The Son Of His Father.

Otago Witness, Issue 1813, 20 August 1886, Page 30

The Son Of His Father.

BY MES OLIPHANT. Author of "The Chronicles of Carlingford," Oliver's Bride," " Madam," &c. [Thb Right of Teanslation is Reserved,] SYNOPSIS OP PREVIOUS CHAPTERS. Chaj?tebs I. and II.—" Don't say anything before the boy." This was one of the first things little Johnnie Sanford recollected as a boy, and connected with that were confused memories of a father, rollicking and gay, who used to wake him up very late a night, carry him downstairs inhls nightgown, andfill him with sweetmeats. Seated at a table, round which was a merry company, he had a consciousness amidst it all of his mother's face, pale and serious, showing like the moon amidst the lighted candles. Another memory was that of missing his father from the house, and then of being carried Btealthily by a servant to a great building crowded with people, who, he was told, were listening to a trial, and a man being tried for a crime. Over all his young life hung the mysterious consciousness of something that he ought not to know. He then remembers a brooding sorrow which envelopes his mother and sister, and being taken away by his grandfather and grandmother to live with them in their house in the country, and not seeing his mother for many years. Chapters 111 and IV.— John Sandford is educated at the expense of liis grandparents by a curate, Mr Cattley. At last the time comes when he is to choose a profession and he ventures to ask his grandfather about his father. Notwithstanding his protestations of the old lady Mr Sandford tells him that he did not do well in business, wej't Abroad and died. The youth chooses engineering as the business he should like to follow, and the curate promises to assist him in the necessary education for the calling. When they are alone the old woman accused her husband of deceiving the boy as regards his father. To this the old gentleman replied, with something like a sob. covering his face with his hand : "If you feel you can take it upon you to break that poor lad's heart, do it, but don't ask me.

Chapter V. An Adventure. 3 curate and his pupil trudged along in the dark, guided by the lanthorn which threw a gleam along the road and showed them the irregularities in it, which, indeed, they both knew very well, avoiding by instinct the broken bit of causeway before the schoolhouse, ana tne neap of crates and packages that were always to be found in front of the shop. The darkness of the village was ncit like the modifie*d darkness to which dwellers in towns are accustomed. It was a blackness which could be felt ; without any relief. But then both of these people knew every inch of the way. The drawback of the darkness, however, was that one. could not see who might be listening, and had therefore no guidance to tone one's voice or change the subject when there were people passing by, to whom one did not care to confess all one's thoughts. This, however, very little affected John and the curate, who knew everybody, and had nothing in the world to conceal. " I'm very glad, John," said the. curate, as they trudged along, speaking a little louder than usual because of thg night ; for it was so heavy and depressing that it seemed to require more cheer than usual in the human voices, "very glad that your grandfather and grandmother take it so well. It's a very fine profession, the, bes.t you can have." " Yes, that is just what I think/ said John, 1 it's not a mere trade to make one's living by. Ifc means more than that." " Yes, a great deal ; but all the same a

sure trade to make one's living by is something. You must; not be contemptuous " "I, sir I" said John. " I hope I'm not contemptuous of anything : but if you can make your living and do something for your fellow creatures at the same time— like yourself," the boy said, lowering his voice, " though not in such a fine way " " Ah, my boy," said the curate, in a tone which implied that he was shaking his head, " when you're older you perhaps won't think so much of my way of serving my fellowcreatures. It is not very much one can do. If I were in the East End of London, perhaps, or on a mission — but never mind about that. You must remember that building lighthouses is the heroic part, but learning to survey and to calculate, or having to work at machinery as you would do if you went to my brother " " I'd like the one for the sake of the other," said John, " But you might never perhaps get to the other. You may have to grind for years at the mechanical part. You must not form too high expectations. We all have our dreams of lighthouses— and then, perhaps, never get any further than to make a bit of railway or to look after the fall of the water in a lock. " You always say," cried the boy, " that a firm resolution is half the battle." " Yes, indeed," said the curate, and once moi'e there was that in his voice that sounded as if he were shaking his head. " Ah, yes," he went on, with a laugh, " that's the .greatest part of the battle. I nev^gr said a wiser thing (if I said it) than that. Solomon - himself couldn't teach you anything better. Stick to it with a determination that you are going to succeed, and unless you are very xxnfortunate indeed, you will succeed. 'Ah! what is that 1 Who is there ? The lanthorn John." They had just passed the village public house, which was a thorn in the curate's flesh, and had dimly perceived by the light of the half-open door dim figures striding out and flitting into the darkness; for the hour of closing was near. Perhaps one of the times Mr Cattley shook his head, it was at this headquarters of opposition to all he was trying to do. He was not of different clay from other men, and he hated the place, as those who have had to contend against an evil influence, whose headquarters they cannot reach, are apt to do, with • more vehemence than perfect justice demands. Some one had addressed him as he spoke to John, with a hoarse " I say, master," out of the darkness, and there had come along with the voice into the fresh, chill, and wide air round them, that overpowering smell of drink which sickens both the senses and the heart. It must have been a very bold parishioner indeed, who would have addressed the curate at that stage, and it was with a voice much sterner than was usual that he said, " The lanthorn John 1" John raised the lanthorn quickly; sharing his master's indignation, and the light suddenly shifting fell upon a figure which, happily, was not that of a village toper. It was a tall man in rough clothes, with a red spotted handkerchief tied round his neck, aod a hat slouched over his eyes. If there had been any possibility of violence in Edgeley, the curate, who was a slim man, and notwithstanding his height, not very strong, might have shrunk from such a meeting in the dark : but he was in his own kingdom, and there was not one even of the worst characters in the village who did not more or less acknowledge his authority. And Mr Cattley, besides, was not the sort of man to be afraid ; he said with a voice which changed at once from the friendly softness with which he had been talking to the boy, " Who are you ? and what dr» you want ?" His tone, John thought, was enough to strike terror to the most obdurate heart. "No offence, master," said the man. "I was only wishful to ask if you know'd of a Missis May, that IVe been told lived about here." \ " No. I know no one oil that name," said the curate. " There is no Mrs May in this village. You seem to be a stranger here. Wherever you're lodging, I advise you to go home and go to bed. It's too late to be asking for anyone at this hour of the night." " You think I'm drunk, and so do a many ; ' but I'm not drunk. I've only a drop of beer on board," said the man. •" It's a long time j since I've had the chance ; and I'm a-making up for lost time." " Where are you lodging 1" said the curate in his stern voice. " They said they'd give me a bed there," said the stranger, pointing with a hand towards the public house, tf but now they've found out about me, thpy say they won't. And it's drefful hard upon a man as has come out of his way for nothing, as ye may say, but to do a good turn. And that's the reason as I was asking for Missis May : for she'll put me up if he won't, a good lady as her husband was my mate, and I'm come to bring her news out of my way." " Sir," said Johnson of the public house coming up on the other side, " lie's a man as has let out he's fresh from Portland, just served out his time ; and he's looking for a woman as is the wife of another of 'em. There aint no such person here. I've told him over and over again. And I've told him to move on, and be off to the station afore the last train goes by. But I can't get him to do neither one thing nor the other. And I can't be expected to put up a fellow like that in my house." " Was it in your house he got all the drink he has swallowed ?" said the curate. "If you will not give him a bed to sleep it off in, why did you give him the drink ?" "Oh that's a different thing. Every man is free to have his glass," said Johnson with a growl of insolence. Then he added " And it only came out in his drink who he was, and ail this bother about his Mrs May. There's nobody here or hereabout of that name." " It's none of you or your miserable holes I want. It's my mate's wife as I want," said the man. " You tell me where she lives, or I'll break all your windows and pull your old barracks about your ears." ' He sajd thjs with an interlarding of many oaths, and swaying back and forward finaly

lost his balance and dropped upon the roadside, where John, changing the level of the lanthorn, poured a stream of light upon him, as he sat up with tipsy gravity, leaning against a low wall which bordered the path, and looking up at the group before him with blank, lack-lustre eyes. "He can't be left out here in the cold, whatever he is," the curate said. " That's all very well for you, Mr Cattley. Them as hasn't got to do a thing never seen any difficulty in it," said the master of the public-house. " I can't stand here bandying words," paid the curate ; "If you will not take him in I must do it. He can't be left to be frozen to death in the public road. Some of those fellows who are skulking away in the dark not to face me — but I see them well enough." Mr Ohatbley raised his voice, and terror ran through the loiterers who had been lingering to see what would come of this exciting incident — " some of them can help me along with him to my house. Conic along, and lend a hand, before he goes to sleep." " I ain't a going to sleep," said the stranger, haranguing from what he evidently felt to be a point of vantage. " I'm as steady as a church, and a deal soberer nor e'er a one of you. I wants Missis May, as '11 take me in and do for me thankful, along of her husband, as was my mate." " Come along, men," said Mr Cattley sharply. " I'm not strong enough to do it myself, and you won't leave the boy to drag him, will you, not the boy " •' If it's come to thab, sir," said the man of the publichouse, " I'd rather do it nor trouble you. After all it's more fit for me to; have him than you. Supposing as he can't pay, I'll take it you'd rather pay for him than have him in your hous«. Hey, man, get up and get to bed 1 " "All I'm wishful for," said the man, growing more and more solemn, "is for some one to direct me where Missis May's living. It's she as will be glad to see me \vi' news — news of her man— as was my mate." " Thank you, Johnson," said Cattley, with a reluctance which he felt to be unjust. " I will certainly pay, and I'm obliged to you, which is more. Do you want the lanthorn ? Then come along, John, you've had enough ,of this dismal sight." He went along the remainder of the way, which was not long, in silence, and it was only at his own door that he spoke. " John," he said, "that's such a spectacle as the Spartans, don't you remember, gave to their boys." "It was awfully cruel, sir," cried John, " they made the Helots drink— and then — it wasn't the fault of the poor brutes. I would rather go without the lesson than have it like that." "And I'd rather you had gone without this lesson. I'd rather you knew nothing about it. But we can't abstract ourselves from the world, and we can't live in the world without seeing many horrible things. I wonder now whether there was a bit of faithfulness and human feeling at the bottom of all that? Heaven knows ! —or it might be the reverse — an attempt to get something out of some poor decent woman to to cover the shame. Did you ever hear the the name of May about here ?" "No," said John, "never," and then he paused for a moment. " I seem to know something about the name : but I'm sure there's no one called May here." * " Not down by Feather-lane ?" said the curate, thoughtfully. " I must speak to Miss Summers about it. She will know. Now, here we are at my door, and I shouldn't have let you come so far. Go quickly home, my dear boy." John 'obeyed, yet did not obey, this injunction. He went home without lingering, but he did not go quickly. Why there should be a particular pleasure in lingering out of doors in the dark in an unseen world, when there is nothing to please either mind or eye, it would be difficult to say. But that there is, every imaginative spirit must have felt. The boy sti oiled along in a meditative way, dangling his lanthorn at his cold fingers end, throwing stray gleams upon the road, which gave him a fantastic, half-conscious amusement but no aid, though, indeed, he did not require that, in seeing his way. The landlord of the Green Man was still outside. I discoursing upon the hardship of being compelled to take a drunken brute fresh out of prison into his respectable house. "We may wake up in the morning all dead corpses," he said, unconscious of the warrant of Scripture for the words, " all along of a clergyman as just fancies things." "Put him in the barn," said one of the loungers about, whose slow spirits had been excited by the stir of something happening, and who had returned and hung about the door discussing it after the curate had passed. " Put him in the stable, that's good enough for the likes of him." •' I'll put him in the loft and turn .the key upon him, so as he he'll do no harm," said the landlord. The man, as John made out with a gleam of his lanthorn, was still seated on the edge of the pathway, supported against the wall, his red handkerchief showing in the light. He was muttering on in a long hoarse monologue, in which these was still audible from time to time the name of May. May ! John asked himself, as he went on, how was it that he knew that name ? It seemed to be so familiar to him, and yet he could not recall distinctly what the association was. Then he pondered on what the curate had said, whether by any chaniJS*there might be what he had called "a bit to' faithfulness and human feeling " at the bottom of the miserable fellow's persistence. Nobody but Mr Cattley would have thought of that, the boy said to himself : and there rose before his half dreaming eyes a picture of some poor creature waiting for news, blessing even this wretched man for bringing them to her. John had read Les Miserables (in the original : for Mr Chattley knew so much 1 and had taught him French as well as Latin), and a comparison between the incidents, arose in his mind. He felt, as one feels at that age, that it was rather grand to be going along in the dark, thinking . of Victor Hugo's great book and comparing French and English sentiment, he who was i only a country boy ; and this feeling mingled |

with the comparison he was making. Mr Cattley was not an ideal saintlike Monsignor Bienvenu, but neither were the English village folks so hard-hearted as the French ones. Thfey would not have left even a returned convict to perish in the cold. This suggestion of perishing in the cold, which made him shiver, sent John's imagination all abroad upon shipwreck at sea, and tales of desolate places, the martyrs of the Arctic regions and those in the burning deserts ', his fancy flitting from one to another without coherence or any close connection, as thoughts do. And then with a sudden pang, as if an arrow had gone into his heart, he remembered what had been told him only this evening, that his own father, papa, who had been a sort of god to his infancy, was dead. How was it possible that he could forget it as he had done, letting any trifling incident take possession of his mind and banish that great fact from the foreground 1 He felt more guilty than could be said, and yet while feeling so, his mind flitted off again in spite of him to a hundred other subjects. The recollection returned with a fluctuating thrill, at intervals, but it would not remain. It linked itself even with this question about Mrs May. May ! what had that «to do with the revelation that had been made to him? — that, a mere vulgar incident seen on the roadside ; the other an event which ought to make everything sad to him. He went on a little quicker, spurred by the thought. His father's death had not made everything sad to him. It was but one incident, among many which came back from time to time ; but the other incidents — he felt ashamed to think they had interested him quite so much. Ib had been altogether an exciting evening. First that intimation, and then the talk about what he was going to be, and the consent of his grandparent's to his plan. Either of these facts had been quite enough to fill up an evening, or indeed, many evenings, and now they all came together : and then, as if that was not enough, the startling scene in the middle of the dark, the returned convict just like "Les Miserables," but so different, the " bit of faithfulness," perhaps, and " human feeling." John said to himself that this was a poor little outside affair, not worth to be mentioned beside the others, but yet he' could not help wondering whether the poor fellow, though he was so little worthy of interest, would ever find his Mrs May. He got home before he expected, in the multiplicity of these thoughts, and when the door was opened to him noiselessly, without anyone appearing, knew it was grandmamma who was always on the watch for him. She said in a whisper, " You've been a long time, dear. Hush don't make any noise, grandfather has gone up to bed." "I was kept by a strange thing," said John. 1 " Come into the parlour and I'll tell ' you grandmamma. Why the fire is nearly out, though it's so cold ! " " There's a fire in your room, my dear. You forget how late it is — near eleven o'clock. And what was the strange thing, Johnny ? There are not many strange things in our village at this hour of the night." She was wrapped up in a great white shawl, and the pretty old face smiled over this, her complexion relieved and brightened by it, a picture of an old lady, beaming with tender love and cheerful calm. " It was very strange," said John, though it seemed at first only a drunken fellow at the door of the Green Man." " Mr Cattley shouldn't have taken you that way. I don't like to have you mixed up with drunken men." " How could I be mixed up ? " said John, with a laugh. " But the strange thing is that he says he is a returned convict, and that he was calling out and asking every one for some woman, a Mrs May." . Mrs Sandford clutched at John with her hand. Her lips fell apart with horror, the colour fled from her face. " Oh, Good Lord 1 What is it you are saying ? " she gasped, scarcely able to speak. " You don't mean to say you are frightened with the doors locked and all the windows fastened I Why, g»andmamma," said Job.*, laughing, " you are as bad as the people in Les Miserables, that I read to you, you know •" " Oh, yes, I'm frightened ! " she said, leaning upon him, and putting her hand to her heart, as if she had received a blow. He felt the throbbing which went all through the slight frame as if it had been a machine vibrating with the quickened movement. " Why, grandmamma," he said again. " You to be frightened 1 He can't, if he was a demon, do any harm to you.' And shall I tell you what Mr Cattley said ? He said it might be a bit of faithfulness and human feeling, his coming to look for this poor woman to bring her news of her husband." " What had he to do with her husband ? " said the old lady, almost in a whisper, turning away from him her scared and painsricken face. " Oh, he had been in the same prison with him," said John. "He said her husband was his mate — that means you know — but of course you know what it means. And, by-the-bye," said the boy, " can you tell me, grandmamma, how it is that I seem to have some association or other — I can't tell what it is— with the name of May t " Chapter VI. Grandmamma to the Rescue. Mrs Sandford got up very early next morning some time before daylight. She had scarcely slept all night. As quiet as a little ghost, not to wake her husband, she had stolen upstairs after dismissing John to bed : and she stole out of her room as softly in the morning, her heart rent with trouble and fear. It was her habit to go out early in the summer mornings to look after the garden, to collect the eggs from tne poultry-yard, to gather her posies with the dew upon them, which was an old-fashioned way she had. But in. winter the old lady was not so brave, and feared the cold a/ the most courageous will do. Notwithstanding, it was still dark when she stole out, unseen as she fondly hoped, by Sarah in the kitchen. The darkness of the night was just beginning to yield to the grey unwilling daylight. The milkman was going his rounds, some late people, not the labourers, who were off to their work long ago jlxi the, darkness, were coming out

very cold to their occupations : the shop had still a smoky paraffin lamp lighted, and there was one of the same description shining through the open door of the Green Man. Except for these points of light all was grim and grey in the village. The sky widened and cleared minute by minute. It did not grow bright but slowly cleared. Mrs Sandford had a thick veil over her face, but everybody knew her. To attempt to hide herself was vain. She had taken a basket in her hand to give herself a countenance. It' was a basket that was well known. It carried many a little comfort to sick people and those who were very poor. The sight of the slim old lady with her fair fresh face and white hair, her trim , black silk gown and warm wadded cloak and the basket in her hand was very familiar to the people in Edgeley. But she was seldom out so early, and her steps were a little uncertain, not quick and light as usual. You could generally see, to look at her, that she was very sure where she was going and knew every step of the way. This morning she went up past the Green Man, so that the milkman, who was a great gossip, said to himself " I know! She's going to that tramp as was took bad last night in Feather Lane." B*b when he had gone on his round ,'a little further and saw her coming back again his confidence was shaken. " It must be old Molly Pidgeon she's looking for—^and most like don't know as she's moved." But when Mrs Sandford crossed the street, this observer was altogether at fault. " There's nobody as is ill that a way," he said to the customer whom he was serving. " Whatever is Mrs Sandford doing out with her basket at this time in the morning, and no sickness to speak of about ? " The woman standing at her door with the jug in her hand for milk, leant out too, and stared. " There's a deal of children with colds, and old folks," she said. And they both stopped to look at the uncertain movements of the little figure. Even curiosity in the country is slow in its operations. Tney stood half turned away from the milk pails, which was their real pointjof meeting, and stared slowly, while the unwonted passenger, in still more unwonted uncertainty, flickered along. In the meantime there had been a little commotion at the Green Man, such as was very unusual too, for in the morning all was decorous and quiet there, if not always so at night. There was a loud sound of voices, which though beyond the range of 'the milkman and his client, attracted the attention of other people who were about their morning's business. The postman paused while feeling for his letters, and turned his head that way, and the people in the shop came running out to the door. " It'll be him as made the row last night," they said in fond expectation of a second chapter. Their hopes were so far realised that at this moment the folding swinging doors flew open, and a man burst out more quickly than is the usual custom of retiring guests. And he stopped to shake his fist at the door, where Johnson appeared after him watching his departure. " I promise you I'll keep an eye on you," Johnson cried after him, and the stranger sent baok a volley of curses fortunately too hoarse to be very articulate. Mrs Sandford crossed the road again just at that moment, and she heard better than the observers far off. A look of horror came over her face. VOh my good man," she cried, lifting up her hand, " I am sure you don't wish all those horrible things. What good can it do you to swear ? " The man looked at her for a moment. Her little dainty figure, her careful dress, her spotless looks made such a contrast to this big ruffian, all disordered, squalid, and foul, with every appearance of having lain among the straw all night, and the traces of last night's debauoh still hanging about him, as , no words can express. He stood a moment taken aback by her address; probably he would have shrunk even from appealing to the charity of a being so utterly different and out of his sphere ; but to have her stop there and speak to him took away his breath. His nand stole up to his cap involuntary. "It do man a deal of ."good, lady " he said, "it relieves your mind ; but I didn't ought to," he added, beginning to calculate, " I know.", " You should not indeed," she said ; and then added, " You. seem a stranger. Are you looking for work 1 or have you any friends about here ? " The postman, the woman at the shop and everybody within sight admired and wondered to see Mrs Sandford talking to " the man." This was the name he had already acquired in Edgeley. They wondered if she would know that he was a man out of prison. But she was known to be very kind. «' I shouldn't wonder if that was just why, she's doing of it, because nobody else would touoh him with a pair of tongs," an acute person said. He seemed, it must be added, much surprised himself ; but he was a man who had. been used to prison chaplains and othei charitable persons, and he thought he kne\P how to get over every authority of the kind. " Lady " he said, " that's just what I want. It's work to earn an honest living; but 'cause I'm a poor fellow as has been in trouble, nobody won't have me or hear speak of me ; but to have been in trouble oncet, that's not to say ye don't want to do better. It's only when ye gets there as ye knows how bad it is." " That may be very true," said Mrs Sandford, " but a little village like this is not the place to get work, I'm afraid, for there is nothing to do here." 11 No, lady," said the man ; " and ife wasn't so much work I was looking for this morning, as to do a good turn to a mate o' mine, as was with me, I needn't say where. Maybe ye may know, lady, as it can be seen you're a charitable lady — maybe you can tell where I'll find a Missis May " Mrs Sandf ord's little outline quivered for a moment, but her face did not change. She shook her head. "There is nobody," she said, "of that name in this village. I know all the people, as you say. I think there was one of that name about here a number of years' ago, but she has removed, and where she has gone I can't say." «Ah, that's like enough," B ajd. the man*

" it's a long time ; and maybe she might not want the folks belonging to her to know " " Was it news you were bringing her 1 " Mrs Sandford said. " That was very kind of you— but perhaps she would rather you didn't tell her affairs to everybody, and that her kusband was " " I didn't say nothing about her husband," said the man quickly. " Oh, was it her son then, poor creature 1 for that is still worse," the old lady said. He looked at her keenly with the instinct of one who, deceiving himself has a constant fear of being deceived ; but to see the little Lady Bountiful of the village standing there with her basket, her fresh face as fresh as a child's, her limpid eyes looking at him with an air of pity yet disapproval — to imagine that she was taking hkn in, was impossible even to a soul accustomed to consider falsehood the commonplace of existence. "It was her 'usband " he said sullenly, " and I don't care much if she liked it or not. She oughter like it if she didn't, for it was ne,ws of him I was bringing and I could tell hexall about him — being mates for a matter of seven years, him and me/ "Poor woman!" Mrs Sandford said. "But I can't tell you where she has gdne/only that she's not here." " You wouldn't deceive a poor fellow, lady. I've 'ad a long tramp, and that beggar there though its nothing but a public he keeps, him " " Oh" said Mrs Sandford, " don't swear. What good can that do you ? Indeed I am not deceiving you. I'm very sorry for you. I will give you something to pay your fare to the nearest town. You will be better off there than here." " It's not much of a town as far as I've heard"/ he said, "and I aint 'ad no breakfast. And my 'cart's set on doing my duty by my mate. I'll go from door to door but I'll find that woman, blast her. She's a proud 'un, I know, and thinks herself a lady. I'll have it out with her I will, afore I go." " In that case," said Mrs Sandf of d, " I can't give you the money I offered you, and I meant to give you something for your breakfast too — and I must speak to the constable, for we cannot have you about the village, Mr 1 don't know what your name is. To have you Rere frightening all the poor people would never do." She gave him a lofty nod of her little head, and turned away ; but the man, after all, was not willing to relinquish present advantage for problematical good. He made a stride after her, which frightened her very much and took away all her pretty colour, but not the courage in her heart. " Lady," he said, "if you tell me on your honour that woman ain't here— them folks all said so, but I didn't believe 'cm — and if you'll give me — say ten shillin I—over1 — over and above the fare, as you promised " A gleam of eagerness came into Mrs Sandford's eyes ; but she controlled herself. " I - can assure you," she said, "the woman is not here." She had grown quite pale; and though she •miled still, her countenance was drawn with terror, perhaps, or some other feeling. • " You're frightened of me, lady," the man said, "but you haint got no cause. I'm rough enough ; but a lady as speaks kind and don't try to bully a poor fellow — or go talking about the police: and besides I couldn't do nothin' to you. The men, would be on me afore you could say Jack and I'm pretty sure as it's the truth, and May's wife ain't here. She's a proud one she is. She's maybe gone out of the country or changed her name, or summat. Gi' me ten • shillin' and I'll go away." "You had better go to the clergyman," said Mrs Sandford. " Gi' me ten shillin' ! " said the man. " Oh, perhaps I'm doing what is wrong ; perhaps I ought to speak to the constable. I'm not a person with any authority, and why should I interfere ? " " Gi' me ten shillin' ! " he repeated, coming close to her, holding out his hand. " Will you go away if I do ? Perhaps you had better see the clergyman. I've no right to interpose to send you away. Will you go if I do?" He nodded, watching her trembling hands as she took out her purse and felt in it, pressing very close to her, rubbing against her silk gown with his rough dress ; and as it happened by ill luck, Mrs Sandford had put a sovereign in her purse. When he saw it he put his hand upon her suddenly, and crushed the little fingers together which held the golden coin. " Gi' me that," he said, with his hot breath in her face. " Gi' me that, or afore any o' them can get to ye I'll knock you down; and they won't do anything as bad tome." The little old lady stood enveloped in his big shadow, with his hairy villainousf ace close by hers. She did not shrink, nor scream, nor faint, but stood up, deadly pa"le, with her limpid eyes fixed upon him. "I am not afraid of you," she said, with a little gasp. " Will you keep your word and go away." Some sentiment, unknown and inexplainable, came into the ruffian's heart. He loosed his grip of the delicate little hand that felt like nothing in his grasp, which he could have crushed to a jelly, and indeed had nearly done so. He said " I will j I'll keep my word," in a deep growling bass voice. It was all that Mrs Sandford could do to unclasp the fingers he had gripped, and to keep from crying with the pain. She dropped the sovereign into his hand, " Now go" she said. " You are game," he cried, with a sort of admiration, looking at her rather than the sovereign, though his hand closed upon that with the eagerness of a famished beast upon a bone. " I never . saw one as was more game." She made a gesture of .dismissal with her cramped fingers, "Oh, go, go— and God forgive you ! And oh ! try to get honest work, and live decent— and not fall into trouble again." "Good-bye, lady," he said; then coming back again—" I'm sorry I hurt you." She waved to him to go away. The man still lingered a moment, putting up his hand to his cap, then turned, and slouching, with his shoulders up to his ears, took the way across the corner of the moor to the railway gbation, which was a mile off or more.

Mrs Sandford turned to go back to her house. She was so pale that when she came near the door of the shop Mrs Box came running out to her in alarm. "Oh, Mrs Sandford, come in ma'am ; come in and rest a bit. You've not a bit of colour in your cheeks — you that have such a fine complexion. You're just dead with fright, and I don't wonder at it. How did he dare to speak to you, the villain 1 and shook your nerves, poor dear, so that I see you can't speak." " Oh, yes, I can speak," said the old lady. Her knees were knocking under her, her whole little person in a tremble. " I was glad to speak to him, poor creature. He wanted some one that used to live here by. Perhaps a person like that, who does really wicked things, may not be worse, in the sight of God, than many a one who makes a fair show to the world." She said this with many a catch of her breath and pause between the words. She was very much overdone, as anyone could see, but she would not sit down. "If you'll give me a little milk, or some water, to revive me, I'll be quite right in a minute," she said." " That may be true," said Mrs Box, " for goodness knows the best of folks you can't see their heart ; but a man as has been in prison ain*t like any other man. They learn such a deal of harm, even if it's not in them to begin with. I've just made the tea for breakfast, and here's a nice cup— that'll do you more good than anything else — and sit down a moment to come to yourself. I said to William, ' there's Mrs Sandford a-talking to that brute ; you go and see that she's all right.' But William, he said to me, 'If anyone can bring him to his' senses it's just Mrs Sandford will do it.' So we stood and we watched. And what did he say to you ma'am I—and1 — and dear, dear, how it's taken all the nice colour out of your cheeks." " Thank you' for the tea. It has done me a great deal of good," said the old lady ; " and now I must go home, for Mr Sandford will be wondering what has become of me. Poor man, he was not all bad after all, when one comes to think of it. I told him Edgeley was no place for the like of him, and that perhaps he might get woik in one of the towns, and he has gone away like a lamb. Oh, poor soul I He was some poor woman's boy once, that perhaps has broken her heart for him, Mrs Box, and never thought to see him come to that, any more than you or me." " Well, that's true, ma'am," said Mrs Box. " We don't know what they'll come to, as we're so proud of when they're children. Hold up your head, Willie, do ! and ask Mrs Sandford to let you carry her basket, as is always heavy with things for the poor." " Not this morning Mrs Box. I had but an egg or two in it," said Mrs Sandford, opening the lid to show that it was empty. There was a certain suspicion she thought in this speech. " There is no need for troubling Willie, but he is a fine, good-natured boy, and always willing to carry a parcel or run an errand. Good morning to you all ; you are kind folks." She thought the tea had saved her as she set out again down the village street. But her limbs still tottered, and she walked slowly, thinking the way twice as long as usual. They all called out how pale she was when she got in. "It is going out," she said, " without a cup of tea or anything, which was all my own fault." "And why did you go out so early without saying a word," said her husband. " Charity, my dear, is a fine thing ; but you should not carry it' too far. Neither that nor anything else is good when it's carried too far." Mrs Sandford only smiled and said it would be difficult to do that when there were so many poor people, and pretending to make a very good breakfast behind the tea urn. After breakfast she lay down a little on the sofa, saying that it was the most ridiculous thing in the world to be so tired for nothing, and that 'she must have taken something that disagreed with her, for the stomach was at the bottom of everything when one , grew old. It was still holiday time with John, and he insisted upon staying with her when Grandfather went out for that daily walk which nothing short of death in the house would have made him leave off. John was unusually grave. He came and sat beside the sofa with a very perplexed countenance. " Grandmamma," he said, " I feel allmixed. I am so puzzled with remembering something. Eemembering and forgetting. Wasn't I somehow mixed up when I was a little chap with the name of May 1 " (To be continued)