'I'll not open the door!' said Mr. Wyley from within; 'they will rob and murder me. They are come to kill me, and I may as well die here. There's no help.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XX.

STEPHEN'S TESTIMONY.

Mr. Wyley would not stir from the place where he could gaze upon his old home burning to the ground. He stood rooted to the spot, like one fascinated and enchained by a power he could not resist, grasping his precious bundle to his breast, and clinging firmly to the arm of the Longville doctor, who had been one of those who hastened to his rescue. Now and then he broke out into a deep cry, which he did not seem to hear himself; but even the grey dawn of the morning, brightening over the rounded outlines of the mountains, did not awaken him from his trance of terror and bewilderment. Miss Anne kept near to him all night, and Stephen lingered about her, making a seat for her upon the grass, and taking care that Martha also should be at hand to wait upon her. There was a great buzzing of people about them, hurrying to and fro; and every now and then they heard different conjectures as to how the fire began. But it was not, generally known that the constables from Longville and Botfield had contrived to arrest Black Thompson and Davies in the midst of the confusion, and had quietly taken them off to the jail at Longville. When the daylight grew strong, it shone upon a smouldering mass of ruins, and heaps of broken furniture piled upon the down-trodden grass. The master had grown aged in that one night, and he gazed helplessly about him, as if for some one to direct and guide him. He no longer refused to quit the place, only he would not trust himself anywhere near Botfield; and as soon as a carriage could be procured, he and Miss Anne were driven off to Longville. There was nothing more to wait for now; and Stephen went quietly home to breakfast in the cinder-hill cabin.

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

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

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

Then Tim told them how the horse-doctor had gone down to secure one of the ponies in a large, strong net, in order to bring it to the surface of the earth for a time; and that he had gone down with him more for his own amusement than to help him. He had wandered a little way into the winding galleries of the pit, and came back just as the skip was going up for the last time but one. Thompson and Davies were deep in conversation with the men who remained, and, stealing behind them, he overheard their plot, and their intention of persuading Stephen to join them. After that he dare not for his very life come forward when the skip descended, and he watched them go up, leaving him alone for the night in that dismal place. He had his father's lamp with him, and so made his way to the bottom of the old shaft, and waited, with what impatience and anxiety we may imagine, to hear Stephen return from his work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Oh, I knew thee would!' she said; 'thee'lt tell the justice thee never saw him there till the other folks came up from Botfield. Tim says he didn't see anybody down in the pit, and he's promised not to swear to their names. Don't thee swear to seeing anybody.'

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

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

'Ay,' said Tim, 'Bess is right; there's not a mother's son in Botfield to swear agen them for the master's sake. If he didn't see them, nor Miss Anne, why need we know? I'll soon baffle the justice, I promise ye. It's a rare chance to forgive Black Thompson, anyhow.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no time for further discussion, for the constable from Longville came in to conduct them before the magistrate, to give their separate evidence concerning the events of the past night. Bess went with them, weeping all the way beside them, and grieving Stephen's heart by her tears, though she dared not speak a word in the constable's presence. But he gave his testimony gravely and truthfully, and Tim and Martha followed his example; and, in consequence of their joint evidence, Black Thompson and Davies were fully committed to take their trial at the next assizes, and were removed that afternoon to the county jail.



CHAPTER XXI.

FORGIVENESS.

Bess Thompson started off on her way to her desolate home, almost heart-broken, and with such a wrathful resentment against Stephen, and Martha, and Tim, as seemed to blot out all memory of the lessons she had been learning from Miss Anne since the little child's death. She could never bear to go near them, or speak to them again, since they had sworn against her father; and had not he been good to them when Stephen was ill, often sparing her to watch with Martha, as well as helping to make up his wages? If this was their religion, she did not care to have it; for nobody else in Botfield would have done the same. And now she might as well give up all thoughts of getting to heaven, where little Nan and her baby sister were; for there would be nobody to care for her, and she would be obliged to go back to all her old ways.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About a fortnight after these events Stephen received a visitor upon the uplands, where he was seeking a lamb that had strayed into a dwarf forest of gorse-bushes, and was bleating piteously in its bewilderment. A pleasant-sounding voice called 'Stephen Fern!' and when he got free from the entangling thorns, with the rescued lamb in his arms, who should be waiting for him but the lord of the manor himself! Stephen knew his face again in an instant, and dropped the lamb that he might take off his old cap, while the gentleman smiled at him with a hearty smile.

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

'Miss Anne,' answered Stephen promptly.

'No; there are other young ladies in the world beside Miss Anne!' replied Mr. Danesford. 'Have you forgotten Miss Lockwood? She has not forgotten you; and we are come home ready to give battle to your enemies, and reinstate you in all your rights. She gives Mr. Lockwood and me no rest until we have got Fern's Hollow, and everything else, for you again.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER XXII.

THE MASTER'S DEATHBED.

When the master at last consented to leave the sight of his old dwelling burning into blackened heaps, he seemed to care nothing where he might be taken. He was without a home, and almost without a friend. It was not accident merely, but the long-provoked hatred of his people, that had driven him from the old chambers and the old roof which had sheltered him for so many years, and where all the habits and memories of his life centred. Miss Anne had not been long enough at Botfield to form friendships on her own account, except among the poor and ignorant people on her uncle's works; and she accepted most thankfully the offer of the doctor from Longville to give them a refuge in his house. No sooner had they arrived there than it was discovered that the master was struck with paralysis, brought on by the shock of the fire, and all the terrifying circumstances attending it. He was carried at once to a bedroom, and from that time Miss Anne had been fully occupied in nursing him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He watched her with impatient eagerness as she turned over the precious parcel of papers which he had rescued from the fire. There were many documents and writings belonging to the property he had gathered together, and it was some time before she could find the will. The master tried to take it from her, but in vain; his right hand was powerless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Pray for me, Stephen. Kneel down there, and pray aloud,' he said; and his eyelids closed feebly, and his restless head lay still, as if he had no more power to move it.

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

'If you have forgiven me, pray to God for me,' murmured the master, opening his eyes again with a look of deep entreaty. Over Stephen's pale face a smile was kindling, a smile of pure, intense love and faith, and the light in his pitying eyes met the master's dying gaze with a gleam of strengthening hope. He clasped the cold hand in both his own, and, kneeling down beside him, he prayed from his very soul, 'Lord, lay not this sin to his charge.'

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

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



CHAPTER XXIII.

THE HOME RESTORED.

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

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

'My boy,' said Mr. Lockwood, 'our business is finished at last. Mr. Thomas Wyley will not try his right to Fern's Hollow by law; but we have agreed to give him the L15 paid to your grandfather, and also to pay to him all the actual cost of the work done here. Miss Anne and I have had a quarrel on the subject, but she consents that I shall pay that as a mark of my esteem for you, and my old servant your mother. Mr. Danesford intends to make a gift to you of the pasture and plantation, which were an encroachment upon the manor. And now I want you to take my advice into the bargain. Jackson wants to come here, and offers a rent of L20 a year for the place. Will you let him have it till you are old enough to manage it properly yourself, Stephen?'

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

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

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

'In this case, Stephen,' Mr. Lockwood went on, 'you will have a yearly income of L20, and we would like to hear what you will do with it?'

'There's grandfather,' said Stephen diffidently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Tell me why not.'

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

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

'Can I forget?' murmured Stephen.

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

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

'Look, Stephen,' she replied, pointing to the distant sky where the sun was going down amid purple clouds, and bidding him turn to the grey horizon where the sun had risen in the morning; 'listen: "As far as the east is from the west, so far hath He removed our transgressions from us." And again: "He will turn again, He will have compassion upon us; He will subdue our iniquities; and Thou wilt cast all their sins into the depths of the sea." And again: "For I will be merciful to their unrighteousness, and their sins and their iniquities will I remember no more." This is the forgiveness of our Father, Stephen.'

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

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

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

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

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

THE END.



* * * * *

STORIES BY HESBA STRETTON.

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

The Religious Tract Society, London.