupon she took heart, and made up hermind that it was right to tend the sick lad; and that even if she shouldbring trouble and want on herself and her children, it would be a Heaven-sent trial that would be good for them. 

So she made up her resolution to a winter of toil, anxiety, and trouble, and to Lady Jane's withdrawal of favour; and thinking her ungrateful, which, to say the truth, grieved her more than anything else, exceptingof course her forebodings for Alfred. 

Ellen was in great distress about my Lady's displeasure. Not that shedreamt of her mother's giving up Paul on that account; but she was veryfond of her little foster-sister, and of many of the maid-servants, andher visits to the Grange were the chief change and amusement she everhad. So while Mrs. King was busy between the shop, her work, and Paul, Ellen sat by her brother, making the housekeeper's winter dress, andimagining all sorts of dreadful things that might come of my Lady beingangry with them, till Alfred grew quite out of patience. 'Well, supposeand suppose, ' he said, 'suppose it was not to happen at all! Why, Mother's doing right would be any good for nothing if she only did it toplease my Lady. '

Certainly this was the very touchstone to shew whether the fear of manwere the guide. And Ellen was still more terrified that day, for whenshe went across to the farm for the evening's supply of milk and butter, Mrs. Shepherd launched out into such a torrent of abuse against her andher mother, that she came home trembling from head to foot; and Mrs. Kingdeclared she should never go thither again. They would send to Mrs. Price's for the little bit of fresh butter that was real nourishment toAlfred: the healthy ones would save by going without any. 

One word more as to the Shepherds, and then we have done with him. Onthe Sunday, Mr. Cope had an elder brother staying with them, who preachedon the lesson for the day, the second chapter of the Prophet Habakkuk;and when he came to the text, 'Woe to him that coveteth an evilcovetousness to his house, ' he brought in some of the like passages, thethreats to those that 'grind the faces of the poor, ' that 'oppress thehireling in his wages, ' and that terrible saying of St. James, 'Behold, the hire of the labourers who have reaped down your fields, which is ofyou kept by fraud, crieth; and the cries of them which have reaped areentered into the ears of the Lord of Sabbath. '

Three days after, the Curate was very much amazed to hear that Mr. AndMrs. Shepherd did not choose to be preached at in their own church, andnever meant to come thither again. Now it so happened that he couldtestify that the sermon had been written five years ago, and that hisbrother had preached it without knowing that the Shepherds were inexistence, for he had only come late the night before, and there was somuch to say about their home, that the younger brother had not said aword about his parish before church, though the Kings and their guestswere very near his heart. 

But it was of no use to say so. It was the _truth_ that wounded thefarmer and his wife, and no one could make that otherwise. They did notchoose to hear their sin rebuked, so they made an excuse by pretending totake offence, and except when they now and then went to the next parishto a meeting-house, cut themselves off from all that might disturb themin the sole pursuit of gain. It is awful to think of such hardening ofthe heart, first towards man, then towards the warnings of God. 

And mind, whoever chooses profit rather than mercy, is in the path ofFarmer Shepherd. 

Some certainty as to Lady Jane Selby's feelings came on the secondevening of Paul's illness. Mrs. Crabbe, the housekeeper, was seen withinfinite trouble and disgust getting her large person over the stilesacross the path fields. A call from her was almost a greater event thanone from my Lady herself. Why! Mother had been her still-room maid, andalways spoke to her as 'Ma'am, ' and she called her 'Mary, ' and she hadchosen Matilda's name for her, and had given her a silver watch!

So when Mrs. Crabbe had found her way in, and had been set down to restin the arm-chair, she proceeded to give 'Mary' a good round scoldingagainst being weak and soft-hearted, saying at last that my Lady wasquite in a way about it. She was sure that Harold would catch his deathof cold, putting him to sleep in the kitchen, upon the stones--and so--myLady had sent off the cart with the little chair-bed, that would takedown and put up again--mattress, bed-clothes, and all. 

That was a comfortable finish to the scolding! Not that it was a finishthough, for the thanks made Mrs. Crabbe afraid the family thoughtthemselves forgiven, so she went on to declare they all would be pinched, and get into debt, and she should advise her god-daughter, Matilda, notto help them with a farthing of her wages, and as to going without theirfull meals, that was what none of them were fit to do. With which itappeared that the cart was bringing a can of broth, a couple of rabbits, some calves'-feet jelly, and a bottle of port wine for Alfred, who livedon that and cod-liver oil more than on any other nourishment. 

At that rate, Lady Jane's displeasure did not seem likely to do muchharm; but there was pain in it too, for when Mrs. Crabbe had managed toget up-stairs, past the patch-work quilt that was hung up to shelter Paulfrom the draught, and had seen Alfred, and been shocked to find how muchwasted he was since she last had seen him, she said, 'One thing youknow--my Lady says she can't have Miss Selby coming down here to seeAlfred while this great lad is always about. And I'm sure it is notproper for her at any time, such a young lady as she is, over all thoseinconvenient stiles. I declare I shall speak to Mr. Price about them. '

Losing Miss Jane's visits was to Alfred like losing a sunbeam, and hisspirit felt very dreary after he had heard this sentence. Ellen knew herwell enough to suspect that she was very sorry, but that she could nothelp herself; and Mrs. King caught the brother and sister making suchgrumbling speeches to each other about the old lady's crossness, that herfaithful, grateful spirit was quite grieved, and she spoke strongly upfor the just, right-minded lady to whom she had loyally looked up formany and many a year, though, with the right sort of independence, shewould not give up to any one's opinion what she knew to be her duty. 

'We all knew it must cost us something, ' she said, 'and we'll try to beready with it, though it does go to one's heart that the first should bewhat vexes you, my Alfy; but it won't be for long. '

'No, Mother; but if it ain't here long? Oh! I don't seem to havenothing to look to if Miss Jane ain't coming here no more, with herpretty ways!'

And there were large tears on his cheeks. Mrs. King had tears in hereyes too, but she bent down over the boy, and turning his eyes to thelittle picture on the wall, she said in a whisper in his ear, 'Didn't Hebear His Cross for the sake of other people?' Alfred did not answer; heturned his face in towards the pillow, and though Ellen thought he wascrying, it did not seem to her to be so sadly. 

Cost them something their kindness did. To be sure, there came a partyof boys with the master from Ragglesford, when there had been time forthem to write the history of the robbery to their homes; and as it camejust before the monthly letter which they all had to write by way ofpractice, to be shewn up to the master, it was a real treasure to them tohave such a story to tell. Some of their friends, especially the unclewho gave the watch, had sent small sums of money for the lad who hadbehaved so well, and these altogether came to a fair amount, which theboys were highly pleased to give over into Mrs. King's hands. She, likeHarold, never made the smallest question that it was all for Paul'sbenefit, and though, when she mentioned it to him, he gave a cheerysmile, and said it would lessen the cost of his illness to her, yet sheput it all aside with the first twelve-and-sixpence. She told Ellen thatit went against her to touch the orphan's money, and that unless it cameto very bad times indeed, it should be kept to set him up decently whenhe should recover. 

No one else could afford aid in money, not Mr. Cope, for he had littlemore than a maintenance for himself; indeed, Mrs. King was not in astation where it would seem becoming to offer alms to her. Lady Janegave help in nourishing food, but the days when this would come wereuncertain, and she had made a resolution against undertaking any share ofthe expense, lest she should seem to encourage Mary King, as she said, insuch weak good nature--cramming up her house with a strange boy likethat, when she had quite enough to do with her own son. So they had tofight on as they could; and the first week, when Paul's illness was atthe height, Ellen had so much more to do for Alfred and about the house, and was so continually called off her work, that she could not finishMrs. Crabbe's gown as soon as was expected; and the ladies' maid, who waskept waiting, took huff, and sent her new purple silk to Elbury to bemadeup. 

It is not quite certain that Ellen did not shed a few tears. 

Harold had to go without his butter, and once took it much to heart thathis mother would buy no shrimps for tea, but after some one had whisperedto him that if there were a trouble about rent, or about Mr. Blunt'sbill, Peggy would be sold, he bore it all pretty well; and after all, Alfred and Paul were so apt to give him tastes of their dainties, that hehad not much loss!

Rent was the care. The pig was killed and cut up to great advantage;Mrs. King sold a side of it at once, which went a good way towards it, but not the whole; and there was a bad debt of John Farden's for bread, contracted last winter, and which he had never paid off in the summer. That would just have made it up, but what hopes were there of that?

Just then, however, came a parcel from Matilda. It was her way ofhelping her family to send them the clothes which her mistresses allowedher to have when they left them off, when Mrs. King either made them upfor herself or Ellen, or disposed of them at Elbury. 

What a treat those parcels were! How curious were all the party at theunpacking, looking at the many odd things that were sure to come out, onthe happy doubtful certainty that each one would be remembered by thegood sister. 

So there were the little directed parcels--a neat knitted grey and blackhandkerchief for Mother to wear in the shop; a whole roll offashion-books for Ellen, and a nice little pocket-book besides; and abundle of 'Illustrated News' to amuse the boys; a precious little squarebook of 'Hymns for the Sick' for Alfred; and a famous pair ofriding-gloves, like bears' paws, for Harold. And what rolls besides!Worn flimsy dresses, once pretty, but now only fit for the old-clothesman, yet whose trimmings Ellen pulled out and studied; bonnets thatlooked as if they had been sat upon; rolls of soft ragged cambrichandkerchiefs, on which Mrs. King seized as the most valuable part of thecargo, so useful would they be to poor Alfred; some few real good things, in especial, a beautiful thick silk dress which had been stained, butwhich dyeing would render very useful; and a particularly nice grey clothmantle, which Matilda had mentioned in her letter as likely to be usefulto Ellen--it was not at all the worse for wear, except as to the liningof the hood, and she should just fancy Ellen in it. 

Ellen could just fancy herself in it. She had a black silk one, whichhad come in the same way, and looked very well, but it was just turningoff, and it was not warm enough for winter without a shawl under it. Thatgrey looked as if it was made for her, it suited her shoulders and hershape so well! She put it on and twisted about in it, and then she sawher good mother not saying one word, and knew she was thinking of the sumthat was wanting to the rent. 

'Well, Mother, ' said Ellen, 'I'll go in and take the things to Betsey onthe next market-day, and if we can get thirty shillings on them withoutthe mantle--'

'Yes, if you can, my dear, ' said her mother; 'I'm sure I should be veryglad for you to have it, but you see--'

And Mrs. King sighed. 

Ellen passed by Paul on the landing, and saw him with his face flushedwith pain and fever, trying to smile at her. She remembered how herunkind words had brought trouble on him, and how her mother had begun bytelling her that they must give up their own wishes if they were to nursehim. 

Ellen went to Elbury on the market-day, and by the help of BetseyHardman, she got great credit for her bargaining. She brought homethirty shillings, and ten shillings' worth of soap for the shop, wherethat article was running low; but she did not bring home the cloak, though Betsey had told her a silk cloak over a shawl looked so mean! andshe feared all the servants at the Grange would think the same!

'They always were good children to me, ' said Mrs. King to Mr. Cope, 'butsomehow, since Paul has been here, I think they are better than ever!There's poor Alfred, though his cough has been so bad of late, has beenso thoughtful and so good; he says he's quite ashamed to find how patientPaul is under so much sharper pain than he ever had, and he's ready tosend anything to Paul that he fancies will do him good--quite carried outof himself, you see; and there's Harold, so much steadier; I've hardlyhad to find fault with him since that poor boy made off--he's sure tocome in in time, and takes care not to disturb his brother, and helps hissister and me all he can. '

Mr. Cope was not at all surprised that the work of mercy was blessed toall the little household, nor that it drew out all the better side oftheir dispositions. 

There was no positive change, nor sudden resolution, to alter Harold; buthe had been a good deal startled by Dick's wickedness, and in him hadlost a tempter. Besides, he considered Paul as his own friend, receivedfor his sake, and therefore felt himself bound to do all he could forhim, and though he was no nurse, he could do much to set his mother andEllen free to attend to their patients. And Paul's illness, though somuch less dangerous, frightened and subdued Harold much more than thequiet gradual pining away of Alfred, to which he was used. The severepain, the raging fever, and the ramblings in talk, were much more fearfulthings to witness than the low cough, the wearing sore, and the helplesslanguor, though there was much hope for the one, and scarcely any for theother. While to Harold's apprehension, Alfred was always just the same, only worsening visibly from month to month; Paul was better or worseevery time he came in, and when fresh from hearing his breath gasp withsharp pain, or receiving his feeble thanks for some slight service, itwas not in Harold to go out and get into thoughtless mischief. 

Moreover, there were helpful things to do at home, such as Harold liked. He was fond of chopping wood, so he was very obliging about the oven, andwhat he liked best of all was helping his mother in certain eveningcookeries of sweet-meats, by receipts from Mrs. Crabbe. On the day ofthe expedition from Ragglesford, the young gentlemen had found out thatMrs. King's bottles contained what they called 'the real article and nomistake, ' much better than what the old woman at the turnpike sold; andso they were, for Mrs. King made them herself, and, like an honest woman, without a morsel of sham in them. She was not going to break the EighthCommandment by cheating in a comfit any more than by stealing a purse;and the children of Friarswood had long known that, and bought all the'lollies' that they were not naughty enough to buy on Sundays, when, asmay be supposed, her shutters were not shut only for a decent show. 

And now Harold did not often ride up to the school without some littlemaster giving him a commission for some variety of sweet-stuff; andthough Mrs. King used to say it was a pity the children should throw awaytheir money in that fashion, it brought a good deal into her till, andHarold greatly liked assisting at the manufacture. How often he lickedhis fingers during the process need not be mentioned; but his objectionto Ragglesford was quite gone off, now that some one was nearly certainto be looking out for him, with a good-natured greeting, or an inquiryfor Paul. He knew one little boy from another, and felt friendly withthem all, and he really was quite grieved when the holidays came, andthey wished him good-bye. The coach that had been hired to take them toElbury seemed something to watch for now, and some thoughtful boy stoppedall the whooping and hurraing as they came near the house on the bridge. Some other stopped the coach, and they all came dropping off it like aswarm of black flies, and tumbling into the shop, where Mrs. King and herdaughter had need to have had a dozen pair of hands to have served them, and they did not go till they had cleared out her entire stock of sweetthings and gingerbread; nay, some of them would have gone off withouttheir change, if she had not raced out to catch them with it after theywere climbing up the coach, and then the silly fellows said they hatedcoppers! And meeting Harold and his post-bag on his way home fromElbury, they raised such a tremendous cheer at him that poor Peggy seemedto make but three springs from the milestone to the bridge, and he couldnot so much as touch his cap by way of answer. 

Somehow, even after those droll customers were gone, every Saturday'sreckoning was a satisfactory one. More always seemed to come in thanwent out. The potatoes had been unusually free from disease in Mrs. King's garden, and every one came for them; the second pig turned outwell; a lodger at the butcher's took a fancy to her buns; and on thewhole, winter, when her receipts were generally at the lowest, was nowquite a prosperous time with her. The great pressure and near anxietyshe had expected had not come, and something was being put by every weektowards the bill for flour, and for Mr. Blunt's account, so that shebegan to hope that after all the Savings Bank would not have to be leftquite bare. 

Quite unexpectedly, John Farden came in for a share of the savings of anold aunt at service, and, like an honest fellow as he was, he got himselfout of debt at once. This quite settled all Mrs. King's fears; Mr. Bluntand the miller would both have their due, and she really believed sheshould be no poorer!

Then she recollected the widow's cruse of oil, and tears of thankfulnessand faith came into her eyes, and other tears dropped when she rememberedthe other more precious comfort that the stranger had brought into thewidow's house, but she knew that the days of miracles and cures past hopewere gone, and that the Christian woman's promise was 'that her childrenshould come again, ' but not till the resurrection of the just. 

And though to her eye each frost was freshly piercing her boy's breast, each warm damp day he faded into greater feebleness, yet the hope was farclearer. He was happy and content. He had laid hold of the blessed hopeof Everlasting Life, and was learning to believe that the Cross laid onhim here was in mercy to make him fit for Heaven, first making him afraidand sorry for his sins, and ready to turn to Him Who could take themaway, and then almost becoming gladness, in the thought of following hisMaster, though so far off. 

Not that Alfred often said such things, but they breathed peace over hismind, and made Scripture-reading, prayers, and hymns very delightful tohim, especially those in Matilda's book; and he dwelt more than he toldany one on Mr. Cope's promise, when he trusted to be made more fully 'onewith Christ' in the partaking of His Cup of Life. It used to be histreat, when no one was looking, to read over that Service in his Prayer-book, and to think of the time. It was like a kind of step; he could fixhis mind on that, and the sense of forgiveness he hoped for therein, better than on the great change that was coming; when there was much fearand shrinking from the pain, and some dread of what as yet seemed strangeand unknown, he thought he should feel lifted up so as to be able to bearthe thought, when that holy Feast should have come to him. 

All this made him much less occupied with himself, and he took much moreshare in what was going on; he could be amused and playful, cared for allthat Ellen and Harold did, and was inclined to make the most of his timewith his brother. It was like old happy times, now that Alfred hadceased to be fretful, and Harold took heed not to distress him. 

One thing to which Alfred looked forward greatly, was Paul's being ableto come into his room, and the two on their opposite sides of the wallmade many pleasant schemes for the talk and reading that were to go on. But when the day came, Alfred was more disappointed than pleased. 

Paul had been cased, by Lady Jane's orders, in flannel; he had over thata pair of trousers of Alfred's--much too long, for the Kings were verytall, and he was small and stunted in growth--and a great wrapping-gownthat Mr. Cope had once worn when he was ill at college, and over hisshaven head a night-cap that had been their father's. 

Ellen, with many directions from Alfred, had made him up a couch withthree chairs, and the cushions Alfred used to have when he could leavehis bed; the fire was made up brightly, and Mrs. King and Harold helpedPaul into the room. 

But all the rheumatic pain was by no means over, and walking made himfeel it; he was dreadfully weak, and was so giddy and faint after thefirst few steps, that they could not bring him to shake hands with Alfredas both had wished, but had to lay him down as fast as they could. Sotired was he, that he could hardly say anything all the time he wasthere; and Alfred had to keep silence for fear of wearying him stillmore. There was a sort of shyness, too, which hindered the two from evenletting their eyes meet, often as they had heard each other's voices, andhad greeted one another through the thin partition. As Paul lay with hiseyes shut, Alfred raised himself to take a good survey of the sharppinched features, the hollow cheeks, deep-sunk pits for the eyes, --andyellow ghastly skin of the worn face, and the figure, so small and wastedthat it was like nothing, curled up in all those wraps. One who couldread faces better than young Alfred could, would have gathered not onlythat the boy who lay there had gone through a great deal, but that therewas much mind and thought crushed down by misery, and a gentle nature notfit to stand up alone against it, and so sinking down without exertion. 

And when Alfred was learning a verse of his favourite hymn--

 'There is a rill whose waters rise--'

Paul's eye-lids rose, and looked him all over dreamily, comparing himperhaps with the notions he had carried away from his two formerglimpses. Alfred did not look now so utterly different from anything hehad seen before, since Mrs. King and Ellen had been hovering round hisbed for nearly a month past; but still the fair skin, pink colour, darkeye-lashes, glossy hair, and white hands, were like a dream to him, as ifthey belonged to the pure land whither Alfred was going, and he was quiteloath to hear him speak like another boy, as he knew he could do, havingoften listened to his talk through the wall. At the least sign ofAlfred's looking up, he turned away his eyes as if he had been doingsomething by stealth. 

He came in continually after this; and little things each day, andHarold's talk, made the two acquainted and like boys together; but it wasnot till Christmas Day that they felt like knowing each other. 

It was the first time Paul felt himself able to be of any use, for he wasto be left in charge of Alfred, while Mrs. King and both her otherchildren went to church. Paul was sadly crippled still, and every frostfilled his bones with acute pain, and bent him like an old man, so thathe was still a long way from getting down-stairs, but he could make ashift to get about the room, and he looked greatly pleased when Alfreddeclared that he should want nobody else to stay with him in the morning. 

Very glad he was that his mother would not be kept from Ellen's firstHoly Communion. Owing to the Curate not being a priest, the Feast hadnot been celebrated since Michaelmas; but a clergyman had come to helpMr. Cope, that the parish might not be deprived of the Festival on such aday as Christmas. 

Harold, though in a much better mood than at the Confirmation time, wasnot as much concerned to miss it as perhaps he ought to have been. Thought had not come to him yet, and his head was full of the dinner withthe servants at the Grange. It was sad that he and Ellen should alone beable to go to it; but it would be famous for all that! Ay, and so werethe young postman's Christmas-boxes!

So Paul and Alfred were left together, and held their tongues for fullfive minutes, because both felt so odd. Then Alfred said something aboutreading the Service, and Paul offered to read it to him. 

Paul had not only been very well taught, but had a certain gift, such asnot many people have, for reading aloud well. Alfred listened to thosePsalms and Lessons as if they had quite a new meaning in them, for theright sound and stress on the right words made them sound quite likeanother thing; and so Alfred said when he left off. 

'I'm sure they do to me, ' said Paul. 'I didn't know much about "good-will to men" last Christmas. '

'You've not had overmuch good-will from them, neither, ' said Alfred, 'since you came out. '

'What! not since I've been at Friarswood?' exclaimed Paul. 'Why, I usedto think all _that_ was only something in a book. '

'All what?' asked Alfred. 

'All about--why, loving one's neighbour--and the Good Samaritan, and soon. I never saw any one do it, you know, but it was comfortable like toread about it; and when I watched to your mother and all of you, I sawhow it was about one's neighbour; and then, what with that and Mr. Cope'steaching, I got to feel how it was--about God!' and Paul's face lookedvery grave and peaceful. 

'Well, ' said Alfred, 'I don't know as I ever cared about it much--notsince I was a little boy. It was the fun last Christmas. '

And Paul looking curious, Alfred told all about the going out for holly, and the dining at the Grange, and the snap-dragon over the pudding, tillhe grew so eager and animated that he lost breath, and his painful coughcame on, so that he could just whisper, 'What did you do?'

'Oh! I don't know. We had prayers, and there was roast beef for dinner, but they gave it to me where it was raw, and I couldn't eat it. Thosethat had friends went out; but 'twasn't much unlike other days. '

'Poor Paul!' sighed Alfred. 

'It won't be like that again, though, ' said Paul, 'even if I was in aUnion. I know--what I know now. '

'And, Paul, ' said Alfred, after a pause, 'there's one thing I should likeif I was you. You know our Blessed Saviour had no house over Him, butwas left out of the inn, and nobody cared for Him. '

Paul did not make any answer; and Alfred blushed all over. 

Presently Alfred said, 'Harold will run in soon. I say, Paul, would youmind reading me what they will say after the Holy Sacrament--what theAngels sang is the beginning. '

Paul found it, and felt as if he must stand to read such praise. 

'Thank you, ' said Alfred. 'I'm glad Mother and Ellen are there. They'llremember us, you know. Did you hear what Mr. Cope promised me?'

Paul had not heard; and Alfred told him, adding, 'It will be the Ember-week in Lent. You'll be one with me then, Paul?'

'I'd like to promise, ' said Paul fervently; 'but you see, when I'm well--'

'Oh, you won't go away for good. My Lady, or Mr. Cope, will get youwork; and I want you to be Mother's good son instead of me; and a brotherto Harold and Ellen. '

'I'd never go if I could help it, ' said Paul; 'I sometimes wish I'd nevergot better! I wish I could change with you, Alfred; nobody would care if'twas me; nor I'm sure I shouldn't. '

'I should like to get well!' said Alfred slowly, and sighing. 'But thenyou've been a much better lad than I was. '

'I don't know why you should say that, ' said Paul, with his hand underhis chin, rather moodily. 'But if I thought I could be good and go onwell, I would not mind so much. I say, Alfred, when people round go onbeing--like Tom Boldre, you know--do you think one can always feel thatabout God being one's Father, and church home, and all the rest?'

'I can't say--I never tried, ' said Alfred. 'But you know you can alwaysgo to church--and then the Psalms and Lessons tell you those things. Well, and you can go to the Holy Sacrament--I say, Paul, if you take itthe first time with me, you'll always remember me again every timeafter. '

'I must be very odd ever to forget you!' said Paul, not far from crying. 'Ha!' he exclaimed, 'they are coming out of church!'

'I want to say one thing more, while I've got it in my head, ' saidAlfred. 'Mr. Cope said all this sickness was a cross to me, and I'd gotto take it up for our Saviour's sake. Well, and then mayn't yours bebeing plagued and bullied, without any friends? I'm sure something likeit happened to our Lord; and He never said one word against them. Isn'tthat the way you may be to follow Him?'

Illness and thought had made such things fully plain to Alfred, and hiswords sank deep into Paul's mind; but there was not time for any answer, for Harold was heard unlocking the door, and striding up three steps at atime, sending his voice before him. 'Well, old chaps, have youquarrelled yet? Have you been jolly together? I say, Mrs. Crabbe toldEllen that the pudding was put into the boiler at eight o'clock lastnight; and my Lady and Miss Jane went in to give it a stir! I'm to bringyou home a slice, you know; and Paul will know what a real pudding islike. '

The two boys spent a happy quiet afternoon with Mrs. King; and CharlesHayward brought all the singing boys down, that they might hear thecarols outside the window. Paul, much tired, was in his bed by thattime; but his last thought was that 'Good-will to Men' had come home tohim at last. 

CHAPTER XI--BETTER DAYS FOR PAUL

Paul's reading was a great prize to Alfred, for he soon grew tiredhimself; his sister could not spare time to read to him, and if she did, she went mumbling on like a bee in a bottle. Her mother did much thesame, and Harold used to stumble and gabble, so that it was horrible tohear him. Such reading as Paul's was a new light to them all, and was atreat to Ellen as she worked as much as to Alfred; and Paul, with handsas clean as Alfred's, was only too happy to get hold of a book, andinfinitely enjoyed the constant supply kept up by Miss Selby, to make upfor her not coming herself. 

Then came the making out the accounts, a matter dreaded by all thefamily. Ellen and Alfred both used to do the sums; but as they nevermade them the same, Mrs. King always went by some reckoning of her own bypencil dots on her thumb-nail, which took an enormous time, but neverwent wrong. So the slate and the books came up after tea, one night, andEllen set to work with her mother to pick out every one's bill. Theremight be about eight customers who had Christmas bills; but many anaccountant in a London shop would think eight hundred a less toughbusiness than did the King family these eight; especially as there was adebtor and creditor account with four, and coals, butcher's meat, andshoes for man and horse, had to be set against bread, tea, candles, andthe like. 

One pound of tea, 3_s. _ 6_d. _, that was all very well; but an ounce and ahalf of the same made Ellen groan, and look wildly at the corner overAlfred's bed, as if in hopes she should there see how to set it down, soas to work it. 

'Fourpence, all but--' said a voice from the arm-chair by the fire. 

Ellen did not take any particular heed, but announced the fact that threeshillings were thirty-six pence, and six was forty-two. Also thatsixteen ounces were one pound, and sixteen drams one ounce; but there shegot stuck, and began making figures and rubbing them out, as if in hopesthat would clear up her mind. Mrs. King pecked on for ten minutes on hernail. 

'Well, ' she said, 'Paul's right; it is fourpence. '

'However did you do it?' asked Ellen. 

'As 16 to 1. 5, so 42, ' quoth Paul quickly. 'Three halves into 42; 21 and42 is 63; 63 by 16, gives 3 and fifteen-sixteenths. You can't deduct asixteenth of a penny, so call it fourpence. '

Ellen and Alfred were as wise as to the working as they were before. 

Next question--Paul's answer came like the next line in the book--Mrs. King proved him right, and so on till she was quite tired of the proofs, and began to trust him. Alfred asked how he could possibly do suchthings, which seemed to him a perfect riddle. 

'I should have had my ears pretty nigh pulled off if I took five minutesto work _that_ in my head, ' said Paul. 'But I've forgotten things now; Icould do it faster once. '

'I'm sure you hadn't need, ' said Mrs. King; 'it's enough to distractone's senses to count so fast. All in your poor head too!'

'And I've got to write them all out to-morrow, ' said Ellen dismally; 'Imust wait till dark, or I shan't set a stitch of work. I wish peoplewould pay ready money, and then one wouldn't have to set down theirbills. Here's Mr. Cope, bread--bread--bread, as long as my arm!'

'If you didn't mind, maybe I could save you the trouble, Miss Ellen, 'said Paul. 

'Did you ever make out a bill?' asked Mrs. King. 

'Never a real one; but every Thursday I used to do sham ones. Once I dida jeweller's bill for twelve thousand pounds and odd! It is so longsince I touched a pen, that may be I can't write; but I should like totry. '

Ellen brought a pen, and the cover of a letter; and hobbling up to thetable, he took the pen, cleared it of a hair that was sticking in it, made a scratch or two weakly and ineffectually, then wrote in a neatclear hand, without running up or down, 'Friarswood, Christmas. '

'A pretty hand as ever I saw!' said Mrs. King. 'Well, if you can writelike that, and can be trusted to make no mistakes, you might write outour bills; and we'd be obliged to you most kindly. '

And so Paul did, so neatly, that when the next evening Mr. Cope walked inwith the money, he said, looking at Harold, 'Ah! my ancient Saxon, I mustmake my compliments to you: I did not think you could write letters aswell as you can carry them. '

''Twas Paul did it, Sir, ' said Harold. 

'Yes, Sir; 'twas Paul, ' said Mrs. King. 'The lad is a wonderful scholar:he told off all the sums as if they was in print; and to hear himread--'tis like nothing I ever heard since poor Mrs. Selby, Miss Jane'smother. '

'I saw he had been very well instructed--in acquaintance with the Bible, and the like. '

'And, Sir, before I got to know him for a boy that would not give a falseaccount of himself, I used to wonder whether he could have run away fromsome school, and have friends above the common. If you observe, Sir, hespeaks so remarkably well. '

Mr. Cope had observed it. Paul spoke much better English than did eventhe Kings; though Ellen was by way of being very particular, andsometimes a little mincing. 

'You are quite sure it is not so?' he said, a little startled at Mrs. King's surmise. 

'Quite sure now, Sir. I don't believe he would tell a falsehood on noaccount; and besides, poor lad!' and she smiled as the tears came intoher eyes, 'he's so taken to me, he wouldn't keep nothing back from me, nomore than my own boys. '

'I'm sure he ought not, Mrs. King, ' said the Curate, 'such a mother tohim as you have been. I should like to examine him a little. With somuch education, he might do something better for himself thanfield-labour. '

'A very good thing it would be, Sir, ' said Mrs. King, looking muchcheered; 'for I misdoubt me sometimes if he'll ever be strong enough togain his bread that way--at least, not to be a good workman. There! he'snot nigh so tall as Harold; and so slight and skinny as he is, goingabout all bent and slouching, even before his illness! Why, he says whatmade him stay so long in the Union was that he looked so small and young, that none of the farmers at Upperscote would take him from it; and so atlast he had to go on the tramp. '

Mr. Cope went up-stairs, and found Ellen, as usual, at her needle, andPaul in the arm-chair close by Alfred, both busied in choosing andcutting out pictures from Matilda's 'Illustrated News, ' with which Haroldornamented the wall of the stair-case and landing. Mr. Cope sat down, and made them laugh with something droll about the figures that werelying spread on Alfred. 

'So, Paul, ' he said, 'I find Mrs. King has engaged you for heraccountant. '

'I wish I could do anything to be of any use, ' said Paul. 

'I've half a mind to ask you some questions in arithmetic, ' said Mr. Cope, with his merry eyes upon the boy, and his mouth looking grave;'only I'm afraid you might puzzle me. '

'I can't do as I used, Sir, ' said Paul, rather nervously; 'I've forgottenever so much; and my head swims. '

The slate was lying near; Mr. Cope pushed it towards him, and said, 'Well, will you mind letting me see how you can write from dictation?'

And taking up one of the papers, he read slowly several sentences from adescription of a great fire, with some tolerably long-winded newspaperwords in them. When he paused, and asked for the slate, there it allstood, perfectly spelt, well written, and with all the stops and capitalsin the right places. 

'Famously done, Paul! Well, and do you know where this place was?'naming the town. 

Paul turned his eyes about for a moment, and then gave the name of acounty. 

'That'll do, Paul. Which part of England?'

'Midland. '

And so on, Mr. Cope got him out of his depth by asking about the rivers, and made him frown and look teased by a question about a battle fought inthat county. If he had ever known, he had forgotten, and he was weak andeasily confused; but Mr. Cope saw that he had read some history andlearnt some geography, and was not like some of the village boys, whoused to think Harold had been called after Herod--a nice namesake, truly!

'Who taught you all this, Paul?' he said. 'You must have had a cleverermaster than is common in Unions. Who was he?'

'He was a Mr. Alcock, Sir. He was a clever man. They said in the Housethat he had been a bit of a gentleman, a lawyer, or a clerk, orsomething, but that he could never keep from the bottle. '

'What! and so they keep him for a school-master?'

'He was brought in, Sir; he'd got that mad fit that comes of drink, Sir, and was fresh out of gaol for debt. And when he came to, he said he'dkeep the school for less than our master that was gone. He couldn't doanything else, you see. '

'And how did he teach you?'

'He knocked us about, ' said Paul, drawing his shoulders together with anunpleasant recollection; 'he wasn't so bad to me, because I liked gettingmy tasks, and when he was in a good humour, he'd say I was a credit tohim, and order me in to read to him in the evening. '

'And when he was not?'

'That was when he'd been out. They said he'd been at the gin-shop; buthe used to be downright savage, ' said Paul. 'At last he never thought itworth while to teach any lessons but mine, and I used to hear the otherclasses; but the inspector came all on a sudden, and found it out one daywhen he'd hit a little lad so that his nose was bleeding, and so he wassent off. '

'How long ago was this?'

'Going on for a year, ' said Paul. 

'Didn't the inspector want you to go to a training-school?' said Alfred. 

'Yes; but the Guardians wouldn't hear of it. '

'Did you wish it?' asked Mr. Cope. 

'I liked my liberty, Sir, ' was the answer; and Paul looked down. 

'Well, and what you do think now you've tried your liberty?'

Paul didn't make any answer, but finding that good-humoured face stillwaiting, he said slowly, 'Why, Sir, it was well-nigh the worst of all tofind I was getting as stupid as the cows. '

Mr. Cope laughed, but not so as to vex him; and added, 'So that was theway you learnt to be a reader, Paul. Can you tell me what books you usedto read to this master?'

Paul paused; and Alfred said, '"Uncle Tom's Cabin, " Sir; he told us thestory of that. '

'Yes, ' said Paul; 'but that wasn't all: there was a book about Paris, andall the people in the back lanes there; and a German prince who came, andwas kind. '

'You must not tell them stories out of that book, Paul, ' said Mr. Copequickly, for he knew it was a very bad one. 

'No, Sir, ' said Paul; 'but most times it was books he called philosophy, that I couldn't make anything of--no story, and all dull; but he was verysavage if I got to sleep over them, till I hated the sight of them. '

'I'm glad you did, my poor boy, ' said Mr. Cope. 'But one thing more. Tell me how, with such a man as this, you could have learnt about theBible and Catechism, as you have done. '

'Oh, ' said Paul, 'we had only the Bible and Testament to read in theschool, because they were the cheapest; and the chaplain asked us aboutthe Catechism every Sunday. '

'What was the chaplain's name?'

Paul was able, with some recollection, to answer; but he knew littleabout the clergyman, who was much overworked, and seldom able to give anytime to the paupers. 

Three days after, Mr. Cope again came into the post-office. 

'Well, Mrs. King, I suppose you don't need to be told that our friendPaul has spoken nothing but truth. The chaplain sends me his baptismalregistry, for which I asked. Just seventeen he must be--a foundling, picked up at about three weeks old, January 25th, 1836. They fancy hewas left by some tramping musicians, but never were able to trace them--atleast, so the chaplain hears from some of the people who remember it. Being so stunted, and looking younger than he is, no farmer would takehim from the House, and the school-master made him useful, so he was kepton till the grand exposure that he told us of. '

'Ah! Sir, ' said Mrs. King, ' I'm afraid that master was a bad man. Ionly wonder the poor lad learnt no more harm from him!'

'One trembles to think of the danger, ' said Mr. Cope; 'but you seethere's often a guard over those who don't seek the temptation, andperhaps this poor fellow's utter ignorance of anything beyond the Unionwalls helped him to let the mischief pass by his understanding, betterthan if he had had any experience of the world. '

'I doubt if he'll ever have that, Sir, ' said Mrs. King, her sensible facelighting up rather drolly; 'there's Harold always laughing at him forbeing so innocent, and yet so clever at his book. '

'So much the better for him, ' said Mr. Cope. 'The Son of Sirach neversaid a wiser word than that "the knowledge of wickedness is not wisdom. "Why, Mrs. King, what have I said? you look as if you had a great mind tolaugh at me. '

'I beg your pardon, Sir, ' said Mrs. King, much disconcerted at whatseemed to her as if it might have been disrespect, though that was onlyMr. Cope's droll way of putting it, 'I never meant--'

'Well, but what were you thinking of?'

'Why, Sir, I beg your pardon, but I was thinking it wouldn't have beenamiss if he had had sense enough to keep himself clean and tidy. '

'I agree with you, ' said Mr. Cope, laughing, and seeing she used'innocent' in a slightly different sense from what he did; 'but perhapsUnion cleanliness was not inviting, and he'd not had you to bring him upto fresh cheeks like Harold's. Besides, I believe it was half depressionand want of heart to exert himself, when there was no one to care forhim; and he certainly had not been taught either self-respect, or tothink cleanliness next to godliness. '

'Poor lad--no, ' said Mrs. King; 'nor I don't think he'd do it again, andI trust he'll never be so lost again. '

'Lost, and found, ' said Mr. Cope gravely. 'Another thing I was going tosay was, that this irreverent economy of the Guardians, in allowing nolesson-books but the Bible, seems to have, after all, been blest to himin his knowledge of it, like an antidote to the evil the master pouredin. '

'Yes, Sir, ' said Mrs. King, 'just so; only he says, that though he likedit, because, poor lad, there was nothing else that seemed to him to speakkind or soft, he never knew how much it was meant for him, nor it didn'tseem to touch him home till he came to you, Sir. '

Mr. Cope half turned away. His bright eyes had something very like atear in them, for hardly anything could have been said to make the youngclergyman so happy, as to tell him that any work of his should beblessed; but he went on talking quickly, to say that the chaplain gave astill worse account of Alcock than Paul's had been, saying that somegentlemen who had newly become Guardians at the time of the inspector'svisit, had taken up the matter, and had been perfectly shocked at thediscoveries they had made about the man to whom the poor children hadbeen entrusted. 

On his dismissal, some of the old set, who were all for cheapness, hadtalked of letting young Blackthorn act as school-master; but as he was sovery young, and had been brought up by this wretched man, the gentlemenwould not hear of it; and as they could not afford to accept theinspector's offer of recommending him to a government school, he had beensent out in quest of employment, as being old enough to provide forhimself. Things had since, the chaplain said, been put on a much betterfooting, and he himself had much more time to attend to the inmates. Asto Paul, he was glad to hear that he was in good hands; he said he hadalways perceived him to be a very clever boy, and knew no harm of him butthat he was a favourite with Alcock, which he owned had made him veryglad to get him out of the House, lest he should carry on the mischief. 

Mr. Cope and Mrs. King were both of one mind, that this was hard measure. So it was. Man's measure always is either over hard or over soft, because he cannot see all sides at once. Now they saw Paul's side, hissimplicity, and his suffering; the chaplain had only seen the chances ofhis conveying the seeds of ungodly teaching to the workhouse children; hecould not tell that the pitch which Paul had not touched by his own will, had not stuck by him--probably owing to that very simplicity which hadmade him so helpless in common life. 

Having learnt all this, Mr. Cope proposed to Paul to use the time of hisrecovery in learning as much as he could, so as to be ready in case anyopportunity should offer for gaining his livelihood by his head ratherthan by his hands. 

Paul's face glowed. He liked nothing better than to be at a book, andwith Mr. Cope to help him by bright encouragements and good-naturedexplanations instead of tweaks of the ears and raps on the knuckles, whatcould be pleasanter? So Mr. Cope lent him books, set him questions, andgave him pen, ink, and copy-book, and he toiled away with them till hissenses grew dazed, and his back ached beyond bearing; so that 'Mother, 'as he called her now, caught him up, and made him lie on his bed to rest, threatening to tell Mr. Cope not to set him anything so hard; while Ellenwatched in wonder at any one being so clever, and was proud of whateverMr. Cope said he did well; and Harold looked on him as a moreextraordinary creature than the pie-bald horse in the show, who wore ahat and stood on his hind legs, since he really was vexed when book andslate were taken out of his hands. 

He would have over-tasked himself in his weakness much more, if it hadnot been for his lovingness to Alfred. To please Alfred was always hisfirst thought; and even if a difficult sum were just on the point ofproving itself, he would leave off at the first moment of seeing Alfredlook as if he wanted to be read to, and would miss all his calculations, to answer some question--who was going down the village, or what thatnoise could be. 

Alfred tried to be considerate, and was sorry when he saw by a furrow onPaul's brow that he was trying to win up again all that some triflingsaying had made him lose. But Alfred was not scholar enough to perceivethe teasing of such interruptions, and even had he been aware of it, hewas not in a state when he could lie quite still long together withoutdisturbing any one; he could amuse himself much less than formerly, andoften had most distressing restless fits, when one or other of them hadto give him their whole attention; and it was all his most earnestefforts could do to keep from the old habit of fretfulness and murmuring. And he grieved so much over the least want of temper, and begged pardonso earnestly for the least impatient word--even if there had been realprovocation for it--that it was a change indeed since the time when hethought grumbling and complaint his privilege and relief. Nothing helpedhim more than Paul's reading Psalms to him--the 121st was hisfavourite--or saying over hymns to him in that very sweet voice so fullof meaning. Sometimes Ellen and Paul would sing together, as she sat ather work, and it almost always soothed him to hear the Psalm tunes, thatwere like an echo from the church, about which he had cared so littlewhen he had been able to go there in health and strength, but for whichhe now had such a longing! He came to be so used to depend on theirsinging the Evening Hymn to him, that one of the times when it was mosthard for him to be patient, was one cold evening, when Ellen was sohoarse that she could not speak, and an unlucky draught in from the shopdoor had so knit Paul up again, that he was lying in his bed, much nearerscreaming than singing. 

Most of all, however, was Alfred helped by Mr. Cope's visits, and thelooking forward to the promised Feast, with more earnestness as the timedrew on, and he felt his own weakness more longing for the support andblessing of uniting his suffering with that of his Lord. 'In all ourafflictions He was afflicted, ' was a sound that came most cheeringly tohim, and seemed to give him greater strength and good-will to bear hisload of weakness. 

There was a book which young Mrs. Selby had given his mother, which wasoften lying on his bed, and had marks in it at all the favourite places. Some he liked to look at himself, some for Paul to read to him. Theywere such sentences as these:

'My son, I descended from Heaven for thy salvation; I took upon Me thymiseries; not necessity, but charity, drawing Me thereto, that thouthyself mightest learn patience, and bear temporal miseries withoutgrudging. '

'For from the hour of My Birth, even until My Death on the Cross, I wasnot without suffering and grief. '

And then again:

'Offer up thyself unto Me, and give thyself wholly for God, and thyoffering shall be acceptable. '

'Behold, I offered up Myself wholly unto My Father for thee, and gave Mywhole Body and Blood for thy food, that I might be wholly thine, and thatthou mightest continue Mine unto the end. '

So he might think of all that he went through as capable of being made afree offering, which God would accept for the sake of the One GreatOffering, 'consuming and burning away' (as the book said) 'all his sinswith the fire of Christ's love, and cleansing his conscience from alloffences. ' It was what he now felt in the words, 'Thy Will be done, 'which he tried to say in full earnest; but he thought he should be veryhappy when he should go along with the offering ourselves, our souls, andbodies, to be a 'reasonable, holy, and lively sacrifice. '

Each of Mr. Cope's readings brought out or confirmed these refreshinghopes; and Paul likewise dwelt on such thoughts. Hardship had been atraining to him, like sickness for Alfred; he knew what it was to beweary and heavy laden, and to want rest, and was ready to draw closer tothe only Home and Father that he could claim. His gentle unresistingspirit was one that so readily forgot ill-will, that positively Haroldcherished more dislike to the Shepherds than he did; and there was nostruggle to forgive, no lack of charity for all men, so that hope andtrust were free. 

These two boys were a great deal to the young deacon. Perhaps hereckoned on his first ministration as a priest by Alfred's bedside, asmuch or even more than did the lad, for to him the whole household wereas near and like-minded friends, though neither he nor they ever departedfrom the fitting manners of their respective stations. He was one wholiked to share with others what was near his heart, and he had shewnAlfred the Service for the Ordination of Priests, and the Prayers forGrace that would be offered, and the holy vows that he would take uponhim, and the words with which those great Powers would be conferred--thosePowers that our Chief Shepherd left in trust for the pastors who feed Hisflock. 

And once he had bent down and whispered to Alfred to pray that help mightbe given to him to use those powers faithfully. 

So wore on the early spring; and the morning had come when he was to setout for the cathedral town, when Harold rode up to the parsonage door, and something in his looks as he passed the window made Mr. Cope hastento the door to meet him. 

'O Sir!' said Harold, bursting out crying as he began to speak, 'poorAlfred is took so bad; and Mother told me to tell you, Sir--if he's notbetter--he'll never live out the day!'

Poor Harold, who had never seemed to heed his brother's illness, wasquite overwhelmed now. It had come upon him all at once. 

'What is it? Has the doctor been?'

'No, Sir; I went in at six o'clock this morning to ask him to come out, and he said he'd come--and sent him a blister--but Alf was worse by thetime I got back, Sir, --he can't breathe--and don't seem to notice. '

And without another word, nor waiting for comfort, Harold dug his heelsinto Peggy, passed his elbow over his eyes, and cantered on with thetears drying on his face in the brisk March wind. 

There was no finishing breakfast for the Curate; he thrust his lettersinto his pocket, caught up his hat, and walked off with long strides forthe post-office. 

It shewed how different things were from usual, that Paul, who had hardlyyet been four times down-stairs, his thin pointed face all in a flush, was the only person in the shop, trying with a very shaky hand to cut outsome cheese for a great stout farm maid-servant, who evidently did notunderstand what was the matter, and stared doubly when the clergyman puthis strong hand so as to steady Paul's trembling one, and gave his helpto fold up the parcel. 

'How is he, Paul?'

Paul was very near crying as he answered, 'Much worse, Sir. Mother hasbeen up all night with him. O Sir! he did so want to live till you camehome. '

'May I go up?' asked Mr. Cope. 

Paul was sure that he might, and crept up after him. It was bad enough, but not quite so bad as Harold, in his fright, had made Mr. Cope believe. Poor boy! it had all come upon him now; and seeing his brother unable tospeak and much oppressed, he fancied he did not know him, whereas Alfredwas fully sensible, though too ill to do more than lift his eyes, and putout his weak fingers as Mr. Cope came into the room, where he was lyingraised on his pillows, with his mother and sister doing all they couldfor him. 

A terrible pain in the side had come on in the night, making every breathpainful, every cough agonizing, and his whole face and brow were crimsonwith the effort of gasping. 

Paul looked a moment but could not bear it, and went, and sat down on thetop of the stairs; while Mr. Cope kindly held Alfred's hot hand, and Mrs. King, in her low patient tone, told how the attack had begun. 

She was in the midst, when Mr. Blunt's gig was seen at the gate. Hishaving thus hastened his coming was more than they had dared to hope; andwhile Mrs. King felt grateful for the kindness, Ellen feared that itshewed that he thought very badly of the case. 

Mr. Cope was much hurried, but he could not bear to go till he had heardMr. Blunt's opinion; so he went down to the kitchen, tried to consolePaul by talking kindly to him, wrote a note, and read his letters. 

They were much comforted to hear that Mr. Blunt thought that there washope of subduing the present inflammatory pain; and though there was muchimmediate danger, it was not hastening so very fast to the end as theyhad at first supposed. Yet, in such a state as Alfred's, a few hoursmight finish all. There was no saying. 

Already, when Mr. Cope went up again, the remedies had given some relief;and though the breaths came short and hard, like so many stabs, Alfredhad put his head into an easier position, and his eyes and lips lookedmore free to look a greeting. There was so much wistful earnestness inhis face, and it deeply grieved Mr. Cope to be forced to leave him, andin too much haste even to be able to pray with him. 

'Well, Alfred, dear fellow, ' he said, his voice trembling, 'I am come towish you good-bye. I am comforted to find that Mr. Blunt thinks there isgood hope that you will be here--that we shall be together when I comeback. Yes, I know that is what is on your mind, and I do reckon mostearnestly on it; but if it should not be His Will--here, Ellen, will youtake care of this note? If he should be worse, will you send this to Mr. Carter, at Ragglesford? and I know he will come at once. '

The dew stood on Alfred's eye-lashes, and his lips worked. He looked upsadly to Mr. Cope, as if this did not answer his longings. 

Mr. Cope replied to the look--'Yes, dear boy, but if it cannot be, stillremember it is Communion. He can put us together. We all drink into oneSpirit. I shall be engaged in a like manner--I would not--I could notgo, Alfred, for pleasure--no, nor business--only for this. You mustthink that I am gone to bring you home the Gift--the greatest, bestGift--the one our Lord left with His disciples, to bear them throughtheir sorrows and pains--through the light affliction that is but for amoment, but worketh an exceeding weight of glory. And if I should not bein time, ' he added, nearly sobbing as he spoke, 'then--then, Alfred, theGift, the blessing is yours all the same. It is the Great High Priest toWhom you must look--perhaps you may do so the more really if it shouldnot be through--your friend. If we are disappointed, we will make asacrifice of our disappointment. Good-bye, my boy; God bless you!'Bending close down to his face, he whispered, 'Think of me. Pray forme--now--always. ' Then, rising hastily, he shook the hands of the motherand sister, ran down-stairs, and was gone. 

CHAPTER XII--REST AT LAST

The east wind had been swept aside by gales from the warm south, and thespring was bursting out everywhere; the sky looked softly blue, insteadof hard and chill; the sun made everything glisten: the hedges were fullof catkins; white buds were on the purple twigs of the blackthorns;primroses were looking out on the sunny side of the road; the larks weremounting up, singing as if they were wild with delight; and the sunbeamswere full of dancing gnats, as the Curate of Friarswood walked, withquick eager steps, towards the bridge. 

His eyes were anxiously bent on the house, watching the white smokerising from the chimney; then he hastened on to gain the first sight atthe upper windows, feeling almost as he could have done had it been abrother who lay there; so much was his heart set on the first whom he hadstriven to help through the valley of the shadow of death. The windowwas open, but the blind was not drawn; and almost at the same moment thegate opened, some one looked out, and seeing him, waved his hand and armin joyful signal towards some one within, and this gesture set Mr. Cope'sheart at rest. 

Was it Harold? No, it was Paul Blackthorn, who stood leaning on thewicket, as he held it open for the clergyman, at whom he looked up as ifexpecting some change, and a little surprised to find the same voice andmanner. 

'Well, Paul, then he is not worse?'

'No, Sir, thank you, he is better. The pain has left him, and he canspeak again, ' said Paul, but not very cheerfully. 

'That is a great comfort! But who's that?' as a head, not Ellen's, appeared for a moment at the window. 

'That's Miss King, Sir--Miss Matilda!'

'Oh! Well, and how are the bones, Paul? Better, I hope, since I see youare come out with the bees, ' said Mr. Cope, laying his hand kindly on hisshoulder (a thing fit to touch now, since it was in a fustian coat ofpoor Alfred's), and accommodating his swift strong steps to the feeblehalt with which Paul still moved. 

'Thank you, Sir, yes; I've been down here twice when the sun was out, ' hesaid, as if it were a grand undertaking; but then, with a sudden smile, 'and poor Caesar knew me, Sir; he came right across the road, and waggedhis tail, and licked my hand. '

'Good old Caesar! You were his best friend, Paul. --Well, Mrs. King, thisis a blessing!'

Mrs. King looked sadly worn out with nursing, and her eyes were full oftears. 

'Yes, Sir, ' she said, 'indeed it is. My poor darling has been so muchafraid he was too much set on your coming home, and yet so patient andquiet about it. '

'Then you ventured to wait?'

And Mr. Cope heard that the attack of inflammation had given way toremedies, but that Alfred was so much weakened, that they could not raisehim again. He was sustained by as much nourishment as they could givehim: but the disease had made great progress, and Mr. Blunt did not thinkthat he could last many days. His eldest sister had come for a fortnightfrom her place, and was a great comfort to them all. 'And so is Paul, 'said Mrs. King, looking for him kindly; 'I don't know what we should dowithout his help up-stairs and down. And, Sir, yesterday, ' she added, colouring a good deal--'I beg your pardon, but I thought, maybe, you'dlike to hear it--Alfred would have nobody else up with him in morningchurch-time--and made him read the most--of that Service, Sir. '

Mr. Cope's eyes glistened, and he said something huskily of being gladthat Alfred could think of it. 

It further appeared that Alfred had wished very much to see Miss Selbyagain, and that Mrs. King had sent the two sisters to the Grange to talkit over with Mrs. Crabbe, and word had been sent by Harold that morningthat the young lady would come in the course of the afternoon. 

Mr. Cope followed Mrs. King up-stairs; Alfred's face lighted up as hissister Matilda made way for the clergyman. He was very white, and hisbreath was oppressed; but his look had changed very much--it had astrange, still sort of brightness and peace about it. He spoke in verylow tones, just above a whisper, and smiled as Mr. Cope took his hand, and spoke to him. 

'Thank you, Sir. It is very nice, ' he said. 

'I thank God that He has let you wait for me, ' said Mr. Cope. 

'I am glad, ' said Alfred. 'I did want to pray for it; but I thought, perhaps, if it was not His Will, I would not--and then what you said. Andnow He is making it all happy. '

'And you do not grieve over your year of illness?'

'I would not have been without it--no, ' said Alfred, very quietly, butwith much meaning. 

'"It is good for me that I have been in trouble, " is what you mean, ' saidMr. Cope. 

'It has made our Saviour seem--I mean--He is so good to me, ' said Alfredfervently. 

But talking made him cough, and that brought a line in the fair foreheadso full of peace. Mr. Cope would not say more to him, and asked hismother whether the Feast, for which he had so much longed, should be onthe following day. She thought it best that it should be so; and Alfredagain said, 'Thank you, Sir, ' with the serene expression on his face. Mr. Cope read a Psalm and a prayer to him, and thinking him equal to no more, went away, pausing, however, for a little talk with Paul in the shop. 

Paul did not say so, but, poor fellow, he had been rather at a loss sinceMatilda had come. In herself, she was a very good, humble, sensiblegirl; but she wore a dark silk dress, and looked, moved, and spoke muchmore like a lady than Ellen: Paul stood in great awe of her, and herpresence seemed all at once to set him aloof from the others. 

He had been like one of themselves for the last three months, now he feltthat he was like a beggar among them; he did not like to call Mrs. Kingmother, lest it should seem presuming; Ellen seemed to be raised up thesame step as her sister, and even Alfred was almost out of his reach;Matilda read to him, and Paul's own good feeling shewed him that he wouldbe only in the way if he spent all his time in Alfred's room as formerly;so he kept down-stairs in the morning, and went to bed very early. Nobodywas in the least unkind to him: but he had just begun to grieve at beinga burden so long, and to wonder how much longer he should be in gettinghis health again. And then it might be only to be cast about the world, and to lose his one glimpse of home kindness. Poor boy! he still criedat the thought of how happy Alfred was. 

He did all he could to be useful, but he could scarcely manage to stoopdown, could carry nothing heavy, and moved very slowly; and he now andthen made a dreadful muddle in the shop, when a customer was not likeMrs. Hayward, who told him where everything was, and the price of all shewanted, as well as Mrs. King could do herself. He could sort the lettersand see to the post-office very well; and for all his blunders, he did somuch by his good-will, that when Mrs. King wanted to cheer him up, shedeclared that he saved her all the expense of having in a woman from thevillage to help, and that he did more about the house than Harold. 

This was true: for Harold did not like doing anything but manly things, as he called them; whereas Paul did not care what it was, so that itsaved trouble to her or Ellen. 

Talking and listening to Harold was one use of Paul. Now that it hadcome upon him, and he saw Alfred worse from day to day, the poor boy wasquite broken-hearted. Possibly, when at his work, or riding, he managedto shake off the remembrance; but at home it always came back, and hecried so much at the sight of Alfred, and at any attempt of his brotherto talk to him, that they could scarcely let him stay ten minutes in theroom. Then, when Paul had gone to bed on the landing at seven o'clock, he would come and sit on his bed, and talk, and cry, and sob about hisbrother, and his own carelessness of him, often till his mother came outand ordered him down-stairs to his own bed in the kitchen; and Paulturned his face into the pillow to weep himself to sleep, loving Alfredvery little less than did his brother, but making less noise about it, and feeling very lonely when he saw how all the family cared for eachother. 

So Mr. Cope's kind manner came all the more pleasantly to him; and aftersome talk on what they both most cared about, Mr. Cope said, 'Paul, Mr. Shaw of Berryton tells me he has a capital school-master, but in ratherweak health, and he wants to find a good intelligent youth to teach underhim, and have opportunities of improving himself. Five pounds a year, and board and lodgings. What do you think of it, Paul?'

Paul's sallow face began growing red, and he polished the counter, onwhich he was leaning; then, as Mr. Cope repeated, 'Eh, Paul?' he saidslowly, and in his almost rude way, 'They wouldn't have me if they knewhow I'd been brought up. '

'Perhaps they would if they knew what you've come to in spite of bringingup. And, ' added Mr. Cope, 'they are not so much pressed for time butthat they can wait till you've quite forgotten your tumble into theRagglesford. We must fatten you--get rid of those spider-fingers, andyou and I must do a few more lessons together--and I think Mrs. King hassomething towards your outfit; and by Whitsuntide, I told Mr. Shaw that Ithought I might send him what I call a very fair sample of a good steadylad. '

Paul did not half seem to take it in--perhaps he was too unhappy, or itsounded like sending him away again; or, maybe, such a great step in lifewas more than he could comprehend, after the outcast condition to whichhe had been used: but Mr. Cope could not go on talking to him, for theGrange carriage was stopping at the gate, and Matilda and Ellen were bothcoming down-stairs to receive Miss Jane. Poor little thing, she lookedvery pale and nervous; and as she shook hands with the Curate, as he mether in the garden-path, she said with a startled manner, 'Oh! Mr. Cope--were you there? Am I interrupting--?'

'Not at all, ' he said. 'I had only called in as I came home, and hadjust come down again. '

'Is it--is it very dreadful?' murmured Jane, with a sort of gasp. Shewas so entirely unused to scenes of sadness or pain, that it was verystrange and alarming to her, and it was more difficult than ever tobelieve her no younger than Ellen. 

'Very far from dreadful or distressing, ' said Mr. Cope kindly, for heknew it was not her fault that she had been prevented from overcomingsuch feelings, and that this was a great effort of kindness. 'It is avery peaceful, soothing sight--he is very happy, and not in a sufferingstate. '

'Oh, will you tell Grandmamma?' said Jane, with her pretty look ofearnestness; 'she is so much afraid of its much for me, and she was sokind in letting me come. '

So Miss Selby went on to the two sisters, and Mr. Cope proceeded to thecarriage, where Lady Jane had put out her head, glad to be able to askhim about the state of affairs. Having nothing but this little grand-daughter left to her, the old lady watched over her with almostover-tender care, and was in much alarm both lest the air of the sick-room should be unwholesome, or the sight too sorrowful for her; andthough she was too kind to refuse the wish of the dying boy, she had comeherself, in order that 'the child, ' as she called her, might not staylonger than was good for her; and she was much relieved to hear Mr. Cope's account of Alfred's calm state, and of the freshness of the cleanroom, in testimony of which he pointed to the open window. 

'Yes, ' she said, 'I hope Mary King was wise enough; but I hardly knew howit might be with such a number about the house--that boy and all. He isnot gone, is he?'

'No, he is not nearly well enough yet, though he does what he can to beuseful to her. When he is recovered, I have a scheme for him. '

So Mr. Cope mentioned Mr. Shaw's proposal, by which my Lady set morestore than did Paul as yet. Very kind-hearted she was, though she didnot fancy adopting chance-comers into her parish; and as long as he wasnot saddled upon Mary King, as she said, she was very glad of any goodfor him; so she told Mr. Cope to come to her for what he might want tofit him out properly for the situation; and turning her keen eyes on himas he stood near the cottage door, pronounced that, after all, he was anice, decent-looking lad enough, which certainly her Ladyship would nothave said before his illness. 

Miss Jane did not stay long. Indeed, Alfred could not talk to her, andshe did not know what to say to him; she could only stand by his bed, with the tears upon her cheeks, making little murmuring sounds in answerto Mrs. King, who said for her son what she thought he wished to havesaid. Meanwhile, Jane was earnestly looking at him, remarking with awe, that, changed as he was since she had last seen him--so much more wastedaway--the whole look of his face was altered by the gentleness and peacethat it had gained, so as to be like the white figure of a saint. 

She could not bear it when Mrs. King told her Alfred wanted to thank herfor all her kindness in coming to see him. 'Oh, no, ' she said, 'I wasnot kind at all;' and her tears would not be hindered. 'Only, you know, I could not help it. '

Alfred gave her a bright look. Any one could see what a pleasure it wasto him to be looking at her again, though he did not repent of his sharein the sacrifice for Paul's sake. No, if Paul had been given up thatMiss Jane might come to him, Alfred would not have had the training thatmade all so sweet and calm with him now. He turned his head to thelittle picture, and said, 'Thank you, Ma'am, for that. That's been myfriend. '

'Yes, indeed it has, Miss Jane, ' said his mother. 'There's nothing youever did for him that gave him the comfort that has been. '

'And please, Ma'am, ' said Alfred, 'will you tell my Lady--I give her myduty--and ask her pardon for having behaved so bad--and Mrs. Crabbe--andthe rest?'

'I will, Alfred; but every one has forgiven that nonsense long ago. '

'It was very bad of me, ' said Alfred, pausing for breath; 'and so it wasnot to mind you--Miss Jane--when you said I was ill for a warning. '

'Did I?' said Jane. 

'Yes--in hay-time--I mind it--I didn't mind for long--but 'twas true. Hehad patience with me. '

The cough came on, and Jane knew she must go; her grandmother had biddenher not to stay if it were so, and she just ventured to squeeze Alfred'shand, and then went down-stairs, checking her tears, to wish Matilda andEllen good-bye; and as she passed by Paul, told him not to uncover hisstill very short-haired head, and kindly hoped he was better. 

Paul, in his dreary feelings, hardly thought of Mr. Cope's plan, till, ashe was getting the letters ready for Harold, he turned up one in Mr. Cope's writing, addressed to the 'Rev. A. Shaw, Berryton, Elbury. '

'That's to settle for me, then, ' he said; and Harold who was at tea, asking, 'What's that?' he explained. 

'Well, ' said Harold, 'every one to his taste! I wouldn't go to schoolagain, not for a hundred pounds; and as to _keeping_ school!' (Such aface as he made really caused Paul to smile. ) 'Nor you don't half likeit, neither, ' continued Harold. 'Come, you'd better stay and get workhere! I'd sooner be at the plough-tail all day, than poke out my eyesover stuff like that, ' pointing to Paul's slate, covered with figures. 'Here, Nelly, ' as she moved about, tidying the room, 'do you hear? Mr. Cope's got an offer of a place for Paul--five pounds a year, and boardand lodging, to be school-master's whipper-in, or what d'ye call it?'

'What do you say, Harold?' cried Ellen, putting her hands on the back ofa chair, quite interested. 'You going away, Paul?'

'Mr. Cope says so--and I must get my living, you know, ' said Paul. 

'But not yet; you are not well enough yet, ' said the kind girl. 'Andwhere did you say--?'

'To Berryton. '

'Berryton--oh! that's just four miles out on the other side of Elbury, where Susan Congleton went to live that was housemaid at the Grange. Shesays it's such a nice place, and such beautiful organ and singing atchurch! And what did you say you were to be, Paul?'

'I'm to help the school-master. '

'Gracious me!' cried Ellen. 'Why, such a scholar as you are, you'll bequite a gentleman yet, Paul. Why, they school-masters get fifty or sixtypounds salaries sometimes. I protest it's the best thing I've heard thislong time! Was it Mr. Cope's doing, or my Lady's?'

'Mr. Cope's, ' said Paul, beginning to think he had been rather lessgrateful than he ought. 

'Ah! it is like him, ' said Ellen, 'after all the pains he has taken withyou. And you'll not be so far off, Paul: you'll come to see us in theholidays, you know. '

'To be sure he will, ' said Harold; 'or if he don't, I shall go and fetchhim. '

'Of course he will, ' said Ellen, with her hand on Paul's chair, andspeaking low and affectionately to console him, as she saw him sodowncast; 'don't you know how poor Alfy says he's come to be instead of ason to Mother, and a brother to us? I must go up and tell Alf andmother. They'll be so pleased. '

Paul felt very differently about the plan now. All the housecongratulated him upon it, and Matilda evidently thought more of him nowthat she found he was to have something to do. But such things as thesewere out of sight beside that which was going on in the room above. 

Alfred slept better that night, and woke so much revived, that theythought him better: and Harold, greatly comforted about him, stoodtolerably quietly by his side, listening to one or two things that Alfredhad longed for months past to say to him. 

'Promise me, Harold dear, that you'll be a good son to Mother: you'll bethe only one now. '

Harold made a bend of his head like a promise. 

'O Harold, be good to her!' went on Alfred earnestly; 'she's had so muchtrouble! I do hope God will leave you to her--if you are steady andgood. Do, Harold! She's not like some, as don't care what their ladsget to. And don't take after me, and be idle! Be right-down good, Harold, as Paul is; and when you come to be ill--oh! it won't be so badfor you as it was for me!'

'I do want to be good, ' sighed Harold. 'If I'd only been confirmed; but'twas all along of them merries last summer!'

'And I was such a plague to you--I drove you out, ' said Alfred. 

'No, no, I was a brute to you! Oh! Alfy, Alfy, if I could only get backthe time!'

He was getting to the sobs that hurt his brother; and his sister wasgoing to interfere; but Alfred said:

'Never mind, Harold dear, we've been very happy together, and we'llalways love each other. You'll not forget Alf, and you'll be Mother'sgood son to take care of her! Won't you?'

So Harold gave that promise, and went away with his tears. Poor fellow, now was his punishment for having slighted the Confirmation. Like Esau, an exceeding bitter cry could not bring back what he had lightly thrownaway. Well was it for him that this great sorrow came in time, and thatit was not altogether his birthright that he had parted with. He foundhe could not go out to his potato-planting and forget all about it, as hewould have liked to have done--something would not let him; and there hewas sitting crouched up and sorrowful on the steps of the stairs, whenMr. Cope and all the rest were gathered in Alfred's room, a church forthe time. Matilda and Ellen had set out the low table with the fairwhite cloth, and Mr. Cope brought the small cups and paten, which weredoubly precious to him for having belonged to his father, and because thelast time he had seen them used had been for his father's last Communion. 

Now was the time to feel that a change had really passed over the youngpastor in the time of his absence. Before, he could only lead Alfred inhis prayers, and give him counsel, tell him to hope in his repentance, and on what that hope was founded. Now that he had bent beneath the handof the Bishop, he had received, straight down from the Twelve, the Powerfrom on High. It was not Mr. Cope, but the Lord Who had purchased thatPardon by His own most Precious Blood, Who by him now declared to Alfredthat the sins and errors of which he had so long repented, were pardonedand taken away. The Voice of Authority now assured him of what he hadbeen only told to hope and trust before. And to make the promise all themore close and certain, here was the means of becoming a partaker of theSacrifice--here was that Bread and that Cup which shew forth the Lord'sDeath till He come. It was very great rest and peace, the hush that wasover the quiet room, with only Alfred's hurried breath to be heard besideMr. Cope's voice as he spoke the blessed words, and the low responses ofthe little congregation. Paul was close beside Alfred--he would have himthere between his mother and the wall--and the two whose first Communionit was, were the last to whom Mr. Cope came. To one it was to be theFood for the passage into the unseen world; to the other might it be thefirst partaking of the Manna to support him through the wilderness ofthis life. 

'From the highways and hedges, ' here was one brought into the foretasteof the Marriage Supper. Ah! there was one outside, who had loved idlepleasure when the summons had been sent to him. Perhaps the misery hewas feeling now might be the means of sparing him from missing othercalls, and being shut out at last. 

It seemed to fulfil all that Alfred had wished. He lay still betweenwaking and sleeping for a long time afterwards, and then begged for Paulto read to him the last chapters of the Book of Revelation. Matildawished to read them for him; but he said, 'Paul, please. ' Paul's voicewas fuller and softer when it was low; his accent helped the sense, andAlfred was more used to them than to his visitor sister. Perhaps therewas still another reason, for when Paul came to the end, and was turningthe leaves for one of Alfred's favourite bits, he saw Alfred's eyes onhim, as if he wanted to speak. It was to say, 'Brothers quite now, Paul!Thank you. I think God must have sent you to help me. '

Alfred seemed better all the evening, and they went to bed in goodspirits; but at midnight, Mr. Cope, who was very deeply studying andpraying, the better to fit himself for his new office in the ministry, was just going to shut his book, and go up to bed, when he heard atremulous ring at the bell. 

It was Harold, his face looking very white in the light from Mr. Cope'scandle. 

'Oh! please, Sir, ' he said, 'Alfred is worse; and Mother said, if yourlight wasn't out, you'd like to know. '

'I am very grateful to her, ' said Mr. Cope; and taking up his plaid, hewrapped one end round the boy, and put his arm round him, as he felt himquaking as Paul had done before, but not crying--too much awe-struck forthat. He said that his mother thought something had broken in the lungs, and that he would be choked. Mr. Cope made the more haste, that he mightjudge if the doctor would be of any use. 

Paul was sitting up in his bed--they had not let him get up--but his eyeswere wide open with distress, as he plainly heard the loud sob that eachbreath had become. Mrs. King was holding Alfred up in her arms; Matildawas trying to chafe his feet; Ellen was kneeling with her face hidden. 

The light of sense and meaning was not gone from Alfred's eyes, thoughthe last struggle had come. He gave a look as though he were glad to seeMr. Cope, and then gazed on his brother. Mrs. King signed to Harold tocome nearer, and whispered, 'Kiss him. ' His sisters had done so, and hehad missed Harold. Then Mr. Cope prayed, and Alfred's eyes at firstowned the sounds; but soon they were closed, and the long strugglingbreaths were all that shewed that the spirit was still there. 

'He shall swallow up death in victory, and the Lord God shall wipe awaytears from all eyes. '

One moment, and the blue eyes they knew so well were opened and smilingon his mother, and then--

It was over; and through affliction and pain, the young spirit had goneto rest!

The funeral day was a very sore one to Paul Blackthorn. He would havegiven the world to be there, and have heard the beautiful words of hopewhich received his friend to his resting-place, but he could not get sofar. He had tried to carry a message to a house not half so far off asthe church, but his knees seemed to give way under him, and his legsached so much that he could hardly get home. Somehow, a black suit, justsuch as Harold's, had come home for him at the same time; but this couldnot hinder him from feeling that he was but a stranger, and one who hadno real place in the home where he lived. There was the house full ofpeople, who would only make their remarks on him--Miss Hardman (who wasvery critical of the coffin-plate), the school-master, and some of theupper-servants of the house--and poor Mrs. King and Matilda, who couldnot help being gratified at the attention to their darling, were obligedto go down and be civil to them; while Ellen, less used to restraint, wasshut into her own room crying; and Harold was standing on the stairs, very red, but a good deal engaged with his long hat-band. Poor Paul! hehad not even his usual refuge--his own bed to lie upon and hide hisface--for that had been taken away to make room for the coffin to becarried down. 

There, they were going at last, when it had seemed as if the bustle andconfusion would never cease. There was Alfred leaving the door where hehad so often played, carried upon the shoulders of six lads in whitefrocks, his old school-fellows and Paul's Confirmation friends. How Paulenvied them for doing him that last service! There was his mother, always patient and composed, holding Harold's arm--Harold, who must beher stay and help, but looking so slight, so boyish, and so young, thenthe two girls, Ellen so overpowered with crying that her sister had tolead her; Mrs. Crabbe with Betsey Hardman, who held up a great whitehandkerchief, for other people's visible grief always upset her, as shesaid; and besides, she felt it a duty to cry at such a time; and the resttwo and two, quite a train, in their black suits: how unlike the drearypauper funerals Paul had watched away at Upperscote! That respectablelook seemed to make him further off and more desolate, like one cut off, whom no one would follow, no one would weep for. Alfred, who had calledhim a brother, was gone, and here he was alone!

The others were taking their dear one once more to the church where theyhad so often prayed that he might have a happy issue out of all hisafflictions. 

They were met by Mr. Cope, ending his loving intercourse with Alfred byreading out the blessed promise of Resurrection--the assurance that thebody they were sowing in weakness would be raised in power; so that thenoble boy, whom they had seen fade away like a drooping flower, wouldrise again blossoming forth in glory, after the Image of theIncorruptible--that Image, thought Mr. Cope, as he read on, which hefaithfully strove to copy even through the sufferings due to thecorruptible. His voice often shook and faltered. He had never beforeread that Service; and perhaps, except for those of his own kin, it couldnever be a greater effort to him, going along with Alfred as he had done, holding up the rod and staff that bore him through the dark valley. Andeach trembling of his tone seemed to answer something that the mother wasfeeling in her peaceful, hopeful, thankful grief--yes, thankful that shecould lay her once high-spirited and thoughtless boy in his grave, withthe same sure and certain hope of a joyful Resurrection, as that ripe andearnest-minded Christian his father, or his little innocent brother. Itwas peace--awful peace, indeed, but soothing even to Ellen and Harold, new as they were to grief. 

But to poor Paul at home, out of hearing of the words of hope, onlylistening to the melancholy toll of the knell, and quite alone in thedisarranged forlorn house, there seemed nothing to take off the edge ofmisery. He was not wanted to keep Alfred company now, nor to read tohim--no one needed him, no one cared for him. He wandered up to whereAlfred had lain so long, as if to look for the pale quiet face that usedto smile to him. There was nothing but the bed-frame and mattress! Hethrew himself down on it and cried. He did not well know why--perhapsthe chief feeling was that Alfred was gone away to rest and bliss, and hewas left alone to be weary and without a friend. 

At last the crying began to spend itself, and he turned and looked up. There was Alfred's little picture of the Crucified still on the wall, andthe words under it, 'For us!' Paul's eye fell on it; and somehow itbrought to mind what Alfred had said to him on Christmas Day. There wasOne Who had no home on earth; there was One Who had made Himself anoutcast and a wanderer, and Who had not where to lay His Head. Was notHe touched with a fellow-feeling for the lonely boy? Would He not helphim to bear his friendless lot as a share of His own Cross? Nay, had Henot raised him up friends already in his utmost need? 'There is a FriendWho sticketh closer than a brother. ' He was the Friend that Paul neednever lose, and in Whom he could still meet his dear Alfred. Thesethoughts, not quite formed, but something like them, came gently as balmto the poor boy, and though they brought tears even thicker than thefirst burst of lonely sorrow, they were as peaceful as those shed besidethe grave. Though Paul was absent in the body, this was a very differentshutting out from Harold's on last Tuesday. 

Paul must have cried himself to sleep, for he did not hear the funeral-party return, and was first roused by Mrs. King coming up-stairs. He hadbeen so much used to think of this as Alfred's room, that he had neverrecollected that it was hers; and now that she was come up for a moment'sbreathing-time, he started up ashamed and shocked at being so caught. 

But good motherly Mrs. King saw it all, and how he had been weeping whereher child had so long rested. Indeed, his face was swelled with crying, and his voice all unsteady. 

'Poor lad! poor lad!' she said kindly, 'you were as fond of him as any ofthem; and if we wanted anything else to make you one of us, that would doit. '

'O Mother, ' said Paul, as she kindly put her hand on him, 'I could notbear it--I was so lost--till I looked at _that_, ' pointing to the littleprint. 

'Ay, ' said Mrs. King, as she wiped her quiet tears, 'that Cross wasAlfred's great comfort, and so it is to us all, my boy, whatever way wehave to carry it, till we come to where he is gone. No cross, no crown, they say. '

Perhaps it was not bad for any one that this forlorn day had given Paul afresh chill, which kept him in bed for nearly a week, so as gently tobreak the change from her life of nursing to Mrs. King, and make him veryhappy and peaceful in her care. 

And when at last on a warm sunny Sunday, Paul Blackthorn returned thanksin church for his recovery--ay, and for a great deal besides--he had noreason to think that he was a stranger cared for by no one. 

CHAPTER XIII--SIX YEARS LATER

It is a beautiful morning in Easter week. The sun is shining on thegilded weathercock, which flashes every time it veers from south to west;the snowdrops are getting quite out of date, and the buttercups andprimroses have it all their own way; the grass is making a start, andgetting quite long upon the graves in Friarswood churchyard. 

'Really, I should have sent in the Saxon monarch to tidy us up!' says tohimself the tall young Rector, as he stepped over the stile with one longstride; 'but I suppose he is better engaged. '

That tall young Rector is the Reverend Marcus Cope, six years older, butyoung still. The poor old Rector, Mr. John Selby, died four years agoabroad; and Lady Jane and Miss Selby's other guardians gave the living toMr. Cope, to the great joy of all the parish, except the Shepherds, whohave never forgiven him for their own usage of their farming boy, nor forthe sermon he neither wrote nor preached. 

The Saxon monarch means one Harold King, who looks after the Rectorygarden and horse, as well as the post-office and other small matters. 

The clerk is unlocking the church, and shaking out the surplice, and Mr. Cope goes into the vestry, takes out two big books covered with greenparchment, and sees to the pen. It is a very good one, judging by thewriting of the last names in that book. They are Francis Mowbray andJane Arabella Selby. 

'Captain and Mrs. Mowbray will be a great blessing to the place, if theygo on as they have begun, ' thinks Mr. Cope. 'How happy they are makingold Lady Jane, and how much more Mrs. Mowbray goes among the cottages nowthat she does more as she pleases. '

Then Mr. Cope goes to the porch and looks out. He sees two men gettingover the stile. One is a small slight person, in very good blackclothes, not at all as if they were meant to ape a gentleman, andtherefore thoroughly respectable. He has a thin face, rather pointed asto the chin and nose, and the eyes dark and keen, so that it would beover-sharp but that the mouth looks so gentle and subdued, and the wholecountenance is grave and thoughtful. You could not feel half so surethat he is a certificated school-master, as you can that his very brisk-looking companion is so. 

'Good morning, Mr. Brown. --Good morning, Paul, ' said Mr. Cope. 'I didnot expect to see you arrive in this way. '

The grave face glitters up in a merry look of amusement, while, with alittle colouring, he answers:

'Why, Sir, Matilda said it was the proper thing, and so we supposed sheknew best. '

There are not so many people who _do_ talk of Paul now. Most people knowhim as Mr. Blackthorn, late school-master at Berryton, where the boysliked him for his bright and gentle yet very firm ways; the parents, forgetting their children on, and helping them to be steady; and theclergyman, for being so perfectly to be trusted, so anxious to do right, and, while efficient and well informed, perfectly humble and free fromconceit. Now he has just got an appointment to Hazleford school, inanother diocese, with a salary of fifty pounds a year; but, as CharlesHayward would tell you, 'he hasn't got one bit of pride, no more thanwhen he lived up in the hay-loft. '

There is not long to wait. There is another party getting over thestile. There is a very fine tall youth first. As Betsey Hardman tellsher mother, 'she never saw such a one for being fine-growed and statelyto look at, since poor Charles King when he wore his best wig. ' A verynice open honest face, and as merry a pair of blue eyes as any in theparish, does Harold wear, nearly enough to tell you that, if in these sixyears it would be too much to say he has never done _anything_ to vex hismother, yet in the main his heart is in the right place--he is a verygood son, very tender to her, and steady and right-minded. 

Whom is he helping over the stile? Oh, that is Mrs. Mowbray's prettylittle maid! a very good young thing, whom she has read with and taught;and here, lady-like and delicate-looking as ever, is Matilda. Bridemaidsbefore the bride! that's quite wrong; but the bride has a shy fit, andwould not get over first, and Matilda and Harold are, the one encouragingher, the other laughing at her; and Mr. Blackthorn turns very red, andgoes down the path to meet her, and she takes his arm, and Harold takesLucy, and Mr. Brown Miss King. 

Very nice that bride looks, with her hair so glossy under her strawbonnet trimmed with white, her pretty white shawl, and quiet purple silkdress, her face rather flushed, but quiet-looking, as if she were growingmore like her mother, with something of her sense and calmness. 

How Mr. Blackthorn ever came to ask her that question, nobody can guess, and Harold believes he does not know himself. However, it got an answertwo years ago, and Mrs. King gave her consent with all her heart, thoughshe knew Betsey Hardman would talk of picking a husband up out of thegutter, and that my Lady would look severe, and say something of sillygirls. Yes--and though the rich widower bailiff had said sundry civilthings of Miss Ellen being well brought up and notable--'For, ' as Mrs. King wrote to Matilda, 'I had rather see Ellen married to a goodreligious man than to any one, and I do not know one I can be so sure ofas Paul, nor one that is so like a son to me; and if he has no friendsbelonging to him, that is better than bad friends. ' And Ellen herself, from looking on him as a mere boy, as she had done at their firstacquaintance, had come to thinking no one ever had been so wise or soclever, far less so good, certainly not so fond of her--so her answer wasno great wonder. Then they were to be prudent, and wait for somedependence; and so they did till Mr. Shaw recommended Paul Blackthorn forHazleford school, where there is a beautiful new house for the master, sothat he will have no longer to live in lodgings, and be 'done for, ' asthe saying is. Harold tells Ellen that he is afraid that without her hewon't wash above once in four months; but however that may be, she isconvinced that the new school-house will be lost on him, and that inspite of all his fine arithmetic, his fifty pounds will never go so farfor one as for two; and so she did not turn a deaf ear to his entreatiesthat she would not send him alone to Hazleford. 

They wanted very much to get 'Mother' to come and live with them, give upthe post-office, and let Harold live in Mr. Cope's house; but Mother hasa certain notion that Harold's stately looks and perfect health might notlast, if she were not always on the watch to put him into dry clothes ifhe comes in damp, and such like 'little fidgets, ' as he calls them, whichhe would not attend to from any one but Mother. So she will keep on theshop and the post-office, and try to break in that uncouth girl of JohnFarden's to be a tidy little maid; and Mr. And Mrs. Blackthorn will spendtheir holidays with her and Harold. She may come to them yet in time, if, as Paul predicts, Master Harold takes up with Lucy at the Grange--butthere's time enough to think of that; and even if he should, it wouldtake many years to make Lucy into such a Mrs. King as she who is now verybusy over the dinner at home, but thinking about a good deal besides thedinner. 

There! Paul and Ellen have stood and knelt in an earnest reverentspirit, making their vows to one another and before God, and His blessinghas been spoken upon them to keep them all their lives through. 

It is with a good heart of hope that Mr. Cope speaks that blessing, knowing that, as far as human eye can judge, here stands a man who trulyfeareth the Lord, and beside him a woman with the ornament of a meek andquiet spirit. 

They are leaving the church now, the bridegroom and his bride, arm inarm, but they turn from the path to the wicket, and Harold will not leteven Matilda follow them. Just by the south wall of the church there arethree graves, one a very long one, one quite short, one of middle length. The large one has a head-stone, with the names of Charles King, agedforty years, and Charles King, aged seven years. The middle-sized onehas a stone cross, and below it 'Alfred King, aged sixteen years, ' andthe words, 'In all their afflictions He was afflicted. '

It was Matilda who paid the cost of that stone, Miss Selby who drew thepattern of it, and 'Mother' who chose the words, as what Alfred himselfloved best. At the bottom of Ellen's best work-box is a copy of versesabout that very cross. She thinks they ought to have been carved outupon it, but Paul knows a great deal better, so all she could do was towrite them out on a sheet of note-paper with a wide lace border, and keepthem as her greatest treasure. Perhaps she prizes them even more thanthe handsome watch that Mr. Shaw gave Paul, though less, of course, thanthe great Bible and Prayer-book, in which Mr. Cope has waited till thismorning to write the names of Paul and Ellen Blackthorn. 

So they stand beside the cross, and read the words, and they neither ofthem can say anything, though the white sweet face is before the eyes oftheir mind at the same time, and Ellen thinks she loves Paul twice asmuch for having been one of his great comforts. 

'Good-bye, Alfred dear, ' she whispers at last. 

'No, not good-bye, ' says Paul. 'He is as much with us as ever, whereverwe are. Remember how we were together, Ellen. I have always thought ofhim at every Holy Communion since, and have felt that if till now, no oneliving--at least one at rest, were mine by right. '

Ellen pressed his arm. 

'Yes, ' said Paul; 'the months I spent with Alfred were the great help andblessing of my life. I don't believe any recollection has so assisted toguard me in all the frets and temptations there are in a life like mine. '