Now, while Bob Frog was in the act of putting Hetty's letter in his pocket, a little boy was seen on horseback, galloping up to the door.

He brought a telegram addressed to "Mr Robert Frog." It was from Montreal, and ran thus: "We have arrived, and leave this on Tuesday forenoon."

"Why, they're almost here now," cried Bob.

"Harness up, my boy, and off you go—not a moment to lose!" cried Mr Merryboy, as Bob dashed out of the room. "Take the bays, Bob," he added in a stentorian voice, thrusting his head out of the window, "and the biggest wagon. Don't forget the rugs!"

Ten minutes later, and Bob Frog, with Tim Lumpy beside him, was driving the spanking pair of bays to the railway station.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

HAPPY MEETINGS.

It was to the same railway station as that at which they had parted from their guardian and been handed over to Mr Merryboy years before that Bobby Frog now drove. The train was not due for half an hour.

"Tim," said Bob after they had walked up and down the platform for about five minutes, "how slowly time seems to fly when one's in a hurry!"

"Doesn't it?" assented Tim, "crawls like a snail."

"Tim," said Bob, after ten minutes had elapsed, "what a difficult thing it is to wait patiently when one's anxious!"

"Isn't it!" assented Tim, "so hard to keep from fretting and stamping."

"Tim," said Bob, after twenty minutes had passed, "I wonder if the two or three dozen people on this platform are all as uncomfortably impatient as I am."

"Perhaps they are," said Tim, "but certainly possessed of more power to restrain themselves."

"Tim," said Bob, after the lapse of five-and-twenty minutes, "did you ever hear of such a long half-hour since you were born?"

"Never," replied the sympathetic Tim, "except once long ago when I was starving, and stood for about that length of time in front of a confectioner's window till I nearly collapsed and had to run away at last for fear I should smash in the glass and feed."

"Tim, I'll take a look round and see that the bays are all right."

"You've done that four times already, Bob."

"Well, I'll do it five times, Tim. There's luck, you know, in odd numbers."

There was a sharpish curve on the line close to the station. While Bob Frog was away the train, being five minutes before its time, came thundering round the curve and rushed alongside the platform.

Bob ran back of course and stood vainly trying to see the people in each carriage as it went past.

"Oh! what a sweet eager face!" exclaimed Tim, gazing after a young girl who had thrust her head out of a first-class carriage.

"Let alone sweet faces, Tim—this way. The third classes are all behind."

By this time the train had stopped, and great was the commotion as friends and relatives met or said good-bye hurriedly, and bustled into and out of the carriages—commotion which was increased by the cheering of a fresh band of rescued waifs going to new homes in the west, and the hissing of the safety valve which took it into its head at that inconvenient moment to let off superfluous steam. Some of the people rushing about on that platform and jostling each other would have been the better for safety valves! poor Bobby Frog was one of these.

"Not there!" he exclaimed despairingly, as he looked into the last carriage of the train.

"Impossible," said Tim, "we've only missed them; walk back."

They went back, looking eagerly into carriage after carriage—Bob even glancing under the seats in a sort of wild hope that his mother might be hiding there, but no one resembling Mrs Frog was to be seen.

A commotion at the front part of the train, more pronounced than the general hubbub, attracted their attention.

"Oh! where is he—where is he?" cried a female voice, which was followed up by the female herself, a respectable elderly woman, who went about the platform scattering people right and left in a fit of temporary insanity, "where is my Bobby, where is he, I say? Oh! why won't people git out o' my way? Git out o' the way," (shoving a sluggish man forcibly), "where are you, Bobby? Bo-o-o-o-o-by!"

It was Mrs Frog! Bob saw her, but did not move. His heart was in his throat! He could not move. As he afterwards said, he was struck all of a heap, and could only stand and gaze with his hands clasped.

"Out o' the way, young man!" cried Mrs Frog, brushing indignantly past him, in one of her erratic bursts. "Oh! Bobby—where has that boy gone to?"

"Mother!" gasped Bob.

"Who said that?" cried Mrs Frog, turning round with a sharp look, as if prepared to retort "you're another" on the shortest notice.

"Mother!" again said Bob, unclasping his hands and holding them out.

Mrs Frog had hitherto, regardless of the well-known effect of time, kept staring at heads on the level which Bobby's had reached when he left home. She now looked up with a startled expression.

"Can it—is it—oh! Bo—" she got no further, but sprang forward and was caught and fervently clasped in the arms of her son.

Tim fluttered round them, blowing his nose violently though quite free from cold in the head—which complaint, indeed, is not common in those regions.

Hetty, who had lost her mother in the crowd, now ran forward with Matty. Bob saw them, let go his mother, and received one in each arm— squeezing them both at once to his capacious bosom.

Mrs Frog might have fallen, though that was not probable, but Tim made sure of her by holding out a hand which the good woman grasped, and laid her head on his breast, quite willing to make use of him as a convenient post to lean against, while she observed the meeting of the young people with a contented smile.

Tim observed that meeting too, but with very different feelings, for the "sweet eager face" that he had seen in the first-class carriage belonged to Hetty! Long-continued love to human souls had given to her face a sweetness—and sympathy with human spirits and bodies in the depths of poverty, sorrow, and deep despair had invested it with a pitiful tenderness and refinement—which one looks for more naturally among the innocent in the higher ranks of life.

Poor Tim gazed unutterably, and his heart went on in such a way that even Mrs Frog's attention was arrested. Looking up, she asked if he was took bad.

"Oh! dear no. By no means," said Tim, quickly.

"You're tremblin' so," she returned, "an' it ain't cold—but your colour's all right. I suppose it's the natur' o' you Canadians. But only to think that my Bobby," she added, quitting her leaning-post, and again seizing her son, "that my Bobby should 'ave grow'd up, an' his poor mother knowed nothink about it! I can't believe my eyes—it ain't like Bobby a bit, yet some'ow I know it's 'im! Why, you've grow'd into a gentleman, you 'ave."

"And you have grown into a flatterer," said Bob, with a laugh. "But come, mother, this way; I've brought the wagon for you. Look after the luggage, Tim—Oh! I forgot. This is Tim, Hetty—Tim Lumpy. You remember, you used to see us playing together when we were city Arabs."

Hetty looked at Tim, and, remembering Bobby's strong love for jesting, did not believe him. She smiled, however, and bowed to the tall good-looking youth, who seemed unaccountably shy and confused as he went off to look after the luggage.

"Here is the wagon; come along," said Bob, leading his mother out of the station.

"The waggin, boy; I don't see no waggin."

"Why, there, with the pair of bay horses."

"You don't mean the carridge by the fence, do you?"

"Well, yes, only we call them wagons here."

"An' you calls the 'osses bay 'osses, do you?"

"Well now, I would call 'em beautiful 'osses, but I suppose bay means the same thing here. You've got strange ways in Canada."

"Yes, mother, and pleasant ways too, as I hope you shall find out ere long. Get in, now. Take care! Now then, Hetty—come, Matty. How difficult to believe that such a strapping young thing can be the squalling Matty I left in London!"

Matty laughed as she got in, by way of reply, for she did not yet quite believe in her big brother.

"Do you drive, Tim; I'll stay inside," said Bob.

In another moment the spanking bays were whirling the wagon over the road to Brankly Farm at the rate of ten miles an hour.

Need it be said that the amiable Merryboys did not fail of their duty on that occasion? That Hetty and Matty took violently to brown-eyed Martha at first sight, having heard all about her from Bob long ago—as she of them; that Mrs Merryboy was, we may say, one glowing beam of hospitality; that Mrs Frog was, so to speak, one blazing personification of amazement, which threatened to become chronic—there was so much that was contrary to previous experience and she was so slow to take it in; that Mr Merryboy became noisier than ever, and that, what between his stick and his legs, to say nothing of his voice, he managed to create in one day hubbub enough to last ten families for a fortnight; that the domestics and the dogs were sympathetically joyful; that even the kitten gave unmistakeable evidences of unusual hilarity— though some attributed the effect to surreptitiously-obtained cream; and, finally, that old granny became something like a Chinese image in the matter of nodding and gazing and smirking and wrinkling, so that there seemed some danger of her terminating her career in a gush of universal philanthropy—need all this be said, we ask? We think not; therefore we won't say it.

But it was not till Bob Frog got his mother all to himself, under the trees, near the waterfall, down by the river that drove the still unmended saw-mill, that they had real and satisfactory communion. It would have been interesting to have listened to these two—with memories and sympathies and feelings towards the Saviour of sinners so closely intertwined, yet with knowledge and intellectual powers in many respects so far apart. But we may not intrude too closely.

Towards the end of their walk, Bob touched on a subject which had been uppermost in the minds of both all the time, but from which they had shrunk equally, the one being afraid to ask, the other disinclined to tell.

"Mother," said Bob, at last, "what about father?"

"Ah! Bobby," replied Mrs Frog, beginning to weep, gently, "I know'd ye would come to that—you was always so fond of 'im, an' he was so fond o' you too, indeed—"

"I know it, mother," interrupted Bob, "but have you never heard of him?"

"Never. I might 'ave, p'r'aps, if he'd bin took an' tried under his own name, but you know he had so many aliases, an' the old 'ouse we used to live in we was obliged to quit, so p'r'aps he tried to find us and couldn't."

"May God help him—dear father!" said the son in a low sad voice.

"I'd never 'ave left 'im, Bobby, if he 'adn't left me. You know that. An' if I thought he was alive and know'd w'ere he was, I'd go back to 'im yet, but—"

The subject was dropped here, for the new mill came suddenly into view, and Bob was glad to draw his mother's attention to it.

"See, we were mending that just before we got the news you were so near us. Come, I'll show it to you. Tim Lumpy and I made it all by ourselves, and I think you'll call it a first-class article. By the way, how came you to travel first-class?"

"Oh! that's all along of Sir Richard Brandon. He's sitch a liberal gentleman, an' said that as it was by his advice we were goin' to Canada, he would pay our expenses; and he's so grand that he never remembered there was any other class but first, when he took the tickets, an' when he was show'd what he'd done he laughed an' said he wouldn't alter it, an' we must go all the way first-class. He's a strange man, but a good 'un!"

By this time they had reached the platform of the damaged saw-mill, and Bob pointed out, with elaborate care, the details of the mill in all its minute particulars, commenting specially on the fact that most of the telling improvements on it were due to the fertile brain and inventive genius of Tim Lumpy. He also explained the different kinds of saws—the ripping saw, and the cross-cut saw, and the circular saw, and the eccentric saw—just as if his mother were an embryo mill-wright, for he felt that she took a deep interest in it all, and Mrs Frog listened with the profound attention of a civil engineer, and remarked on everything with such comments as—oh! indeed! ah! well now! ain't it wonderful? amazin'! an' you made it all too! Oh! Bobby!—and other more or less appropriate phrases.

On quitting the mill to return to the house they saw a couple of figures walking down another avenue, so absorbed in conversation that they did not at first observe Bob and his mother, or take note of the fact that Matty, being a bouncing girl, had gone after butterflies or some such child-alluring insects.

It was Tim Lumpy and Hetty Frog.

And no wonder that they were absorbed, for was not their conversation on subjects of the profoundest interest to both?—George Yard, Whitechapel, Commercial Street, Spitalfields, and the Sailor's Home, and the Rests, and all the other agencies for rescuing poor souls in monstrous London, and the teachers and school companions whom they had known there and never could forget! No wonder, we say, that these two were absorbed while comparing notes, and still less wonder that they were even more deeply absorbed when they got upon the theme of Bobby Frog—so much loved, nay, almost worshipped, by both.

At last they observed Mrs Frog's scarlet shawl—which was very conspicuous—and her son, and tried to look unconscious, and wondered with quite needless surprise where Matty could have gone to.

Bobby Frog, being a sharp youth, noted these things, but made no comment to any one, for the air of Canada had, somehow, invested this waif with wonderful delicacy of feeling.

Although Bob and his mother left off talking of Ned Frog somewhat abruptly, as well as sorrowfully, it does not follow that we are bound to do the same. On the contrary, we now ask the reader to leave Brankly Farm rather abruptly, and return to London for the purpose of paying Ned a visit.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

A STRANGE VISIT AND ITS RESULTS.

Edward Frog, bird-fancier, pugilist, etcetera, (and the etcetera represents an unknown quantity), has changed somewhat like the rest, for a few years have thinned the short-cropped though once curly locks above his knotted forehead, besides sprinkling them with grey. But in other respects he has not fallen off—nay he has rather improved, owing to the peculiar system of diet and discipline and regularity of life to which, during these years, he has been subjected.

When Ned returned from what we may style his outing, he went straight to the old court with something like a feeling of anxiety in his heart, but found the old home deserted and the old door, which still bore deep marks of his knuckle, on the upper panels and his boots on the lower, was padlocked. He inquired for Mrs Frog, but was told she had left the place long ago,—and no one knew where she had gone.

With a heavy heart Ned turned from the door and sauntered away, friendless and homeless. He thought of making further inquiries about his family, but at the corner of the street smelt the old shop that had swallowed up so much of his earnings.

"If I'd on'y put it all in the savin's bank," he said bitterly, stopping in front of the gin-palace, "I'd 'ave bin well off to-day."

An old comrade turned the corner at that moment.

"What! Ned Frog!" he cried, seizing his hand and shaking it with genuine goodwill. "Well, this is good luck. Come along, old boy!"

It was pleasant to the desolate man to be thus recognised. He went along like an ox to the slaughter, though, unlike the ox, he knew well what he was going to.

He was "treated." He drank beer. Other old friends came in. He drank gin. If good resolves had been coming up in his mind earlier in the day he forgot them now. If better feelings had been struggling for the mastery, he crushed them now. He got drunk. He became disorderly. He went into High Street, Whitechapel, with a view to do damage to somebody. He succeeded. He tumbled over a barrow, and damaged his own shins. He encountered Number 666 soon after, and, through his influence, passed the night in a police cell.

After this Ned gave up all thought of searching for his wife and family.

"Better let 'em alone," he growled to himself on being discharged from the police-office with a caution.

But, as we have said or hinted elsewhere, Ned was a man of iron will. He resolved to avoid the public-house, to drink in moderation, and to do his drinking at home. Being as powerful and active as ever he had been, he soon managed, in the capacity of a common labourer, to scrape enough money together to enable him to retake his old garret, which chanced to be vacant. Indeed its situation was so airy, and it was so undesirable, that it was almost always vacant. He bought a few cages and birds; found that the old manager of the low music-hall was still at work and ready to employ him, and thus fell very much into his old line of life.

One night, as he was passing into his place of business—the music-hall—a man saw him and recognised him. This was a city missionary of the John Seaward type, who chanced to be fishing for souls that night in these troubled waters. There are many such fishermen about, thank God, doing their grand work unostentatiously, and not only rescuing souls for eternity, but helping, more perhaps than even the best informed are aware of, to save London from tremendous evil.

What it was in Ned Frog that attracted this man of God we know note but, after casting his lines for some hours in other places, he returned to the music-hall and loitered about the door.

At a late hour its audience came pouring out with discordant cries and ribald laughter. Soon Ned appeared and took his way homeward. The missionary followed at a safe distance till he saw Ned disappear through the doorway that led to his garret. Then, running forward, he entered the dark passage and heard Ned's heavy foot clanking on the stone steps as he mounted upwards.

The sound became fainter, and the missionary, fearing lest he should fail to find the room in which his man dwelt—for there were many rooms in the old tenement—ran hastily up-stairs and paused to listen. The footsteps were still sounding above him, but louder now, because Ned was mounting a wooden stair. A few seconds later a heavy door was banged, and all was quiet.

The city missionary now groped his way upwards until he came to the highest landing, where in the thick darkness he saw a light under a door. With a feeling of uncertainty and a silent prayer for help he knocked gently. The door was opened at once by a middle-aged woman, whose outline only could be seen, her back being to the light.

"Is it here that the man lives who came up just now?" asked the missionary.

"What man?" she replied, fiercely, "I know nothink about men, an' 'ave nothink to do with 'em. Ned Frog's the on'y man as ever comes 'ere, an' he lives up there."

She made a motion, as if pointing upwards somewhere, and banged the door in her visitor's face.

"Up there!" The missionary had reached the highest landing, and saw no other gleam of light anywhere. Groping about, however, his hand struck against a ladder. All doubt as to the use of this was immediately banished, for a man's heavy tread was heard in the room above as he crossed it.

Mounting the ladder, the missionary, instead of coming to a higher landing as he had expected, thrust his hat against a trap-door in the roof. Immediately he heard a savage human growl. Evidently the man was in a bad humour, but the missionary knocked.

"Who's there?" demanded the man, fiercely, for his visitors were few, and these generally connected with the police force.

"May I come in?" asked the missionary in a mild voice—not that he put the mildness on for the occasion. He was naturally mild—additionally so by grace.

"Oh! yes—you may come in," cried the man, lifting the trap-door.

The visitor stepped into the room and was startled by Ned letting fall the trap-door with a crash that shook the whole tenement. Planting himself upon it, he rendered retreat impossible.

It was a trying situation, for the man was in a savage humour, and evidently the worse for drink. But missionaries are bold men.

"Now," demanded Ned, "what may you want?"

"I want your soul," replied his visitor, quietly.

"You needn't trouble yourself, then, for the devil's got it already."

"No—he has not got it yet, Ned."

"Oh! you know me then?"

"No. I never saw you till to-night, but I learned your name accidentally, and I'm anxious about your soul."

"You don't know me," Ned repeated, slowly, "you never saw me till to-night, yet you're anxious about my soul! What stuff are you talkin'! 'Ow can that be?"

"Now, you have puzzled me," said the missionary. "I cannot tell how that can be, but it is no 'stuff' I assure you. I think it probable, however, that your own experience may help you. Didn't you once see a young girl whom you had never seen before, whom you didn't know, whom you had never even heard of, yet you became desperately anxious to win her?"

Ned instantly thought of a certain woman whom he had often abused and beaten, and whose heart he had probably broken.

"Yes," he said, "I did; but then I had falled in love wi' her at first sight, and you can't have falled in love wi' me, you know."

Ned grinned at this idea in spite of himself.

"Well, no," replied the missionary, "not exactly. You're not a very lovable object to look at just now. Nevertheless, I am anxious about your soul at first sight. I can't tell how it is, but so it is."

"Come, now," said Ned, becoming suddenly stern. "I don't believe in your religion, or your Bible, or your prayin' and psalm-singin'. I tell you plainly, I'm a infidel. But if you can say anything in favour o' your views, fire away; I'll listen, only don't let me have any o' your sing-songin' or whinin', else I'll kick you down the trap-door and down the stair an' up the court and out into the street—speak out, like a man."

"I will speak as God the Holy Spirit shall enable me," returned the missionary, without the slightest change in tone or manner.

"Well, then, sit down," said Ned, pointing to the only chair in the room, while he seated himself on the rickety table, which threatened to give way altogether, while the reckless man swung his right leg to and fro quite regardless of its complainings.

"Have you ever studied the Bible?" asked the missionary, somewhat abruptly.

"Well, no, of course not. I'm not a parson, but I have read a bit here and there, an' it's all rubbish. I don't believe a word of it."

"There's a part of it," returned the visitor, "which says that God maketh his rain to fall on the just and on the unjust. Do you not believe that?"

"Of course I do. A man can't help believin' that, for he sees it—it falls on houses, fields, birds and beasts as well."

"Then you do believe a word of it?"

"Oh! come, you're a deal too sharp. You know what I mean."

"No," said his visitor, quickly, "I don't quite know what you mean. One who professes to be an infidel professes more or less intelligent disbelief in the Bible, yet you admit that you have never studied the book which you profess to disbelieve—much less, I suppose, have you studied the books which give us the evidences of its truth."

"Don't suppose, Mr parson, or missioner, or whatever you are," said Ned, "that you're goin' to floor me wi' your larnin'. I'm too old a bird for that. Do you suppose that I'm bound to study everything on the face o' the earth like a lawyer before I'm entitled to say I don't believe it. If I see that a thing don't work well, that's enough for me to condemn it."

"You're quite right there. I quite go with that line of reasoning. By their fruits shall ye know them. A man don't usually go to a thistle to find grapes. But let me ask you, Ned, do you usually find that murderers, drunkards, burglars, thieves, and blackguards in general are students of the Bible and given to prayer and psalm-singing?"

"Ha! ha! I should rather think not," said Ned, much tickled by the supposition.

"Then," continued the other, "tell me, honestly, Ned, do you find that people who read God's Word and sing His praise and ask His blessing on all they do, are generally bad fathers, and mothers, and masters, and servants, and children, and that from their ranks come the worst people in society?"

"Now, look here, Mr missioner," cried Ned, leaping suddenly from the table, which overturned with a crash, "I'm one o' them fellers that's not to be floored by a puff o' wind. I can hold my own agin most men wi' fist or tongue. But I like fair-play in the ring or in argiment. I have not studied this matter, as you say, an' so I won't speak on it. But I'll look into it, an' if you come back here this day three weeks I'll let you know what I think. You may trust me, for when I say a thing I mean it."

"Will you accept a Testament, then," said the missionary, rising and pulling one out of his pocket.

"No, I won't," said Ned, "I've got one."

The missionary looked surprised, and hesitated.

"Don't you believe me?" asked Ned, angrily.

"At first I did not," was the reply, "but now that I stand before your face and look in your eyes I do believe you."

Ned gave a cynical laugh. "You're easy to gull," he said; "why, when it serves my purpose I can lie like a trooper."

"I know that," returned the visitor, quietly, "but it serves your purpose to-night to speak the truth. I can see that. May I pray that God should guide you?"

"Yes, you may, but not here. I'll have no hypocritical goin' down on my knees till I see my way to it. If I don't see my way to it, I'll let you know when you come back this day three weeks."

"Well, I'll pray for you in my own room, Ned Frog."

"You may do what you like in your own room. Good-night."

He lifted the trap-door as he spoke, and pointed downward. The missionary at once descended after a brief "good-night," and a pleasant nod. Ned just gave him time to get his head out of the way when he let the trap fall with a clap like thunder, and then began to pace up and down his little room with his hands in his pockets and his chin on his breast.

After a short time he went to a corner of the room where stood a small wooden box that contained the few articles of clothing which he possessed. From the bottom of this he fished up the New Testament that had been given to him long ago by Reggie North. Drawing his chair to the table and the candle to his elbow, the returned convict opened the Book, and there in his garret began for the first time to read in earnest the wonderful Word of Life!



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

THE GREAT CHANGE.

Punctual to the day and the hour, the missionary returned to Ned's garret.

Much and earnestly had he prayed, in the meantime, that the man might be guided in his search after truth, and that to himself might be given words of wisdom which might have weight with him.

But the missionary's words were not now required.

God had spoken to the rough man by his own Word. The Holy Spirit had carried conviction home.

He had also revealed the Saviour, and the man was converted before the missionary again saw him. Reader, we present no fancy portrait to you.

Our fiction had its counterpart in actual life. Ned Frog, in essential points at least, represents a real man—though we have, doubtless, saddled on his broad shoulders a few unimportant matters, which perhaps did not belong to him.

"I believe that this is God's Word, my friend," he said, extending his hand, the moment the missionary entered, "and in proof of that I will now ask you to kneel with me and pray."

You may be sure that the man of God complied gladly and with a full heart.

We may not, however, trace here the after-course of this man in detail. For our purpose it will suffice to say that this was no mere flash in the pan. Ned Frog's character did not change. It only received a new direction and a new impulse. The vigorous energy and fearless determination with which he had in former days pursued sin and self-gratification had now been turned into channels of righteousness.

Very soon after finding Jesus for himself, he began earnestly to desire the salvation of others, and, in a quiet humble way, began with the poor people in his own stair.

But this could not satisfy him. He was too strong both in body and mind to be restrained, and soon took to open-air preaching.

"I'm going to begin a mission," he said, one day, to the missionary who had brought him to the Saviour. "There are many stout able fellows here who used to accept me as a leader in wickedness, and who will, perhaps, agree to follow me in a new walk. Some of them have come to the Lord already. I'm goin', sir, to get these to form a band of workers, and we'll take up a district."

"Good," said the missionary, "there's nothing like united action. What part of the district will you take up yourself, Ned?"

"The place where I stand, sir," he replied. "Where I have sinned there will I preach to men the Saviour of sinners."

And he did preach, not with eloquence, perhaps, but with such fervour that many of his old comrades were touched deeply, and some were brought to Christ and joined his "Daniel Band." Moreover, Ned kept to his own district and class. He did not assume that all rich church-goers are hypocrites, and that it was his duty to stand in conspicuous places and howl to them the message of salvation, in tones of rasping discord. No, it was noted by his mates, as particularly curious, that the voice of the man who could, when he chose, roar like a bull of Bashan, had become soft and what we may style entreative in its tone. Moreover, he did not try to imitate clerical errors. He did not get upon a deadly monotone while preaching, as so many do. He simply spoke when he preached— spoke loud, no doubt, but in a tone precisely similar to that in which, in former days, he would have seriously advised a brother burglar to adopt a certain course, or to carefully steer clear of another course, in order to gain his ends or to avoid falling into the hands of the police. Thus men, when listening to him, came to believe that he was really speaking to them in earnest, and not "preaching!"

Oh! that young men who aim at the high privilege of proclaiming the "good news" would reflect on this latter point, and try to steer clear of that fatal rock on which the Church—not the Episcopal, Presbyterian, or any other Church, but the whole Church militant—has been bumping so long to her own tremendous damage!

One point which told powerfully with those whom Ned sought to win was, that he went about endeavouring, as far as in him lay, to undo the evil that he had done. Some of it could never be undone—he felt that bitterly. Some could be remedied—he rejoiced in that and went about it with vigour.

For instance, he owed several debts. Being a handy fellow and strong, he worked like a horse, and soon paid off his debts to the last farthing. Again, many a time had he, in days gone by, insulted and defamed comrades and friends. These he sought out with care and begged their pardon. The bulldog courage in him was so strong that in former days he would have struck or insulted any man who provoked him, without reference to his, it might be, superior size or strength. He now went as boldly forward to confess his sin and to apologise. Sometimes his apologies were kindly received, at other times he was rudely repelled and called a hypocrite in language that we may not repeat, but he took it well; he resented nothing now, and used to say he had been made invulnerable since he had enlisted under the banner of the Prince of Peace.

Yet, strange to say, the man's pugilistic powers were not rendered useless by his pacific life and profession.

One day he was passing down one of those streets where even the police prefer to go in couples. Suddenly a door burst open and a poor drunken woman was kicked out into the street by a big ruffian with whom Ned was not acquainted. Not satisfied with what he had done, the rough proceeded to kick the woman, who began to scream "murder!"

A crowd at once collected, for, although such incidents were common enough in such places, they always possessed sufficient interest to draw a crowd; but no one interfered, first, because no one cared, and, second, because the man was so big and powerful that every one was afraid of him.

Of course Ned interfered, not with an indignant statement that the man ought to be ashamed of himself, but, with the quiet remark—

"She's only a woman, you know, an' can't return it."

"An' wot 'ave you got to do with it?" cried the man with a savage curse, as he aimed a tremendous blow at Ned with his right-hand.

Our pugilist expected that. He did not start or raise his hands to defend himself, he merely put his head to one side, and the huge fist went harmlessly past his ear. Savagely the rough struck out with the other fist, but Ned quietly, yet quickly put his head to the other side, and again the fist went innocently by. A loud laugh and cheer from the crowd greeted this, for, apart altogether from the occasion of the disagreement, this turning of the head aside was very pretty play on the part of Ned—being a remarkably easy-looking but exceedingly difficult action, as all boxers know. It enabled Ned to smile in the face of his foe without doing him any harm. But it enraged the rough to such an extent, that he struck out fast as well as hard, obliging Ned to put himself in the old familiar attitude, and skip about smartly.

"I don't want to hurt you, friend," said Ned at last, "but I can, you see!" and he gave the man a slight pat on his right cheek with one hand and a tap on the forehead with the other.

This might have convinced the rough, but he would not be convinced. Ned therefore gave him suddenly an open-handed slap on the side of the head which sent him through his own doorway; through his own kitchen—if we may so name it—and into his own coal-cellar, where he measured his length among cinders and domestic debris.

"I didn't want to do it, friends," said Ned in a mild voice, as soon as the laughter had subsided, "but, you see, in the Bible—a book I'm uncommon fond of—we're told, as far as we can, to live peaceably with all men. Now, you see, I couldn't live peaceably wi' this man to-day. He wouldn't let me, but I think I'll manage to do it some day, for I'll come back here to-morrow, and say I'm sorry I had to do it. Meanwhile I have a word to say to you about this matter."

Here Ned got upon the door-step of his adversary, and finished off by what is sometimes styled "improving the occasion."

Of course, one of the first things that Ned Frog did, on coming to his "right mind," was to make earnest and frequent inquiries as to the fate of his wife and family. Unfortunately the man who might have guided him to the right sources of information—the City missionary who had brought him to a knowledge of the truth—was seized with a severe illness, which not only confined him to a sick-bed for many weeks, but afterwards rendered it necessary that he should absent himself for a long time from the sphere of his labours. Thus, being left to himself, Ned's search was misdirected, and at last he came to the heart-breaking conclusion that they must have gone, as he expressed it, "to the bad;" that perhaps his wife had carried out her oft-repeated threat, and drowned herself, and that Bobby, having been only too successful a pupil in the ways of wickedness, had got himself transported.

To prosecute his inquiries among his old foes, the police, was so repugnant to Ned that he shrank from it, after the failure of one or two attempts, and the only other source which might have been successful he failed to appeal to through his own ignorance. He only knew of George Yard and the Home of Industry by name, as being places which he had hated, because his daughter Hetty was so taken up with them. Of course he was now aware that the people of George Yard did good work for his new Master, but he was so ignorant of the special phase of their work at the beginning of his Christian career that he never thought of applying to them for information. Afterwards he became so busy with his own special work, that he forgot all about these institutions.

When the missionary recovered and returned to his work, he at once—on hearing for the first time from Ned his family history—put him on the scent, and the discovery was then made that they had gone to Canada. He wrote immediately, and soon received a joyful reply from Hetty and a postscript from Bobby, which set his heart singing and his soul ablaze with gratitude to a sparing and preserving God.

About that time, however, the robust frame gave way under the amount of labour it was called on to perform. Ned was obliged to go into hospital. When there he received pressing invitations to go out to Canada, and offers of passage-money to any extent. Mrs Frog also offered to return home without delay and nurse him, and only waited to know whether he would allow her.

Ned declined, on the ground that he meant to accept their invitation and go to Canada as soon as he was able to undertake the voyage.

A relapse, however, interfered with his plans, and thus the visit, like many other desirable events in human affairs, was, for a time, delayed.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

HOME AGAIN.

Time passed away, and Bobby Frog said to his mother one morning, "Mother, I'm going to England."

It was a fine summer morning when he said this. His mother was sitting in a bower which had been constructed specially for her use by her son and his friend Tim Lumpy. It stood at the foot of the garden, from which could be had a magnificent view of the neighbouring lake. Rich foliage permitted the slanting sunbeams to quiver through the bower, and little birds, of a pert conceited nature, twittered among the same. Martha Mild—the very embodiment of meek, earnest simplicity, and still a mere child in face though almost a woman in years—sat on a wooden stool at Mrs Frog's feet reading the Bible to her.

Martha loved the Bible and Mrs Frog; they were both fond of the bower; there was a spare half-hour before them;—hence the situation, as broken in upon by Bobby.

"To England, Bobby?"

"To England, mother."

Martha said nothing, but she gave a slight—an almost imperceptible— start, and glanced at the sturdy youth with a mingled expression of anxiety and surprise.

The surprise Bob had expected; the anxiety he had hoped for; the start he had not foreseen, but now perceived and received as a glorious fact! Oh! Bobby Frog was a deep young rascal! His wild, hilarious, reckless spirit, which he found it so difficult to curb, even with all surroundings in his favour, experienced a great joy and sensation of restfulness in gazing at the pretty, soft, meek face of the little waif. He loved Martha, but, with all his recklessness, he had not the courage to tell her so, or to ask the condition of her feelings with regard to himself.

Being ingenious, however, and with much of the knowing nature of the "stray" still about him, he hit on this plan of killing two birds with one stone, as it were, by briefly announcing his intentions to his mother; and the result was more than he had hoped for.

"Yes, mother, to England—to London. You see, father's last letter was not at all satisfactory. Although he said he was convalescent and hoped to be able to travel soon, it seemed rather dull in tone, and now several posts have passed without bringing us a letter of any kind from him. I am beginning to feel anxious, and so as I have saved a good bit of money I mean to have a trip to old England and bring Daddy out with me."

"That will be grand indeed, my son. But will Mr Merryboy let ye go, Bobby?"

"Of course he will. He lets me do whatever I please, for he's as fond o' me as if he were my father."

"No; he ain't that," returned Mrs Frog, with a shake of the head; "your father was rough, Bobby, specially w'en in liquor, but he 'ad a kind 'art at bottom, and he was very fond o' you, Bobby—almost as fond as he once was o' me. Mr Merryboy could never come up to 'im in that."

"Did I say he came up to him, mother? I didn't say he was as fond o' me as my own father, but as if he was my father. However, it's all arranged, and I go off at once."

"Not before breakfast, Bobby?"

"No, not quite. I never do anything important on an empty stomach, but by this time to-morrow I hope to be far on my way to the sea-coast, and I expect Martha to take good care of you till I come back."

"I'll be sure to do that," said Martha, looking up in Mrs Frog's face affectionately.

Bob Frog noted the look, and was satisfied.

"But, my boy, I shan't be here when you come back. You know my visit is over in a week, and then we go to Sir Richard's estate."

"I know that, mother, but Martha goes with you there, to help you and Hetty and Matty to keep house while Tim Lumpy looks after the farm."

"Farm, my boy, what nonsense are you talking?"

"No nonsense, mother, it has all been arranged this morning, early though it is. Mr Merryboy has received a letter from Sir Richard, saying that he wants to gather as many people as possible round him, and offering him one of his farms on good terms, so Mr Merryboy is to sell this place as soon as he can, and Tim and I have been offered a smaller farm on still easier terms close to his, and not far from the big farm that Sir Richard has given to his son-in-law Mr Welland—"

"Son-in-law!" exclaimed Mrs Frog. "Do you mean to say that Mr Welland, who used to come down an' preach in the lodgin'-'ouses in Spitalfields 'as married that sweet hangel Miss Di?"

"I do mean that, mother. I could easily show him a superior angel, of course," said Bob with a steady look at Martha, "but he has done pretty well, on the whole."

"Pretty well!" echoed Mrs Frog indignantly; "he couldn't 'ave done better if 'e'd searched the wide world over."

"There I don't agree with you," returned her son; "however, it don't matter—Hallo! there goes granny down the wrong path!"

Bob dashed off at full speed after Mrs Merryboy, senior, who had an inveterate tendency, when attempting to reach Mrs Frog's bower, to take a wrong turn, and pursue a path which led from the garden to a pretty extensive piece of forest-land behind. The blithe old lady was posting along this track in a tremulo-tottering way when captured by Bob. At the same moment the breakfast-bell rang; Mr Merryboy's stentorian voice was immediately heard in concert; silvery shouts from the forest-land alluded to told where Hetty and Matty had been wandering, and a rush of pattering feet announced that the dogs of the farm were bent on being first to bid the old gentleman good-morning.

As Bob Frog had said, the following day found him far on his way to the sea-coast. A few days later found him on the sea,—wishing, earnestly, that he were on the land! Little more than a week after that found him in London walking down the old familiar Strand towards the city.

As he walked slowly along the crowded thoroughfare, where every brick seemed familiar and every human being strange, he could not help saying to himself mentally, "Can it be possible! was it here that I used to wander in rags? Thank God for the rescue and for the rescuers!"

"Shine yer boots, sir?" said a facsimile of his former self.

"Certainly, my boy," said Bob, at once submitting himself to the operator, although, his boots having already been well "shined," the operation was an obvious absurdity.

The boy must have felt something of this, for, when finished, he looked up at his employer with a comical expression. Bob looked at him sternly.

"They were about as bright before you began on 'em," he said.

"They was, sir," admitted the boy, candidly.

"How much?" demanded the old street boy. "On'y one ha'penny, sir," replied the young street boy, "but ven the day's fine, an' the boots don't want much shinin', we gin'rally expecs a penny. Gen'l'min 'ave bin known to go the length of tuppence."

Bob pulled out half-a-crown and offered it.

The boy grinned, but did not attempt to take it.

"Why don't you take it, my boy?"

"You don't mean it, do you?" asked the boy, as the grin faded and the eyes opened.

"Yes, I do. Here, catch. I was once like you. Christ and Canada have made me what you see. Here is a little book that will tell you more about that."

He chanced to have one of Miss Macpherson's Canadian Homes for London Wanderers in his pocket, and gave it to the little shoe-black,—who was one of the fluttering free-lances of the metropolis, not one of the "Brigade."

Bob could not have said another word to have saved his life. He turned quickly on his heel and walked away, followed by a fixed gaze and a prolonged whistle of astonishment.

"How hungry I used to be here," he muttered as he walked along, "so uncommon hungry! The smell of roasts and pies had something to do with it, I think. Why, there's the shop—yes, the very shop, where I stood once gazing at the victuals for a full hour before I could tear myself away. I do think that, for the sake of starving boys, to say nothing of men, women, and girls, these grub-shops should be compelled to keep the victuals out o' the windows and send their enticing smells up their chimneys!"

Presently he came to a dead stop in front of a shop where a large mirror presented him with a full-length portrait of himself, and again he said mentally, "Can it be possible!" for, since quitting London he had never seen himself as others saw him, having been too hurried, on both occasions of passing through Canadian cities, to note the mirrors there. In the backwoods, of course, there was nothing large enough in the way of mirror to show more than his good-looking face.

The portrait now presented to him was that of a broad-chested, well-made, gentlemanly young man of middle height, in a grey Tweed suit.

"Not exactly tip-top, A1, superfine, you know, Bobby," he muttered to himself with the memory of former days strong upon him, "but—but— perhaps not altogether unworthy of—of—a thought or two from little Martha Mild."

Bob Frog increased in stature, it is said, by full half an inch on that occasion, and thereafter he walked more rapidly in the direction of Whitechapel.

With sad and strangely mingled memories he went to the court where his early years had been spent. It was much the same in disreputableness of aspect as when he left it. Time had been gnawing at it so long that a few years more or less made little difference on it, and its inhabitants had not improved much.

Passing rapidly on he went straight to the Beehive, which he had for long regarded as his real home, and there, once again, received a hearty welcome from its ever busy superintendent and her earnest workers; but how different his circumstances now from those attending his first reception! His chief object, however, was to inquire the way to the hospital in which his father lay, and he was glad to learn that the case of Ned Frog was well-known, and that he was convalescent.

It chanced that a tea-meeting was "on" when he arrived, so he had little more at the time than a warm shake of the hand from his friends in the Home, but he had the ineffable satisfaction of leaving behind him a sum sufficient to give a sixpence to each of the miserable beings who were that night receiving a plentiful meal for their bodies as well as food for their souls—those of them, at least, who chose to take the latter. None refused the former.

On his way to the hospital he saw a remarkably tall policeman approaching.

"Well, you are a long-legged copper," he muttered to himself, with an irrepressible laugh as he thought of old times. The old spirit seemed to revive with the old associations, for he felt a strong temptation to make a face at the policeman, execute the old double-shuffle, stick his thumb to the end of his nose, and bolt! As the man drew nearer he did actually make a face in spite of himself—a face of surprise—which caused the man to stop.

"Excuse me," said Bob, with much of his old bluntness, "are not you Number 666?"

"That is not my number now, sir, though I confess it was once," answered the policeman, with a humorous twinkle of the eye.

Bobby noticed the word "sir," and felt elated. It was almost more than waif-and-stray human nature could stand to be respectfully "sirred" by a London policeman—his old foe, whom, in days gone by and on occasions innumerable, he had scorned, scouted, and insulted, with all the ingenuity of his fertile brain.

"Your name is Giles Scott, is it not?" he asked.

"It is, sir."

"Do you remember a little ragged boy who once had his leg broken by a runaway pony at the West-end—long ago?"

"Yes, as well as if I'd seen him yesterday. His name was Bobby Frog, and a sad scamp he was, though it is said he's doing well in Canada."

"He must 'ave changed considerable," returned Bob, reverting to his old language with wonderful facility, "w'en Number 666 don't know 'im. Yes, in me, Robert Frog, Esquire, of Chikopow Farm, Canada Vest, you be'old your ancient henemy, who is on'y too 'appy to 'ave the chance of axin your parding for all the trouble he gave you, an' all the 'ard names he called you in days gone by."

Bobby held out his hand as he spoke, and you may be sure our huge policeman was not slow to grasp it, and congratulate the stray on his improved circumstances.

We have not time or space to devote to the conversation which ensued. It was brief, but rapid and to the point, and in the course of it Bob learned that Molly was as well, and as bright and cheery as ever—also somewhat stouter; that Monty was in a fair way to become a real policeman, having just received encouragement to expect admission to the force when old enough, and that he was in a fair way to become as sedate, wise, zealous, and big as his father; also, that little Jo aimed at the same honourable and responsible position, and was no longer little.

Being anxious, however, to see his father, Bob cut the conversation short, and, having promised to visit his old enemy, hastened away.

The ward of the hospital in which Bob soon found himself was a sad place. Clean and fresh, no doubt, but very still, save when a weary sigh or a groan told of suffering. Among the beds, which stood in a row, each with its head against the wall, one was pointed out on which a living skeleton lay. The face was very very pale, and it seemed as if the angel of death were already brooding over it. Yet, though so changed, there was no mistaking the aspect and the once powerful frame of Ned Frog.

"I'd rather not see any one," whispered Ned, as the nurse went forward and spoke to him in a low voice, "I'll soon be home—I think."

"Father, dear father," said Bob, in a trembling, almost choking voice, as he knelt by the bedside and took one of his father's hands.

The prostrate man sprang up as if he had received an electric shock, and gazed eagerly into the face of his son. Then, turning his gaze on the nurse, he said—

"I'm not dreaming, am I? It's true, is it? Is this Bobby?"

"Whether he's Bobby or not I can't say," replied the nurse, in the tone with which people sometimes address children, "but you're not dreaming— it is a gentleman."

"Ah! then I am dreaming," replied the sick man, with inexpressible sadness, "for Bobby is no gentleman."

"But it is me, daddy," cried the poor youth, almost sobbing aloud as he kissed the hand he held, "why, you old curmudgeon, I thought you'd 'ave know'd the voice o' yer own son! I've grow'd a bit, no doubt, but it's me for all that. Look at me!"

Ned did look, with all the intensity of which he was capable, and then fell back on his pillow with a great sigh, while a death-like pallor overspread his face, almost inducing the belief that he was really dead.

"No, Bobby, I ain't dead yet," he said in a low whisper, as his terrified son bent over him. "Thank God for sendin' you back to me."

He stopped, but, gradually, strength returned, and he again looked earnestly at his son.

"Bobby," he said, in stronger tones, "I thought the end was drawin' near—or, rather, the beginnin'—the beginnin' o' the New Life. But I don't feel like that now. I feel, some'ow, as I used to feel in the ring when they sponged my face arter a leveller. I did think I was done for this mornin'. The nurse thought so too, for I 'eerd her say so; an' the doctor said as much. Indeed I'm not sure that my own 'art didn't say so—but I'll cheat 'em all yet, Bobby, my boy. You've put new life into my old carcase, an' I'll come up to the scratch yet—see if I don't."

But Ned Frog did not "come up to the scratch." His work for the Master on earth was finished—the battle fought out and the victory gained.

"Gi' them all my love in Canada, Bobby, an' say to your dear mother that I know she forgives me—but I'll tell her all about that when we meet—in the better land."

Thus he died with his rugged head resting on the bosom of his loved and loving son.



CHAPTER THIRTY.

THE NEW HOME.

Once again, and for the last time, we shift our scene to Canada—to the real backwoods now—the Brandon Settlement.

Sir Richard, you see, had been a noted sportsman in his youth. He had chased the kangaroo in Australia, the springbok in Africa, and the tiger in India, and had fished salmon in Norway, so that his objections to the civilised parts of Canada were as strong as those of the Red Indians themselves. He therefore resolved, when making arrangements to found a colony, to push as far into the backwoods as was compatible with comfort and safety. Hence we now find him in the very far West.

We decline to indicate the exact spot, because idlers, on hearing of its fertility and beauty and the felicity of its inhabitants, might be tempted to crowd to it in rather inconvenient numbers. Let it suffice to say, in the language of the aborigines, that it lies towards the setting sun.

Around Brandon Settlement there are rolling prairies, illimitable pasture-land, ocean-like lakes, grand forests, and numerous rivers and rivulets, with flat-lands, low-lands, high-lands, undulating lands, wood-lands, and, in the far-away distance, glimpses of the back-bone of America—peaked, and blue, and snow-topped.

The population of this happy region consists largely of waifs with a considerable sprinkling of strays. There are also several families of "haristocrats," who, however, are not "bloated"—very much the reverse.

The occupation of the people is, as might be expected, agricultural; but, as the colony is very active and thriving and growing fast, many other branches of industry have sprung up, so that the hiss of the saw and the ring of the anvil, the clatter of the water-mill, and the clack of the loom, may be heard in all parts of it.

There is a rumour that a branch of the Great Pacific Railway is to be run within a mile of the Brandon Settlement; but that is not yet certain. The rumour, however, has caused much joyful hope to some, and rather sorrowful anxiety to others. Mercantile men rejoice at the prospect. Those who are fond of sport tremble, for it is generally supposed, though on insufficient grounds, that the railway-whistle frightens away game. Any one who has travelled in the Scottish Highlands and seen grouse close to the line regarding your clanking train with supreme indifference, must doubt the evil influence of railways on game. Meanwhile, the sportsmen of Brandon Settlement pursue the buffalo and stalk the deer, and hunt the brown and the grizzly bear, and ply rod, net, gun, and rifle, to their hearts' content.

There is even a bank in this thriving settlement—a branch, if we mistake not, of the flourishing Bank of Montreal—of which a certain Mr Welland is manager, and a certain Thomas Balls is hall-porter, as well as general superintendent, when not asleep in the hall-chair. Mrs Welland, known familiarly as Di, is regarded as the mother of the settlement—or, more correctly, the guardian angel—for she is not yet much past the prime of life. She is looked upon as a sort of goddess by many people; indeed she resembles one in mind, face, figure, and capacity. We use the last word advisedly, for she knows and sympathises with every one, and does so much for the good of the community, that the bare record of her deeds would fill a large volume. Amongst other things she trains, in the way that they should go, a family of ten children, whose adoration of her is said to be perilously near to idolatry. She also finds time to visit an immense circle of friends. There are no poor in Brandon Settlement yet, though there are a few sick and a good many aged, to whom she ministers. She also attends on Sir Richard, who is part of the Bank family, as well as a director.

The good knight wears well. His time is divided between the children of Di, the affairs of the settlement, and a neighbouring stream in which the trout are large and pleasantly active. Mrs Screwbury, who spent her mature years in nursing little Di, is renewing her youth by nursing little Di's little ones, among whom there is, of course, another little Di whom her father styles Di-licious. Jessie Summers assists in the nursery, and the old cook reigns in the Canadian kitchen with as much grace as she formerly reigned in the kitchen at the "West-End."

Quite close to the Bank buildings there is a charming villa, with a view of a lake in front and a peep through the woods at the mountains behind, in which dwells the cashier of the Bank with his wife and family. His name is Robert Frog, Esquire. His wife's name is Martha. His eldest son, Bobby—a boy of about nine or ten—is said to be the most larky boy in the settlement. We know not as to that, but any one with half an eye can see that he is singularly devoted to his mild little brown-eyed mother.

There is a picturesque little hut at the foot of the garden of Beehive Villa, which is inhabited by an old woman. To this hut Bobby the second is very partial, for the old woman is exceedingly fond of Bobby—quite spoils him in fact—and often entertains him with strange stories about a certain lion of her acquaintance which was turned into a lamb. Need we say that this old woman is Mrs Frog? The Bank Cashier offered her a home in Beehive Villa, but she prefers the little hut at the foot of the garden, where she sits in state to receive visitors and is tenderly cared for by a very handsome young woman named Matty, who calls her "mother". Matty is the superintendent of a neighbouring school, and it is said that one of the best of the masters of that school is anxious to make Matty and the school his own. If so, that master must be a greedy fellow—all things considered.

There is a civil engineer—often styled by Bob Frog an uncivil engineer—who has planned all the public works of the settlement, and is said to have a good prospect of being engaged in an important capacity on the projected railway. But of this we cannot speak authoritatively. His name is T Lampay, Esquire. Ill-natured people assert that when he first came to the colony his name was Tim Lumpy, and at times his wife Hetty calls him Lumpy to his face, but, as wives do sometimes call their husbands improper names, the fact proves nothing except the perversity of woman. There is a blind old woman in his establishment, however, who has grown amiably childish in her old age, who invariably calls him Tim. Whatever may be the truth as to this, there is no question that he is a thriving man and an office-bearer in the Congregational church, whose best Sabbath-school teacher is his wife Hetty, and whose pastor is the Reverend John Seaward—a man of singular good fortune, for, besides having such men as Robert Frog, T. Lampay, and Sir Richard Brandon to back him up and sympathise with him on all occasions, he is further supported by the aid and countenance of Samuel Twitter, senior, Samuel Twitter, junior, Mrs Twitter, and all the other Twitters, some of whom are married and have twitterers of their own.

Samuel Twitter and his sons are now farmers! Yes, reader, you may look and feel surprised to hear it, but your astonishment will never equal that of old Twitter himself at finding himself in that position. He never gets over it, and has been known, while at the tail of the plough, to stop work, clap a hand on each knee, and roar with laughter at the mere idea of his having taken to agriculture late in life! He tried to milk the cows when he first began, but, after having frightened two or three animals into fits, overturned half a dozen milk-pails, and been partially gored, he gave it up. Sammy is his right-hand man, and the hope of his declining years. True, this right-hand has got the name of being slow, but he is considered as pre-eminently sure.

Mrs Twitter has taken earnestly to the sick, since there are no poor to befriend. She is also devoted to the young—and there is no lack of them. She is likewise strong in the tea-party line, and among her most favoured guests are two ladies named respectively Loper and Larrabel, and two gentlemen named Crackaby and Stickler. It is not absolutely certain whether these four are a blessing to the new settlement or the reverse. Some hold that things in general would progress more smoothly if they were gone; others that their presence affords excellent and needful opportunity for the exercise of forbearance and charity. At all events Mrs Twitter holds that she could not live without them, and George Brisbane, Esquire, who owns a lovely mansion on the outskirts of the settlement, which he has named Lively Hall, vows that the departure of that quartette would be a distinct and irreparable loss to society in Brandon Settlement.

One more old friend we have to mention, namely, Reggie North, who has become a colporteur, and wanders far and near over the beautiful face of Canada, scattering the seed of Life with more vigour and greater success than her sons scatter the golden grain. His periodical visits to the settlement are always hailed with delight, because North has a genial way of relating his adventures and describing his travels, which renders it necessary for him to hold forth as a public lecturer at times in the little chapel, for the benefit of the entire community. On these occasions North never fails, you may be quite sure, to advance his Master's cause.

Besides those whom we have mentioned, there are sundry persons of both sexes who go by such names as Dick Swiller, Blobby, Robin, Lilly Snow, Robbie Dell, and Little Mouse, all of whom are grown men and women, and are said to have originally been London waifs and strays. But any one looking at them in their backwoods prosperity would pooh-pooh the idea as being utterly preposterous!

However this may be, it is quite certain that they are curiously well acquainted with the slums of London and with low life in that great city. These people sometimes mention the name of Giles Scott, and always with regret that that stalwart policeman and his not less stalwart sons are unable to see their way to emigrate, but if they did, as Bobby Frog the second asks, "what would become of London?"

"They'd make such splendid backwoodsmen," says one.

"And the daughters would make such splendid wives for backwoodsmen," says another.

Mr Merryboy thinks that Canada can produce splendid men of its own without importing them from England, and Mrs Merryboy holds that the same may be said in regard to the women of Canada, and old granny, who is still alive, with a face like a shrivelled-up potato, blinks with undimmed eyes, and nods her snow-white head, and beams her brightest smile in thorough approval of these sentiments.

Ah, reader! Brandon Settlement is a wonderful place, but we may not linger over it now. The shadows of our tale have lengthened out, and the sun is about to set. Before it goes quite down let us remind you that the Diamonds which you have seen dug out, cut, and polished, are only a few of the precious gems that lie hidden in the dust of the great cities of our land; that the harvest might be very great, and that the labourers at the present time are comparatively few.

THE END.