LANCASHIRE IDYLLS. 

BY

MARSHALL MATHER, AUTHOR OF

'LIFE AND TEACHINGS OF JOHN RUSKIN, ''POPULAR STUDIES IN NINETEENTH CENTURY POETS, ' ETC. , ETC. 

LONDON: FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. 

AND NEW YORK. 

1898. 

INTRODUCTION. 

While Edwin Waugh and Ben Brierley have done much to perpetuatethe rude moorland and busy factory life of Lancashire, little hasbeen done to perpetuate the stern Puritanism of the hill sects. 

Among these sects there is a poetry and simplicity local incharacter, yet delightful in spirit; and to recall and record itis the aim of the following Idylls. 

The provincialism of Lancashire varies with its valleys. It isonly necessary, therefore, to remark that as these Idylls aredrawn from a once famous valley in the North-east division of thecounty, the provincialism is peculiar to that valley--indeed, itwould be more correct to say, to that section of the valleywherein Rehoboth lies. 

CONTENTS. 

I. MR. PENROSE'S NEW PARISH:

 1. A MOORLAND MACHPELAH 2. A CHILD OF THE HEATHER 3. OWD ENOCH'S FLUTE

II. THE MONEY-LENDER:

 1. THE UTTERMOST FARTHING 2. THE REDEMPTION OF MOSES FLETCHER 3. THE ATONEMENT OF MOSES FLETCHER

III. AMANDA STOTT:

 1. HOME 2. LIGHT AT EVENTIDE 3. THE COURT OF SOULS 4. THE OLD PASTOR

IV. SAVED AS BY FIRE

V. WINTER SKETCHES:

 1. THE CANDLE OF THE LORD 2. THE TWO MOTHERS 3. THE SNOW CRADLE

VI. MIRIAM'S MOTHERHOOD:

 1. A WOMAN'S SECRET 2. HOW DEBORAH HEARD THE NEWS 3. 'IT'S A LAD!' 4. THE LEAD OF THE LITTLE ONE

VII. HOW MALACHI O' TH' MOUNT WON HIS WIFE

VIII. MR. PENROSE BRINGS HOME A BRIDE

I. 

MR. PENROSE'S NEW PARISH. 

 1. A MOORLAND MACHPELAH. 2. A CHILD OF THE HEATHER. 3. OWD ENOCH'S FLUTE. 

LANCASHIRE IDYLLS. 

I. 

A MOORLAND MACHPELAH. 

There was a sepulchral tone in the voice, and well there might be, for it was a voice from the grave. Floating on the damp autumnalair, and echoing round the forest of tombs, it died away over themoors, on the edge of which the old God's-acre stood. 

Though far from melodious, it was distinct enough to convey to theear the words of a well-known hymn--a hymn sung in jerkyfragments, the concluding syllable always rising and ending with agasp, as though the singer found his task too heavy, and was boundto pause for breath. 

The startled listener was none other than Mr. Penrose, thenewly-appointed minister, who was awaiting a funeral, longoverdue. Looking round, his already pale face became a shade paleras he saw no living form, other than himself. 

There he stood, alone, a stranger in this moorland haunt, amidfalling shadows and rounding gloom, mocked by the mute records andstony memorials of the dead. 

Again the voice was heard--another hymn, and to a tune as old asthe mossed headstones that threw around their lengthening shadows. 

 'I'll praise my Maker--while I've breath, '

followed by a pause, as though breath had actually forsaken thebody of the singer. But in a moment or two the strain continued:

 'And when my voice--is lost in death. '

Whereon the sounds ceased, and there came a final silence, deathseeming to take the singer at his word. 

As Mr. Penrose looked in the direction from which the voicetravelled, he saw a shovel thrown out of a newly-made grave, followed by the steaming head and weather-worn face of old Joseph, the sexton, all aglow with the combined task of grave-digging andsinging. 

'Why, Joseph, is it you? I couldn't tell where the sound camefrom. It seems, after all, the grave can praise God, although theprophet tells us it cannot. Do you always sing at your work?'

'Partly whod. You see it's i' this way, sir, ' said Joseph;'grave-diggin's hard wark, and if a felley doesn'd sing a bit o'erit he's like baan to curse, so I sings to stop swears. There's afearful deal o' oaths spilt in a grave while it's i' th' makin', Ican tell yo'; and th' Almeety's name is spoken more daan i' th'hoile than it is up aboon, for all th' parson reads it so mich aatof his book. But this funeral's baan to be lat', Mr. Penrose'; anddrawing a huge watch from his fob, he exclaimed: 'Another tenminutes and there's no berryin' i' th' yard this afternoon. '

'I don't understand you, Joseph, ' said Mr. Penrose wonderingly. 

'We never berry here after four o'clock. '

'But there's no law forbidding a funeral at any hour that I knowof--is there?'

'There is wi' me. I'm maisther o' this berryin' hoile, whateveryo' may be o' th' chapel. But they're comin', so I'll oppen th'chapel durs. '

Old Joseph, as he was called, had been grave-digger at Rehobothfor upwards of fifty years, and so rooted were his customs thatnone cared to call them in question. For minister and deacons heshowed little respect. Boys and girls fled from before his shadow;and the village mothers frightened their offspring when naughty bythreatening to 'fotch owd Joseph to put them in th' berryhoile. 'The women held him in awe, declaring that he sat up at night inthe graveyard to watch for corpse-candles. Even the shrewd andhard-headed did not care to thwart him, preferring to be friendsrather than foes. Fathers, sons and sons' sons--generation aftergeneration--had been laid to rest by the sinewy arms of Joseph. They came, and they departed; but he, like the earth, remained. Agray, gaunt Tithonus, him 'only cruel immortality consumed. '

The graveyard at Rehoboth was his kingdom. Here, among the tombs, he reigned with undisputed sway. Whether marked by lettered stoneor grassy mound, it mattered little--he knew where each rudeforefather of the hamlet lay. Rich in the family lore of theneighbourhood, he could trace back ancestry and thread his waythrough the maze of relationship to the third and fourthgenerations. He could recount the sins which had hurried men tountimely graves, and point to the spot where their bones wererotting; and he could tell of virtues that made the memory of themouldering dust more fragrant than the sweetbriar and the rosethat grew upon the graves. 

There was one rule which old Joseph would never break, and thatwas that there should be no interments after four o'clock. Pleadwith him, press him, threaten him, it was to no purpose; flinch hewould not for rich or for poor, for parson or for people. Morethan once he had driven the mourners back from the gates, and onewinter's afternoon, when the corpse had been brought a longdistance, it was left for the night in a neighbouring barn. Uponthis occasion a riot was with difficulty averted. But old Josephstood firm, and at the risk of his life carried the day. This waslong years ago. Now, throughout the whole countryside it was knownthat no corpse passed through Rehoboth gates after four o'clock. 

 * * * * *

'You'll happen look in an' see th' owd woman afore yo' go wom', 'said Joseph to Mr. Penrose, as the minister finished his entry ofthe funeral in the chapel register, 'hoo's nobbud cratchenly(shaky). '

Joseph and his wife lived in the lower room of a three-storiedcottage at the end of the chapel, the second and third stories ofthe said cottage being utilized by the Rehoboth members asSunday-schools. 

Entering, Mr. Penrose saw the old woman crouching over the hearthand doing her best to feed the fast-dying fires of her vitality. As she raised her wrinkled face, crowned with white hair andcovered with a coloured kerchief, a gray shawl wrapped round herlean and stooping shoulders, she smiled a welcome, and bade him beseated. 

'So yo'n put away owd Chris, ' she said, as soon as Mr. Penrose hadtaken his seat by her side. 'Well, he were awlus one for sleepin'. Th' owd felley would a slept on a clooas-line if he could a' funnowhere else to lay hissel. But he'll sleep saander or ever naa. They'll bide some wakkenin' as sleep raand here, Mr. Penrose. Didhe come in a yerst, or were he carried?'

'He was carried, ' answered the minister, somewhat in uncertaintyas to the meaning of the old woman's question. 

'I were awlus for carryin'. I make nowt o' poor folk apein' th'quality, and when they're deead and all. Them as keeps carriageswhile they're wick can ride in yersts to their berryin' if theylike, it's nowt to me; but when I dee I's be carried, and noan sofar, noather. '

This moralizing on funerals by the sexton's wife was a new phaseof life to Mr. Penrose. He had never before met with anyone whotook an interest in the matter. It was true that in the city fromwhich he had lately come the question of wicker coffins and ofcremation was loudly discussed; but the choice between a hearseand 'carrying' as a means of transit to the tomb never dawned onhim as being anything else than a question of utility--thespeediest and easiest means of transit. 

After the deliverance of her mind on the snobbishness of poorpeople in the use of the hearse, she continued:

'It'll noan be so long afore they've to carry me, Mr. Penrose. Itowd Joseph yesterneet that his turn 'ud soon come to dig my gravewi' th' rest; and he said, "When thy turn comes, lass, I'll do bythee as thou'd be done by. "'

'And how would you be done by?' asked the minister. 

'Well, it's i' this way, Mr. Penrose, ' said the old woman. 'I wanta dry grave, wi' a posy growin' on th' top. I somehaa like posieson graves; they mak' me think of th' owd hymn, '"There everlastin' spring abides, And never-witherin' flaars. "'

Now, Mr. Penrose was one of the so-called theological youngbloods, and held little sympathy with Dr. Watts's sensuous viewsof a future state. His common-sense, however, and his discretioncame to his rescue, and delivered him from a strong temptation toblast the old woman's paradise with a breath of negativecriticism. 

'There's a grave daan at th' bottom o' th' yard, Mr. Penrose, where th' sunleet rests from morn till neet, an' I've axed Josephto lay me there, for it's welly awlus warm, and flaars grow fromKesmas to Kesmas. Th' doctor's little lass lies there. Yo neverknowd her, Mr. Penrose. Hoo were some pratty, bless her! Did yo'ever read what her faither put o'er th' top o' th' stone?'

Mr. Penrose confessed he was in ignorance of the epitaph over thegrave of the doctor's child. As yet the history and romance of thegraveyard were unknown to him. 

'Well, it's this, ' continued his informant:

 '"Such lilies th' angels gather for th' garden of God. "

They'll never write that o'er me, Mr. Penrose. I'm nobbud awithered stalk. Hoo were eight--I'm eighty. But for all that Ishould like a flaar on mi grave, and Joseph says I shall hev one. '

 * * * * *

The autumn gave place to a long and cheerless winter, which alltoo slowly yielded to a late and nipping spring. The wild Marchwind swept across the moors, roaring loudly around the oldconventicle, chasing the last year's leaves in a mad whirl amongthe rows of headstones, and hissing, as though in anger, throughthe rank grasses growing on the innumerable mounds that marked theunderlying dead, and then careering off, as though wrathful at itspowerlessness to disturb the sleepers, to distant farmsteads andlone folds where starved ewes cowered with their early lambs undershivering thorns, and old men complained of the blast that rousedthe slumbering rheum and played havoc with their feeble frames. Scanty snow showers fell late under 'the roaring moon ofdaffodil, ' whitening the moorlands and lying glistening in themorning light, to be gathered up by the rays of the sun that dayby day climbed higher in the cold blue of the sky of spring. Youngblades of green lay scattered like emerald shafts amid the tawnywastes of the winter grass, and swelling branches told of a year'sreturning life. Just as the golden chalice of the first crocusopened on the graves of the Rehoboth burial-yard, the old woman atthe chapel-house died. 

 * * * * *

The funeral was to take place at three o'clock, but long beforethe hour old Joseph's kitchen was filled with a motley group ofmourners. They came from far and near, from moor and field, andfrom the cottages over the way. Every branch of the family wasrepresented--sons and daughters, grandchildren, nephews andnieces, even to babies in arms. As they straggled in, the womenattired in their best black, and the men wearing their top-hats (aheadgear worn by the Lancashire operative only on the stateoccasion of funerals), it seemed as though old Joseph, likeAbraham, was the father of a race as the stars of heaven formultitude, and as the sands by the seashore, innumerable. 

An oppressive atmosphere filled the room, where, on a table underthe window, the open coffin rested, in which lay, exposed to alleyes, the peaceful features and straightened limbs of the dead. Asthe mourners entered they bent reverently over the corpse, andmoistened its immobile features with their tears, whisperingkindly words as to the appearance the old woman wore in death, andcalling to mind some characteristic grace and virtue in her pastlife. 

On another table was stacked a number of long clay pipes withtobacco, from which the men assisted themselves, smoking with thesilence and stolidity of Indians, the women preserving the samemute attitude, save for an occasional groan and suppressedsigh--the feminine method in Lancashire of mourning for the dead. 

The last mourners had long arrived, and the company was seated inan attitude of hushed and painful expectancy for the officiatingminister. There was no sign, however, of his appearance; and themourners asked themselves in silence if he who was to perform thefinal rites for the dead had forgotten the hour or the day. 

The fingers of the old clock slowly crept along the dial-platetowards four, the hour so relentlessly enforced for interments forhalf a century by the sexton, who was now about to lay away hisown wife in the greedy maw of the grave. The monotonousoscillation of the pendulum, sounding as the stroke of a passingbell, gathered solemnity of tone in the felt hush that rested uponall in the room--a hush as deep as that which rested upon thedead. All eyes, under the cover of stealthily drooping lids, stoleglances at old Joseph, whose face fought hard to hide the emotionsrunning like pulsing tides beneath the surface. At last a woman, whose threescore years and ten was the only warrant for her rudeinterruption, exclaimed:

'Wheer's th' parson? Hes he forgetten, thinksto?'

'Mr. Penrose is ill i' bed, ' replied old Joseph, 'but I seed Mr. Hanson fra Burnt Hill Chapel, and he promised as he'd be here inhis place. '

The clock beat out its seconds with the same monotonous sound, andthe finger crept towards the fateful hour. Then came the wheezeand whir preliminary to the strokes of four, conveying to familiarears that only eight more minutes remained. At this warning Josepharose from his seat, and, walking out into the graveyard, madedirect to an eminence overlooking the long trend of road, and, raising one hand to shade his now failing sight, looked down thevalley to see if the minister was on his way to the grave. It wasin vain. Tears began to dim his sight, and for a moment the manovercame the sexton. The struggle was but brief; in another momenthe was again the sexton. Returning to the cottage, he scarcelyreached the threshold before he cried out, with all the firmnessof his cruelly professional tones:

'Parson or no parson, aat o' this dur (door) hoo goes at fouro'clock. '

As the clock struck the fateful hour the old woman was carried toher grave; and as they lowered her, Joseph, with uncovered head, let fall the clods from his own hand, repeating, in a hoarse yettremulous voice, the words:

'Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. '

In another moment the old sexton reeled, and fell into the arms ofthe men who stood near him. It was but a passing weakness, for hesoon pulled himself together, and accompanied the mourners to thefuneral tea, which was served in a neighbouring house. 

Never afterwards, however, was old Joseph heard to rail atmourners when late, or known to close the Rehoboth gates againstan overdue funeral. 

II. 

A CHILD OF THE HEATHER. 

'What, Milly! Sitting in the dark?' asked Mr. Penrose, as heentered the chamber of the suffering child, who was gazing throughthe open window at the silent stars. 

'I were just lookin' at th' parish candles, as my faither co's'em; they burn breetsome to-neet, sir. '

'Looking at them, or looking for them?' queried the somewhatperplexed divine. 'Can I bring the candles to you?'

'Yo' cornd bring 'em ony nearer than they are. They're up yon, sithi, ' and so saying the child pointed to the evening sky. 

'So you call the stars "parish candles, " do you?' smilinglyinquired Mr. Penrose. 'I never heard them called by that namebefore. '

'It's my faither co's 'em "parish candles, " not me, ' said thechild. 

'And what do you call them?'

'Happen if I tell yo' yo'll laugh at me, as my faither does. '

'No, I shall not. You need not be afraid. '

'Well, I co 'em angels' een (eyes). '

'A far prettier name than your father gives to them, Milly. '

'An' what dun yo' think hoo co's th' dew as it lies fresh on th'moors in a mornin'?' asked the mother, who was sitting in one ofthe shadowed corners of the room. 

'I cannot say, I am sure, Mrs. Lord. Milly has such wonderfulnames for everything. '

'Why, hoo co's it angels' tears, and says it drops daan fro' th'een o' them as watches fro' aboon at the devilment they see on th'earth. '

'Milly, you are a poetess!' exclaimed the delighted minister. 'Butdo you really think the angels weep? Would it not destroy the joyof that place where sorrow and sighing are no more?'

'Well, yo' see, it's i' this road, Mr. Penrose. They say as th'angels are glad when bad folk turn good, and I suppose they'llfret theirsels a bit if th' bad folk keeps bad; and there's monyo' that mak' abaat here. '

Mr, Penrose was silent. Once more Milly was, unknown to herselffurnishing him with thoughts; for, again and again, from thesickbed of this child had he gone forth with fresh fields ofrevelation opening before him. True, the idea of heaven's grief atearth's sin was not a pleasant one; but if joy at righteousnessand repentance, why not grief at wickedness and hardness of heart?

While thus musing in the quiet of the darkening chamber, Millyturned from her contemplation of the stars with the somewhatstartling question:

'Mr. Penrose, dun yo' think there'll be yethbobs (tufts ofheather) i' heaven?'

'That's bothered her a deal latly, ' broke in the mother, with achoking voice. 'Hoo sez hoo noan cares for heaven if hoo corndplay on th' moors, and yer th' wind, and poo yethbobs when hoogets there. What dun yo' think abaat it, Mr. Penrose?'

Mr. Penrose was not long from college, and the metaphysics anddogmatics of the schools were more to his mind than the poetry andreligion of this moorland child. If asked to discourse onpersonality, or expound the latest phase of German thought, hewould have felt himself at home. Here, however, he who was theidol of the class-room sat silenced and foolish before a peasantgirl. True, he could enter into an argument for a future state, and show how spiritual laws opposed the mundane imagination of thechild. But, after all, wherein was the use?--perhaps the child wasnearer the truth than he was himself. He would leave her to herown pristine fancies. 

In a moment Milly continued:

'Th' Bible says, Mr. Penrose, that i' heaven there's a streetpaved wi' gowd (gold). Naa; I'd raither hev a meadow wi' posies, or th' moors when they're covered wi' yethbobs. If heaven's baanto be all streets, I'd as soon stop o' this side--though they bepaved wi' gowd an' o'. '

'Listen yo', how hoo talks, Mr. Penrose. Hoo's awlus talked i'that feshion sin' hoo were a little un. Aar owd minister used toco her "God's child. "'

Mr. Penrose was a young man, and thought that 'Nature's child'would be, perhaps, a more fitting name, but held his thoughtunuttered. Wishing Milly and her mother a 'Good-night, ' hedescended the old stone staircase to the kitchen, where AbrahamLord sat smoking and looking gloomily into the embers of the fire. 

'Has th' missus towd thee ought abaat aar Milly?' somewhatsullenly interrogated the father. 

'Nothing of any moment, ' said Mr. Penrose. 'Of course she couldnot; we were never together out of your daughter's presence. '

'Then aw'll tell thee. Milly's baan to-morn to th' infirmary tohev her leg tan off. '

The strong man shook in the convulsive grip of his grief. No tearscame to his relief; the storm was deep down in his soul; outletthere was none. 

'Mr. Penrose, ' said he, laying a hand on the minister's shoulder;'Mr. Penrose, if I'd ha' known afore I were wed that gettin' wedmeant a child o' mine being tan fro' me and cut i' pieces by themdoctor chaps, I'd never ha' wed, fond o' Martha as I wor and am. No, Mr. Penrose, I never would. They might tak' me, and do whatthey'n a mind wi' me, at their butcherin' shops. But her--'

Here the strong man was swept by another convulsive storm offeeling too deep for utterance. Subduing his passion by a supremeeffort of will, he continued:

'However, them as knows best says as it's her only chance, and I'mnoan goin' agen it. I shall go daan wi' her mysel' to-morn. '

 * * * * *

Milly, or 'th' little lass o' Lord's, ' as the villagers calledher, was one of those phenomenal child personalities which now andagain visit this world as though to defy all laws of heredity, andremind the selfish and the mighty of that kingdom in which thelittle one is ruler. A bright, bonny, light-haired girl--the vitalfeelings of delight pulsed through all her being. Born amid themoorlands, cradled in the heather, nourished on the breezy heightsof Rehoboth, she grew up an ideal child of the hills. For yearsher morning baptism had been a frolic across the dewy uplands;and, evening by evening, the light of setting suns kindled holyfires in her rapturous and wonder-filled eyes. The native heart, too, was in touch with the native heath; for Milly's nature wasdeeply poetic, many of her questions betraying a disposition andsympathy strangely out of harmony with the kindly, yet rude, stockfrom which she sprang. From a toddling child her eye carriedsunshine and her presence peace. Unconsciously she leavened thewhole village, and toned much of the harsh Calvinism that knittogether its iron creed. There was not one who did not in some wayrespond to the magic of her voice, her mood, her presence. EvenJoseph softened as she stood by the yawning graves which he wasdigging, and questioned him as to the dying and the dead. The oldpastor, Mr. Morell, stern man that he was, used to put his hand onher head, and call her his 'Goldilocks'; and he had once beenheard to say, after leaving her, 'And a little child shall leadthem. ' Though somewhat lonely, there was neither priggishness norprecocity in her disposition; she was just herself--unspoiled fromthe hands of God and of Nature. 

Shortly after her twelfth birthday she was caught on the moors bya heavy autumnal shower, and, unwilling to miss her ramble byreturning home, pursued her way drenched to the skin. A severeillness was the consequence, an illness which left a weakness inher knee, eventually incapacitating her for all exercise whatever, and keeping her a prisoner to the house. The village doctorlaboured long, but in vain was all his skill. At last a specialistfrom the great city beyond the hills was called, who ordered thechild to be removed to the Royal Infirmary, where care, skill, andnourishment would all be within easy reach. So it came to pass onesummer morning, as the sun lighted up the wide moors, and the humof the factories in the valley began to be carried upwards towardsthe heights, a little crowd of folks gathered round the door ofAbraham Lord's cottage to take a farewell of 'th' little lass. 'About eight o'clock the doctor drove up, and in a few momentsMilly was carried in his and her father's strong arms and gentlylaid in the cushioned carriage, and then slowly driven away fromthe home which now for the first time in her life she was leaving. The eyes of the onlookers were as moist as the dewy herbage onwhich they stood, and many a voice trembled in the farewell givenin response to Milly's 'Good-bye. '

Throughout the whole of that dark day Milly's mother never leftthe cottage; and when her husband, weary and dispirited, returnedat nightfall, she could scarcely nerve herself to question himlest some word of his should add another stab to her alreadysorely wounded heart. When ten o'clock struck, and Abraham Lordlaid his hand on the key to shoot the lock for the night, he burstinto tears, and turning to his wife, said: 'Never, my lass, wi'Milly on th' wrong side'; and for months the parents slept with anunbarred door. 

 * * * * *

'You have a remarkable patient in Milly Lord, ' said Dr. Franks toNurse West one morning. 

'I have indeed, doctor. I never met with another like her in allmy seven years' experience. '

'Does she talk much?'

'At times. But I should call her a silent child; at least, shedoes not talk like other children. When she does talk it is tomake some quaint remark, or to ask some strange question. '

'Ah, ' said the doctor, 'she's just asked me one. I referred her toyou and the chaplain. Religion, you know, is not much in my line. But for all that, I must own it was a perplexing question. '

'Might I ask what it was, doctor?'

'Oh! she asked if I thought Jesus was sent here to suffer pain inorder that God might find out what pain was; and if so, was it notqueer that God should allow so much pain to exist. There now, nurse, you have a problem. By the way, do you think the childknows the limb has to be amputated?'

'She has guessed as much, doctor. '

'Does she seem to fear the operation?'

'Not at all. She talks as though it had to be. Do you think itwill be successful?'

Dr. Franks shrugged his shoulders, uttering no word by way ofreply. 

'I should not like Milly to slip from us, ' continued the nurse. 

'Nor should I. We'll keep her if we can, and if she'll only helpus with a good heart we may possibly manage to pull her through. '

And with a mirthless laugh the doctor turned on his heel, removing, when unobserved, his spectacles and wiping the moisturefrom them and from his eyes. 

From the day that Milly entered the great infirmary, the charm ofher childhood laid its spell upon all who came near her. Not onlywas the gloomy ward brighter for her presence, but patients andnurses were infected with her strange personality and undefinableinfluence. Even the doctors lingered a moment longer at herbedside, looking pensively into the light of those eyes whosefires had been kindled under sunny skies, and at the beauty ofthat face, kissed into loveliness by the wandering winds thatplayed around Rehoboth heights. 

At last the morning of the operation came, and Milly was wheeledinto the theatre, where a crew of noisy students were joking andindulging in the frolics which, from time immemorial, have beenthe privilege of their order. As soon, however, as they caughtsight of the child every voice was hushed, and quietnessprevailed, for not a few already knew something of her winsomenessand beauty. As she was placed on the operating-table the sunlightfell through the lanthorn, and lighted up the golden clusters ofher hair, the welcome rays calling forth from her now palefeatures a responsive smile. In another minute she lay peacefuland motionless under the anæsthetic--a statue, immobile, yetexpressionful, as though carved by some master hand. 

A burly-looking surgeon, with the sleeves of his operating coatneatly turned up, approached the table on which Milly wasstretched, and in a business-like manner set about his task. Carefully handling one of his cold and glittering instruments, hepaused; then bending himself over the patient, appeared as thoughabout to make the first incision, yet hesitated. 

'What is the matter with old Rogers?' asked the students, undertheir breath; and one or two of the doctors looked knowingly ateach other. 

There was nothing the matter, however, with old Rogers for long. He merely muttered something about it being a shame to cut intosuch flesh as Milly's, and proceeded to go calmly through hiswork, like the old hand that he was. 

The operation was successful, and yet Milly seemed to make nosatisfactory progress. The old flow of life returned not, and asettled gloom rested over her once merry heart. She was as onesuffering from an indefinable hunger; even she herself knew notwhat it was she wanted. Unremitting was the attention shown, nurses and doctors alike doing their utmost, even to works ofsupererogation, on her behalf. Week by week her parents visitedher, while there was not a patient in the ward who would not havesacrificed a half of her own chances of recovery, if by so doingshe could have ensured hers. All, however, seemed in vain; rallyshe could not. The ward oppressed her, and the gloomy autumnclouds that hung over the wilderness of warehouses upon which hereye rested day by day canopied her with despair. She listened forthe wind--but all she heard was its monotonous hum along thetelegraph wires that stretched overhead. She looked for thebirds--but all she saw was the sooty-winged house-sparrow thatperched upon the eaves. She longed for the stars--but the littlearea of sky that grudgingly spared itself for her gaze was oftenerclouded than clear as the night hour drew on. The truth was, shewas pining for her native heath; but she knew it not, nor did herkindly ministrants. 

In the next bed to Milly's lay a young woman slowly dying of aninternal malady, whose home, too, was far away among the moors, and whose husband came week by week to visit her. On one of thesevisits he brought with him a bunch of flowers--for the most partmade up of the 'wildings of Nature'--among which was a tuft ofheather in all the glory of its autumnal bloom. Turning towardsthe sick child, the poor woman reached out her wasted arm, andthrowing a spray on to Milly's counterpane, said:

'Here, lass, I'll gi' thee that. '

In a moment Milly's eyes flashed light, and the bloom of themoorland flower reflected itself in the blush of her cheeks. Throwing up both hands, and wild with a tide of new life, shecried:

'Nurse! nurse! Sithee--a yethbob--a yethbob!'

From that hour commenced Milly's convalescence. What medicine andnursing failed to accomplish was carried to a successful issue by'a tuft of heather. ' For Milly did not die--indeed, she stilllives; and although unable to roam and romp the moors that lie ingreat sweeps around her cottage home, she sits and looks at 'th'angels' een'--as she still calls the stars--believing that inthose heavenly watchers are the eyes that slumber not, nor sleep. 

III. 

OWD ENOCH'S FLUTE. 

It was a sunny afternoon in June, and old Enoch, sitting in theshade of the garden bushes, called forth sweet tones from hisflute. No score was before him; that from which he played wasscored on his heart. Being in that sweet mood when

 'Pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind, '

he was living over again, in the melodies that he played, hischequered past. Forms moved before him to the music, and faces, long since dust, smiled at him, and held converse with him, as theplaintive notes rose and fell and died away. Winds, sweetened bytheir sweep over miles of ling and herbage, and spiced with thescents of the garden-flowers that like a zone of colour encircledhim, kissed his lips, and stole therefrom his melodies, bearingthem onwards to the haunts of the wild fowl, or letting them fallwhere brooklets from the hills sang their silvery songs. Along thepath by which he sat, all fringed with London-pride, the leavesspread dappled shadows--a mosaic of nature fit for the tread ofangels or the dance of fairy sprites. Beyond the fence thatfringed the little cottage rolled great waves of upland, shimmering in the heat of the midsummer glare--that hot breathingof the earth when wooed too fiercely by her wanton paramour, thesun--while the horizon discovered lines of dreamy sweep allcrowned with haze, the vestibules to other hills grander and moredistant. 

As the afternoon passed its golden hours, it passed them incompanionship with the notes of old Enoch's flute. Oblivious tothe time, oblivious to the surroundings, the musician heard not anapproaching step, nor knew that a listener stood behind the gardenbushes, with ear responsive to his melodies. How long he wouldhave played, how long his listener would have remained undiscovered, it is hard to say--perhaps until the dews fell and the starsglimmered. This was not to be, however, for forth from the cottagedoor came his wife, who, with voice drowning the strain of theflute, cried:

'Enoch, owd lad! dun yo' see th' parson?'

Ah, heedless Enoch! What was parson, what was wife to him? Was henot soaring far above theologies and domesticities, overcontinents traversed only by memory, amid ideals seen only withthe eye of hope? But a woman's voice!--what is there it cannotshatter and dispel?

'Enoch! Enoch! dun yo' yer? Doesto see th' parson?'

'No, lass, I doan't, ' said he, taking the flute from his lips. 

'I welly think he's forgetten us this time, Enoch. '

'Nod he, lass; he's too fond o' thi butter-cakes and moufins(muffins) to forgeet. He's some fond o' thi bakin', I con tellthaa. Didn't he say as when he geet wed he'd bring his missis tothee to larn haa to mak' bread?'

'Yi, he did, for sure!'

'And so he will, ' said Mr. Penrose, stepping from behind thegarden bush. 'You see your husband is right, Mrs. Ashworth. I'venot forgotten it is baking-day, or that I was due at your house totea. '

'Theyer, Enoch, thaa sees what thi tootling on th' owd flute'sdone for thee, ' said the old woman, in her surprise and chagrin. 'Thaa cornd be too careful haa thaa talks. Thaa sees trees hesyers as weel as stoan walls. '

'Ne'er mind, Mr. Penrose; I were nobbud hevin' her on a bit. Hoothinks a mighty lot o' parsons, I con tell yo'. Hoo's never reetbut when hoo's oather listenin' to 'em or feedin' 'em, ' and theold man quietly broke into a laugh. 

'An' dun yo' know what he sez abaat parsons, Mr. Penrose? I mud asweel tell tales abaat him naa he's started tellin' tales abaatme. '

Mr. Penrose declared he had no idea what old Enoch's criticisms onthe members of the cloth were, but expressed a strong desire to bemade familiar with them. 

'Weel, ' continued Mrs. Ashworth, 'he sez as he never noatherflatters parsons nor women, for noather on 'em con ston' it. Naa, then, what dun yo' mak' o' that?'

'He's very wise. '

'What saysto?'

'I only mean as far as the parsons are concerned. As towomen--why, I suppose I must be silent. '

'Ne'er mind, Mr. Penrose; tay's waitin', so come along. Yo' corndbridle women folks, and it's happen as weel yo' cornd; for if theymutn't talk they'd scrat, and that 'ud be a deal wur. '

During tea Mr. Penrose apologized for hiding behind the bushes inthe garden while old Enoch was playing the flute: 'But, ' continuedhe, 'the airs were so sweet that it would have been a sin to marthem by interruption. '

Upon hearing this Enoch's eye brightened, and a flush of pridemantled on his cheek. These signs were at once detected by hisquick-eyed wife, who broke out in a triumphant voice:

'An' that's him as wouldn't flatter parsons an' women, cose, as hesez, they cornd ston' it; and he's aside hissel cose yo've crackedup his playin', Mr. Penrose. '

'All reet, owd lass, ' good-humouredly retorted Enoch, looking lovethrough his mild blue eyes at his wife, who knew so well how todefend her own, 'all reet; but if thaa durnd mind I'll tell Mr. Penrose abaat Dickey o' Wams. '

'An' I'll tell him abaat Edge End "Messiah, " and thi marlock wi'th' owd piccolo. '

'Supposing I hear both stories, ' said the minister. 'Then I canapply both, and judge between you. '

'Oh! there's nowt in 'em, ' replied Enoch. 'Sometimes, thaa knows, when hoo's a bit fratchy, I plague her wi' tellin' o' Dickey o'Wams, who wor talkin' abaat his wife's tantrums, when his maistherstopped him and said, "Dickey, wherever did ta pike her up?" andhe said, "Oh, 'mang a lot more lumber up Stackkirk way. "'

As this story was told with all the dry humour of which Enochpossessed so large a share, both the old woman and Mr. Penrosecrowned it with a hearty laugh, the minister turning to hishostess and saying:

'Now, Mrs. Ashworth, it's your turn. What about the Edge End"Messiah"?'

'Mun I tell him, Enoch?'

'Yi, owd lass; id 'll pleeas thee, and noan hurt me. Brast (start)off. '

'Well, yo' mun know, Mr. Penrose, they were givin' th' "Messiah"at Edge End. Eh! dear, Enoch, ' sighed the old woman, stoppingshort in her story, 'it's thirty year sin' come next Kesmas. '

'Yi, lass, it is. There's some snow fallen sin' then. '

'There hes that, an' we've bed our share and o'. But, as I wortellin' yo', Mr. Penrose, they wor givin' th' "Messiah" at EdgeEnd, and bed just getten to "How beautiful are th' feet. " Naa, itwor arranged that aar Enoch mud play th' piccolo accompaniment, and he started fairly weel. Happen he wor a bit flat, for th'chapel wor very hot, an' most o' th' instruments aat o' pitch. But, as I say, he started fairly weel, when th' conductor, a chapfra Manchester, who thought he knew summat, said, "Hooisht, hooisht!" But th' owd lad stuck to his tune. Then th' conductorbanged his stick on th' music, and, wi' a face as red as asoudger's coite (soldier's coat), called aat agen, "Hooisht!Doesto yer?--hooisht!" But he'd mistaan his mon, Mr. Penrose, forEnoch nobbud stopped short to say, "Thee go on with thiconductin'. If hoo'll sing I'll play. " And hoo did sing an' o'. An' Enoch welly blew his lips off wi' playin', I con tell thi. But, somehaa or other, hoo never cared to come and sing i' theseparts after, and they never geet Enoch to tak' th' piccoloaccompaniment agen to "How beautiful are th' feet. "'

'Nowe, an' they never will. I somehaa think I had summat to do wi'spoilin' th' beauty of "their feet" that neet, Mr. Penrose, thoughI've played in mony a oratory (oratorio) sin' then, an' mean to doagen. '

After tea Enoch took Mr. Penrose for a stroll over the moors. Thesun was westering, and cool airs crept up from distant wilds, playing softly as they swept among the long grasses, and leadingEnoch to say to Mr. Penrose, 'Theer's music for yo'. ' The greathills threw miles of shadow, and masses of fleecy clouds slowlycrossed the deepening blue like white galleons on a sapphire sea. Along the crests of the far-off hills mystic colours weremingling, deepening, and fading away--the tremulous drapery wovenby angel hands, behind which the bridegroom of day was hiding hissplendour and his strength. Soft herbage yielded to the tread, andwarm stretches of peaty soil lay like bars across the green andgray and gold of what seemed to Mr. Penrose the shoreless waste ofmoor. On distant hills stood lone farmsteads, their little windowsglowing with the lingering beams of the setting sun; the low ofkine, the bay of dog, and the shout of shepherd, softened intosweetest sounds as they travelled from far along the wings of theevening wind. It was the hour when Nature rests, and when manmeditates--if the soul of meditation be his. 

After a silence of some minutes Enoch turned to Mr. Penrose andsaid:

'Jokin' aside, Mr. Penrose, that owd flute yo' yerd me playin'this afternoon is a part o' my life. Let's sit daan i' this nookand I'll tell yo' all abaat it. Three times in mi history it's binmi salvation. Th' first wor when I lost mi brass. We lived daan atth' Brig then, and I ran th' factory. I wor thirty-five year owd, and hed a tidy bit o' brass, when they geet me to put a twothreehunderd in a speculation. Ay, dear! I wor fool enugh not to letweel alone. I did as they wanted me. Me, and Bill Stott's faither, and owd Jerry o' th' Moss went in together heavy, and we lostevery farthin'. I shall never forgeet it. It wor Sunday mornin'when th' news coome fro' th' lawyer. I wor i' bed when th' missisgav me th' letter, and I could tell by her face summat wor wrang. "What is it, lass?" I axed. "What a towd thee it would be, " hoosaid. "We are ruined. " "Thaa never sez so!" I shaated. "It's paperas says so, " hoo said, "noan me, " and hoo handed me th' lawyer'sletter. I tried to get aat o' bed, Mr. Penrose, but when I set mifeet on th' floor, I couldn't ston'. "I've lost my legs, missis, "I cried. "Nay, lad, thank God, thaa's getten thi legs yet; it'sthi brass thaa's lost!" I shall never forgeet those days. Thencame th' sale, and th' flittin', an' all th' black looks. Yo' knowyor friends when th' brass goes, Mr. Penrose. Poverty's a rarehond for pikin' aat hypocrites. It maks no mistakes; it tells yo'who's who. We'd scarce a friend i' those days. I wor weeks andnever held up mi yed, and noabry but th' missis to speak to. Thenit wor th' owd flute coome to mi help. I'd nobbud to tak' it up, and put it to mi lips, and it ud begin to speyk. Yi, an' it criedan' o', and took my sorrow on itsel, and shifted it away fro' me. I've played o' th' neet thro' on these moors, Mr. Penrose, when Icouldn't sleep i' bed, or stay i' th' haas. It's a grond thing, ismusic, when yo're brokken-hearted. If ever yo' marry and hevchilder, teach 'em music--a chap as con play con feight th' devilso much better nor him as cornd. '

Old Enoch took his cap from his head, and wiped his brow, andcontinued:

'Th' flute were my salvation agen, Mr. Penrose, when our lad deed. He wor just one-and-twenty, and he's bin dead eighteen year. Brassis nothin' when it comes to berryin' yor own, Mr. Penrose. Povertymay touch a mon's pride, but death touches his heart. When yo' seeyor own go aat o' th' haas feet fermost, and yo' know it's forgood an' o', there's summat taan aat o' yo' that nothin' ever maksup for at afterwards. I wor a long time afore I forgave th'Almeety for takin' aar Joe. And all the time I owed Him a grudge, and kep' on blamin' Him like; I got wurr and wurr, until I wellywent mad. Then I coome across th' old flute, and it seemed to say, "I'll help thee agen. " "Nay, owd brid, " I said, "tha cornd. It'snoan brass this time, it's mi lad. " And th' owd flute seemed tosay, "Try me. " So I tuk it up, and put it to mi lips and blew--yi, aat of a sad heart, Mr. Penrose--but it wor reet. Th' owd flutegi' me back mi prayer--grace for grace, as yo' parsons say, whatever yo' mean by't. And as I sat on th' bench i' th'garden--same bench as yo' saw me sittin' on this afternoon--mymissis coome to th' dur, and hoo said, "Enoch, what doesto think?""Nay, lass, " I said, "I durnd know. " "Why, " hoo says, "I think asthaa's fotched aar Joe daan fro' heaven to hear thee playin'; heseems nearer to me naa nor he ever did sin' he left us. " And so, ever afterwards, Mr. Penrose, when we want to feel aar Joe nearus, I just taks up th' flute and plays, and he awlus comes. '

Old Enoch paused, for his voice was thick, and with hishandkerchief he wiped away the moisture from his eyes. 

In another minute he continued:

'Bud, Mr. Penrose, I'd a wurr trouble than oather o' those I'vetowd yo' on. A twothree year sin' I wor a reprobate. I don't knowhow it coom abaat, but somehaa I geet fond o' drink, and I tuk tostopping aat late, and comin' wom' rough like, and turnin' agenth' missus. They coom up to see me from Rehoboth, and owd Mr. Morell prayed wi' me; but it wor all no use. Th' devil hissel worin me. They say, Mr. Penrose, as yo' durnd believe in a devil;that yo' co evil a principle or summat of that sort. If thaa'd binlike me thaa'd hev no doubts abaat a devil. I've felt him in me, an' I've felt him tak' howd o' me and do as he'd a mind wi' me. One day, when they'd crossed mi name off th' Rehoboth register, and th' missus were sobbin' fit to break her heart, aw coom acrossth' owd flute as aw were rootin' in a box for some medicine. Thereit lay, long forgetten. As aw seed it, tears coom in my een. Awthought haa it bed helped mi when I lost o' mi brass, and when Joedeed, and aw tuk it up and said, "Can ta help me naa, thinksto?"An' aw put it together, and went aat on th' moors and began toplay; and fro' that hour to this aw've never wanted to sup a dropo' drink. Naa, Mr. Penrose, yo' preachers talk abaat th' Cross, and it's o' reet that yo' should; but yo' cannot blame me fortalkin' abaat my flute, con yo', when it's bin my salvation? Andwhenever awm a bit daanhearted, or hardhearted, or fratchy wi' th'missus, or plaguey wi' fo'k, aw goes to th' owd flute, and ithelps me o'er th' stile. But it's gettin' lat'; let's be goin'wom'. '

Arriving at the cottage, Enoch told his wife how he had given Mr. Penrose the history of his old flute, whereupon the good womanwept and said:

'Him and me, Mr. Penrose, has many a time supped sorrow, but th'owd flute has awlus sweetened aar cup, hesn't it, Enoch?'

'Yi, lass, it awlus hes. '

That night, before Mr. Penrose left the moorland cottage of theAshworths, old Enoch took up the flute tenderly, and, with afar-off look in his eyes, commenced to play a plaintive air, whichthe old woman told Mr. Penrose was to 'their Joe, ' who was 'upaboon wi' Jesus. ' And as the minister descended the brow towardshis own home, the sweet, sad music continued to fall in dyingstrains upon his ears; and that night, and many a nightafterwards, did he vex his brain to find out why redemption shouldbe wrought out by a flute, when the creed of Rehoboth waspowerless. 

II. 

THE MONEY-LENDER. 

 1. THE UTTERMOST FARTHING. 2. THE REDEMPTION OF MOSES FLETCHER. 3. THE ATONEMENT OF MOSES FLETCHER. 

I. 

THE UTTERMOST FARTHING. 

'Well! yo' and Jim may do as yo' like--but I'm noan baan to turnaat o' th' owd Fold till I'm ta'en aat feet fermost. '

'Nay, gronny--don't tak' on so. Yo' cornd ston' agen law as haa itbe; a writ is a writ, and if yo' hevn't got brass it's no usefeightin'. '

'A, lass! I'm feared thaa's reet--naa-a-days them as has most getsmost, and their own way i' th' bargain. '

They were sitting over the hearth, the elder woman gazing wearilyinto the dying embers of the fire, and nursing her chin on herhand; while the younger, with her clog upon the rocker of a dealcradle, gave to that ark of infancy the gentle and monotonousmovement which from time immemorial has soothed the restlessnessof child-life. 

It was a pitiless night--a night the superstitious might wellassociate with the portent of the downfall of the house aroundwhich the storm seemed to rage. The rain beat upon the windows, and the wind with its invisible arms clasped the old farmstead asif to wrench it from its foundations and scatter broadcast itsgray stones over the wild moor on the fringe of which it stood. Neither of the women, however, heeded the sweep of the tempest, for their bosoms were racked by storms other than those of theelements. With eyes heavy from pent-up floods of tears, and heartsdark with foreboding, they listened for the footfall which bothknew would bring with it their impending fate. 

'He's here, ' said the old woman, quickly raising her head duringone of the lulls of the storm. Nor was she mistaken, for in amoment the door was thrown open by a tall broad-shouldered man, who, seizing the dripping cap from his head, flung it with an oathinto the farthest corner of the room. 

'Then he'll noan give us another chonce, lad? But thaa cornd mendit wi' swearin'--thaa nobbud makes bad worse by adding thy oathsto his roguery. '

'Oaths, mother! Oaths didsto say? I can tell thee th' Almightysometimes thinks more o' oaths than prayers. Owd Moses'll say histo-neet--but my oaths'll get to heaven faster. '

'Hooisht, Jim! hooisht! ne'er mind Moses and his prayers. What didhe say about th' mortgage?'

'Say! why he said he'd oather hev his brass at ten o'clockto-morn, or skift us wi' law. And he'll do it--that he will. '

'A, lad--thaa says truth. Owd Moses'll keep his word; he neverlies when he threatens poor fo'k like us. But I never thought itud come to this. I could ha' liked to ha' deed in th' owd chamberaboon, and left th' haas feet fermost when I left it for good. 'And the old woman rocked herself in her grief over the dying fire. 

'Well, gronmother, wee'n all to dee, and I durnd know as itmatters where we dee as long as we're ready. It's where we're baanto live as bothers me, ' said the hard-headed daughter-in-law. 

'I've lived my life, thaa sees, lass. I'm nobbud waitin' to go tothem as is gone afore; and I could ha' liked to foller them fromth' owd haas. And then thaa'rt noan o' th' owd stock, lass. Thyfolks ne'er rooted theirsels i' th' soil like mine. It's fiftyyear come next Whisundy (Whitsuntide) since Jimmie's faitherbrought me here; and as I come in by wedlock, I could ha' liked toha' gone out by berryin'. '

'Come, mother, ' said the now subdued son, 'we'll find a home forthee, and when thaa dees we'll put thee away. Durnd tak' on likethat. '

But the old woman heeded not the kindly words of her son. Herthoughts were in the past, and she was reliving the years thatwere gone. Gazing into the expiring embers, she saw the forms oflong ago; and talking first to herself, and then to her son andhis wife, she continued, in a crooning voice:

'It's fifty year come next Whisundy sin thi faither brought mehere, lad--fifty year, and it only seems like yesterday. We werewed at th' owd church i' Manchester. Dan o' Nodlocks, as used tolive up at th' Chapel-hill, drove us there and back in his newspring-cart; and what wi' gettin' there and being spliced, andcomin' wom' we were all th' day at th' job. Th' sun were justshowin' hissel o'er th' hill yonder when we started, and it weregoin' daan o'er th' moors when we geet back; and thi faither, Jimmy, as he lifted me daan from th' cart and put me in th' porchyonder, kissed me and said: "Sunshine aatside, Jenny, and sunshinein. " An' that's fifty year ago, lad, and I've never slept out o'th' owd haas from that neet to this, and I durnd want to leave itnaa. '

'Well, durnd tak' on like that, mother; if tha' does thaa'll breakmy heart. We shall happen stop yet, who knows?' and Jim almostchoked with the lie which he told in his wild anguish to stay thetorrent of his mother's grief. 

But the crooning old woman heeded him not. With eyes fixed on thefire she continued to read the horoscope of the past:

'We were some happy, those first years, I can tell thee. Thenlittle Billy wor born. Poor little Billy! Thaa's been a good lad, Jim, but I often think what a good un little Billy would ha' beenif he'd lived! But he deed. Ay! I con remember it as though itwere nobbud yesterneet. It was abaat th' deead hour, and I wakenedup sudden-like, for summat towd me all were not reet wi' th' lad. I made thi faither strike a leet, and then I see'd Billy's eenwere set, and his little mouth twitchin'. Thi faither run off, half dressed as he were, for th' doctor. But it wor no use; Billywere going cowd in my arms when they both geet back. And then theylaid th' little lad aat in th' owd chamber, and I used to creepupstairs when thi faither were in th' meadow, and talk to Billy, and ax him to oppen his een. But it wor all no use, he never glentat me agen. I never cried, lad--I couldn't. I felt summat wor taanaat o' me, ' and the old woman laid her hand on her heart. 'I wasempty-like; and then five years after, as I lay in bed in th' owdchamber aboon--same chamber as Billy were laid out in--Mary o'Sams, who had come to nurse me, said: "Thou mun look up, Jenny, it's another lad, " and she put thee in my arms, and then th'warkin' went, and I were a happy woman again. I could ha' liked toha' kept little Billy, but Him aboon knows best: thaa's bin a goodlad to me, Jimmy. '

Tears began to stream from the eyes of Jimmy's wife; and stoopingdown, she lifted her sleeping baby from its cradle, and hugged itto her breast. The story of little Billy had, for the moment, softened the heart of this practical and common-sense woman. 

'That's reet, lass. Keep him close to thee, he'll need thee andthaa'll need him afore yo're both done wi' th' world. Since thifaither deed, Jimmy, I've felt to need thee more and more. It'sten year this last back-end sin' we buried him. And it's nobbudjust like yesterday. He wor in th' barn when he wor taan, sudden-like, with apoplex; and he never spoke, or knew me or youat after. And he wor laid aat in th' owd chamber, too, where theylaid little Billy aat afore him, and where yo' wor born, lad. Ithought I should be laid aat there, and all, and I could ha' likedit to be so. But I mun be off to bed, childer, it's gettin' lat'. I shall sleep in th' owd chamber to-neet, wheresomever I sleepto-morn. '

And so saying, the grandmother took her lamp, and climbed the wornstone staircase to her room--a staircase trodden so many times inchanging moods of joy and sorrow, and with feet now gladsome andnow weary with honest toil and household care. 

When Jimmy and his wife were alone, and the sound of the oldwoman's voice no longer fell upon their ears, they realized, asnever before, the anguish of their surroundings. They werespending their last night in what to one had been a life-longhome, and to the other a shelter of happiness for ten years ofmarried life. The story was a sad one, and yet, alas! notuncommon. Crawshaw Fold--the old farmstead--dated back two hundredyears, and from the time of its erection to the present, had knownneither owners nor occupiers save those of the sturdy yeomanfamily from which it took its name. It had been the boast of theCrawshaws that no alien ever lorded it beneath their roof, or satas presiding genius at their hearth. They were proud to tell howall the heirs of Crawshaw Fold only entered its portals by themystic gate of birth, nor departed until summoned by the passingbell. But families, like individuals, grow old, and with thecourse of years the richest blood runs thin. Bad seasons, whichare the friends of the money-lender and mortgagee, are the foes ofhereditary descent and family pride, and many are the escutcheonserased and the lines of lineage broken by reverses wrought throughtheir fitful moods. The Crawshaws were no exception. A successionof disasters on their little farmstead brought them to sorestraits, and for deliverance they sought help of one MosesFletcher, who advanced money on the deeds of the property. So badwere the times that James Crawshaw was unable to meet theinterest, and on the morrow Moses was putting in force his claim. This was the shadow that fell across the hearth--the despair thatwas seated like a hideous ghoul by their fireside. In the morningthree generations of Crawshaw would be homeless. 

'Well, lad, ' said Jimmy's wife, 'it's no use lying daan to deeafore one's time; there's this little un to fend for, and, as Isay, th' wick is o' more value than th' deeing. Th' owd Book saysas th' deead is to bury th' deead, but I'm noan deead yet. '

'Thaa'rt hard on th' owd woman, lass. It's nobbud natural as hooshould want to lie daan and dee where all her folk has deed aforeher. '

'Nay, lad, I'm noan hard. Hoo'll go where we go, and we's be doin'aar duty both to her and th' child here by workin' for 'em, instead of frettin' and sobbin' as though all wor o'er. '

'Happen so; but thaa's more hope nor I hev. I durnd think th' sunwill ever shine again for us, lass. '

'Get away wi' thee! Th' sun 'll shine to-morn for them as has eento see. '

Throughout this conversation the footfall of the old grandmotherwas heard distinctly on the chamber floor above, for on reachingher room she did not, as was her wont, seek at once the shelter ofher bed, but, placing the lamp on the table, commenced a fond andfarewell survey of the old chamber. Over the fireplace hung an oldsampler, worked by her deft fingers in girlhood's days--her maidenname spelt out in now faded silks, with a tree of paradise oneither side and under it the date of a forgotten year; while anold leather-cased Bible, in which were inscribed the epochs of thefamily, lay open upon a chair. 

Withdrawing her eyes from these, she slowly turned towards theclothes-press, and, opening the oaken doors, looked at a suit ofblack--'the Sunday best' of her dead husband, left undisturbedsince his sudden decease ten years before. Then, turning to a boxat the foot of the bed--that historic four-poster whereon the twinmessengers of birth and death had so often waited--she knelt andraised the lid, looking into its secrets by the feeble ray emittedfrom the lamp. What she saw therein we care not to tell. Our penshall not blur the bloom of that romance and association which forher the years could not destroy. Enough that this was her ark, within which were relics as precious as the budding rod and pot ofmanna. She was low before her holy of holies--face to face with alight which falls from the inalienable shrine of every woman whohas been wife and mother, who has loved a husband and carried achild. 

By this time the storm was over, and the winds, lately sotempestuous, were gathered together and slept. A strange hush--ahush as of appeased nature--rested like a benediction over thehouse. The moon sailed along a swiftly clearing sky of blue, andshot its silver shafts through the great cloud-bastions that stillbarriered the horizon, and lighted up the chamber in which the oldwoman was kneeling before her shrine. It was across these God sentHis kindly messenger with noiseless tread to bear her sore andsorrowing soul 'where the wicked cease from troubling and theweary are at rest. '

 * * * * *

At an early hour the minions of Moses Fletcher, the money-lender, were hovering round Crawshaw Fold, not daring, however, to enteruntil the fateful hour of ten. Jimmy, with his wife, sat before anuntasted breakfast, wondering how it was his mother was so late incoming downstairs; and when at half-past eight there was no signof her appearance, he sent his wife, with a strong feeling offoreboding, to find out the reason of the delay. Slowly sheclimbed the stairs to awaken, as she supposed, the old woman forthe last tragic act of the drama. When she stood upon thethreshold of the chamber, however, she saw at a glance that akindly hand had drawn the curtain before the enactment of thefateful and final scene. Calling her husband, he hurried to herside; and, together, they raised Jenny from her kneeling posturebefore the old chest, and laid her on the bed, thanking God thatfor her the worst had been forestalled. Four days afterwards oldJenny was carried out of the Fold, feet foremost; and, amid afalling shower of snow, was laid away by the side of little Billyand the good man with whom, for forty years, she had shared herlife. As the mourners returned, chilled by the winter's blast, sleek Moses Fletcher crossed their path, an old woman flinging athim the words:

'Thaa's had th' uttermost farthin', but thaa's God to square wi'yet. '

II. 

THE REDEMPTION OF MOSES FLETCHER. 

Moses Fletcher was suffering from what the doctor called 'nervousshock, ' with sundry wounds of a severe nature received in anattempt to rescue his dog in a canine _mêlée_. 

He was a medium-sized man, with a hatchet face, lit by keen grayeyes, small as a ferret's; and, by way of apology for a mouth, displayed a thin lip-line which fell at either end with a crueland cynical curve. 

As he lay in bed, with a face as white as the counterpane whichcovered him, he now and again extended his bandaged hand to thefavourite hound that rested on a plaid shawl at his feet, callingit by endearing names, and welcoming its warm and faithfulcaresses. 

The chamber was small, but cosy, with many evidences of comfort. Trellised greenery looked in at him through the deep-splayedwindows, and tapped a welcome on the diamond panes. He had, however, no ear for this salute. Nor did he eye with delight theflowering geraniums that clustered so thickly in the pots fillingthe sills. Nor did he even care for the great bars of sunlightthat fell in golden splendour across his bed, causing the old dogto wink, and sneeze, and smile beneath their mellowing beams. No, these were nothing to him; indeed, they never had been--he hadlived for years oblivious alike to tree and flower and sun. 

On the walls of his bedroom hung a number of rude prints, chiefamong which was a hideous representation of Jesus Christ drivingthe money-changers out of the Temple--the man of gentleness beingrepresented as a stern, passionless Master, the strength of whoseperson was thrown into a relentless face, and a mighty armwielding a massive whip. At this figure he often glanced, and nowand again a look of recognition seemed to steal over his features, as though the essence of his religion was embodied in that act--agospel anodyne for a suffering soul. 

By the side of his bed was a small table on which lay two books, the one bound in morocco, the other in leather--a Bible and aledger--his sole literature during the weary hours of sickness, and wittily denominated by his wife, 'the books of mercy and ofjudgment. ' Indeed, she often told him that he knew 'a deal more o'th' book o' judgment than he did o' t'other'; and it was even so. 

Moses languidly took up his Bible. It was a veritable study inblack and white, many passages being underscored, and manyremaining as unsoiled as though seldom read. Indeed, the Gospelsseldom had been read, while the imprecatory Psalms and the latterpart of the Epistle to the Romans were greasy and stained with oftperusal. But there was a more remarkable feature about the Biblethan this--its margin was filled with a number of pen-and-inknotes! figures and calculations of money advanced and interestdrawn and due; his clever, sarcastic wife calling this his'reference Bible, ' and sometimes telling him he was 'mighty i' th'Scriptures' when his own interest was concerned. 

He laid down the Bible and took up his ledger. Ah! how he knewthat book!--to him actually and literally a book of life. He knewits every page, and every name that headed those pages. True, Moses knew the generations of the patriarchs, the names of thesons of Jacob, the chronologies of the Chronicles, but he knew thefamilies of Rehoboth better. These latter were engraved on thepalms of his hands, and written with corroding ink on the fleshlytables of his heart. As he turned over the well-thumbed pages hemade many mental calculations, sometimes smiling and sometimessighing as his eye fell on an irreclaimable debt. Then, taking uphis pencil, he entered an account on the fly-sheet of the Bible, and seemed satisfied when he discovered that his illness would notinvolve him in the loss which he had anticipated; and smiling thesmile of selfish gain, he closed his eyes and slept. 

Poor Moses Fletcher! For with all his riches he was poor--if beinga pauper in the sight of Heaven is to be poor. How he had lived tomake money, and, having made it, how terrible was the cost! OldMr. Morell once told him that the angels reversed his balance yearby year, writing in invisible ink against his material profits hismoral and spiritual depreciation. And yet there was one redeemingfeature in the character of Moses--he loved his dog. 'Captain, ' asthe brute was called, kept one spot warm in his callous nature, alittle patch of vegetation on the bare surface of his graniteheart. The only noble acts in the life of Moses Fletcher were actswrought on behalf of this dog. Years ago he risked his life tosave it, when, as a whelp, mischievous boys sought to drown it inthe Green Fold Lodge; and only a week or two ago he rescued itfrom the infuriated grip of a bull-terrier, at the expense ofinjuries from which he was now slowly recovering. Wherever Moseswent he was followed by his dog; and if the dog was seen alone itwas known Moses was not far distant. Now, this dog had to sufferfor Moses' sins. It was, as Mr. Penrose used to say, 'a vicariousdog'--the innocent bearing the sins of the guilty. Affectionate, faithful, gentle, with no spice of viciousness in its nature, itwas none the less stoned by children and tormented by man andwoman alike. One of Moses' debtors, a stalwart quarryman, oncetook it on the moors and sent it home with a spray of pricklyholly tied under its tail. On another occasion, an Irish labourer, whom Moses put in the County Court, hurled a handful of quicklimein its eye, by which its sight had been in part destroyed; and itsglossy skin was all patched with bare spots where outragedhousewives had doused it with scalding water. 

'We cornd get at _him_, ' they used to say, 'but we con get at hisdog, and mak' him smart i' that road. '

The last outrage, however, was by far the most brutal, and it cameabout in this manner. It was County Court day at a small markettown over the hills, and Moses, accompanied by his dog, went withhis summonses. One of these was served against a man known as'Oliver o' Deaf Martha's'--himself the owner of the mostbelligerent dog in the neighbourhood--who, like Moses, never movedwithout his canine friend. When his summons was heard judgmentwent against him, and he was ordered to pay ten shillings a monthuntil the debt was wiped off. At this he uttered a curse, muttering to Moses that he would be even with him, but littlethinking his chance would so soon come to hand. Passing out of theCourt into the street, he saw his own dog and that of Mosessnarling at one another, but harmlessly, as both were muzzled. Taking a knife from his pocket, he cut the leather straps thatbound the mouth of his own dog, and, throwing it at the other, bade it go to work with its worrying. It needed no second word ofencouragement; and in a moment, the other dog, handicapped by itsmuzzle, was at the mercy of its foe. Over and over they rolled, amid jeers, and cheers, and curses, worrying, foaming, andchoking, until at last the dog owned by Moses was _hors decombat_, and helpless in the other's grip. 

'Fair play!' cried some among the crowd. 'Cut t'other dog'smuzzle!' screamed others. 'Tak' thy dog off, Oliver, ' urged ayouth, who saw the injustice of the fight. Yet none dared toapproach. 

Suddenly, Moses appeared on the steps of the Court-house, andseeing the peril of his much-loved dog, rushed into the fray, defenceless as he was, and seizing his pet, tore it from the gripof its opponent. 

'At him!' cried Oliver, and in another moment Moses and his dogwere on the ground, and powerless beneath the attack of thebull-terrier. Moses remembered no more. When he came to himself hewas lying in his bed, under the smart of the doctor's caustic andhis wife's fomentations. 

'Is th' dog alive, missis?' was the first question he asked. Andwhen told that it was, he faintly breathed a 'Thank God!' and fellaway into another swoon. 

 * * * * *

'Here's Mr. Penrose to see thee, Moses; mun I ax him up?'

'Thaa con do as thaa likes. '

'Come upstairs, Mr. Penrose; thaa con see him, he sez, if thaalikes. '

'All right, Mrs. Fletcher; I'm coming, ' and in a moment theminister was at the bedside of the sick man. 

Mr. Penrose and Moses were not the best of friends. Indeed, thelatter had threatened to gag the young preacher with the doctrinaldeeds of Rehoboth, and was only waiting his opportunity. Thus Mr. Penrose hardly knew how to console this sick member of his flock, and words refused to flow from his ministerial lips. After asomewhat awkward pause, however, he ventured to remark:

'This is the second time, I suppose, you have risked your life onbehalf of Captain, Mr. Fletcher. '

'Yi, it is, ' responded Mrs. Fletcher. 'He geet rheumatic fayversix year sin', when he poo'd it aat o' Green Fowd Lodge; and nowhe's getten welly worried to deeath by savin' it fro' thatbull-terrier o' Oliver's o' Deaf Martha's. '

'Ay! they'n welly done for us both this time, hevn't they, Captain?' faintly said Moses, addressing the dog, and extendinghis hand wearily for a canine caress. 'But aar time 'll come. Wee'n nobbud to wait, and we'll mak' it even wi' 'em yet. '

'But you must not forget the Divine injunction, Mr. Fletcher. "Avenge not yourselves; vengeance is Mine, I will repay. "'

'Ay! bless yo', ' interrupted the wife, 'they think as he's mad''em pay too mich already. '

'Who, Mrs. Fletcher?' asked the minister. 'The Almighty?'

'Nay; I mean our Moses there. They say as he's awlus makin' 'empay. '

'Thee howd thi tung. I know mi business baat bein' helped orhindered by thee, or onybody else. '

This last with biting emphasis, as though to include the pastor. 

Then, turning to Mr. Penrose, he continued:

'Hoo'd let 'em off if hoo'd her way, but that's noan o' my creed. '

'I think her creed is the better of the two, though, Mr. Fletcher. If thine enemy hunger, give him--'

'A summons if he willn'd pay for what he gets. '

'Nay, the Bible does not say so. '

'Ne'er mind th' Bible--it's what aw say. '

After another painful pause, Mrs. Fletcher continued:

'Eh, Mr. Penrose, I do wish aar Moses 'ud find summat else to donor lendin' brass and collectin' debts. We haven't a friend i' th'world naa, and we used never bein' baat. Mi own fo'k wernd look atme naa, 'cose he caanty-courted aar Bella's husband. '

'Thee howd thi tung, aw tell thee. Aw know mi wark; and if fo'kwilln'd pay for what they get, then they mun be made to. '

'But supposing they cannot pay, Mr. Fletcher--what then?'

'What then? Then they mun go up yon, ' and Moses extended hisbandaged hand in the direction of the Union workhouse. 

'But you know there was One who said, "Give to him that askeththee, and from him that borroweth turn not away. "'

'Yi, but He didn'd live at Rehoboth. Th' pulpit's th' place forthat mak' o' talk. It'll do for Sundo; but fo'k as hes theirlivin' to ged want noan on't i' th' week. '

'But is getting a living more essential than doing right? If itcame to a choice between the two, which would you select?'

'Aw durnd know as that's ony business o' yours. Th' owd Book yo'quote fro' says summat abaat a man stonnin' and falling to his ownJudge--doesn'd it?'

'Why keep all your kindness for your dog, Mr. Fletcher? Why notextend the same acts of mercy to those who are of more value thanmany dogs? If you did that your dog would not be your only friend, nor would it be called upon to suffer for you as it does. '

'I durnd know, Mr. Penrose, as I want ony friends. '

'I think there's one Friend you cannot do without--the one yourecommended me to keep in the pulpit. Don't you think we need Himin the home as well?'

'Ther's noabry kept Him aat o' aar haas, as I know on, hes ther, Sally?' said Moses, turning to his wife. 

'Doesto think 'at onybody's axed Him?' she replied. 'And if Hecoome, what kind o' a welcome would He ged, thinksto? I know thaareckons to meet Him on a Sundo, and when thaa sits at "His table, "as tha co's th' sacrament, and at th' deacons' meetings. Butthat's abaat as mich on Him as yo' want, I think. '

Mr. Penrose stood up to leave, but, recollecting himself, he said:

'Shall I pray with you, Mr. Fletcher?'

To which he received the curt reply:

'Thaa con pleeas thisel. '

Mr. Penrose knelt by the bedside of the poormammon-worshipper--self-blinded and hardened by the god of thisworld--and with a full soul cried:

'Merciful Father! Who hast forgiven so much, and in whosecontinued forgiveness lies our only hope, inspire us with thespirit of Thy forgiveness towards all men, and grant that Thygreat heart, which bears enmity towards none, may so warm theseselfish hearts of ours that we may not only love our neighboursbut our enemies, with the love wherewith we are loved. Pardon ourlittlenesses, consume our selfishness, and fashion us after Himwhose strength bore all burdens, whose heart heard all entreaties, and whose love went out alike to friend and foe. Amen. '

 * * * * *

It was in the golden autumn weather when Moses and his dog, forthe first time after the _mêlée_, turned out for an afternoon'sstroll. Both bore sore evidences of the severity of the struggle, one being bandaged over his forehead, the other following withtell-tale limp and disfigured coat. 

Not caring to face the inquisitorial eye of the villagers, norhear the rude sarcasm and stinging wit which he knew they wouldhurl at him from their tongues, Moses turned down a foot-roadleading from his garden to Folly Clough, and thus secured thequiet ever found in those deeply-wooded seams that plough into thevery heart of the moors. Following the water-worn path which woundin tortuous ascent under clustering trees and between slopes ofbracken, the two soon gained the head of the Clough, and climbedtowards the banks of the Green Fold Lodge, a stretch of water intowhich drained the moisture of vast tracts of uplands, its overflowrushing through flood-gates and pouring its volume through theClough to feed the factories below. Seating himself on the bank ofthe Lodge, he recalled the day when he rescued his dog from itschill deeps, and, turning to Captain, he said:

'It wor welly bein' thi grave once, owd lad. Aw wonder why it woraw saved thee. Thaa's getten many a lickin' (thrashing) sin' thenon my accaant. '

Whereupon the dog bounded round his feet, and held up its head forone of those caresses which Moses was never known to extend saveto his dog. 

As they rested together Moses continued:

'Thaas noan a bad sort, Captain; and thaa'd ha' done a deal moregood if aw'd a let thee. Thaa wor awlus fond o' childer', budthey'd never let thee alone. It wor happen as weel if aw'd a bitmore o' thi spirit i' me, owd lad; but if there wor more fo'k likethee there'd be less like me. '

And at this Captain wagged his tail with delight, and rubbed hiscold nose under the palm of Moses' hand. 

'Aw've gin thee a bad name, owd mon, and they'n tried to hang theefor't; but thaa'll happen do summat some day as they'll tee amedal raand thi neck for, and when thaa'rt deead build thee amoniment. '

And Moses actually laughed at his burst of mirth, which was ofrare occurrence in his taciturn life. 

Moses' wit, however, was soon cut short, for he started and stayedhis monologue at the sight of a child sailing paper boats on theopposite and deeper side of the reservoir, 'Why, yon's that little lad o' Oliver o' Deaf Martha's!' exclaimedMoses to himself. 'What a foo' (fool) his mother mun be to let himmarlock on th' Lodge banks by hissel. By Guy! he's i' th' watter!'

At that moment Captain sprang up, and would have leapt after thechild, but Moses bade him lie still. 

The dog, for the first time in its life, resented the command ofhis master, and a low, ominous growl came from a mouth thatdisplayed a row of threatening teeth. At this Moses, for the firsttime in his life too, raised his foot and kicked the brute he hadso lately been apostrophizing, and, seizing it by the collar, heldit to the spot. 

'Thaa doesn't know whose bairn it is, Captain, or thaa'd nevertrouble to go in after it. It's his whose dog welly worried theeand me on th' Caanty Court day. '

But the instinct of Captain was nearer the thought of God than wasthe moral nature of Moses, and, despite threat and cuff and kick, the dog so dragged his collar that Moses, weak from his longillness, felt he must either let go his hold or follow the leadingof the noble creature. 

And now commenced a terrible struggle in the soul of Moses. Heturned pale, and great drops of sweat stood upon his brow, as hefelt himself in the grasp of a stronger and better nature than hisown. Looking round to see if his relentless act were watched, hebreathed more freely as he saw along the miles of moorland no signof human life. Only his eye, and the eye of Captain--and then herealized that other Eye that filled all space--the Eye that lookeddown from the cloudless light. Fiercely the struggle waged. Thevoice of Moses cried out of the deeps of his own black heart, 'Mytime has come, as I said it would. ' But the words of Mr. Penrose--heeded not when uttered--rang out clear and telling:'Vengeance is Mine, _I_ will repay. '

'But is not _this_ God's vengeance?' replied the voice of thelower man. 

And then came the reply:

'Would God punish Oliver through his child as Oliver punished youthrough your dog? Am I a man, and not God?'

Moses looked round, as though someone had spoken in his ear, and, loosing his hold of Captain, muttered:

'Go, if thaa wants. '

A mighty bound, and Captain was in mid-stream, and with a fewstrong and rapid strokes he reached the sinking child. But theflood-gates were open, the reservoir was emptying its overflowdown the steep falls into the Clough fifty yards below, and childand dog were slowly but unmistakably being carried towards thegorge. 

Again the struggle commenced, and once more Moses was the prey ofthe relentless reasoners--Love and Self. 

'A man's life is worth more than a dog's, ' cried Self. 

'And more than a child's?' asked Love. 

'But it's Oliver o' Deaf Martha's child, is it not?'

'And your dog is seeking to save it. '

'Shamed by a dog!' All the remains of the nobleness so longdormant in the nature of Moses--the passion, and valour, and lovewhich he had allowed to die down long, long ago--awakened intolife. For the first time for thirty years he forgot himself, andwith a great light breaking round him, and sounds of sweetestmusic in his heart, he leapt into the Lodge, struck out for thestruggling dog and its fainting burden, and strengthened andsteadied both to land. 

Many years before Moses had been immersed in the baptistery atRehoboth by the old pastor, Mr. Morell. He stepped into thosewaters as Moses Fletcher, and he was Moses Fletcher when he cameup out of them, despite the benediction breathed on his dedicatedsoul. But on this autumn afternoon Moses Fletcher--the cruel, exacting, self-righteous Moses Fletcher--was buried in baptism, and there stepped out of those moorland waters another man, bearing in his arms a little child. 

III. 

THE ATONEMENT OF MOSES FLETCHER. 

On the evening of the day following the rescue of Oliver o' DeafMartha's child, Moses Fletcher was walking over the moors towardshis own home, a great peace possessing his soul, and a buoyantstep bearing him through a new world. Above him the mellow moon ofSeptember dreamed in blue distances, the immensities of which weremeasured by innumerable constellations. Around, the great hillsloomed dark in shadow, and bulked in relief against the far-offhorizon of night. Along the troughs and gullies lay streaks ofwhite fog, ever shaping themselves into folds and fringes, and, like wraiths, noiselessly vanishing on the hillside; while overall rested a great stillness, as though for once the fevered earthslept in innocence beneath the benediction of that world so vast, so high, and yet so near. Many a time, amid such surroundings, hadMoses traversed the same path. Never before, however, had hepassed through the same world. To him it was a new heaven and anew earth, for he carried with him a new soul. 

Crossing the stretch of hill on the crest of which lay theRehoboth burial-ground, Moses made his way to the stone wallfencing in that God's acre, and paused to lean his arms on itsrude and irregular coping. There stood the old chapel, square andgaunt, its dark outline clearly cut against the moonlit sky, eachwindow coldly gleaming in the pale light, while the scatteredheadstones, sheeted in mist, stood out like groups of mournersmute in their sorrow over the dead. Below lay the village--thatlittle tragic centre of life and death--half its inhabitants insleep, hushed for a few brief hours in their humble moorlandnests. The fall of waters from the weir at the Bridge Factory cameup from the valley in dreamy cadences; a light dimly burned in oldJoseph's window; and a meteor swept with a mighty arc the westernsky. The soul of Moses Fletcher was at peace. 

He sprang with a light step over the low wall of boundary, andcrossed the wave-like mounds that heaved as a grassy sea, andbeneath which lay the unlettered dead, the long grasses writhingand clinging to his feet, as though loath to let him escape thedust upon which they fed and grew so rank. Heedless of theirgreedy embrace, he walked with long stride towards the lower endof the yard, until he stood before a gray and lichen-covered slab, on which were letters old and new. There, by the moonlight, heread the record of a baby boy of two, carrying back the readerforty years. Above it was the name of a father, dead these tenyears, and between these, all newly cut, were the lines:

 JINNY CRAWSHAW, WIFE OF THE ABOVE, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE, ----- -----

For some moments Moses stood before the stone; then, taking thehat from his head, he knelt down on the cold grass and, kissingthe newly-cut name, he vowed a vow. If, with the power of hisMaster, whom he had only just begun to serve, he could have raisedthe sleeper, as Lazarus and the widow's son and the ruler's littlechild were raised, then the great grief of his heart would havedisappeared. But he could not--the past, _his_ past, wasirrevocable. But there were the living--Jim Crawshaw, his wife, his babe--these were still within his reach of recompense. Andagain he vowed his vow, and the still night air carried it farbeyond the distant stars to where He sits who knows the thoughtsand tries the reins of men. 

 * * * * *

'Thaa'rt lat' to-neet, Moses; where hasto bin?'

'Nowhere where thaa couldn't go wi' me, lass, ' and so saying, Moses kissed his wife, an act which he had dexterously andpassionately performed several times since his immersion in theGreen Fold Lodge on the previous day. 

'Whatever's come o'er thee, Moses? Thaa fair maks me shamed. It'sthirty year an' more sin' thaa kissed me. Hasto lost thi yed?'

'Yi, lass, but I've fun mi heart, ' and he again clasped hisstartled wife, and grew young in his caresses. 

'I thought thaa kept thi luv for Captain, Moses. But I durnd mindgoin' hawves wi' th' owd dog. I awlus said that a chap as couldluv a dog hed summat good abaat him somewhere--and thaa's luvedCaptain sum weel. '

'And others a deal too little, lass. But all that's o'er'--andMoses burst into tears. 

'Nay, lad--forshure thaa'rt takken worse. Well, I never seed theecry afore. Mun I ged thee a sooap o' summat hot, thinksto? or munI run for th' doctor?' and Mrs. Fletcher looked at her husbandwith a scared and troubled face. 

'Why, lass, I've been cryin' all th' day--and that's why I've binso long away fro' thee--I didn'd want to scare thee. I cornd helpbut cry. I tell thee I've fun mi heart. '

And Moses again sobbed like a child. 

That night, when his wife was in bed, and Captain slept soundly onthe rug in front of the fire, Moses opened a safe that stood inthe corner of the room, and, taking therefrom a bundle of deeds, selected one docketed 'Crawshaw Fold. ' He then took from a drawera number of agreements, and carefully drew forth those which gavehim his hold on the Crawshaws. These he enclosed with the deeds ina large blue envelope, and in a clerkly hand addressed them, witha note, to James Crawshaw. After this he knelt down, and, as heprayed, Captain came and laid his head upon the clasped hands ofhis master. 

 * * * * *

'Good-mornin', Abram. Hasto ought fresh daan i' th' village?'

'Plenty, Enoch; hasto yerd naught?'

'Nowe; I hevn't bin daan fro' th' moors sin' Sundo. '

'Then yo've yerd naught abaat Moses Fletcher?'

'Nowe; nor I durnd want. When yo' cornd yer owt good abaat a monyo'd better yer naught at all. '

'But I've summat good to tell thee abaat owd Moses. '

'Nay, lad, I think nod. Th' Etheop cornd change his skin, nor th'leopard his spots. '

'But Moses hes ged'n aat o' his skin, and changed it for a gradelygood un and o'. '

'And what abaat his spots, Abram?'

'Why, he's weshed 'em all aat in th' Green Fowd Lodge wi' savin'Oliver o' Deaf Martha's little un. '

Enoch whistled the first bar or two of an old tune, and stoodsilent in thought, and then exclaimed:

'Well, aw'v yerd o' th' seven wonders, but if what thaa sez istrue, it mak's th' eighth. '

'Yi, owd mon, but there's a bigger wonder nor that. He's gi'n JimCrawshaw th' deeds o' Crawshaw Fowd, and towd him as he can payhim back when he geds th' brass. '

'Abram, thaa'rt gammin'. '

'Jim Crawshaw towd me this mornin', and I seed th' deeds wi' miown een in his hond, and read th' letter Moses bed written. '

At this moment Mr. Penrose came along the field-path, and joinedthe two men. He, too, was strangely excited about Moses Fletcher, and, guessing what was uppermost in the minds and conversation ofthe two men, at once heartily joined them. 

'God moves in a mysterious way, doesn'd He, Mr. Penrose?' said oldEnoch. 

'He does indeed, Enoch. Here I've been trying to convert Moseswith my preaching, and the Almighty sets aside His servant, andconverts the sinner by means of a dog and a little child. Afterall, there's something can get at the heart besides theology andphilosophy. The foolishness of God is greater than the wisdom ofman. '

'Then yo' think he's convarted, Mr. Penrose?'

'Well, if the New Testament test is a true one, he is, for he isindeed bringing forth fruits meet for repentance. '

'He is so, ' said Enoch, 'it what Abram sez is true. I awlus towdmy missus that whenever Moses gave his furst hawve-craan it 'ud behis fust stride towards th' kingdom o' grace; but if he's gin JimCrawshaw his deeds back he's getten a deal further into th'kingdom nor some o' us. '

Mr. Penrose attempted to continue the conversation, but in vain, for a lump rose in his throat, and the landscape was dimmed by themoisture he could not keep back from his eyes. And as with thepastor, so with his companions. A great joy filled all theirhearts--a joy too deep for words, but not for tears. 

In a little while Mr. Penrose said:

'Moses called to see me last night to ask for re-admission intothe Church. He wants me to baptize him next Sunday afternoon week, and would like to give his testimony. '

'But he were baptized thirty year sin' by Mr. Morell, ' said Abram. 'Why does he want dippin' o'er agen?'

'Because, as he says, he never received his testimony before lastMonday, when he saved Oliver's child from drowning. '

'An' are yo' baan to baptize him?' asked Enoch. 

'Why not? If the deacons are willing, I shall be only too glad. '

 * * * * *

It was the first Sunday afternoon in October, and along a dozenwinding moorland paths there came in scattered groups theworshippers to the Rehoboth shrine. Old men and women, weary withthe weight of years, renewed their youth as they drew near to whathad been a veritable sanctuary amid their care and sorrow and sin;while manhood and womanhood, leading by the hand their littleones, felt in their hearts that zeal for the house of prayer socommon to the dwellers in rural England. Long before the hour ofservice the chapel-yard was thronged, and from within came thesounds of stringed instruments as they were tuned to pitch by themusicians, who had already taken their place in the singing-pewbeneath the pulpit, which stood square and high, canopied with itsold-fashioned sounding-board and cornice of plain deal. There was'owd Joel Boothman, ' who had played the double bass for half acentury, resining his bow with a trembling hand; and Joe andRobert Hargreaves fondly caressing their 'cellos. Dick o'Tootershill and his two sons were delicately touching thetrembling strings of their violins; and Enoch was polishing, beneath the glossy sleeve of his 'Sunday best, ' 'th' owd flute'which had been his salvation. 

In a few minutes Mr. Penrose ascended the pulpit. Never before wasthere such a congregation to greet him; and as the people rose tojoin in singing the old tune, Devizes, the worm-eaten galleriestrembled and creaked beneath the mass of worshippers. Thenfollowed prayer and the lessons, the hymn before the address being

 'Come, ye that love the Lord. '

With a great swell of harmony from five hundred voices, whosetraining for song had been the moors, the words of Dr. Watts wentup to heaven, and when the second verse was reached--

 'Let those refuse to sing, Who never knew our Lord, '

little Milly, who had hobbled to chapel on her crutch, turned toAbraham Lord, and said:

'Sithee, owd Moses is singing, faither. '

And it was even so. Poor Moses! for so many years a muteworshipper, and whose voice had been raised only to harry anddistress, no longer was silent in the service of song. 

Mr. Penrose's address was brief. Taking for his text, 'The Son ofMan is come to seek and to save that which is lost, ' he said:

'It was the best in man that was longest in being discovered. Thatwhich was lost was not the false man, but the true man--theheavenly. We were none of us vile in the sight of God, because Godsaw Himself in us. It was this God-self in us that was lost to us. Not knowing it to be the hidden root of our true life, we did notclaim our dignity, nor walk as became the sons of God. A man wholost the sense of his freedom, though free, would be fetteredstill. A man whose sense of beauty was lost would be as in adesert in the paradise of God. A lost sense of freedom meant aslavish mind, and a lost sense of beauty meant a prosaic mind, nomatter how free the man, nor how beautiful his environment. So menhad lost the sense of their sonship. They did not know their royaldescent, their kinship with the Father, and therefore they did notact as became sons. A lost sense of relationship begat in themdisobedience and alienation. They possessed gold, but were contentwith brass; and instead of iron they built with clay. The eternaland abiding was in them, but _lost_ to them, covered withincrustations of self and buried deep beneath the lesser and themeaner man. There were times in a man's life when the betternature gave hints of its existence. The mission of Christ was toawaken these hints. He came to tell them they were men, that theywere souls, that they were sons and not servants, friends and notenemies of God. When He stirred these powers in men He stirred thelost. He set it before the eye of man, and made man see what hehad within him, what he was _really_, and at the _root_ of hisbeing--a man, a Son of Man, a Child of God. How hard this was onlyChrist knew. Spiritually, men put themselves, through spiritualignorance, in false relations. This wrong relationship lay at theroot of all disorder. It was the secret of discomfiture, miseryand sin. Men were not lost in badness, not lost in sin, but lostto that which when discovered to them made their badnessunbearable--in other words, "took away their sin. " Lost souls, damned souls, souls in hell--as the theologians termed them--weresimply souls lost to their right relationship. And the work ofChrist was to find _in_ men, and find out _for_ men, what thisright relationship was. This was what was meant in the text, theSon of Man came to seek and to save that which was lost. Theirfriend Moses Fletcher had found something in himself. He had foundlove, and courage, and a sense of goodness. These had beendiscovered to him by the One who was always revealing the good inus if we would but let Him, and if we would but open our eyes tosee. He, Moses Fletcher, had seen the good, and believed in it, and he was saved because he allowed the good to move and have itsbeing in him. It was his better self, so long unknown to himself, so long lost in him, and to him, that awoke and led him to saveOliver o' Deaf Martha's child. When he plunged into the Green FoldLodge he found what had been so long lost to him: he foundhimself. Then was fulfilled the saying, "He that loseth his lifeshall save it. " That was salvation. Moses was now a saved manbecause he had found the sane and whole part of his nature. TheDivine in him had been awakened. He was at last true to the law ofhis being. '

Then, closing his Bible, he asked Moses Fletcher to give his'testimony. '

Standing up, and with tremulous tones, which none recognised asthe once harsh voice of Moses, he said:

'Yo' happen willn't let me co yo' friends because I've bin anenemy to so mony on yo'! But Him as they co'd a friend o'publicans and sinners hes made me His friend, and He's made me afriend on yo' all. I know haa yo' all hated me, and I gave yo'good cause for doin' so. But He's put His love i' me, and naa owdMoses 'll never trouble ony on yo' ony more. Owd Moses lies i'Green Fold Lodge yonder, and he'll stop theer; it's time he wordone wi'. An' if you'll try me as God's baan to try me, aw thinkyou'll happen larn to love me as I know I'm loved aboon. '

As he sat down many in the large congregation would fain haverisen and grasped him by the hand, but propriety forbade. 

In another minute Mr. Penrose came out of the vestry prepared forthe rite of immersion, and Moses was a second time baptized inRehoboth. 

As he stepped out of the waters a cloud passed from before theOctober sun, and a flood of light poured through the open windowabove the baptistery, while a white dove from the neighbouringfarm perched for a moment on the wooden sill. Then Milly once moreturned to her father and said:

'Yon's th' brid, faither, but I don't yer th' voice!'

'What voice?' whispered Abraham Lord. 

'Why, faither, thaa knows--"This is My beloved Son. "'

But Moses heard that voice in his heart. 

III. 

AMANDA STOTT. 

 1. HOME. 2. LIGHT AT EVENTIDE. 3. THE COURT OF SOULS. 4. THE OLD PASTOR. 

I. 

HOME. 

She saw from afar the light of her cottage home, and her heartmisgave her. It was not wrath she feared; for had the relentlessanger of a parent awaited her, her step would have been braver, and her spirit more defiant. But she knew she was forgiven. Thefeeble ray emitted from the lamp in the far-off gable was thebeacon of her forgiveness--the proof that love's fire still burnedbrightly. This it was that daunted her: she feared the scorch ofits healing flame. 

She had travelled far, having crossed the moors from Burnt Gap, climbing the ridge as the heavens began to kiss the earth with thepeace of sunset. A lingering glory was then haunting the summitsand crests and cairn-crowned hills that shut in the quiet ofRehoboth and forming an almost impassable rampart to those who, from the farther side, sought its shelter ere the close of day. Asshe then lifted her eyes to these many-coloured fires lighted byHis hand who setteth His glory in the heavens, they had seemed toburn in wrath; while the great moors, dark in the foreground, raised themselves like barriers--uplands of desolation, acrosswhich no path of hope stretched its trend for returning feet. 

As the girl climbed the Scar Foot the western sky was toning downto grays, while beyond, and seen through an oval-shaped rift intheir sombre colours, lay a distant streak of amber that, momentby moment, slowly disappeared under the closing lids of eveningcloud--the eye of weary day wooed to slumber by the hush ofillimitable sweeps of moor. Even so would Amanda fain have closedher eyes and sunk to rest amid the purple clouds of heather that, like a great sky, lay for miles around her feet. 

Passing through Nockcliffe plantation, a half-mile of woodlandthat straggled along the steep sides of a clough, a drop of rainfell between the branches and coursed down her cheek--a cheekfevered from want of tears, and flaming with a sense of shame. Then a low wind blew--a mere sob, but so preludious, soprophetic!--followed by a silence that discovered, as neverbefore, the sense of her own loneliness, and in which she heardthe tread of her own light footfall over the moss and herbage ofthe path she travelled. 

Emerging from the plantation, an angry gust, laden with colddrops, dashed itself in her face, and she knew from theweather-lore which she, as a child of the hills, had learned inpast years, that a wild night was between her and the house whoseshelter she sought in her despair. 

Phenomenally rapid was the onrush of the storm. At first the rainfell in short and sudden showers, driven from angry clouds eagerfor some atmospheric change whereby to be relieved of theirpent-up burden. Then the wind, as though in answer to the prayerof the clouds, changed its course and stilled its moaning, and thesky 'wept its watery vapours to the ground. '

When Amanda stood upon the fringe of the great moss that stretchedfor three miles between the Scars and Rehoboth her spirit sankwithin her. The season had been dry, and she knew the path byinstinct; but the storm and the darkness seemed like twin enemiesdetermined to bar her advance. She felt that Nature was her foe, even as man had been, and as Rehoboth would be when it knew of herreturn. Why did the rain hiss, and dash its cold and stingingshowers in her face? Why did it saturate her thin skirts so thatthey, in chill folds, wrapped her wasted frame and clung cruellyto her weary limbs to stay her onward travel? And why thatstrange, weird sound--the sound muttered by miles of herbage whenbeaten down by rain--the swish and patter and sigh of the longgrass and of the bracken, as they bent beneath the continuousfall, and rose in angry protest, to fling off their burden on eachother, or shake it to the ground? Then a mute sympathy sprang upin her desolate heart as she grew incorporate into thisstorm-swept, helpless vegetation, and she felt that she, too, likeit, was the helpless prey of angry forces. 

The moss traversed, the twinkling lights of Rehoboth broke thedarkness. Yes, the old chapel was illuminated, the windows of thatrude structure glowing with warmth and life; and as she passed thegraveyard a hymn, only too well known to her in the happy days ofthe past, reached her ears. Once this had been her sanctuary, ashelter, a home, where as a happy girl she had sung that verystrain--then a house of prayer, now a temple of judgment. And shegrew rebellious as she saw in her mind the hard faces of itsworshippers, and realized that nothing unholy or unclean mustenter there. The native instinct, however, was too strong; andpassing through the gate, and stealthily crossing the sea ofgraves, she paused to peep through the window, and, unobserved, took in the scene. The old faces--Enoch, and Abraham, and MosesFletcher, and Malachi o' th' Mount, and Simon o' Long John's. Yes, the old faces as she knew them five years ago--the old faces, allsave one. Where was the saintly Mr. Morell? In his place sat ayoung man whom she knew not. 

Hastening on, she climbed Pinner Brow, on the summit of whichlay her home. As she scaled the height the beacon in hermother's gable told she was not forgotten. Then it was shetrembled. A rebuke--a curse--a refusal; these she could face. But forgiveness--welcome--love--_never_! She turned to fly. 

 * * * * *

'Amanda!'

'Mother!'

The great, good God had ordained that the despairing girl shouldfly into the arms of the one who had not forgotten, and who feltshe had nothing to forgive. Amanda found herself in the stillestand strongest of all havens--the haven of a mother's breast. 

In another moment Amanda permitted her mother to lead her as thatmother had been wont to lead her when the warm, strong hand of theparent was a guiding touch--a magnet of love amid the dangers ofan early life--and when, as now, there was but one shelter ofsafety--the home. 

No sooner did the two women stand in the light and warmth of thekitchen-hearth, than the elder fell on the neck of the younger, and kissed the cold, rain-washed face of her child, with a lovegrown fierce by years of hopeless hope and unrequited longing. Once again those arms, thin and weak with age, grew strong; and inthe resurrection of a mighty passion, all the old womanhood andmotherhood of the parent renewed their youth, and filled out theshrunken and decrepit form until she stood majestic in thestrength of heaven. To those who had been wont to see Amanda'smother bent and crushed with years and sorrow, the woman that nowstood in the firelight would not have been recognised as Mrs. Stott. Once the fairest and most lithesome girl in Rehoboth, thepride of the village, the sought of many suitors, the proud wifeof Sam Stott of th' Clowes, and the still prouder mother ofAmanda, who matched her alike in beauty and in sprightliness, shehad long been a prey to the sling and arrows of outrageousfortune. Years had played sad havoc with her, her money takingwings, her husband dying, and her last hope failing in the hour ofneed. Now she was herself again under the renewing hand of love. 

As soon as Amanda recovered from the shock of her mother'sappearance, and felt the warmth of her welcome, she gently, yetdeterminately, released herself and cried:

'Durnd, mother, durnd! I'm noan come wom' to be kissed norforgiven. I've nobbud come wom' to dee. '

'What saysto, lass?' exclaimed Mrs. Stott. 'Come wom' to dee? Nay, thaa's bin deead long enugh a'ready; it's time thaa begun to live, and thank God thaa's come back to live at wom'. '

The girl shook her head, a stony stare in her eye, her mouth drawninto a hard and immobile line. And then, in cold tones, shecontinued:

'Nay, mother; I've hed enugh o' life. I tell thee I've come wom'to dee. '

'Amanda, ' sobbed the mother, 'if thaa taks on like that thaa'llkill me. Thaa's welly done for me a'ready, but I con live naathaa's come back, if thaa'll nobbud live an' o', and live wi' me. Sit thee daan. There's th' owd cheer (chair) waiting for thee. It's thi cheer, Amanda; awlus wor, and awlus will be. Sit theedaan. It looks some onely (lonely) baat thee. '

There stood Amanda's chair, the chair of her girlhood, the chairin which she had sung through the long winter nights, in which herdeft fingers had wrought needlework, the envy of Rehoboth. The oldarms mutely opened as though to welcome her; the rockers, too, seemed ready to yield that oscillation so seductive to the jadedframe. And the trimmings! and the cushion! the same old pattern, somewhat faded, perhaps, but as warm and cosy as in the days ofyore. It was the chair, too, at which she used to kneel, the chairthat had so often caught the warm breath from her lips as she hadwhispered, 'Our Father, which art in heaven. ' But had she notforfeited her right to that chair? Of that throne of sanctity shefelt she was now no longer queen. And again, as her mother pressedher to take her appointed place, she shook her head, her heartsteeled with pride and shame, the hardest of all bonds to breakwhen imprisoning a human soul. 

The poor mother stood at bay--at cruel bay. She had used themightiest weapon upon which she could lay her hand, and it hadseemed to shiver in the conflict. But love's armoury is not easilydepleted, and love's spirit is quick to return to the charge. There was still left to her the warmth of a bosom in which longyears before Amanda had gently stirred, and from which she haddrawn her first currents of life; and once more the mother claspedher girl, and pressed her lips on the sin-stained face. 

'Durnd kiss me, mother, ' cried the affrighted girl, stepping back;'durnd kiss me. Thaa munnot dirty thy lips wi' touchin' mine. Ifthaa knew all, thaa'd spurn me more like. '

''Manda, ' replied the woman, in the desperation of her love, 'I'llkiss thee if thaa kills me for't. I connot help it; thaa'rt mine. '

'I wor once, I wor once, but nod now. '

'Yi! lass, but thaa art. Thaa wor mine afore th' devil geet howdon thee, and thaa's bin mine all th' time he's bed thee, and nowhe's done wi' thee, I mean to keep thee all to mysel. '

And afresh the mother bathed the still beautiful face of Amandawith her tears. 

But Amanda was firm. Old as her mother was, she knew that mother'sinnocence, and shrank from the thought that one so pure, sowomanly, should hang on those lips so sorely blistered by thebreath of sin; and, once more stretching out her arm, she said:

'Durnd touch me, mother--durnd!'

''Manda, ' cried the mother, defiantly and grandly, all the passionof maternity rising in her heart, ''Manda, thaa cornd unmother me. I carried thee and suckled thee and taught thee thi prayers inthat cheer, and doesn'd ta think as Him we co'd "Aar Faither" isaar Faither still?'

'Happen He's yours, mother; but He's noan o' mine. '

'Well, 'Manda, if thaa'rt noan His child, thaa'rt mine, and naughtshall come 'tween me and thee. '

'And dun yo' mean to say that yo' love me as mich naa, mother, aswhen aw wor a little un?' asked the girl, her steely eyesmoistening, and the firm line of her drawn mouth tremulous withrising emotion. 

'Yi, lass, and a thaasand times more. Thaa wants more luv' naa northen--doesn't ta? And hoo's a poor mother as connot give more whenmore's wanted. I'm like th' owd well up th' hill yonder--th'bigger th' druft (drought) th' stronger th' flow. Thi mother'sheart's noan dry, lass, tho' thi thirst's gone; and I'll luv' theethough thaa splashes mi luv' back in mi face, and spills it on th'graand. '

And a third time the woman fell on the girl's neck, and kissed herflesh into flame with the passion of her caress. 

'Durnd, mother! durnd!' said Amanda. 'Blame me, if yo' like; curseme, if yo' like. But luv' I connot ston'; it drives me mad. '

'Nay, lass; luv' noan drives folk mad. It's sin as does that. AsMr. Penrose towd 'em at Rehoboth t'other Sunday, it were luv' assaved th' world, and not wrath; and they say they are baan tobring him up at th' deacons' meeting abaat it. But he's reet. It'sluv' as saves. It's saved thee to me; it's kept mi heart warm, andit's kept that lamp leeted every neet for five year. ' And then, seeing tears slowly stealing down her daughter's face, the oldwoman said: 'I think we mud as weel put th' leet aat naa thaa'scomed wom', 'Manda?' and as the girl gave no more evidence ofresistance, the mother went to the window, turned down the lamp, and drew the blind, saying, 'He's answered mi prayers. '

At the going out of that light there went out in Amanda's heartthe false fires of lust and pride and defiance, and in their placewas kindled the light of repentance--of forgiveness and of love. For five years that faithfully-trimmed lamp told the wholecountryside that Widow Stott was not forgetful of her own; andwhen once or twice rebuked by some of the Rehoboth deacons at thepremium which she seemed to put on sin by thus inviting awanderer's return, she always replied:

'Blame Him as mak's a woman so as hoo cornd forget her child. '

Now that the lamp was out a flutter of excitement was passingthrough the village, Milly Lord being the first to discover it. She, poor girl! was sitting at her little window listening to thebeat of the rain, and the swish of the grasses that grew in hergarden below--sitting and wondering how it was there were no'angel een' looking down at the earth, and keeping her eye fixedon the gable light of Mrs. Stott's lone homestead. Suddenly thislight disappeared. If the sun had gone out at noonday Milly wouldnot have been more startled. Night after night she had watchedthat light, and night after night she had heard her mother tellthe oft-repeated story of Amanda's fall. Once, indeed, Millystartled her mother in its repetition by saying:

'Happen, if I hadn't lost mi leg, mother, I should ha' sinned asAmanda did. '

And then Milly's mother drew the girl close to her heart, andthanked God for a lamb safe in the fold. No wonder when Milly sawthe light go out that she cried:

'Mother! mother! Amanda Stott's come wom'!'

'Whatever will hoo say next?' gasped Mrs. Lord. 

'I tell yo' Amanda's come wom'. Th' leet's aat--thaa con see forthisel!' and the girl was beside herself with excitement. 

'So it is, ' said Mrs. Lord. 'Bud it's noan Amanda; it's happen hermother as is takken bad. Awl put o' mi things, and run up andsee. '

Hurrying up the Pinner Brow, it was not long before Mrs. Lordreached the home of Amanda, and raising the latch, with thepermission which rural friendship grants, she saw the daughter andmother together on the so long lonely hearth. Taken aback, andscarcely knowing how to remove the restraint which the suddeninterruption was imposing, she fell upon the instinct of herheart, and said:

'Well, I never! if our Milly isn't reet! Hoo said as how hooknow'd Amanda bed come back. Hoo seed th' leet go aat and co'd aatat th' top o' her voice, "Amanda's come back. " Hoo remembers thee, Amanda, an' hoo's never stop't talkin' abaat thee. Tha'rt eightyear owder nor hoo is--poor lass! hoo's lost her leg sin' thaaseed her. It wor a bad do, aw con tell thee; but hoo's as livelyas a cricket, bless her! and often talks abaat thee, and wonderswhere thaa'd getten to. Let's see, lass, it's five years sin thaaleft us, isn't it?' And then, remembering the whole story ofAmanda, which in her excitement she had forgotten, and the greattrouble and the great joy which that night fought for supremacy inthe little moorland home, she stopped, and with a tear-streamedface rushed up to Amanda, and said: 'What am I talkin' abaat, lass? I'd clean forgetten, ' and then she, too, imprinted onAmanda's lips a caress of welcome. 

It was late that night when Milly asked her father to go up PinnerBrow and fetch her mother home. When he reached the house he foundthe two women and the girl upon their knees, for Milly's motherwas a good woman, and to her goodness was added a mother's heart. Her own sorrow had taught her to weep with those who weep, and agreat trial through which she had passed in her girlhood days, andthrough which she had passed scathless, led her to look on Amandawith pitying love. Abraham paused upon the threshold as he heardthe sound of his wife's voice in prayer, and when, half an hourafterwards, they together descended the brow towards their home, he said:

'Thaa sees, lass, Milly's angel een wor on th' watch a'ter all. '

'Yi, ' said his wife, 'and they see'd a returnin' sinner. But hoo'ssafe naa; hoo's getten back to her mother, and hoo's getten backto God. '

'Where hes hoo bin, missus, thinksto?'

'Nay, lad, I never ax'd her. I know where hoo's getten to, andthat's enugh. I'm noan one for sperrin (asking questions) baat th'past. '

'But they'll be wantin' to know up at th' chapel where hoo's bin. '

'They'll happen do more good by doin' by Amanda as th' Almeetydoes. '

'Doesto mean i' His judgments?'

'Nowe! theer's summat more wonderful nor them. '

'What doesto mean?'

'I mean His FORGEETFULNESS. '

II. 

LIGHT AT EVENTIDE. 

While Amanda's return aroused the curiosity of Rehoboth, it drewfew callers to the cottage on Pinner's Brow. Not that thevillagers were all wanting in kindliness, but Amanda's mother, being a woman of strong reserve, had fenced herself off from muchfriendly approach; while the nature of the trouble through whichshe was now passing was felt by the rude moorlanders to imposesilence, and deter them from all open signs of sympathy. 

Apart from Mrs. Lord and a girl friend or two of Amanda's, the joyof return was pent up in the heart of the mother--a joy which she, poor thing, would fain have sought to share with others had notdelicacy of instinct and sense of shame forbade. She felt it to beindeed hard that she could not go among her neighbours and friendsand say, 'Rejoice with me, for I have found my child which waslost. '

But the mother's joy was also mixed with the alloy of Amanda'sdespair. On the day after the return, the girl had taken to herbed; and despite a mother's love and Mrs. Lord's kind counsel andcheery words, Amanda went down into the valley of the shadow. Seldom speaking, save to reiterate the statement that she had comehome to die, and that all was dark, she lay anticipating the hourwhen, as she said, 'the great God would punish her according toher sins. ' This idea had taken fast hold of her mind: she wasgoing to hell to burn for ever and for ever, and she would onlyget her deserts; she had sinned--she must suffer. 

With the strain of constant watching, and the long hours ofsolitude, and the nightmare of her girl's damnation hanging overher yearning heart, the poor mother's condition verged on madness, until at last she summoned courage to ask Mr. Penrose to call anddrop some crumbs of his Gospel of comfort and love at the bedsideof her child; for, as she said to Mrs. Lord, 'even the dogs eat ofthe crumbs that fall from the master's table. ' The truth was thathitherto Mr. Penrose had not cared to risk the scandal which heknew would be created in the village by a visit on his part toAmanda Stott. When, however, he received his summons from themother, and a sharp reprimand from Dr. Hale, who told him that aminister was as free to visit without risk to his character as adoctor, he resolved to throw aside proprieties and obey the call. 

As Mr. Penrose was walking up Pinner Brow, towards the house ofMrs. Stott, he unexpectedly met Amos Entwistle, the seniorsuperintendent of the Sunday-school, and known to the children as'Owd Catechism, ' because of his persistent enforcement of theChurch tenets on their young minds. 

'Good a'ternoon, Mr. Penrose. And what may bring yo' in thisdirection?'

'I'm looking after some of my sheep, Amos. '

'Not th' black uns, I hope. '

'No! I am looking after the hundredth--the one that went astray. '

'Better leave her alone, Mr. Penrose. There's an owd sayin' i'these parts that yo' cornd go into th' mill baat gettin' dusted. That means in yur talk that yo' cornd touch pitch baat gettin'blacked. If thaa goes to Mrs. Stott's they'll say thaart goan fornaught good. If thaa wur a married mon, naa, and bed childer, it'ud happen be different; but bein' single, thaa sees, th' aatsideo' yon threshold is th' reight side for such as thee and me. '

(Amos, be it known, was an old bachelor of over seventy years ofage. )

'Nonsense, Amos; you are reversing the teaching of the Master. Hewent after the sinner, did He not?'

'Yi, He did; and He lost His repetation o'er it. They co'd Him awinebibber, and a friend o' all maks o' bad uns. I couldn't like'em to say th' same abaat thee. Rehoboth 'ud noan ston' it, thaaknows. '

Mr. Penrose did not know whether to laugh or to be serious. Seeing, however, that Amos was in no laughing mood, he turnedsomewhat sharply on the old man, and said:

'The Stotts are in trouble, and they ask for my presence, Good-afternoon; I'm going. '

'Howd on a bit, ' said Amos, still holding the minister by thelapel of his coat. 'Naa listen to me. If I were yo' I wouldn't go. Th' lass hes made her bed; let her lie on't. Durnd yo' risk yorrepetation by makkin' it yasier, or by takkin' ony o' th' thornsaat o' her pillow. Rehoboth Church is praad o' her sheep; and itkeeps th' black uns aatside th' fold, and yo'll nobbud ged blackedyorsel if yo' meddle wi' 'em. But young colts 'll goa their owngait, so pleeas yorsel. '

At first Mr. Penrose was inclined to think twice over the oldPharisee's advice; but, looking round, he saw Mrs. Stott's sadface in her cottage doorway, and her look determined his advance. In a moment reputation and propriety were forgotten in what hefelt were the claims of a mother's heart and the sufferings of anerring soul. 

'Ay, Mr. Penrose, I'm some fain to see yo', ' cried the poor woman, as the minister walked up the garden-path. 'Amanda's baan fast, and hoo sez 'at it's all dark. ' And then, seizing Mr. Penrose'shand, she cried: 'Yo' durnd think hoo's damned, dun yo'?'

For years the sound of that mother's voice as she uttered thosewords haunted Mr. Penrose. He heard it in the stillness of thenight, and in the quiet of his study; it came floating on thewinds as he walked the fields and moors; and would sound inmockery as he, from time to time, declared a Father's love fromthe old pulpit at Rehoboth. What cruel creed was this, prompting amother to believe that God would damn the child whom she herselfwas forced, out of the fulness of her undying love, to take backinto her house and into her heart?

As the minister and Mrs. Stott sat down in the kitchen, the poorwoman, in the depths of her despair, again raised her eager faceand asked:

'But yo' durnd think Amanda's damned, dun yo'?'

'No, I do not, Mrs. Stott. '

This was too much for the mother; and now that the highestpassions in her soul received the affirmative of one whom shelooked up to as the prophet of God, she felt her girl was safe. The fire of despair died out of her eyes, quenched in the tears ofjoy, and she realized, as never before, that she could now loveGod because God had spared to her, and to Himself, her only child. 

'But, Mr. Penrose, Amanda says _it's all dark_. Dun yo' think yo'could lift th' claads a bit?'

'Well, we'll do our best; but to the One who loves her thedarkness and the light are both alike. '

And with these words on his lips, he followed the mother to wherethe sick girl lay. 

Mr. Penrose had often heard of Amanda Stott, and of that face ofhers which had been both her glory and her shame. Now, as helooked upon it for the first time, he saw, as in a glass, thereflection of a character and a life. There was the gold and theclay. The brow and eyes were finely shaped and lustrous, giving tothe upper half of the face grandeur and repose, but the mouth andchin fell off into a coarser mould, and told of a spirit otherthan that so nobly framed under the rich masses of her dark hair. It was a face with a fascination--not the fascination of evil, butof struggle--a face betraying battle between forces pretty evenlybalanced in the soul. But there was victory on it. Mr. Penrose sawit, read it, understood it. There were still traces of thescorching fire; these, however, were yielding to the verdure of anew life; the garden, which had been turned into a wilderness, wasagain blossoming as the rose. 

'Amanda, here's Mr. Penrose to see thee. I've bin tellin' him it'sall dark to thee. It is, isn't it?'

But Amanda turned her head towards the wall, and answered not. 

'Amanda!' said the mother, in tones that only once or twice, andthat in the great crises of maternity, fall from woman'slips--'Amanda, speyk. Tell him what's botherin' thee. '

But the girl was silent. 

Mr. Penrose was silent also, and nothing was heard in the roomsave the tremulous beat of an old watch that hung over thechimney-shelf--one of the memorials of a husband and father longsince taken, and now almost forgotten. 

At last Amanda, without turning her face towards the pastor, said:

'Sir, I'm a sinner--a lost sinner. '

'No, you are not, ' replied Mr. Penrose. 

And overawed and astonished with the boldness of his statement, herelapsed into silence. 

Amanda turned and looked at him clearly and unflinchingly, andcried:

'How dare yo' say that?'

'Because you've repented, ' was the quiet reply. 

'Haa do yo' know I've repented?'

'Because repentance is to come home; and you've come home, haveyou not?'

'Repentance is to come wom'?' slowly repeated the girl, as thoughsome ray of light was penetrating the darkness. 'Repentance is tocome wom', sen yo'?'

'Yes. '

And then Mr. Penrose repeated the words: 'And he arose and came tohis home; and when he was a great way off his father saw him andran, and fell on his neck and kissed him. '

'Aw dare say; that's what mi mother did to me on th' neet I comewom'. But mi mother's noan God, is hoo?'

'No; but if you had had no God, you could not have had a mother. You tell me your mother kissed you. Did you not feel God's kiss inthat which your mother gave you?'

The girl shook her head; the pastor needed to make his messagemore plain. 

'It's in this way, you know, ' continued Mr. Penrose. 'If therewere no rain in the heavens there would be no springs in thevalleys, would there? The well is filled because the clouds senddown their showers; and so it is with love. Your mother's heart isfull of love because God, who Himself is love, fills it. Yourmother stands to you for God, and she is most like God when she isdoing most for you; and when she kissed you and took you backagain home, she was only doing what God made her do, and what Goddid Himself to you through her. '

'But theer's summat else beside forgiveness, Mr. Penrose. I feelI've lost summat as I con never ged agen. I know I've getten backwom', but I haven't getten back what awv' lost. '

'You may have it back, though, if it's worth having back. Therewas One who came to seek that which was lost. You are like thewoman who lost one of her pieces of silver; but she found itagain, and what you have lost Jesus will find and restore to you. '

'But theer's th' past, Mr. Penrose, as well as th' lost. It's alltheer afore me. Aw see it as plain as aw see yon moors through th'window, only it's noan green and breet wi' sunshine--it's dark. '

'If God forgets the past, Amanda, why should you recall it? Lookout through that window again. There's a cloud just dying away onthe horizon yonder. Do you see it? It is changing its colour andlosing its shape, and in a moment it will be gone. Watch it! It isalmost gone. See! now it _is_ gone--gone where? Gone into thelight of that sun which is making the moors so green and bright. Now that is what God is doing with your past--with what you callyour sins--blotting them out like a cloud. It is God's mercy thatstands like the everlasting hills, and it is our sinfulness andour past that pass away like clouds. As you look at those hillsyou must think of His mercy, and as you watch those vanishingclouds you must think of your past. '

Once more there was silence in the sick-chamber, and the littlewatch ran its race with the beating, flickering pulse of Amanda. The girl turned her face towards the window that overlooked themoors, and begged her mother to open it so that she might againfeel the cool airs that swept across their heathery wastes. 

Mrs. Stott at once unhasped the casement, and a tide of life camestealing in, noiselessly lifting the curtains, and cooling thehectic flame that glowed on Amanda's wasted cheeks, and bearing, too, on its waves fragrances that recalled a long-lost paradise, and sounds--the echo of days when no discordant note marred themusic of her life. These moorland breezes--how redolent, howmurmurous of what had been! In a few moments Amanda closed hereyes, the wind caressing her into peacefulness and singing her toslumber. 

 * * * * *

It was the hour before dawn--the dark hour when minutes walk withleaden feet and the departing vapours of night lay chilliestfinger on the sick and dying, and on those who watch at theirside. From the mantelshelf the lamp emitted its feeble rays, dimlylighting the lonely chamber, and holding, as with uncertain hand, the shadows which crowded and cowered in the distant corners andrecesses of the room, and throwing into Rembrandtesque the pallidface of the wakeful mother, and the flushed and fevered face ofthe slumbering child. The little watch beat bravely to the marchof time, eager to keep pace with that never-flagging runner; whilethe quick and feeble breathing of the girl told how she was fastlosing in the race with the all-omnipotent hours. On a small tablestood two phials, in which were imprisoned dull-coloured liquids, powerless, despite their supposed potency, to stay the hunger ofthe disease so rapidly consuming the patient; and by their sidewas a plate of shrivelled fruit, the departing lusciousness ofwhich had failed to tempt an appetite in her whose mouth was bakedwith the fever that fed on its own flame. There, gathered into afew cubic feet of space, met the great triune mystery of night, ofsuffering, of sin--the unfathomable problems of the universe;there God, the soul, and destiny, together and in silence, playedout their terribly real parts. 

As Mrs. Stott looked at her daughter tossing in restless sleep, the natal hour came back to her, and in memory she again travailedin birth. She recalled the joy of the advent of that life now sofast departing, and tried to say, 'The Lord gave, and the Lordhath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord. ' The words diedon her lips. Had it been a blessed thing on the part of God togive to her a child who brought disgrace on her family name? Andnow that her child was restored, with a possibility of redeemingthe past, was it a blessed thing of God to take her? As thesehideous thoughts chased one another through her over-wrought mind, they seemed to embody themselves in the terrible shadows thatleapt and fought like demons on the wall, mere mockeries of herhelplessness and despair. 

Her eye, however, fell on the Bible, and taking it up and openingit at random, she read, 'Remember, O Lord, the children of Edom inthe day of Jerusalem. O daughter of Babylon, who art to bedestroyed, happy shall he be that taketh and dasheth thy littleones against the stones. ' Hurriedly turning over the leaves, hereyes again fell upon words that went like goads into her heart:'Let the stars of the twilight thereof be dark; let it look forlight but have none; neither let it see the dawning of the day, because it shut not up the doors of my mother's womb. '

'What!' cried she, the old Calvinist life reasserting itself inher soul--'what! have the curses o' God getten howd o' me?'

 * * * * *

'Mother!'

It was the voice of Amanda, and its sound called back the ebbingtides of maternity as the clear notes of a bugle rally thedispirited and flying forces on an undecided field. 

'Mother, will yo' draw that blind?'

'What doesto want th' blind drawin' for, Amanda?'

'I want to see th' morn break. '

'Whatever for, lass?' asked Mrs. Stott, as she drew the cord withtremulous hand. 

For a few minutes the girl looked out at the distant horizon witha breaking light in her own eyes. Then, taking her mother's hand, she said:

'Dun yo' see that rim o' gowd (gold) on the hills yonder?'

'Yi, lass; forsure I do. What abaat it?'

'Watch it, mother! See yo', it geds broder--more like a ribbin--abrode, yollow ribbin, like that aw wore i' mi hat when I were alittle lass. Yo' remember, durnd yo'?--I wore it one charitysarmons. '

'Aw remember, Amanda, ' said the parent, choking with thereminiscences of the past which the old hat and its yellow ribbonaroused. 

'Naa see, mother, ' continued the girl, her eye fixed on theopening sky; 'it's like a great sea--a sea o' buttercups, same asused to grow in owd Whittam's field when yo' couldn't see grassfor flaars. '

'Yi, lass, I see, ' sobbed Mrs. Stott. 

'And thoose claads, mother! See yo' haa they're goin'. And th'hills and moors? Why I con see them plainer and plainer! Haa grondthey are! They're awlus theer. Them, Mr. Penrose said, stood forGod's love, didn't he, mother?--and them claads as are lifting formy sins. '

'Yi, lass; he did, forsure. '

The dawn advanced, and before its majestic march there fled theshadows of night that for such long hours had made earth desolate. In the light of this dawn were seen those infinite lines ofstrength which rose from broad and massive bases, and, sweepingupwards, told of illimitable tracts beyond--mighty waves on thesurface of the world's great inland seas, on whose crests sat thegreen and purple foam of herbage, and in whose hollows lay thestill life of home and pasture. Silent, changeless, secure, perpetual sublimity rested on their summits, and unbroken reposelay along their graceful sweeps. They were the joy-bearers to thepoor child of sorrow, who with eager eye looked out on theirmorning revelations. To her the mountains had brought peace. 

That day was a new day to Amanda--a birthday--a day in which sherealized the all-embracing strength and sufficiency of a Divinelove. As the hours advanced the clouds gathered and showers fell, only, however, to be swept away by the wind, or dissolved into thelight of the sun. These ever-changing, ever-dissolving, many-coloured vapours were watched by Amanda, who now saw in themthe fleeting and perishable sins of her past life, and again andagain, as one followed the other into oblivion, she would breathea sigh of relief, and then allow her eyes to rest on the greathills that changed not, and which seemed to build her in withtheir strength. 

From that day forward a great trust came upon her. She ceased tofret, and never again recalled what had been. Just as the chill ofwinter is forgotten in the glory of the springtide, and just asthe child in the posied meadow sports in unconsciousness of thenipping frost that a few weeks before forced the tears to hiseyes, so Amanda, playful, gladsome, and full of wonder in the newworld in which she found herself, knew no more her old self, norremembered any more her old life. The day had broken and theshadows flown, and God's child was like a young hart on themountains of Bether. 

 * * * * *

'Mother, dun yo' think they'd put my name on th' Church registeragen at Rehoboth?'

'I cornd say, mi Jass, I'm sure. But why doesto ax me?'

'Becose I should like to dee a member of th' owd place. Yo' know Iwere a member once. Sin' I've been lyin' here I've had somestrange thoughts. Dun yo' know, I never belonged to God then as Ido naa, for all I were baptized and a communicant. It's queer, isn't it?'

'Ey, lass; thaa'd better tell that to Mr. Penrose. I know naughtabaat what yo're talkin' on. Bud it does seem, as thaa ses, quarethat thaa belongs more to God naa nor thaa did when thaa wentaway. '

'Nay, mother, it's noan exactly as yo' put it. I durnd mean asGod's changed; it's me as has changed, durnd yo' see? I never knewor loved Him afore, and I know and love Him naa. '

That afternoon, when Mr. Penrose called, Amanda's mother told himall her daughter had said, and made known to him as the pastor ofthe Church the request for readmission and the administration ofthe sacrament. 

Mr. Penrose, however, shook his head. As far as he was concerned, no one would have been more willing. But the deacons ruled hisChurch, and many of them were hard and exacting men--men with theeye and heart of Simon of old, who, while they would welcomeChrist to meat, would put the ban upon 'the woman who was asinner. ' Nor dared Mr. Penrose administer the sacrament to onewhose membership was not assured, for he ministered to those of aclose sect, and a close sect of the straitest order. As the motherpleaded for her child, he saw rising before him a difficulty ofwhich he had often dreamed, but never before faced--a difficultyof ministering to a Church fenced in by deeds, the letter of whichhe could not in his inner conscience accept. 

The mother was importunate, however, and eventually the pastorpromised to bring the matter before his deacons. 

What the decision of these deacons was will be told in anotherIdyll of Rehoboth. 

III. 

THE COURT OF SOULS. 

'I'm noan for bringin' th' lass back into th' Church. Hoo's noano'er modest, or hoo would never ax us to tak' her back. '

'Same here, Amos! What does hoo want amang dacent Christian fo'k?'And so saying, Elias Bradshaw opened a large pocket-knife andclosed it again with a sharp click, and then toyed with it in hishand. 

'It wur bad enugh for th' owd woman to tak' her back wom', but ifwe tak' her back into th' Church we's be a thaasand times wur, 'continued Amos. 

'But surely, ' pleaded Mr. Penrose, 'if the angels welcome areturning sinner, might we not venture to do the same?'

'We're noan angels yet, Mr. Penrose, ' replied Amos. 'It'll be timeenugh to do as th' angels do when we live as th' angels live; an'I raither think as yo'd clam if yo' were put o' angels' meat. Onyroad, ye con try it if yo' like; it'll save us summat i' th'offertory if yo' do. '

'Come, Amos, thaa's goin' a bit too fur, ' interrupted AbrahamLord. 'If yo're baan to insult th' parson, yo've no need to insultthem as is up aboon--"ministerin' sperits, " as th' apostle cosem. '

'We know thaa'rt no angel, Amos, baat thi tellin' us, ' saidMalachi o' th' Mount. 'And it ever they shap thee into one thaa'lltak' some tentin!' (minding). 

'I durnd know as I want to be one afore mi time, Malachi: an' I'mnoan baan to do as they do till I ged amang 'em. I'd as soon poola warp ony day as play a harp; but when th' Almeety skifts me fro'th' Brig Factory to heaven, mebbe I'll shap as weel at a bit o'music as ony on yo'. '

'Wilto play thi music o'er sich as Amanda, thinksto?' asked oldMalachi. 

'Thee mind thi business, Malachi. When th' Almeety maks me anangel, I'll do as th' angels do. But noan afore, noather for yo', nor Amanda Stott, nor Mr. Penrose, nor onybody else, so naa thaaknows. '

'Spokken like a mon, ' assented Elias Bradshaw. 'Stick to thi text, Amos. '

'And yet, after all, ' said Dr. Hale, 'I think we ought to receiveAmanda back again into our communion. The only One who everforgave sins drew no line as to their number, nor shade as totheir degree. '

'But durnd yo' think, doctor, that if we do as yo' want us we's beturnin' th' Church into a shoddy hoile?' asked Elias Bradshaw. 

'There are no shoddy souls, ' said the doctor. 

'No, ' continued Mr. Penrose; 'it was not shoddy that Christ cameto seek and save. '

'Who wur it said th' gate were strait and th' road narro'?' criedout an old man who was always known by the name of 'Clogs. '

'That's no reason why yo' should want to turn th' gate into asteele-hoile (stile), is it?' retorted Malachi. 

'Gate or steele-hoile, it's narro'; and that's enugh for me, an'it were noan us ut made it narro'; it wur th' Almeety Hissel', 'replied Clogs. 

'At any rate, He made it wide enough for Amanda, ' said Dr. Hale, 'and that is the matter we are now considering. '

'I'm noan so sure o' that, doctor. There's a good bit o' Scripteragen yo' if yo' come to texes. '

'Then so much the worse for Scripture, ' was the unguarded, yethonest, retort of Mr. Penrose; and Dr. Hale laid a kind hand onthe young minister's shoulder to restrain his haste. 

'It seems to me, ' said Elias Bradshaw, 'as Mr. Penrose spends adeal too mich time in poolin' up the stumps and makin' th' straitgate into a gap as ony rubbige con go thro'. I could like to yerhim preych fro' the fifteenth verse o' th' last chapter i'Revelation. I once yerd a grond sarmon fro' that text i' th'pulpit up aboon here; and when it were oer, Dickey o' Sams o' theHeights went aat o' th' chapel, and tried to draan hissel' i'Green Fold Lodge. Naa, that's what I co powerful preychin'!'

'Pardon me, Mr. Bradshaw. We are not here to discuss the merits ofpreaching. We are here to consider the request of Amanda Stott--'

'An' axin' yor pardon, Mr. Penrose, that's whod I wur comin' to. I'm noan a fancy talker like yo'. Aw never larned to be, and I'mnoan paid to be. Whod I wur baan to say, if you'll nobbud let me, wur this: As Jesus Christ wur a deal more particular who He leetin than who He kept aat. That's all. '

'But who did He keep out?' asked Dr. Hale. 

'Haa mony, thinksto, did He leet in, doctor? I could welly caantum o' on both mi hands. '

'It seems to me yo' want to mak' saints as scarce as white crows, 'said Abraham Lord. 

'Nay, Abram; we want to keep th' black 'uns aat o' th' nests. '

'Then yo' mud as weel fell th' rookery, ' was Abraham's sharpretort, which called forth a hearty laugh. 

'If I read th' Bible reet, ' said Amos Entwistle, returning to thefray, 'if I read th' Bible reet, a felley once coome to JesusChrist an' axed Him if mony or few wur saved; and all he geet foran answer wur, "Thee mind and geet saved thisel'; it'll tak' theeall thy time wi'out botherin' abaat others. " An' I think it'lltak' us all aar time baat botherin' abaat Amanda Stott. I move aswe tak' no more notice on her axin' to come back amang us. It'sgeddin' lat, an' my porritch is waitin' for me at wom'. '

This was more than Mr. Penrose could bear, and rising to his feet, he asked, in suppressed tones, that the matter under discussionmight receive the care and wisdom and mercy that a soul demandedfrom those who held in their hands the shaping of its earthlydestiny; and then, in a voice stifled with emotion, he ventured todraw the contrast between the last speaker, who would fain hurry, for the sake of an evening meal, decisions that had to deal withthe peace of a repentant girl, and He who, in the moments ofbodily hunger, putting aside the refreshment brought by Hisdisciples, said, 'I have meat to eat that ye know not of. '

Nor did Mr. Penrose plead in vain. Those who listened to him weremoved by his words, and Amos Entwistle sat down, to utter nofurther word against Amanda. 

From this time the tone of the discussion changed. Not that Mr. Penrose devoutly listened; indeed, he was listless, onlyrecovering himself, now and again, as some striking sentence, orscrap of rude philosophy, fell on his indifferent ear. Leaningback in his chair, his eye rested on the hard features of the mensitting on either side of the deacons' table. They were men ofgrit, men of the hills, men whose religious ancestry was rightroyal. Their fathers had fayed out well the foundations on whichthe old chapel stood, and hewn the stones, and reared the walls, and all for love--and after the close of hard days of toil. Theywere men who knew nothing of moral half-lights--there were nogradations in their sense of right and wrong. Sin was sin, andrighteousness was righteousness--the one night and the other day. They drew a line, narrow and inflexible, and knew no debatablezone where those who lingered were neither sinners nor saints. Andso with the doctrines they held. Severity characterized them. Justice became cruelty, and faith superstition. They knew nothingof progressive revelations. The old Sinaitic God still ruled; themountain was still terrible, and dark with the clouds of wrath. Fatherhood in the Deity was an unknown attribute, and tenderness anote never sounded in the creed they held. They had been bred onmeat, and they were strong men. They knew nothing of the tendertones of Him whose feet became the throne of the outcast. TheirGod was a consuming fire. 

As Mr. Penrose looked into their faces, many bitter thoughtspoisoned the waters of his soul. He thought of Simon the Pharisee;he thought, too, of St. Dominic; and of Calvin with the cry forgreen wood, so that Servetus might slowly burn. He thought, too, of the curse of spiritual pride--pride that enthroned men asjudges over the destiny of their fellows, and damned souls asfreely and as coolly as a commander marched his forlorn hope intothe yawning breach. And then, realizing that among such his lotwas thrown--realizing also the dead hand that rested on histeaching and preaching--his heart went down into a sea ofhopelessness, and he felt the chill of despair. 

The gong of the chapel clock announced the hour of nine, in thin, metallic beats, and looking up, he noted the swealing tapers inthe candelabra over his head. In his over-wrought, nervouscondition, he imagined he saw in one of the flickering, far-spentlights the waning life of Amanda Stott, and the horrible thoughtof eternal extinction at death laid its cold hand on the largerhope which he was struggling to keep aflame in his darkening soul. Turning his glances towards the pulpit that rose gaunt and squareabove the deacons' pew, and over which hung the old sounding-board, as though to mock the voices, now for ever silent, that from timeto time had been wont to reverberate from its panels, he began towonder whether the message the Church called revelation was not, after all, as vain as 'laughter over wine'; and as he looked onthe frowning galleries and the distant corners of the chapel, gloomy and fearsome--the high-backed pews, peopled with shadowsthrown from the waning lights--he felt the force of the words ofone of his masters: 'What shadows we are, and what shadows wepursue. '

Suddenly he was recalled to his position as the pastor of thechurch by the voice of old Enoch, mellow as the tones of the fluteon which he so often tuned his soul in moods of sorrow and sin. How long Enoch had been talking Mr. Penrose knew not; but what heheard in the rude yet kindly vernacular of the moors was:

'Let's show mercy, lads! Noan o' us con howd up aar yeds baat it. Him as has put us here expects us to show yon lass o' Stott's sameas He's shown to us Hissel'. There's one bit o' readin' i' th' NewTestament as noan o' yo' has had owt to say abaat--I mean whereth' Lord tells o' th' two debtors. Th' fust geet let off; but whenhe wouldn't let his mate off, it were a sore job for him. Durndyo' think as th' Almeety cares as mich abaat us as we care for aarchilder? I somehaa thinks He does. Didn't him as played on th'harp say, "Like as a faither pitieth his childer, so th' Lordpitieth them that fear Him"? An' him as said that had a bad ladan' o'--an' didn't he say he'd raither ha' deed than th' lad? Awwelly think as th' Almeety con find room for Amanda, and if Hecon, I think we mud be like to thrutch (push) her into Rehoboth. Let's mak' room for her, hoo'l happen not want it so long; andwhen hoo's gone we's noan be sorry we took her in; who knows butwhat we shall be takin' in the Lord Hissel? I'm no scholard, butI've read abaat 'em takin' in angels unawares; and th' Lord saidif we took onybody in ut wur aat i' th' cowd, we wur takin' Himin. If we shut Amanda out we's mebbe shut Him aat, and if He'saatside, them as is inside will be on th' wrang side. Coome, lads, let's show mercy. '

There were other voices, however, besides Enoch's, and speakers asapt at quotation from the Scriptures as he. Indeed, the Bible wastorn into shreds of texts, and--the letter so re-patched as todestroy the pattern wrought by its great principles of mercy andlove. The grand words--righteousness, grace, law, were clashed, and wildly rung, like sweet bells jangled out of tune, and thecourt of souls resembled the vindictiveness of Miltonic demonsrather than the seat of those who claimed to represent Him whosaid: 'I will have mercy and not sacrifice. ' When the vote wastaken the door was shut against Amanda. 

Passing out of the dimly-lighted chapel into the blackness of thenight, Dr. Hale took the arm of the young minister, saying:

'Let me guide you, Mr. Penrose. I know these roads by instinct. '

'Yes, doctor, I not only need your guidance, but that of someoneelse. Black as the night is, it isn't so black as the souls ofthose benighted inquisitors we've left behind us. There are starsbehind those clouds; but there are none hidden behind the murkycreed of the deacons of Rehoboth. Do they expect me, doctor, tocarry their decision to Mrs. Stott and her daughter?'

'I believe they do. Hard messages, you know, must be deliveredboth by ministers and doctors. It is my lot sometimes to tellpeople that their days are numbered, when I would almost as soonface death myself. '

'Well, I have made up my mind, doctor, to face the resignation ofRehoboth rather than carry their heartless decision to Amanda. '

'Wait until morning, and then come on to my house and consult withold Mr. Morell; he is staying with me for a day or two. You nevermet with him. Perhaps he can guide, or at any rate help you. Wisdom lies with the ancients, you know. '

'But are not the men who have refused admission to Amanda thespiritual children of Mr. Morell? If his preaching has broughtabout what we have seen and heard to-night, what guidance or helpcan I get from him?'

'Just so, ' said the doctor. 'I was not thinking of that. It's truehe was pastor here for over forty years, and our deacons are hisspiritual offspring. For all that, the old man's heart is right ifhis head is wrong; and, after all, it's the heart that rules thelife. '

'Nay! no heart could thrive on a creed such as Rehoboth's. Why, God's heart would grow Jean on it. '

'But Mr. Morell's heart is not lean, Mr. Penrose. It is not, Iassure you, ' emphasized the doctor, as his companion uttered asceptical grunt. 'He is tenderness incarnate. You know _one_ goodthing came out of Nazareth, despite the scepticism of thedisciple. '

'Certainly a good thing did come out of Nazareth; but Nazareth, bad as it was, was not a Calvinistic creed. I very much questionwhether the creed of Rehoboth can preserve a tender heart. '

'Come and see, ' laconically replied Dr. Hale. 

'Very well, then, I'll treat my scepticism honestly. I will comeand see. To-night the hour is too late. I will look in to-morrowmorning. '

Mr. Penrose continued his homeward walk, conscious of the firstsymptoms of the reaction which follows hours of tension such asthose through which he had just passed. He was limp. Morally aswell as physically his nerve was gone. He thought of the Apostlewho fought with beasts at Ephesus, and envied him his combatants. His fretful impatience with those who differed from himtheologically rose to a tide of insane hatred, and he lost himselfin a passion against his deacons as bitter as that which they hadshown towards Amanda Stott and himself. 

Entering his lodgings, and lighting his lamp, he threw himself onthe couch, resenting in bitterness of spirit the limitations ofcreeds, and the exactions imposed on men who, like himself, werecalled to minister to brawling sects. Thrice he sat down at hisdesk; thrice he wrote out his resignation, and thrice he committedit to the flames. Then, recalling the words of an old collegeprofessor who often used to tell his students that the secondEpistle of the Corinthians was the ministerial panacea in the hourof depression, he took up his Testament and read:

_'Ministers of God, in much patience, in afflictions, innecessities, in distress ... By pureness, by knowledge, bylong-suffering, by kindness, by love unfeigned, by the Holy Ghost, by the word of truth, by the power of God. '_

And there came on the young pastor a spirit of power, and of love, and of a new mind, and he slept. 

IV. 

THE OLD PASTOR. 

On the following morning Mr. Penrose set out to call on the oldpastor at the house of Dr. Hale, conjuring up as he went picturesof the man whom he knew only by report, and, as he deemed, exaggerated report too. To Rehoboth people Mr. Morell was aprodigy--a veritable prophet of the Most High; and his successor'ssojourn was not a little embittered by the disparaging contrastsso frequently drawn between the old order and the new. To be forever told the texts from which Mr. Morell used to preach, to hearin almost every house some pet saying or scrap of philosophy wontto fall from his lips, to be asked, if not bidden, by the deaconsto tread in the footprints of one who was believed to wear theseven-league boots, became intolerable; and had not discretionguarded the speech of Mr. Penrose, many a time his language ofretort would have been strange to covenanted lips. Often, too, heasked himself what manner of man he must be who nursed and rearedthis narrow sect of the hills--a sect setting judgment beforemercy, and law before love--a sect narrowing salvation to units, and drawing the limit line of grace around a fragment of mankind. 

On his arrival at Dr. Hale's, however, a surprise greeted him, andas he responded to the old pastor's outstretched hand, he knew hemet with one in whom firm gentleness and affable dignity were thechief charm of character. There was not, as he anticipated, coarse, crass assertiveness--a semi-cultured man whose narrowcreed joined hands with barren intelligence. Far otherwise; hestood before one whose presence commanded reverence, one at whosefeet he felt he must bow. 

Mr. Morell was tall and erect, with a fine Greek head whose crownof snowy hair lent dignity to a face sunny with the light ofkindness, while every line of expression, those soul-inscriptionswritten by the years on the plastic flesh, told of thought andculture. The accent, too, was finished, and every gesture betrayedrefinement and ease. 

At first the conversation was restrained, for both meninstinctively felt that between them lay a gulf which it would bedifficult to bridge; but, as Dr. Hale played well the part ofmiddleman, the ministers were drawn out towards each other, and ina little while struck mutual chords in one another's hearts. 

During the morning the two men talked of art, of philosophy, andof history, the discussion of these calling out a light ofintelligence and rapture on the old man's face. When, however, thegraver questions of theology were broached, his voice became hardand inflexible, a shadow fell, and the radiancy of the man andscholar became lost in the gloom of the divine. 

Whenever Mr. Penrose ventured to hint on some phase of the broadertheology, the old man was provoked to impatience; and when he wentso far as to quote Browning, and declare that--

 'The loving worm within its clod Were diviner than a loveless god Amid his worlds, '

a gleam of fire shot from the mild eye of Mr. Morell, significantas a storm-signal across a sea of glass. 

The younger man was often taken at disadvantage, for, while he wasin touch with modern thought, he did not possess the olddialectician's skill. Once, as Mr. Penrose remarked that sciencewas modifying theology, Mr. Morell, detecting the flaw in hisarmour, thrust in his lance to the hilt by replying that scienceand Calvinism were logically the same, with the exception that, for heredity and environment, the Calvinist introduced grace. 

Whereupon Mr. Penrose cried with some vehemence:

'No, no, Mr. Morell! that will not do. I cannot accept yourstatement at all. '

'Can't you?' said the old man, rising from his chair, the warspirit hardening his voice and flaming in his eye. 'Can't you?What says science of the first hundred men which will pass you, ifyou take your stand in the main thoroughfare of the great cityover the hills yonder? Watch them; one is drunk, another is linkedarm in arm with his paramour, a third is handcuffed, and you cansee by the conduct of him who follows that he is as reckless oflife as though the years were for ever. Why these? Ask science, and it answers _election_--the election of birth and circumstance. Ask Calvinism, and it, too, answers election--the election ofdecrees. '

'But science does not do away with will, Mr. Morell. '

'Well, then, it teaches its impotence, and that is the same thing. It bases will on organization, and traces conduct to materialsources. Huxley tells us the salvation of a child is to be bornwith a sound digestion, and Calvinism says the salvation of achild is to be born under the election of grace. Logically, thebasis of both systems is the same; the sources of life differ, that is all. One traces from matter, the other from mind--from themind and will of the Eternal. '

'But science fixes it for earth only--you fix it for eternity, 'suggestively hinted the younger man. 

'Yes, you are right, Mr. Penrose; we do. '

'Then a man is lost because he cannot be saved, and punished forthings over which he had no control?'

'Ask science, ' was the curt reply. 

'Well, Mr. Morell, I will ask science, and science will yieldhope. Science says, take a hundred men and a hundred women, andlet them live on a fruitful island and multiply, and in fourgenerations you will have an improved stock--a stock freer fromatavism, hysteria, anomalies, and insanities. Science holds outhope; you don't. You say God's will and decrees are eternal, andwhat they were a thousand ages since they will be a thousand agesto come. Science does eventually point to a new heaven and newearth, but Calvinism throws no light across the gloom. '

The old man quietly shifted his ground by asking his opponent ifhe ever asked himself why he did, and why he did not, do certainthings. 

'I suppose the reason is because of my choice, is it not?'

'And what governs choice--or, if you like, will?'

'I do, myself. '

'Who are you, and what part of you governs it? Will cannot governWill, can it? And can you divorce will from personality?'

'Tennyson answers your question, Mr. Morell. 

 '"Our wills are ours, we know not how, "

that is the mystery of existence. 

 '"Our wills are ours, to make them Thine, "

that is the mystery of salvation. '

'Then, Mr. Penrose, I ask you--why don't we make our wills God's?'

Mr. Penrose was silent, and then he made a slip, and played intohis opponent's hands by saying:

'My faith in a final restitution meets that difficulty. We shallall be God's some time; His love is bound to conquer. '

'Suppose what you call Will defies God's love, what then?'

'It cannot. '

'Then it is no longer will. '

'Cannot you conceive of Will winning Will?'

'I can conceive of Will, as you define it, defying Will, and thatfor ever. But we escape your contradictions; we accept the factthat some men are under a Divine control they cannot resist--'

'Then you both agree as to the principle, ' broke in Dr. Hale; 'youare both Calvinists, with this difference: you, Mr. Morell, sayonly the few will be called; Mr. Penrose, here, says all will becalled. Let us go in for the larger hope. '

'You are right, doctor. I am a Calvinistic Universalist, ' criedMr. Penrose in triumph. 

And Mr. Morell was bound to admit the doctor had scored. 

It was not long, however, before Mr. Penrose found a spring oftenderness hidden beneath the crust of Calvinism that lay aroundthe old man's soul, and on which were written in fiery charactersthe terrors of a merciless law. And the rod that smote this rockand tapped the spring was none other than the story of Amanda'sreturn and repentance, told in part by Dr. Hale and in part by theyoung pastor himself. 

As the story was unfolded, the old man evinced much feeling, oftenraising his hand to shade fast-filling eyes, or to brush away thetears that fell down his furrowed face. They told him of Amanda'ssilence as to the past, and he commended her for it, remarking toMr. Penrose that the true penitent seldom talked of the yesterdaysof sin; they told him how she counted herself unworthy of home andof love, seeking blame and not welcome from the mother to whom shehad returned, and he declared it to be a token of her call; theytold him of the great light and peace that fell on her as sherested on the goodness of God, and they heard from him the echo ofhis Master's words over Mary--'She hath loved much, for she hathhad much forgiven'; and then they told him of her desire for therestoration of her name on the Rehoboth register, and he wassilent--and for some minutes no sound disturbed his reverie. 

That silence was God's speaking hour. Within the old pastor's soula voice was whispering before which the thunderings of the creedof a sect were hushed. He, poor man, knew full well that it was avoice which had long striven to make itself heard--a still, smallvoice that would neither strive nor cry--a haunting voice, a voiceconstant in its companionship during his later years. How often hewould fain have listened to it! But he dared not, for was it not acontradictory voice? Did it not traverse the letter which he hadsworn to uphold and declare? What if the voice were the voice ofGod? No! It could not be. God spoke in His Book. It was plain. Wayfaring men might read, and fools had no need to err. But wasGod's voice for ever hushed? Had He had no message since the sealwas fixed to the Canon of Scripture? What if that which he heardwas one of those messages concerning which Christ said, 'I havemany things to say unto you, but ye cannot bear them now. ' Had the_now_ in his life passed? Had the _then_ come when a fullerrevelation was about to be vouchsafed? Nay! even the Apostle--theman inspired--only knew in part. Why should he, then, try to pryinto the clouds and darkness that were round about the awfulthrone? And yet in Him who sat on that throne was no darkness atall. Supposing the feelings struggling in his heart now were raysof light from Him--rays seeking to pierce the clouds, and bringmore truth--truth which, in his highest moments, he had dreamedof, but never dared to follow. Was not Dr. Hale right after all?Was it not better to trust what we knew to be best in us, andfollow the larger rather than the lesser hope?

And so, in the silence, the two voices reasoned in the soul of Mr. Morell. 

In a little while Mr. Morell, roused from his reverie, turned tothe young pastor, and said:

'Your poet is right, Mr. Penrose. The loving worm within its clodis diviner than a loveless god amid his worlds. Let us go as faras the chapel. '

As they walked along the narrow, winding roadways, broken byprojecting gables, and fenced by irregular rows of palisades, theold pastor began to re-live the long-departed days. Objects, oncefamiliar, on which his eye again rested, restored faded andforgotten colours, and opened page after page in the books of thepast. Many cottages mutely welcomed him, their time-stained wallsmemorials of generations with whom he held sacred associations. There was the Old Fold Farm, with its famous fruit-trees, onwhich, in spring evenings, he used to watch the blanching blossomsblush beneath the glowing caress of the setting sun; and Alice o'th' Nook's garden, with its beds of camomile, the scent of whichbrought back, as perfumes are wont to, forms and faces long sincesummoned by the 'mystic vanishers. ' There, too, stood the oldmanse--now tenantless--so long the temple of his studies anddomesticities, the shrine of joys and sorrows known to none savehimself. How the history of a life lay hidden there, each wallscored with fateful characters, decipherable only to the eye ofhim who for so many ears sought the shelter which they gave. 

On the summit of the hill in front of him was the chapel, itssagging roof silhouetted against the blue of the morning sky, thetombstones, irregular and rude, rising from the billowy sea ofgrave-mounds that lay around their base. Beyond him, in grandlydistant sweeps, rose the moors. How well he knew all theircontours, their histories, their names! How familiar he used to bewith all their moods--moods sombre and gladsome--as now they werecapped with mist, now radiant in sunlight, their sweeps dappledwith cloud shadows, moving or motionless, or white in the broadeye of day. Thus it was, within the distance of a half-mile walk, his past life, like an open scroll, lay before him; and heremarked to Mr. Penrose that he had that morning found the book ofmemory to be a book of life and a book of judgment also. 

As the three men passed through the chapel-gates they were met byold Joseph, who was hearty in his welcome of Mr. Morell. 

'Eh! Mr. Morell, ' he said, grasping his hand in a hard and earthypalm, 'aw'm some fain to see yo'. We've hed no gradely preachin'sin yo' left Rehoboth. This lad here, ' pointing to Mr. Penrose, 'giz us a twothree crumbs betimes; but some on us, I con tell yo', are fair clamming for th' bread o' life. None o' yo'r hawve-kneydedduf (dough), nor your hawve-baked cakes, wi' a pinch o' currantsto fotch th' fancy tooth o' th' young uns. Nowe, but gradelybread, yo' know. '

Mr. Morell tried to check the brutal volubility and plain-spokennessof Joseph, but in vain. He continued the more vehemently. 

'It's all luv naa, and no law. What mak' o' a gospel dun yo' co itwhen there's no law, no thunerins (thunderings), Mr. Morell, noleetnins? What's th' use o' a gospel wi'out law? No more use nor achip i' porritch. Dun yo' remember that sarmon yo' once preachedfro' "Jacob have I luved, but Esau have I hated"? It wur a grandun, and Owd Harry o' th' Brig went straight aat o' th' chapel toth' George and Dragon and geet drunk, 'cose, as he said, he mud aswell ged drunk if he wor baan to be damned, as be damned fornaught. Amos Entwistle talks abaat that sarmon naa, and tells bitson it o'er to th' childer i' th' catechism class, and then maks'em ged it off by heart. '

How long old Joseph would have continued in this strain it is hardto say, had not Mr. Morell, who did not seem to care to hear moreof his pulpit deliverance of other days, silenced him by demandingthe vestry keys. 

As the three men entered the vestry a close, damp atmosphere smotethem--an atmosphere pervading all rooms long shut up from air, andwith foundations fed by fattened graves. 

Nor was the vestry itself more inviting. Gloomy and low-ceiled, the plaster of its walls, soddened and discoloured from themoisture of the moors, lay peeling off in ragged strips, while itsoozing floor of flags seemed to tell of sweating corpses in theirnarrow beds beneath. 

Through a small window, across which a spider had woven its web, ashaft of sunlight lay tremulous with the dance of multitudinousmotes; and, falling on the dust-covered table, lighted up with itshalo a corroded pen and stained stone jar, half filled withcongealed ink. 

On the right of this window stood a cupboard, with its panels ofdark oak, behind which lay the parchments and papers of theRehoboth Church--parchments and papers whose inscriptions werefast fading, whose textures were fast rotting--companioning intheir decay the decay of the creeds they sought to preserve andproclaim. 

It was to this cupboard Mr. Morell turned, taking therefrom twotime-stained, leather-bound volumes--the one a record of theinterments of the past hundred years, the other containing the rollof Rehoboth communicants since the establishment of the Church. Laying the former aside, he took up the latter with a tendernessand devoutness becoming one who was touching the sacred books ofsome fetish of the East. It was, indeed, to him a book to bereverenced; and as he slowly and sadly turned over its time-stainedpages, his eye rested on many names entered in his own smallhandwriting--names which carried him back to companionship withlives for ever past. Some he had known from birth to death, blessing them in their advent, and committing them at the grave toHim who is the sure and certain hope. There were those, too, whomhe piloted along the rocky coasts of youth--those with whom he oncewept in their shadowed homes, and from whom he never withheld hisjoy in their hour of triumph. As name after name met his eye, itwas as though he travelled the streets of a ruined city--a citywith which in the days of its glory he had been familiar. Memories--nothing but memories--greeted him. He heard voices, butthey were silent; he saw forms, but they were shadowy. 

As he turned over page after page he read as never before therecord of his half-century's pastorate--his moorland ministryamong an ever-changing people, and there passed before him thepageant of a life--not loud in blare, nor brilliant in colour--butsombre, stately, and true. 

Continuing to turn over the pages, he came to where a black linewas drawn across the name of Amanda Stott, and where against thecancelled name a word was written as black as the ink with whichit was inscribed. 

Again there came a pause. Long and tearfully the old pastor lookedat that name disfigured, as she, too, who bore it had been, by thehand of man. Then, taking up the corroded pen and filling it, here-wrote the name in the space between the narrow blue-ruledlines, and, looking up with smiling face, said:

'Yet there is room. '

And the shaft of sunlight that fell in through the cobwebbedwindow of the Rehoboth vestry lay on the newly-inscribed name, asthough heaven sealed with her assent the act of the old man whofelt himself the servant of the One who said, 'I will in no wisecast out. '

IV. 

SAVED AS BY FIRE

It was a narrow, gloomy yard, paved with rough flags dinted andworn by the wheels of traffic and the tread of many feet. On oneside stood the factory, cheerless and gray, with its storiedheights, and long rows of windows that on summer evenings flamedwith the reflected caresses of the setting sun, and in the shorterdays of winter threw the light of their illuminated rooms likebeacon fires across the miles of moor. Flanking the factory weresheds and outbuildings and warehouses, through the open doors ofwhich were seen skips and trollies and warps, and piles of clothpieces ready for the market in the great city beyond the hills. Within a stone's-throw the sluggish river crept along itsblackened bed, no longer a stream fresh from the hills, but foulwith the service of selfish man. 

It was breakfast hour, and the monotonous roar of machinery washushed, no longer filling the air with the pulsations of mightymanufacture. The thud of the ponderous engines had ceased; thedeafening rattle of the looms was no more heard; a myriad spoomingspindles were at rest. A dreamy sound of falling waters floatedfrom the weir, and the song of birds in a clump of stunted treesmade music in the quiet of the morning light--it was Nature'schance to teach man in one of the brief pauses of his toil, had hepossessed the ear to hearken or the heart to understand. 

Beneath the shelter of a 'lean-to' a group of men sat, hurriedlygulping their morning meal, finding time, all the same, for loudtalk and noisy chaff. They were prosaic, hard-faced men, withlines drawn deeply beneath their eyes, and complexions sallow, despite the breezes of the hills among which they were reared. From childhood they had been the slaves of labour; the bread theyate was earned by sweat and sorrow, while their spare hours weregiven to boisterous mirth--the rebound of exacting toil. Two orthree were conning the betting news in a halfpenny paper of theprevious evening, and talking familiarly of the chances of thefavourites, while others disputed as to sentiments delivered inthe last great political speech. 

In one corner sat Amos Entwistle, the butt of not a little mirthfrom a half-dozen sceptics who had gathered round him. Theyaddressed him as 'Owd Brimstone, ' and made a burlesque of hisCalvinistic faith, one going so far as to call him 'a glory bird, 'while another declared he was 'booked for heaven fust-class baatpayin' for his ticket. '

'Why should he pay for his ticket, ' asked an impudent-lookingyouth, 'when th' Almeety's gan it him? Th' elect awlus travels fornaught, durnd they, Amos?'

'Thaa's more Scripture larning abaat thee nor I thought thaa had, 'said Amos, withdrawing his wrinkled face from the depths of a canout of which he was drinking tea. 'But it's noan knowledge 'atsaves, Dan; th' devils believe and tremble. '

'But I noan tremble, Amos; I geet too mich brimstone i' yon firehoile to be flayed at what yo' say is "resarved" for them as isn'tcalled. '

(Dan's occupation was to feed the boiler fires. )

'If thaa'rt noan flayed, that doesn't say thaa hasn't a devil, 'replied Amos, again raising the can to his lips. 

'Well, I'm noan to blame if a' cornd help miself, am I?'

But Amos remained silent. 

'Aw say, Amos, ' said a thoughtful-looking man, 'aw often wonder ifthaa'll be content when thaa geets up aboon to see us lot int'other shop. '

'Yi! and when we ax him, as th' rich mon axed Lazarus, for a sooap(drink) of summat cool, it'll be hard lines, wirnd (will not) it, owd lad, when thaa cornd help us?' asked the man who sat againsthim. 

'Happen it will, ' replied Amos. 'But thaa knows there'll be nosharin' baggin (tea or refreshment) there. Them as hed oilcouldn't gi' it to them as hed noan. '

'Then thaa'll not come across the gulf and help us, Amos?'

'Nowe!' cried Dan. 'He'd brun (burn) his wings if he did. '

And at this all laughed, save the thoughtful man who put the firstquestion to the old Calvinist. 

'Thaa knows, Amos, ' said he, 'I look at it i' this way. Supposin'th' factory geet o' fire this mornin', an' yo' hed th' chance o'savin' that lass o' mine that back-tents for yo', yo'd save her, wouldn't yo'?'

'Yi, lad, if I'd th' _chance_, ' replied Amos. 

'Then haa is it yo're so mich better nor Him, as yo' co th'Almeety, for yo' reckon He'll noan save some o' us?'

'I tell thee I'd save th' lass if I hed th' chance. We con nobbuddo what we're permitted to do. We're only instruments in th'Almeety's honds. '

'But isn't th' Almeety His own Measter?'

'So He is, but His ways are past findin' out. '

'An' thaa means to say thaa'd save my lass, and th' Almeetywouldn't save me?'

'It's decrees, thaa knows, lad, it's decrees, ' said Amos, unshakenby the argument of his friend. 

'Then there's summat wrang with th' decrees, that's all, Amos. There's been a mistak' somewhere. '

'Hooist, lad! hooist! durnd talk like that. Woe to th' mon thatstrives wi' his Maker. '

'If thi Maker's th' mon thaa maks Him aat to be, I'm noanpartic'lar abaat oather His woes or His blessin's. '

'No more am I, ' cried Dan, as he stood up and stretched himselfwith a yawn. 'We mud as well mak' most o' life if we're booked fort'other shop, though mine's a warm un i' this world, as yo' allknow. '

'It is not of him that willeth nor of him that runneth, but of Godthat showeth mercy, ' said Amos, in solemn tones. 

And the whistle sounded for the renewal of work, and the mendispersed. 

 * * * * *

The clock in the factory yard pointed to the hour of ten, and fourhundred toilers were sweating out their lives in one ofManufacture's minting-shops of wealth. Overhead the shafting ranin rapid revolutions, communicating its power and speed by lengthsof swaying, sagging belts to the machinery that stood so closelypacked on the vibrating floors, and between which passed, andbehind which stood, the operatives, unconscious of danger, andwith scarce a care than how to keep pace with the speed of steamand the flying hours. Every eye was strained, and every nerve ashighly strung as the gearing of the revolving wheels, the keenglances of the overlookers seeing to it that none paused until thehour of release. 

The atmosphere was heavy, the temperature high, and flecks of'fly' floated on the stifling air, wafted by the breath born ofwhirring wheels, and finding rest on the hair of women and thebeards of men until the workers looked as though they werewhitened by the snows of a premature decay. 

Women and girls sang snatches of songs, and bits of old familiarairs, with no accompaniment but the roar and rattle around, theirvoices unheard save when some high-pitched note was struck; andothers found odd moments when by lip-signs and dumb show theycommunicated with their fellow-workers. 

Men and women, boys and girls, passed and repassed one another innarrow alleys and between revolving machinery, crushing togetherwithout sense of decency, and whispering hastily in one another'sear some lewd joke or impure word, the moisture from their warmflesh mingling with the smell of oil and cotton, and theirsemi-nude forms offering pictures for the realistic pen of a Zolaor a Moore. 

It was but one of the laps in the great race of competition wheresteam contends with human breath, and iron is pitted against fleshand blood. Over the hills were other factories where the same racewas going on, where other masters were competing, and other handswere laying down life that they themselves and their little onesmight live--examples of the strange paradox that only those cansave their lives who lose them. Outside was pasturage andmoorlands, and the dear, sweet breath of heaven, the flowers ofthe field, the song of birds, the yearning bosom of Nature warmwith love towards her children. Yet here, within, was a reekinghouse of flesh--not the lazar ward of the city slum, but thesweating den of a competitive age. 

In the top story of the factory Amos was walking to and fro amonghis roving frames, and dividing his time between hurried glancesat his workers and a small greasy tract he held in his hand, entitled 'An Everlasting Task for Arminians. ' Turning aside for amoment to drive some weary operative with a word as rough as adriver uses to his over-driven horse, he would return to the'Everlasting Task, ' and cull some choice sentence or read sometwisted text used to buttress up the Calvinistic creed. Readingaloud to himself the words--'Real Christian charity is swallowedup in the Will of God, nor is it in its nature to extend itselfone step beyond, nor desire one thing contrary to, the glory ofJehovah. All the charity we possess beyond this may be properlycalled fleshly charity'--he lifted his eyes to see two of his'back-tenters' playing behind the frames, and his real Christiancharity displayed itself in pulling their ears until they tingledand bled, and in freely using his feet in sundry kicks on theirshins. And yet, wherein was this man to blame? Was he not whatcommerce and Calvinism had made him?

The finger of the clock in the factory yard was creeping towardsthe hour of eleven, when a smell, ominous to every old factoryhand, was borne into the nostrils of Amos. In a moment his'Everlasting Task' was thrust into his shirt-breast, and he rantowards the door from which the stairway of the room descended. 

No, he was not mistaken, the smell was the smell of fire, andscarcely had he gone down a half-dozen steps before he met a manwith blanched face, who barely found breath to say:

'Th' scutchin' room's ablaze. '

Amos carried a cool head. His religion had done one thing for him:it had made him a fatalist, and fatalists are self-contained. 

In a moment he took in the whole situation. He knew that thestairways would act as a huge draught, up which the flames fromthe room below would bellow and blaze. He knew, too, that all wayof escape being cut off below, screaming women and girls, maddenedwith fright, would rush to the topmost room of the mill, whereprobably they would become a holocaust to commerce. He knew, too, that those who sought the windows and let themselves down by ropesand warps would lose their presence of mind, and probably fallmangled and broken on the flag floor of the yard, sixty or seventyfeet below. All this passed through his mind ere the old watch inhis fob had marked the lapse of five seconds. 

In a moment his resolve was taken. He went back to the roving-roomwith steady step, and a face as calm as though he were standing inthe light of a summer sun. By the time he reached the room themachinery was beginning to slow down, and a mad stampede was beingmade by the hands towards the door. 

Raising his arm, he cried:

'Go back, lasses; there's no gate daan theer. Them of us as 'as tobe brunt will be brunt, and them of us as is to escape will gedoff wi' our lives. Keep cool, lasses; we'll do our best; andremember 'at th' Almeety rules. '

One thing turned out in the favour of Amos and of his rovers. Themad rush from below poured into the room under him, and not, as heexpected, into his own, the lower room being one where there was abetter chance of escape. Seeing this, he barred up his own doorwayto prevent the girls and women swarming below, where they wouldhave made confusion worse confounded. Then he beat out one of thewindows, and proceeded to fix and lower a rope by way of escape. 

'Now then, lasses, ' said he, having rapidly completed his task, 'th' little uns fust, ' and in a moment a girl of twelve wasswinging seventy feet in the air, while a crowd of roaringhumanity below held its breath, and gazed with dilating eyes onthe child who hung between life and death. In a minute more thespell of silence broke, and a roar, louder than before, told thatthe little one had touched earth without injury, save hands allraw from friction with the rope along which she had slidden. 

Child after child followed; then the women were taken in theirturn, and lowered safely into the factory yard. 

By the time it came to the turn of Amos, the roar of the firesounded like the distant beating of many seas along a rock-boundcoast. The hot breath was ascending, and thin tongues of flamebegan to shoot through the floor of the room where he stood. Thepungent smell of burnt cotton stung his nostrils and blinded hiseyes with pain, and the atmosphere was fevered to such a degreethat with difficulty he drew his breath. 

His turn had come, but was he the last in the room? Something toldhim that he was not, that he must look round and satisfy himself, otherwise his duty was unfulfilled. 

The tongues of flame became fiercer; he saw them running along thejoints of the boarding, and feeding on the oil and waste which hadaccumulated there for years. He felt his hour was come. But he wascalm. God ruled. No mistake could be made by the Almighty--norcould any mistake be made by himself, for was he not under Divineguidance?

Calmly he walked along the length of the room, stepping aside toescape the flame, and searching behind each roving-frame in hiswalk, as though to assure himself that no one remained unsaved. 

Coming to the last frame, he saw the fainting form of one of hisback-tenters, the very child whose ears he had so savagely pulledbut an hour before. 

There she lay, with her pallid, pinched face across her arm, theflames creeping towards her as though greedy to feed themselves onher young life. 

In an instant Amos stepped towards the child and raised her in hisarms, intending to return to the window and so seek escape. He wastoo late, however; a wall of fire stretched across the room, andhe felt the floor yielding beneath his feet. 

He was still calm and self-contained. He thought of Him who wassaid to dwell in devouring flames, and was Himself a consumingfire. He thought of the three Hebrew youths and the sevenfold-heatedfurnace. He thought of the One who was the wall of fire to Hispeople, and he was not afraid. 

On swept the blaze. In a few moments he knew the roof must followthe fast-consuming floor. Still he was calm. He stepped on to oneof the stone sills to secure a moment's respite, and he cried inan unfaltering voice, 'The Lord reigneth. Let His will be done. '

Frantic efforts were being made by the crowd below to recall Amos, who had been seen to disappear from the window into the room. Hisname was shouted in wild and entreating cries, and men rearedladders, only to find them too short, while women threw up theirarms and fell fainting in excitement on the ground. 

On swept the flame. Still Amos held his own on the stone ledge. Grand was his demeanour--erect, despite his seventy years, clasping with a death grip the fainting child. All around him wassmoke and mingling fire; but the Lord reigned--what He willed wasright; in Him was no darkness at all. 

Suddenly he lifted his eyes, and saw above him a manhole that ledinto the roof. In a moment he sprang along the frames, and passedin with his burden, and beat his way through the slates which inanother minute were to fall in with the final collapse of the oldfactory. 

Creeping along the ridge, he made his way towards the greatchimney-shaft that ran up at one end of the building, and biddingthe girl, who by contact with the air was now conscious, cling tohis neck, the old man laid hold of the lightning-rod, and beganhis dangerous descent to the ground. 

But he knew no fear; there was no tremor in his muscles; steadilyhe descended, feeling that God held his hands, and he told hisRehoboth friends afterwards, when he recounted his escape, that hefelt the angels were descending with him. 

When he reached the ground amid wild and passionate cries of joy, he disengaged the child from his neck, and wiping his face withthe sleeve of his shirt, said:

'The Lord's will be done. '

Dr. Hale, who was standing by the side of Mr. Penrose, and whoheard the saying of old Amos, turned and said:

'Calvinism grows strong men, does it not?'

'Yi, doctor, yo're reet, ' exclaimed old Joseph; 'theer's nostonning agen God's will. '

V. 

WINTER SKETCHES. 

 1. THE CANDLE OF THE LORD. 2. THE TWO MOTHERS. 3. THE SNOW CRADLE. 

I. 

THE CANDLE OF THE LORD. 

Through the summer months the old Bridge Factory stood in ruins;the only part that remained intact being the tall chimney-shaft, down which Amos Entwistle had brought the fainting child from outthe flames. The days were long and the weather warm, and theinhabitants of Rehoboth spent the sunny hours in wandering over themoors, never dreaming of hard times and the closing year. A few ofthe more frugal and thrifty families had secured employment in aneighbouring valley, returning home at the week end. The many, however, awaited the rebuilding of the mill and the recommencementof work at their old haunt. But when the autumn set in chill anddrear, and the October rains swept the trees and soaked thegrass--when damp airs hung over the moors morning by morning, andreturned to spread their chill canopy at eventide--faces began towear an anxious look, and hearts lost the buoyancy of the idlesummer hours. 

There is always desolation in the late autumn on the moors. Thegreat hills lose their bold contours, now dying away in a coldgray of sky, through which a blurred sun sheds his watery ray;while the bracken, with its beaten fronds, and the heather withits disenchanted bloom, change the gorgeous carpet of colour intowastes and wilds of cheerless expanse. The wind sobs as thoughconscious of the coming winter's stress--sad with its prophecy ofwant, and cold, and decay. Little rivulets that ran gleaming likesilver threads--the Pactolian streams of childhood's home andlover's whisperings--now swell and deepen and complain, as thoughangry with the burdens of the falling clouds. Bared branches andlow-browed eaves weep with the darkened and lowering sky, andwithered leaves beat piteously at the cottage windows they onceshadowed with their greenery, or lie limp and clayey on theroadside and the path. Then, in the silent night, there falls thefirst rime, and in the morning is seen the hoary covering thattells of the year's ageing and declining days. At the corner ofthe village street the hoarse cough is heard, and around thehearth the children gather closely, no longer sporting amid theflowers, or peopling the cloughs with fairy homes. A dispiritinghand tones down the great orchestra of Nature, and all her musicis set to a minor key, her 'Jubilate' becoming a threnody--a greatpreludious sob. 

It was in autumn hours such as these--and only too well known inRehoboth--that old Mr. Morell used to discourse on the fadingleaf, and tell of a harvest past and a summer ended, and bid hisflock so number their days that they might apply their hearts untowisdom. It was now, too, that the dark procession used to creepmore frequently up the winding path to the Rehoboth grave-yard, and the heavy soil open oftener beneath old Joseph's spade, andthe voice of the minister in deeper and more measured tones repeatthe words, 'We brought nothing into this world, and it is certainwe can carry nothing out. ' It was now also that the feeble and theaged shunned the darkening shadows of the streets, and crept andcowered over the kindling hearth in the sheltered home. InRehoboth October and November were ever drear; and now that theold Bridge Factory was in ruins, and work scarce and food scant, the minds of the people were overcast with what threatened to bethe winter of a discontent. 

On an afternoon in mid-November, Mr. Penrose forsook his study forwhat he hoped might be an exhilarating walk across the gloomymoors. The snow--the first snow--was beginning to descend, gentlyand lazily, in pure, feathery flakes, remaining on earth for amoment, and then merging its crystals into the moisture that layalong the village street. 

Turning a corner, he met Dr. Hale, who, after a hearty greeting, said:

'What is this I hear about your resignation, Mr. Penrose?'

'I don't know what you've heard, doctor, but I am resigning. '

'Nonsense! Running away from ignorance, eh? What would you say ifI ran away from disease?'

'Canst thou minister to a mind diseased?' was Mr. Penrose's sharpretort. 

'No, I cannot. But you can, and it's your duty to do so. '

'You're mistaken, doctor. I cannot go to the root of the moraldisease of Rehoboth. If it were drink, or profligacy, or greed, Imight; but self-righteousness beat Jesus, and no wonder it beatsme. '

Taking Mr. Penrose by the arm, Dr. Hale said:

'You see that falling snow. Why does it disappear as soon as ittouches earth?'

'Because the earth is higher in temperature than the snow, andtherefore melts it, ' replied the young man, wondering at thesudden change in the conversation. 

'And if it keeps on falling for another hour, why will it cease todisappear? Why will it remain?' continued the doctor. 

'Because its constant falling will so cool the earth that theearth will no longer melt it, ' said Mr. Penrose, growing impatientwith his examination in the rudiments of science. 

'Well said, my friend. And therein lies a parable. You think yourteaching falls to disappear. No; it falls to prepare. You mustcontinue to let it fall, and finally it will remain, and lodgeitself in the minds of your people. There, now, I have given youone of the treasures of the snow. But here's old Moses. Good-morning, Mr. Fletcher; busy as usual?'

'Yi, doctor, aw'm findin' these clamming fowk a bit o' brass. '

'How's that, Moses?' asked the minister. 

'Why, yo' know as weel as aw do, Mr. Penrose. Sin' I yerd yo' talkabaat Him as gies liberally, I thought aw'd do a bit on mi ownaccaant. '

'There, now, ' said Dr. Hale, 'the snow is beginning to stay, is itnot?'

As the doctor and Moses said 'Good-day, ' the pastor continued hiswalk in a brooding mood, scarce lifting his head from the ground, on which the flakes were falling more thickly and beginning toremain. Lost in thought, and continuing his way towards the end ofthe village, he was startled by a tapping at the window of AbrahamLord's cottage, and, looking up, he saw Milly's beckoning hand. 

Passing up the garden-path and entering the kitchen, he bade thegirl a good-afternoon, and asked her if she were waiting for the'angel een. '

'Nay, ' said Milly; 'I'm baan to be content wi' th' daawn (down)off their wings to-day. '

'So you call the snow "angels' down, " do you?'

'Ey, Mr. Penrose, ' cried her mother. 'Hoo's names for everythin'yo' can think on. Hoo seed a great sunbeam on a bank of whiteclaads t' other day, and hoo said hoo thought it were God Hissel', because th' owd Book said as He made th' clouds His chariot. '

'But why do you call the snow "angels' down, " Milly?'

'Well, it's i' this way, Mr. Penrose, ' replied the girl. 'I've sinth' birds pool th' daawn off their breasts to line th' nest fortheir young uns. And why shouldn't th' angels do th' same for us?Mi faither says as haa snow is th' earth's lappin', and keeps allth' seeds warm, and mak's th' land so as it 'll groo. So I thoughthappen it wur th' way God feathered aar nest for us. Dun yo' see?It's nobbud my fancy. '

'And a beautiful fancy, too, Milly. '

And all that waning afternoon, as Mr. Penrose climbed the hillsamid the falling flakes, he thought of Milly's quaint conceit, andlooking round amid the gathering gloom, and seeing the greatstretch of snowy covering that now lay on the undulating sweeps, he asked himself wherein lay the difference between the vision ofJohn the Divine when he saw the angels holding the four winds ofheaven, and Milly when she saw the angels giving of their warmthto earth in falling flakes of snow. 

As the darkness deepened, Mr. Penrose--fearless of the storm, andat home on the wilds--made his way towards a lone farmstead knownas 'Granny Houses, ' and so-called because of an old woman wholived there, and who, by keeping a light in her window on darkwinter nights, guided the colliers to a distant pit across themoors. She was the quaint product of the hills and of Calvinism, but shrewd withal, and of a kind heart. Indeed, the young ministerhad taken a strong liking to her, and frequently called at herfar-away home. 

'Ey, Mr. Penrose, whatever's brought yo aat a neet like this?' shecried, as the preacher stood white as a ghost in the doorway ofthe farmstead. 'Come in and dry yorsel. Yo're just i' time furbaggin (tea), and there's noan I'm as fain to see as yo'. '

'Thank you, Mrs. Halstead; I'm glad to be here. It's a grandnight. ' And looking through the open doorway at the great expanseof snow-covered moor, he said, 'What a beautiful world God's worldis--is it not?'

'I know noan so mich abaat its beauty, but I know its a fearfulcowd (cold) world to-neet. Shut that dur afore th' kitchen'sfilled wi' snow. When yo're as owd as me yo'll noan be marlockin'i' snow at this time o' neet. What's life to young uns is death toowd uns, yo' know. But draw up to th' fire. That's reet; naa then, doff that coite, and hev a soup o' tay. An' haa 'n yo' laft 'emall daan at Rehoboth? Clammin', I reckon. '

'You're not far from the word, Mrs. Halstead. Many of them don'tknow where to-morrow's food and to-morrow's fire is coming from. '

'Nowe, I dare say. Bud if they'd no more sense nor to spend theirbrass in th' summer, what can they expect? There's some fo'k thinkthey can eyt their cake and hev it. But th' Almeety doesn't bakebread o' that mak'. He helps them as helps theirsels. He gay' fiveto th' chap as bed five, and him as bed nobbud one, and did naughtwi' it--why, He tuk it fro' him, didn't He? I'll tell yo' what itis, Mr. Penrose, there's a deal o' worldly wisdom i' providence. Naa come, isn't there?'

Mr. Penrose laughed. 

'Theer's that Oliver o' Deaf Martha's. Naa, I lay aught he's noanso mich, wi' his dog-feightin' and poachin'. His missis wur uphere t'other day axin' for some milk for th' childer. An' hoo saidut everybody wur ooined (punished for want of food) at their housebut Oliver an' th' dog. Theer's awlus enugh for them. '

'Yes, I believe that is so. '

'It wur that dog as welly killed Moses Fletcher, wurnd it?'

'I think it was, ' replied Mr. Penrose. 

'And haa is owd Moses sin yo' dipped him o'er agen? It 'll tak'some watter and grace to mak' him ought like, I reckon. But theytell me he's takken to gien his brass away. It 'll noan dry th'een o' th' poor fo'k he's made weep, tho'--will it, Mr. Penrose?'

'Perhaps not, Mrs. Halstead; but Moses is an altered man. '

'And noan afore it wur time. But what's that noise in th' yard? Itsaands like th' colliers. What con they be doin' aat o' th' pit atthis time? They're noan off the shift afore ten, and it's nobbudhawve-past six. '

In another moment the door of the cottage was thrown open and acollier entered, white with falling snow, and breathless. When hehad sufficiently recovered, he said:

'Gronny, little Job Wallwork's getten crushed in th' four-foot, and it's a'most up wi' him. They're bringin' on him here. '

'Whatever wilto say next, lad? Poor little felley, where's hegetten hurt? On his yed?'

'Nay; he's crushed in his in'ards, and he hasnd spokken sin'. They're carryin' him on owd Malachi's coite' (coat). 

A sound of shuffling feet was heard in the snow, and four men, holding the ends of a greatcoat, bore the pale-faced, swooning boyinto the glare of Mrs. Halstead's kitchen. His thin features weredrawn, and a clayey hue overspread his face--a hue which, when shesaw with her practised eye, she knew was the shadow of thedestroyer. 

'Poor little felley!' she cried; 'and his mother a widder an'all. '

And then, bending down over the settle whereon they had placed themangled lad, she pressed her lips on the pale brow, clammy withthe ooze of death--lips long since forsaken by the early blush ofbeauty, yet still warm with the instinct which in all true womenfeeds itself with the wasting years. Tears fell from hereyes--tears that told of unfathomed deeps of motherhood, despiteher threescore years and ten; while with lean and tremulous handshe combed back the dank masses of hair that lay in clusters aboutthe boy's pallid face. Her reverence and love thus manifested--awoman's offering to tortured flesh in the dark chamber ofpain--she unbuckled the leathern strap that clasped the littlecollier's breeches to his waist, and, with a touch gentle enoughto carry healing, bared the body, now discoloured and torn, thoughstill the veined and plastic marble--the flesh-wall of the humantemple, so fearfully and wonderfully made. 

The boy lay immobile. Scarce a pulse responded to the old woman'stouch as she placed the palm of her hand over the valve of hisyoung life. Nor did her fomentations rouse him, as feebler grewthe protest of the heart to the separation of the little soul fromthe mangled body. At last the watchers thought the wrench wasover, and Death the lord of life. 

Then the clayey hue, so long overshadowing the face, faded away inthe warmth of a returning tide of life, as a gray dawn is suffusedby sunrise. The beat became stronger and more frequent, there wasa movement in the passive limbs, and, opening his eyes dreamily, then wonderingly, and at last consciously, the lad looked into theold woman's face and said:

'Gronny!'

'Yi! it's Gronny, lad. And haa doesto feel?'

The boy tried to move, and uttered a feeble cry of pain. 

'Lie thee still, lad. Doesto think thaa can ston this?' and theold woman laid another hot flannel on the boy's body. 

At first he winced, and a look of terrible torture passed over hisface. Then he smiled and said:

'Yi! Gronny, aw can bide thee to do ought. '

Mr. Penrose, helpless and silent, stood at the foot of the settleon which lay the dying boy, the colliers seeking the gloomycorners of the large kitchen, where in shadow they awaited in rudefear the death of their little companion. The old woman, cool andself-possessed, plied her task with a tenderness and skill born oflong years of experience, cheering with words of endearment thelast moments of the sufferer. 

The boy's rally was brief, for internal hæmorrhage set in, andswiftly wrought its fatal work, sweeping the vital tide alongchannels through which it no longer returned to the fount of life, and leaving the weary face with a pallor that overmastered theflush that awhile before brought a momentary hope. His eyes grewdim, and the light from the lamp seemed to recede, as though itfeared him, and would elude his gaze. The figures in the roombecame mixed and commingled, and took shapes which at times hefailed to recognise. Then a sensation of falling seized him, andhe planted his hands on the cushion of the settle, as though hewould stay his descent. 

Looking at Mr. Penrose through a ray of consciousness, he said:

'Th' cage is goin' daan fearfo quick. Pray!'

The old woman caught the word, and, turning to the minister, shesaid:

'He wants thee to mak' a prayer. '

Mr. Penrose drew nearer to the boy, and repeated the granddeath-song of the saints: 'Yea, though I walk through the valleyof the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me, Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me. '

The boy shook his head--for him the words had no meaning. Then, raising himself, he said:

'Ax God O'meety to leet His candle. I'm baan along th' seam, an'it's fearfo dark!'

To Mr. Penrose the words were strange, and, turning to thecolliers, he asked them what the boy wanted. 

Then Malachi o' the Mount came towards the minister and said:

'Th' lad thinks he's i' th' four-foot seam, and he connot find hisroad, it's so dark, and he wants a leet--a candle, yo' know, sameas we use in th' pit. He wants the Almeety to leet him along. '

Still Mr. Penrose was in darkness. 

Then the boy turned to old Malachi, and, with a farewell look ofrecognition and a last effort of speech, said:

'Malachi, ax Him as is aboon to leet His great candle, and show meth' road along th' seam. It's some fearsome and dark. '

And Malachi knelt by the side of the lad, and, in broken accentsand rude vernacular, said:

'O God O'meety, little Job's baan along th' four-foot seam, an' heconnot see his gate (way). Leet Thy candle, Lord--Thy greatcandle--and mak' it as leet as day for th' lad. Leet it, Lord, anddunnot put it aat till he geds through to wheere they've no needo' candles, becose Thaa gies them th' leet o' Thysel. '

The prayer over, every eye was turned to the boy, on whose facethere had broken a great light--a light from above. 

II. 

THE TWO MOTHERS. 

The royal repose of death reigned over the features of little Jobas his mother entered the kitchen of the Granny Houses Farm. Shehad been summoned from Rehoboth by a collier, fleet of foot, who, as soon as the injured boy was brought to the pit-bank, startedwith the sad news to the distant village. No sooner did the womancatch the purport of the news, than she ran out wildly into thesnowy air--not waiting to don shawl or clogs, but speeding overthe white ground as those only speed who love, and who know theirloved ones are in need. 

A wild wind was blowing from the north, and the fleecy particlesfell in fantastic whirls and spirals, to drift in treacherousbanks over the gullies and falls that lay along the path; whilehere and there thin black lines, sinuous in their trend, toldwhere moorland waters flowed, and guided the hurrying mother toher distant goal. The groaning trees, tossed by the tempest, flungoff showers of half-frozen flakes, that falling on her flamingcheeks failed to cool the fever of her suspense, while theyielding snow beneath her feet became a tantalus path, delayingher advance, and seeming to make more distant her suffering child. 

Ploughing her way through the Green Fold Clough, she climbed thesteeps at the further end, and stood, breathless, on the bank ofthe great reservoir that lay dark in the hollow of the whitehills. Her heart beat savagely and loud--so loud that she heard itabove the din of the storm; and cruel pain relentlessly stabbedher heaving side, while her breath was fetched in quickrespirations. 

As she thus stood, tamed in her race of love by the imperativecall of exhausted nature, Dr. Hale loomed through the snowy haze, and, reading instinctively who she was and whither she was bound, proffered his assistance for the remaining half of the journey. 

He had not walked with her for many yards before he saw herexposed condition. Her hair was flying in frozen tresses about herunshawled bosom, and no outer covering protected her from thechill blast. 

'Mrs. Wallwork, ' said he, 'you ought not to be crossing the moorsa night like this, uncovered as you are. You are tempting Natureto do her worst with you, you know. '

'Ne'er heed me, doctor. It's mi lad yon aw want yo' to heed. Ishall be all reet if he's nobbud reet. I con walk faster if yo'con, ' and so saying, the jaded woman sprang, like a stung horse, under the spur of love. 

'But I have two lives to think of, ' replied Dr. Hale, 'bothmother's and son's. '

'Mine's naught, doctor, when he's i' danger. Who bothers theiryeds abaat theirsels when them as they care more for are i' need?Let's hurry up, doctor. '

And again she sprang forward, to struggle with renewed effortthrough the yielding snow. Then, turning towards her companion, she cried:

'Where wur he hurt, doctor? Did they tell yo'?'

But the doctor was silent. 

Seizing his arm with eager grip, she continued:

'Dun yo' think he's livin', doctor? Or is he deead? Did they sayhe wur deead?'

'We must be patient a little longer, ' was the doctor's kind reply. 'See! there's the light in the window of Granny Houses!'

And there shone the light--distant across the fields, and blurredand indistinct through the falling snow. Without waiting to findthe path, the mother ran in a direct line towards it, scaling thewalls with the nimbleness of youth, to fall exhausted on thethreshold of the farmstead. 

Raising herself, she looked round with a blank stare, dazed withthe glow of the fire and the light of the lamp. In the furthercorners of the room, and away from each other, sat the old womanand Mr. Penrose and Malachi o' the Mount, while on the settlebeneath the window lay the sheeted dead. 

'Where's th' lad?' cried the mother, the torture of a great fearracking her features and agonizing her voice. 

There was no reply, the three watchers by the dead helplessly andmutely gazing at the snow-covered figure that stood beneath theopen doorway within a yard of her child. 

'Gronny, doesto yer? Where's my lad? And yo', Malachi--yo' tookhim daan th' shaft wi' yo'; what ban yo' done wi' him?'

Still there was no response. A paralysis silenced each lip. Noneof the three possessed a heart that dared disclose the secret. 

Seeing the sheeted covering on the settle, the woman, with franticgesture, tore it aside, and when her eye fell on the little face, grand in death's calm, a great rigor took hold of her, and thenshe became rigid as the dead on whom her gaze was fixed. 

In a little while she stooped over the boy, and, baring the coldbody, looked long at the crushed and discoloured parts, at lastbending low her face and kissing them until they were warm withher caress. Then old granny, turning round to Mr. Penrose, whispered:

'Thank God, hoo's weepin'!'

'Let her weep, ' said Dr. Hale; 'there's no medicine like tears. '

 * * * * *

That night, long after the snow had ceased to fall, and thetempestuous winds with folded wings were hushed in repose, anddistant stars glittered in steely brightness, the two women, holding each other's hand, sat over the hearth of the solitarymoorland farmstead. They were widows both, and both now weresisters in the loss of an only child. 

Granny, as she was called, bore that name not from relationship, but from her kindliness and age. It was the pet name given to herby the colliers to whom she so often ministered in their risks andexposures at the adjacent pit. Into her life the rain had fallen. After fifteen years of domestic joy, her only child, a son, fellbefore the breath of fever, and in the shadow of that loss sheever since walked. Then her husband succumbed to the exposure of awinter's toil, and now for long she had lived alone. But as sheused to say, 'Suppin' sorrow had made her to sup others' sorrowwith them. ' Her cup, though deep and full, had not embittered herheart, but led her to drink with those whose cup was deeper thanher own. The death of little Job had rolled away the stone fromthe mouth of the sepulchre of her own dead child; and as she heldthe hand of the lately-bereaved mother she dropped many a word ofcomfort. 

'I'll tell thee what aw've bin thinkin', ' said the old woman. 

'What han yo' bin thinkin', Gronny?'

'Why, I've bin thinkin' haa good th' Almeety is--He's med angelso' them as we med lads. '

'I durnd know what yo' mean, Gronny. '

'Why, it's i' this way, lass; my Jimmy and yor little Job wur aarown, wurnd they?'

'Yi, forsure they wur. '

'We feshioned 'em, as the Psalmist sez, didn't we?'

'Thaa sez truth, Gronny, ' wept the younger woman. 

'And we feshioned 'em lads an' o'. '

'Yi, and fine uns; leastways, my little Job wur--bless him. '

And the mother turned her tearful eyes towards the settle whereonlay the corpse. 

'Well, cornd yo' see as God hes finished aar wark for us, and whatwe made lads, He's made angels on?'

'But aw'd sooner ha' kept mine. Angels are up aboon, thaa knows;an' heaven's a long way off. '

'Happen noan so far as thaa thinks, lass; and then th' Almeetywill do better by 'em nor we con. '

'Nay, noan so, Gronny. God cornd love Job better nor I loved him. '

'But he willn't ged crushed in a coile seam i' heaven; naa, lass, will he?'

'Thaa's reet, Gronny, he willn't. But if He mak's us work here, why does He kill us o'er th' job, as he's killed mi little lad?'

'Thaa mun ax Mr. Penrose that, lass; I'm no scholard. '

'Aw'll tell thee what it is, Gronny. It noan seems reet that theeand me should be sittin' by th' fire, and little Job yonder cowdi' th' shadow. Let's pool up th' settle to th' fire; he's one onus, though he's deead. '

'Let him alone, lass; he's better off nor them as wants fire;there's no cowd wheer he's goan. '

Rising from her chair, and turning the sheet once more from offthe boy's face, the mother said:

'Where hasto goan, lad? Tell thi mother, willn't taa?' And then, looking round at the old woman, she said, 'Doesto think he yers(hears) me, Gronny?'

'Aw welly think he does, lass; but durnd bother him naa. He'shappen restin', poor little lad; or happen he's telling them as isup aboon all abaat thee--who knows?'

'Aw say, Gronny, Jesus made deead fo'k yer Him when He spok', didn't He?'

'Yi, lass, He did forsure. '

'Who wur that lass He spok' to when He turned 'em all aat o' th'room, wi' their noise and shaatin'?'

'Tha means th' rich mon's lass, doesndto?'

'Yi! Did He ever do ought for a poor mon's lass?'

'He did for a poor woman's lad, thaa knows--a widder's son--onelike thine. '

'But he's noan here naa, so we's be like to bide by it, ey, dear?Mi lad! mi lad!'

'Don't tak' on like that, lass; noather on us 'll hev to bidelong. It's a long road, I know, when fo'k luk for'ards; but it'ssoon getten o'er, and when thaa looks back'ards it's nobbud short. I tell thee I've tramped it, and I durnd know as I'm a war womanfor the journey. It's hard wark partin' wi' your own; but thentheer's th' comfort o' havin' had 'em. I'd rayther hev a child andbury it, nor be baat childer, like Miriam Heap yonder. '

'Aw dare say as yo're reet, Gronny; aw's cry and fret a deal overlittle Job, but then aw's hev summat to think abaat, shornd I? Awgeet his likeness taken last Rehoboth fair by a chap as come in acallivan (caravan), and it hengs o'er th' chimley-piece. But aw'snoan see th' leet in his een ony more, nor yer his voice, nor tak'him wi' me to th' chapel on Sundos, ' and the woman again turned tothe dead boy, and fondly lingered over his familiar features, weeping over them her tears of despair. 

'Come, lass, tha munn't tak' on like that. Sit yo' daan, an' I'lltell yo' what owd Mr. Morell said to me when mi lad lay deead o'th' fayver, and noan on 'em would come near me. He said I mut(must) remember as th' Almeety had nobbud takken th' lad upstairs. But aw sez, "Mr. Morell, theer's mony steps, an' I cornd climb'em. " "Yi, " sez he, "theer is mony steps, but yo' keep climbin' on'em every day, and one day yo'll ged to th' top and be i' th' sameraam (room) wi' him. " An', doesto know, every time as I frettedand felt daan, I used to think o' him as was upstairs, andremember haa aw wur climbin' th' steps an' gettin' nearer him. '

'But yo've noan getten to th' top yet, Gronny. '

'No, aw hevn't, but aw'm a deal nearer nor aw wur when he firstlaft me. An' doesto know, lass, aw feel misel to be gettin' sonear naa that aw can welly yer him singin'. There's nobbud a stepor two naa, and then we's be i' th' same raam. '

'An' is th' Almeety baan to mak' me climb as mony steps as thaa'sclimbed afore I ged into th' same raam as He's takken little Jobtoo, thinksto?'

'Ey, lass. Aw durnd know; but whether thaa's to climb mony or fewthaa'll hev strength gien thee, as aw hev. '

'Aw wish God's other room wurnd so far off, Gronny--nobbud t'otherside o' th' wall instead o' th' story aboon. Durnd yo'?'

'Nay, lass; they're safer upstairs. Thaa knows He put's 'em aat o'harm's way. '

'But aw somehaa think aw could ha' takken care o' little Job a bitlonger. And when he'd groon up, thaa knows, he could ha' takkencare o' me. '

'Yi, lass; we're awlus for patchin' th'Almeety's work; and if Heleet us, we's mak' a sorry mess on it and o'. '

'Well, Gronny, if I wur God Almeety I'd be agen lettin' lumps o'coile fall and crush th' life aat o' lads like aar Job. It's aqueer way o' takkin 'em upstairs, as yo' co it. '

'Hooisht! lass, thaa mornd try to speerit through th' clouds thatare raand abaat His throne. He tak's one i' one way, an another i'another; but if He tak's em to Hissel they're better off thanthey'd be wi' us. '

'Well, Gronny, aw tell thee, aw cornd see it i' that way yet;' andagain the mother caressed the body of her son. 

Once more she turned towards the old woman, and said:

'Aw shouldn't ha' caared so mich, Gronny, if he'd deed as yor laddeed--i' his own bed, an' wi' a fayver; bud he wur crushed wi' alump o' coile! Poor little lad! Luk yo' here!' and the motherbared the body and showed the discoloured parts. 

'Did ta' ever see a child dee o' fayver, lass?'

'Not as aw know on. Aw've awlus bin flayed, and never gone near'em. '

'Thaa may thank God as thy lad didn't dee of a fayver. Aw's neverforgeet haa th' measter and I watched and listened to aar lad'sravin's. Haa he rached aat wi' his honds, and kept settin' up andmakin' jumps at what he fancied he see'd abaat him; and when weco'd him he never knowed us. Nowe, lass, he never knowed me untilone neet he seemed to come to hissel, and then he looked at me andsaid, "Mother!" But it wur all he said--he never spok' at after. '

'Yi; but yo' see'd yur lad dee--and mine deed afore I could get tohim. '

'That is so, lass! but as aw stood an' see'd mine deein', I wouldha' gien onything if I could ha' shut mi een, or not bin wi' him. I know summat as what Hagar felt when hoo said, "Let me not seeth' deeath o' th' child"--I do so. '

The younger woman wept, and the tears brought relief to herpent-up heart. She had found a mother's ear for her mother'ssorrow; and the after-calm of a great grief was now falling overher. She leaned her aching head on the shoulders of the older andstronger woman by whose side she sat, and at last her sorrowbrought the surcease of sleep. The fire threw its fitful flickeron her haggard face, lighting up in strange relief the lines ofagony and the moisture of the freshly fallen tears. Now and againshe sobbed in her slumber--a sob that shook her soul--but sheslept, and sleep brought peace and oblivion. 

'Sleep on, lass, sleep on, and God ease thi poor heart, ' said theold Granny, as she held the woman's hand in hers. 'Thaa's hed boththi travails naa; thaa's travailed i' birth, and thaa's travailedi' deeath, like mony a poor soul afore thee. There wur joy whenthaa brought him into th' world, and theer's sorrow naa he's goanaat afore his time. Ey, dear! A mother's life's like an Aprilmorn--sunleet and cloud, fleshes o' breetness, and showers o'rain. '

And closing her eyes, she, too, slept. And in that lone outlyingfold, far away in the snowy bosom of the hills, there was thesleep of weariness, the sleep of sorrow, and the sleep of death. And who shall say that the last was not the kindliest and mostwelcome?

III. 

THE SNOW CRADLE. 

As Mr. Penrose and Malachi o' th' Mount closed the door of GrannyHouses on the sorrowing widowed mother, there opened to them afairy realm of snow. Stepping out on its yielding carpet ofcrystals, they looked in silent wonder at the fair new world, where wide moors slept in peaceful purity, and distant hillslifted their white summits towards the deep cold blue of theclearing sky. Steely stars glittered and magnified their lightthrough the lens of the eager, frosty air, and old landmarks werehidden, and roads familiar to the wayfarer no longer discoveredtheir trend. Little hillocks had taken the form of mounds, andstretches of level waste were swept by ranges of drift andshoulders of obstructing snow. 

No sooner did Mr. Penrose look out on this new earth than afeeling of _lostness_ came on him, and, linking his arm in that ofthe old man, he said:

'Can you find the way, Malachi?'

'Wheer to, Mr. Penrose?'

'Why, to Rehoboth, of course. Where else did you think I wanted togo at this time of night?'

'Nay, that's what I wur wonderin' when yo' axed me if I knew th'way, ' replied the old man. 

'Oh! I beg your pardon; I thought perhaps the snow might throw youoff the track. '

'Throw _me_ off th' track, an' on these moors and o'? Nowe, Mr. Penrose, I hevn't lived on 'em forty years for naught, I con tellyo'. '

'But when you cannot see your way, what then?'

'Then I walks by instink. '

And by instinct the two men crossed the wastes of snow towards theGreen Fold Clough, through which gorge lay the path that led tothe village below. 

Just as they traversed the edge of the Red Moss, old Malachi brokethe silence by saying:

'Well, Mr. Penrose, what do yo' think o' yon?'

'Think of what, Malachi?' asked the perplexed divine, for neitherof them, for some moments, had spoken. 

'Think o' yon lad as has getten killed, and o' his mother?'

There are times when a man dares not utter his deepest feelingsbecause of the commonplace character of the words through whichthey only can find expression. If Malachi had asked Mr. Penrose towrite the character of God on a blackboard before a class ofinfants, he would not have been placed in a greater difficultythan that now involved by the question of Malachi. Already hismind was dark with the problem of suffering. Little Job's cry for'the candle of the Almeety' had reached depths he knew not werehidden in his heart; while the look in the mother's face, as shestood snow-covered in the doorway of the farmstead, and as thefirelight lent its glare to her blanched and pain-wrought face, continued ceaselessly to haunt him. And now Malachi wanted to knowwhat he thought of it all! How could he tell him?

Finding Mr. Penrose remained silent, Malachi continued: 'Yonwoman's supped sorrow, and no mistak'. Hoo buried her husband sixmonths afore yon lad wur born. Poor little felley! he never know'dhis faither. '

'Ah! I never knew that. Then she _has_ supped sorrow, as you callit. '

'Owd Mr. Morell used to say as he could awlus see her deeadhusband's face i' hers until th' child wur born, and then it lefther, and hoo carried th' face o' th' little un hoo brought up. Butit'll be a deead face hoo'll carry in her een naa, I'll be bunfor't. '

'How was it his mother sent him to work in the pit?--such adangerous calling, and the boy so young. '

'You'll know a bit more, Mr. Penrose, when yo've lived here a bitlonger. His fo'k and hers hev bin colliers further back nor I canremember; and they noan change trades wi' us. '

'But why need he go to work so young?' asked the minister. 

Malachi stopped and gazed in astonishment at the minister, andthen said:

'I durnd know as he would ha' worked in th' pit, Mr. Penrose, ifyou'd ha' kep' him and his mother and o'. But fo'k mun eat, thaaknows. Th' Almeety's gan o'er rainin' daan manna fro' heaven, asHe used to do in th' wilderness. '

Mr. Penrose did not reply. 

'Yo' know, Mr. Penrose, ' continued Malachi, 'workin' in acoile-pit is like preychin': it's yezzy (easy) enugh when yo' gedused to 't. An' as for danger--why, yo' connot ged away fro' it. As owd Amos sez, yo're as safe i' one hoile (workshop) asanother. '

'Yes; that's sound philosophy, ' assented Mr. Penrose. 

'Mr. Morell once tell'd us in his preychin' abaat a chap as axed aoracle, or summat, what kind of a deeath he would dee; and when hewur towd that he would happen an accident o' some sort, theycouldn't geet him to shift aat o' his garden, for fear he'd bekilled. But it wur all no use; for one day, as he wur sittin'amang his flaars, a great bird dropped a stooan, and smashed hisyed. So yo' see, Mr. Penrose, if yo've to dee in th' pulpit yo'lldee theer, just as little Job deed i' th' coile-pit. '

As Malachi delivered himself of this bit of Calvinisticphilosophy, a sound of voices was borne in on the two men from thevale below, and looking in the direction whence it came, the oldman and Mr. Penrose saw a group of dark figures thrown into reliefon the background of snow. 

The sounds were too distant to be distinctly heard, but every nowand then there was mingled with them the short, sharp bark of adog. 

'I welly think that's Oliver o' Deaf Martha's dog, ' excitedlycried Malachi. 'Surely he's noan poachin' a neet like this? He'sterrible lat' wi' his wark if he is. '

'If I'm not mistaken, that is Moses Fletcher's voice, ' replied Mr. Penrose. 'Listen!'

'You're reet; that's Moses' voice, or I'm a Jew. What's he doin'aat a neet like this, wi' Oliver's dog? I thought he'd bed enougho' that beast to last his lifetime. '

The two men were now leaning over a stone wall and looking downinto the ravine below. Suddenly Malachi pricked up his ears, andsaid:

'An' that's Amos's voice an' all. By Guy, if it hedn't bin forOliver o' Deaf Martha's I should ha' said it wur hevin' aprayer-meetin' i' th' snow. What's brought owd Amos aat wi'Moses--to say naught o' th' dog?'

Just then an oath reached the ears of the listening men. 

'No prayer-meeting, Malachi, ' said Mr. Penrose, laughing. 

'Nowe--nobbud unless they're like Ab' o' th' Heights, who awlusswore a bit i' his prayers, because, as he said, swearin' wurmighty powerful. But him as swore just naa is Oliver hissel--I'lllay mi Sunday hat on't. '

By this time the moving figures on the snow were approaching thefoot of the hill whereon the two men stood, and Malachi, raisinghis hands to his mouth, greeted them with a loud halloo. 

Immediately there came a reply. It was from Oliver himself, in aloud, importuning voice:

'Han yo' fun him?'

'Fun who?' asked Malachi. 

'Why, that chilt o' mine! Who didsto think we wur lookin' for?'

'Who knew yo' were lookin' for aught but--'

'Which child have you lost?' cried Mr. Penrose, for Oliver had anumerous family. 

'Little Billy--him as Moses pooled aat o' the lodge. '

'Come along, Malachi, let us go down and help; it's a searchparty. '

 * * * * *

Everybody in Rehoboth knew little Billy o' Oliver's o' DeafMartha's. He was a smart lad of eight years, with a vividimagination and an active brain. His childish idealism, however, found little food in the squalid cottage in which he dragged outhis semi-civilized existence; but among the hills he was at home, and there he roamed, to find in their fastnesses a region ofromance, and in their gullies and cloughs the grottoes and fallsthat to him were a veritable fairy realm. Child as he was, in thesummer months he roamed the shady plantations, and sailed his chipand paper boats down their brawling streams, feeding on the nutsand berries, and lying for hours asleep beneath the shadows oftheir branching trees. He was one of the few children into whosemind Amos failed to find an inlet for the catechism; and once, during the past summer, he had blown his wickin-whistle inSunday-school class, and been reprimanded by the superintendentbecause he gathered blackberries during the sacred hours. 

A few days previous to his disappearance in the snow he had heardthe legend of Jenny Greenteeth, the haunting fairy of the GreenFold Clough, and how that she, who in the summer-time made theflowers grow and the birds sing, hid herself in winter on a shelfof rock above the Gin Spa Well, a lone streamlet that gurgled fromout the rocky sides of the gorge. The story laid hold of his youngmind, and under the glow of his imagination assumed theproportions of an Arabian Nights' wonder. He dreamed of it bynight, and during the day received thrashings not a few from hiszealous schoolmaster, because his thoughts were away from hislessons with Jenny Greenteeth in her Green Fold Clough retreat. Onthis, the afternoon of the first snowfall of the autumn, therebeing a half-holiday, the boy determined once more to explore thehaunts of the fairy; and just as Mr. Penrose turned out of hislodgings to kill the prose of his life, which he felt to bekilling him, Oliver o' Deaf Martha's little boy turned out of hisfather's hovel to feed the poetry that was stirring in hisyouthful soul. The north wind blew through the rents and seams ofhis threadbare clothing; but its chill was not felt, so warm withexcitement beat his little heart. And when the first flakes fell, he clapped his hands in wild delight, and sang of the plucking ofgeese by hardy Scotchmen, and the sending of their feathers acrossthe intervening leagues. 

Poor little fellow! His was a hard lot when looked at from wherePlenty spread her table and friends were manifold. But he was notwithout his compensations. His home was the moors, and his parentwas Nature. He knew how to leap a brook, and snare a bird, andclimb a tree, and shape a boat, and cut a wickin-whistle, and manya time and oft, when bread was scarce, he fed on the berries thatonly asked to be plucked, and grew so plentifully along the sidesof the great hills. 

The dusk was falling, and the snow beginning to lie thick, ashe entered the dark gorge of the Clough; but to him darknessand light were alike, and as for the snow, it was more than atransformation-scene is to the petted child of a jaded civilization. He watched the flakes as they came down in their wild race fromthe sky, and saw them disappear on touching the stream that ranthrough the heart of the Clough. He gathered masses of the flakysubstance in his hand, and, squeezing them into balls, threw themat distant objects, and then filled his mouth with the icyparticles, and revelled in the shock and chill of the meltingsubstance between his teeth as no connoisseur of wine everrevelled in the juices of the choice vintages of Spain and France. Then he would shake and clap his hands because of what he calledthe 'hot ache' that seized them, only to scamper off again aftersome new object around which to weave another dream of wonder. 

The dusk gave place to gloom, and still faster fell the snow, white and feathery, silent and sublime. The child felt the charm, and began to lose himself in the impalpable something that, like acurtain of spirit, gathered around. He, too, was now as white asthe shrubs through which he wended his way, and every now and thenhe doffed his cap, and, with a wild laugh of delight, flung itscovering of snow upon the ground. Then, out of sheer fulness oflife and rapport with the scene, he would rush for a yard or twoup the steep sides of the Clough and roll downwards in the softsubstance which lay deeply around. 

The gloom thickened and nightfall came, but the snow lighted upthe dark gorge, and threw out the branching trees, the tall trunksof which rose columnar-like as the pillars of some cathedral nave. Did the boy think of home--of fire--of bed? Not he! He thoughtonly of Jenny Greenteeth, the sprite of the Clough, and of the GinSpa Well, above which she was said to sleep; and on he roamed. 

And now the path became narrower and more tortuous, while on thesteep sides the snow was gathering in ominous drifts. Undaunted hestruggled on, knee-deep, often stumbling, yet always rising todive afresh into the yielding element that lay between himself andthe enchanted ground beyond. In a little time he came to a greatbulging bend, around the foot of which the waters flowed in sullensweeps. Here, careful as he was, he slipped, and lay for a momentstunned and chilled with his sudden immersion. Struggling to thebank, he regained his foothold, and, rounding the promontory ofcliff which had almost defeated his search, he turned the anglethat hid the grotto, and found himself at the Gin Spa Well. 

He heard the 'drip, drip' of falling waters as they oozed from outtheir rocky bed, and fell into one of those tiny hollows of naturewhich, overflowing, sent its burden towards the stream below. Helooked above, and saw the fabled ledge--its mossy bank allsnow-covered--with the entrance to Jenny Greenteeth's chambersdark against the white that lay around. Tired with the search, yetglad at heart with the find, he climbed and entered, thesomnolence wrought by the snow soon closing his eyes, and itssubtle opiate working on his now wearily excited brain. There heslept--and dreamed. 

 * * * * *

As soon as Mr. Penrose and Malachi reached the search party, andheard how the boy had been missing since the afternoon, theminister suggested they should search the Clough, as it was hisfavourite haunt. His advice was at first unheeded, Oliverdeclaring he had been taken off in a gipsy caravan, and Amoscapping his suspicion by speaking of the judgments of the Almightyon little lads who gathered flowers on Sunday, and blewwickin-whistles in school, and refused to learn their catechism. Second thoughts, however, brought them over to Mr. Penrose's mind, and they set out for the Clough. 

The descent was far from easy, the banks being steep, andtreacherous with their covering of newly-fallen snow. Once ortwice Amos, in his declaration of the Divine will, nearly lost hisfooting, and narrowly escaped falling into the defile, theentrance to which they sought to gain. Oliver manifested hisanxiety and parental care in sundry oaths, while Moses Fletcher, who had loved the child ever since saving him from the Lodge, saidlittle and retained his wits. 

When the search party entered the heart of the Clough, Oliver'sdog began to show signs of excitement, that became more and morenoticeable as they drew near to the Gin Spa Well. Here the brutesuddenly stopped and whined, and commenced to wildly caper. 

'Th' dog's goin' mad, ' said Amos. 

'It's noan as mad as thee, owd lad, ' replied Moses. 'I'll layought we'n noan so far fro' th' chilt. '

'It is always wise to stop when a dog stops, ' assented theminister. 

'Yi; yo' connot stand agen instink, ' said Malachi. 

'Good lad! good lad! find him!' sobbed Oliver to his dog; and thebrute again whined and wagged its tail and ran round and betweenthe legs of the men. 

'There's naught here, ' impatiently cried Amos. 

I'll tak' a dog's word agen thine ony day, owd lad, ' said Moses. 

'Well, thaa's no need to be so fond o' th' dog. It once wellyworried thi dog, and thee into th' bargain. '

'Yi; it's bin a bruiser i' id time, an' no mistak'; but it'sturned o'er a new leaf naa--and it's noan so far off th' child;'and Malachi, too, commenced to encourage it in its search. 

'It looks to me as th' child's getten up theer somehaa;' and sosaying, Moses pointed to the ledge of rock where Jenny Greenteethwas said to slumber through the winter's cold. 

'What mut th' child ged up theer for?' asked Amos. 'Thaa talkslike a chap as never hed no childer. '

At this rebuff Moses was silent; for not only was he a childlessman, but until the day he saved the very child they were nowseeking from the Green Fold Lodge, children had been nothing tohim. Now, however, he had learned to love them, and none betterthan the little lost offspring of Oliver o' Deaf Martha's. 

While the two men were wrangling, Mr. Penrose stepped aside andcommenced the climb towards the ledge. The snow lay white andundisturbed on the shelving surface, and there was no sign ofrecent movements. Looking round, he discovered the mouth of therecess. There it stood, black and forbidding. In another momentthe minister stooped down and looked in; but all was dark andsilent, nor did he care to go further along what to him was anunknown way. 

'Have any of you a light?' asked he of the men below; and Malachihanded him his collier's candle and matches, with which hecommenced to penetrate the gloom. 

It was a small cavernous opening out of which, in years past, menhad quarried stone. Damp dripped from the roof, and ran down itsseamed and discoloured sides. Autumn leaves, swept there by thewind, strewed its uneven floor, and lay in heaps against thejutting angles. A thin line of snow had drifted in through themouth, and ran like a river of light along the gloomy entrance, tolose itself in the recesses beyond. 

The feeble flicker of the candle which Mr. Penrose held in hishand flung hideous shadows, and lighted up the cave dimly enoughto make it more eerie and grotesque. The minister had not searchedlong before he was startled by a cry--a faint and childish cry:

'Arto Jenny Greenteeth?'

'No, my boy; I'm Mr. Penrose. '

'It's noan th' parson aw want; aw want th' fairy. '

And then the chilled and startled boy was carried down to the menbelow. 

In a moment Oliver o' Deaf Martha's seized his boy and wrapped himin the bosom of his coat, hugging and kissing him as though hewould impart the warmth of his own life to the little fellow. 

'It's noan like thee to mak' a do like that, Oliver, ' said Amos, unmoved, 'but thaa shaps (shapes) weel. ' And as the child began tocry and struggle, Amos continued, 'Sithee! he's feeard on thee. He's noan used to it. He thinks he ought to hev a lickin' orsummat. '

But Oliver continued his caresses. 

'Well, Oliver, I've never sin thee takken th' road afore. '

'Nowe, lad! I've never lost a chilt afore. '

VI. 

MIRIAM'S MOTHERHOOD. 

 1. A WOMAN'S SECRET. 2. HOW DEBORAH HEARD THE NEWS. 3. 'IT'S A LAD!' 4. THE LEAD OF THE LITTLE ONE. 

I. 

A WOMAN'S SECRET. 

On a little mound, within the shadow of her cottage home, andeagerly scanning the moors, stood Miriam Heap. An exultant lightgleamed in her dark eyes, and her bosom rose and fell as thoughswept with tumultuous passion. Ever womanly and beautiful, shewas never more a queen than now, as the wind tossed the raventresses of her crown of hair, and wrapped her dress around thewell-proportioned limbs until she looked the draped statue of aclassic age. There was that, too, within her breast which filledher with lofty and pardonable pride, for she awaited her husband'sreturn to communicate to him the royal secret of a woman's life. 

Miriam and Matthias--or Matt, as she called him--had beenseven years married, the only shadow of their home being itschildlessness. Matt's prayers and Miriam's tears brought nosurcease to this sorrow, while the cruel superstition that dearthof offspring was the curse of heaven and the shame of woman, rested as a perpetual gloom over the otherwise happy home. 

Of late, however, the maternal hope had arisen in the heart ofMiriam; nor was the hope belied. To her, as to Mary of old, themystic messengers had whispered, and He with whom are the issuesof life had regarded the low estate of His handmaiden. That ofwhich she so long fondly dreamed, and of late scarce dared tothink of, was now a fact, and a great and unspeakable joy filledher heart. 

As yet her secret was unshared. Even her husband knew it not, forMatt was away in a distant town, fitting up machinery in anewly-erected mill. Miriam felt it to be as hard to carry alonethe burden of a great joy as the burden of a great sorrow. But sheresolved that none should know before him, whose right it was tofirst share the secret with herself; so she kept it, and ponderedover it in her heart. 

And now Matt was on his homeward journey, and Miriam knew thatshortly they would be together in their cottage home. How shouldshe meet him, and greet him, and confess to him the joy thatoverwhelmed her? What would he say? Would he love her more, orwould the advent of the little life divide the love hitherto herundisputed own? Was the love of father towards mother a greaterand stronger and holier love than that of husband towards wife? ordid the birth of children draw off from each what was before amutual interchange? Thus she teased her throbbing brain, and vexedher mind with questions she knew not how to solve. And yet herwoman's instincts told her that the new love would weld togethermore closely the old, and that she and Matt would become one asnever before. And then a dim memory of a sentence in the old creedcame upon her--something about 'One in three and three in one, undivided and eternal'--but she knew not what she thought. 

As Miriam stood upon the little mound within the shadow of herroof-tree, eagerly scanning the moors for Matt's return, cool airsladen with moorland scents played around her, and masses of snowycloud sailed along the horizon, flushing beneath the touch of theafter-glow with as pure a rose as that mantling on her womanlyface. The blue distances overhead were deepening with sundown, andthe great sweeps of field and wild were sombre with the hillshadows that began to fall. In a copse near where she stood alittle bird was busy with her fledglings, and from a meadow camethe plaintive bleat of a late yeaned lamb. From the distantvillage the wind carried to her ears the cry of an infant--a crythat lingered and echoed and started strange melodies in theawakening soul of Miriam. Child of the hills as she was, neverbefore in all her thirty years of familiarity with them, andfreedom among them, had she seen and felt them as now. A great andholy passion was upon her, and she took all in through the mediumof its golden haze. The early flowers at her feet glowed likestars of hope and promise--and the bursting buds of the trees toldof spring's teeming womb and dew of youth; while the shadow of hercottage gable and chimney--falling as it did across the littlemound on which she stood--recalled to her the promises of Him whosetteth the solitary in families. 

Then she returned to herself, and to her new and opening world ofmaternity. No longer would she be the butt at which the rude, though good-natured, jests of her neighbours were thrown, for shetoo would soon hold up her head proudly among the mothers ofRehoboth. And as for Matt's mother--fierce Calvinist that she was, and whom in the past she had so much feared--what cared she forher now? She would cease to be counted by her as one of theuncovenanted, and told that she had broken the line of promisegiven to the elect. How well she remembered the night when the oldwoman, taking up the Bible, read out aloud: 'The promise is untoyou, and to your children, ' afterwards clinching the words bysaying: 'Thaa sees, Miriam, thaas noan in it, for thaa's nochilder'; and how, when she gently protested, 'But is not thepromise to all that are afar off?' the elect sister of the churchand daughter of God destroyed her one ray of hope by saying: 'Yi!but only to as mony as the Lord aar God shall co. ' And Matt--poorMatt--across whom the cold shadow had so long lain, and which, despite his love of her, would creep now and again like a cloudover the sunshine of his face--Matt, too, would be redeemed fromhis long disappointment, and renewed in strength as he saw apurpose in his life's struggle, even the welfare of his posterity. These thoughts, and many others, all passed through Miriam's mindas she stood looking out from the mound upon the sundown moors. 

Dreaming thus, she was startled by a well-known voice; and lookingin the direction whence the sound came, she saw her husband in thedistance beckoning her to meet him. Nor did she wait for hisfurther eager gesticulations, but at once, with fleet foot, descended the slope, towards the path by which he was approaching. 

Ere she reached him, however, she realized as never before thesecret she was about to confide, and for the first time in herlife became self-conscious. How could she meet Matt, and how couldshe tell him? In a moment her naturalness and girlish buoyancyforsook her. She was lost in a distrait mood. Joy changed toshyness; a hot flush, not of shame, but of restraint, mounted hercheeks. Then she slackened her pace, and for a moment wished thatMatt could know all apart from her confession. 

To how many of nervous temperament is self-consciousness the baneof existence--while the more such try to master it, the moreunnatural they become! It separates souls, begetting an aloofnesswhich, misunderstood, ends in mistrust and alienation; and it liesat the root of too many of the fatal misconceptions of life. Thereare loving hearts that would pay any price to be freed from theself-enfolding toils that wrap them in these crisis hours. And sowould Miriam's, for she felt herself shrink within herself at theapproach of Matt. She knew nothing of mental moods, never havingheard of them, nor being able to account for, or analyze, them. All she knew, poor girl, was that for the first time in her lifeshe was not herself; and as she responded to Matt's warm greeting, she felt she was not the wife, nor the woman, who but a few weeksago had so affectionately farewelled him, and who but a fewmoments ago so longed for his return. 

Nor was Matt unconscious of this change, for as soon as thegreeting was over he said, with tones of anxiety in his voice:

'What ails thee, my lass?'

'Who sez as onnythin' ails me?' was her reply, but in a tone ofsuch forced merriment that Matt only grew the more concerned. 

'Who sez as onnything ails thee?' cried he. 'Why those bonny eeno' thine--an' they ne'er tell lies. '

Miriam was walking at his side, her dark eyes seeking the ground, and half hidden by the droop of their long-fringed lids. Indeed, she was too timid to flash their open searching light, as was herwont, into the face of Matt; and when she did look at him, as attimes she was forced to, the glance was furtive and the gazeunsteady. 

'Come, mi bonny brid (bird), ' said her husband, betraying in hisvoice a deeper concern, 'tell thi owd mon what's up wi thee. I'vene'er sin thee look like this afore. Durnd look on th' grass somich. Lift that little yed (head) o' thine. Thaa's no need to beashamed o' showing thi face--there's noan so mony at's betterlookin'--leastways, I've sin noan. '

Miriam was silent; but as Matt's hand stole gently into hers, andshe felt the warm touch of his grasp, her heart leapt, and itspent-up burden found outlet in a sob. Then he stayed his steps, and looked at her, as a traveller would pause and look inwonderment at the sudden portent in the heavens of a coming storm, and putting his hand beneath the little drooping chin, he raisedthe pretty face to find it wet with tears. 

'Nay! nay! lass, thaa knows I conrot ston salt watter, when it'si' a woman's een. 

But Miriam's tears fell all the faster

'I'll tell yo' what it is, owd lass. I shornd hev to leave yo'agen, ' and his arm stole round the little neck, and he drew thesorrowful face to his own, and kissed it. 'But tell yor owd monwhat's up wi yo'. '

'Ne'er mind naa, Matt; I'll--tell--thee--sometime, ' sobbed thewife. 

'But I mun know naa, lass, or there'll be th' hangments to play. I'll be bun those hens o' Whittam's hes been rootin' up thi flaarsin th' garden. By gum! if they hev, I'll oather neck 'em, or mak'him pay for th' lumber (mischief). '

'Nowe, lad--thaa'rt--mista'en--Whittam's hens hesn't bin i' th'garden sin' thaa towd him abaat 'em last. '

'Then mi mother's bin botherin' thee agen, ' said Matt, in a sharptone, as though he had at last hit upon the secret of his wife'ssorrow. 

'Wrang once more, ' replied Miriam, with a light in her eye; andthen, looking up at her husband with a gleam, she said: 'I durndthink as thi mother'll bother me mich more, lad. '

'Surely th' old lass isn't deead!' he cried in startled tones. Andthen, recollecting her treatment of Miriam, he continued: 'But Ineedn't be afeard o' that, for thaa'll never cry when th' old girlgeets to heaven. Will yo', mi bonnie un?'

'Shame on thee, Matt, ' said Miriam, smiling through her tears. 

'Bless thee for that smile, lass. Thaa looks more thisel naa. There's naught like sunleet when it's in a woman's face. '

'Thaa means eyeleet, ' Miriam replied, with a gleam of returningmirth. 

'Ony kind o' leet, so long as it's love-leet and joy-leet, and i'thi face, an o'. But thaa's noan towd me what made thee so feeard(timid) when aw met thee. '

By this time Matt and his wife were on the threshold of theircottage, and the woman's heart beat loudly as she felt the momentof her great confession was at hand. 

'Naa, come, Merry' (he always called her Merry in the highermoments of their domestic life)--'come, Merry, no secrets, thaaknows. There's naught ever come atween thee and me, and if I canhelp, naught ever shall. '

Miriam started, and once more wondered if the little life of whichMatt as yet knew nothing would come in between herself and him, and divide them; or whether it would bind more closely theiralready sacred union. 

'Naa, Merry, ' continued he, seating himself in the rocking-chair, or 'courtin'-cheer, ' as he called it, and drawing his blushing, yielding wife gently on his knee, 'naa, Merry, whod is it?'

'Cornd ta guess?' asked she, hiding her face on his shoulder. 

'Nowe, lass; aw've tried th' hens and mi mother, and aw'm wrang i'both, an' aw never knew aught bother thee but t' one or t' otheron 'em. Where mun I go next?'

Again there were tears in Miriam's eyes, and with one supremeeffort she raised her blushing face from Matt's shoulder to hisbushy whiskers, and burying her rosy lips near his ear, whisperedsomething, and then sank on his breast. 

Then Matt drew his wife so closely to him that she bit her lips tostifle the cry of pain that his love-clasp brought; and when helet her go, it was that he might shower on her a rain of kisses, diviner than had ever been hers in the seven happy years of theirpast wedded life. For some minutes Matt sat with Miriam in hisarms, a spell of sanctity and silence filling the room. In thatsilence both heard a voice--a little voice--preludious of themusic of heaven, and they peopled the light which haloed them witha presence, childlike and pure. Then it was that Miriam looked upat her husband and said:

'Th' promise is not brokken, thaa sees, after all. It's to us andto aar childer, for all thi mother hes said so mich abaat it. '

'Ey, lass, ' replied he, his manhood swept by emotion, 'o' sich isthe kingdom o' heaven. '

And a gleam of firelight fell on the darkening wall, and lit up anold text which hung there, and they both read, 'Children are aheritage from God. '

 * * * * *

'An' arto baan to keep it a secret, lass?' asked Matt, when oncethe spell of silence was broken. 

'Why shouldn't I? There's no one as aw know as has any reet toknow but thee. '

'But they'll noan be so long i' findin' it aat. Then they'll neverlet us alone, lass. There'll be some gammin', aw con tell thee. '

'I'm noan feared on 'em, Matt. I con stan' mi corner if thaa con. '

'Yi, a dozen corners naa, lass. Thaa knows it used to be hardafore when they were all chaffin' me at th' factory, but they cantalk their tungs off naa for aught I care. But they'll soon findit aat. '

'None as soon as thaa thinks, Matt. They've gan o'er sperrin(being inquisitive) long sin', and when they're off th' scentthey're on th' wrang scent. '

'Aw think aw'd tell mi mother, lass, if aw were thee. '

'Let her find it aat, as t'others 'll hev to do. '

'As thaa likes, lass. But thaa knows hoo's fretted and prayed andworrited hersel a deal abaat thee for mony a year. And if hoo deedafore th' child were born we sud ne'er forgive aarsels. '

'Thaa'rt mebbe reet, lad. It'll pleaz her to know, and hoo's bin agood mother to thee. '

'Yi. Hoo's often said as if hoo could nobbud be a gron'motherhoo'd say, as owd Simeon said, "Mine een hev sin Thy salvation. "'

'Well, we'll go up and see her when th' chapel loses to-morrowafternoon. Put that leet aat, lad; it's time we closed aar een. '

Matt turned down the lamp, and shot the bolt of his cottage door, and followed his wife up the worn stone stairway to the roomabove, to rest and await the dawning of the Sabbath. 

That night, as the moonbeams fell in silver shafts through thelittle window, and filled the chamber with a haze of subduedlight, a mystic presence, unseen, yet felt, filled all with itsglory. The old four-poster rested like an ark in a holy ofholies, its carved posts of oak gleaming as the faces of watchingangels on those whose weary limbs were stretched thereon. Therugged features of Matt were touched into grand relief, his hairand beard dark on the snowy pillow and coverlet on which theylay. On his strong, outstretched arm reposed she whom he sodearly, and now so proudly, loved, her large, lustrous eyeslooking out into the sheeted night, her pearly teeth gleamingthrough her half-opened lips, from which came and went her breathin the regular rhythm and sweetness of perfect health. Long afterher husband slept she lay awake, silently singing her own'Magnificat'--not in Mary's words, it is true, but with Mary'smusic and with Mary's heart. 

And then she slept--and the moonbeams paled before the sunrise, and the morning air stirred the foliage of the trees that kissedthe window-panes, and little birds came and sang their matins, andanother of God's Sabbaths spread its gold and glory over the hillsof Rehoboth. 

II. 

HOW DEBORAH HEARD THE NEWS. 

It was Sabbath on the moors--on the moors where it was alwaysSabbath. 

Old Mr. Morell used to say, 'For rest, commend me to these eternalhills;' and so Matt Heap thought as he threw open his chambercasement and looked on their outline in the light of morningglory. Their majesty and strength were so passionless, theirrepose so undisturbed. How often he wondered to himself why theyalways slept--not the sleep of weariness, but of strength! And howoften, when vexed and jaded, had he shared their calm as his eyesrested on them, or as his feet sought their solitudes! How theystirred the inarticulate poetry of his soul! At times he foundhimself wondering if their sweeping lines were broken arcs of acircle drawn by an infinite hand; and anon, he would ask if theirmighty mounds marked the graves of some primeval age--moundsraised by the gods to the memory of forces long since extinct. 

As Matt looked at these hills, there rolled along their summitssnowy cumuli--billowy masses swept from distant cloud tempests, and now spending their force in flecks of white across the bluesky-sea that lay peaceful over awakening Rehoboth. A fresh windtravelled from the gates of the sun, laden with upland sweets, andmellowing moment by moment under the directer rays of the easternking; while the sycamores in the garden, as if in playful protest, bent before the touch of its caress, only to rise and rustle as, for the moment, they escaped the haunting and besetting breeze, lending to their protest the dreamy play of light and shade fromnewly-unsheathed leaves. There was a strange silence, too--asilence that made mystic music in Matt's heart--a silence all themore profound because of the distant low of oxen, and the strainof an old Puritan hymn sung by a shepherd in a neighbouring field. Matt's heart was full, and, though he knew it not, he was aworshipper--he was in the spirit on the Lord's Day. 

'Is that thee, Matt?'

'Yi, lass, for sure it is. Who else should it be, thinksto?'

'Nay, I knew it were noabry but thee; but one mun say summat, thaaknows. What arto doin' at th' winder? Has th' hens getten in th'garden agen?'

'Nowe, not as aw con see. '

'Then what arto lookin' at? Thaa seems fair gloppened(surprised). '

'I'm nobbud lookin' aat a bit. It's a bonny seet and o', I cantell thee. '

'Thaa's sin' it mony a time afore, lad, hesn't ta? Is there aughtfresh abaat it?'

'There's summat fresh i' mi een, awm thinkin'. Like as I neverseed th' owd country look as grand as it looks this morn. '

'Aw'll hev a look wi' thee, Matt; ther'll happen be summat freshfor my een and o'. '

And so saying, Miriam crept to his side and, in unblushinginnocence, took her stand at the window with Matt. 

It was a comely picture which the little birds saw as theytwittered round and peeped through the ivy-covered casement whereMatt and Miriam stood framed in the morning radiance and in theglow of domestic love--she with loose tresses lying over her bareshoulders, all glossy in the sunshine, her head resting on thestrong arm of him who owned her, and drew her in gentle pride tohis beating heart--the two together looking out in all the joy ofpurity and all the unconscious ease of nature on the sun-floodedmoors. 

'It's grand, lass, isn't it?'

'Yi, Matt, it is forsure. '

'And them hills--they're awlus slumberin', am't they? Doesto know, I sometimes wish I could be as quiet as they are. They fret noan;weet or fine, it's all th' same to them. '

'They're a bit o'er quiet for me, lad. I'd rather hev a treemisel. It tosses, thaa knows, and tews i' th' tempest, and laughsi' th' sunleet, and fades i' autumn. It's some like a human bein'is a tree. '

'An' aw sometimes think there's summat very like th' Almeety i'th' hills. '

'Doesto, Matt? Ey, aw shouldn't like to think He were so far offas they are, nor as cowd (cold) noather. '

'Nay, lass, they're noan so far off. Didn't owd David say, "As th'mountens are raand abaat Jerusalem, so th' Lord is raand abaat Hispeople"?'

'He did, forsure. But didn't he say that a good man were like atree planted by th' brookside?'

'Yi; and he said summat else abaat a good woman, didn't he, Miriam?'

'What were that, lad?'

'Why, didn't th' owd songster say, "Thy wife shall be as afruitful vine by th' sides o' thine house, and thi childer likeolive plants raand abaat thy table"?'

Miriam blushed, and held up her lips to be kissed; nor did Mattfaintly warm them with his caresses. 

 * * * * *

That afternoon, as Matt and Miriam walked down the field-pathtowards the Rehoboth shrine, they wondered how it was that so muchpraise was rendered to the Almighty outside the temple made withhands. Both of them had been taught to locate God in a house. Rehoboth chapel was His dwelling-place--not the earth with thefulness thereof, and the heavens with their declaration of glory. Yet, somehow or other, they felt to-day that moor and meadow weresacred--that their feet trod paths as holy as the worn stone aisleof the conventicle below. The airs of spring swept round them, carrying notes from near and far--whisperings from the foliage oftrees, and cadences from moors through whose herbage the windlisped, and from doughs down which it moaned. Early flowers viedwith the early greenery carpeting the fields, and the grass waslong enough to wave in shadow and intermingle its countlessglistening blades. Then their hearts went out towards Nature'sharmonies; and tears started to Miriam's eyes as the larks droppedtheir music from the sunny heights. Now they passed patient oxenlooking out at them with quiet, impressive eyes, and the plaintivebleat of the little lambs still brought many a throb to Miriam'sheart. 

Turning down by the Clough, they met old Enoch and his wife, who, though on their way to Rehoboth, were so full of the spirit of thehour and the season that they thought little of the bald ritualand barn-like sanctuary that was drawing their steps. 

'This is grond, lad, ' said Enoch to Matt, as he threw back hisshoulders to take a deep inspiration of the moorland air. 'It'sfair like a breath o' th' Almeety. '

'Yi; it's comin' fro' th' delectable mountains, for sure it is. I'm just thinkin' it's too fine to go inside this afternoon. '

'I'll tell thee what, Matt, I know summat haa that lad Jacob feltwhen he co'd th' moorside th' gate o' heaven. '

'Ey, bless thee, Enoch, it wernd half as grand as this!' said hiswife, as she plucked a spray of may blossom from a hawthorn thatoverarched the path through the Clough. 

'Mebbe not, lass; but aw know summat haa he felt like. '

'Did it ever strike thee, Enoch, that there were a deal o'mountain climbin' among th' owd prophets--like as they fun th'Almeety on th' brow (hill)?'

'Aw never made much o' th' valleys, lad. Them as lived in 'em hesbin a bad lot. We may well thank God as we live up as high as wedo. But I'll tell yo' what--we're baan to be lat' for the service. Step it aat, lasses. '

On reaching the chapel yard, they found Amos Entwistle dismissinghis catechism class with a few words of warning as to deportmentduring service, whilst old Joseph was busy cuffing the unruly ladswhose predilections for dodging round the gravestones overcame thebetter instinct of reverence for the day and for the dead. Mr. Penrose was just entering the vestry, and discordant sounds camethrough the open door as of stringed instruments in process oftuning. 

The congregation was soon seated--a hardy race, reared on thehills, and disciplined in the straitest of creeds. Stolid andself-complacent, theirs was an unquestioning faith, accepting, asthey did, the Divine decrees as a Mohamedan accepts his fate. Whatwas, was right--all as it should be; elect, or non-elect, accordingto the fore-knowledge, it was well. Sucking in their theology withtheir mothers' milk, and cradled in sectarian traditions, theyloved justice before mercy, and seldom walked humbly before God. And yet these Rehoboth mothers had borne and reared a strongoffspring--children hard, narrow, and self-righteous, yet of firmfibre, and of real grit withal. 

The mothers of Rehoboth were famous women, and bore the names ofthe great Hebrew women of old. Among them were Leahs, Hannahs, Hagars, and Ruths, yet none held priority to Deborah Heap, themother of Matt. Tall, gaunt, iron-visaged, with crisp, black locksdespite her threescore years, she was a prophetess among herkindred--mighty in the Scriptures, and inflexible in faith. 

Hers was the illustrious face of that afternoon'scongregation--the face a stranger would first fasten his eye on, and on which his eye would remain; a face, too, he would fear. History was writ large on every line, character had set its sealthere, and a crown of superb strength reposed on the brow. Sheguarded the door of her pew, which door she had guarded since herhusband's death; and her deep-set eyes, glowing with suppressedpassion, never flinched in their gaze at the preacher. Now andagain the thin nostrils dilated as Mr. Penrose smote down some ofher idols; but for this occasional sign her martyrdom was mute andinexpressive. 

No one loved Deborah Heap, although those who knew her measuredout to her degrees of respect. She was never known to wrong friendor foe; and yet no kindly words ever fell from her lips, nor didmusic of sympathy mellow her voice. Her life had been unrelievedby a single deed of charity. She was, in old Mr. Morell'slanguage, 'a negative saint. ' Mr. Penrose went further, and calledher 'a Calvinistic pagan. ' But none of these things moved her. 

The grievance of her life was Matt's marriage with an alien; forMiriam was a child of the Established Church. Great, too, was thegrievance that no children gladdened the hearth of the unequallyyoked couple; and this the old woman looked on as the curse of theAlmighty in return for her son's disobedience in sharing his lotwith the uncovenanted. 

And yet Matt loved his mother; not, however, as he loved his wife, for whom he held a tender, doating love, which the old woman wasquick to see, though silent to resent, save when she said that'Matt were fair soft o'er th' lass. ' Nothing so pleased him as tobe able to respect his mother's wish without giving pain to hiswife. Always loyal to Miriam, he sought to be dutiful to Deborah, and, though the struggle was at times hard and taxing, fewsucceeded better in holding a true balance of behaviour betweenthe twin relations of son and husband. 

Now that Miriam had confided to him her secret, he felt sure hismother's anger would be somewhat turned away when she, too, sharedit. And all through the afternoon service he moved restlessly, eager for the hour when, at her own fireside, he could convey theglad news to her ears. 

And when that hour came, it came all too soon, for never were Mattand Miriam more confused than when they faced each other at thetea-table of Deborah. A painful repression was on them; ominoussilence sealed their lips, and they flushed with a heightenedcolour. Matt's carefully-prepared speech forsook him--all itsprettiness and poetry escaped beyond recall; and Miriam was toowomanly to rescue him in his dilemma. 

'It's some warm, ' said Matt, drawing his handkerchief over hisheated brow. 

'Aw durnd know as onybody feels it but thisel, lad, ' replied hismother; 'but thaa con go i' th' garden, if thaa wants to cool abit. Tea's happen made thee sweat. '

Then followed another painful pause, in which Miriam unconsciouslydoubled up a spoon, on seeing which the old woman reminded herthat her 'siller wurnd for marlockin' wi' i' that fashion'; and nosooner had she administered this rebuke than Matt overturned histea. 

'Are yo' two reet i' yor yeds (heads)?' snapped his mother. 'Yo'sit theer gawmless-like, one on yo' breakin' th' spoons, andt'other turnin' teacups o'er. What's come o'er yo'?'

'Mother, ' stammered Matt, 'Miriam has summat to tell yo'. '

'Nay, lad, thaa may tell it thisel, ' said Miriam. 

'Happen thaa cornd for shame, Miriam, ' stammered Matt. 

'I durnd know as I've ought to be ashamed on, but it seems asthough thaa hedn't th' pluck. '

The old woman grew impatient, and, supposing she was being fooled, rose from the table, and said:

'I want to know noan o' your secrets. I durnd know as I ever axedfor 'em, and if yo' wait till aw do, I shall never know 'em. '

'It's happen one as yo'd like to know, though, mother. '

'It's happen one as you'd like to tell, lad, ' replied the oldwoman, softening. 

'Well, if we durnd tell yo', yo'll know soon enough, for it's oneo' them secrets as willn't keep--will it, Miriam?' asked Matt ofhis blushing wife. 

But Miriam was silent, and refused to lift her face from thepattern of the plate over which she bent low. 

'Dun you think yor too owd to be a gronmother?' asked Matt of hisparent, growing in boldness as he warmed to his confession. 

'If I were thee I'd ax mysel if I were young enugh to be afaither, that I would, ' said the old woman. 

'Well, I shall happen be one afore so long, shornd I, Miriam?'

But tears were streaming from Miriam's eyes, and she answered not. 

And then there dawned on the mind of Deborah the cause of herson's confusion, and a light stole across the hard lines of herface as she said:

'Is that it, lad? Thank God! thaa'rt in th' covenant after all. '

III. 

'IT'S A LAD!'

'Naa, Matt, put on thi coite and fotch th' doctor, an tak' carethaa doesn't let th' grass grow under thi feet. '

Matt needed no second bidding. In a moment he was ready, andbefore the old nurse turned to re-ascend the chamber stairs thefaithful fellow was on his way towards the village below. 

It was a morning in November, and as Matt hurried along he passedmany on their way to a day's work at the Bridge Factory in thevale. Most of them knew him, dark though it was, and greeting him, guessed the errand on which he raced. Once or twice he collidedwith those who were slow to get out of his path, and almostoverturned old Amos Entwistle into the goit as he pushed past himon the bank that afforded the nearest cut to the village. 

'Naa, lad, who arto pushin' agen, and where arto baan i' thathurry? Is th' haase o' fire, or has th' missus taan her bed?'

But Matt was beyond earshot before the old man finished his ruderebuke. 

Throughout the whole of his journey Matt's mind was a prey to wildand foreboding passion--passion largely the product of a rude andsuperstitious mind. Questions painful, if not foolish, haunted andtormented him. Would Miriam die? Had not the seven years of theirpast life been too happy to last? Did not his mother once reversethe old Hebrew proverb, and warn him that a night of weeping wouldfollow a morning of joy? Would Heaven be avenged on his occasionalfits of discontent, and grant him his wish for a child at the costof the life of his wife? He had heard how the Almighty discountedHis gifts; how selfish men had to pay dearly for what theywrenched against the will of God. As he hurried, these thoughtsfollowed on as fleet feet as his own, and moaned their voices inhis ears with the sounds of the wind. 

It was not long before he reached Dr. Hale's door, where he solustily rung, that an immediate response was given to his summons, the man of science putting his head through the window and askingin peremptory tones who was there. 

'It's me, doctor--me--Matt, yo' know--Matt Heap--th' missis is i'bed, and some bad an' o'. Ne'er mind dressin'. Come naa;' and thehalf-demented man panted for breath. 

'I'll be with you in a minute, Matt. Don't lose your head, that'sa good fellow, ' and so saying, the doctor withdrew to prepare forthe journey. 

To Matt, the doctor's minute seemed unending. He shuffled his feetimpatiently along the gravel-path, and beat a tattoo with hisfingers on the panels of the door, muttering under his breathwords betraying an impatient and agitated mind; and when at lastthe doctor joined him, ready for departure, the strain of suspensewas so great that both tears and sobs wrung themselves from hisoverstrained nature. 

The two men walked along in silence, Matt being too timid toquestion the doctor, the doctor not caring to give Matt the chanceof worrying him with foolish fears. Now and again Matt in hisimpatience tried to lead the doctor into a run, but in this theself-possessed man checked him, knowing that he covered the mostground who walked with an even step. For a little time Mattsubmitted to the restraint without a murmur. At last, however, hispatience failed him, and he said:

'Do yo' never hurry, doctor?'

'Sometimes, Matt'

'And when is those times, doctor?

'They're bad times, Matt--times of emergency, you know. '

'An' durnd yo' think my missis is hevin' a bad time up at th'cottage yonder? I welly think yo' might hurry up a bit, doctor. You'll geet paid for th' job, yo' know. I'm noan afraid o' th'brass. '

Dr. Hale laughed at the importunity of Matt, but knowing thedoggedness of the man, somewhat quickened his steps, assuring hisimpatient companion that all would be well. The doctor soon, however, regretted his easy-going optimism, for on mounting thebrow before the cottage, Malachi o' th' Mount's wife met him, andrunning out towards him, said:

'Hurry up, doctor; thaa'rt wanted badly, I con tell thee. Hoo'shevin' a bad time on't, and no mistak'. '

It did not take the doctor long to see that his patient was in thethroes of a crisis, and with a will he set about his trying work, all the more confident because he knew the two women by his sidewere experienced hands--hands on whom he could rely in hours ofemergency such as the one he was now called to face. 

As for Matt, he sat in the silent kitchen with his feet on thefender and an unlighted pipe between his teeth. The morning sunhad long since crossed the moors, but its light brought no joy tohis eyes--with him, all was darkness. He heard overhead theoccasional tread of the doctor's foot, and the movements of theministering women, while occasionally one of them would stealquietly down for something needed by the patient above. Betweenthese breaks--welcome breaks to Matt--the silence becamedistressful, and the suspense a burden. Why that hush? What wasgoing on in those fearful pauses? Could they not tell him howMiriam was? Was he not her husband, and had he not a right to knowof her who was his own? By what right did the women--good and kindthough they were--step in between himself and her whom he loveddearer than life? And as these questions pressed him he rose toclimb the stairway and claim a share in ministering to thesufferings of the one who was his own. But when he reached thefoot he paused, his nerve forsook him, and he trembled like a leafbeneath the breeze. Straining his ear, he listened, but no soundcame save a coaxing and encouraging word from the old nurse, or abrief note of instruction from Dr. Hale. Should he call her by hername? Should he address her as Merry, the pet name which he onlyaddressed to her? He opened his lips, but his tongue lay heavy. Hecould scarcely move it, and as he moved it in his attempt tospeak, he heard its sound as it parted from, or came in contactwith, the dry walls of his mouth. How long he could have bornethis suspense it would be hard to say, had he not heard hismother's voice at the kitchen-door calling. 

'Is that yo', mother?' said Matt, dragging himself from the footof the stairway leading to the chamber above. 'Is that yo'?'

'Ey, Matt, whatever's to do wi' thee; aw never see thee look likethat afore. Is Miriam bad, or summat?'

'Nay, mother, they willn't tell me. But go yo' upstairs, and whenyou've sin for yorsel come daan and tell me. '

Old Deborah took her son's advice, and went upstairs to where thesuffering woman lay pale and prostrate. She saw, by a glance atthe doctor's face, that he was more than anxious, while the mutesigns of the nurse and Malachi o' th' Mount's wife confirmed herworst suspicions. 

During his mother's absence there returned on Matt the horriblesuspense which her visit had in part enabled him to throw off. Once more he felt the pressure of the silence, and the room inwhich he sat became haunted with a terrible vacancy--a vacancycold and shadowy with an unrelieved gloom. There all round himwere the familiar household gods; there they stood in theirappointed places, but where was the hand that ruled them, thedeity that gave grace to that domestic kingdom of the moors? Helooked for the shadow of her form as it was wont to fall on thehearth, but there was only a blank. He lent his ear to catch thevoice so often raised in merry snatch of song, but not the echo ofa sound greeted him. There was a room only, swept and garnished, but empty. Then he thought of the great drama of life which wasbeing enacted in the chamber overhead, and he asked himself whythe hours were so many and why they walked with such leaden feet. There was she, his Merry, torn between the forces of life anddeath, giving of her own that she might perpetuate life, andbraving death that life might be its lord--there was she, fightingalone! save for the feeble help of science and the cheer andsuccour of kindly care, while he, strong man that he was, satthere, powerless, his very impotence mocking him, and his groansand anguish but the climax of his despair. 

In a little while Matt's mother came downstairs with hopelessnesswritten on every line of her hard face. 

'Thaa'll hev to mak' up thi mind to say good-bye to Miriam, lad. Hoo's noan baan to howd aat much longer. Hoo's abaat done, poorlass!'

'Yo' mornd talk like that to me, mother, or I'll put yo' aat o'the haase. I'm noan baan to say good-bye to Merry yet, by ---- I'ammot!'

'Well, lad, thaa's no need to be either unnatural nor blasphemouso'er th' job. What He wills, He wills, thaa knows; and if thaawilln't bend, thaa mun break. '

'But I'll do noather, mother. Miriam's noan baan to dee yet, I contell yo'. '

Just then Dr. Hale descended from the chamber, and beckoning Matt, whispered in his ear that he deemed it right to tell him that hefeared the worst would overtake his wife, and that she would liketo see him. 

The words came to Matt as the first great blow of his life. True, he had anticipated the worst; but now that it came it was tenfoldmore severe than his anticipation. Looking at Dr. Hale with eyestoo dry for tears, he said:

'Aw connot see her, doctor; aw connot see her. Yo' an' th' womenmun do yor best; and don't forget to ax the Almighty to help yo'. 'And so saying, Matt went out in despair into the wild Novemberday. 

As he rushed into the raw air the wind dashed the rain in his faceas though to beat him back within his cottage home. Heedless ofthese, however, he pressed forward, wild with grief, seeking tolose his own madness amid the whirl and confusion of the storm. Low-lying, angry clouds seethed round the summits of the distanthills, and mists, like shrouds, hung over the drear and leaflesscloughs. The moorland grasses lay beaten and colourless--greatswamps--reservoirs where lodged the moisture of a long autumn'srain, while the roads were limp and sodden, and heavy for thewayfarer's foot. But Matt was heedless of these; and striking adrift path that crossed the hills, he followed its trend. Along ithe walked--nay, raced rather, like a man pursued. And pursued hewas; for he sought in vain to escape the passions that preyed onhim, tormenting him. Sorrow, anguish, death; these were at hisheels; and, worse than all, he thought his dying wife wasfollowing him, pleading for his return. Why had he forsaken her?Was it not cowardice--the cowardice and selfishness of his grief?Once or twice a fascination took hold of him, and, despite theterror that awed him, he threw a glance over his shoulder to seeif after all he were pursued by the shadow he so much feared tomeet. Then the wind began to utter strange sounds--wailings andlamentations--its burden being a wild entreaty to return; and oncehe thought he heard an infant's cry, and he paused in his despair. 

A steep and rugged path lay before him--a path that led undertrees whose swaying branches flung off raindrops in blindingshowers, and a gleam of light shot shaft-like from a rift in thesombre clouds, and falling across his feet, led him to wonder howheaven could shed a fitful smile on sorrow like his own. 

Familiar with the moods of nature, he deemed the hour to be thatof noon; nor was he mistaken, for the sky began to clear, and withthe light came the return to a calmer mind. He now, for the firsttime, realized the folly--probably the disaster--of his flight. Might he not be needed at the cottage? Was not his dying wife'sprayer for his presence and succour? Had not an unmanlyselfishness led him to play the coward? Thoughts like these ledhim to marshal his resolves, and turn his steps towards the valleybelow. 

No sooner did he do this than a strong self-possession came tohim, and swift was his return. The clouds were now parting, and asthey chased one another towards the distant horizon, the sun--thewatery November sun--shone out in silver upon the great stretch ofmoorland, and lit it up like a sea of light. Little globes ofcrystal glistened on the hedgerows, and many-coloured raindropsglowed like jewelled points on the blades of green that lay abouthis feet. A great arch of sevenfold radiance spanned the valley, based on either side from the twin slopes, and reaching with itscrown to the summit of the skies. It was now a passage from Hebrewtradition came to his mind, and he thought of him of whom the poetwrote, 'and as he passed over Penuel, the sun rose upon him. '

And yet his heart failed him as he drew within sight of thecottage door. Was it the house of life, or the house of death?--orwas it the house where death and life alike were victorious? Hepaused, and felt the blood flow back to its central seat, whilehis bones began to shake, and his heart was poured out like water. But the battle was won, though the struggle was not over, and hepressed on towards his home. 

The first thing he saw on entering the door was Dr. Hale seatedbefore a cup of steaming tea, with a great weariness in his eye, who, when he saw Matt, threw a look of rebuke, and in somewhatstern tones said:

'You can go upstairs, Matt, if you like; it's all over. '

With a spasm in his throat Matt was about to ask what it was thatwas all over; but he was forestalled by old Malachi's wife, who, pushing her head through the staircase doorway into the room, cried:

'It's a lad, Matt, and a fine un an' o'!'

'Hang th' lad!' cried Matt; 'how's Miriam?'

'Come and see for thisel; hoo's bin waitin' for thee this hawvehaar. '

With a bound or two Matt cleared the stairway and stood by theside of Miriam. 

There she lay, poor girl! limp and exhausted, wrapped in her oldgown like a mummy, her long, wet hair, which was scattered intresses on the pillow, throwing, in its dark frame, her face intostill greater pallor. 

'Thaa munnot speak, Miriam, ' said the nurse in a low tone. 'Ifthaa moves tha'll dee. Thaa can kiss her, Matt; but that's all. '

Matt kissed his wife, and baptized her with his warm tears. 

'And hesn't thaa getten a word for th' child, Matt?' cried oldDeborah, who sat with a pulpy form upon her knees before the fire. 'It's thy lad and no mistak'; it favours no one but thisel. Lookat its yure (hair), bless it!' And old Deborah stooped over it andwept. Wept--which she had never done since her girlhood's days. 

But Matt's eyes were fixed on Miriam, until she, breaking throughthe orders of the doctor, said:

'Matt, do look at th' baby--it's thine, thaa knows. '

And then Matt looked at the baby. For the first time in his lifehe looked at a new-born baby, and at a baby to whom he was linkedby ties of paternity, and his heart went out towards the littlepalpitating prophecy of life--so long expected, and perfected atsuch a price. And he took it in his arms, while old Deborah said:

'Thaa sees, lad, God's not forgetten to be gracious. Th' promiseis still to us and aars. '

But Malachi's wife sent Matt downstairs, saying:

'We'n had enugh preachin' and cryin'. Go and ged on wi' thi wark. Th' lass is on th' mend, and hoo'll do gradely weel. '

IV. 

THE LEAD OF THE LITTLE ONE. 

The child grew, and its first conquest was the heart of oldDeborah. Before the little life she bowed, and what herCalvinistic creed was weak to do for her, a love for her grandsonaccomplished. Often and long would she look into his face as helay in her arms, until at last she, too, caught the child-featureand the child-smile. Rehoboth said old Deborah was renewing heryouth; for she had been known to laugh and croon, and more thanonce purse up her old lips to sing a snatch of nursery rhyme--athing which in the past she had denounced as tending to 'mak'childer hush't wi' th' songs o' sin. ' The hard look died away fromher eyes, and her mouth ceased to wear its sealed and drawnexpression. The voice, too, became low and mellow, and herreligion, instead of being that of the Church, was now that of thehome. 

One morning, while carrying the child through the meadows, she wasovertaken by Amos Entwistle, who stopped her, saying:

'Tak' care, Deborah, tak' care, or the Almeety will overthrow thiidol. Thaa'rt settin' thi affections on things o' th' earth; andHe'll punish thee for it. '

'An' do yo' co this babby one o' th' things o' th' earth?' criedthe old woman fiercely. 

'Yi, forsure I do. What else mut it be?'

'Look yo' here, Amos, ' said Deborah, raising the child in her armsso that her rebuker might look into its little features, ruddy andreposeful--features where God's fresh touch still lingered; 'lukyo' here. Han yo' never yerd that childer's angels awlus beholdth' face o' their Faither aboon?'

'Eh! Deborah, lass, aw never thought as Mr. Penrose ud turn thiyed and o'. Theer's a fearful few faithful ones laft i' Zionnaa-a-days. Bud aw tell thee, th' Lord'll smite thi idol, andit'll be thro' great tribulation that tha'll enter th' Kingdom. '

'I'd ha' yo' to know, Amos Entwistle, that I'm noan in yorcatechism class, an' I'm noan baan to be. Yo' can tak' an' praitchyor rubbidge somewheer else. Yo've no occasion to come to me, Icon tell yo'. ' And then, looking down at the reposeful littleface, she kissed it, and continued, 'Did he co thee an idol, mydarlin'? Ne'er heed him, owd powse ud he is!'

Before nightfall Deborah's encounter with Amos was the talk ofRehoboth, and it was freely reported that the old woman had becomean infidel. Whether the cause of her infidelity resulted from Mr. Penrose's preaching or the advent of her grandchild was a disputedpoint. Old Amos declared, however, 'that there were a bit o' bothin it, but he feared th' chilt more than th' parson. '

Deborah's first great spiritual conflict--as they called it inRehoboth--was when her grandchild cut its first teeth. The eye ofthe grandmother had been quick to note a dulness and sleepiness inthe baby--strange to a child of so lively and observant aturn--and judging that the incisors were parting the gums, shewore her finger sore with rubbing the swollen integuments. 

One morning, as she was continuing these operations, she felt thechild stiffen on her knee, and looking, saw the little eyes glideand roll as though drawn by a power foreign to the will. Aneighbour, who was hastily called, declared it to be convulsions, and for some hours the little life hung in the balance. It wasduring these hours that Deborah fought her first and only greatfight with Him whom she had been taught to address as 'th'Almeety. '

Ever since her conflict with Amos, she could not free her mindfrom superstitious thoughts about 'the idol. ' Did she love thechild overmuch, and would her over-love be punished by the child'sdeath? She had heard and read of this penalty which the Almightyimposed upon those who loved the creature more than the Creator;and she, poor soul, to hinder this, had tried to love both theGiver and the gift. Nay, did she not love the Giver all the more, because she loved the gift so much? This was the question thatvexed her. Why had God given her something to love if He did notmean her to love it?--and could she love too much what God hadgiven? Once she put this question to Mr. Penrose, and his replylived in her mind: 'If there is no limit to God's love of us, whyshould we fear to love one another too dearly or too well?' Butnow the test had come. The child was in danger; a shadow fell onthe idol. Was it the shadow of an angry God--a God insulted by adivided love?

It was in the torturing hold of questions such as these that sheonce more met Amos, who, laying the flattering unction to his soulthat he could forgive his enemies, struck a stab straight at herheart by saying:

'Well, Deborah, th' chilt's dying, I yer. I towd thee he would. Th' Almeety goes hawves wi' no one. He'll hev all or noan. '

'What! doesto mak' aat He's as selfish as thisel, Amos? Nay, I munhev a better God nor thee. '

'Well, a' tell thee, He's baan to tak' th' lad, so thaa mut asweel bow to His will. Them as He doesn't bend He breaks. '

'Then He'll hev to break me, Amos; for aw shall never bend, aw contell thee. ' And the old woman stiffened herself, as though indefiance of the Providence which Amos preached. 

'Why, Deborah, thaa'rt wur nor a potsherd. Thaa knows thi Bible:"Let the potsherds strive wi' th' potsherds; but woe to th' monthat strives wi' his Maker. "'

'Well, I'm baan to wrostle wi' Him, an' if He flings me aw shannotax yo' to pick me up, noather. '

'Thaa mun say, "Thy will be done, " Deborah. '

'Nowe! never to th' deeath o' yon chilt. '

'Doesto say thaa willn't?'

'Yi, Amos, aw do!'

Then Amos turned away, groaning in spirit at the rebellious heartsof the children of men. 

The child came safely through the convulsions, however, and as thesharp edges of the little teeth gleamed through the gums, the oldwoman would rub her finger over them until she felt the smart, andwith tearful eye thank God for the gift He had spared, as well asfor the gift He had granted--little dreaming that as she nursedher treasure she nursed also her mentor--one who, though in thefeebleness of infancy, was drawing her back to a long-lostchildhood, and bidding return to her the days of youth. 

The old grandmother now became the light of Matt and Miriam'shome. Instead of paying the occasional visit at her house, she wasever at theirs--indeed, she could not rest away from the child. Miriam long since had ceased to fear her. 'The little un, ' as sheused to tell Matt, 'had drawed th' owd woman's teeth;' to whichMatt used to reply, 'Naa, lass, the teeth's there, but hoo's gi'eno'er bitin'. '

Not infrequently, both son and daughter would rally her on themany indulgences she granted the child, and Matt often told herthat what 'he used to ged licked for, th' chilt geet kissed for. 'Mr. Penrose, too, ventured to discuss theology with Matt in theold woman's presence, and she no longer eyed him with angry fireas he discoursed from the Rehoboth pulpit on the larger hope. Asfor Amos Entwistle, he continued to prophesy the death of thechild, and when it still lived and throve, in spite of hisprediction, he contented himself by saying that 'Deborah hedturned the Owd Testament blessin' into a curse. '

 * * * * *

On Sunday afternoons Matt and Miriam would leave the boy at hisgrandmother's while they went to the service at Rehoboth. Then itwas the old woman took down the family Bible, and showed to himthe plates representative of the marvels of old. These began towork on the child's imagination; and once, when the book lay openat Revelation, he fastened his little eyes on a hideousrepresentation of the bottomless pit. 

'What's that, gronny?' said he, pointing to the picture. 

'That, mi lad, is th' hoile where all th' bad fo'k go. '

'Who dug it? Did owd Joseph, gronny?'

'Nowe, lad; owd Joseph nobbud digs hoiles for fo'k's bodies. Thathoile is fer their souls. '

'What's them, gronny?'

'Nay, lad! A connot tell thee reet--but it's summat abaat us as wecarry wi' us--summat, thaa knows, that never dees. '

'And why do they put it in a hoile, gronny? Is it to mak' itbetter?'

'Nay, lad; they put it i' th' hoile because it's noan good. '

'Then it's summat like mi dad when I'm naughty, an' he says he'llput me i' th' cellar hoile. '

'But he never does--does he, lad?' asked the grandmotheranxiously. 

'Nowe, gronny. He nobbud sez he will. ' And then, after a pause, hecontinued, 'But, gronny, if God sez He'll put 'em in He'll do asHe sez--willn't He?'

'Yi, lad; He will, forsure. '

'An' haa long does He keep 'em in when He gets 'em theer? Tillto-morn t'neet?'

'Longer lad. '

'Till Kesmas?'

'Yi, lad. '

'Longer nor Kesmas?'

'Yi, lad. But ne'er heed. Here's summat to eat. Sithee, I bakedthee a pasty. '

'I noan want th' pasty, gronny. I want to yer abaat th' hoile. Haalong does God keep bad fo'k in it?'

'Ey, lad. I wish thaa'd hooisht! What doesto want botherin' thilittle yed wi' such like talk?'

'Haa long does He keep 'em i' th' hoile?' persistently asked theboy. 

'Well, if thaa mun know, He keeps 'em in for ever. '

'An' haa long's that, gronny? Is it as long as thee?'

'As long as me, lad! Whatever doesto mean?'

'I mean is forever as long as thaa'rt owd? Haa owd arto, gronny?'

'I'm sixty-five, lad. '

'Well, does He keep 'em i' the hoile sixty-five years?'

'Yi, lad. He does, forsure. But thi faither never puts thee i' th'cellar hoile when thaa's naughty, does he?'

'Nowe. I tell thee he nobbud sez he will, '

'By Guy, lad! If ever he puts thee i' th' cellar hoile--whetherthaa'rt naughty or not--thaa mun tell me, and I'll lug his yed forhim. ' And the old woman became indignant in her mien. 

'But if God puts fo'k i' th' hoile, why shuldn't mi faither put mei' th' hoile? It's reet to do as God does--isn't it, gronny?'

'Whatever wilto ax me next, lad?' cried the worn-out and perplexedold woman. 'Come, shut up th' Bible, and eat thi pasty. '

But the little fellow's appetite was gone, and as he fell asleepon the settle his slumber was fitful, for dark dreams disturbedhim--he had felt the first awful shadow of a dogmatic faith. 

Nor was old Deborah less disturbed. Sitting by the fire, with oneeye on the child and the other on her Bible, the gloomy shadows ofa shortening day creeping around her, she, too, with her mind'seye, saw the regions of woe--the flaming deeps where hope comesnever. What if that were her grandchild's doom!--her grandchild, whose father she would smite if even for a moment he shut hislittle son up in the cellar of his home! How her heart loathed thepassion, the cruelty, that would wreak such an act! And yet Hewhom she called God had reserved blackness and darkness for everfor the disobedient and rebellious. 

Horror took hold of her, and the sweat moistened her brow. Thefirelight played on the curls of the sleeping boy, and she startedas she thought of that other fire that was never quenched, and sherose and shook her clenched hand at heaven as the possibility ofthe singeing of a single hair of the child passed through hermind. 

For a time Deborah stood alone, without a God, the faith in whichshe had been trained, and in which she had sheltered in righteoussecurity, shrinking into space until she found herself in the voidof a darkness more terrible than that of the pit which she hadbeen speaking of to the child. She saw how that hitherto she hadonly believed she believed, and that now, when her soul wastouched in its nether deeps, she had never believed at all in thecreed which she had fought for and upheld with such bitterness. There, in the twilight of that Sabbath evening, she uttered what, to Rehoboth, would have been a terrible renunciation, just as alurid beam shot its level fire across the moors, and as the sunwent down, leaving her in the horror of a great darkness. 

And then, in the gathering gloom, was heard the voice of the childcalling:

'Gronny! Gronny!'

'Well, mi lad, what is't?'

'Gronny, I don't believe i' th' hoile. '

'Bless thee, my darlin'--no more do I. '

'I durnd think as God ud send me where yo' an' mi dad wouldn't letme go--would He, gronny?'

'Nowe, lad, He wouldn't, forsure. '

And then, lighting the lamp, and turning with the old superstitionto her Bible to see what the law and the testimony had to say asshe opened it at random, her eyes fell on the words: 'If ye, then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, howmuch more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things tothem that ask Him. '

That afternoon, when Matt and Miriam returned from Rehoboth, theyfound old Deborah less than the little child she watched over; forshe, too, had not only become as a little child, but, as she said, least among the little ones. 

VII. 

HOW MALACHI O' TH' MOUNT WON HIS WIFE. 

'So yo' want to know haa aw geet hand o' my missus, dun yo', Mr. Penrose? Well, if hoo'll nobbud be quiet while aw'm abaat it, aw'll tell yo'. '

And so saying, Malachi drew his chair to the fire, and blew acloud of tobacco-smoke towards the rows of oat-cakes that hung onthe brade fleygh over his head. 

'It's forty year sin' I furst wore shoe-leather i' Rehoboth, Mr. Penrose. '

'Nay, lad, it's noan forty year whol Candlemas. It were February, thaa knows, when thaa come; and it's nobbud October yet. An' thaadidn't wear shoon noather, thaa wore clogs--clogs as big as boats, Mr. Penrose; an' they co'd him Clitter-clatter for a nickname. Hasto forgetten, Malachi?'

'Aw wish thaa wouldn't be so plaguey partic'lar, lass, an' let afelley get on wi' his tale, ' said Malachi to his wife. And then, turning to Mr. Penrose, he continued: 'Aw were tryin' to say as itwere forty year sin' I come to Rehoboth. '

'Forty year come Candlemas, Malachi. '

'Yi, forty year come Candlemas. Aw were bred and born aboonPadiham, an' aw come to th' Brig Factory as cut-looker, an' neverlaft th' job till aw went to weighin' coil on th' pit bonk. '

'All but that eighteen month thaa were away i' Yorksur, when th'cotton panic were on, thaa knows, lad. '

'Yi, lass, aw know. Naa let me ged on wi' mi tale. Well, as awwere sayin', Mr. Penrose, I come in these parts as cut-looker atth' Brig Factory, and th' fust lass as brought her piece to mewere Betty yonder. '

'Thaa'rt wrang agen, Malachi. Th' fust lass as brought her pieceto thee were Julia Smith. Aw remember as haa hoo went in afore me, as though it were nobbud yester morn. '

'Well, never mind, thaa wur t' fust I seed, an' that's near enugh, isn't it, Mr. Penrose?'

The minister nodded, and smiled at old Betty, who so jealouslyfollowed the story of her husband's early life. 

'Well, when hoo put her piece daan afore me, I couldn't tak' mieen off her. Aw were fair gloppent (taken by surprise), an' aw didnaught but ston' an' stare at her. 

'"What arto starin' at?" hoo said, flushin' up to her yure (hair). 

'"At yo', " I said, as gawmless as a nicked goose. 

'"Then thaa'd better use thi een for what th'art paid for, an'look at them pieces i'stead o' lookin' at lasses' faces. "

'And hoo walked aat o' th' warehaase like a queaan. An' dun yo'remember, Betty, haa th' young gaffer laffed at me, an' said as awcould noan play wi' th' likes o' yo'?'

'Yi, aw remember, Malachi; but ged on wi' yor tale. Mr. Penrosehere is fair plagued. '

'Indeed, I'm not. Go on, Malachi. Take your own time, and tellyour story in your own fashion. '

'Aw will, Mr. Penrose, if hoo'll nobbud let me. Betty were afour-loom weyver; and i' those days there wernd so many lasses ascould tackle th' job. An' th' few that could were awlus piked uppratty quick for wives--for them as married 'em had no need towork theirsels, and had lots o' time on their hands for laking(playing) and such-like. Bud that wernd th' reason aw made up toBetty. It wernd th' looms that fetched me; it were her een. There's some breetness in 'em yet; bud yo' should ha' sin 'emforty years sin'! They leeted up her bonnie cheeks like dewdropsi' roses; an' noabry 'at looked i' them could see ought wrang i''em. '

'Malachi, if thaa doesn't hold thi tung I'll smoor (smother) theewi' this stockin'. Thaa'rt as soft as when thaa were a lad;' andthe old woman held up the article of clothing that she was darningin her hand, and shook it in a threatening manner at her eloquentspouse. 

'In a bit, Mr. Penrose, I geet as I couldn't for shame to lookinto Betty's een at all; an' then aw took to blushin' every timehoo come i' th' warehouse wi' her pieces, an' when hoo spoke, awtrembled all o'er like a barrow full o' size. One day hoo'd afloat in her piece, and aw couldn't find it i' mi heart to bateher. And when th' manager fun it aat, he said if I'd gone softo'er Betty, it were no reason why aw should go soft o'er mi wark, and he towd me to do mi courtin' i' th' fields and not i' th'factory. But it were yeasier said nor done, aw can tell yo', forBetty were a shy un, and bided a deal o' gettin' at. 

'There used to be a dur (door) leadin' aat o' th' owd warehaaseinto th' weyvin' shed, an' one day aw get a gimlik an' bored ahoile so as aw could peep thro' an' see Betty at her wark. Itwernd so often as aw'd a chance, bud whenever th' manager's backwere turned, an' aw were alone, I were noan slow to tak' mychance. It were wheer I could just see Betty at her looms. Blessthee, lass, aw think aw can see thee naa, bendin' o'er thi loomswi' a neck as praad as a swan's, thi fingers almost as nimble asth' shuttle, an' that voice o' thine treblin' like a brid!'

'Do ged on wi' yor tale, Malachi; what does Mr. Penrose want toknow abaat lasses o' forty year sin'? He's geddin' one o' hisown--and that's enough for him, aw'm sure. '

'Aw nobbud want him to know that there were bonnie lasses i' aartime as well as i' his--that were all, Betty. '

'Well, ged on wi' yo', an' durnd be so long abaat it, Malachi. '

'One day, Mr. Penrose, as aw were peepin' through th' hoile i' th'warehaase dur at Betty, aw could see that there were summat wrongwi' one o' th' warps, for hoo were reachin' and sweatin' o'er th'loom, an' th' tackler were stannin' at her side, an' a deal toonear and o' for my likin', aw con tell yo'. 

'Just as hoo were stretchin' her arm, and bendin' her shoulders toget owd o' th' ends, the tackler up wi' his an' clips her raandth' waist. 

'Well, hoo were up like a flesh o' greased leetnin', and fetchedhim a smack o'er th' face as made him turn the colour o' tallercandles. Yo' remember that, Betty, durnd yo'?

'Yi! aw remember that, Malachi, ' said the old woman, proudlyrecalling the days of her youthful prowess; 'there were no man 'atever insulted me twice. '

'When aw see th' tackler put his arm raand Betty, I were throughth' dur and down th' alley wi' a hop, skip and jump, and hed himon th' floor before yo' could caant twice two. We rowl'd o'ertogether, for he were a bigger mon nor me, an' I geet my yedjowled agen th' frame o' th' loom. But I were no white-plucked un, an' aw made for him as if aw meant it. He were one too mony, however, for he up wi' his screw-key and laid mi yed open, an'I've carried this mark ever sin'. ' And the old man pointed to ascar, long since healed, in his forehead. 'Then they poo'd usapart, an' said we mutn't feight among th' machinery, so we geetup an' agreed to feight it aat i' th' Far Holme meadow that neet, an' we did. We fought for over hawve an haar, summat like fifteenraands, punsin' and o' (kicking with clogs). As aw told yo', hewere th' bigger mon; bud then aw hed a bit o' science o' mi side, an' I were feytin' for th' lass aw luved, an' when he come up forth' fifteenth time, I let drive atween his een, and he never seeddayleet for a fortnit. '

'An' thaa were some stiff when it were all o'er, Malachi, ' saidBetty. 

'Yo're reet, lass! Aw limped for more nor a week, but aw geetthee, an' aw meant it, if aw'd had to feight fifteen raandsmore--'

'So, like the knights of olden time, Malachi, you fought for yourfair lady and won her. '

'Nay, Mr. Penrose, you morn'd think he nobbud won me wi' a feight;he'd summat else to do for me beside that. Aw noan put mysel upfor a boxin' match, aw con tell yo'. '

'Nowe, Mr. Penrose, th' feight were nobbud th' start like. It weresometime afore th' job were settled. Yo' see, I were a shy sort o'a chap and back'ard like at comin' for'ard. One day, haaever, Molly o' th' Long Shay come up to me when th' factory were losin', and hoo said, "Malachi, arto baan to let Amos Entwistle wed thatlass o' Cronshaw's? for if thaa art thaa'rt a foo' (fool). Thaa'rtfond o' her, and hoo's fond o' thee. If hoo's too praad to ax theeto be her husband hoo's noan too praad to say 'Yea' if tha'llnobbud ax her to be thi wife. "

'Molly o' Long Shay were noan sich a beauty, bud aw felt as awcould aw liked to ha' kuss'd her that day, an' no mistak'. 

'"Ey, Molly, " aw said, "if aw thought thaa spok' truth, aw'd seeBetty to-neet. "

'"See her, mon, " hoo said, "an' get th' job sattled. "

'Well, yo' mun know, Mr. Penrose, that Betty's faither were fondo' rootin' i' plants, an' as aw'd a turn that way mysel I thoughtaw'd just walk up as far as his haase, and buy a twothree, and tryand hev a word wi' Betty i' th' bargain. So aw weshed mysel, anddonned mi Sunday best, and went up. 

'When aw geet theer, Betty were i' th' garden by hersel, as herfaither were gone to a deacons' meetin' at Rehoboth. 

'"What arto doin' up here, Malachi?" hoo sez. 

'"I've nobbud come up to see thi faither abaat some flaars, " awstuttered. 

'"He'll noan be up for an hour or two yet, " hoo said. "He's goneto Rehoboth. Is it a flaar as aw con get for thee?"

'"Yi!" aw sez, "yo' con get me th' flaar aw want. "

'"Which is it?" said hoo. "Is it one o' those lilies mi faithergeet fro' th' hall?"

'"Nowe, " aw said; "it didn't come fro' th' hall; it awlus grow'dhere. "

'"Well, if thaa'll tell me which it is, thaa shall hev it; whereabaats is it?"

'Mr. Penrose, did yo' ever try an' shap' your mouth to tell a lassas yo' luved hir?'

Mr. Penrose remained silent. 

'Well, if ever yo' did, then yo' know haa aw felt when hoo axed mewhere th' flaar were as aw wanted. Aw couldn't for shame to tellher. Then hoo turned on me an' said:

'"If thaa'll tell me where the flaar is I'll give it thee, butdon't stand grinnin' theer. "

'Then aw plucked up like. Aw said: "Aw think thaa knows where th'flaar is, Betty. An' as thaa said I mun hev it, I'll tak' it. " AndI gave her a kuss on th' cheek 'at were nearest to me. '

'And did she strike you as she struck the tackler?' asked Mr. Penrose. 

'Did hoo strike me--? Nowe; hoo turned t'other cheek and geet abetter and longer kuss nor th' first. '

'So that is how Malachi won you, is it, Betty? The story is wortha chapter in a novel. '

'Nay, aw wernd so easily won as that, Mr. Penrose. There weresummat else i' th' way, and aw welly thought once he'd ha' lostme. '

'And what was that?'

'Well, yo' see, ' said Malachi, 'Betty were a dipper, an' I were asprinkler. And when I axed th' old mon for Betty he said asdippin' and sprinklin' wouldn't piece up. And then hoo were aCalvin an' I were a Methody, and that were wur and wur. 

'Th' owd mon stood to his gun, and wouldn't say "Yez" till I gavein; an' aw stood to mi gun, and to Betty an' o', an' towd herfaither 'at aw were as good as ony on 'em. One day th' lass cometo me wi' tears in her een, and said:

'"Malachi, didsto ever read Solomon's Song?"

'"Yi, forsure aw did. Why doesto ax me that question?"

'"Doesto remember th' seventh verse o' th' last chapter?" hoosaid. 

'"Aw cannot say as 'ow I do. What is it?"

'"It's that, " said hoo, puttin' her little Bible i' my hand. 

'And when I tuk it aw read, "Many waters cannot quench love. "

'"Well, " aw sez, "what abaat that?"

'"Why, " hoo cried, "thaa'rt lettin' Rehoboth waters quench thine. "

'"Haa doesto mean?" aw axed. 

'"Why, thaa willn't be dipped for me. "'

Here Mr. Penrose broke into a hearty laugh, and complimentedBetty, telling her she was the sort of woman to make 'converts tothe cause. ' Then old Malachi put on his wisest look, andcontinued:

'Mr. Penrose, aw mut as weel tell yo' afore yo' get wed, that it'sno use feightin' agen a woman. They're like Bill o' th' Goit'sdonkey, they'll goa their own gate, an' th' more yo' bother wi''em th' wur they are. A mon's wife mak's him. Hoo shap'severythin' for him, his clooas, his gate, and his religion an' o'. Talk abaat clay i' th' honds o' th' potter, why it's naught to aman i' th' honds o' his missus. '

'So you were baptized for the love of Betty, were you, Malachi?'

'Yi; bud I were no hypocrite abaat it, for aw told her aw shouldnever be a Calvin, an' aw never have bin. Doesto remember whatthaa said, Betty, when aw tell'd thee aw should never be aCalvin?'

'Nay, aw forget, lad; it's so long sin'. '

'Bud aw haven't forgetten. Thaa said, "Never mind, thaa's no needto tell mi faither that; thaa can keep it to thisel. " Aw'll tellyo' what, Mr. Penrose, a woman's as deep as th' Longridge pitshaft. '

'Well, thaa's never rued o'er joinin' Rehoboth, Malachi. '

'I've never rued o'er weddin' thee, lass; an' aw think if thaa'dgone to a wur place nor Rehoboth aw should ha' followed thee. Leastways, I shouldn't ha' liked thee to 'a' tempted me. '

'But thaa's not tell'd him all, Malachi. '

'Nowe, lass, aw hevn't, but aw will. Have yo' seen yon rose-treethat grows under the winder--that tree that is welly full durin'th' season?'

The minister nodded. 

'Well, when aw fetched her fro' her faither, hoo said aw mun tak aflaar an' o', as aw coomd for one on th' neet as aw geet her. Soaw took one o' th' owd felley's rose-trees, an' planted it underaar winder theer, and theer it's stood for nigh on forty year, come blow, come snow, come sun, come shade, an' the roses arestill as fresh an' sweet as ever. An' so art thaa, owd lass, ' andMalachi got up and kissed into bloom the faded, yet healthy, cheekof Betty, his conquest of whom he had just narrated to Mr. Penrose, and whom he still so dearly loved. 

VIII. 

MR. PENROSE BRINGS HOME A BRIDE. 

When Rehoboth heard of the coming marriage of Mr. Penrose manywere its speculations on the woman he was taking for wife. AmosEntwistle said 'he'd be bun for't that th' lass wouldn't be baatbrass noather in her pocket nor in her face'; to which old Enoch'swife replied that 'hoo'd need both i' Rehoboth, where they fed th'parson on scaplins (stone chippings), and teed his tung withdeacons' resolutions. '

Milly wondered 'if th' lass 'ud be pratty, ' and 'what colour hereen 'ud be'; while old Joseph declared 'hoo'd be mightyhigh-minded, but that hoo were comin' to wheer hoo'd be takkendaan a bit. '

The most philosophic judgment was that of Malachi o' th' Mount, who, turning on Amos one evening in the chapel yard, said:

'Look here, owd lad; it were yor pleasure to stop single; it weremine to get wed. We both on us pleeased aarsels; let th' parson doth' same. He'll noan ax thee to live wi' th' lass; he'll live wi'her hissel. Then let him pleease hissel. '

One or two of the women vexed themselves as to whether she wouldbe a Martha or a Mary; and when Deborah Heap was appealed to shesaid, 'Let's hope hoo'll be a bit o' both. '

Old Joseph, overhearing this last remark, injected his venom byhinting that 'no doubt hoo'd be a Mary, but that th' maister atwhose feet hoo'd sit would be a different sort to Him as went toBethany. '

Then it was Abraham Lord's wife suggested that Joseph should 'findth' parson a pair o' wings, so as he might mate hissel wi' aangel, for she was sure naught less 'ud suit Rehoboth fo'k. ' AndOliver o' Deaf Martha's wife climaxed the discussion by saying, 'if that were bein' a parson's wife, hoo'd rather be where hoowere, although their Oliver did tak' drink and ooine (punish)her. '

'I'll tell thee what, lad, ' said Mrs. Lord to her husband on thenight of the chapel yard conclave--'I'll tell thee what. I feelfair grieved for that lass th' parson's wed. They'n mad' up theirminds they'll never tak' to her; and there's no changin' th' mindo' Rehoboth. '

'But we'll tak' to her, mother, ' cried Milly, crossing, with hercrutch, from the window at which she had been sitting, to take herplace at her mother's side. 'We'll tak' to her; aw con luv onybody'at Mr. Penrose luves. '

'Bless thee, lass! aw beleeve thaa con. An' we will tak' to her, as thaa sez. Fancy thee leavin' me to get wed, an' livin' i' astrange place, and all th' fo'k set agen thee afore they see thee!It mak's mi heart fair wark (ache). '

'But thaa knows, misses, hoo'll happen not tak' to thee an' Milly. Hoo'll happen be a bit aboon yo'--high-minded like. '

'Hoo'll tak' to Milly if hoo's takken to Mr. Penrose, lad; thaa'llsee if hoo doesn't. Didn't he read a bit aat o' one o' her letterswhere hoo said hoo were fain longin' to see Milly becose hoo likedth' flaars an' stars an' sich like?'

'Yi; he did forsure. '

'Aw know hoo'll tak' to me, mother. An' if hoo doesn't, I'll mak'her, that's all. '

'Aw don't somehaa think 'at Mr. Penrose ud wed a praad woman, Abram. Do yo'?'

'I durnd think he would, lass. Bud then th' best o' men mak'mistakes o'er th' women they wed. '

'Yi; they say luv's gawmless; but aw welly think Mr. Penrose knowswhat he's abaat. '

'Th' Lord help him, if he doesn't! They say a mon hes to ax hiswife if he's to live. '

'Aw yerd Amos say t'other day, faither, that a chap hed to livethirty year wi' a woman afore he know'd he were wed. '

'Did th' owd powse say that, lass?' cried Milly's mother. 'Inobbud wish I'd yerd him. He's lived more nor thirty year baatone, an' a bonny speciment he is. Bud it's a gradely job for th'woman 'at missed him. He were welly weddin' Malachi o' th' Mount'swife once over. '

'Yi; hoo'd a lucky miss, an' no mistak'. But happen hoo'd ha'snapped him. '

'Never, lad. There's some felleys that no woman can shap', andAmos is one o' em. '

'Aw towd him, faither, that yo' know'd yo' were wed, and yo'dnobbud been agate seventeen year. '

'An' what did he say to that, Milly?' asked her mother. 

'Why, he towd me aw know'd too mich. '

And at this both Abraham and his wife joined in hearty laughter. 

'When does Penrose bring his wife to Rehoboth, missis?'

'Saturday neet. We's see her for th' fust time o' Sunday mornin'. Hoo's baan to sit wi' Dr. Hale. '

'There'll be some een on her, aw bet, ' said Abraham. 

'Wernd there, just. Poor lass! I could fair cry for her when awthink abaat it. An' away fro' her mother, an' o'. '

'But then hoo'll hev her husband, wernd hoo?' asked Milly. 

'For sure hoo will; bud he'll be i' th' pulpit, and not agen herto keep her fro' bein' 'onely like. '

'Ey, mother, aw sometimes think it must be a grand thing for awoman to see her felley in a pulpit. '

'Don't thee go soft on parsons, lass, ' said her father. 

 * * * * *

If there had been no other welcome to the minister's wife on herSabbath advent at Rehoboth, there was the welcome of Nature--thewelcome born of the bridal hour of morn with moorland, when theawakening day bends over, and clasps with its glory the underlyingand far-reaching hills. From out a cloudless sky--save wherewreaths of vapour fringed the rounding blue--the sun put forth hisgolden arms towards the heathery sweeps that lay with theirrounded bosoms greedy for his embrace, and gave himself inwantonness to his bride, kissing her fair face into blushingloveliness, and calling forth from the womb of the morning amyriad forms of life. Earth lay breathless in the clasp ofheaven--they twain were one, perfect in union, and in spiritundivided. Rehoboth was seductive with a sweetness known only tothe nuptials of Nature in a morning of sunshine on the moors. 

It wanted two hours before service, and the young wife waswandering among the flowers of the garden of the manse that was tobe her home, her spouse seated at his study window intent on themanuscript of his morning's discourse. Intent? Nay, for his eyeoften wandered from the underscored pages to the girl-wife whoglided with merry heart and lithe footstep from flower to flower, her skirts wet as she swept the dew-jewels that glistened on thelawn and borders of the gay parterres. She, poor girl! supposingherself unwatched, drank deeply of the morning gladness, herjoyous step now and again falling into the rhythmic movements of adance. She even found herself humming airs that were notsacred--airs forbidden even on weekdays in the puritanic precinctsof Rehoboth--airs she had learned in the distant city once herhome. Was she not happy? and does not happiness voice itself insong? And is not the song of the happy always sacred--and sacredeven on the most sacred of days?

Alas! alas! little did the young wife know the puritanic mood ofRehoboth. Behind the privet hedge fencing off the paradise, onthis good Sunday morning, lurked Amos Entwistle. 

The old man, hearing the voice on his way to Sunday-school, stopped, and, peeping through the fence, saw what confirmed hisbitterest prejudices against the woman whom Mr. Penrose hadmarried; and before a half-hour was passed every teacher andscholar in Rehoboth school was told that 'th' parson bed wed adoncin' lass fro' a theyater. '

Standing in his desk before the first hymn was announced, Amoscried in loud tones:

'Aw seed her mysel donce i' th' garden, on God's good Sunday morn. I seed her donce like that brazened (impudent) wench did aforeKing Herod, him up i' his study-winder skennin' at her when heought to ha' bin sayin' o' his prayers. An' aw yerd her sing somemak' o' stuff abaat luv, and sich like rubbidge. What sort o' awife dun yo' co that? G' me a lass as can strike up _Hepzibah_, and mak' a prayer. It's all o' a piece--short weight i' doctrin', and falderdals i' wives. '

And as Amos finished the delivery of this sentiment, and held theopen hymn-book in his hand, he reached over to administer a blowon the ears of a child who was peeping through the window at alittle bird trilling joyously on the deep-splayed sill outside. 

During the pause between the close of Sunday-school and thecommencement of morning service, congregation and scholarsdarkened the chapel yard in gossiping groups, each on the tiptoeof curiosity to catch a first glimpse of the bride of theirpastor. All eyes were turned towards the crown of the hill whichled up from the manse, and on which Mr. Penrose and his wife wouldfirst be seen. More than once an approaching couple were mistakenfor them, and more than once disappointment darkened the faces ofthe waiting folk. With some of the older members wearinessovercame curiosity, and they entered the doors, through which camethe sound of instruments in process of tuning, while AmosEntwistle, cuffing and driving the younger scholars into thechapel, upbraided the elder ones by asking them 'if th' parsonwere the only chap as hed ever getten wed?'

At last the well-known form of the preacher was silhouetted on thebrow of the hill, and by his side the wife whose advent hadcreated such a prejudice and distaste, unknown though she was, among these moorland folks. The murmur of announcement ran round, and within, as well as without, all knew 'th' parson's wife woramang 'em. '

As the couple entered the chapel yard the people made way, ungraciously somewhat, and shot the young bride through andthrough with cruel stares. Mr. Penrose greeted his congregationwith a succession of nervous nods, jerky and strained, his wifekeeping her eyes fixed on the gravestones over which she was ledto the chapel doors. 

'Sithee! hoo's getten her yers pierced, ' said a loudly-dressedgirl, a weaver at the factory in the vale. 

'Yi; an' hoo wears droppers an' o', ' replied the friend whom sheaddressed. 

'Ey! haa hoo does pinch, ' critically remarked Libby Eastwood, thedressmaker of the village. 

'Nay, Libby; yon's a natural sized waist--hoo's nobbud small made, thaa sees, ' said the woman to whom the remark had been made. 

'Well, aw'd ha' donned a bonnet on a Sunday. '

'Yi; so would I. An' a married woman an' o'--aw think hoo might bedaycent. '

'Aw'll tell thee what, Mary Ann--there's a deal o' mak' up i' thatyure (hair), or aw'm mista'en. '

'Yo're reet, lass; there is, an' no mistak'. '

'Can hoo play th' pianer, thinksto?'

'Can hoo dust one?'

'Nowe, aw'll warnd hoo cornd. '

'Hoo thinks hersel' aboon porritch, does yon lot. '

'Dun yo' think hoo can mak' porritch?' sneered Amos to the womanwho passed the unkindly remark. 

'Nowe, Amos, aw durnd. Yon lass'll cost Penrose some brass. Yo'llsee if hoo doesnd. '

While this criticism was going on in the chapel yard, Mrs. Penrosewas seated in the pew of Dr. Hale, somewhat bewildered and not alittle overstrained. Here, too, poor woman, she was unconsciouslygiving offence, for on entering she had knelt down in prayer, OldClogs declaring that 'hoo were on her knees three minutes and ahawve, by th' chapel clock;' while at the conclusion of theservice, after the congregation were on their feet in noisy exit, her devotional attitude led others to brand her both as a 'ritual'and a 'papist. '

During the afternoon there was a repetition of the morning'sordeal, and at the service the young wife was again the one onwhom all eyes were fixed, and of whom all tongues whispered. Never before had she been so called to suffer. If the keenglances of the congregation had been softened by the slightestsympathy she could better have stood the glare of curiosity; butno such ray of sympathy was there blended with the looks. Hard, cold, and critical--such was the language of every eye. Rehobothhated what it called 'foreigners'--those who had been born andbrought up in districts distant from its own. All strange placeswere Nazareths, and all strangers were Nazarenes, and the crywas, 'Can any good thing come out therefrom?' And to thisquestion the answer was ever negative. Outside Rehoboth dwelt thealien. In course of years the prejudice towards the intrudersubmitted itself to the force of custom, and less suspiciousbecame the looks, and less harsh the tongues. Even then, however, the old Rehobothite remained a Hebrew of Hebrews; while theothers, at the best, were but proselytes of the gate. It was thefirst brunt of this storm of suspicion from which the minister'swife was suffering, and she was powerless to stay it, or evenallay its stress; nor could her husband come to her deliverance. Milly, however, like the good angel that she was, proved herfriend in need, and all unconsciously, and yet effectively, turned the tide of cruel and inquisitorial scorn first of allinto wonder and then into delight. 

And it came about in this manner. As the congregation were leavingthe chapel at the close of the afternoon service, and poor Mrs. Penrose, sorely bewildered, was jostled by the staring throng, Milly pushed her way with her crutch to the blushing woman, and, handing her a bunch of flowers, said:

'See yo', Mrs. Penrose, here's a posy for yo'. Yo're maister sezas yo' like flaars, an' aw've grow'd these i' my own garden. Awshould ha' brought 'em this mornin', but aw couldn't ged aat; an'mi mother wouldn't bring 'em for me, for hoo said aw mun bring 'emmysel. '

Mrs. Penrose could not translate the vernacular in which the childspoke, but she could, and did, translate the gift; and tears cameinto her eyes as she reached out her hand to take from thecrippled girl the big bunch of roses, tiger-lilies and hollyhockswhich Milly extended towards her. There was a welcome in theflowers of Rehoboth, if not in the people, thought she; and, atany rate, one little soul felt warmly towards her. 

As Mrs. Penrose looked at the blushing flowers and caught thescents that stole up from them, and as she looked at the littleface on which suffering had drawn such deep lines--a little facethat told of pity for the lonely bride--a home feeling came overher, and she felt that there was another in Rehoboth, as well asher husband, by whom she was loved. To Mrs. Penrose little Milly'sgift made the wilderness to rejoice and the desert to blossom asthe rose; and, stooping, she kissed the child, while her tearsfell fast and starred the flowers she held in her hand. 

That kiss, and the tears, won half the hearts of the Rehobothcongregation. 

'Hoo's a lady, whatever else hoo is, ' said an old woman; 'an' ifhoo's aboon porritch, hoo's none aboon kissin' a poor mon'schild. '

 * * * * *

That evening, as Mr. Penrose walked with his wife along the pathof the old manse garden, he turned to her, saying:

'This has been a trying Sunday, little woman. '

'Yes; but I've got over it, thanks to that little lame girl. Itwas her nosegay that brought me through, Walter, and that littleface of hers, so full of kindly concern and pity. You don't knowhow hard my heart was until she came to me--hard even against youfor bringing me here. '

'And you kissed Milly, didn't you, Lucy?'

'Yes. I didn't do wrong, did I?'

'No. That kiss of yours has touched hearts my theology cannottouch. You are queen here now. '

'Yours--and always!'

Then he drew her to his side, and kissed her as she had kissedMilly, and on lips as sweet and rosy as the petals that fell attheir feet. 

THE END. 

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.