FERN'S HOLLOW

 By HESBA STRETTON

Author of 'Jessica's First Prayer, ' 'Alone in London' 'Pilgrim Street, ''Little Meg's Children' etc. 

CONTENTS. 

CHAP. 

I. THE HUT IN THE HOLLOWII. THE DYING FATHERIII. STEPHEN'S FIRST VICTORYIV. THREATENING CLOUDSV. MISS ANNEVI. THE RED GRAVEL PITVII. POOR SNIPVIII. STEPHEN AND THE GAMEKEEPERIX. HOMELESSX. THE CABIN ON THE CINDER-HILLXI. STEPHEN AND THE RECTORXII. VISIT OF BLACK BESSXIII. THE OLD SHAFTXIV. A BROTHER'S GRIEFXV. RENEWED CONFLICTXVI. SOFTENING THOUGHTSXVII. A NEW CALLINGXVIII. THE PANTRY WINDOWXIX. FIRE! FIRE!XX. STEPHEN'S TESTIMONYXXI. FORGIVENESSXXII. THE MASTER'S DEATHBEDXXIII. THE HOME RESTORED

FERN'S HOLLOW

CHAPTER I. 

THE HUT IN THE HOLLOW. 

Just upon the border of Wales, but within one of the English counties, there is a cluster of hills, rising one above the other in gradualslopes, until the summits form a long, broad tableland, many milesacross. This tableland is not so flat that all of it can be seen at once, but here and there are little dells, shaped like deep basins, which thecountry folk call hollows; and every now and then there is a rock orhillock covered with yellow gorse bushes, from the top of which can beseen the wide, outspread plains, where hundreds of sheep and ponies arefeeding, which belong to the farmers and cottagers dwelling in the valleybelow. Besides the chief valley, which divides the mountains into twogroups, and which is broad enough for a village to be built in, there arelong, narrow glens, stretching up into the very heart of the tableland, and draining away the waters which gather there by the melting of snow inthe winter and the rain of thunderstorms in summer. Down every glen flowsa noisy mountain stream, dashing along its rocky course with so many tinywaterfalls and impatient splashes, that the gurgling and bubbling ofbrooks come up even into the quietness of the tableland and mingle withthe singing of the birds and the humming of the bees among the heather. There are not many paths across the hills, except the narrow sheep-walksworn by the tiny feet of the sheep as they follow one another in long, single lines, winding in and out through the clumps of gorse; and fewpeople care to explore the solitary plains, except the shepherds who havethe charge of the flocks, and tribes of village children who go up everysummer to gather the fruit of the wild and hardy bilberry wires. 

The whole of this broad tableland, as well as the hills, are commonpasture for the inhabitants of the valleys, who have an equal right tokeep sheep and ponies on the uplands with the lord of the manor. But theproperty of the soil belongs to the latter, and he only has the power ofenclosing the waste so as to make fields and plant woods upon it, provided always that he leaves a sufficient portion for the use of thevillagers. In times gone by, however, when the lord of the manor and hisagent were not very watchful, it was the practice of poor persons, whodid not care how uncomfortably they lived, to seek out some distanthollow, or the farthest and most hidden side of a hillock, and therebuild themselves such a low, small hut, as should escape the notice ofany passer-by, should they chance to go that way. Little by little, making low fences which looked like the surrounding gorse bushes, theyenclosed small portions of the waste land, or, as it is called, encroached upon the common; and if they were able to keep theirencroachment without having their hedges broken down, or if the lord ofthe manor neglected to demand rent for it for the space of twenty years, their fields and gardens became securely and legally their own. Becauseof this right, therefore, are to be found here and there little farms ofthree or four fields a-piece, looking like islands, with the wide, opencommon around them; and some miles away over the breezy uplands there iseven a little hamlet of these poor cottages, all belonging to the peoplewho dwell in them. 

Many years ago, even many years before my story begins, a poor woman--whowas far worse off than a widow, for her husband had just been sentencedto transportation for twenty-one years--strayed down to these mountainsupon her sorrowful way home to her native place. She had her only childwith her, a boy five years of age; and from some reason or other, perhapsbecause she could not bear to go home in shame and disgrace, she soughtout a very lonely hiding-place among the hills, and with her own handsreared rough walls of turf and stones, until she had formed such a rudehut as would just give shelter to her and her boy. There they lived, uncared for and solitary, until the husband came back, after sufferinghis twenty-one years' punishment, and entered into a little spot of landentirely his own. Then, with the assistance of his son, a strong, full-grown young man, he rebuilt the cottage, though upon a scale notmuch larger or much more commodious than his wife's old hut. 

Like other groups of mountains, the highest and largest are those nearthe centre, and from them the land descends in lower and lower levels, with smaller hills and smoother valleys, until at length it sinks intothe plain. Then they are almost like children's hills and valleys; theslopes are not too steep for very little feet to climb, and the ripplingbrooks are not in so much hurry to rush on to the distant river, but thatboys and girls at play can stop them for a little time with slight banksof mud and stones. In just such a smooth, sloping dell, down in a softgreen basin, called Fern's Hollow, was the hiding-place where theconvict's sad wife had found an unmolested shelter. 

This dwelling, the second one raised by the returned convict and his son, is built just below the brow of the hill, so that the back of the hut isformed of the hill itself, and only the sides and front are real walls. These walls are made of rubble, or loose, unhewn stones, piled togetherwith a kind of mortar, which is little more than clay baked hard in theheat of the sun. The chimney is a bit of old stove-pipe, scarcely risingabove the top of the hill behind; and, but for the smoke, we could lookdown the pipe, as through the tube of a telescope, upon the familysitting round the hearth within. The thatch, overgrown with moss, appearsas a continuation of the slope of the hill itself, and might almostdeceive the simple sheep grazing around it. Instead of a window there isonly a square hole, covered by a shutter when the light is not urgentlyneeded; and the door is so much too small for its sill and lintels as toleave large chinks, through which adventurous bees and beetles may findtheir way within. You may see at a glance that there is but one room, andthat there can be no up-stairs to the hut, except that upper storey ofthe broad, open common behind it, where the birds sleep softly in theircosy nests. Before the house is a garden; and beyond that a small fieldsown with silver oats, which are dancing and glistening in the breeze andsunshine; while before the garden wicket, but not enclosed from thecommon, is a warm, sunny valley, in the very middle of which a slenderthread of a brook widens into a lovely little basin of a pool, clear andcold, the very place for the hill ponies to come and drink. 

Looking steadily up this pleasant valley from the threshold of thecottage, we can just see a fine, light film of white smoke against theblue sky. Two miles away, right down off the mountains, there is a smallcoal-field and a quarry of limestone. In a distant part of the countrythere are large tracts of land where coal and iron pits are sunk on everyside, and their desolate and barren pit-banks extend for miles round, while a heavy cloud of smoke hangs always in the air. But here, just atthe foot of these mountains, there is one little seam of coal, as ifplaced for the express use of these people, living so far away from thelarger coal-fields. The Botfield lime and coal works cover only a fewacres of the surface; but underground there are long passages boredbeneath the pleasant pastures and the yellow cornfields. From themountains, Botfield looks rather like a great blot upon the fairlandscape, with its blackened engine-house and banks of coal-dust, itslong range of limekilns, sultry and quivering in the summer sunshine, andits heavy, groaning water-wheel, which pumps up the water from the pitsbelow. But the colliers do not think it so, nor their wives in thescattered village beyond; they do not consider the lime and coal works ablot, for their living depends upon them, and they may rightly say, 'Asfor the earth, out of it cometh bread: and under it is turned up as itwere fire. '

Even Stephen Fern, who would a thousand times rather work out on the freehillside than in the dark passages underground, does not think it a pitythat the Botfield pit has been discovered at the foot of the mountains. It is nearly seven o'clock in the evening, and he is coming over the browof the green dell, with his long shadow stretching down it. A very longshadow it is for so small a figure to cast, for if we wait a minute ortwo till Stephen draws nearer, we shall see that he is no strong, largeman, but a slight, thin, stooping boy, bending rather wearily under asack of coals, which he is carrying on his shoulders, and pausing now andthen to wipe his heated forehead with the sleeve of his collier's flanneljacket. When he lifts up the latch of his home we will enter with him, and see the inside of the hut at Fern's Hollow. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE DYING FATHER. 

Stephen stepped over the threshold into a low, dark room, which wasfilled with smoke, from a sudden gust of the wind as it swept over theroof of the hut. On one side of the grate, which was made of somehalf-hoops of iron fastened into the rock, there was a very aged man, childish and blind with years, who was crouching towards the fire, andtalking and chuckling to himself. A girl, about a year older thanStephen, sat in a rocking-chair, and swung to and fro as she knitted awayfast and diligently at a thick grey stocking. In the corner nearest tothe fireplace there stood a pallet-bed, hardly raised above the earthenfloor, to which Stephen hastened immediately, with an anxious look at thethin, white face of his father lying upon the pillow. Beside the sick manthere lay a little child fast asleep, with her hand clasping one of herfather's fingers; and though James Fern was shaking and trembling with aviolent fit of coughing from the sudden gust of smoke, he took care notto loose the hold of those tiny fingers. 

'Poor little Nan!' he whispered to Stephen, as soon as he could speak. 'I've been thinking all day of her and thee, lad, till I'm nighheart-broken. '

'Do you feel worse, father?' asked Stephen anxiously. 

'I'm drawing nearer the end, ' answered James Fern, --'nearer the end everyhour; and I don't know for certain what the end will be. I'm repenting;but I can't undo the mischief I've done; I must leave that behind me. If I'd been anything like a decent father, I should have left youcomfortable, instead of poor beggars. And what is to become of my poorlass here? See how fast she clips my hand, as if she was afeared I wasgoing to leave her! Oh, Stephen, my lad, what will you all do?'

'Father, ' said Stephen, in a quiet and firm voice, 'I'm getting sixshillings a week wages, and we can live on very little. We haven't gotany rent to pay, and only ourselves and grandfather to keep, and Marthais as good as a woman grown. We'll manage, father, and take care oflittle Nan. '

'Stephen and I are not bad, father, ' added Martha, speaking up proudly;'I am not like Black Bess of Botfield. Mother always told me I was to domy duty; and I always do it. I can wash, and sew, and iron, and bake, andknit. Why, often and often we've had no more than Stephen's earnings, when you've been to the Red Lion on reckoning nights. '

'Hush, hush, Martha!' whispered Stephen. 

'No, it's true, ' groaned the dying father; 'God Almighty, have mercy onme! Stephen, hearken to me, and thee too, Martha, while I tell you aboutthis place, and what you are to do when I'm gone. '

He paused for a minute or two, looking earnestly at the crouching old manin the chimney-corner. 

'Grandfather's quite simple, ' he said, 'and he's dark, too, and doesn'tknow what any one is saying. But I know thee'lt be good to him, Stephen. Hearken, children: your poor old grandfather was once in jail, and wassent across the seas, for a thief. '

'Father!' cried Stephen, in a tone of deep distress; and he turnedquickly to the old man, remembering how often he had sat upon his kneesby the winter fire, and how many summer days he had rambled with him overthe uplands after the sheep. His grandfather had been far kinder to himthan his own father; and his heart swelled with anger as he went and laidhis arm round the bending neck of the old man, who looked up in his faceand laughed heartily. 

'Come back, Stephen; it's true, ' gasped James Fern. 'Poor mother and mecame here, where nobody knew us, while he was away for more than twentyyears; and she built a hut for-us to live in till he came back. I was alittle lad then, but as soon as I was big enough she made me learn toread and write, that I might send letters to him beyond the seas and noneof the neighbours know. She'd often make me read to her about a poorfellow who had left home and gone to a far country, and when he came homeagain, how his father saw him a long way off. Well, she was just likethat when she'd heard that he was landed in England; she did nought butsit over the bent of the hill yonder, peering along the road to Botfield;and one evening at sundown she saw something, little more than a speckupon the turf, and she'd a feeling come over her that it was he, and shefainted for real joy. After all, we weren't much happier when we weresettled down like. Grandfather had learned to tend sheep out yonder, andI worked at Botfield; but we never laid by money to build a brick house, as poor mother always wanted us. She died a month or so afore I wasmarried to your mother. '

James Fern was silent again for some minutes, leaning back upon hispillow, with his eyes closed, and his thoughts gone back to the oldtimes. 

'If I'd only been like mother, you'd have been a hill-farmer now, Steve, 'he continued, in a tone of regret; 'she plotted out in her own mind totake in the green before us, for rearing young lambs, and ducks, andgoslings. But I was like that poor lad that wasted all his substance inriotous living; and I've let thee and thy sister grow up without even thelearning I could have given thee; and learning is light carriage. But, lad, remember this house is thy own, and never part with it; never giveit up, for it is thy right. Maybe they'll want to turn thee out, becausethee art a boy; but I've lived in it nigh upon forty years, and I'vewritten it all down upon this piece of paper, and that the place isthine, Stephen. '

'I'll never give it up, father, ' said Stephen, in his steady voice. 

'Stephen, ' continued his father, 'the master has set his heart upon it tomake it a hill-farm; and thou'lt have hard work to hold thy own againsthim. Thou must frame thy words well when he speaks to thee about it, forhe's a cunning man. And there's another paper, which the parson atDanesford has in his keeping, to certify that mother built this house anddwelt in it all the days of her life, more than thirty years; if there'sany mischief worked against thee, go to him for it. And now, Stephen, wash thyself, and get thy supper, and then let's hear thee read thychapter. '

Stephen carried his basin of potatoes to the door-sill and sat there, with his back turned to the dismal hut and his dying father, and his facelooking out upon the green hills. He had always been a grave andthoughtful boy; and he had much to think of now. The deep sense of newduties and obligations that had come upon him with his father's words, made him feel that his boyhood had passed away. He looked round upon thegarden, and the field, and the hut, with the keen eye of an owner; and hewondered at the neglected state into which they had fallen since hisfather's illness. There could be no more play-time for him; nobird's-nesting among the gorse-bushes; no rabbit-bunting with Snip, thelittle white terrier that was sharing his supper. If little Nan and hisgrandfather were to be provided for, he must be a man, with a man'sthoughtfulness, doing man's work. There seemed enough work for him to doin the field and garden alone, without his twelve hours' toil in thecoal-pit; but his weekly wages would now be more necessary than ever. Hemust get up early, and go to bed late, and labour without a moment'srest, doing his utmost from one day to another, with no one to help him, or stand for a little while in his place. For a few minutes his bravespirit sank within him, and all the landscape swam before his eyes; whileSnip took advantage of his master's inattention to put his nose into thebasin, and help himself to the largest share of the potatoes. 

'I mean to be like grandmother, ' said Martha's clear, sharp voice, close beside him, and he saw his sister looking eagerly round her. 'Ishall fence the green in, and have lambs and sheep to turn out on thehillside, and I'll rear young goslings and ducks for market; and we'llhave a brick house, with two rooms in it, as well as a shed for the coal. And nobody shall put upon us, or touch our rights, Stephen, or they shallhave the length of my tongue. '

'Martha, ' said Stephen earnestly, 'do you see how a shower is rainingdown on the master's fields at Botfield; and they've been scorched up forwant of water?'

'Yes, surely, ' answered Martha; 'and what of that?'

'I'm thinking, ' continued Stephen, rather shyly, 'of that verse in mychapter: "He maketh the sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sendethrain on the just and the unjust. " What sort of a man is the master, Martha?'

'He's a bad, unjust, niggardly old miser, ' replied Martha. 

'And if God sends him rain, and takes care of him, ' Stephen said, 'howmuch more care will He take of us, if we are good, and try to do Hiscommandments!'

'I should think, ' said Martha, but in a softer tone, 'I should reallythink He would give us the green, and the lambs, and the new house, andeverything; for both of us are good, Stephen. '

'I don't know, ' replied Stephen; 'if I could read all the Bible, perhapsit would tell us. But now I must go in and read my chapter to father. '

Martha went back to her rocking-chair and knitting, while Stephen reacheddown from a shelf an old Bible, covered with green baize, and, havingcarefully looked that his hard hands were quite clean, he opened it withthe greatest reverence. James Fern had only begun to teach the boy toread a few months before, when he felt the first fatal symptoms of hisillness; and Stephen, with his few opportunities for learning, had onlymastered one chapter, the fifth chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel, whichhis father had chosen for him to begin with. The sick man lay still withclosed eyes, but listening attentively to every word, and correcting hisson whenever he made any mistake. When it was finished, James Fern read afew verses aloud himself, with low voice and frequent pauses to regainhis strength; and very soon afterwards the whole family were in a deepsleep, except himself. 

CHAPTER III. 

STEPHEN'S FIRST VICTORY. 

James Fern did not live many more days, and he was buried the Sundayfollowing his death. All the colliers and pitmen from Botfield walkedwith the funeral of their old comrade and made a great burial of it. Theparish church was two miles on the other side of Botfield, and four milesfrom Fern's Hollow; so James Fern and his family had never, as he calledit, 'troubled' the church with their attendance. All the household, evento little Nan, went with their father's corpse, to bury it in the strangeand distant churchyard. Stephen felt as if he was in some long andpainful dream, as he sat in the cart, with his feet resting upon hisfather's coffin, with his grandfather on a chair at the head, noddingand laughing at every jolt on the rough road, and Martha holding ahandkerchief up to her face, and carrying a large umbrella over herselfand little Nan, to keep the dust off their new black bonnets. The boy, grave as he was, could hardly think; he felt in too great a maze forthat. The church, too, which he had never entered before, seemed grandand cold and immense, with its lofty arches, and a roof so high that itmade him giddy to look up to it. Now and then he heard a few sentences ofthe burial service sounding out grandly in the clergyman's strange, deepvoice; but they were not words he was familiar with, and he could notunderstand their meaning. At the open grave only, the clergyman said 'OurFather, ' which his father had taught him during his illness; and whilehis tears rolled down his cheeks for the first time that day, Stephenrepeated over and over again to himself, 'Our Father! our Father!'

Stephen would have liked to stay in the church for the evening service, for which the bells were already ringing; but this did not at all suitthe tastes of his father's old comrades. They made haste to crowd intoa public-house, where they sat and drank, and forced Stephen to drinktoo, in order to 'drown his grief. ' It was still a painful dream to him;and more and more, as the long hours passed on, he wondered how he camethere, and what all the people about him were doing. It was quite darkbefore they started homewards, and the poor old grandfather was no longerable to sit up in his chair, but lay helplessly at the bottom of thecart. Even Martha was fast asleep, and leaned her head upon Stephen'sshoulder, without any regard for her new black bonnet. The cart was nowcrowded with as many of the people as could get into it, who sang andshouted along the quiet Sunday road; and, as they insisted upon stoppingat every public-house they came to, it was very late before they reachedthe lane leading up to Fern's Hollow. The grandfather was half draggedand half carried along by two of the men, followed by Stephen bearingsleepy little Nan in his arms, and by Martha, who had wakened up in atemper between crying and scolding. The long, strange, painful dream offather's funeral was not over yet, and Stephen was still trying to thinkin a stupid, drowsy fashion, when he fell heavily asleep on the bedbeside his grandfather. 

He awoke by habit very early in the morning, and aroused himself witha great effort against dropping asleep again. He could realize andunderstand his position better now. Father was dead; and there was noone to earn bread for them all but himself. At this thought he sprangup instantly, though his head was aching in a manner he had never feltbefore. With some difficulty he awoke Martha to get his breakfast andput up his dinner in a basket which he carried with him to the pit. Shealso complained bitterly of her head aching, and moved about with alistlessness very different to her usual activity. 'I only wish I knewwhat was right, ' said Stephen to himself; 'they told us we ought to showrespect for father, but I don't think he'd like this. Perhaps if I couldread the Bible all through, that would tell me everything. '

This thought reminded Stephen that he had promised his father to read hischapter every day of his life till he knew how to read more; and, carrying the old Bible to his favourite seat on the door-sill, a verypleasant place in the cool, fresh summer morning, he read the versesaloud, slowly and carefully, rather repeating than reading them, for heknew his chapter better by heart than by the printed letters in the book. Thank God, Stephen Fern did begin to know it _by heart_!

It was not a bad day in the pit. All the colliers, men and boys, weremore gentle than usual with the fatherless lad; and even Black Thompson, his master since his father's illness, who was in general a fierce bullyto everybody about him, spoke as mildly as he could to Stephen. Yet allthe day Stephen longed for his release in the evening, thinking how muchwork there wanted doing in the garden, and how he and Martha must be busyin it till nightfall. The clanking of the chain which drew him up to thelight of day sounded like music to him; but little did he guess that anenemy was lying in wait for him at the mouth of the pit. 'Hillo!' cried avoice down the shaft as they were nearing the top; 'one of you chaps havegot to carry a sack o' coals one mile. '

The voice belonged to Tim Cole, who was the terror of the pit-bank, fromhis love of mischief and his insatiable desire for fighting. He waslooking down the shaft now, with a grin and a laugh upon his red face, round which his shaggy red hair hung like a rough mane. There were onlytwo other boys besides Stephen in the skip, and as their fathers werewith them it might be dangerous to meddle with them; so Tim fixed uponStephen as his prey. 

'Thee has got to carry these coals, Steve, ' he said, his eyes dancingwith delight. 

'I won't, ' replied Stephen. 

'Thee shalt, ' cried Tim, with an oath. 

'I won't, ' Stephen repeated stedfastly. 

'Then we'll fight for it, ' said Tim, clenching his fists and squaring hisarms, while the men and boys formed a ring round the two lads, and oneand another spoke encouragingly to Stephen, who was somewhat slighter andyounger than Tim. He had beaten Tim once before, but that was months ago;yet the blood rushed into Stephen's face, and he set his lips togetherfirmly. Up yonder, just within the range of his sight, was Fern's Hollow, with its neglected garden, and his supper waiting for him; and here wasthe heavy sack of coals to be carried for a mile, or the choice offighting with Tim. 

'I wish I knew what I ought to do, ' he said, speaking aloud, thoughspeaking to himself. 

'Ay, ay, lad, ' cried Black Thompson; 'it's a shame to make thee fight, and thy father not cold in the graveyard yet. I say, Tim, what is it theewants?'

'These coals, ' answered Tim doggedly, 'are to be carried to the New Farm;and if Stevie Fern won't take them one mile, he must fight me afore hegoes off this bank. '

'Now, lads, I'll judge between ye this time, ' said Black Thompson. 'Stevie shall carry them to the end of Red Lane, and cut across the hillhome: that's not much out of the way; and if Tim makes him go one stepfarther, I'll lick thee myself to-morrow, lad, I promise thee. '

Stephen hoisted the sack upon his shoulders in silence, and strode awaywith a swelling heart, in which a tumult of anger and perplexity wasraging. 'If I had only a commandment about these things!' he thought. Hewas not quite certain whether it would not have been best and wisest tofight with Tim and have it out; especially as Tim was all the timetaunting him for being a coward. But his father had read much to himduring the last three months; and though he could not remember anyparticular commandment, he felt sure that the Bible did not encouragefighting or drunkenness. Suddenly, and before they reached the end of RedLane, a light burst upon Stephen's mind. 

'I say, Tim, ' he said, speaking to him for the first time, 'it's fourmiles to the New Farm, and I'll go with thee a mile farther than RedLane. '

'Eh!' cried Tim; 'and get Black Thompson to lick me to-morrow?'

'No, ' said Stephen earnestly, 'I'll not tell Black Thompson; and if hehears talk of it, I'll say I did it of my own mind. Come thy ways, Tim;let's be sharp, for I've my potatoes to hoe when I get home to-night. '

The boys walked briskly on for a few minutes, past the end of Red Lane, though Stephen cast a wistful glance up it, and gave an impatient jerk tothe load upon his shoulders. Tim had been walking beside him in silentreflection; but at last he came to a sudden halt. 

'I can't make it out, ' he said. 'What art thee up to, Stephen? Tell meout plain, or I'll fight thee here, if Black Thompson does lick me forit. '

'Why, I've been learning to read, ' answered Stephen, with some pride, 'and of course I know things I didn't used to know, and what thee doesn'tknow now. '

'And what's that to do with it?' inquired Tim. 

'My chapter says that if any man forces me to go one mile, I am to gotwo, ' replied Stephen; 'it doesn't say why exactly, but I'm going to trywhat good it will be to me to do everything that my book tells me. '

'It's a queer book, ' said Tim, after a pause. 'Does it say a chap maymake another chap do his work for him?'

'No, ' Stephen answered; 'but it says we are to love our enemies, and dogood to them that hate us, that we may be the children of our Fatherwhich is in heaven--that is God, Tim. So that is why I am going a milefarther with thee. '

'I don't hate thee, ' said Tim uneasily, 'but I do love fighting; I'dliever thee'd fight than come another mile. Don't thee come any farther, I've been bone lazy all day, and thee's been at work. And I say, Stevie, I'll help thee with the potatoes to-morrow, to make up for this bout. '

Stephen thanked him, and accepted his offer heartily. The load wasquickly transferred to Tim's broad back, and the boys parted in moregood-will than they had ever felt before; Stephen strengthened by thisfavourable result in his resolution to put in practice all he knew ofthe Bible; and Tim deep in thought, as was evident from his mutteringevery now and then on his way to the New Farm, 'Queer book that; anda queer chap too!'

CHAPTER IV. 

THREATENING CLOUDS. 

Little Nan would be waiting for him, as well as his supper, and Stephenforgot his weariness as he bounded along the soft turf, to the greatdiscomfiture of the brown-faced sheep, quite as anxious for their supperas he was for his. 

Stephen heard far off Snip's sharp, impatient bark, and it made himquicken his steps still more, until, coming within sight of his ownHollow, he stopped suddenly, and his heart beat even more vehemently thanwhen he was running up the hillside. 

There was, however, nothing very terrible in the scene. The hut was safe, and the sun was shining brightly upon the garden, and little Nan wasstanding as usual at the wicket. Only in the oat-field, with their faceslooking across the green, stood two men in close conversation. These menwere both of them old, and rather thin and shrivelled in figure; theirfeatures bore great resemblance to each other, the eyes being small andsunken, with many wrinkles round them, and both mouths much fallen in. You would have said at once they were brothers; and if you drew nearenough to hear their conversation, you would have found your guess wasright. 

'Brother Thomas, ' said the thinnest and sharpest-looking, 'I intend toenclose as far as we can see from this point. That southern bank will bea first-rate place for young animals. I shall build a house, with threerooms above and below, besides a small dairy; and I shall plant afir-wood behind it to keep off the east winds. The lime and bricks frommy own works will not cost me much more than the expense of bringingthem up here. '

'And a very pretty little hill-farm you'll make of it, James, ' repliedThomas Wyley admiringly. 'I should not wonder now if you got £20 a yearrent for it. '

'I shall get £25 in a few years, ' said the other one: 'just think ofthe run for ponies on the hill, to say nothing of sheep. A young, hard-working man could make a very tidy living up here; and we shallhave a respectable house, instead of a pauper's family. '

'It will be a benefit to the neighbourhood, ' observed Thomas Wyley. 

The latter speaker, who was a degree pleasanter-looking than his brother, was the relieving officer of the large union to which Botfield belonged;and, in consequence, all poor persons who had grown too old, or were inany way unable to work, were compelled to apply to him for the help whichthe laws of our country provide for such cases. James Wyley, the elderbrother, was the owner of Botfield works, and the master of all thepeople employed in them, besides being the agent of the lord of themanor. So both these men possessed great authority over the poor; andthey used the power to oppress them and grind them down to the utmost. It was therefore no wonder that Stephen stopped instantly when he sawtheir well-known figures standing at the corner of his oat-field; northat he should come on slowly after he had recovered his courage, pondering in his own mind what they were come up to Fern's Hollow for, and how he should answer them if they should want him to give up the oldhut. 

'Good evening, my lad, ' said James Wyley, smiling a slow, reluctantsmile, as Stephen drew near to them with his cap in his hand. 'So youburied your father yesterday, I hear. Poor fellow! there was not a bettercollier at Botfield than James Fern. '

'Never troubled his parish for a sixpence, ' added Thomas Wyley. 

'Thank you, master, ' said Stephen, the tears starting to his eyes, sounexpected was this gentle greeting to him; 'I'll try to be like father. '

'Well, my boy, ' said Thomas Wyley, 'we are come up here on purpose togive you our advice, as you are such a mere lad. I've been thinking whatcan be done for you. There's your grandfather, a poor, simple, helplessold man, and the little girl--why, of course we shall have to receivethem into the House; and I'll see there is no difficulty made about it. Then we intend to get your sister into some right good service. '

'I should not mind taking her into my own house, ' said the master, Mr. James Wyley; 'she would soon learn under my niece Anne. So you will beset free to get your own living without encumbrance; you are earning yoursix shillings now, and that will keep you well. '

'Please, sir, ' answered Stephen, 'we mean to live all together as we'vebeen used; and I couldn't let grandfather and little Nan come upon theparish. Martha must stay at home to mind them; and I'll work my fingersto the bone for them all, sir. Many thanks all the same to you for comingup here to see after us. '

'Very fine indeed, my little fellow, ' said Thomas Wyley; 'but you don'tunderstand what you are talking about. It is my place to see after thepoor, and I cannot leave you in charge of such a very old man and sucha child as this, No, no; they must be taken care of; and they'll be maderight comfortable in the House. '

'Father said, ' replied Stephen, 'that I was never to let grandfatherand little Nan come upon the parish. I get my wages, and we've no rentto pay; and the potatoes and oats will help us; and Martha can pickbilberries on the hill, and carry bundles of firing to the village; andwe'll do well enough without the parish. Many thanks all the same to you, sir. '

'Hark ye, my lad, ' said the master impatiently. 'I want to buy your oldhut and field from you. I'll give ye a ten-pound note for it; a whole tenpounds. Why, a fortune for you!'

'Father said, ' repeated Stephen, 'I was never to give up Fern's Hollow;and I gave him a sure promise for that, and to take care of little Nan aslong as ever I lived. '

'Fern's Hollow is none of yours, ' cried the master, in a rage; 'you'vejust been a family of paupers and squatters, living up here by poachingand thieving. I'll unearth you, I promise ye; you have been a disgrace tothe manor long enough. So it is ten pounds or nothing for your old hole;and you may take your choice. '

'Please, sir, ' said Stephen firmly, 'the place is ours, and I'm never topart with it. I'll never poach, and I'll never trespass on the manor; butI can't sell the old house, sir. '

'Now, just listen to me, young Fern, ' said Thomas Wyley; 'you'll becompelled to give up Fern's Hollow in right of the lord of the manor; andthen if you come to the House for relief, mark my words, I'll send yourgrandfather off to Bristol, for that's his parish, and you'll never seehim again; and I'll give orders for you never to see little Nan; and I'llapprentice you and your other sister in different places. So you hadbetter be reasonable, and take our advice while you can be madecomfortable. '

'Please, sir, I can't go against my promise, ' answered Stephen, with asob. 

'What's the use of wasting one's breath?' said the master; 'this placeI want, and this place I'll have; and we'll see if this young jail-birdwill stand in my way. Ah, my fine fellow, it's no such secret where yourgrandfather spent twenty-one years of his life; and you'll have a sup ofthe same broth some day. You don't keep a dog like that yelping cur fornothing; and I'll tell the gamekeeper to have his eye upon you. '

Stephen stood motionless, watching them down the narrow path which led toBotfield, until a rabbit started from beneath the hedge, and Snip, with asharp, short bark of excitement, gave it chase in the direction of thetwo men. The master paused, and, looking back, shook his stickthreateningly at the motionless figure of the boy; while Thomas Wyleythrew a stone at the dog, which sent him back, yelping piteously, to hisyoung master's feet. Stephen clenched his hands, and bit his lips tillthe blood started, but he did not move till the last glimpse of his foeshad passed away from the hillside. Martha had hidden herself in the hutwhile they were present, for she had never spoken to the dreaded master;but she could overhear their loud and angry speeches, and now she cameout and joined Stephen. 

'Well, I'd have more spirit than to cry, ' she said, as Stephen brushedhis eyes with his sleeve; 'I'd never have spoken so gingerly to them, thewizen-faced old rascals. The place is ours, and they can't turn us out. It's no use to be cowed by them, Stephen. '

'They can turn me off the works, ' answered Stephen sadly. 

'And whatever shall we do then?' asked Martha, in alarm. 'Still I reckonyou'll say we are to love those old wretches. '

'The Book says so, ' replied Stephen. 

'Well, I won't set up to try to do it for one, ' continued Marthadecisively; 'it's not nature; it's being over good by half. I'm willingto do my duty by you and grandfather and little Nan; but that goes beyondme. If you'd just give way, Stevie, and give them a good rating, you'dfeel better after it. '

'I don't know that, ' he answered, walking gloomily towards the door. Hefelt so much passion and anger within him, that it did seem as if itwould be a relief to utter some of the terrible oaths which he heardfrequently in the pit, and which had been familiar enough in his ownmouth a few months ago. But now other words, familiar from daily reading, the words that he had repeated to Tim so short a time before, were beingwhispered, as it seemed, close by his ear: 'Love your enemies; bless themthat curse you; do good to them that hate you; pray for them thatdespitefully use you, and persecute you. ' There was a deadly conflictgoing on in the boy's soul; and Martha's angry words were helping thetempter. He sat down despondently on the door-sill, and hid his face inhis hands, while he listened to his sister's taunts against his want ofspirit, and her fears that he would give up their home for his newnotions. 

He was about to answer her at last with the passion she was trying toprovoke, when a soft little cheek was pressed against his downcast head, and little Nan lisped in her broken words, 'Me sleepy, Stevie; me say"Our Father, " and go to bed. '

The child knelt down before him, and laid her folded hands upon his knee, as she had done every evening since his father died, while he said theprayer, and she repeated it slowly after him. He felt as though he waspraying for himself. A feeling of deep earnestness came over him; and, though his voice faltered as he said softly, 'Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us, ' it seemed as if there wasa spirit in his heart agreeing to the words, and giving him power to saythem. He did not know then that 'the Spirit itself maketh intercessionfor us with groanings which cannot be uttered;' but while he prayed withlittle Nan, he received great comfort and strength, though he wasignorant of the source from whence they came. When the child's prayerswere ended, he roused himself cheerfully to action; and as long as thelingering twilight lasted, both Stephen and Martha were busily at work inthe garden. 

CHAPTER V. 

MISS ANNE. 

'So thee's the only master here, ' said Tim when he came up the hill nextevening, according to his promise, to help Stephen in his garden. 

'And I'm the missis, ' chimed in Martha, 'but I can't say how long it maybe afore we have to pack off;' and she gave Tim a very long account ofthe master's visit the day before, finishing her description of Stephen'sconduct in a tone of mingled reproach and admiration: 'And he never saida single curse at them!'

'Not when they were out of hearing?' exclaimed Tim. 

'I couldn't, ' answered Stephen; 'I knew what I ought to do then, if Iwasn't quite sure about fighting thee, Tim. My chapter says, "Swear notat all;" and "Let your communication be Yea, yea; Nay, nay; forwhatsoever is more than these cometh of evil. "'

'What's the meaning of that?' asked Tim, opening his eyes widely. 

'Father said it meant I was to stand to my word like a man, but not swearabout it. If I said Ay, to mean ay; and if I said No, to mean no, andstick to it. '

'There'd be no room for telling lies, I reckon, ' said Tim reflectively. 

'Of course not, ' replied Stephen. 

'That 'ud never answer down yonder, ' said Tim, nodding towards thedistant village. 'I tell thee what, lad, I'll come and quarter with thee, and help thee to be master. It 'ud be prime. Only maybe the victualswouldn't suit me. Last Sunday, afore thy father's buryin', we'd a dinnerof duck and green peas, and leg of lamb, and custard pudden, and ale. Martha doesn't get a dinner like that for thee, I reckon. '

'No, ' answered Stephen shortly. 

'Maybe it wouldn't suit. But what more is there in thy book?' askedTim, whose curiosity was aroused; and Stephen, proud of his newaccomplishment, --a rare one in those days among his own class, --would notlose the opportunity given him by Tim's inquiry for the display of hislearning. He brought out his Bible with alacrity, and read his chapter ina loud, clear, sing-song tone, while Tim overlooked him, with his redface growing redder, and his eyebrows arched in amazement; and Martha, leaning against the door-post, glanced triumphantly at his wonder. Already, though his father had been dead only a week, Stephen beganto miscall many of the harder words; but his hearers were not critical, and the performance gave unbounded satisfaction. 

'That beats me!' cried Tim. 'What a headpiece thee must have, Stephen!But what does it all mean, lad? Is it all English like?'

'How can I know?' answered Stephen, somewhat sadly; 'there's nobody tolearn me now; and it's very hard. There's the Pharisees, Tim, and Raca; Idon't know who they are. '

The conversation was stopped by Martha suddenly starting bolt upright, and dropping two or three hurried curtseys. The boys looked up from theirbook quickly, and saw a young lady passing through the wicket and comingup the garden walk, with a smile upon her pleasant face as she met theirgaze. 

'My boys, ' she said, in a soft, kindly voice, 'I've been sitting on thebank yonder, behind your cottage; and I heard one of you reading achapter in the Bible. Which of you was it?'

'It was him, ' cried Tim and Martha together, pointing at Stephen. 

'And you said you had no one to teach you, ' continued the lady. 'Nowwould you learn well, if I promised to teach you?'

Stephen looked up speechlessly into the smiling face before him. He hadnever read of the angels, and scarcely knew that there were such beings;but he felt as if this fair and sweet-looking lady, with her gentlevoice, and the kindly eyes meeting his own, was altogether of a differentorder to themselves. 

'I am Mr. Wyley's niece, ' she added, 'and I am come to live at Botfieldfor a while. Could you manage to come down to Mr. Wyley's house sometimesfor a lesson?'

'Please, ma'am, ' said Martha, who was not at all afraid of speaking toany lady, though she dare not face the master, 'he wants to turn us outof our house; and he hates Stephen, because he won't give it up: so hewouldn't let you teach him anything. '

'Then you are Stephen Fern?' said the lady; 'I heard my uncle talkingabout you. Your father was buried at Longville church on Sunday. I sawthe funeral leave the churchyard, and I looked for some of you to come into the evening service. Now, Stephen, do you tell me all about yourreason for not letting my uncle buy your cottage. '

Then Stephen, with some hesitation, and a good deal of assistance fromMartha, told the whole history of his grandmother's settlement upon thesolitary hillside, only withholding the fact of his grandfather'stransportation, because Tim was listening eagerly to every word. MissAnne listened, too, with deep attention; and once or twice the tears roseto her eyes as she heard of the weary labours and watchings of thedesolate woman; and when Stephen repeated his resolution to work hardand constantly for the maintenance of his grandfather and little Nan--

'Yes, I will be your friend, ' she said, reaching out her hand to him whenhe had finished, 'even if my uncle is your enemy. God has not given memuch power, but what I have I will use for you; and you must go onstriving to do right, Stephen. '

'I can't read much, ' replied Stephen anxiously, 'and Martha can't read atall; but I hope we shall all get safe to heaven!'

'Knowing how to read will not take us to heaven, ' said Miss Anne, smiling, 'but doing the will of God from the heart; and the will of Godis that we should believe in the Lord Jesus, and follow in His steps. '

'Yes, ma'am, ' answered Stephen; 'my chapter says, "Whosoever shall breakone of these least commandments, and shall teach men so, shall be calledthe least in the kingdom of heaven: but whosoever shall do and teachthem, the same shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven. "'

'Stephen, you know your chapter well, ' said Miss Anne. 

'I don't know anything else, ' he answered; 'so I am always studying atthat in my head, up here and down in the pit. '

'He's always mighty solid over his work, ma'am, ' said Tim, pulling thefront lock of his red hair, as he spoke to the young lady. 

'Stephen, do you know that you have a namesake in the Bible?' asked MissAnne. 

'No, sure!' exclaimed Stephen eagerly. 

'It was the name of a man who had many enemies, only because he loved theLord Jesus; and at last they hated him so much as to kill him. He was thevery first person who ever suffered death for the Lord's sake. Give meyour Bible, and I will read to you how he died. '

Miss Anne's voice was very low and soft, like sweet music, as she readthese verses: 'And they stoned Stephen, calling upon God, and saying, Lord Jesus, receive my spirit. And he kneeled down, and cried with a loudvoice, Lord, lay not this sin to their charge. And when he had said this, he fell asleep. '

Stephen listened breathlessly, and his face glowed with intense interest;but he was not a boy of ready speech, and, before he could utter a word, Tim burst in before him with a question, 'Please, is there a Tim in theBible?' he asked. 

'Yes, ' answered Miss Anne, smiling again; 'he was a young man who knewthe Bible from his youth. '

'That ain't me, however, ' said Tim in a despondent tone. 

'There is nothing now to prevent you beginning to know it, ' continuedMiss Anne. 'Listen: as Stephen cannot come to me at Botfield, you shallmeet me in the Red Gravel Pit at nine o'clock on a Sunday morning as longas the summer lasts, and I will teach you all. Bring little Nan with you, Stephen. '

Down the same narrow green pathway trodden by the feet of Stephen's angrymaster and his brother the evening before, they now watched the littlelight figure of the young lady, as she slowly vanished out of theirsight. When the gleaming of her dress was quite lost, Stephen rubbed hiseyes for a moment, and then turned to Martha and Tim. 

'Is she a real woman, dost think?' he asked. 

'A real woman!' repeated Martha rather scornfully; 'of course she is; andit's a real silk gown she had on, I can tell thee. Spirits don't go aboutin silk gowns and broad daylight, never as I heard tell of, lad. '

CHAPTER VI. 

THE RED GRAVEL PIT. 

At the entrance of the lane leading down to the works at Botfield therestood a small square building, which was used as the weighing-house forthe coal and lime fetched from the pits, and as the pay-office on thereckoning Saturday, which came once a fortnight. Upon the Saturdayevening after his interview with the master, Stephen loitered in the lanewith a very heavy heart, afraid of facing Mr. Wyley, lest he shouldreceive the sentence of dismission from the pit. He did not know what hecould turn his hand to if he should be discharged from what had been hiswork since he was eight years old; for even if he could get a place inone of the farmhouses about as waggoner's boy, he would not earn morethan three shillings a week; and how very little that would do towardsproviding food for the three mouths at home! Fearful of knowing theworst, he lingered about the office until all the other workmen had beenin and come out again jingling their wages. 

But the master and his brother Thomas had been taking counsel togetherabout the matter. Mr. Wyley was for turning the boy off at once, andreducing him to the utmost straits of poverty; but his more prudentbrother was opposed to this plan. 

'Look here, brother James, ' he said; 'if we drive the young scamp todesperation, there's no telling what he will do. Ten to one if he doesnot go and tell a string of lies to some of the farmers about here, orperhaps to the parson at Longville, and they may make an unpleasantdisturbance. Nobody knows and nobody cares about him as it is; but he isa determined young fellow, or I'm mistaken. Better keep him at work underyour own eye, and make the place too hot for him by degrees. Before longyou will catch him poaching with his dog, and if he is let off for a timeor two because of his youth, and goes at it again, we can make out apretty case of juvenile depravity, without any character from hisemployer, you know; and so he will be sent out of the way, and boarded atthe expense of the country for a few years or so. '

'Well, ' said the master, 'I'll try him once again. If he'd go outquietly, nobody else has any claim upon the cottage; and I want to set towork there quickly. '

So when Stephen entered the office with trembling limbs and a very paleface under its dusky covering, it happened that he met with a verydifferent reception to what he expected. The master sat behind a smallcounter, upon which lay Stephen's twelve shillings, the only little heapof money left; and as he gathered them nervously into his hand, hewondered if this would be the last time. But his master's face was notmore threatening than usual; and he muttered his 'Thank you, sir, ' andwas turning away with a feeling of great relief, when Mr. Wyley's harshvoice brought him back again, trembling more than ever. 

'Have you thought any more of my offer, Fern?' he asked. 'I shouldn'tmind, as you are an orphan, and have two sisters depending upon you, if Imade the ten pounds into fifteen; and you may leave the money at interestwith me till you are older. '

'And I've been thinking, Stephen, ' added Thomas Wyley, who sat at a highdesk checking the accounts, 'that, as you seem set against beingseparated, instead of taking your grandfather into the House, I'd get himtwo shillings a week allowed him out of it; and that would pay the rentof a nice two-roomed cottage down in Botfield, close to your work. Come, that would make all of you comfortable. '

'You should bear in mind, Stephen, ' said the master, 'that the place doesnot of right belong to you at all; and the lord of the manor is coming toshoot over the estate in September; and then I shall have orders toremove you by force. So you had better take our offer. '

'Please, sir, ' said Stephen, bowing respectfully, 'don't be angered withme, but I can't go from what I said afore. Father told me never to giveup Fern's Hollow; and maybe he'd hear tell of it in heaven if I broke myword to him. I can't do it, sir. '

'Well, wilful will have his way, ' said Mr. Thomas, nodding at the master;and as neither of them addressed Stephen again, he left the office, amazed to find that he was not forbidden to return to work on thefollowing Monday. 

The Red Gravel Pit, where Miss Anne had promised to meet her scholars onSunday morning, was a quarry cut out of the side of one of the hills, from which the stones were taken for making and mending the roads in theneighbourhood. The quarry had been hollowed out into a kind of enclosedcircle, only entered by the road through which the waggons passed. Allalong the edge of the red rocks high overhead there was a coppice ofgreen hazel-bushes and young oaks, where the boys had spent many a Sundaysearching for wild nuts, and hunting the squirrels from tree to tree. Stephen and Tim met half an hour earlier than the time appointed by MissAnne, and by dint of great perseverance and strength rolled together fivelarge stones, under the shadow of an oak tree; and placed four of them ina row before the largest one, as Tim had once seen the children sittingin the village school at Longville, when he had taken a donkey-load ofcoals for the schoolmaster. Martha came in good time with little Nan, both in their new black bonnets and clean cotton shawls; and all wereseated orderly in a row when Miss Anne entered the Red Gravel Pit by thewaggon road. 

I need not describe to you how Miss Anne heard Stephen read his chapter, and taught Tim and Martha, and even little Nan herself, the first fewletters of the alphabet; after which she made them all repeat a verse ofa hymn, and, when they could say it correctly, sang it with them over andover again, in her sweet and clear voice, until Stephen felt almostchoked with a sob of pure gladness, that would every now and then rise tohis lips. Tim sang loudly and lustily, getting out of tune very often. But little Nan was a marvel to hear, so soft and sweet were her childishtones, so that Miss Anne bade her sing the verse alone, which she didperfectly. Martha, too, was full of admiration of the lady's lilac silkdress and the white ribbon on her bonnet. 

That was the first of many pleasant Sunday mornings in the Red GravelPit. When the novelty was worn away, Martha discovered that she had toomuch to do at home to be able to leave it so early in the day; and Timsometimes overslept himself on a Sunday, when most of his comrades spentthe whole morning in bed. But Stephen and little Nan were always there, and their teacher never failed to meet them. Nor did Miss Anne confineher care of the orphan children to a Sunday morning only. Sometimes shewould mount the hill during the long summer evenings, and pay theirlittle household a visit, giving Martha many quiet hints about hermanagement and her outlay of Stephen's wages; hints which Martha did notalways receive as graciously as they were given. Miss Anne would readalso to the blind old grandfather, choosing very simple and easy portionsof the Bible, especially about the lost sheep being found, as thatpleased the old shepherd, and he could fully understand its meaning. Ingeneral, Miss Anne was very cheerful, and she would laugh merrily attimes; but now and then her face looked pale and sad, and her voice wasvery mournful while she talked and sang with them. Once, even, when shebade Stephen 'good evening, ' an exceedingly sorrowful expression passedacross her face, and she said to him, 'I find it quite as hard work toserve God really and truly as you do, Stephen. There is only one Helperfor both of us; and we can only do all things through Christ whichstrengtheneth us. '

But Stephen could not believe that good, gentle Miss Anne found it ashard to be a Christian as he did. Everything seemed against him at theworks. The short indulgence from hard words and hard blows granted himafter his father's death was followed by what appeared to be a verytempest of oppression. It was very soon understood that the master hada private grudge against the boy; and though the workpeople were grounddown and wronged in a hundred ways by him, so as to fill them with hatredand revenge, they were not the less willing to take advantage of hisspite against Stephen. His work underground, which had always beendistasteful to him compared with a shepherd's life on the hills, was nowmade more toilsome and dangerous than ever, while Black Thompson followedhim everywhere and all day long with oaths and blows. Stephen's evidentsuperiority over the other boys was of course very much against him; forhe had never been much associated with them, as his distant home hadseparated him from them excepting during the busy hours of labour. Now, when, through his own self-satisfaction and Tim's loud praises, hisaccomplishments became known, it is no wonder that a storm of envy andjealousy raged round him; for not only the boys themselves, but theirfathers also, felt affronted at his wonderful scholarship. To be sure, Tim never deserted him, and his partisanship was especially useful on thebank, before he went down and after he came up from the pit. But below, in the dark, dismal passages of the pit, many a stripe, unmerited, fellupon his bruised shoulders, which he learned to bear the more patientlyafter Miss Anne had taught and explained to him the verse, 'But He waswounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities; thechastisement of our peace was upon Him; and with His stripes we arehealed. ' Still Stephen, feeling how hard it was to continue in the rightway, and knowing how often he failed, to his own sore mortification andthe rude triumph of his comrades, wondered exceedingly how it waspossible for Miss Anne to find it as hard to be a follower of Christ ashe did. 

CHAPTER VII. 

POOR SNIP. 

The middle weeks of August were come--sunny, sultry weeks; and from thebrow of the hill, all the vast plain lying westward for many miles lookedgolden with the corn ripening for harvest. The oats in the little fieldhad already been reaped; and the fruit in the garden, gathered and soldby Martha, had brought in a few shillings, which were carefully hoardedup to buy winter clothing. It was now the time of the yearly gathering ofbilberries on the hills; and tribes of women and children ascended to thetableland from all the villages round. It was the pleasantest work of theyear; and Martha, who had never missed the bilberry season since shecould remember, was not likely to miss it now. Even little Nan could helpto pick the berries, and she and Martha were out on the hillsides all thelivelong summer day. Their dwelling on the spot gave them a goodadvantage over those who lived down in Botfield; and each day, before anyof the others could reach the best bilberry-wires, they had alreadypicked a quart of the small purple berries, fresh and cool with the dewof the morning. Only the poor old grandfather had to be left at homealone, with his dinner put ready for him, which he was apt to eat up longbefore the proper dinner-hour came; and then he had to wait until Stephenreturned from his work, or Martha and little Nan were driven home by theAugust thunderstorms. Martha was wonderfully successful this year, andgained more money by selling her bilberries than she thought necessary toshow to Stephen; though, on his part, he always brought her every pennyof his wages. 

Ever since their father's funeral there had been a subject of disputebetween the brother and sister. Martha was bent upon enclosing the greendell, with its clear, cool little pond; and to this end she spent all thetime she could spare in raising a rough fence of stones and peat roundit. But Stephen would not consent to it; and neither argument, scolding, nor coaxing could turn him. He always answered that he had promised themaster that he would not trespass on the manor; and he must stand to hisword, whatever they might lose by it; though, indeed, he saw no harm inmaking green fields out of the waste land. Martha, on her side, maintained her right as the eldest to act as she judged best; and, moreover, urged the example of her thrifty grandmother, who had plannedthis very enclosure, and whose pattern she was determined to follow. Butbefore long the dispute was ended, and the subject of it became a matterof heart-troubling wonder, for several labourers from the master's farmbegan to fence in the very same ground, as well as to prepare the turfbehind Fern's Hollow for the planting of young trees; and neither Stephennor Martha could hide from the other that these labours made them feelexceedingly uneasy. 

'I say, Stephen, ' said one of the hedgers, as he was going down from hiswork one evening, and met the tired boy coming up from his, 'I'm afearedthere's some mischief brewing. There's master, and Mr. Thomas, and Mr. Jones the gamekeeper, been talking with thy grandfather nigh upon anhour. There'll be a upshot some day, I know; and Jones, he said summatabout leaving a keepsake for thee. '

'What could it be, William?' asked Stephen anxiously. 

'How should I know?' said the man, with some reluctance. 'Only, lad, I did hear a gun go off; and I never heard Snip bark again, though Ilistened for him. Stephen, Stephen, dunna thee go so mad like!'

But it was no use shouting after Stephen, as he ran frantically up thehill. Snip was always basking lazily in the sunshine under the hedge ofthe paddock, at the very point where he could catch the first sight ofhis young master, after which there was no more idleness or stillness inhim. Stephen could hardly breathe when he found that Snip was not at theusual place to greet him; but before he reached his home he saw it--thedead body of his own poor Snip--hung on the post of the wicket throughwhich he had to pass. He flew to the place; he tore his own hands withthe nails that were driven through Snip's feet; and then, without athought of his grandfather or of his own hunger, he bore away the deaddog in his arms, and wandered far out of sight or sound of the hateful, cruel world, into one of the most solitary plains upon the uplands. 

Any one passing by might have thought that Stephen was fast asleep in thelast slanting rays of the sun, which shone upon him there some time afterthe evening shadows had fallen upon Botfield; but a frenzy of passion, too strong for any words, had felled him to the ground, where he laybeside Snip. The gamekeeper, who had so many dogs that he did not carefor any one of them in particular, had killed this one creature that wasdearer to him than anything in the world, except little Nan, andgrandfather, and Martha. And Snip was dead, without remedy; no power onearth could bring back the departed life. Oh, if he could only punish thevillain who had shot his poor faithful dog! But he was nothing but a poorboy, very poor, and very helpless and friendless, and people would onlylaugh at his trouble. All the world was against him, and he could donothing to revenge himself, but to hate everybody!

'Why, lad! why, Stephen! what ails thee?' said Black Thompson's voice, close behind him. 'Eh! who's gone and shot Snip? That rascal Jones, I'llgo bail! Is he quite dead, Stephen? Stand up, lad, and let's give a lookat him. '

The boy rose, and faced Black Thompson and his comrade with eyes thatwere bloodshot, though he had not shed a tear, and with lips almostbitten through by his angry teeth. Both the men handled the dog gentlyand carefully, but, after a moment's inspection, Thompson laid it downagain on the turf. 

'It's a shame!' he cried, with an oath that sounded pleasantly inStephen's ears; 'it was one of the best little dogs about. I'd take myvengeance on him for this. In thy place, I couldn't sleep till I'd donesomething. '

'Ay!' said Stephen, with flashing eyes; 'I know where he's keeping acovey of birds up against game day--nineteen of them. I've seen themevery day, and I could go to the place in the dark. '

'That's a brave lad!' said Black Thompson; 'he's got his father's pluckafter all, as I've always told thee, Davies, and we'll see him righted. He's got his eyes in his head, has this lad!'

'They're down in the leasowe, between the Firspinny and Ragleth Hill, 'continued Stephen; 'and they're just prime, I can tell ye. And I know, too, what he doesn't know himself. I know to some black game, far awayup the hill. He'd give his two eyes to see them, with their whitewing-feathers; and if he hadn't'--

Stephen stopped, with quivering lips, for he could not speak yet ofSnip's murder. 

'Never take on, my lad, ' said Black Thompson, clapping him on the back;'we'll spoil his sport for him. Come thy ways with us; it'll be dark duskafore we gain the spinny, and Jones is off to the Whitehurst woodsto-night. We'll have as rare sport as the lord of the manor himself. Theeart a sharp one. I'd lay a round wager, now, thee knows where all thesheep of the hillside fold of nights. '

'Ay, do I, ' answered Stephen, walking briskly beside Black Thompson; 'Iknow every walk and every fold on the hills; ay, and many of the sheepthemselves. I keep my eyes wide open out of doors, I promise ye. '

'I'll swear to that, ' said Black Thompson, glad to encourage the boy inhis foolish boasting. On their way they passed near to Fern's Hollow, andStephen heard little Nan's shrill voice calling his name, as if she wereseeking him weariedly; but when he hesitated for a moment, his heartyearning to answer her, Black Thompson again patted him on the back, andbade him never show the white feather, but remember poor dead Snip; atwhich his passion for revenge returned, and he pressed on eagerly to thefir-coppice. 

It was quite dark when they entered the path leading through the wood. Noone spoke now, and they trod cautiously, lest there should be any noisefrom their footsteps. The tall black fir-trees towered above them to anunusual height; and through all the topmost branches there ran a low, mournful sound, as if every tree was whispering about them, and lamentingover them. Even the little brook, which in the sunshine rippled somerrily along the borders of the wood, seemed to be sobbing like agrieved and tired child in the night-time. Strange rustlings on everyside, and sudden groanings of the withered boughs in some of the pines, made them start in fear; and once, in a little opening among the trees, when the stars came out and looked down upon them, Stephen would havegiven all he had in the world to be safe at home, with little Nan singinghymns on his knee, or quietly asleep after the hot and busy day. 

'It's lonesome enough to make a bull-dog afeared, ' whispered Davies, ina frightened tone. But before long they were out of the wood; and in theglimmer of light that lasts all night through during the summer, Stephensaw Black Thompson unwind a net, which had been wrapped round his bodyunder his collier's jacket. More than half the covey of partridges werebagged; and they had such capital luck, as the men called it, thatStephen soon entered into the daring spirit of the adventure. It senta thrill of excitement through him, in which poor Snip was for the timeforgotten; and when about midnight Black Thompson and Davies said'Good-night' to him at his cottage door, calling him a brave fellow, andgiving him a fine young leveret, with the promise that he should have hisshare of whatever money they received for their spoil, he entered hisdark home, where every one was slumbering peacefully, and, without athought of sorrow or repentance, was quickly asleep himself. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

STEPHEN AND THE GAMEKEEPER. 

Martha's exclamation of surprise and delight at seeing the leveret wasthe first sound that Stephen heard in the morning; but he preserved asullen silence as to his absence the previous night, and Martha was tooshrewd to press him with questions. They had not been unused to such fareduring their father's lifetime; and it was settled between them that sheshould come down from the bilberry-plain early in the afternoon to make afeast of the leveret by the time of Stephen's return from the pit. 

All day long Stephen found himself treated with marked distinction andfavour by Black Thompson and his comrades, to some of whom he heard himsay, in a loud whisper, that 'Stephen 'ud show himself a chip of the oldblock yet. ' At dinner they invited him to sit within their circle, wherehe laughed and talked with the best of them, and was listened to as if hewere already a man. How different to his usually hurried meal beside thehorses, that worked like himself in the dark, close passages, but didnot, like him, ascend each evening to the grassy fields and the pure airof the upper earth! Stephen had a true tenderness in his nature towardsthese dumb fellow-labourers, and they loved the sound of his voice, andthe kindly patting of his hand; but somehow he felt as if they knew howhe had left his faithful old Snip unburied on the open hillside, whereBlack Thompson had found him in his passion the evening before. He wasnot sorry for what he had done; he would avenge himself on the gamekeeperagain whenever there was an opportunity. Even now, he promised BlackThompson, when they were away from the other colliers, to show him thehaunts of the scarce black grouse, which would be so valuable to thegamekeeper; and he enjoyed Black Thompson's applause. But there was asore pang in his heart, as he remembered dead Snip, unburied on thehillside. 

Supper was ready when he reached home; and what a savoury smell camethrough the open door, quite down to the wicket! Of course Snip was notwatching for him; and little Nan also, instead of looking out for him asusual, was waiting eagerly to be helped; for, as soon as Stephen was seenover the brow of the hill, Martha poured her dainty stew into a largebrown dish, and she had already portioned out a plateful for thegrandfather. Few words were uttered, for Martha was hot, and rathertesty; and Stephen felt a sullen weight hanging upon his spirits. Onlyevery now and then the old grandfather, chuckling and mumbling over theuncommon delicacy, would call Stephen by his father's name of James, andthank him for his rare supper. 

'Good evening, ' said Miss Anne's voice, and as the light from the doorwaywas darkened, all the party looked up quickly, and Stephen felt himselfgrowing hot and cold by turns. 'Your supper smells very nice, Martha;there has been some good cooking done to-day. '

'Oh, Miss Anne, ' cried Martha, colouring up with excitement and fear, 'itis a young leveret Mrs. Jones, the gamekeeper's wife, gave me for someknitting I'd done for her; she said it 'ud be a treat for grandfather. I've been cooking it all evening, ma'am, and it's very toothsome. Ifyou'd only just taste a mouthful, it 'ud make me ever so proud. '

'Thank you, Martha, ' said Miss Anne, smiling; 'I am quite hungry withclimbing the hill, and if it is as good as the bread you gave me theother day, I shall enjoy having my supper with you. '

Stephen scarcely heard what Miss Anne said to him, while he watchedMartha bustling about to reach out a grand china plate, which was one ofthe great treasures of their possessions; and he looked on silently asshe chose the daintiest morsels of the stew; but when she moved thelittle table nearer to the door, and laid the plate and knife and forkupon it, before Miss Anne, he started to his feet, unable to sit stilland see her partake of the food which he had procured in such a manner. 

'Don't touch it! don't taste it, Miss Anne!' he cried excitedly. 'Oh, please to come out with me to the bent of the hill, and I'll tell youwhy. But don't eat any of it!'

He darted out at the door before Martha could stop him, and ran down thegreen path to a place where he was out of sight and hearing of his home, waiting breathlessly for Miss Anne to overtake him. It was some minutesbefore she came, and her face was overcast and troubled; but she listenedin silence, while, without concealment, but with many bitter andpassionate words against the gamekeeper, and excuses for his own conduct, he confessed to her all the occurrences of the night before. Every momenthis agitation increased under her quiet, mournful look of reproach, until, as he came to the close, he cried out in a sorrowful but defianttone, 'Oh, Miss Anne, I could not bear it!'

'Do you remember, ' she asked, in a low and tender voice, 'how poor Snipused to follow me down to this very spot, and sit here till I was out ofsight? I was very fond of poor old Snip, Stephen!' Yes, her voicetrembled, and tears were in her eyes. The proud bulwark which Stephen hadbeen raising against his grief was broken down in a moment. He sank downon the turf at Miss Anne's feet; and, no longer checking the tears whichhad been burning in his eyes all day, he wept and sobbed vehemently, until his passion had worn away. 

'And now, ' said Miss Anne, sitting down beside him, 'I must tell youthat, though I am not surprised, I am very, very grieved, Stephen. If youknew your Bible more, you would have read this verse in it, "God isfaithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able;but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may beable to bear it. " Did no way of escape open to you, Stephen?'

Then Stephen remembered how he had heard dear little Nan callingpiteously to him as he passed Fern's Hollow with Black Thompson; and howhis heart yearned to go to her, though he had resisted and conquered thissaving impulse. 

'You do not know much, ' continued Miss Anne, 'but if you had followed outall you do know, instead of poaching with Black Thompson that you mightrevenge yourself for Snip being killed, you would have been praying forthem that persecute you. The Bible says that not a sparrow falls to theground without our Father. So God knew that poor Snip was shot. '

'But why did He not hinder it?' asked Stephen, speaking low andindistinctly. 

'Stephen, ' said Miss Anne earnestly, 'suppose that I lived in a verygrand palace, where there were many things that you had never seen, and Iwanted little Nan to come and live with me, not as a servant, but as mydear child; would it be unkind of me to send her first to a school, whereshe could learn how to read the books, and understand the pictures, andplay the music she would find in my palace? Even if the lessons wereoften hard, and some of her schoolfellows were cruel and unkind to her, would it not be better for her to bear it for a little while, until shewas made ready to live with me as my own child?'

The young lady paused for a few minutes, while Stephen pictured tohimself the grand palace, and little Nan being made fit to live in it;and when at last he raised his brown eyes to hers, bright with thepleasant thought, she went on in a quiet, reverential tone:

'Perhaps we could not understand any of the things of heaven, so ourFather which is in heaven sends us to school here; we are learninglessons all our life long. There is not a single trouble that comes to usbut it is to teach us the meaning of something we shall meet with there. We should not be happy to hear the angels singing a song which we couldnot understand, because we had missed our lessons down here. '

'Oh, Miss Anne, ' cried Stephen, 'I feel as if I could bear anything whenI think of that! Only I wish I was as strong as an angel. '

'Patience is better than strength, ' said Miss Anne, in a tone as if shewere speaking to herself: 'patiently to bear the will of God, andpatiently to keep His commandments, is greater and more glorious than thestrength of an angel. '

'Black Thompson was so kind to me all to-day, ' said Stephen, sighing;'and now he'll be ten times worse if I go back from telling him where theblack game is. '

'You must do right, ' replied Miss Anne, with a glance that brought backtrue courage to the boy's heart; 'and remember that "blessed are theywhich are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdomof heaven. " Now, good-night, Stephen. Go and bury poor Snip while thereis daylight, in some quiet place where you can go and think and read andplay sometimes. '

Stephen returned to the hut for a spade, and then went, with a strangeblending of grief and gladness, to the place where he had left his poordog. He chose a solitary yew tree on the hill for the burial ground, anddug as deep a grave as he could among the far-spreading roots. It wasstrange, only such things do happen now and then, that while he wasworking away hard and fast, with the dead dog lying by under the trunk ofthe yew tree, the gamekeeper himself passed that way. He had been in aterrible temper all day, for he had discovered the mischief done down inthe fir-coppice, and the loss of his carefully-preserved covey. The sightof Stephen and dead Snip irritated him; though a feeling of shame creptover him as he saw how tear-stained the boy's face was. 

'Mr. Jones, ' said Stephen, 'I've something to say to you. '

'Be sharp, then, ' replied the gamekeeper, 'and mind what you're about. I'll not take any impudence from a young rascal like you. '

'It's no impudence, ' answered Stephen; 'only I know to some black game, and I wanted to tell you about them. '

'Black game!' he said contemptuously. 'A likely story. There's been nonethese half-dozen years. '

'It's four years since, ' answered Stephen; 'I remember, becausegrandfather and I saw them the day mother died, when little Nan was born. I couldn't forget them or mistake them after that. They are at the headof the Black Valley, where the quaking noise begins. I'm sure I'm right, sir. '

'You are not making game of me?' asked Jones, laughing heartily at hisown wit. 'Well, my lad, if this is true, it will be worth something tome. Hark ye, I'm sorry about your dog, and you shall choose any one ofmine you like, if you'll promise to keep him out of mischief. '

'I couldn't have another dog in Snip's place, ' replied Stephen in achoked voice; 'at any rate not yet, thank you, sir. '

'Well, ' said the gamekeeper, shouldering his gun, and walking off, 'I'llbe your friend, young Fern, when it does not hurt myself. '

CHAPTER IX. 

HOMELESS. 

Of course Stephen's brief term of favour with Black Thompson was at anend; but whether Miss Anne had given him a hint that the boy was underher protection, and had confessed all to her, or because he might bebusy in some deeper scheme of wickedness, he did not display as muchanger as Stephen expected, when he refused to show him the haunts ofthe grouse, or go with him again on a poaching expedition. Stephen wasmore humble and vigilant than he had been before falling into temptation. He set a close watch upon himself, lest he should be betrayed into aself-confident spirit again; and Tim's loud praises sounded lesspleasantly in his ears, so that one evening he told him, with much shame, into what sin he had been led by his desire to avenge Snip's murder. Unfortunately, this disclosure so much heightened Tim's estimation of hischaracter, that from time to time he gave utterance to mysterious hintsof the extraordinary courage and spirit Stephen could manifest whenoccasion required. These praises were, however, in some measure balancedby Martha's taunts and reproaches at home. 

The shooting season had commenced, and the lord of the manor was come, with a number of his friends, to shoot over the hills and plantations. Hewas a frank, pleasant-looking gentleman, but far too grand and high forStephen to address, though he gazed wistfully at him whenever he chancedto meet him on the hills. One afternoon Martha saw him and the masterwalking towards Fern's Hollow, where the fencing-in of the green and ofthe coppice behind the hut were being finished rapidly; and she creptwith stealthy steps under the hedge of the garden, until she came withinearshot of them; but they were just moving on, and all she heard of theconversation were these words, from the lord of the manor: 'You shallhave it at any rate you fix, Wyley--at a peppercorn rent, if you please;but I will not sell a square yard of my land out and out. ' How Martha andStephen did talk about those words over and over again, and could nevercome to any conclusion about them. 

It was about noon on Michaelmas Day, a day which was of no note up atFern's Hollow, where there was no rent to be paid, and Martha was busilyhanging out clothes to dry on the gorse bushes before the house, when shesaw a troop of labourers coming over the brow of the hill and crossingthe newly-enclosed pasture. They were armed with mattocks and pickaxes;but as the peaceful little cottage rose before them, with blind old Fernbasking in the warm sunshine, and little Nan playing quietly about thedoor-sill, the men gathered into a little knot, and stood still with anirresolute and ashamed aspect. 

'They know nothing about it, ' said William Morris; 'look at them, aseasy and unconcerned as lambs. I was afeared there'd be a upshot, whenthe master were after old Fern so long. I don't half like the job; andStephen isn't here. He does look a bit like a man, and we could argy withhim; but that old man, and that girl--they'll take on so. '

'I say, Martha, ' shouted a bolder-hearted man, 'hasn't the master letthee know thee must turn out to-day? He wants to lay the foundation of anew house, and get the walls up afore the frost comes on; and we are cometo pick the old place to the ground. He only told us an hour ago, or we'dhave seen thee was ready. '

'I don't believe thee; thee's only romancing, ' said Martha, turning verypale. 'The old place is our own, and no master has any right to it, saveStephen. '

'It's no use wasting breath, ' replied William Morris. 'The master sayshe's bought the place from thy grandfather, lass; and he agreed to turnout by noon on Michaelmas Day. Master doesn't want to be hard upon you;and he says, if you've no place to turn in to, you may go to the oldcabin on the upper cinder-hill, till there's a cottage empty in Botfield;and we'll help thee to move the things at wunst. We're to get the roofoff and the walls down afore nightfall. '

'Grandfather and little Nan!' screamed Martha; 'get into the house thisminute! It's no use you men coming up here on this errand. You knowgrandfather's simple, and he hasn't sold the house; how could he? He's nomore sense than little Nan. No, no; you must go down to the works, andhear what Stephen says. You're a pack of rascals, every one of you, andthe master's the biggest; and you'll all have to gnash your teeth overthis business some day, I reckon. '

By this time the old man and the child were safely within the house;and Martha, springing quickly from the wicket, where she had kept themen at bay, followed them in, and barred the door, before any one ofthe labourers could thrust his shoulder in to prevent her. They held aconsultation together when they found that no arguments prevailed uponher to open to them, to which Martha listened disdainfully through thelarge chinks, but vouchsafed no answer. 

'Come, come, my lass, ' said William Morris soothingly; 'it's lost timeand strength, thee contending with the master. I don't like the business;but our orders are clear, and we must obey them. Thee let us in, andwe'll carry the things down to the cinder-hill cabin for thee. If theewon't open the door, we'll be forced to take the thatch off. '

'I won't, ' answered Martha, --'not for the lord of the manor himself. Thehouse is ours, and I 'ware any of you to touch it. Go down to Stephen andhear what he'll say. If thee takes the thatch off, thee shan't move meout. '

But when the old stove-pipe, through which the last breath of thehousehold fire had passed, was drawn up, and the blue sky could be seenthrough the cloud of dust and dirt with which the hut was filled, chokingthe helpless old man and the frightened child, Martha's courage failedher; and she went out, with little Nan clinging round her, and spoke ascalmly to the invaders as her rising sobs would let her. 

'You know it's grandmother's own house, ' she said; 'and the lord of themanor himself has no right to it. But I'll go down and fetch Stephen, ifyou'll only wait. '

'We daren't wait, Martha, ' answered Morris kindly; 'and it's no use, lass; the master's too many for thee. But thee go down to Stephen; andwe'll move the things safe, as if they were our own, and put them wherethey'll not be broken; and we'll take care of little Nan and thy poor oldgrandfather. Tell Stephen we're desperately cut up about it ourselves;but, if we hadn't done it, somebody that has no good-will towards himwould have taken the job. So go thy poor ways with thee, my lass; we aremain sorry for thee and Stephen. '

The hot, choking smoke from the limekiln was blowing across the works;and the dusty pit-bank was covered with busy men and boys and girls, shouting, laughing, singing, and swearing, when Martha arrived atBotfield. She was rarely seen at the pit, for her thrifty and housewifelyhabits kept her busy at Fern's Hollow; and the rough, loud voices of thebanksmen, the regular beat of the engine, the clanking of chains, and thedust and smoke and heat of the almost strange scene bewildered thehillside girl. She made her way to the cabin, a little hut built near themouth of the shaft for the use of the people employed about the pit; butbefore she could see Tim, or fix upon any one to inquire about Stephenfrom, a girl of her own age, but with a face sunburnt and blackened fromher rough and unwomanly work, and in an uncouth dress of sackcloth, whichwas grimed with coal-dust, came up and peered boldly in her face. 

'Why, it's Miss Fern!' she cried, with a loud laugh; 'Miss Fern, Esq. , of Fern's Hollow, come to learn us poor pit-folk scholarship and manners. Here, lads! here's Mr. Stephen Fern's fine sister, as knows more nor allof us put together. Give us a bit of your learning, Miss Fern. '

'I know a black-bess when I see one, ' replied Martha sharply; and all theboys and girls joined in a ready roar of merriment against Bess Thompson, whose nickname was the common country name for a beetle. 

'That'll do!' they shouted; 'she knows a black-bess! Thee's got thyanswer, Bess Thompson. '

'What's brought thee to the pit?' asked Bess fiercely; 'we want noscatter-witted hill girls here, I can tell ye. So get off the pit-bank, afore I drive thee off. '

'What's all this hullabaloo?' inquired Tim, making his appearance at thecabin door. 'Why, Martha, what brings thee at the pit? Come in here, andtell me what's up now. '

Tim listened to Martha's tearful story with great amazement andindignation; and, after a few minutes' consideration, he told her he hadnothing much to do, and he would get leave to take Stephen's place forthe rest of the day, so as to set him free to go home at once. He lefther standing in the middle of the cabin, for the rough benches round itlooked too black for her to venture to take a seat upon them; and in ashort time he shouted to her from a skep, which was being lowered intothe pit, promising her that Stephen should come up as soon as possible. It seemed a terribly long time to wait amid that noise and dust, andevery now and then Black Bess relieved her feelings by making hideousgrimaces at her when she passed the cabin door; but Stephen ascended atlast, very stern-looking and silent, for Tim had told him Martha'sbusiness; and he hurried her away from the pit-bank before he wouldlisten to the detailed account she was longing to give. Even when theywere in the lonely lane leading homewards, and she was talking andsobbing herself out of breath, he walked on without a word passing hislips, though his heart was sending up ceaseless prayers to God for helpto bear this trial with patience. Poor old home! There was all thewell-used household furniture carried out and heaped together on theturf, --chairs and tables and beds, --looking so differently to what theydid when arranged in their proper order. The old man, with his grey headuncovered, was wandering to and fro in sore bewilderment; and little Nanhad fallen asleep beside the furniture, with the trace of tears upon herrosy cheeks. But the house was almost gone. The door-sill, where Stephenhad so often seen the sun go down as he rested himself from his labours, was already taken up; the old grate, round which they had sat all thewinter nights that he had ever known, was pulled out of the rock; and allthe floor was open to the mocking sunshine. It is a mournful thing to seeone's own home in ruins; and a tear or two made a white channel down thecoal-dust on Stephen's cheeks; but he subdued himself, and spoke out tothe labourers like a man. 

'I know it's not your fault, ' he said, as they stood round him, makingexplanations and excuses; 'but you know grandfather could not sell theplace. I'll get you to help me carry the things down to the cinder-hillcabin. The sheep and ponies are coming down the hill, and there'll berain afore long; and it's not fit for grandfather and little Nan to beout in it. You'll spare time from the work for that?'

'Ay, will we!' cried the men heartily; and, submitting kindly toStephen's quiet directions, they were soon laden with the householdgoods, which were scanty and easily removed. Two or three journeys weresufficient to take them all; and when the labourers returned for the lasttime to their work of destruction, Stephen took little Nan in his arms, and Martha led away the old man; while the sound of the pickaxes and thecrash of the rough rubble stones of their old home followed their slowand lingering steps over the new pasture, and down the hillside towardsBotfield. 

CHAPTER X. 

THE CABIN ON THE CINDER-HILL. 

The cinder-hill cabin was situated at the mouth of an old shaft, long outof use, but said to lead into the same pit as that now worked, theentrance to which was about a quarter of a mile distant. The cabin wasabout the same size as the hut from which the helpless family had beendriven; but the thatch wanted so much mending that Stephen and Marthawere obliged to draw over it one of their patchwork quilts, to shelterthem for the night from the rain which was threatened by the gatheringclouds. The door from the hut at Fern's Hollow was fortunately rather toolarge instead of being too small for the doorway; and William Morrispromised to bring them a shutter for the window-place, where there was noglass. Altogether, the cabin was not very inferior to their old home;but, instead of the soft green turf and the fragrant air of the hills, they were surrounded by barren cinder-heaps, upon which nothing wouldgrow but the yellow coltsfoot and a few weeds, and the wind was blowingclouds of smoke from the limekilns over and round the dismal cabin. Stephen, with the profound silence that began to frighten Martha, madeevery arrangement he could think of for their comfort during thequickly-approaching night; and as soon as this was finished, he washedand dressed himself, as upon a Sunday morning, before going to meet MissAnne in the Red Gravel Pit. He was leaving the cabin without speaking, when little Nan, who had watched everything in childish bewilderment anddismay, set up a loud, pitiful cry, which he soothed with greatdifficulty. 

'Stevie going to live here?' said the little child at last, with a deepsob. 

'Ay, little Nan, ' he answered; 'for a bit, darling. Please God, we'll gohome again some day. But little Nan shall always live with Stevie. That'll do; won't it?'

'Ay, Stevie, ' sobbed the child; and Stephen, kissing her tenderly, puther on to Martha's lap, and walked out into the moonlight. The cloudswere hanging heavily in the western sky, but the clearer heavens shoneall the brighter by the contrast. The mountains lay before him, calm andimmovable in the soft light; and he could see the round outline of hisown hollow, at which his heart throbbed for a minute painfully. But therewas a hidden corner at the side of the cabin, and there Stephen kneltdown to pray earnestly before he went farther on his errand, until, calmand quiet as the hills, and as the moon which seemed to be gazinglovingly upon them, he went on with a brave and stedfast spirit to themaster's house. 

Botfield Hall was a large, half-timbered farmhouse, with a gabled roof, part of which was made of thatch and the rest of tiles. It stood quitealone, at a little distance from the works, on the other side of them tothat where the village was built. The window-casements were framed ofstone; and the outer doors were of thick, solid oak, studded withlarge-headed iron nails. The iron ring that served as a rapper on theback door fell with a loud clang from Stephen's fingers upon the nails, and startled him with its din, so that he could hardly speak to theservant who answered his noisy summons. They crossed a kitchen, intowhich many doors opened, to a kind of parlour beyond, fitted up withfurniture that looked wonderfully handsome and grand in Stephen's eyes, and where the master was sitting by a comfortable fire. The impatientservant pushed him within the door, and closed it behind her, leaving himstanding upon a mat, and shyly stroking his cap round and round, whilethe master sat still, and gazed at him steadily with an assumed air ofamazement, though inwardly he was more afraid of the boy than Stephen wasof him. It makes a coward of a man or boy to do anybody an injury. 

'Pray, what business brings you here, young Fern?' he asked in a gruffvoice. 

'Sir, ' said Stephen firmly, but without any insolence of manner, 'I wantto know who has turned us out of our own house. Is it the lord of themanor, or you?'

'I've bought the place for myself, ' answered the master, bringing hishand down with a heavy blow upon the table before him, as if he wouldlike to knock Stephen down with the same force. 

'There's nobody to sell it but me, ' said the boy. 

'You think so, my lad, do you? Why, if it were your own, you would haveno power over it till you are one-and-twenty. But the place was yourgrandfather's, and he has sold it to me for £15. When your grandfatherreturned from transportation his wife's hut became his; and his right toit does not go over to anybody else till he is dead. It never belonged toyour father; and you can have no right to it. If you want to see the deedof purchase, it is safe here, witnessed by my brother Thomas and Jonesthe gamekeeper, and your grandfather's mark put to it. I would show it toyou; but I reckon, with all your learning, you would not make much out ofit. '

'Sir, ' said Stephen, trembling, 'grandfather is quite simple and dark. Hecouldn't understand that you were buying the place of him. Besides, he'snever had the money?'

'What do you mean, you young scoundrel?' cried the master. 'I gave itinto his own hands, and made him put it into his waistcoat pocket forsafety. Simple is he, and dark? He could attend his son's funeral fourmiles off only a few months ago; and he can understand my niece Anne'sfine reading, which I cannot understand myself. Ask him for the threefive-pound notes I gave him, if you have not had them already. '

'How long ago is it?' inquired Stephen. 

'You can't remember!' said the master, laughing: 'well, well, Jones leftyou a keepsake at your garden wicket for you to remember the day by. '

Stephen's face flushed into a wrathful crimson, but he did not speak; andin a minute or two the master said sharply, --

'Come, be off with you, if you've got nothing else to say. '

'I have got something else to say, ' answered Stephen, walking up to thetable and looking steadily into his master's face. 'God sees both of us;and He knows you have no right to the place, and I have. I believe someday we'll go back again, though you have pulled the old house down to theground. I don't want to make God angry with _me_. But the Bible says Heseeth in secret, and He will reward us openly. '

The master shrank and turned pale before the keen, composed gaze of theboy and his manly bearing; but Stephen's heart began to fail him, and, with trembling limbs and eyes that could scarcely see, he made his wayout of the room, and out of the house, down to the end of the shrubbery. There he could bear up no longer, and he sat down under the laurels, shivering with a feeling of despair. The worst was come upon him now, andhe saw no helper. 

'My poor boy, ' said Miss Anne's gentle voice, and he felt her hand laidsoftly on his shoulder. 'My poor Stephen, I have heard all, and I knowhow bitterly hard it is to bear. '

Stephen answered her only with a low, half-suppressed groan; and then hesat speechless and motionless, as if his despair had completely paralyzedhim. 

'Listen, Stephen, ' she continued, with energy: 'you told me once that theclergyman at Danesford has some paper belonging to you, about thecottage. You must go to him, and tell him frankly your whole story. I donot believe that what my uncle has done would stand in law, and I myself, if it be necessary, would testify that your grandfather could notunderstand such a transaction. But perhaps it could be settled withoutgoing to law, if the clergyman at Danesford would take it in hand; for myuncle is very wishful to keep a good name in the country. But if not, Stephen Fern, I promise you faithfully that should Fern's Hollow evercome into my possession, and I be my uncle's only relative, I willrestore it to you as your rightful inheritance. '

She spoke so gravely, yet cheeringly, that a bright hope beamed intoStephen's mind; and when Miss Anne held out her hand to him, as a pledgeof her promise, she felt a warm tear fall upon it. He rose up from theground now, and stood out into the moonlight before her, looking up intoher pale face. 

'Stephen, ' she said, more solemnly than before, 'do you find it possibleto endure this injury and temptation?'

'I've been praying for the master, ' answered Stephen; but there was atone of bitterness in his voice, and his face grew gloomy again. 

'He is a very miserable man, ' said Miss Anne, sighing; 'I often hear himwalking up and down his room, and crying aloud in the night-time for Godto have mercy upon him; but he is a slave to the love of riches. Yearsago he might have broken through his chain, but he hugged it closely, andnow it presses upon him very hardly. All his love has been given tomoney, till he cannot feel any love to God; and he knows that in a fewyears he must leave all he loves for ever, and go into eternity withoutit. He will have no rest to-night because of the injury he has done you. He is a very wretched man, Stephen. '

'I wouldn't change with him for all his money, ' said Stephen pityingly. 

'Stephen, ' continued Miss Anne, 'you say you pray for my uncle, and Ibelieve you do; but do you never feel a kind of spite and hatred againsthim in your very prayers? Have you never seemed to enjoy telling ourFather how very evil he is?'

'Yes, ' said the boy, hanging down his head, and wondering how Miss Annecould possibly know that. 

'Ah, Stephen, ' she continued, 'God requires of us something more thansuch prayers. He bids us really and truly to love our enemies--love whichHe only can know of, because it is He who seeth in secret and into theinmost secrets of our hearts. I may hear you pray for your enemies, andsee you try to do them good; but He alone can tell whether of a truth youlove them. '

'I cannot love them as I love you and little Nan, ' replied Stephen. 

'Not with the same kind of love, ' said Miss Anne; 'in us there issomething for your love to take hold of and feed upon. "But if ye lovethem which love you, what reward have ye? do not even the publicans thesame?" Your affection for us is the kind that sinners can feel; it is ofthis earth, and is earthly. But to love our enemies is heavenly; it isChrist-like, for He died for us while we were _yet_ sinners. Will you tryto do more than pray for my uncle and Black Thompson? Will you try tolove them. Will you try for Christ's sake?'

'Oh, Miss Anne, how can I?' he asked. 

'It may not be all at once, ' she answered tenderly; 'but if you ask Godto help you, His Holy Spirit will work within you. Only set this beforeyou as your aim, and resist every other feeling that will creep in;remembering that the Lord Jesus Himself, who died for us, said to us, "Love your enemies. " He can feel for you, for "He was tempted in allpoints as we are. "'

As she spoke the last words, they heard the master's voice calling loudlyfor Miss Anne, and Stephen watched her run swiftly up the shrubbery anddisappear through the door. There was a great bolting and locking andbarring to be heard within, for it was rumoured that Mr. Wyley kept largesums of money in his house, and no place in the whole country-side wasmore securely fastened up by day or night. But Stephen thought of himpacing up and down his room through the sleepless night, praying God tohave mercy upon him, yet not willing to give up his sin; and as he turnedaway to the poor little cabin on the cinder-hill, there was more pitythan revenge in the boy's heart. 

CHAPTER XI. 

STEPHEN AND THE RECTOR. 

The report of the expulsion of the family from Fern's Hollow spreadthrough Botfield before morning; and Stephen found an eager cluster ofmen, as well as boys and girls, awaiting his appearance on the pit-bank. There was the steady step and glance of a man about him when he came--agrave, reserved air, which had an effect upon even the rough colliers. Black Thompson came forward to shake hands with him, and his example wasfollowed by many of the others, with hearty expressions of sympathy andattempts at consolation. 

'It'll be put right some day, ' said Stephen; and that was all they couldprovoke him to utter. He went down to his work; and, though now and thenthe recollection thrilled through him that there was no pleasant Fern'sHollow for him to return to in the evening, none of his comrades couldbetray him into any expression of resentment against his oppressor. 

In the meantime Miss Anne did not forget to visit the cabin, and cheer, as well as she could, the trouble of poor Martha, whose good and proudhousewifery had kept Fern's Hollow cleaner and tidier than any of thecottages at Botfield. It was no easy matter to rouse Martha to take anyinterest in the miserable cabin where the household furniture had beenhastily heaped in the night before; but when her heart warmed to thework, in which Miss Anne was taking an active part, she began to feelsomething like pleasure in making the new home like the old one, as faras the interior went. Out of doors, no improvement could be made untilsoil could be carried up the barren and steep bank, to make a little plotof garden ground. But within, the work went on so heartily that, whenStephen returned from the pit, half an hour earlier than usual, --for hehad no long walk of two miles now, --he found his grandfather settled inthe chimney corner, apparently unconscious of any removal, while bothMartha and little Nan seemed in some measure reconciled to their changeof dwelling. Moreover, Miss Anne was waiting to greet him kindly. 

'Stephen, ' she said, 'Martha has found the three notes in yourgrandfather's pocket all safe. You had better take them with you to theclergyman at Danesford, and do what he advises you with them. And now youare come to live at Botfield, you can manage to go to church everySunday; even little Nan can go; and there is a night-school at Longville, where you can learn to write as well as read. It will not be all loss, myboy. '

The opportunity for going to Danesford was not long in coming, for BlackThompson and Cole, who were the chief colliers in the pit, chose to takea 'play-day' with the rest of their comrades; and the boys and girlsemployed at the works were obliged to play also, though it involved theforfeiture of their day's wages--always a serious loss to Stephen. Thistime, however, he heard the news gladly; and, carefully securing thethree notes by pinning them inside his pocket, he set out for his tenmiles walk across the tableland to the other side of the mountains, whereDanesford lay. His nearest way led straight by Fern's Hollow, and he sawthat already upon the old site the foundation was laid for a new housecontaining three rooms. In everything else the aspect of the placeremained unchanged; there still hung the creaking wicket, where littleNan had been wont to look for his coming home, until she could run withoutstretched arms to meet him. The beehives stood yet beneath the hedge, and the bees were flying to and fro, seeking out the few flowers of theautumn upon the hillside. The fern upon the uplands, just behind thehollow, was beginning to die, and its rich red-brown hue showed that itwas ready to be cut and carried away for fodder; but a squatter from someother hill-hut had trespassed upon Stephen's old domain. Except this oneman, the whole tableland was deserted; and so silent was it that therustle of his own feet through the fading ferns sounded like otherfootsteps following him closely. The sheep were not yet driven down intothe valleys, and they and the wild ponies stood and stared boldly at thesolitary boy, without fleeing from his path, as if they had long sinceforgotten how the bilberry gatherers had delighted in frightening them. Stephen was too grave and manlike to startle them into memory of it, andhe plodded on mile after mile with the three notes in his pocket and hishand closed upon them, pondering deeply with what words he should speakto the unknown clergyman at Danesford. 

When he reached Danesford, he found it a very quiet, sleepy littlevillage, with a gleaming river flowing through it placidly, and suchrespectable houses and small clean cottages as put to shame the dwellingsat Botfield. So early was it yet, that the village children were onlyjust going to school; and the biggest boy turned back with Stephen to thegate of the Rectory. Stephen had never seen so large and grand a mansion, standing far back from the road, in a park, through which ran a carriagedrive up to a magnificent portico. He stole shyly along a narrow sidepath to the back door, and even there was afraid of knocking; but whenhis low single rap was answered by a good-tempered-looking girl, notmuch older than Martha, his courage revived, and he asked, in astraightforward and steady manner, if he could see the parson. At whichthe servant laughed a little, and, after inquiring his name, said shewould see if Mr. Lockwood could spare time to speak to him. 

Before long the girl returned, and led Stephen through many winding andtwisting passages, more puzzling than the roads in the pit, to a large, grand room, with windows down to the ground, and looking out upon abeautiful flower-garden. It was like the palace Miss Anne had spoken of, for he could not understand half the things that were in the room; onlyhe saw a fire burning in a low grate, the bars of which shone likesilver, and upon the carpeted hearth beside it was a sofa, where a younglady was lying, and near to it was a breakfast-table, at which an elderlygentleman was seated alone. He was a very keen, shrewd-looking man, andvery pleasant to look at when he smiled; and he smiled upon Stephen, ashe stood awe-struck and speechless at his own daring in coming to speakto such a gentleman, and in such a place as this. 

'So you are Stephen Fern, of Fern's Hollow, ' said Mr. Lockwood; 'Iremember christening you, and giving you my own name, thirteen orfourteen years since, isn't it? Your mother had been my faithfulservant for several years; and she brought you all across the hillsto Danesford to be christened. Is she well--my good Sarah Moore?'

'Mother died four years ago, sir, ' murmured Stephen, unable to say anymore. 

'Poor boy!' said the young lady on the sofa. 'Father, is there anythingwe can do for him?'

'That is what I am going to hear, my child, ' replied Mr. Lockwood. 'Stephen has not come over the hills without some errand. Now, my boy, speak out plainly and boldly, and let me hear what has brought you toyour mother's old master. '

Thus encouraged, Stephen, with the utmost simplicity and frankness, though with fewer words than Martha would have put into the narrative, told Mr. Lockwood the whole history of his life; to which the clergymanlistened with ever-increasing interest, as he noticed how the boy wastelling all the truth, and nothing but the truth, even to his joiningBlack Thompson in poaching. When he had finished, Mr. Lockwood went toa large cabinet in the room, and, bringing out a bundle of old yellowdocuments, soon found among them the paper James Fern had spoken of onhis death-bed. It was written by the clergyman living in Longville at thetime of old Martha Fern's death, to certify that she had settled, andmaintained her settlement on the hillside, without paying rent, or havingher fences destroyed, for upwards of twenty years, and that the land washer own by the usages of the common. 

'I don't know what use it will be, ' said Mr. Lockwood, 'but I will takelegal advice upon it; that is, I will tell my lawyer all about it, andsee what we had best do. You may leave the case in my hands, Stephen. Butto-morrow morning we start for the south of France, where my daughtermust live all the winter for the benefit of the warm climate; and I mustgo with her, for she is my only treasure now. Can you live in your cabintill we come home? Will you trust yourself to me, Stephen? I will not seea son of my old servant wronged. '

'Please, sir, ' said Stephen, 'the cabin is good enough for us, and we arenearer church and the night-school; only I didn't like to break my wordto father, besides losing the old home: we can stay all winter well. I'lltrust you, sir; but my work is dangersome, and please God I should getkilled, will you do the same for Martha and little Nan?'

'Ay!' answered Mr. Lockwood, coughing down his emotion at the young boy'sforethought and care for his sisters. 'If it pleases God, my boy, youwill live to make a right good, true-hearted Christian man; but if Heshould take you home before me, I'll befriend your sisters as long as Ilive. I like your Miss Anne, Stephen; but your master is a terriblerascal, I fear. '

'Yes, sir, ' said Stephen quietly. 

'You don't say much about him, however, ' replied Mr. Lockwood, smiling athis few words. 

'Please, sir, I am trying to love my enemies, ' he answered, with afeeling of shyness; 'if I was to call him a rascal, or any other badword, it 'ud throw me back like, and it's very hard work anyhow. I feelas if I'd like to do it sometimes. '

'You are right, Stephen, ' said Mr. Lockwood; 'you are wise in keepingyour tongue from evil speaking: for "therewith bless we God, even theFather; and therewith curse we men, which are made after the similitudeof God. Out of the same mouth proceedeth blessing and cursing. " You havetaught an old parson a lesson, my boy. You had better leave your moneywith me until my lawyer gives us his opinion. Now go home in peace, andserve your master faithfully; but if you should need a friend before Ireturn, come here and ask for the clergyman who is going to take my duty. I will tell him about you, and he will help you until I come home. '

That afternoon Stephen retraced his lonely path across the hills in greatgladness of heart; and when he came to Fern's Hollow, he leaped lightlydown the bank against which the old stove-pipe had been reared as achimney, and stood again on the site of the old hearth, in the midst ofthe new walls of red bricks that were being built up. How the mastercould remove the new house and restore the old hut was a question of someperplexity to him; but his confidence in the parson at Danesford was soperfect, that he did not doubt for a moment that he could call Fern'sHollow his own again next spring. 

CHAPTER XII. 

VISIT OF BLACK BESS. 

Everybody at Botfield was astonished at the change in Stephen's manner;so cheerful was he, and light-hearted, as if his brief manhood had passedaway, with its burden of cares and anxieties, and his boyish freedom andgladsomeness had come back again. The secret cause remained undiscovered;for Martha, fluent in tongue as she was, had enough discretion to keepher own counsel, and seal up her lips as close as wax, when it wasnecessary. The people puzzled themselves in vain; and Black Thompson leftoff hinting at revenge to Stephen. Even the master, when the boy passedhim with a respectful bow, in which there was nothing of resentment orsullenness, wondered how he could so soon forget the great injury he hadsuffered. Mr. Wyley would have been better satisfied if the whole familycould have been driven out of the neighbourhood; but there was no knowingwhat ugly rumours and inquiries might be set afloat, if the boy wenttelling his tale to nobody knows whom. 

Upon the whole, Martha did not very much regret her change of dwelling, though she made a great virtue of her patience in submitting quietly toit. To be sure, the cinder-hill was unsightly, and the cabin blackenedwith smoke; and it was necessary to lock little Nan and grandfathersafely within the house whenever she went out, lest they should get tothe mouth of the open shaft, where Stephen often amused the child bythrowing stones down it, and listening to their rebound against thesides. But still Martha had near neighbours; and until now she had hardlyeven tasted the luxury of a thorough gossip, which she could enjoy in anyone of the cottages throughout Botfield. Moreover, she could get work forherself on three days in the week, to help a washerwoman, who gave herninepence a day, besides letting little Nan go with her, and have, as shesaid, 'the run of her teeth. ' She had her admirers, too--young collierlads, who told her truly enough she was the cleanest, neatest, tidiestlass in all Botfield. So Martha Fern regarded their residence on thecinder-hill with more complacency than could have been expected. The onlycircumstance which in her secret heart she considered a serious drawbackwas her very near neighbourhood to Miss Anne. 

'Stephen, ' said Martha one Saturday night, after their work was done, 'I've been thinking how it's only thee that's trying to keep thecommandments. I'm not such a scholar as thee; but I've heard thy chapterread till it's in my head, as well as if I could read it off book myself. So I'm thinking I ought to love my enemies as well as thee; and I'veasked Black Bess to come and have a cup of tea with us to-morrow. '

'Black Bess!' exclaimed Stephen, with a feeling of some displeasure. 

'Ah, ' said Martha, 'she's always calling me--a shame to be heard. ButI've quite forgiven her; and to-morrow I'll let her see I can makepikelets as well as her mother; and we'll have out the three china cups;only grandfather and little Nan must have common ones. I thought I'dbetter tell thee; and then thee'lt make haste home from church in theafternoon. '

'Black Bess isn't a good friend for thee, ' answered Stephen, who wasbetter acquainted with the pit-girl's character than was Martha, and felttroubled at the idea of any companionship between them. 

'But we are to love our enemies, ' persisted Martha, 'and do good to themthat hate us. At any rate I asked her, and she said she'd come. '

'I don't think it means we are to ask our enemies to tea, ' said Stephen, in perplexity. 'If she was badly off, like, and in want of a meal's meat, it 'ud be another thing; I'd do it gladly. And on a Sunday too! Oh, Martha, it doesn't seem right. '

'Oh, nothing's right that I do!' replied Martha pettishly; 'thee'rtafraid I'll get as good as thee, and then thee cannot crow over me. ButI'll not spend a farthing of thy money, depend upon it. I'm not withoutsome shillings of my own, I reckon. Thee should let me love my enemies aswell as thee, I think; but thee'lt want to go up to heaven alone next. '

Stephen said no more, though Martha continued talking peevishly aboutBlack Bess. She was not at all satisfied in her own mind that she wasdoing right; but Bess had met her at a neighbour's house, where she wasboasting of her skill in making pikelets, and she had been drawn out byher sneers and mocking to give her a kind of challenge to come and tastethem. She wanted now to make herself and Stephen believe that she wasdoing it out of love and forgiveness towards poor Bess; but she could notsucceed in the deception. All the Sunday morning she was bustling about, and sadly chafing the grandfather by making him move hither and thitherout of the way. It was quite a new experience to have any one coming totea; and all her hospitable and housekeeping feelings were greatlyexcited by the approaching event. 

When Stephen, with tired little Nan riding on his shoulder, returned fromchurch in the afternoon, they found Bess had arrived, and was sitting inthe warmest corner, close to a very large and blazing fire, which filledthe cabin with light and heat. Bess had dressed herself up in her bestattire, in a bright red stuff gown, and with yellow ribbons tied in herhair, which had been brought to a degree of smoothness wonderful toStephen, who saw her daily on the pit-bank. She had washed her face andhands with so much care as to leave broad stripes of grime round her neckand wrists, partly concealed by a necklace and bracelets of glass beads;and her green apron was marvellously braided in a large pattern. Martha, in her clean print dress, and white handkerchief pinned round her throat, was a pleasant contrast to the tawdry girl, who looked wildly at Stephenas he entered, as if she scarcely knew what to do. 

'Good evening, Bess, ' he said, as pleasantly as he could. 'Martha told methee was coming to eat some pikelets with her, so I asked Tim to cometoo; and after tea we'll have some rare singing. I often hear thee on thebank, Bess, and thee has a good voice. '

Bess coloured with pleasure, and evidently tried her best to be amiableand well-mannered, sitting up nearer and nearer to the fire until herface shone as red as her dress with the heat. Martha moved triumphantlyabout the house, setting the tea-table, upon which she placed the threechina cups, with a gratified glance at the undisguised admiration ofBess; though three common ones had to be laid beside them, for, as Timwas coming, Stephen must fare like grandfather and little Nan. As soon asTim arrived, she was very busy beating up the batter for the pikelets, and then baking them over the fire; and very soon the little party weresitting down to their feast--Bess declaring politely, between each piecepressed upon her by Martha, that she had never tasted such pikelets, never!

At last, when tea was quite finished, and the table carefully lifted backto a safe corner at the foot of the bed, though Martha prudently replacedthe china cups in the cupboard, Tim and Stephen drew up their stools tothe front of the fire, and a significant glance passed between them. 

'Now then, Stevie, ' said Tim, 'thee learn me the new hymn Miss Anne singswith us; and let's teach Bess to sing too. '

Bess looked round uneasily, as if she found herself caught in a trap;but, as Tim burst off loudly into a hymn tune, in which Stephen joined atthe top of his voice, she had no time to make any objection. Martha andthe old grandfather, who had been a capital singer in his day, began tohelp; and little Nan mingled her sweet, clear, childish notes with theirstronger tones. It was a long hymn, and, before it was finished, Bessfound herself shyly humming away to the tune, almost as if it had beenthe chorus of one of the pit-bank songs. They sang more and more, untilshe joined in boldly, and whispered to Martha that she wished she knewthe words, so as to sing with them. But the crowning pleasure of theevening was when little Nan, sitting on Stephen's knee, with his fingersstroking her curly hair, sang by herself a new hymn for little children, which Miss Anne had been teaching her. She could not say the words veryplainly, but her voice was sweet, and she looked so lovely with her tinyhands softly folded, and her eyes lifted up steadily to Stephen's face, that at last Black Bess burst out into a loud and long fit of crying, andwept so bitterly that none of them could comfort her, until the littlechild herself, who had been afraid of her before, climbed upon her lapand laid her arms round her neck. She looked up then, and wiped the tearsfrom her face with the corner of her fine apron. 

'I had a sister once, just like little Nan, ' she said, with a sob, 'andshe minded me of her. Miss Anne told me she was singing somewhere amongthe angels, and I thought she'd look like little Nan. But I'm afraid Ishall never go where she is; I'm so bad. '

'We'll teach thee how to be good, ' answered Martha. 'Thee come to me, Bess, and I'll teach thee the hymns, and the singing, and how to makepikelets, and keep the house clean on a week-day. I'm going to love myenemies, and do good to them that hate me; so don't thee be shy-like. We'll be friends like Stephen and Tim; and weren't they enemies aforeStephen learned to read?'

That night, as Stephen lay down to sleep, he said to himself, 'I'm gladBlack Bess came to eat pikelets with Martha. My chapter says, "Whosoevershall do the commandments, and teach them, the same shall be called greatin the kingdom of heaven. " Perhaps Martha and me will be called great inheaven, if we teach Bess how to do God's commandments. '

CHAPTER XIII. 

THE OLD SHAFT. 

Black Bess began to visit the cinder-hill cabin very often. But therewas a fatal mistake, which poor Stephen, in his simplicity andsingle-heartedness, was a long time in discovering. Martha herself hadnot truly set out on the path of obedience to God's commandments; and itwas not possible that she could teach Bess how to keep them. A Christiancannot be like a finger-post, which only points the way to a place, butnever goes there itself. She could teach Bess the words of the hymn, andthe tunes they were sung to; but she could tell her nothing of thefeeling of praise and love to the Saviour with which Stephen sang them, and out of which all true obedience must flow. With her lips she couldsay, 'Blessed are the poor in spirit, ' and 'Blessed are the meek, ' and'Blessed are they that do hunger and thirst after righteousness;' but shecared for none of these things, and felt none of their blessedness in herown soul; and Bess very quickly found out that she would far rather talkabout other matters. And because our hearts, which are foolish, anddeceitful above all things, and desperately wicked, soon grow weary ofgood, but are ever ready to delight in evil, it came to pass that, instead of Martha teaching poor ignorant Bess how to do God's will, Besswas leading her into all sorts of folly and wickedness. 

It would be no very easy task to describe how unhappy Stephen was when, from day to day, he saw Martha's pleasant sisterly ways change into arude and careless harshness, and her thrifty, cleanly habits give placeto the dirty extravagance of the collier-folk at Botfield. But who couldtell how he suffered in his warm, tender-hearted nature, when he camehome at night, and found the poor old grandfather neglected, and leftdesolate in his blindness; and little Nan herself severely punished byMartha's unkindness and quick temper? Not that Martha became badsuddenly, or was always unkind and neglectful; there were times whenshe was her old self again, when she would listen patiently enough toStephen's remonstrances and Miss Anne's gentle teaching; but yet Stephencould never feel sure, when he was at his dismal toil underground, thatall things were going on right in his home overhead. Often and often, ashe looked up to Fern's Hollow, where the new red-brick house was now tobe seen plainly, like a city set on a hill, he longed to be back again, and counted the months and weeks until the spring should bring home thegood clergyman to Danesford. 

One day, during the time allowed to the pit-girls for eating theirdinner, Bess came running over the cinderhills in breathless haste to theold cabin. Martha had been busy all the morning, and was still standingat the washing-tub; but she was glad of an excuse for resting herself, and when Bess sprang over the door-sill, she received her very cordially. 

'Martha! Martha!' cried Bess; 'come away quickly. Here's Andrew thepackman in the lane, with such shawls, Martha! Blue and red and yellowand green! Only five shillings a-piece; and thee canst pay him a shillinga week. Come along, and be sharp with thee. '

'I've got no money to spend, ' said Martha sullenly. 'Stephen ought to letgrandfather go into the House, and then we shouldn't be so pinched. Whatwith buying for him and little Nan, I've hardly a brass farthing in theworld for myself. '

'I'd not pinch, ' Bess answered; 'let Stephen pinch if he will. Why, all the lads in Botfield are making a mock at thee, calling thee anold-fashioned piece and Granny Fern. But come and look, anyhow; Andrewwill be gone directly. '

Bess dragged Martha by the arm to the top of the cinder-hill, where theycould see the pit-girls clustering round the packman in the lane. Theblack linen wrapper in which his pack was carried was stretched alongthe hedge, and upon it was spread a great show of bright-coloured shawlsand dresses, and the girls were flitting from one to another, closelyexamining their quality; while Andrew's wife walked up and down, exhibiting each shawl by turns upon her shoulders. The temptation was toostrong for Martha; she wiped the soap-suds from her arms upon her apron, and ran as eagerly down to the lane as Black Bess herself. 

'Eh! here's a clean, tight lass for you!' cried Andrew, comparing Marthawith the begrimed pit-girls about him. 'The best shawl in my pack isn'tgood enough for you, my dear. Pick and choose. Just make your own choice, and I'll accommodate you about the price. '

'I've got no money, ' said Martha. 

'Oh, you and me'll not quarrel about money, ' replied Andrew; 'you makeyour choice, and I'll wait your time. I'm coming my rounds prettyregular, and you can put up a shilling or two agen I come, withoutletting on to father. But maybe you're married, my dear?'

'No, ' she answered, blushing. 

'It's not far off, I'll be bound, ' he continued, 'and with a shawl likethis, now, you'd look like a full-blown rose. Come, I'll not be hard uponyou, as it's the first time you've dealt with me. That shawl's worth tenshillings if it's worth a farthing, and I'll let you have it for sevenshillings and sixpence; half a crown down, and a shilling a fortnighttill it's paid up. '

Andrew threw the shawl over her shoulders, and turned her round to theenvying view of the assembled girls, who were not allowed to touch any ofhis goods with their soiled hands. Martha softly stroked the bright blueborder, and felt its texture between her fingers; while she deliberatedwithin herself whether she could not buy it from the fund procured by thebilberry picking in the autumn. As Stephen had never known the fullamount, she could withdraw the half-crown without his knowledge, and thesixpence a week she could save out of her own earnings. In ten minutes, while Andrew was bargaining with some of the others, she came to theconclusion that she could not possibly do any longer without a new shawl;so, telling the packman that she would be back again directly, she ran asswiftly as she could over the cinder-hill homewards. 

In her hurry to accompany Bess to the lane, she had left her cabin doorunfastened, never thinking of the danger of the open pit to her blindgrandfather and the child. Little Nan had been wearying all morning fora run in the wintry sunshine, out of the close steam of washing in thesmall hut; but Martha had not dared to let her run about alone, as shehad been used to do at Fern's Hollow, in their safe garden. After Marthaand Black Bess had left her, the child stood looking wistfully throughthe open door for some time; but at last she ventured over the door-sill, and her tiny feet painfully climbed the frozen bank behind the house, whence she could see the group of girls in the lane below. Perhaps shewould have found her way down to them, but Martha had been cross with herall the morning, and the child's little spirit was frightened with herscolding. She turned back to the cabin, sobbing, for the north wind blewcoldly upon her; and then she must have caught sight of the shaft, whereStephen had been throwing stones down for her the night before, without athought of the little one trying to pursue the dangerous game alone. AsMartha came over the cinder-hill, her eyes fell upon little Nan, rosy, laughing, screaming with delight as her tiny hands lifted a large stonehigh above her curly head, while she bent over the unguarded margin ofthe pit. But before Martha could move in her agony of terror, the heavystone dropped from her small fingers, and Nan, little Nan, with her rosy, laughing face, had fallen after it. 

Martha never forgot that moment. As if with a sudden awaking of memory, there flashed across her mind all the child's simple, winning ways. Sheseemed to see her dying mother again, laying the helpless baby in herarms, and bidding her to be a mother to it. She heard her father's lastcharge to take care of little Nan, when he also was passing away. Her ownwicked carelessness and neglect, Stephen's terrible sorrow if little Nanshould be dead, all the woeful consequences of her fault, were stampedupon her heart with a sudden and very bitter stroke. Those who werewatching her from the lane saw her stand as if transfixed for a moment;and then a piercing scream, which made every one within hearing startwith terror, rang through the frosty air, as Martha sprang forward to themouth of the old pit, and, peering down its dark and narrow depths, couldjust discern a little white figure lying motionless at the bottom of theshaft. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

A BROTHER'S GRIEF. 

In a very short time all the people at work on the surface of the mineknew that Stephen Fern's little sister was dead--lying dead in the verypit where he was then labouring for her, with the spirit and strength andlove of a father rather than a brother. Every face was overcast andgrave; and many of the boys and girls were weeping, for little Nan hadendeared herself to them all since she came to live at the cinder-hillcabin. Tim felt faint and heart-sick, almost wishing he could haveperished in the child's stead, for poor Stephen's sake; but he had torouse himself, for one of the banksmen was going to shout the terribletidings down the shaft; and if Stephen should be near, instead of beingat work farther in the pit, the words would fall upon him without anysoftening or preparation. He implored them to wait until he could run andtell Miss Anne; but while he was speaking they saw Miss Anne herselfcoming towards the pit, her face very pale and sorrowful, for the rumourhad reached the master's house, and she was hastening to meet Stephen, and comfort him, if that were possible. 

'Oh, Miss Anne!' cried Tim; 'it will kill poor Stephen, if it come uponhim sudden like. I know the way through the old pit to where poor littleNan has fallen; and I'll go and find her. The roof's dropped in, and onlya boy could creep along. But who's to tell Stevie? Oh, Miss Anne, couldn't you go down with me, and tell him gently your own self?'

'Yes, I will go, ' said Miss Anne, weeping. 

Underground, in those low, dark, pent-up galleries, lighted only here andthere by a glimmering lamp, the colliers were busy at their labours, unconscious of all that was happening overhead. Stephen was at work atsome distance from the others, loading a train of small square waggonswith the blocks of coal which he and Black Thompson had picked out of theearth. He was singing softly to himself the hymns that he and little Nanhad been learning during the summer in the Red Gravel Pit; and he smiledas he fancied that little Nan was perhaps singing them over as well bythe cabin fire. He did not know, poor boy, that at that moment Tim wascreeping through the winding, blocked-up passages, so long untrodden, tothe bottom of the old shaft; and that when he returned he would bebearing in his arms a sad, sad burden, upon which his tears would fallunavailingly. 

Stephen's comrades were all of a sudden very quiet, and their pickaxes nolonger gave dull muffled thumps upon the seam of coal; but he was toobusy to notice how idle and still they were. It was only when Cole spoketo him, in a tone of extraordinary mildness, that the boy paused in hisrough and toilsome employment. 

'My lad, ' said Cole, 'Miss Anne's come down the pit, and she's asking forthee. '

'She promised she'd come some day, ' cried Stephen, with a thrill ofpleasure and a quicker throbbing of his heart, as he darted along thenarrow paths to the loftier and more open space near the bottom of theshaft, where Miss Anne was waiting for him. The covered lamps gave toolittle light for him to see how pale and sorrow-stricken she looked; butthe solemn tenderness of her voice sank deeply into his heart. 

'Stephen, my dear boy, ' she said, 'are you sure that I care for you, andwould not let any trouble come upon you if I could help it?'

'Yes, surely, Miss Anne, ' answered the boy wonderingly. 

'Your Father which is in heaven cares much more for you, ' she continued;'but "whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom Hereceiveth. " God is dealing with you as His son, Stephen. Can you bear thesorrow which is sent by Him?'

'If the Lord Jesus will help me, ' he murmured. 

'He will help you, my poor boy, ' said Miss Anne 'Oh, Stephen, Stephen, how can I tell you? Our little Nan, our precious little child, has fallendown the old shaft. '

Stephen reeled giddily, and would have sunk to the ground, but Cole heldhim up in his strong arms, while his comrades gathered about him withtears and sobs, which prevented them uttering any words of consolation. But he could not have listened to them. He fancied he heard the patteringof Nan's little feet, and saw her laughing face. But no! he heard insteadthe dull and lingering footsteps of Tim, and saw a little lifeless formfolded from sight in Tim's jacket. 

'The little lass 'ud die very easy, ' whispered Cole, passing his armtighter round Stephen; 'and she's up in heaven among the angels by thistime, I reckon. '

Stephen drew himself away from Cole's arm, and staggered forward a stepor two to meet Tim; when he took the sad burden from him, and sat downwithout a word, pressing it closely to his breast. His perfect silencetouched all about him. Miss Anne hid her face in her hands, and some ofthe men groaned aloud. 

'The old pit ought to have been bricked up years ago, ' said Cole; 'thechild's death will be upon the master's head. '

'It'll all go to one reckoning, ' muttered Black Thompson. But Stephenseemed not to hear their words. Still, with the child clasped tightly tohim, he waited for the lowering of the skip, and when it descended, heseated himself in it without lifting up his head, which was bent over thedead child. Miss Anne and Tim took their places beside him, and they weredrawn up to the broad, glittering light of day on the surface, where acrowd of eager bystanders was waiting for Stephen's appearance. 

'Don't speak to me, please, ' he murmured, without looking round; and theymade way for him in his deep, silent grief, as he passed on homewards, followed by Miss Anne. Once she saw him look up to the hills, where, atFern's Hollow, the new house stood out conspicuously against the snow;and when they passed the shaft, he shuddered visibly; but yet he wassilent, and scarcely seemed to know that she was walking beside him. 

The cabin was full of women from Botfield, for Martha had fallen intoviolent fits of hysterics, and none of their remedies had any effect insoothing her. One of them took the dead child from Stephen's arms at thedoor, and bade him go away and sit in her cottage till she came to him. But he turned off towards the hills; and Miss Anne, seeing that she couldsay nothing to comfort him just then, watched him strolling along the oldroad that led to Fern's Hollow, with his arms folded and his head bentdown, as if he were still carrying that sad burden which he had borne upfrom the pit, so closely pressed against his heart. 

CHAPTER XV. 

RENEWED CONFLICT. 

'I'm a murderer, Miss Anne, ' said Martha, with a look of settled despairupon her face, on the evening of the next day. 

She had been sitting all the weary hours since morning with her faceburied in her hands, hearing and heeding no one, until Miss Anne came andsat down beside her, speaking to her in her own kind and gentle tones. Upon a table in the corner of the cabin lay the little form of the deadchild, covered with a white cloth. The old grandfather was crouching overthe fire, moaning and laughing by turns; and Stephen was again absent, rambling upon the snowy uplands. 

'And for murderers there is pardon, ' said Miss Anne softly. 

'Oh, I never thought I wanted pardon, ' cried Martha; 'I always felt I'ddone my duty better than any of the girls about here. But I've killedlittle Nan; and now I remember how cross I used to be when nobody wasnigh, till she grew quite timmer-some of me. Everybody knows I'vemurdered her; and now it doesn't signify how bad I am. I shall never getover that. '

'Martha, ' said Miss Anne, 'you are not so guilty of the child's death asmy uncle, who ought to have had the pit bricked over safely when it wasno longer in use. But you say you never thought you wanted pardon. Surelyyou feel your need of it now. '

'But God will never forgive me now, ' replied Martha hopelessly; 'I seehow wicked I have been, but the chance is gone by. God will not forgiveme now; nor Stephen. '

'We will not talk about Stephen, ' said Miss Anne; 'but I will tell youabout God. When He gave His commandments to mankind that they might obeythem, He proclaimed His own name at the same time. Listen to His name, Martha: "The Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gracious, long-suffering, and abundant in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin. " If you would not go to Himfor mercy when you did not feel your need of it, He was keeping it foryou against this time; saving and treasuring it up for you, "that Hemight show the exceeding riches of His grace in His kindness towards us, through Christ Jesus. " He is waiting to pardon your iniquity, forChrist's sake. Do you wish to be forgiven now? Do you feel that you are asinful girl, Martha?'

'I have thought of nothing else all day long, ' whispered Martha; 'I havehelped to kill little Nan by my sins. '

'Yes, ' said Miss Anne mournfully; 'if, like Stephen, you had opened yourheart to the gentle teaching of the Holy Spirit, if you had looked toJesus, trusted in Him, and followed Him, this grief would not have comeupon you and upon all of us. For Bess would not have persuaded you toleave your own duties, and little Nan would have been alive still. '

'Oh, I knew I'd killed her!' cried a voice behind them; and, lookinground, Miss Anne saw that the door had been softly opened, and Bess hadcrept in unheard. Her face was swollen with weeping, and she stoodwringing her hands, as she cast a fearful glance at the white-coveredtable in the corner. 

'Come here, Bess, ' said Miss Anne; and the girl crept to them, and satdown on the ground at their feet. Miss Anne talked long with them aboutlittle Nan's death, until they shed many tears in true contrition ofheart for their sinfulness; and when they appeared to feel their ownutter helplessness, she explained to them, in such simple and easylanguage as Bess could understand, how they could obtain salvationthrough faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. After which they all knelt down;and Miss Anne prayed earnestly for the weeping and heart-broken girls, who, as yet, hardly knew how they could frame any prayers for themselves. 

When Miss Anne left the cabin the night was quite dark but the snow whichlay unmelted on the mountains showed their outlines plainly with a palegleaming of light though the sky was overcast with more snow-clouds. Herheart was full of sadness for Stephen, who was wandering, no one knewwhither, among the snowdrifts on the solitary plains. She knew that hemust be passing through a terrible trial and temptation, but she could donothing for him; her voice could not reach him, nor her eye tell him by asilent look how deeply she felt for him. Yet Miss Anne knew who it isthat possesseth 'the shields of the earth, ' and in her earnestthanksgiving to God for Martha and Bess Thompson, she prayed ferventlythat the boy might be shielded and sheltered in his great sorrow, andthat when he was tried he might come forth as gold. 

All the day long, Stephen, instead of going to his work in the pit, hadbeen rambling, without aim or purpose, over the dreary uplands; here andthere stretching himself upon the wiry heath, where the sun had driedaway the snow, and hiding his face from the light, while he gave way toan anguish of grief, and broke the deep silence with a loud and verybitter cry. It was death, sudden death, he was lamenting. Only yesterdaymorning little Nan was clinging strongly to his neck, and covering hisface with merry kisses; and every now and then he felt as if he was onlydreaming, and he started down towards home, as though he could notbelieve that those tender arms were stiffened and that rosy mouth stillin death. But before he could run many paces the truth was borne in uponhis aching heart that she was surely dead; and never more in this lifewould he see and speak to her, or listen to her lisping tongue. LittleNan, dearest of all earthly things, --perhaps dearer to him in the infancyof his Christian life than the Saviour Himself, --was removed from himso far that she was already a stranger, and he knew nothing of her. 

Towards evening he found himself, in his aimless wandering, drawing nearto Fern's Hollow, where she had lived. The outer shell of the new housewas built up, the three rooms above and below, with the little dairy andcoal-shed beside them, and Stephen, even in his misery, was glad of theshelter of the blank walls from the cutting blast of the north wind; forhe felt that he could not go home to the cabin where the dead child--nolonger darling little Nan--was lying. Poor Stephen! He sat down on a heapof bricks upon the new hearth, where no household fire had ever beenkindled; and, while the snow-flakes drifted in upon him unheeded, heburied his face again in his hands, and went on thinking, as he had beendoing all day. He would never care to come back now to Fern's Hollow. No! he would get away to some far-off country, where he should never morehear the master's name spoken. Let him keep the place, he thought, andlet it be a curse to him, for he had bought it with a child's blood. Ifthe law gave him back Fern's Hollow, it would not avenge little Nan'sdeath; and he had no power. But the master was a murderer; and Stephenknelt down on the desolate hearth, where no prayer had ever been uttered, and prayed God that the sin and punishment of murder might rest upon hisenemy. 

Was it consolation that filled Stephen's heart when he rose from hisknees? It seemed as if his spirit had grown suddenly harder, and in somemeasure stronger. He did not feel afraid now of going down to the cabin, where the little lifeless corpse was stretched out; and he strode awaydown the hill with rapid steps. When the thought of Martha, and hisgrandfather, and Miss Anne crossed his mind, it was with no gentle, tender emotion, but with a strange feeling that he no longer cared forthem. All his love was gone with little Nan. Only the thought of themaster, and the terrible reckoning that lay before him, sent a thrillthrough his heart. 'I shall be there at the judgment, ' he muttered halfaloud, looking up to the cold, cloudy sky, almost as if he expected tosee the sign of the coming of the Lord. But there was no sign there; and, after gazing for a minute or two, he turned in the direction of thecabin, where he could see a glimmer of the light within through thechinks of the door and shutter. 

Bess and Martha were still sitting hand in hand as Miss Anne had leftthem; but they both started up as Stephen entered, pale and ghastly fromhis long conflict with grief and temptation on the hills. He was comehome conquered, though he did not know it; and the expression of his facewas one of hatred and vengeance, instead of sorrow and love. He badeBlack Bess to be off out of his sight in a voice so changed and harsh, that both the girls were frightened, and Martha stole away tremblinglywith her. He was alone then, with his sleeping grandfather on the bed, and the dead child lying in the corner, from which he carefully avertedhis eyes; when there came a quiet tap at the door, and, before he couldanswer, it was slowly opened, and the master stepped into the cabin. Hestood before the boy, looking into his white face in silence, and when hespoke his voice was very husky and low. 

'My lad, ' he said, 'I'm very sorry for you; and I'll have the pit brickedover at once. It had slipped my memory, Stephen; but Martha knew of it, and she ought to have taken better care of the child. It is no fault ofmine; or it is only partly my fault, at any rate. But, whether or no, I'mcome to tell you I'm willing to bear the expenses of the funeral inreason; and here's a sovereign for you besides, my lad. '

The master held out a glittering sovereign in his hand, but Stephenpushed it away, and, seizing his arm firmly, drew him, reluctant as hewas, to the white-covered table in the corner. There was no look of painupon the pale, placid little features before them; but there was an awfulstillness, and all the light of life was gone out of the open eyes, whichwere fixed into an upward gaze. The Bible, which Stephen had not lookedfor that morning, had been used instead of a cushion, and the motionlesshead lay upon it. 

'That was little Nan yesterday, ' said Stephen hoarsely; 'she is gone totell God all about you. You robbed us of our own home; and you've beenthe death of little Nan. God's curse will be upon you. It's no use mycursing; I can do nothing; but God can punish you better than me. A whileago I thought I'd get away to some other country where I'd never hear ofyou; but I'll wait now, if I'm almost clemmed to death, till I see whatGod will do at you. Take your money. You've robbed me of all I love, butI won't take from you what you love. I'll only wait here till I see whatGod can do. '

He loosed his grasp then, and opened the door wide. The master muttered afew words indistinctly, but he did not linger in the cabin beside thatawful little corpse. The night had already deepened into intensedarkness; and Stephen, standing at the door to listen, thought, with aquick tingling through all his veins, that perhaps the master wouldhimself fall down the open pit. But no, he passed on securely; andMartha, coming in shortly afterwards, ventured to remark that she hadjust brushed against the master in the lane, and wondered where he wasgoing to at that time of night. 

Miss Anne came to see Stephen the next day; but, though he seemed tolisten to her respectfully, she felt that she had lost her influence overhim; and she could do nothing for him but intercede with God that theHoly Spirit, who only can enter into our inmost souls and waken thereevery memory, would in His own good time recall to Stephen's heart allthe lessons of love and forgiveness he had been learning, and enable himto overcome the evil spirit that had gained the mastery over him. 

All the people in Botfield wished to attend little Nan's funeral, butStephen would not consent to it. At first he said only Tim and himselfshould accompany the tiny coffin to the churchyard at Longville; butMartha implored so earnestly to go with them, that he was compelled torelent. The coffin was placed in a little cart, drawn by one of thehill-ponies, and led slowly by Tim; while Stephen and Martha walkedbehind, the latter weeping many humble and repentant tears, as shethought sorrowfully of little Nan; but Stephen with a set and gloomyface, and a heart that pondered only upon the calamities that shouldovertake his enemy. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

SOFTENING THOUGHTS. 

But God had not forsaken Stephen; though, for a little time, He had lefthim to the working of his own sinful nature, that he might know of acertainty that in himself there dwelt no good thing. God looks down fromheaven upon all our bitter conflicts; and He weighs, as a just Judge, allthe events that happen on earth. From the servant to whom He has givenbut one talent, He does not demand the same service as from him who hasten talents. Stephen's heavenly Father knew exactly how muchunderstanding and strength he possessed, for He Himself had given thosegood gifts to the boy, and He knew in what measure He had bestowed them. When the right time was come, 'He sent from above, He took him, Hebrought him out of many waters. He brought him forth also into a largeplace; He delivered him, because He delighted in him. '

After the great tribulation of those days Stephen fell into a long andsevere illness. For many weeks he was delirious and unconscious, neitherknowing what he said nor who was taking care of him. When Miss Anne satbeside him, soothing him, as she sometimes could do, with singing, hewould talk of being in heaven, and listening to little Nan among theangels. Bess shared many of Martha's weary hours of watching: and sodeeply had the child's death affected them, that now all their thoughtsand talk were about the things that Miss Anne diligently taught themconcerning Jesus and His salvation. It was not much they knew; but as informer times a very small subject was sufficient for a long gossip, sonow the little knowledge of the Scriptures that was lodged in either oftheir minds became the theme of fluent, if not very learned conversation. Sometimes Stephen, as if their words caught some floating memory, wouldmurmur out a verse or two in his delirious ramblings, or sing part of ahymn. Tim, also, who came for an hour or two every evening, was alwaysready to read the few chapters he had learned, and to give the girls hisinterpretation of them. 

There was no pressing want in the little household, though theirbread-winner was unable to work. The miners made up Stephen's wages amongthemselves at every reckoning, for Stephen had won their sincererespect, though they had often been tempted to ill-treat him. Miss Annecame every day with dainties from the master's house, without meetingwith any reproof or opposition, though the name of Stephen Fern nevercrossed Mr. Wyley's lips. Still he used to listen attentively wheneverthe doctor called upon Miss Anne, to give her his opinion how the poorboy was going on. 

When Stephen was recovering, his mind was too weak for any of the violentpassions that had preceded his illness. Moreover, the bounty of hiscomrades, and the humble kindness of Martha and Bess, came like healingto his soul; for very often the tenderness of others will seem to atonefor the injuries of our enemies, and at least soften our vehement desirefor revenge. Yet, in a quiet, listless sort of way, Stephen still longedfor God to prove His wrath against the master's wrong-doing. It appearedso strange to hear that all this time nothing had befallen him, that hewas still strong and healthy, and becoming more and more wealthy everyday. Like Asaph, the psalmist, when he considered the prosperity of thewicked, Stephen was inclined to say, 'How doth God know? and is thereknowledge with the Most High? Behold, these are the ungodly that prosperin the earth; they increase in riches. Verily I have cleansed my heartin vain, and washed my hands in innocency. For all the day long have Ibeen plagued, and chastened every morning. '

'Why does God let these things be?' he inquired of Miss Anne one day, after he was well enough to rise from his bed and sit by the fire. He wasvery white and thin, and his eyes looked large and shining in theirsunken sockets; but they gazed earnestly into his teacher's face, as ifhe was craving to have this difficulty solved. 

'You have asked me a hard question, ' said Miss Anne; 'we cannotunderstand God's way, for "as the heavens are higher than the earth, soare His ways than our ways. " But shall we try to find out a reason whyGod let these things be for little Nan's sake?'

'Yes, ' said Stephen, turning away his eyes from her face. 

'Our Lord Jesus Christ had one disciple, called John, whom He loved morethan the rest; and before John died he was permitted to see heaven, andto write down many of the things shown to him, that we also might know ofthem. He beheld a holy city, whose builder and maker is God, and havingthe glory of God. It was built, as it were, of pure gold, and the wallswere of all manner of precious stones; the gates of the city were ofpearl, and the streets of gold, as clear and transparent as glass. Therewas no need of the sun nor of the moon to shine in it; for the glory ofGod doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. He saw, too, thethrone of God, and above it there was a rainbow of emerald, which was asign of His covenant with the people upon earth. And round about thethrone, nearer than the angels, there were seats, upon which men who hadbeen ransomed from this world of sin and sorrow were sitting in whiterobes, and with crowns upon their heads. There came a pure river of waterof life out of the throne, and on each side of the river, in the streetsof the city, there was a tree of life, the leaves of which are for thehealing of all nations. Before the throne stood a great multitude, whichno man could number, clothed in white robes, and with palms in theirhands. And as John listened, he heard a sound like the voice of manywaters; then, as it became clearer, it seemed like the voice of a greatthunder; but at last it rang down into his opened ears as the voice ofmany harpers, singing a new song with their harps. And he heard a greatvoice out of heaven, proclaiming the covenant of God with men: "Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and He will dwell with them, and theyshall be His people; and God Himself shall be with them, and be theirGod. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shallbe no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be anymore pain. " The disciple whom Jesus loved saw many other things which hewas commanded to seal up; but these things were written for our comfort. '

'And little Nan is there, ' murmured Stephen, as the tears rolled down hischeeks. 

'Our Lord says of little children, "I say unto you, That in heaven theirangels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven, "'continued Miss Anne. 'Stephen, do you wish her to be back again in thissorrowful world, with Martha and you for companions, instead of theangels?'

'Oh no!' sobbed Stephen. 

'And now, why has God sent so many troubles to you, my poor Stephen? AsI told you before, we cannot understand His ways yet. But do not you seethat sorrow has made you very different to the other boys about you? Haveyou not gained much wisdom that they do not possess? And would you changeyour lot with any one of them? Would you even be as you were yourselftwelve months ago, before these afflictions came? We are sent into thisworld for something more than food and clothing, and work and play. Oursouls must live, and they are dead if they are not brought intosubmission to God's will. Even our own Lord and Saviour, "though He werea son, yet learned He obedience by the things which He suffered. " Howmuch more do we need to suffer before we learn obedience to the will ofGod!

'Then there is Martha, ' continued Miss Anne, after a pause; 'she and Bessare both brought to repentance by the death of our little child. Surely Ineed not excuse God's dealings to you any more, Stephen. '

'But there comes no judgment upon the master, ' said Stephen in a lowvoice. 

A flush of pain passed over Miss Anne's face as she met Stephen's eagergaze, and saw something of the working of his heart in his flashing eye. 

'Our God will suffer no sin to go unpunished for ever, ' she answeredsolemnly. '"Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. " Listen, Stephen: when our Lord spoke those "blessings" in your chapter, Heimplied that on the opposite side there were curses corresponding tothem. But He did not leave this matter uncertain; I will read them to youfrom another chapter: "But woe unto you that are rich! for ye havereceived your consolation. Woe unto you that are full! for ye shallhunger. Woe unto you that laugh now! for ye shall mourn and lament. "'

'That is the master, ' said Stephen, his face glowing with satisfaction, 'for he is rich and full, and he laughs now!'

'Yes, who can tell but that these woes will fall upon my uncle, ' saidMiss Anne, and her head drooped low, and Stephen saw the tears streamingdown her cheeks; 'all my prayers and love for him may be lost. His soul, which is as precious and immortal as ours, may perish for ever!'

Stephen looked at her bitter weeping with a longing desire to saysomething to comfort her, but he could not speak a word: for her griefwas caused by the thought of the very vengeance he was wishing for. Heturned away his head uneasily, and gazed deep down into the glowingembers of the fire. 

'Not my prayers and love only, ' continued Miss Anne, 'but our Saviour'salso; all His griefs and sorrows may prove unavailing, as far as my uncleis concerned. Perhaps He will say of him, "I have laboured in vain, Ihave spent My strength for nought, and in vain. " O my Saviour! because Ilove Thee, I would have every immortal soul saved for Thy eternal glory. '

'And so would I, Miss Anne, ' cried the boy, sinking on his knees. 'Oh, Miss Anne, pray to Jesus that I may love all my enemies for His sake. '

When Miss Anne's prayer was ended, she left Stephen alone to the deep butgentler thoughts that were filling his mind. He understood now, with aclearness that he had never had before, that 'love is of God; and everyone that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God. ' He must love hisenemies because they were precious, as he himself had been, in all theirsin and rebellion, to their Father in heaven. Not only did God send rainand sunshine upon the evil and unjust, but He had so loved them as togive His only begotten Son to die for them; and if they perished, so farit made the cross of Christ of none effect. Henceforth the bitterness ofrevenge died out of his heart; and whenever he bent his knees in prayer, he offered up the dying petition of his namesake, the martyr Stephen, inbehalf of all his enemies, but especially of his master: 'Lord, lay notthis sin to their charge. '

CHAPTER XVII. 

A NEW CALLING. 

Stephen's recovery went on so slowly, that the doctor who attended himsaid it would not be fit for him to resume his underground labour forsome months to come, if he were ever able to do so; and advised him toseek some out-door employment. His old comrades began to find the weeklysubscription to make up his wages rather a tax upon their own earnings;and Stephen himself was unwilling to be a burden upon them any longer. As soon, therefore, as he was strong enough to bear the journey, heresolved to cross the hills again to Danesford, to see when Mr. Lockwoodwas coming home, and what help the clergyman left in charge of his dutycould give to him. Tim brought his father's donkey for him to ride, andwent with him across the uplands. The hard frosts and the snow wereover, for it was past the middle of March; but the house at Fern'sHollow remained in precisely the same state as when little Nan died; nota stroke of work had been done at it, and a profound silence broodedover the place. Perhaps the master had lost all pleasure in hisill-gotten possession!

So changed was Stephen, though Danesford looked exactly the same, sotall had he grown during his illness, and so white was his formerlybrown face, that the big boy who had shown him the way to the rectorydid not know him again in the least. Probably Mr. Lockwood and hisdaughter would not have recognised him; but they were still lingering ina warmer climate, until the east winds had quite finished their course. The strange clergyman, however, was exceedingly kind to both the boys, and promised to send a full and faithful account to Mr. Lockwood of allthe circumstances they narrated to him; for Tim told of many thingswhich Stephen passed over. They had done right in coming to him, hesaid; and he gave Stephen enough money to supply the immediatenecessities of his family, at the same time bidding him apply for moreif he needed any; for he knew that a boy of his principle and characterwould never live upon other people's charity whenever he could work forhimself. 

How refreshing and strengthening it was upon the tableland that springafternoon! The red leaf-buds of the bilberry-wires were just burstingforth, and the clumps of gorse were tinged with the first goldenflowers. Every kind of moss was there carpeting the ground with a brightfresh green from the moisture of the spring showers. As for the birds, they seemed absolutely in a frenzy of enjoyment, and seemed to forgetthat they had their nests to build as they flew from bush to bush, singing merrily in the sunshine. 

Tim wrapped a cloak round Stephen; and then they faced the breeze gaily, as it swept to meet them with a pure breath over miles of heath andbudding flowers. No wonder that Stephen's heart rose within him with arekindled gladness and gratitude; while Tim became almost as wild as thebirds. But Stephen began to feel a little tired as they neared Fern'sHollow, though they were still two miles from the cinder-hill cabin. 

'Home, home!' he said, rather mournfully, pointing to the new house. 'Tim, I remember I used to feel in myself as if that was to be my ownhome for ever. I didn't think that God only meant it to be mine for alittle while, even if I kept it till I died. And when I thought I wasgoing to die, it seemed as if it didn't signify what kind of a placewe'd lived in, or what troubles had happened to us. Yesterday, Tim, MissAnne showed me a verse about us being strangers and pilgrims upon theearth. '

'Perhaps we are pilgrims, ' replied Tim, 'but we aren't much strangers onthese hills. '

'It means, ' said Stephen, 'that we are no more at home here than astranger is when he is passing through Botfield. I'm willing now neverto go back to Fern's Hollow, if God pleases. Not that little Nan isgone; but because I'm sure God will do what is best with me, and we'reto have no continuing city here. I think I shouldn't feel a bit angry ifI saw other people living there. '

'Hillo! what's that?' cried Tim. 

Surely it could not be smoke from the top of the new chimney? Yes; athin, clear blue column of smoke was curling briskly up into the air, and then floating off in a banner over the hillside. Somebody was there, that was certain; and the first fire had been lighted on thehearthstone. There was a sharp pang in Stephen's heart, and he cast downhis eyes for a moment, but then he looked up to the sky above him with asmile; while Tim set up a loud shout, and urged the donkey to a canter. 

'It's Martha!' he cried; 'I saw her gown peeping round the corner of thewall. I'll lay a wager it's her print gown. Come thy ways; we'll makesure afore we pass. '

It was Martha waiting for them at the old wicket, and Bess was justwithin the doorway. They were come so far to meet the travellers, andhad even prepared tea for them in the new kitchen, having cleared awaysome of the bricks and mortar, and raised benches with the pieces ofplanks left about. Tea was just ready for Stephen's refreshment, and hefelt that he was in the greatest need of it; so they sat down to it assoon as Martha had laid out the provisions, among which was a cake sentby Miss Anne. The fire of wood-chips blazed brightly, and gave out apleasant heat; and every one of the little party felt a quiet enjoyment, though there were many tender thoughts of little Nan. 

'We may be pilgrims, ' said Tim reflectively, over a slice of cake, 'butthere's lots of pleasant things sent us by the way. '

They were still at tea when the gamekeeper, who was passing by, and whoguessed from the smoke from the chimney, and the donkey grazing in thenew pasture, that some gipsies had taken possession of Fern's Hollow, came to look through the unglazed window. He had not seen Stephen sincehis illness, and there was something in his wasted face and figure whichtouched even him. 

'I'm sorry to see thee looking so badly, my lad, ' he said; 'I must speakto my missis to send you something nourishing, for I've not forgottenyou, Stephen. If ever there comes a time when I can speak up about anybusiness of yours without hurting myself, you may depend upon me; but Idon't like making enemies, and the Bible says we must live peaceablywith all men. I heard talk of you wanting some out-door work for awhile; and there's my wife's brother is wanting a shepherd's boy. He'dtake you at my recommendation, and I'd be glad to speak a word for you. Would that do for you?'

Stephen accepted the offer gladly; and when the gamekeeper was gone, they sang a hymn together, so blotting out by an offering of praise theevil prayer which he had uttered upon that hearth on the night of hisdesolation and strong conflict. Pleasant was the way home to the oldcabin in the twilight; pleasant the hearty 'Good-night' of Tim and Bess;but most pleasant of all was the calm sense of truth, and the submissivewill with which Stephen resigned himself to the providence of God. 

The work of a shepherd was far more to Stephen's taste than hisdangerous toil as a collier. From his earliest years he had beenaccustomed to wander with his grandfather over the extensivesheep-walks, seeking out any strayed lambs, or diligently gathering foodfor the sick ones of the flock. To be sure, he could only earn littlemore than half his former wages, and his time for returning from hiswork would always be uncertain, and often very late. But then, sorrowfulconsideration! there was no little Nan to provide for now, nor to fillup his leisure hours at home. Martha was earning money for herself; andas yet the master had demanded no rent for their miserable cabin; so hisearnings as a shepherd's boy would do until Mr. Lockwood came back. Still upon the mountains he would be exposed to the bleak winds andheavy storms of the spring; while underground the temperature had alwaysbeen the same. No wonder that Miss Anne, when she looked at the boy'swasted and enfeebled frame, listened with unconcealed anxiety to his newproject for gaining his livelihood; and so often as the spring showersswept in swift torrents across the sky, lifted up her eyes wistfully tothe unsheltered mountains, as she pictured Stephen at the mercy of thepitiless storm. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE PANTRY WINDOW. 

Stephen had been engaged in his new calling for about a fortnight, andwas coming home, after a long and toilsome day among the flocks, twohours after sunset, with a keen east wind bringing the tears into hiseyes, when a few paces from his cabin door a tall dark figure sprang upfrom a hollow in the cinder-hill, and laid a heavy hand upon hisshoulder. It was just light enough to discern the gloomy features ofBlack Thompson; and Stephen inquired fearlessly what he wanted with him. 

'I thought thee'd never be coming, ' said Black Thompson impatiently. 'Lad, hast thee forgotten thy rights and thy wrongs, that thou comes toyonder wretched kennel whistling as if all the land belonged to thee?Where's thy promise to thy father, that thee'd never give up thy rights?Jackson the butcher has taken Fern's Hollow, and it's to be finished upin a week or two; and thee'lt see thy own place go into the hands ofstrangers. '

'It'll all be put right some day, Thompson, thank you, ' said Stephen. 

'Right!' repeated Thompson; 'who's to put wrong things right if we won'ttake the trouble ourselves? Is it right for the master to grind us downin our wages, and raise the rents over our heads, till we can scarcelyget enough to keep us in victuals, just that he may add money to moneyto count over of nights? Was it right of him to leave the pit yonderopen, till little Nan was killed in it? Thee has a heavy reckoning tosettle with him, and I'd be wiping off some of the score. If I was inthy place, I should have little Nan's voice calling me day and nightfrom the pit, to ask when I was going to revenge her. '

Black Thompson felt that Stephen trembled under his grasp, and he wenton with greater earnestness. 

'Thee could revenge thyself this very night. Thee could get the worth ofFern's Hollow without a risk, if thee'd listen to me. It's thy own, lad, and thy wrongs are heavy--Fern's Hollow stolen from thee, and the littlelass murdered! How canst thee rest, Stephen?'

'God will repay, ' said Stephen in a tremulous tone. 

'Dost think that God sees?' asked Black Thompson scoffingly; 'if Hesees, He doesn't care. What does it matter to Him that poor folks likeus are trodden down and robbed? If He cared, He could strike the masterdead in a moment, and He doesn't. He lets him prosper and prosper, tillnobody can stand afore him. I'd take my own matter in my own hands, andmake sure of vengeance. God doesn't take any notice. '

'I'm sure God sees, ' answered Stephen; 'He is everywhere; and He isn'tblind, or deaf, only we don't understand what He is going to do yet. IfHe didn't take any notice of us, He wouldn't make me feel so happy, spite of everything. Oh, Thompson thee and the men were so kind to mewhen I couldn't work, and I've never seen thee to thank thee. I can donothing for thee, except I could persuade thee to repent, and be ashappy as I am. '

'Oh, I'll repent some day, ' said Black Thompson, loosing Stephen's arm;'but I've lots of things to do aforehand, and I reckon they can all berepented of together. So, lad, it's true what everybody is saying ofthee--thee has forgotten poor little Nan, and thy promise to thyfather!'

'No, I've never forgotten, ' replied Stephen, 'but I'll never try torevenge myself now. I couldn't if I did try. Besides, I've forgiven themaster; so don't speak to me again about it, Thompson. '

'Well, lad, be sure I'll never waste my time thinking of thee again, 'said Black Thompson, with an oath; 'thy religion has made a poor, spiritless, cowardly chap of thee, and I've done with thee altogether. '

Black Thompson strode away into the darkness, and was quickly out ofhearing, while Stephen stood still and listened to his rapid footsteps, turning over in his mind what mischief he wished to tempt him to now. The open shaft was only a few feet from him; but it had been safelyencircled by a high iron railing, instead of being bricked over, as ithad been found of use in the proper ventilation of the pit. FromThompson and his temptation, Stephen's thoughts went swiftly to littleNan, and how he had heard her calling to him upon that dreadful nightwhen he went away with the poachers. Was it possible that he couldforget her for a single day? Was she not still one of his most constantand most painful thoughts? Yes, he could remember every pretty look ofher face, and every sweet sound of her voice; yet they were saying hehad forgotten her, while the pit was there for him to pass night andmorning--a sorrowful reminder of her dreadful death! A sharp thrill ranthrough Stephen's frame as his outstretched hand caught one of the ironrailings, which rattled in its socket; but his very heart stood stillwhen up from the dark, narrow depths there came a low and stifled cry of'Stephen! Stephen!'

He was no coward, though Black Thompson had called him one; but thisvoice from the dreaded pit, at that dark and lonely hour, made himtremble so greatly that he could neither move nor shout aloud for veryfear. He leaned there, holding fast by the railing, with his hearingmade wonderfully acute, and his eyes staring blindly into the denseblackness beneath him. In another second he detected a faint glimmer, like a glow-worm deep down in the earth, and the voice, still muffledand low, came up to him again. 

'It's only me--Tim!' it cried. 'Hush! don't speak, Stephen; don't makeany noise. I'm left down in the pit. They're going to break into themaster's house to-night. They're going to get thee to creep through thepantry window. If thee won't, Jack Davies is to go. They'll fire thethatch, if they can't get the door open. Thee go and take care of MissAnne, and send Martha to Longville for help. Don't trust anybody atBotfield. '

These sentences sounded up into Stephen's ears, one by one, slowly, asTim could give his voice its due tone and strength. He recollectedinstantly all the long oppression the men had suffered from theirmaster. In that distant part of the county, where there were extensiveworks, the colliers had been striking for larger wages; and some of themhad strolled down to Botfield, bringing with them an increase ofdiscontent and inquietude, which had taken deep root in the minds of allthe workpeople. It was well known that the master kept large sums ofmoney in his house, which, as I have told you, was situated among lonelyfields, nearly a mile from Botfield; and no one lived with him, exceptMiss Anne, and one maid-servant. It was a very secure building, withstone casements and strongly barred doors; but if a boy could getthrough the pantry window, he could admit the others readily. How longit would be before the attempt was made Stephen could not tell, but itwas already late, and Black Thompson had left him hurriedly. But atleast it must be an hour or two nearer midnight, and all hopes of rescueand defence rested upon him and Martha only. 

Martha was sitting by the fire knitting, and Bess Thompson was pinningon her shawl to go home. Poor Bess! Even in his excitement Stephen feltfor her; but he dared not utter a word till she was gone. But thenMartha could not credit his hurried tidings and directions, until shehad been herself to the shaft to see the feeble gleam of Tim's lamp, andhear the sound of his voice; for as soon as she rattled the railings hespoke again. 

'Be sharp!' he cried. 'I'm not afeared; but I can't stay here wherelittle Nan died. I'll go back to the pit, and wait till morning. Besharp!'

There was no need after that to urge Martha to hasten. After throwing ashawl over her head, she started off for Longville with the swiftness ofa hare; and was soon past the engine-house, and threading her waycautiously through Botfield, where she dreaded to be discovered as shepassed the lighted windows, or across the gleam of some open door. Manyof the houses were quite closed up and dark, but in some there was avoice of talking; and here and there Martha saw a figure stealing likeherself along the deepest shadows. But she escaped without beingnoticed; and, once through the village, her path lay along the silenthigh-roads straight on to Longville. 

Nor did Stephen linger in the cinder-hill cabin. He ran swiftly over thepit-banks, and stole along by the limekilns and the blacksmith's shop, for under the heavy door he could see a little fringe of light. Howloudly the dry cinders cranched under his careful footsteps! Yet, quietas the blacksmith's shop was, and soundless as the night without, thenoise did not reach the ears of those who were lurking within, andStephen went on in safety. There stood the master's house at last, blackand massive-looking against the dark sky; not a gleam from fire orcandle to be seen below, for every window was closely shuttered; but onthe second storey there shone a lighted casement, which Stephen knewbelonged to the master's chamber. The dog, which came often with MissAnne to the cinder-hill cabin, gave one loud bay, and then sprangplayfully upon Stephen, as if to apologize for his mistake in barking athim. For some minutes the boy stood in deep deliberation, scarcelydaring to knock at the door, lest some of the housebreakers should bealready concealed near the spot, and rush upon him before it was opened, or else enter with him into the defenceless dwelling. But at length hegave one very quiet rap with his fingers, and after a minute's pause hisheart bounded with joy as he heard Miss Anne herself asking who wasthere. 

'Stephen Fern, ' he answered, with his lips close to the keyhole, andspeaking in his lowest tones. 

'What is the matter, Stephen?' she asked. 'I cannot open the door, formy uncle always takes the keys with him into his own room. '

'Please to take the light into the pantry for one minute, ' he whisperedcautiously, with a fervent hope that Miss Anne would do so withoutrequiring any further explanations; for he was lost if Black Thompson orDavies were lying in wait near at hand. Very thankfully he heard MissAnne's step across the quarried floor, and in a moment afterwards thelight shone through a low window close by. It was unglazed, with ascreen of open lattice-work over it so as to allow of free ventilation. It had one thick stone upright in the middle, leaving such a narrowspace as only a boy could creep through. He examined the opening quicklyand carefully while the light remained, and when Miss Anne returned tothe door he whispered again through the keyhole, 'Don't be afraid. It'sme--Stephen; I'm coming in through the pantry window. '

He knew his danger. He knew if any of the robbers came up they must hearhim removing the wooden lattice which was laid over the opening; andunless they supposed it to be one of their accomplices at work, he wouldbe at once in their power, exposed to their ill-treatment, or perhapssuffer death at their hands. And would Miss Anne within trust to himinstead of alarming the master? If he came down and opened the door, allthe designs of the evil men would be hastened and finished before Marthacould return from Longville. But Stephen did not listen, nor did hisfingers tremble over their work, though there was a rush of thoughts andfears through his brain. He tore away the lattice as quickly and quietlyas he could, and, with one keen glance round at the dark night, hethrust his head through the narrow frame. He found it was just possibleto crush through; and, after a minute's struggle, his feet rested uponthe pantry floor. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

FIRE! FIRE!

Anne was standing close to the pantry door, listening to Stephen'smysterious movements in utter bewilderment, hardly knowing whether sheought to call her uncle, but not coming to a decision about it until theboy appeared before her. His first quick action was to secure the doorby fastening a rusty bolt which was on the outside, and then, in a fewhurried sentences, he explained his strange conduct by telling her howTim had conveyed to him the design of some of the colliers for breakinginto the master's house. There had been several similar robberies in thecountry during the strike for wages, and Miss Anne was greatly alarmed, while Stephen felt all the tender spirit of a brave man aroused withinhim, as she sank faint and trembling upon the nearest seat. 

'Don't be afraid, ' he said courageously; 'they shall tear me to piecesafore they touch you, Miss Anne. I'm stronger than you'd think; but if Ican't take care of thee, God can. Hasn't He sent me here, afore theycome, on purpose? They'd have come upon you unawares, but for God. '

'You are right, Stephen, ' answered Miss Anne. 'He says, "Thou shalt notbe afraid for the terror by night. " But what shall we do? How can wemake ourselves safer? I'll try not to be afraid; but we must do all wecan ourselves. Hark! there's a footstep already!'

Yes, there was a footstep, and not a very stealthy one, approaching thehouse, and the dog bounded forward to the full length of his chain, buthe was beaten down with a blow that stunned him. The men were too strongin numbers, and too secure in the extreme loneliness of the dwelling, tocare about taking many precautions. Miss Anne and Stephen heard Mr. Wyley cross the floor of his room above, and open his window; but therewas silence again, and the chime of the house clock striking eleven wasthe only sound that broke the silence until the casement above wasreclosed, and the master's footfall returned across the room. 

'I must go and tell him, ' said Miss Anne; 'perhaps he can secure some ofhis money, lest Martha should be stopped on the way, or not come intime. Stay here and watch, Stephen, and let me know if you hearanything. '

She stole up-stairs in the dark, lest those without should see theglimmer of her candle through the fanlight in the hall; and then shespoke softly to her uncle through his locked and bolted door. Down-stairs Stephen listened with his quickened hearing to the footstepsgathering round the house; and presently the latch of the pantry doorwas lifted with a sudden click that made him start and catch his breath;but Jack Davies could come no further, now the rusty bolt was drawn onthe outside. There was a whispered conversation through the pantrywindow, and the sound of some one getting out again; and then Stephencrept across the dark kitchen into the hall through which Miss Anne hadgone. At the head of the staircase was the door of the master's room, now standing open; and the light from it served to guide him across thestrange hall, and up the stairs, until he reached the doorway, and couldlook in. The chamber had a low and sloping ceiling, and a gable-windowin the roof, which was defended by strong bars. Near this window was anopen cabinet, containing many little drawers and divisions, all of whichwere filled with papers; while upon a leaf in the front there lay rollsof bank notes, and heaps of golden money, which the master had beencounting over. He stood beside his cabinet as if he had just risen fromthis occupation, and was leaning upon his chair, panic-stricken at thetidings Miss Anne had uttered. His grey hair was scattered over hisforehead, instead of being smoothly brushed back; and the long, loosecoat, which hung carelessly around his shrivelled form and stoopingshoulders, made him look far older than he did in the day-time. AsStephen's eyes rested upon the sunken form and quaking limbs of the agedman, he felt, for the first time, how helpless and infirm his enemy was, instead of the rich, full, and prospering master he had alwaysconsidered him. 

'Keep off!' cried the old miser, as he caught sight of Stephen on thethreshold; and he raised his withered arm as if to ward him from histreasures. 'Keep off! Stephen Fern, is it you? You've come to take yourrevenge. The robbers and murderers have got in! O God, have pity uponme!'

'I'm come to take care of Miss Anne, ' said Stephen, 'They've not got inyet, master. And, please God, help will be here afore long with Martha. The doors and windows are safe. '

'Anne, take him away!' implored Mr. Wyley. 'I don't know if it is true, but take him away. I'm not safe while he's there; they will murder me!Go, go!'

Miss Anne led Stephen away; and no sooner were they outside the room, than the master rushed forward and locked and barred the door securelybehind them. There was a window in the landing, looking over the yardwhere the housebreakers were, and they stood at it in silence, strainingtheir eyes into the darkness. But it did not remain dark long; for athin, bright flame burst up from behind the dairy wall, and by itsfitful blaze they could see the figures of four men coming rapidly roundfrom that corner of the old building. 

'Fire! fire!' they shouted, in wild voices of alarm, and beating theiron-studded door with heavy sticks. 'Wake up, master! wake up! thehouse is on fire!'

Their only answer was a frantic scream from the servant, who thrust herhead out of her window, and echoed their shouts with piercing cries. ButStephen and Miss Anne did not move; only Miss Anne laid her hand uponhis arm, and he felt how much she trembled. 

'They're only trying to frighten us, ' he said quietly; 'that's only thewood-stack on fire. They think to frighten us to open the door, bymaking believe that the house is on fire. Miss Anne, I'm praying to Godall the while to send Martha in time. '

'So am I, ' she answered, sobbing; 'but oh, Stephen, I am frightened. '

'Miss Anne, ' he said, in a comforting tone, 'that chapter about faithyou've been teaching me, it says something about quenching fire. '

'"Quenched the violence of fire, "' she murmured; '"out of weakness weremade strong. "'

She hid her face for a minute or two in both her hands; and then she wasstrong enough to go to the servant's room, where the terrified girl wasstill calling for help. The wild shouts and the deafening clamour at thedoor rang through the house; but the blaze was gone down again; and whenStephen threw open the window just over the heads of the group of men inthe yard below, there was not light enough for him to distinguish theirfaces. 

'I'm here, ' he said, --'Stephen Fern. I found out what you are up to, andMartha's gone to Longville for help. She'll be here afore long, and youcan't force the door open. Put out the fire in the wood-stack, and gohome. Maybe if you're not found here you'll get off; for I've seen noneof you, and I can only guess at who you are. Go home, I say. '

There was a low, deep growl of disappointment, and a hurriedconsultation among the men. But whether they would follow Stephen'scounsel, it was not permitted them to choose; for suddenly a strong, bright flame burst up in a high column, like a beacon, into the midnightair, and every one gazing upwards saw in a moment that the thatch overthe farthest gable had caught fire. The house itself was now burning, and the light, blazing full upon their upturned faces, revealed toStephen the well-known features of four of his former comrades. Theshout that rang from their lips was one of real alarm now. 

'Stephen, lad, open the door!' cried Black Thompson. 'We thought tosmoke the old fox out of his kennel, but it's took fire in earnest. We'll not hurt him, nor Miss Anne. Lad! the old house will burn liketinder. '

What a glaring light spread through the landing! The face of Miss Annecoming from the servant's room shone rosy and bright in it, though shewas pale with fear. Through the open window drifted a suffocating smokeof burning wood and thatch, and the crackling and splitting of the oldroof sounded noisily above their voices; but Miss Anne commandedherself, and spoke calmly to Stephen. 

'We must open the door to them now, ' she said; 'God will protect us fromthese wicked men. Uncle! uncle! the house is really on fire, and we wantthe keys. Let me in. '

She knocked loudly at his door, and lifted up her voice to make himhear, and Stephen shouted; but there was no answer. Without the keys ofthe massive locks it would not be possible to open the doors, and he hadthem in his own keeping; but he gave no heed to their calls, nor thevehement screams of the frightened servant. Perhaps he had fallen into afit; and they had no means of entering his chamber, so securely had hefastened himself in with his gold. Stephen and Miss Anne gazed at oneanother in the dazzling and ominous light, but no words crossed theirtrembling lips. Oh, the horror of their position! And already othervoices were mingled with those of the assailants; and every one wasshouting from without, praying them to open the door, and be saved fromtheir tremendous peril. 

'I'll not open the door!' said Mr. Wyley from within; 'they will rob andmurder me. They are come to kill me, and I may as well die here. There'sno help. '

'There is help, dear uncle!' cried Miss Anne; 'there are other peoplefrom Botfield; and help is coming from Longville. Oh, let me in!'

'No, ' said the master, 'they all hate me. They'll kill me, and say itwas done in the fire. I'll not open to anybody. '

She prayed and expostulated in vain; he cared little for their danger, so hardened was he by a selfish fear for himself. The fire was gainingground quickly, for a brisk wind had sprung up, and the long-seasonedtimber in the old walls burnt like touchwood. The servant lay insensibleon the threshold of the master's chamber; and Miss Anne and Stephenlooked out from a front casement upon the gathering crowd, who imploredthem, with frenzied earnestness, to throw open the door. 

'Miss Anne, ' cried Stephen, 'you can get through the pantry window; youare little enough. Oh, be quick, and let me see you safe!'

'I cannot, ' she answered: 'not yet! Not till the last moment. I dare notleave my uncle and that poor girl. Oh, Stephen, if Martha would butcome!'

She rested her head against the casement, sobbing, as though her griefcould not be assuaged. Stephen felt heart-sick with his intense longingfor the arrival of help from Longville, as he watched the progress ofthe fire; but at last, after what appeared ages of waiting, they heard ashout in the distance, and saw a little band of horsemen galloping up tothe burning house. 

'They are come from Longville, uncle, ' cried Miss Anne. 'You must opennow; there is not a moment to spare. The fire is gaining upon us fast. '

He had seen their approach himself, and now he opened the doors, andgave the keys to Miss Anne. He had collected all his papers and notes inone large bundle, which he had clasped in his arms; and as soon as thecrowd swept in through the open doors, he cried aloud to the constablefrom Longville to come and guard him. There was very little time forsaving anything out of the house, for before long the flames gatheredsuch volume and strength as to drive every one out before them; and asStephen stood beside the miserable old man, who was shivering in thebitter night wind, he beheld his dwelling destroyed as suddenly andentirely as the hut at Fern's Hollow had been. 

CHAPTER XX. 

STEPHEN'S TESTIMONY. 

Mr. Wyley would not stir from the place where he could gaze upon his oldhome burning to the ground. He stood rooted to the spot, like onefascinated and enchained by a power he could not resist, grasping hisprecious bundle to his breast, and clinging firmly to the arm of theLongville doctor, who had been one of those who hastened to his rescue. Now and then he broke out into a deep cry, which he did not seem to hearhimself; but even the grey dawn of the morning, brightening over therounded outlines of the mountains, did not awaken him from his trance ofterror and bewilderment. Miss Anne kept near to him all night, andStephen lingered about her, making a seat for her upon the grass, andtaking care that Martha also should be at hand to wait upon her. Therewas a great buzzing of people about them, hurrying to and fro; and everynow and then they heard different conjectures as to how the fire began. But it was not, generally known that the constables from Longville andBotfield had contrived to arrest Black Thompson and Davies in the midstof the confusion, and had quietly taken them off to the jail atLongville. When the daylight grew strong, it shone upon a smoulderingmass of ruins, and heaps of broken furniture piled upon the down-troddengrass. The master had grown aged in that one night, and he gazedhelplessly about him, as if for some one to direct and guide him. He nolonger refused to quit the place, only he would not trust himselfanywhere near Botfield; and as soon as a carriage could be procured, heand Miss Anne were driven off to Longville. There was nothing more towait for now; and Stephen went quietly home to breakfast in thecinder-hill cabin. 

It was a good deal later than usual that morning when the engineman atthe works sent down the first skip-load of colliers into the pit. Fourof their number were absent, but that excited no surprise after theevents of the night; and even Bess Thompson supposed her father had goneoff to the public-house with the others. But what was the amazement ofthe colliers when they found Tim at the bottom of the shaft, fiercelyhungry after his night's fasting, and as fiercely anxious to hear whathad been taking place overhead. He had the prudence, however, to listento their revelations without making any of his own, and would not evenexplain how he came to be left behind in the pit. He went up in theascending skip, and, escaping from the curiosity of the people on thebank, he darted as straight as an arrow to Stephen's cabin. 

'I'm nigh clemmed, ' were his first words, as he seized the brown loafand cut off a slice, which he devoured ravenously. 'It seems like ayear, ' he continued; 'thee'lt never catch me being left behind anywhereagain. Eh, Stephen, lad! many a time I shouted for fear I'd never seedaylight again; it's awful down there in the night. Thee hears them asthee can't see punning agen the coal; and then there comes a downfalllike a clap of thunder. I wasn't so much afeared of little Nan: shenever did any harm when she was alive; and I thought God was too good tosend her out of heaven just to terrify a poor lad like me. '

'But how did thee get left behind?' asked Martha. 

Then Tim told them how the horse-doctor had gone down to secure one ofthe ponies in a large, strong net, in order to bring it to the surfaceof the earth for a time; and that he had gone down with him more for hisown amusement than to help him. He had wandered a little way into thewinding galleries of the pit, and came back just as the skip was goingup for the last time but one. Thompson and Davies were deep inconversation with the men who remained, and, stealing behind them, heoverheard their plot, and their intention of persuading Stephen to jointhem. After that he dare not for his very life come forward when theskip descended, and he watched them go up, leaving him alone for thenight in that dismal place. He had his father's lamp with him, and somade his way to the bottom of the old shaft, and waited, with whatimpatience and anxiety we may imagine, to hear Stephen return from hiswork. 

'It was awfully lonesome, ' he said, 'and I thought Stephen would nevercome, or I'd never make him hear. It wasn't much better after he hadcome, only for thinking Miss Anne would be safe. My lamp went out, and Ireckon I said "Our Father" over a hundred times. Besides, I waswondering what was being done overhead. I'll never be left behindanywhere again, I can tell ye. '

'Well, ' said Stephen, 'my sheep and lambs don't know about the fire, andI must be off. They'll want me just as bad as if I'd been in bed allnight. '

Still he could not help turning aside with Tim just for another glimpseof the smouldering ruins, looking so black and desolate in the daylight. But after that he did not loiter a minute, and spent the rest of themorning in diligent attention to his duties, until, a little beforemid-day, he saw the farmer who employed him riding across thesheep-walk; and when he ran forward to receive his orders, he bade himmake haste and go home to prepare himself for appearing before themagistrate, to give his evidence against Black Thompson and hiscomrades. 

When Stephen reached the cinder-hill cabin he found Tim there again, andBess Thompson waiting to see him. Poor Bess had been crying bitterly, for by this time it was known that her father and Davies were in jail;though the others, being young and single men, had fled at once from theplace, and escaped for the present. As soon as Stephen entered, Bessthrew herself on her knees at his feet, and looked up imploringly intohis face. 

'Oh, dear, good Stephen, ' she cried, 'thee canst save father! I'll kneelhere till thee has promised to save him. Oh, don't bear any spite agenhim, but forgive him and save him!'

'Get up, Bess, ' said Stephen kindly; 'don't thee kneel down to a fellowlike me. I'll do anything for thy father; I've no spite agen him. '

'Oh, I knew thee would!' she said; 'thee'lt tell the justice thee neversaw him there till the other folks came up from Botfield. Tim says hedidn't see anybody down in the pit, and he's promised not to swear totheir names. Don't thee swear to seeing anybody. '

'But I did see every one of them, ' Stephen answered; 'and Tim knew alltheir voices; and there'll be lots to tell who came up in the lastskip. '

'There's nobody in Botfield will swear agen them, ' pleaded Bess. 'Whoseplace is it to know who came up in the last skip, or who was at the firelast night? Oh, Stephen, the Bible says we're to do good to them thathate us. And if father's hated thee, thee canst save him now. '

'Ay, ' said Tim, 'Bess is right; there's not a mother's son in Botfieldto swear agen them for the master's sake. If he didn't see them, norMiss Anne, why need we know? I'll soon baffle the justice, I promise ye. It's a rare chance to forgive Black Thompson, anyhow. '

'Bess and Tim, ' answered Stephen, in great distress, 'I can't do it. Itisn't that I bear a grudge against thy father--I've almost forgottenthat he ever did anything to me. But it's not true; it's sure to comeout somehow. Why, I don't even know what I said to Miss Anne last night;but if I hadn't told a word to anybody, I'd be bound to tell the truthnow. '

'Only say thee aren't certain, ' urged Bess. 

'Nay, lass, ' said Stephen, 'I am certain. I'd do anything that was rightfor thy sake, and to save thy father; but I can't do this, and it wouldbe no use if I could. God seeth in secret, and He will reward menopenly. He's begun to reward the master already. We can do nothing forthy father, but every one of us tell the truth, and pray to God forhim. '

'Father was good to thee when thou wert ill, ' said Bess. 

'Ay, I know it, ' he replied; 'but if he was my own father, I could nottell a lie to get him off. I'd do anything I could. Oh, Bess and Tim, don't ask me to go agen the right!'

'It'll break mother's heart, ' said Bess, bursting out into a loudcrying. 'We made sure of thee, because thee says so much about havingthy enemies; and we were only afeared of Tim. Thee says we are to do toanother as we'd have them do to us. If thee was in father's place, thee'd want him to do as I ask thee. Thee doesn't think father wantsthee to swear agen him?'

'Nay, ' answered Stephen, 'the justice and Miss Anne would have me tellthe truth. It seems as if I can't do to everybody as they'd like me; soI'll abide by telling the truth. '

There was no time for further discussion, for the constable fromLongville came in to conduct them before the magistrate, to give theirseparate evidence concerning the events of the past night. Bess wentwith them, weeping all the way beside them, and grieving Stephen's heartby her tears, though she dared not speak a word in the constable'spresence. But he gave his testimony gravely and truthfully, and Tim andMartha followed his example; and, in consequence of their jointevidence, Black Thompson and Davies were fully committed to take theirtrial at the next assizes, and were removed that afternoon to the countyjail. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

FORGIVENESS. 

Bess Thompson started off on her way to her desolate home, almostheart-broken, and with such a wrathful resentment against Stephen, andMartha, and Tim, as seemed to blot out all memory of the lessons she hadbeen learning from Miss Anne since the little child's death. She couldnever bear to go near them, or speak to them again, since they had swornagainst her father; and had not he been good to them when Stephen wasill, often sparing her to watch with Martha, as well as helping to makeup his wages? If this was their religion, she did not care to have it;for nobody else in Botfield would have done the same. And now she mightas well give up all thoughts of getting to heaven, where little Nan andher baby sister were; for there would be nobody to care for her, and shewould be obliged to go back to all her old ways. 

These were her bitter thoughts as she walked homewards alone, forStephen was gone up to the doctor's house to inquire after the masterand Miss Anne, and the others were waiting for him in Longville. Sheheard their voices after a while coming along the turnpike road, andwalking quickly as if to overtake her; so she turned aside into a field, and hid herself under a hedge that they might pass by. She crouched downlow upon the grass, and covered her red and smarting eyes from thesunshine with her shawl, and then she listened for their footsteps todie away in the distance. But she felt an arm stealing round her, andMartha's voice whispered close in her ear, --

'Bess, dear Bess, thee must not hide thyself from us. We love thee, Bess; and we are sore sorry for thee. Stephen is ever so down-heartedabout thee and thy father. Oh, Bess, thee must have no spite at us. '

'Bess, ' said Stephen, 'thy father owned I was telling the truth, andsaid he forgave me for speaking agen him; and he shook hands with meafore he went; and he said, "Stephen, thee be a friend to my poor lass!"and I gave him a sure promise that I would. '

'Nobody'll ever look at me now, ' cried Bess; 'nobody'll be friends withme if father's transported. '

'We're thy friends, ' answered Stephen, 'and thee has a Father in heaventhat cares for thee. Listen, Bess; it will do thee good, and poor oldgrandfather no harm now. He was transported beyond the seas once; and noone casts it up to him now, nor to us; and haven't we got friends? Cheerup, Bess. Miss Anne says, maybe this very trouble will bring thy fatherto repentance. He said he'd repent some time; and maybe this will be thevery time for him. And Miss Anne sends her kind love to thee and thymother, and she'll come and see thy mother as soon as she can leave themaster. '

Thus comforted, poor sorrowful Bess rose from the ground, and walked onwith them to Botfield. Most of the house doors were open, and the womenwere standing at them in order to waylay them with inquisitivequestions; but Stephen's grave and steady face, and the presence ofBess, who walked close beside him, as if there was shelter andprotection there, kept them silent; and they were compelled to satisfytheir curiosity with secondhand reports. Martha went on with Bess to herown cottage to stay all night with her, and help her to console herbroken-hearted mother. 

Though Martha was truly sorry for Black Thompson's family, she felt herimportance as one of the chief witnesses against him; especially as thecinder-hill cabin was visited, not only by the gossips of Botfield, butby more distinguished persons from all the farmhouses around; and herthrilling narrative of her hazardous journey through Botfield along thehigh road was listened to with greedy interest. In this foolish talkingshe lost that true sympathy which she ought to have felt for poor Bess, and forfeited the blessing which would have been given to her own soul. But it was very different with Stephen in his lonely work upon themountains. There he thought over the crimes and punishment of BlackThompson, until his heart was filled with an unutterable pity andfellow-feeling both towards him and his family; and every night, as hewent home from his labour, he turned aside to the cottage, to read toBess and her mother some portion of the Scriptures which he had chosenfor their comfort, out of a pocket Bible given to him by Miss Anne. 

About a fortnight after these events Stephen received a visitor upon theuplands, where he was seeking a lamb that had strayed into a dwarfforest of gorse-bushes, and was bleating piteously in its bewilderment. A pleasant-sounding voice called 'Stephen Fern!' and when he got freefrom the entangling thorns, with the rescued lamb in his arms, whoshould be waiting for him but the lord of the manor himself! Stephenknew his face again in an instant, and dropped the lamb that he mighttake off his old cap, while the gentleman smiled at him with a heartysmile. 

'I am Danesford, of Danesford, ' he said gaily; 'and I believe you areStephen Fern, of Fern's Hollow. I've brought you a message, my boy. Canyou guess what young lady has sent me over the hills after you?'

'Miss Anne, ' answered Stephen promptly. 

'No; there are other young ladies in the world beside Miss Anne!'replied Mr. Danesford. 'Have you forgotten Miss Lockwood? She has notforgotten you; and we are come home ready to give battle to yourenemies, and reinstate you in all your rights. She gives Mr. Lockwoodand me no rest until we have got Fern's Hollow, and everything else, foryou again. '

'Sir, ' said Stephen, and his eyes filled with tears, 'nobody can give meback little Nan. '

'No, ' answered Mr. Danesford gravely; 'I know how hardly you have beendealt with, my boy. Tell me truly, is your religion strong enough toenable you to forgive Mr. Wyley indeed? Is it possible that you canforgive him from your heart?'

Stephen was silent, looking down at the heath upon which his feet werepressed, but seeing none of its purple blossoms. It was a question thatmust not be answered rashly, for even that morning he had glanced downthe fatal shaft with a deep yearning after little Nan; and as he passedthe ruins of his master's house, his memory had recalled the destructionof the old hut with something of a feeling of triumph. 

'Sir, ' he said, looking up to him, 'I'm afraid I can't explain myself. You know it was for my sake that the Lord Jesus was killed, yet HisFather has forgiven me all my sins; and when I think of that, I canforgive the master even for little Nan's death with all my heart. But Idon't always remember it; and then I feel a little glad at the fire. Ihaven't got much religion yet. I don't know everything that's in theBible. '

'Yet I could learn some lessons from you, Stephen, ' said Mr. Danesford, after a pause. 'What do you suppose I should do if anybody tried to takeDanesford Hall from me?'

'I don't know, sir, ' answered Stephen. 

'Nor do I, ' he said, smiling; 'at any rate, they should not have it withmy consent. Nor shall anybody take Fern's Hollow from you. I have beendown to Longville about it, but Mr. Wyley is too ill to see me. By theway, I told Miss Anne I was coming up the hills after you. She wants tosee you, Stephen, as soon as possible after your work is done. '

Mr. Danesford rode on over the hills, and Stephen walked some way besidehim, to put him into the nearest path for Danesford. After he was gonehe watched earnestly for the evening shadows, and when they stretchedfar away across the plains, he hastened down to the cabin, and then onto Longville, to his appointed interview with Miss Anne. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

THE MASTER'S DEATHBED. 

When the master at last consented to leave the sight of his old dwellingburning into blackened heaps, he seemed to care nothing where he mightbe taken. He was without a home, and almost without a friend. It was notaccident merely, but the long-provoked hatred of his people, that haddriven him from the old chambers and the old roof which had shelteredhim for so many years, and where all the habits and memories of his lifecentred. Miss Anne had not been long enough at Botfield to formfriendships on her own account, except among the poor and ignorantpeople on her uncle's works; and she accepted most thankfully the offerof the doctor from Longville to give them a refuge in his house. Nosooner had they arrived there than it was discovered that the master wasstruck with paralysis, brought on by the shock of the fire, and all theterrifying circumstances attending it. He was carried at once to abedroom, and from that time Miss Anne had been fully occupied in nursinghim. 

He had seemed to be getting better the last day or two, and his power ofspeech had returned, though he spoke but rarely; only following MissAnne's movements with earnest eyes, and hardly suffering her to leavehim, even for necessary rest and refreshment. All that afternoon he hadbeen tossing his restless head from side to side, uttering deep, lowgroans, and murmuring now and then to himself words which Miss Annecould not understand. She looked white and ill herself, as if herstrength were nearly exhausted; but after the doctor had been in, and, feeling the master's pulse, shook his head solemnly, she would notconsent to leave his bedside for any length of time. 

'How long?' she whispered, going with the doctor to the outside of thedoor. 

'Not more than twenty-four hours, ' was the answer. 

'Will he be conscious all the time?' she asked again. 

'I cannot tell certainly, ' replied the doctor, 'but most probably not. '

Only twenty-four hours! One day of swiftly-passing time, and then theeternal future! One more sun-setting, and one more sun-rising, and theneverlasting night, or eternal day! For a minute Miss Anne leaned againstthe doorway, with a fainting spirit. There was so much to do, and soshort a space for doing anything. All the real business of the wholelife had to be crowded into these few hours, if possible. As she enteredthe room, her uncle's eyes met hers with a glance of unspeakableanguish, and he called her in a trembling tone to her side. 

'I heard, ' he whispered. 'Anne, what must be done now?'

'Oh, uncle, ' she said, 'have I not told you often, that "Christ Jesuscame into the world to save sinners"? There is no limit with God; withhim one day is as a thousand years, and He gives you still a day to makeyour peace with Him. '

'There is no peace for my soul with God, ' he answered; 'I've been atenmity with Him all my life; and will He receive me at the last moment?He is too just, too righteous, Anne. I'll not insult Him by offering Himmy soul now. You asked me once, "What shall it profit a man if he shallgain the whole world, and lose his own soul?" Mine is lost--lost, andthat without remedy. This gold is a millstone about my neck. '

'Uncle, ' she said, commanding her voice with a great effort, 'the thiefupon the cross beside our Lord had a shorter time than you, for he wasto die at sunset that day; yet he repented and believed in the crucifiedSaviour, who was able to pardon him. Christ is still waiting to forgive;He is stretching out His arms to receive you. Only look at Him with thesame penitence and faith that the dying thief felt. '

'Nay, ' groaned the dying man, 'he could show his faith by confessing Himbefore all those who were crucifying the Lord, and it was a glory to theSaviour to forgive him then. But what glory would it be to pardon me onthis death-bed, where I can do nothing for Him? No; I can donothing--nothing! All these years I could have worked for God; but now Ican do nothing!'

'Uncle, ' said Miss Anne, 'our Lord was asked by some, "What shall we do, that we might work the works of God?" and He answered them, "This is thework of God, that ye believe on Him whom He hath sent. " Oh, that is all!Believe on Him, and He will forgive you; and all the angels in heavenwill glorify Him for His mercy. '

'Anne, ' he answered, fixing on her a look of despair, 'I cannot. Myheart is hard and heavy; I remember when it used to feel and care aboutthese things; but it is dead now, and my soul is lost for ever. Anne, even if Jesus is willing to pardon me, I cannot believe in forgiveness. '

Miss Anne sank down by the bedside, unable to answer him, save by aprayer, half aloud, to God for His mercy to be shown to him, if it werepossible! He lay there, helpless and hopeless, tossing to and fro uponthe pillows. At last he spoke again, in a sharp, clear, energetic tone. 

'Anne, be quick!' he said; 'find me my will among those papers. Perhapsif I could do something, I might be able to believe. '

He watched her with impatient eagerness as she turned over the preciousparcel of papers which he had rescued from the fire. There were manydocuments and writings belonging to the property he had gatheredtogether, and it was some time before she could find the will. Themaster tried to take it from her, but in vain; his right hand waspowerless. 

'Oh, I forgot!' he cried despairingly; 'this hand is useless, and Icannot alter it now. God will not let me undo the mischief I have done. Anne, I have left Fern's Hollow away from you to my brother Thomas, lestyou should restore it to Stephen; and now I can do nothing! Oh, misery, misery! The robbery and murder of the fatherless children rest upon mysoul. Send quickly, Anne, send for Stephen Fern. '

Miss Anne sent a messenger to hasten Stephen; and after that the masterlay perfectly still, with closed eyes, as if he were treasuring up thelittle strength remaining to him. The last sunset was over, and thenight-lamp was lighted once more; while Miss Anne sat beside himwatching, in an agony of prayer to God. There was no sound to be heard, for every one in the house knew that the old man was dying, and theykept a profound quietness throughout all the rooms. He had taken nonotice of anything since he asked for Stephen; but when a light rap washeard at the door he opened his eyes, and turned his grey head roundanxiously to see whether he was come. 

It was Stephen. He stood within the doorway, not liking to enterfarther, but looking straight forward at the master with a very pale andsorrowful face, upon which there was no trace of triumph or hatred. MissAnne gazed earnestly at him, but she did not speak; she would not placeherself between him and his dying enemy now. 

'Come here, Stephen, ' said the master, in a voice of hopeless agony. 'When little Nan was lying dead, you said you would wait, and see whatGod could do to me. Come near, and hear, and see. Death is nothing, boy;it will be only a glory to you to die. But God is letting loose Histerrors upon me; He is mocking at my soul, and laughing at my calamity. Soon, soon I shall be in eternity, without hope, and without God. '

'Oh, master, master, ' exclaimed Stephen, 'there is a time yet for ourFather to forgive thee! It doesn't take long to forgive! It didn't takeeven me long to forgive; and oh, how quickly God can do it if you'llonly ask Him!'

'Do you forgive me?' asked the master, in astonishment. 

'Ah, ' he cried, 'I forgave thee long since, directly after I was ill. Itwas God who helped me; and wouldn't He rather forgive thee Himself? Oh, He loves thee! He taught me how to love thee; and could He do that if Hedidn't love thee His own self?'

'If I could only believe in being forgiven!' said the dying man. 

'Oh, believe it, dear master! See, I am here; I have forgiven thee, andI do love thee. Little Nan can never come back, and yet I love thee, andforgive thee from my very heart. Will not Jesus much more forgive thee?'

'Pray for me, Stephen. Kneel down there, and pray aloud, ' he said; andhis eyelids closed feebly, and his restless head lay still, as if he hadno more power to move it. 

'I cannot, ' answered Stephen; 'I'm only a poor lad, and I don't know howto do it up loud. Miss Anne will pray for thee. '

'If you have forgiven me, pray to God for me, ' murmured the master, opening his eyes again with a look of deep entreaty. Over Stephen's paleface a smile was kindling, a smile of pure, intense love and faith, andthe light in his pitying eyes met the master's dying gaze with a gleamof strengthening hope. He clasped the cold hand in both his own, and, kneeling down beside him, he prayed from his very soul, 'Lord, lay notthis sin to his charge. '

He could say no more; and Miss Anne, who knelt by him, was silent, except that one sob burst from her lips. The master stirred no more, butlay still, with his numb and paralyzed hand in Stephen's clasp; but in afew minutes he uttered these words, in a tone of mingled entreaty andassertion, 'God be merciful to me a sinner!'

That was all. An hour or two afterwards it was known throughoutLongville, and the news was on the way to Botfield, that the master ofBotfield works was dead. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE HOME RESTORED. 

Three months later in the year, when the new house at Fern's Hollow wasquite finished, with its dairy and coal-shed, and a stable put up at Mr. Lockwood's desire, a large party assembled within the walls. Martha hadbeen diligently occupied all the week in a grand cleaning down; and Timand Stephen had been equally busy in clearing away the litter left bythe builders, and in restoring the garden to some order. They had beenobliged to contrive some temporary seats for their visitors, for the oldfurniture had not yet been brought up from the cinder-hill cabin; andthe only painful thoughts Martha had were the misgiving of its extremescantiness in their house with six rooms. The pasture before the cottagewas now securely enclosed, and the wild ponies neighed over the hedge invain at the sight of the clear, cool pool where they had been used toquench their thirst; and behind the house there was a plantation of tinyfir-trees bending to and fro in the wind, which they were to resist asthey grew larger. Every place was in perfect order; and the front room, which was almost grand enough for a parlour, was beautifully decoratedwith flowers in honour of the expected guests, who had sent word thatthey should visit Fern's Hollow that afternoon. 

They could be seen far away from the window of the upper storey, which, rising above the brow of the hill behind, commanded a wide view of themountain plains. They were coming on horseback across the almostpathless uplands; dear Miss Anne, with Mr. Lockwood riding beside her;and a little way behind them the lord of the manor and his young wife, who was no other than Miss Lockwood herself. They greeted Stephen andMartha with many smiles and words of congratulation; and when they wereseated in the decorated room, with the door and window opened upon thebeautiful landscape, Mr. Lockwood bade them come and sit down with them;while Tim helped the groom to put up the horses in the stable. 

'My boy, ' said Mr. Lockwood, 'our business is finished at last. Mr. Thomas Wyley will not try his right to Fern's Hollow by law; but we haveagreed to give him the £15 paid to your grandfather, and also to pay tohim all the actual cost of the work done here. Miss Anne and I have hada quarrel on the subject, but she consents that I shall pay that as amark of my esteem for you, and my old servant your mother. Mr. Danesfordintends to make a gift to you of the pasture and plantation, which werean encroachment upon the manor. And now I want you to take my adviceinto the bargain. Jackson wants to come here, and offers a rent of £20 ayear for the place. Will you let him have it till you are old enough tomanage it properly yourself, Stephen?'

'Yes, if you please, sir, ' replied Stephen, in some perplexity; for heand Martha had quite concluded that, they should come and live thereagain themselves. 

'Jackson will make a tidy little farm of it for you, ' continued Mr. Lockwood. 'My daughter proposes taking Martha into her service, andputting her into the way of learning dairy-work, and many other thingsof which she is now ignorant. Are you willing, Martha?'

'Oh yes, sir!' said Martha, with a look of admiration at young Mrs. Danesford. 

'In this case, Stephen, ' Mr. Lockwood went on, 'you will have a yearlyincome of £20, and we would like to hear what you will do with it?'

'There's grandfather, ' said Stephen diffidently. 

'Right, my boy!' cried Mr. Lockwood, with a smile of satisfaction;'well, Miss Anne thinks he would be very comfortable with Mrs. Thompson, and she would be glad of a little money with him. But he cannot livemuch longer, Stephen; he is very aged, and the doctor thinks he willhardly get over the autumn. So we had better settle what shall be doneafter grandfather is gone. '

'Sir, ' said Stephen, 'I think Martha should have some good ofgrandmother's work, if she is only a girl. So hadn't the rent better besaved up for her till I'm old enough to come and manage the farmmyself?'

Every face in the room glowed with approbation of Stephen's suggestion;and Martha flushed crimson at the very thought of possessing so muchmoney; and visions of future greatness, more than her grandmother hadforeseen, passed before her mind. 

'Why, Martha will be quite an heiress!' said Mr. Lockwood. 'So she isprovided for, and grandfather. And what do you intend to do withyourself, Stephen, till you come back here?'

'I'm strong enough to go back to the pit, ' replied Stephen bravely, though inwardly he shrank from it; but how else could the rent of Fern'sHollow be laid by for Martha? 'Now Miss Anne has raised the wages, Ishould get eight shillings a week, and more as I grow older. I shall dofor myself very nicely, thank you, sir; and maybe I could lodge withgrandfather at Mrs. Thompson's. '

'No, ' said Miss Anne, in her gentle voice, the sweetest voice in theworld to Stephen, now little Nan's was silent; 'Stephen is my dearfriend, and he must let me act the part of a friend towards him. I wishto send him to live with a good man whom I know, the manager of one ofthe great works at Netley, where he may learn everything that will benecessary to become my bailiff. I shall want a true, trustworthy agentto look after my interests here, and in a few years Stephen will be oldenough to do this for me. He shall attend a good school for a few hoursdaily, to gain a fitting education; and then what servant could I findmore faithful, more true, and more loving than my dear friend Stephen?He can come back here then, if he chooses, and perhaps have Martha forhis housekeeper, in their old home at Fern's Hollow. '

'Oh, Miss Anne!' cried Stephen, 'I cannot bear it! May I really be yourservant all my life?' and the boy's voice was lost in sobs. 

'Come, Stephen, ' said the lord of the manor, 'I want you to show us someof your old haunts on the hills. If Miss Anne had not formed a betterplan, I should have proposed making you my gamekeeper; for Jones hasbeen telling me about the grouse last year. By the way, if I had thoughtit would be any pleasure to you, I should have dismissed him from myservice for his share in this business; but I knew you would be forbegging him in again, so I only told him pretty strongly what a sneak Ithought him. '

They went out then across the uplands, a sunny ramble, to all Stephen'sfavourite places. And it happened that when they reached the solitaryyew-tree near which Snip was buried, all the rest strolled on, and leftStephen and Miss Anne alone. Before them, down at the foot of themountains, there stretched a wide plain many miles across, beautifulwith woods and streams; and on the far horizon there hung a light cloudthat was always to be seen there, the index of those great works whereStephen was to dwell for some years. Near to them they could discern, inthe clear atmosphere, the spires and towers of the county town, whereBlack Thompson, who had tempted him on these hills, was now imprisonedfor many years; and below, though hidden from their sight, was Botfieldand the cinder-hill cabin. A band of bilberry-gatherers was coming downthe hill with songs and shouts of laughter; and the frightened flocks ofsheep stood motionless on the hillocks, ready to flee away in a momentat their approach. Both Miss Anne and Stephen felt a crowd of thoughts, sorrowful and happy, come thronging to their minds. 

'Stephen, ' said Miss Anne solemnly, 'our Lord says, "When ye shall havedone all those things which are commanded you, say, We are unprofitableservants: we have done that which was our duty to do. "'

'Yes, Miss Anne, ' said Stephen, looking up inquiringly into histeacher's face. 

'My dear boy, ' she continued, 'are you taking care to say to yourself, "I am an unprofitable servant"?'

'I have not done all those things which are commanded me, ' he saidsimply and earnestly; 'I've done nothing of myself yet. It's you thathave taught me, Miss Anne; and God has helped me to learn. I'm afearedpartly of going away to Netley; but if you're not there to keep meright, God is everywhere. '

'Stephen, ' Miss Anne said, 'you have forgiven all your enemies: Tim, whois now your friend, and the gamekeeper, Black Thompson, and my pooruncle; when you are saying the Lord's Prayer, do you feel as if youshould be satisfied for our Father to forgive you your trespasses in thesame measure and in the same manner as you have forgiven theirtrespasses against you?'

'Oh no!' cried Stephen, in a tone of some alarm. 

'Tell me why not. '

'It was a rather hard thing for me, ' he said; 'it was very hard atfirst, and I had to be persuaded to it; and every now and then I felt asif I'd take the forgiveness back. I shouldn't like to feel as if ourFather found it a hard thing, or repented of it afterwards. '

'No, ' answered Miss Anne. 'He is a God "ready to pardon;" and when Hehas bestowed forgiveness, His "gifts and calling are withoutrepentance. " But there is something more, Stephen. Do you not seem inyour own mind to know them, and remember them most, by their unkindnessand sins towards you? When you think of Black Thompson, is it not moreas one who has been your enemy than one whom you love without anyremembrance of his faults? And you recollect my uncle as him who droveyou away from your own home, and was the cause of little Nan's death. Their offences are forgiven fully, but not forgotten. '

'Can I forget?' murmured Stephen. 

'No, ' she replied; 'but do you not see that we clothe our enemies withtheir faults against us? Should our Father do so, should we stand beforeHim bearing in His sight all our sins, would that forgiveness contentus, Stephen?'

'Oh no!' he cried again. 'Tell me, Miss Anne, what will He do for mebesides forgiving me?'

'Look, Stephen, ' she replied, pointing to the distant sky where the sunwas going down amid purple clouds, and bidding him turn to the greyhorizon where the sun had risen in the morning; 'listen: "As far as theeast is from the west, so far hath He removed our transgressions fromus. " And again: "He will turn again, He will have compassion upon us; Hewill subdue our iniquities; and Thou wilt cast all their sins into thedepths of the sea. " And again: "For I will be merciful to theirunrighteousness, and their sins and their iniquities will I remember nomore. " This is the forgiveness of our Father, Stephen. '

'Oh, how different to mine!' cried Stephen, hiding his face in hishands. 

'Yet, ' said Miss Anne, 'you may claim the promise made to us by ourLord: "If ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father willalso forgive you, " in a far richer measure, with infinitelong-suffering, and a multitude of tender mercies. '

'Lord, forgive me, for Jesus Christ's sake!' murmured Stephen. 

But the dusk was gathering, and the others were returning to them underthe old yew-tree, for there was the long ride over the hills toDanesford, and the time for parting was come. The day was done; and onthe morrow new work must be entered upon. The path of the commandmentshad yet to be trodden, step by step, through temptation and conflict, and weakness and weariness, until the end was reached. 

Stephen felt something of this as he walked home for the last time tothe cinder-hill cabin; and, taking down the old Bible covered with greenbaize, read aloud to his grandfather and Martha the chapter his fatherhad taught him on his death-bed; bending his head in deep and humbleprayer after he had read the last verse: 'Be ye therefore perfect, evenas your Father in heaven is perfect. '

THE END. 

 * * * * *

STORIES BY HESBA STRETTON. 

Cobwebs and Cables. Half Brothers. Through a Needle's Eye. Carola. Bede's Charity. David Lloyd's Last Will. The Children of Cloverley. Fern's Hollow. The Fishers of Derby Haven. Pilgrim Street. A Thorny Path. Enoch Roden's Training. In the Hollow of His Hand. 

_The Religious Tract Society, London_.