Two Ways of Facing Life │ Project Gutenberg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VIII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER X.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVI.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XVIII.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before Mina had time to recover from the shock of this intelligence, a sharp ring at the bell brought the housemaid hastily from the kitchen. The next minute she entered with a telegram. Mr. Adams' face clouded as he read it. His wife and Mina watched him anxiously.

"Business, Benjamin?" the former at length inquired, finding that he vouchsafed no information concerning its purport.

"N—no, not exactly," he replied hesitatingly. "From Oxford. Neville has run out of money—and—is unwell."

"Unwell!" exclaimed his wife, rising and hurrying towards him. "It is nothing serious?"

"I think I had better go to him," Mr. Adams said, still holding the telegram. "He is out of money, you see."

"Come at once. Your son is ill with congestion of the lungs, and has no cash in hand."

For a minute or two Mrs. Adams stood reading the words over and over as if unable to believe them. Then turning to her husband, in a firm, decided voice she said, "I must go at once."

In half an hour's time, the father and mother were on their way to catch the last train for London, where they hoped to be in time for the night mail to Oxford. And Mina—bewildered, unstrung, and terrified beyond measure—was left alone.

CHAPTER XIX.

"Nor love thy life, nor hate; but whilst thou liv'st
Live well; how long, how short, permit to heaven."
MILTON.

ON returning to consciousness, Joseph became aware of a crowd of people, a buzz of voices, and intense pain in his left arm.

For the moment, he had lost all recollection of what had occurred, and could only utter a faint moan. But as his senses came back, he remembered the ladder, and glanced quickly towards it.

"Here," answered the man, pushing forwards towards him. "I'm afraid you've paid dearly, poor lad!"

"I'm all right," gasped Joseph, catching his breath with the pain as he tried to move, "except this arm. It must be broken."

"I can try," answered the brave fellow, wincing again, but quickly recovering himself. "I'm only a bit shaken."

"And well you may be!" remarked an onlooker who, having satisfied himself that life was preserved, was preparing to turn on his way. "It came near being an ugly business."

"Stupid job, attempting to haul a pole without a rope to it," remarked another. "It was a lucky escape; a mere chance, as one may say."

The crowd now began to disperse, whilst those who had no special reason for hurry commenced discussing the various conjectures put forth as to how the accident happened, and so on. But one man chose to take up a different aspect of the question. He was a painter who frequently worked in Mr. Glover's employ, and was well-known as a freethinker and scoffer.

"'No such thing as chance,' they say," he jeered. "It's all 'design'; ruled and predestined by a wise Providence. What about a slip like that, I wonder! I suppose your preachers can make it come right somehow. 'All things work together for good,' they say. Don't tell me! How about the widowed mother? She wouldn't find much 'good' in losing her only support. There's more chance than Providence in the matter."

"Me," answered the man; "right enough. You can't make much out o' this job to 'thank the Lord for,' I'll lay," he added.

"Ah! Of course; not so bad but it might have been worse. A very cheerful principle to go upon too! Suppose, now, it had been the neck instead of the arm. Not much 'good' to be worked out o' that, hey?"

"My poor mother would have found comfort," he answered; "and as for myself, I am not afraid of death. 'For me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.'"

The man uttered a loud guffaw. "Take my advice and drop that cant," he said. "It won't serve you against a scaffold-pole."

"It will serve me beyond the grave some day," answered Joseph firmly; "and you cannot affirm that much of any belief you hold, Mr. Robbins."

The man looked somewhat taken aback by the lad's boldness. But at this juncture Richards interfered, saying, that as soon as Joseph felt able to try and move, it would be advisable to get him to a doctor's. So they forthwith set about helping him to his feet and taking him to the nearest surgery.

His arm was found to be broken in two places. But beyond a few bruises and a severe shaking, he had escaped without further injury. And after having the broken limb attended to, he was able to proceed home to his lodgings, where his good friends, Ned Vigus and Nancy, received him with expressions of the deepest concern.

"No fear for me," was Joseph's cheerful reply. "I shall do well enough with a little of your nursing, Miss Vigus; though I'm afraid I shall give you some trouble with this helpless bundle of splints hanging round my neck."

"Never mind about that," responded Miss Vigus warmly, "so that I haven't any bad news to tell your poor mother. That's all I think of."

"That was all I thought of at first," said Joseph. "A fall like that confuses the brains somewhat. I was too much 'astonished' to have many ideas left. The principal thing seemed to be alive, and to know that I wasn't hopelessly maimed. But it begins to strike me that I didn't particularly want an idle time just now. I shall have to ask you for credit, Mr. Vigus. I sent all my surplus cash to my mother on Saturday; and I shan't be in working trim yet awhile."

"Oh! If it comes to that, we can but go shares in the accident," returned good Ned Vigus. "Your patterns have been a wonderful help to my fretwork; and Nancy's needle is very busy just now, with the spring season coming on. But, unless I'm much mistaken, Mr. Glover will make that all straight. He's a Humane Society all to himself, is Mr. Glover; and he'll have a gold medal ready for you."

Ned Vigus was right. On going down to the works after breakfast, Mr. Glover heard all the particulars of Stacey's unlucky manœuvre, and before the day was over, he came round to see the disabled hero.

"Well!" he said cheerily, after some talk. "You didn't ask me for a holiday, or perhaps I might not have been so ready to give you one. But you will have to lie by for a month or so, and the best thing you can do is to go home and get some country air to set you up."

Joseph hesitated, uncertain how to take these words. "I don't know, sir," he replied. "I can't go home to be a burden to my mother. And as Mr. Vigus is willing to let my bill run, I think I had better remain here. I must get to work as soon as possible, and right myself by degrees."

"Miss Nancy doesn't want an invalid about, in the midst of all this dressmaking," he said; "and your mother will be glad enough to have you to nurse. When I speak of giving a holiday, I don't mean making you the loser. So you can set off with a clear conscience as soon as the doctor grants permission; and don't return until you can use your arm properly."

Joseph hastened to express his sense of his employer's kindness, whilst Ned Vigus nodded a "signe d'intelligence" at Nancy, thoroughly satisfied at this fulfilment of his own prediction. And after a little further conversation, Mr. Glover left.

The following week, Joseph—having previously written to his mother to expect him—once more took train home, and was soon answering endless questions concerning his disaster by the fireside in the old keeping-room.

It was some considerable time before a subject of such vital interest could wear itself out, especially as the helpless arm acted the part of a perpetual reminder. But at length, Joseph began to make inquiries about some of his old acquaintances—more especially the Andersons, of whose downfall he had of course already heard. Walter, he now learned, had left home, whilst Cicely still remained with her parents,—their mainstay and comforter, in her dauntless courage and indomitable energy.

Then Mrs. Adams went on to relate what she knew of the cause and circumstances of Horace Grandpont's flight from the country, adding, "It has completely crushed his poor father and mother. But what else could possibly result from a bringing-up which taught him to regard pleasure as the main end of life, and himself as the principal person in the world?"

Joseph remembered the adventure in the stable-yard, the day his father died. "Riches are not everything after all, mother," he said.

"Your aunt and uncle are in trouble, too," Mrs. Adams continued. "Neville has been seriously ill. They have been with him at Oxford for the last month, and yesterday they brought him home."

Joseph expressed sincere concern upon hearing of the danger through which his cousin had passed. Since the accident which had come so near taking his own life, death had become more of a reality to him; and in proportion as he himself could face it fearlessly, was he enabled to appreciate the solemn aspect of such an illness to one who had lived so carelessly.

"Let us hope it may be the means of good to him," he said. "It may have been sent to save him."

The same thought had been in his mother's mind. She was by no means ignorant of the perils of university life, for a pleasure-seeking young man devoid of religious principle. And from hints she had gathered, she had reason to believe that the commencement which her nephew had made was such as could only bring sorrow and disgrace upon his parents.

However, Neville's danger for the present seemed past. The weather was in his favour, and as soon as he had had time to recover from the fatigue of his journey, he was seen driving out with Mina—well muffled up, it is true, and looking a mere ghost of his former self, but still so far recovered that he was able to benefit by the invigorating influence of the mild spring air. His spirits seemed high, as usual.

Joseph met him one day, when out for a walk with Ruth. He was talking in an animated way to Mina as they drove gaily along; and he nodded carelessly to Joseph, and even turned his head with evident curiosity on perceiving the sling.

But Joseph never forgot the look of his face. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright; but not with the vigour of returning health. Folly and imprudence had undermined the strength which otherwise might have resisted the fatal tendency inherited from his mother's family, and the stamp of consumption was on his brow. The transparent skin, the hectic colour, the unnatural lustre of his eyes, all told that the hidden fire was eating away his life, and that death had sealed him for its own.

Before that week was over, a wearing cough had come on, and in consequence of a change of wind, he was confined to the house. He never went out again.

CHAPTER XX.

        "What are men better than sheep or goats,
      If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer,
      Both for themselves and those who call them friends?"
TENNYSON.

It had been prolonged beyond what had been anticipated; for the bone, being badly broken, was somewhat slow in healing, and a considerable time elapsed before the parish doctor, who had the case in hand, would hear of the splints being removed. At length, however, the arm was pronounced to be fully mended, and Dr. Abel gave his patient permission to resume work the following week; and he had only five days more to call his own.

Meanwhile, Mr. Glover had been as good as his word, every Saturday sending him a remittance to the full amount of his week's wages. And it was not until long afterwards that Joseph learned how the good old gentleman, with the true instinct of benevolence, had at the same time been in communication with Dr. Abel, in order that he might be certain the lad did not fall into the snare of abusing his kindness by making the most of the accident.

These last five days were precious, for although Joseph, anxious to be at work once more, was chafing at his forced idleness, he had so grown to his home again that to tear himself away seemed like making the start anew. Whilst on the other hand, his mother and Ruth could not bear the thought of missing the manly support to which they had thus become so accustomed.

Ruth had wonderfully improved during his absence, and his brotherly pride in her was very pretty to behold.

"Only thirteen, mother, and quite a little woman," he would say, as he watched her going about her work, whilst Mrs. Adams sat busy with her needle. "She will be worth two of Mina, with all her boarding-school airs."

And he would take his hat and walk down to school with her every morning, carrying her books as if she were the daintiest lady in the land; for Joseph's chivalry was of that perfect kind which extends its acts of courtesy to a sister, as well as to her young lady friends.

One morning—the Wednesday of his last week—he returned with a very serious face. Mrs. Adams was busy washing out some little things which were wanted ready for his departure, and not finding her at her sewing-machine, he went out to the wash-house and stood near her, looking on in silence.

"I have just seen old Atherby, mother," he said, "who used to work for Uncle Benjamin along with father; and he tells me very bad news of Neville."

"Of Neville!" she exclaimed. "Why, we thought him in a fair way to recovery. Ruth saw him out walking, the day after you met him driving near the Warren."

"Yes; but they didn't know how his constitution was undermined; and he has taken fresh cold. One lung is completely gone, and the other—he is dying!" he burst out suddenly, unable to control his feelings. "They say he cannot last many days." And Joseph walked away, vainly trying to compose his face.

There had not been much love lost between the cousins in former days; but the fault had been on Neville's side, and there was a painful mixture of thoughts in the mind of the young Christian.

"Without God and without hope," he had added, to himself, as he told his mother the sad intelligence.

"They could not refuse me, mother. We used to play together. What does it matter to Neville if I wear shabby clothes, when he has only days to live? I cannot let him die without a word. How can he face death? I must see him."

"I will," he rejoined; "this very afternoon. I care not how they treat me, so that they let me see him." And he remained lost in thought.

Ruth came into dinner bright as usual, and wondered to find her brother so abstracted. But her face rapidly changed in sympathy when she heard the news.

"Poor Mina!" she exclaimed, at once putting herself in the position of the heart-broken sister. "How I wish she would let me comfort her; and I said once that I hated her."

About the middle of the afternoon, Joseph went out, directing his steps towards Aylesdere.

It was a sunny day, warm and genial, and as the streets were left behind for the more open roads, the twitter of song-birds and the rustle of budding trees filled the air with sounds of life; but Joseph did not heed. His thoughts were full of his cousin.

In a minute or so, a servant-maid appeared. She hesitated, upon learning his errand, but said she would go and see, and Joseph was left standing in the hall. The girl knew him very well, and was not sure how his visit would be received. After some time, however, she returned, and requesting him to follow her, led the way upstairs.

Mina was on the landing. She advanced in a hurried manner, and put out her hand in silence.

"It is kind of you to think of coming," she said, in a constrained voice. "Neville wishes to see you; but you must be very quiet. He cannot bear much."

Joseph noticed a great change in her appearance since the last time he had seen her out driving with her brother. All her colour was gone, and her eyes, swollen and heavy with anxiety and watching, seemed unable to meet his. The expression of her face was one of hopeless sadness. She at once conducted him to the sick-room.

Neville was lying raised on his pillows, his arms thrown languidly on the coverlet, and the room was faint with the eau de Cologne with which Mina had been bathing his temples.

Joseph saw him at once from the doorway, and knew that there was no hope. His eyes were fixed eagerly upon it and his fingers moved restlessly as Joseph entered, as if anxious to meet his. Neither spoke; but there was no need of words, for Neville knew he had been unworthy, and Joseph held the poor, wasted hand with a tender pressure which seemed to speak forgiveness of all past wrongs. In a moment, they understood each other.

Mina had followed Joseph to the bedside and placed a chair for him. She now retreated to the window and took up a book, feigning to read, and there was a long pause, during which Joseph sat gazing pitifully at the emaciated form before him.

Neville shook his head. "Only weakness," he replied faintly. "My strength is less every hour, I can feel it going. It is hard," he added, "hard."

"It is dying," the young man answered, with a shudder. "But I have no right to complain, I have lived for pleasure, and I must die without hope!" And he turned his face away, as if unable to endure the daylight.

Joseph heard a stifled sob. Mina was crying bitterly with her face buried in her hands.

"Have you no faith in God?" Joseph asked earnestly. "'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for "Thou art with me."'"

"Not with 'me,'" he interrupted. "I have lived without God, and I must meet it alone—with all my sins."

"'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool,'" Joseph quoted.

"'As the tree falls, so it must lie,'" he said, hopelessly. "I must reap my own harvest."

"But Jesus died that all might be forgiven," Joseph pleaded. "No matter what your sins are, if only you repent, and truly turn to Him, all will be well."

"'Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out.' Believe His word, Neville."

"It is never too late," Joseph still urged. "Neville, have faith in God's Word. Think of the dying thief: 'Lord, remember me,' and Christ's answer: 'This day shalt thou be with Me in paradise.' Cry to Him for pardon, He never turns away from prayer."

Without a moment's hesitation, Joseph knelt by the bedside, and with his hands clasped upon the coverlet poured out his heart in earnest pleading that the peace of God in Christ might come to his cousin's troubled conscience.

He had never prayed aloud before, and emotion seemed at first almost to choke utterance. But everything was forgotten in his intense fervour save his dying cousin's need, and his own power to prevail. When he ceased, Neville was lying with his eyes closed, and a peaceful look over his features. These strong words of faith and confidence had seemed to bring God nearer; and for the moment he was at rest. But he was exhausted with the excitement of talking, and remained perfectly still. In a few minutes, he opened his eyes.

Mina was standing near. She gave him her hand with an averted face. "You are better than we deserve," she said, in a broken voice.

"You can," Mina cried; "for you can pray; and there is no other help. Come again;—if you can forgive us."

CHAPTER XXI.

A veil of cloud had dimmed the sky, and the twilight was creeping slowly on, as one by one the busy sounds of day hushed into silence; but where the sun had sunk, there lay a belt of living radiance,—sure prophecy of the rising of another dawn, and symbol of those words of hope: "At evening time it shall be light."

Mina met Joseph in the hall, and asked him to go up at once, as she was giving her papa his tea.

In the sick-room, he found his aunt, who, though outwardly civil to him for the sake of humouring her boy's whim, seemed constrained and cold in her manner. She remained in the room the whole of the evening. And as Joseph, anxious not to intrude, kept in the background, there was no opportunity for further conversation with his cousin. But Neville appeared comforted by his presence, and thanked him for coming, with a very speaking smile.

Mina was in and out a good deal; but she, too, seemed shy and uneasy, and scarcely spoke to him.

Mina was waiting at the foot of the staircase. "Come to-morrow," she said. "Do not mind mamma. She hardly knows what she is doing; but she is glad to have you here if it comforts Neville."

"The doctor will be here," she said, "and Neville will be too much exhausted to see you. If there should be any change, I would send for you," she added, with tearful eyes. "You would come at any time, if Neville wanted you?"

The next afternoon and evening were spent there. But even in that short space, a great change was perceptible in the dying young man. His breath came in quicker gasps, and his face was more sunken and transparent. He had scarcely spoken during the morning, except to inquire if there had been any news from Horace Grandpont yet.

Upon learning that nothing had been heard since a letter which had arrived some days before by a homeward-bound vessel, he said, "I should have liked to know of his safe arrival; but that cannot be. It will be a sad warning to him when he hears."

He asked, too, if any of his old chums had been to inquire after him, and on being told that Tom Rawlinson and another had called that very morning, he seemed grieved that they had not been brought upstairs.

"I should have liked to speak to them again," he said. And a little later, "Poor, merry old Tom! It would have been well for him to see me. He doesn't know what death is."

But he looked up with a smile of contentment as Joseph stood once more by his bedside.

"I wish I could give you some of my strength," the latter returned, thinking Neville referred to physical power.

That thought "alone" seemed his one terror. In his life of gaiety and carelessness, he had never been accustomed to commune with his own heart, and now that he was called upon to tread that path where neither friends nor pleasures can follow, the awful silence of its solitude appalled him. For the Comforter was not with him.

A Bible, from which Mina had been reading, was lying on the bed. Joseph took it in his hand and commenced turning over the pages, reading here and there of how the Son of God came to die for sinful men and bid them come to Him.

But Neville pointed to a leaf turned down. It was at the account of the young man who had gone away sorrowful because of his "great possessions."

"He went to Christ in vain," he said. "'It is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven.' I have enjoyed my good things, and I have nothing left."

In vain, Joseph spoke of the Saviour who came to seek and to save those who were lost; in vain, he prayed with him. That one feeling was uppermost—that he could not dare thus at the twelfth hour to offer his wasted life to the God whom he had neglected. But still he begged Joseph to stay with him; and the latter, full of yearning and pity, needed no urging, and scarcely left his bedside.

At length, Sunday arrived. Joseph had been with his cousin all the morning, for Mina—feeling that the end was very near—had sent for him, and begged him to stay all day. And Joseph, distressed beyond measure at the thought of having to desert him on the morrow, had been talking very earnestly as he watched his life rapidly ebbing away.

Neville had been lying for some time with his eyes closed. Presently, he opened them. The others were at dinner, and the two cousins were alone together.

"I shall need no one long," Neville replied; "and the world cannot stop for me. I would give worlds to change places with you."

Joseph took it very tenderly. "Why cannot you believe in Christ's forgiveness?" he asked earnestly. "I have done so little to show mine; but He died on the cross out of His great love to men."

"'At even, when the sun did set, they brought unto Him all that were diseased, and them that were possessed with devils . . . and He healed them.'

"And He 'went about all Galilee . . . preaching the Gospel of the kingdom, and healing all manner of sickness . . . among the people.'

"Think of Him going about weary and footsore, laying His hands on the sick, taking little children in His arms; reviled, but never reviling; mocked and scourged and spat upon, but bearing all for your sake. Cannot you see Him, Neville? No king riding to victory in pomp and splendour, but the lowly carpenter of Nazareth, who had made acquaintance with want and toil, and was 'tempted like as we are.'"

"'The Friend of sinners'—the Son of God, who 'though He was rich, for our sakes became poor, that we through His poverty might be made rich.' Can you doubt that He loved you?"

Neville's eyes were fixed intently on Joseph's face, as if to read his inmost heart.

"Could you talk so, with death before you, and a wasted life behind?" he asked. "'Oh! It is awful to face death!'"

Joseph's eyes filled with tears. "Oh! If only I could change places with you!" he cried. "Neville, I am not afraid. Do believe it—I am not afraid to die—for I know that my Redeemer liveth. And He has said,—

"Trust Him as you are, with all your past life,—sins, follies, carelessness—no matter what—known only to yourself and to Him,—and cry,—

It was the first prayer he had uttered, and it seemed to bring peace to his soul,—like the peace that comes to an erring child when its stubborn will is conquered, and its weary head at length rests upon the bosom that knows its penitence, and pities and forgives.

He spoke very little more, and Joseph scarcely left the room, except to snatch a morsel of refreshment. The minutes sped on. The brightness of the afternoon declined with the westering sun; the last horizontal rays spent their golden light, and as the shadows of the twilight crept on, they gathered around the death-bed.

Joseph would have stood aside, feeling that there were other, nearer claims than his. But his dying cousin clung to his hand, as though he gained courage from its strong grasp, and his lips moved from time to time to form the words which Joseph repeated for him:

Little by little, the breath came fainter and more faintly from his unclosed lips, and the helpless lids closed, then a happy smile and one deep-drawn sigh, and all was over.

The father stood with dry eyes and icy heart, and the mother's anguish burst forth in a low wail. But Joseph's voice rose clear and calm, as he knelt with the lifeless hand still clasped in his, in thanksgiving that the struggle was at an end—the darkness of death exchanged for the brightness of eternal day.

Then gently unclasping the hand, and rising from his knees, he pressed one last kiss upon the peaceful brow, and putting his arm around his cousin, led her gently from the room.

It was dark when Joseph left Mina. The stars were shining coldly overhead, and the night air blew keen and chilly. It was strange to walk home, and know that the heart which had but just learned to love Him was for ever stilled in death;—that though the morrow would find him toiling once more at his humble avocation, the hopes and ambitions of that life, whose prospects had been so bright, were for ever at an end. But amid the sorrow and regret was one feeling stronger than aught else, a feeling of deep thankfulness that through the "accident," which had come so near costing him his life, he had been enabled to brighten with the hope of immortality his cousin's last hours.

The people were coming out of the different places of worship as he passed through the town, and here and there friends in twos and threes were bidding each other good-bye as they took their several ways home—among them a young man and a girl, who shook hands and separated as Joseph approached, the former hurrying off in the opposite direction, the latter coming on towards him.

A moment later, he was face to face with Cicely Anderson whom, by a singular chance, he had not seen once during the whole of his six weeks' holiday. They recognised each other, and stopped as if by mutual consent.

"Have you seen your cousin?" Cicely asked, after the first greeting. "Tom Rawlinson has been telling me he cannot live through the night, and that you have been with him."

The news was sudden, and Cicely was very much shocked. For some minutes, neither spoke.

Then Joseph turned to walk a little way back with her, and tell her about the last few days.

He found her, too, changed since last they met—taught in the school of adversity to look beneath the surface for true happiness.

"Joseph," she said frankly, as he was about to wish her good-night, "we are old schoolfellows, and ought to be friends. Has it ever hurt you that I neglected you for those who were grander and richer? Can you forgive and forget?"

"I have been humbled, too," Cicely continued; "and in striving to do my lowliest duties faithfully, I have found out how to be really happy. And I have learnt to estimate character at its true worth. Will you forgive me, and like me again as you used to do?"

"In the old school days, when I was your hero?—Days that can never return," he added sadly. "Yes. But tell me one thing before I say good-bye. You like me better than Tom Rawlinson?"

"Poor Tom! Oh! Yes. But he is trying to be better; and we must do our best to help him on."

Daddy was already in the market-place when Joseph crossed it on his way to the station next morning, scraping busily with his stick for his odds and ends of treasure, and stopping now and again to chafe one hand against his jacket, as the keen morning air chilled and numbed it.

But suddenly, he paused and looked upward, then faced about and seemed to listen. Then perceiving Joseph, made a few steps towards him.

"Could ye tell me, is this Sunday?" he asked. "It seems like yesterday I was in the church; but I tho'ght I heard a sound of bells, and my poor old head is so stupid now."

It was the passing-bell tolling for Neville's death; the last sound that Joseph heard as the station was left behind.

Several years have elapsed since then, and that same bell has counted out the venerable age of poor old Daddy David.

Meanwhile, the carpenter's son, no longer despised for his calling, has returned to his native place. His mother and Ruth no longer live in the little house where the latter was born, for Joseph is in partnership with his uncle, and has built himself a pleasant little villa near Aylesdere, where Cicely is now once more a constant visitor. For, although her father's affairs have never recovered from the heavy losses he sustained, and she still has to brave the contempt of those who look down upon economy and thrift, Joseph has not despised her for her low estate, and she is one day to call Mina "cousin."

With this love in his heart, and the hopes of owning—at some not far distant date—a happy home of his own, Joseph is working steadily on, a good master because in time past he learnt to fill a workman's place, and, above all, because he early chose as the pattern of his life the great Exemplar—the God-man;—of whom it was said by those who marvelled at His wisdom and His words,—

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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Two ways of facing life

TWO WAYS

OF

FACING LIFE

CHAPTER I.