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

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

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

'He is a very miserable man,' said Miss Anne, sighing; 'I often hear him walking up and down his room, and crying aloud in the night-time for God to have mercy upon him; but he is a slave to the love of riches. Years ago he might have broken through his chain, but he hugged it closely, and now it presses upon him very hardly. All his love has been given to money, till he cannot feel any love to God; and he knows that in a few years he must leave all he loves for ever, and go into eternity without it. He will have no rest to-night because of the injury he has done you. He is a very wretched man, Stephen.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XI.

STEPHEN AND THE RECTOR.

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

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

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

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

The opportunity for going to Danesford was not long in coming, for Black Thompson and Cole, who were the chief colliers in the pit, chose to take a 'play-day' with the rest of their comrades; and the boys and girls employed at the works were obliged to play also, though it involved the forfeiture of their day's wages—always a serious loss to Stephen. This time, however, he heard the news gladly; and, carefully securing the three notes by pinning them inside his pocket, he set out for his ten miles walk across the tableland to the other side of the mountains, where Danesford lay. His nearest way led straight by Fern's Hollow, and he saw that already upon the old site the foundation was laid for a new house containing three rooms. In everything else the aspect of the place remained unchanged; there still hung the creaking wicket, where little Nan had been wont to look for his coming home, until she could run with outstretched arms to meet him. The beehives stood yet beneath the hedge, and the bees were flying to and fro, seeking out the few flowers of the autumn upon the hillside. The fern upon the uplands, just behind the hollow, was beginning to die, and its rich red-brown hue showed that it was ready to be cut and carried away for fodder; but a squatter from some other hill-hut had trespassed upon Stephen's old domain. Except this one man, the whole tableland was deserted; and so silent was it that the rustle of his own feet through the fading ferns sounded like other footsteps following him closely. The sheep were not yet driven down into the valleys, and they and the wild ponies stood and stared boldly at the solitary boy, without fleeing from his path, as if they had long since forgotten how the bilberry gatherers had delighted in frightening them. Stephen was too grave and manlike to startle them into memory of it, and he plodded on mile after mile with the three notes in his pocket and his hand closed upon them, pondering deeply with what words he should speak to the unknown clergyman at Danesford.

When he reached Danesford, he found it a very quiet, sleepy little village, with a gleaming river flowing through it placidly, and such respectable houses and small clean cottages as put to shame the dwellings at Botfield. So early was it yet, that the village children were only just going to school; and the biggest boy turned back with Stephen to the gate of the Rectory. Stephen had never seen so large and grand a mansion, standing far back from the road, in a park, through which ran a carriage drive up to a magnificent portico. He stole shyly along a narrow side path to the back door, and even there was afraid of knocking; but when his low single rap was answered by a good-tempered-looking girl, not much older than Martha, his courage revived, and he asked, in a straightforward and steady manner, if he could see the parson. At which the servant laughed a little, and, after inquiring his name, said she would see if Mr. Lockwood could spare time to speak to him.

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

'So you are Stephen Fern, of Fern's Hollow,' said Mr. Lockwood; 'I remember christening you, and giving you my own name, thirteen or fourteen years since, isn't it? Your mother had been my faithful servant for several years; and she brought you all across the hills to Danesford to be christened. Is she well—my good Sarah Moore?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Yes, sir,' said Stephen quietly.

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XII.

VISIT OF BLACK BESS.

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

Upon the whole, Martha did not very much regret her change of dwelling, though she made a great virtue of her patience in submitting quietly to it. To be sure, the cinder-hill was unsightly, and the cabin blackened with smoke; and it was necessary to lock little Nan and grandfather safely within the house whenever she went out, lest they should get to the mouth of the open shaft, where Stephen often amused the child by throwing stones down it, and listening to their rebound against the sides. But still Martha had near neighbours; and until now she had hardly even tasted the luxury of a thorough gossip, which she could enjoy in any one of the cottages throughout Botfield. Moreover, she could get work for herself on three days in the week, to help a washerwoman, who gave her ninepence a day, besides letting little Nan go with her, and have, as she said, 'the run of her teeth.' She had her admirers, too—young collier lads, who told her truly enough she was the cleanest, neatest, tidiest lass in all Botfield. So Martha Fern regarded their residence on the cinder-hill with more complacency than could have been expected. The only circumstance which in her secret heart she considered a serious drawback was her very near neighbourhood to Miss Anne.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Oh, nothing's right that I do!' replied Martha pettishly; 'thee'rt afraid I'll get as good as thee, and then thee cannot crow over me. But I'll not spend a farthing of thy money, depend upon it. I'm not without some shillings of my own, I reckon. Thee should let me love my enemies as well as thee, I think; but thee'lt want to go up to heaven alone next.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XIII.

THE OLD SHAFT.

Black Bess began to visit the cinder-hill cabin very often. But there was a fatal mistake, which poor Stephen, in his simplicity and single-heartedness, was a long time in discovering. Martha herself had not truly set out on the path of obedience to God's commandments; and it was not possible that she could teach Bess how to keep them. A Christian cannot be like a finger-post, which only points the way to a place, but never goes there itself. She could teach Bess the words of the hymn, and the tunes they were sung to; but she could tell her nothing of the feeling of praise and love to the Saviour with which Stephen sang them, and out of which all true obedience must flow. With her lips she could say, 'Blessed are the poor in spirit,' and 'Blessed are the meek,' and 'Blessed are they that do hunger and thirst after righteousness;' but she cared for none of these things, and felt none of their blessedness in her own soul; and Bess very quickly found out that she would far rather talk about other matters. And because our hearts, which are foolish, and deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked, soon grow weary of good, but are ever ready to delight in evil, it came to pass that, instead of Martha teaching poor ignorant Bess how to do God's will, Bess was leading her into all sorts of folly and wickedness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Eh! here's a clean, tight lass for you!' cried Andrew, comparing Martha with the begrimed pit-girls about him. 'The best shawl in my pack isn't good enough for you, my dear. Pick and choose. Just make your own choice, and I'll accommodate you about the price.'

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

'Oh, you and me'll not quarrel about money,' replied Andrew; 'you make your choice, and I'll wait your time. I'm coming my rounds pretty regular, and you can put up a shilling or two agen I come, without letting on to father. But maybe you're married, my dear?'

'No,' she answered, blushing.

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XIV.

A BROTHER'S GRIEF.

In a very short time all the people at work on the surface of the mine knew that Stephen Fern's little sister was dead—lying dead in the very pit where he was then labouring for her, with the spirit and strength and love of a father rather than a brother. Every face was overcast and grave; and many of the boys and girls were weeping, for little Nan had endeared herself to them all since she came to live at the cinder-hill cabin. Tim felt faint and heart-sick, almost wishing he could have perished in the child's stead, for poor Stephen's sake; but he had to rouse himself, for one of the banksmen was going to shout the terrible tidings down the shaft; and if Stephen should be near, instead of being at work farther in the pit, the words would fall upon him without any softening or preparation. He implored them to wait until he could run and tell Miss Anne; but while he was speaking they saw Miss Anne herself coming towards the pit, her face very pale and sorrowful, for the rumour had reached the master's house, and she was hastening to meet Stephen, and comfort him, if that were possible.

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

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

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

Stephen's comrades were all of a sudden very quiet, and their pickaxes no longer gave dull muffled thumps upon the seam of coal; but he was too busy to notice how idle and still they were. It was only when Cole spoke to him, in a tone of extraordinary mildness, that the boy paused in his rough and toilsome employment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stephen drew himself away from Cole's arm, and staggered forward a step or two to meet Tim; when he took the sad burden from him, and sat down without a word, pressing it closely to his breast. His perfect silence touched all about him. Miss Anne hid her face in her hands, and some of the men groaned aloud.

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XV.

RENEWED CONFLICT.

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

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

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

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

'Martha,' said Miss Anne, 'you are not so guilty of the child's death as my uncle, who ought to have had the pit bricked over safely when it was no longer in use. But you say you never thought you wanted pardon. Surely you feel your need of it now.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Miss Anne left the cabin the night was quite dark but the snow which lay unmelted on the mountains showed their outlines plainly with a pale gleaming of light though the sky was overcast with more snow-clouds. Her heart was full of sadness for Stephen, who was wandering, no one knew whither, among the snowdrifts on the solitary plains. She knew that he must be passing through a terrible trial and temptation, but she could do nothing for him; her voice could not reach him, nor her eye tell him by a silent look how deeply she felt for him. Yet Miss Anne knew who it is that possesseth 'the shields of the earth,' and in her earnest thanksgiving to God for Martha and Bess Thompson, she prayed fervently that the boy might be shielded and sheltered in his great sorrow, and that when he was tried he might come forth as gold.

All the day long, Stephen, instead of going to his work in the pit, had been rambling, without aim or purpose, over the dreary uplands; here and there stretching himself upon the wiry heath, where the sun had dried away the snow, and hiding his face from the light, while he gave way to an anguish of grief, and broke the deep silence with a loud and very bitter cry. It was death, sudden death, he was lamenting. Only yesterday morning little Nan was clinging strongly to his neck, and covering his face with merry kisses; and every now and then he felt as if he was only dreaming, and he started down towards home, as though he could not believe that those tender arms were stiffened and that rosy mouth still in death. But before he could run many paces the truth was borne in upon his aching heart that she was surely dead; and never more in this life would he see and speak to her, or listen to her lisping tongue. Little Nan, dearest of all earthly things,—perhaps dearer to him in the infancy of his Christian life than the Saviour Himself,—was removed from him so far that she was already a stranger, and he knew nothing of her.

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

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

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

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

The master held out a glittering sovereign in his hand, but Stephen pushed it away, and, seizing his arm firmly, drew him, reluctant as he was, to the white-covered table in the corner. There was no look of pain upon the pale, placid little features before them; but there was an awful stillness, and all the light of life was gone out of the open eyes, which were fixed into an upward gaze. The Bible, which Stephen had not looked for that morning, had been used instead of a cushion, and the motionless head lay upon it.

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

He loosed his grasp then, and opened the door wide. The master muttered a few words indistinctly, but he did not linger in the cabin beside that awful little corpse. The night had already deepened into intense darkness; and Stephen, standing at the door to listen, thought, with a quick tingling through all his veins, that perhaps the master would himself fall down the open pit. But no, he passed on securely; and Martha, coming in shortly afterwards, ventured to remark that she had just brushed against the master in the lane, and wondered where he was going to at that time of night.

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

All the people in Botfield wished to attend little Nan's funeral, but Stephen would not consent to it. At first he said only Tim and himself should accompany the tiny coffin to the churchyard at Longville; but Martha implored so earnestly to go with them, that he was compelled to relent. The coffin was placed in a little cart, drawn by one of the hill-ponies, and led slowly by Tim; while Stephen and Martha walked behind, the latter weeping many humble and repentant tears, as she thought sorrowfully of little Nan; but Stephen with a set and gloomy face, and a heart that pondered only upon the calamities that should overtake his enemy.



CHAPTER XVI.

SOFTENING THOUGHTS.

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

After the great tribulation of those days Stephen fell into a long and severe illness. For many weeks he was delirious and unconscious, neither knowing what he said nor who was taking care of him. When Miss Anne sat beside him, soothing him, as she sometimes could do, with singing, he would talk of being in heaven, and listening to little Nan among the angels. Bess shared many of Martha's weary hours of watching: and so deeply had the child's death affected them, that now all their thoughts and talk were about the things that Miss Anne diligently taught them concerning Jesus and His salvation. It was not much they knew; but as in former times a very small subject was sufficient for a long gossip, so now the little knowledge of the Scriptures that was lodged in either of their minds became the theme of fluent, if not very learned conversation. Sometimes Stephen, as if their words caught some floating memory, would murmur out a verse or two in his delirious ramblings, or sing part of a hymn. Tim, also, who came for an hour or two every evening, was always ready to read the few chapters he had learned, and to give the girls his interpretation of them.

There was no pressing want in the little household, though their bread-winner was unable to work. The miners made up Stephen's wages among themselves at every reckoning, for Stephen had won their sincere respect, though they had often been tempted to ill-treat him. Miss Anne came every day with dainties from the master's house, without meeting with any reproof or opposition, though the name of Stephen Fern never crossed Mr. Wyley's lips. Still he used to listen attentively whenever the doctor called upon Miss Anne, to give her his opinion how the poor boy was going on.

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

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

'You have asked me a hard question,' said Miss Anne; 'we cannot understand God's way, for "as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are His ways than our ways." But shall we try to find out a reason why God let these things be for little Nan's sake?'

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

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

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

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

'Oh no!' sobbed Stephen.

'And now, why has God sent so many troubles to you, my poor Stephen? As I told you before, we cannot understand His ways yet. But do not you see that sorrow has made you very different to the other boys about you? Have you not gained much wisdom that they do not possess? And would you change your lot with any one of them? Would you even be as you were yourself twelve months ago, before these afflictions came? We are sent into this world for something more than food and clothing, and work and play. Our souls must live, and they are dead if they are not brought into submission to God's will. Even our own Lord and Saviour, "though He were a son, yet learned He obedience by the things which He suffered." How much more do we need to suffer before we learn obedience to the will of God!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stephen looked at her bitter weeping with a longing desire to say something to comfort her, but he could not speak a word: for her grief was caused by the thought of the very vengeance he was wishing for. He turned away his head uneasily, and gazed deep down into the glowing embers of the fire.

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

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

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



CHAPTER XVII.

A NEW CALLING.

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

So changed was Stephen, though Danesford looked exactly the same, so tall had he grown during his illness, and so white was his formerly brown face, that the big boy who had shown him the way to the rectory did not know him again in the least. Probably Mr. Lockwood and his daughter would not have recognised him; but they were still lingering in a warmer climate, until the east winds had quite finished their course. The strange clergyman, however, was exceedingly kind to both the boys, and promised to send a full and faithful account to Mr. Lockwood of all the circumstances they narrated to him; for Tim told of many things which Stephen passed over. They had done right in coming to him, he said; and he gave Stephen enough money to supply the immediate necessities of his family, at the same time bidding him apply for more if he needed any; for he knew that a boy of his principle and character would never live upon other people's charity whenever he could work for himself.

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

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

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

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

'It means,' said Stephen, 'that we are no more at home here than a stranger is when he is passing through Botfield. I'm willing now never to go back to Fern's Hollow, if God pleases. Not that little Nan is gone; but because I'm sure God will do what is best with me, and we're to have no continuing city here. I think I shouldn't feel a bit angry if I saw other people living there.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE PANTRY WINDOW.

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

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

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

'Right!' repeated Thompson; 'who's to put wrong things right if we won't take the trouble ourselves? Is it right for the master to grind us down in our wages, and raise the rents over our heads, till we can scarcely get enough to keep us in victuals, just that he may add money to money to count over of nights? Was it right of him to leave the pit yonder open, till little Nan was killed in it? Thee has a heavy reckoning to settle with him, and I'd be wiping off some of the score. If I was in thy place, I should have little Nan's voice calling me day and night from the pit, to ask when I was going to revenge her.'

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

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

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

'Dost think that God sees?' asked Black Thompson scoffingly; 'if He sees, He doesn't care. What does it matter to Him that poor folks like us are trodden down and robbed? If He cared, He could strike the master dead in a moment, and He doesn't. He lets him prosper and prosper, till nobody can stand afore him. I'd take my own matter in my own hands, and make sure of vengeance. God doesn't take any notice.'

'I'm sure God sees,' answered Stephen; 'He is everywhere; and He isn't blind, or deaf, only we don't understand what He is going to do yet. If He didn't take any notice of us, He wouldn't make me feel so happy, spite of everything. Oh, Thompson thee and the men were so kind to me when I couldn't work, and I've never seen thee to thank thee. I can do nothing for thee, except I could persuade thee to repent, and be as happy as I am.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no need after that to urge Martha to hasten. After throwing a shawl over her head, she started off for Longville with the swiftness of a hare; and was soon past the engine-house, and threading her way cautiously through Botfield, where she dreaded to be discovered as she passed the lighted windows, or across the gleam of some open door. Many of the houses were quite closed up and dark, but in some there was a voice of talking; and here and there Martha saw a figure stealing like herself along the deepest shadows. But she escaped without being noticed; and, once through the village, her path lay along the silent high-roads straight on to Longville.

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

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

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

'Please to take the light into the pantry for one minute,' he whispered cautiously, with a fervent hope that Miss Anne would do so without requiring any further explanations; for he was lost if Black Thompson or Davies were lying in wait near at hand. Very thankfully he heard Miss Anne's step across the quarried floor, and in a moment afterwards the light shone through a low window close by. It was unglazed, with a screen of open lattice-work over it so as to allow of free ventilation. It had one thick stone upright in the middle, leaving such a narrow space as only a boy could creep through. He examined the opening quickly and carefully while the light remained, and when Miss Anne returned to the door he whispered again through the keyhole, 'Don't be afraid. It's me—Stephen; I'm coming in through the pantry window.'

He knew his danger. He knew if any of the robbers came up they must hear him removing the wooden lattice which was laid over the opening; and unless they supposed it to be one of their accomplices at work, he would be at once in their power, exposed to their ill-treatment, or perhaps suffer death at their hands. And would Miss Anne within trust to him instead of alarming the master? If he came down and opened the door, all the designs of the evil men would be hastened and finished before Martha could return from Longville. But Stephen did not listen, nor did his fingers tremble over their work, though there was a rush of thoughts and fears through his brain. He tore away the lattice as quickly and quietly as he could, and, with one keen glance round at the dark night, he thrust his head through the narrow frame. He found it was just possible to crush through; and, after a minute's struggle, his feet rested upon the pantry floor.



CHAPTER XIX.

FIRE! FIRE!

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

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

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

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

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

She stole up-stairs in the dark, lest those without should see the glimmer of her candle through the fanlight in the hall; and then she spoke softly to her uncle through his locked and bolted door. Down-stairs Stephen listened with his quickened hearing to the footsteps gathering round the house; and presently the latch of the pantry door was lifted with a sudden click that made him start and catch his breath; but Jack Davies could come no further, now the rusty bolt was drawn on the outside. There was a whispered conversation through the pantry window, and the sound of some one getting out again; and then Stephen crept across the dark kitchen into the hall through which Miss Anne had gone. At the head of the staircase was the door of the master's room, now standing open; and the light from it served to guide him across the strange hall, and up the stairs, until he reached the doorway, and could look in. The chamber had a low and sloping ceiling, and a gable-window in the roof, which was defended by strong bars. Near this window was an open cabinet, containing many little drawers and divisions, all of which were filled with papers; while upon a leaf in the front there lay rolls of bank notes, and heaps of golden money, which the master had been counting over. He stood beside his cabinet as if he had just risen from this occupation, and was leaning upon his chair, panic-stricken at the tidings Miss Anne had uttered. His grey hair was scattered over his forehead, instead of being smoothly brushed back; and the long, loose coat, which hung carelessly around his shrivelled form and stooping shoulders, made him look far older than he did in the day-time. As Stephen's eyes rested upon the sunken form and quaking limbs of the aged man, he felt, for the first time, how helpless and infirm his enemy was, instead of the rich, full, and prospering master he had always considered him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'I'm here,' he said,—'Stephen Fern. I found out what you are up to, and Martha's gone to Longville for help. She'll be here afore long, and you can't force the door open. Put out the fire in the wood-stack, and go home. Maybe if you're not found here you'll get off; for I've seen none of you, and I can only guess at who you are. Go home, I say.'

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

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

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

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

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