"He's up to some mischief more than common, I'll be bound," he said to himself. "I'll keep a sharp look-out for you, my friend."

A short time after, and Juniper had disappeared, nor did he emerge from his retreat till the evening. He was then in high spirits, laughing and chatting with the sailors, and every now and then glancing up at Jacob, who was walking up and down the poop with Captain Merryweather. At last, just as Jacob was descending to the main-deck, and had his foot on the topmost step of the ladder, the vessel lying over under a breeze on the quarter, Juniper suddenly sprang up the steps in a state of great excitement, shouting out, "A whale!—a whale!" Every one but the captain turned suddenly round in the direction to which Juniper was pointing, Jacob among the number, so that he hung partly over the water.

"Where?" cried several voices.

"There!" he exclaimed, suddenly stumbling with his whole might against Jacob, so as very nearly to hurl him into the sea. Indeed, had not the captain, who was on the watch, sprung forward and caught hold of him, he must have inevitably gone overboard.

"You scoundrel!" shouted the captain, seizing Juniper by the collar, and sending him spinning down the ladder on to the deck below, where he lay half stunned for a few moments.

"I'm up to your tricks, my man," he added, as Juniper limped off to his cabin, vowing vengeance.

"What's amiss, captain?" asked Frank, in great astonishment. "What's poor Juniper been doing? No great harm in fancying he saw a whale, even supposing he was mistaken."

"Mr Oldfield," said the captain, sorrowfully, "you don't know that fellow. If ever there was a serpent in a human body, there's one in that man of yours. Bear with me, my dear sir, if I offer you an earnest word or two of caution. I can see that you are not the man you were when we crossed the seas together before. We had a very happy voyage then, and you remember how strong and settled you were on the subject of total abstinence. Is it so now? Ah! don't let that wretched fellow take all that's good and noble out of you. He don't care a straw for you nor for any one but himself; I'm quite certain. He has mischief in his eye, and there's a black heart under that smooth tongue—if I know anything of what a rogue's like, and I've boarded many that have been sailing under false colours in my day. You must excuse my speaking so warmly and plainly, Mr Oldfield; but I really cannot bear to see you running on to the reefs without giving you a word of warning."

"Thank you—thank you, captain," said Frank. "I know you mean kindly, but I still think you're hard upon Juniper. I believe he's a faithful fellow, with all his faults; and he isn't without them, I'll allow. But he's sincerely attached to me, I believe, and that makes up for a good deal."

"Attached to you, Mr Oldfield! don't think it! He's only making a tool of you—he'll just get all he can out of you, and then he'll scuttle you, and leave you to sink."

"I can't think it, I cannot indeed," was Frank's reply; "there's an old proverb about giving a dog a bad name. He's no friend of yours, I know, nor of Jacob Poole's either, and I'm sorry for it."

"And is he really acting a friend's part by you, Mr Oldfield?" asked the other. Frank coloured, and evaded the question.

"At any rate, Jacob has no real cause to be at such daggers-drawn with him," he said.

"Do you think not? Are you aware that he was trying to knock Jacob overboard only a few minutes ago, and that he attempted his life at the diggings?"

"Oh, captain, it's all fancy; you're mistaken, both of you. I'm sure you're mistaken. Juniper's not the sort of fellow—he hasn't it in him—he hasn't the pluck to commit murder, even if he had the will to do it."

"Ah, Mr Oldfield," cried the captain, "I say again, beware of him; you don't know him; if you'd seen the spite in his eye that I've seen you wouldn't talk so. He has malice enough in him to take away life, if he felt sure he could do it without detection and punishment. And is he not, at this very moment, stealing away from you the life of body and soul? Don't be offended, pray, Mr Oldfield; but I say again, I can't bear to see you drifting on to the rocks, and not lend a helping hand to keep you off."

"I'm not offended, my kind friend," said Frank sorrowfully; "you tell the truth, I fear, when you say I'm drifting on to the rocks; and yet I don't mean to go on as I'm doing now, I assure you—when I touch land again I'm going to turn over a new leaf altogether, and paste it down over the old ones, so that I shall make quite a fresh start."

"And do you think," asked the other, "that this fellow will let you keep your good resolutions, even if you had the wish to do so?"

"Oh yes," replied Frank, carelessly; "I've told Master Juniper that his reign will only last on board ship; I'm to be master, and we're both to say 'good-bye' to the drink when once we set foot on shore, and he's quite agreeable."

"Of course he is," said the captain; "he'll be willing to promise anything for the future, if you'll only let him keep his hold on you now. Well, sir, I've warned you, and I hope you may lay it to heart."

"I will, my good friend; indeed I will," was the reply. That evening Frank kept himself out of Juniper's reach, much to the disgust and annoyance of that gentleman, who began to dread lest he had over-reached himself; and set his old master against him. It was not so, however. Juniper had become necessary to Frank, and a day or two found them as fast friends as ever.

And now the Sabrina had accomplished half her homeward course, and many a heart on board rejoiced in the hope of a speedy and prosperous completion of the voyage.

It was a chilly and boisterous afternoon, the clouds were hurrying in leaden-coloured layers along the sky, the sea was all in a foam, and patches of whitish upper clouds, beneath which the lower drift was scudding, threw a lurid light over the wide expanse of ocean. The wind, which had hitherto been favourable, now veered, and obliged them to tack. The captain, at this juncture, was on the poop, with Frank Oldfield by him.

"I haven't seen Mr Juniper Graves to-day," said the former.

"To tell you the truth," answered Frank, "he and I have been having a few words together."

"I'm not sorry for it," remarked the captain drily; "nothing serious, however, I hope."

"Nothing very, perhaps; but the matter's simply this: I've been fool enough to play cards with him for rather high stakes lately, and I fancy that I've detected my man peeping over my cards, and using a little sleight of hand in his shuffling too."

"I'll be bound he has," remarked the other.

"If he'd been a poor man," added Frank, "I could have excused it; but the fellow's got a whole fortune in nuggets and notes stowed about him. He's a sort of walking 'Crocus,' as he told me once, when he wasn't over sober,—meaning 'Croesus,' of course."

"And so you've given him a little of your mind, I suppose."

"Yes; and it's wounded my gentleman's dignity considerably; so there he is below, hugging his gold, and comforting himself in his own way, which isn't much in your line or Jacob's, captain, and I wish it wasn't in mine."

"In other words," said Captain Merryweather, "he's pretty nearly drunk by this time."

"You're somewhere about right," was the reply. Immediately after this short dialogue the captain proceeded to give the orders for tacking in a stentorian voice, as the wind was high.

"Ready, ho! ready!" he cried. All were standing ready at their posts. Then the word was given to the man at the wheel.

"Helm's a-lee!" roared the captain. There was rattling of chains, flapping of canvas, and shuffling of feet.

"Mainsail h-a-u-aul!" bellowed the captain in a prolonged shout. Round went the great sail under the swift and strong pulls of willing hands.

"Let go, and h-a-u-aul!" once more roared out the captain in a voice of thunder.

It was just at this moment, when all was apparent confusion, when ropes were rattling, feet stamping, sails quivering, that Juniper Graves emerged from his cabin on to the main-deck, his head bare, and his sandy hair flying out wildly into the breeze. His eyes were strained and bloodshot, and his whole appearance was that of a person in an agony of terror. Aroused from his drunken sleep by the noise overhead, and terrified to find the vessel heeling over to the other side, he imagined, in his drunken bewilderment, that the ship had struck, and that himself and his gold were in danger of perishing with her. Filled with frenzy at this idea, he rushed out upon deck, where the general apparent confusion confirmed his fears; then he sprung upon the bulwarks, gazed around him in utter dismay at the crew in busy motion about him, tottered on his insecure standing-ground, caught at a rope to save himself; missed it, and then, with a terrible shriek of horror and despair, fell headlong overboard into the boiling waters.

"Save him! oh, save him!" cried Frank Oldfield imploringly. "Where is he? Let me go, let me go," he screamed, for he was about to plunge overboard, and the captain was holding him back with his powerful grasp.

"It's no use, Mr Oldfield; it'll only be two lives instead of one."

"Oh, yes, yes," besought Frank; "put the ship about—lie-to—throw over a hen-coop, a life-buoy, for mercy's sake—the poor wretch isn't fit to die," and he still struggled to free himself.

"Listen to reason, sir," said the captain. "We can do nothing; the ship's running nine knots, and no one knows where to look for him; nothing can save him, miserable man; he's sunk no doubt, at once, and all the faster for having his gold about him."

"Can nothing be done?" cried Frank, beseechingly.

"Nothing, I assure you," replied the other; "there's not a trace of him to be seen, is there, Mr Walters?" The first mate shook his head. "We're far enough off now from the spot where he fell in. It's in mercy to you, sir, that he's been taken away."

Frank sank upon a seat, and buried his face in his hands, sobbing bitterly.

Yes; the tempter was gone, gone to his account—suddenly cut off in the midst of his sins, hurried away in righteous retribution by the very death himself had planned for Jacob Poole. Yes; the tempter was gone, and the tempted still remained. Would he take home to his heart the lesson and warning God had thus sent him? The tempter was gone, but, alas! the temptation was not gone. Frank had even now in his cabin several flasks of that drink which had already borne such miserable fruits for himself and the guilty wretch just hurried into the presence of his offended God. He had bought the spirits from Juniper at an exorbitant price, but would he use them now, after what had happened? The night after Juniper's awful death he sat in his cabin weeping. Thoughts of home, of mother, father, Mary, crowded in upon his heart. The days that once were, when he would have joined with real willingness and hearty earnestness the band of abstainers, as he sat in all boyish sincerity at Mr Bernard Oliphant's table, eager to make the trial and bear the cross, were fresh upon his memory now. And all the bitter past, with its shameful, degrading, sinful records, gathered its thick shadows round his soul. What should he do? He sank upon his knees and prayed—prayed to be forgiven, prayed that he might do better—and then he rose, and was in part comforted. And now, what should he do with the spirits which were still in his possession? He took them out and ranged the flasks on his berth. His scuttle stood open. One minute and he could have thrown them all into the sea. Conscience said, "Do it, and do it at once." But another voice whispered, "Pity to waste so much good stuff; drink these out, but only a moderate quantity at a time, and then you can renounce the drink for ever." He listened to the second voice, and conscience sighed itself to sleep.

Alas! alas! what fiend like the fiend of drink? It can steal away every good resolution, drown the voice of conscience, and make a man cheat himself into the belief that the indulgence of to-day is a warrant and guarantee for the abstinence of to-morrow. Frank was satisfied; he felt sure that it would be wiser to wean himself gradually from his drinking habits; he would use the strictest moderation with his present little stock, and then he should more readily forsake it altogether when this was gone. And so he continued to drink, but more and more sparingly, as he himself supposed, because he was really training himself to a gradual surrender of the drink, but in reality because he dreaded to be left altogether without it. And so the taste was kept up during the remainder of the voyage, and Frank Oldfield landed on the shores of his native country with the thirst strong upon him.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

HOMELESS AND HEARTLESS.

The Sabrina was bound for Liverpool, and entered that port some two years after the time when she left it with Hubert Oliphant and Frank Oldfield as fellow-passengers. Alas! how different were the feelings of the latter now, from those with which he trod the deck of that vessel when preparing for his temporary exile. Then, though sad, he was full of hope; now he was both heartless and hopeless; he knew he was the bond-slave of the drink, and, whatever he might say to others, he felt in his own heart that it was useless any longer to try and cheat himself with the transparent phantom of a lie. Yet he could not for shame acknowledge thus much to others, nor would he allow his conscience to state it deliberately to himself; he still clung to something, which was yet neither conviction nor hope, that he might even now master his besetting sin. Alas! he desired the good end, but he would not use the only means to that good end; and so, when he landed on the soil of the old country again, it was with the settled determination, (though he would not have believed his own handwriting, had he put down that determination on paper) not to give up the drinking of intoxicating liquors at present. How then should he face his parents and Mary Oliphant? He could not face them at all as yet. He could not at once make up his mind what to do. Happily for him, Juniper Graves had been cut off before he had been able to effect a complete spoliation of his master, so that Frank had still rather more than two hundred pounds in his possession. While this money lasted, he resolved to stave off the evil day of taking any decided step. He would not write to his mother or Mary till he had quite made up his mind what course he was intending to pursue. He was also well aware that the family of Bernard Oliphant could give him no welcome with his present habits of excess still upon him. So, on the day of reaching Liverpool, he said to Jacob Poole,—

"Well, Jacob, are you quite tired of my service, or will you stay by me a little longer? I've no right or wish to stand in your way, and if you would like to make another voyage with Captain Merryweather, or can find any other situation that will suit you better than mine, I would not have you consider yourself bound to me at all."

"Mayster Frank," was Jacob's reply, "I'm not going to leave you now, unless you wish to part with me yourself. I don't feel happy in leaving you to go by yourself nobody knows where."

"Really, Jacob, you make a capital nurse," said the other, laughing; "you seem to be quite convinced that I'm not to be trusted to run alone."

"And it's true, sir," replied Jacob, seriously; "you need looking after, and I mustn't be letting you get into the hands of any of those chaps as'll hook all as you have out o' you in no time—that is, if you're going to stay by yourself in this big town."

"Why, yes, Jacob; I shall not go down to my father's at once. I don't seem as if I could go. I'd better wait a little bit. I seem out of trim, and out of sorts altogether."

"You must please yourself," replied Jacob; "and you must know best, Mayster Frank, what you're bound to do. But, if you'd take my advice, you'd go home at once, afore anything worse happens."

"No, Jacob, I cannot yet, and so that's settled. Now we must look-out for lodgings; they mustn't be expensive ones, else the brass, as you call it, won't hold out, and you can wait on me, and keep me in order, you know. But, by the way, I was forgetting that you have friends of your own to look after. Don't let anything I've been saying prevent your going to them, and doing what's right by them. I shall be quite willing to come into any arrangement you may like to make. Don't consider yourself bound to me, Jacob, but just do whatever you feel to be your duty."

"You're very kind, Mayster Frank: it's just this way with me. I should like to go and see arter them as I left behind when I sailed for Australia, and see how they're coming on. But it don't matter for a week or so, for they're not looking for me. I'll see you settled first properly, Mayster Frank, if you mean to settle here for a bit, and then I'll just take a run over yonder for a few days, and come back to you again, and what I do afterwards'll depend on how I find things yonder."

And thus it was finally settled. Frank took quiet lodgings in a respectable by-street, in the house of an aged widow, who was delighted with his cheerful open manners, and did her best to make him and Jacob comfortable. But the time hung heavily on the hands of both master and man. Frank purposed daily writing home, and yet each to-morrow found him more reluctant to do so than the day before. Jacob loitered about the town and docks when his master did not want him, and got exceedingly weary of his idleness.

"Eh, ma'am," he said one day to their landlady, "my arms fair ache with hanging down and doing nothing."

Thus things went on for about a fortnight, when one evening at tea-time Frank failed to make his appearance. Seven o'clock, then nine and ten, but no master came to remove poor Jacob's misgivings. At last, about midnight, a stumbling against the door and a violent knock made his heart die within him.

"Who's there?" he cried, before opening the door.

"Me, old king of trumps!" cried a voice which he knew to be Frank's. The minute after, the wretched young man staggered in almost helpless. Next day was a season of bitter sorrow, self-reproach, and remorse; but, alas! not to be followed by any real amendment, for Frank was now seldom home till late, though he was never again grossly intoxicated. But a shadow had now settled habitually on his once bright and open countenance, which Jacob could not quite understand, and which was almost more sad to him than the degrading flush and vacant stare produced by excess in drink. Something dreadful was amiss, he was sure, but he could not tell, and hardly dare conjecture what it might be. Very, very loth then was he to go, when the time came for his leaving his master entirely to his own devices. He would gladly have put off his journey, but Frank would not hear of it, and was evidently annoyed when Jacob urged the matter. So it was finally settled that he should be away for a few days, not exceeding a fortnight. The night but one before his intended departure, Jacob was pleased to find that his master did not leave home, but took his tea at his lodgings, a very unusual thing of late. After tea he made Jacob come and sit with him, and they had a long talk over Australian matters, and the events of their late voyage. At last Frank said,—

"Jacob, I don't wish to pry into your concerns, or to ask questions which you may not like to answer. I hope, however, that you will not scruple to ask my advice on any matter in which I can be of service to you."

"Well, thank you, sir," replied Jacob, with a sort of embarrassment in his manner, "you're very kind, but I've reasons just now why I'd like to say as little as possible about myself to any one. If I find them as I'm going to seek, I may have much to say; but maybe I may find things so as'll make it better I should forget as ever I'd any belonging me."

"Just so," said his master; "you must be the best judge of your own matters, and I would not intrude on your private concerns for a moment; only I should just like to know what you mean to do with your bag of nuggets; you must be careful where you put it. It would be hardly wise to carry it about with you, if you don't mean to turn it into money at present."

Jacob was troubled at the question, yet he could hardly tell why; he answered, however,—

"Well, Mayster Frank, I'm not thinking of meddling with my nuggets at present."

"Hadn't you better then leave them with me till you return?" asked Frank.

Poor Jacob was sorely puzzled what to reply. He looked down, and there was an awkward pause. At last he said,—

"I cannot rightly tell what'll be the best to do. Mayster Oldfield, you mustn't be offended, but I'd better be plain and outspoken. You'd not mean to wrong me of a farthing, I know; but you must be well aware you're not always your own mayster. So if you cannot keep your own brass safe, I can hardly think it wise to trust you to take charge of mine. I don't wish to vex you, Mayster Frank, but that's just the honest truth."

"Quite right, Jacob, quite right," said his master, laughing; "you don't vex me at all. I should do just the same, if I were in your place. Suppose, then, you give your bag in charge to our landlady the morning you start; that'll be soon enough, for, poor soul, she'll be glad, I daresay, not to have charge of other folk's treasure a day longer than necessary; and I'll be a witness that you give it into her charge."

"Thank you, mayster," said Jacob, greatly relieved; "that's good advice, and I'll follow it."

The next evening, the last before Jacob's expedition, Frank again remained at home. He had been out all the morning. Jacob looked anxiously at him when he returned. He clearly had not been drinking—at any rate immoderately—yet there was something in his look which Jacob could not fathom, and if ever Frank met his servant's eye, his own immediately fell.

"I'm not satisfied as all's right," said Jacob to himself, "and yet I cannot tell what's amiss."

That night his sleep was restless and disturbed. Once he fancied that his door was opened, and that his master appeared and drew back again. Their rooms were on the opposite sides of the same landing. Again he fancied, or dreamt, that a hand passed under his pillow, where he kept his nuggets. It was quite dark—he started up and felt for the bag; it was there quite safe, and he laid him down again. But yet again he seemed to feel a hand behind his pillow.

"I must have been dreaming," he muttered to himself; "the bag's right."

Yes, there it was all right when he rose in the morning. He was to start by an early train, so, hastily dressing himself, and having breakfasted, he came to say farewell to his master.

"Oh, Mayster Frank," he said, grasping the other's outstretched hand, "I'm heavy at the heart at leaving you. I cannot tell why, but there's a weight like lead upon me. Oh, dear Mayster Frank, for my sake, for your own sake, for the sake of all them as loves you, will you promise me to keep off the drink, leastways till I come back? Will you pray the Lord to help you, Mayster Frank? He will help you, if you'll pray honestly."

What was it that affected his unhappy master so powerfully? Frank's whole frame shook with emotion. He stared at Jacob with a gaze of mingled remorse and agony such as touched the other to the quick.

"Jacob," gasped his master, at last, "I cannot let you go thus—you don't know—I've—I've—" He paused for a moment, and tears and sobs burst from him. Then he sat down, and bowed his head on his knees, clasping his hands tightly together. Then an unnatural calmness followed; he muttered something to himself, and then said, in a tone of affected indifference and gaiety,—

"There, it don't matter; the best of friends must part. You'll be back before so very long, and I'll try and be a good boy meanwhile.

"Just call up the landlady, Jacob, and we can see her take charge of your nuggets."

Jacob did as his master bade him.

"There, Mrs Jones," he said, taking the bag hastily from Jacob's hands; "this bag of nuggets belongs to my man. You see it contains gold," he added, opening the mouth of the bag, and taking out a small nugget; "there," tying it up with the string which he had removed from it, "he'll know where to look for them when he comes back. We've the fullest confidence, Mrs Jones, that they will be safe in your keeping."

"Indeed, sir," said the landlady, curtseying, "I'd rather you should keep them."

"No, no, Mrs Jones; Jacob knows very well that you're to be trusted, but that I'm not."

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed Mrs Jones; but she was at a loss what farther to say, for she felt that poor Frank spoke only the sober truth. At last she said,—

"Well, sir, I'll take charge of them, as you both seem to wish it, and I'll take care that no one sees where I put them."

And so Jacob and his master parted.

Ten days passed by, and then Jacob, downcast and weary, made his way to the lodgings. His heart died within him at the expression of the landlady's face when she had opened the door to him, and found that he was alone.

"Where's Mr Oldfield?" he gasped.

"That's just what I was going to ask you, Mr Poole."

"What! you don't mean to say he's left your house?"

"He has indeed," was the reply. "I've seen nothing of him since the day after you left."

"Seen nothing of him!" exclaimed Jacob in complete bewilderment; "but has he sent you no message—no letter?"

"No, Mr Poole, he's neither sent nor written. He paid me all he owed me up to the last night he slept here, and that's all I know."

"And has he left no message, nothing to tell one where he's gone?" asked Jacob.

"Nothing," she said, "unless this letter's from him—it came a few days ago."

Jacob seized it, and tore it open. When he had read a few lines he let it drop upon the floor, and stood gazing at it as though some strange fascination glared out from it upon him. Then he took it up again, read it deliberately through, laid it on the table, and sitting down, burst into an agony of weeping. The letter was as follows:—

"DEAR JACOB,—I must write to you, though I hardly can hold my pen, and every letter, as I write, seems like blood wrung out from my heart. Well, it's no use; you shall have the naked truth at once. I have robbed you, Jacob, artfully, basely, deliberately, cruelly robbed you, and all through the cursed drink. I hate myself for it as the vilest wretch upon earth. And yet I have no excuse to make. I have been gambling with a wretched set of sharpers, who got hold of me when I was drunk. They cleaned me out of every penny. I was ruined—I was desperate—I thought if I could get hold of your nuggets I could turn them into money, win back what I had lost, and repay you with interest. I got some lead, melted it in a shovel, (I need not tell you where I did this; it was in no good place, you may be sure). I made the lead into the shape of nuggets. The night but one before you left I tried to find out where you kept your bag; you were restless and clutched at your pillow. I knew then that it was there. I got another leather bag and filled it with the leaden nuggets I had made. These I slipped behind your pillow, and took away the real ones, the night before you left; you felt for them, and fancied you had them safe. When I had got out the gold, I crouched down in the dark till you were fast asleep again. Then I drew out the bag very carefully from behind your head, and changed it for your own bag, having first filled your own bag with the leaden nuggets and one or two little bits of gold at the top, so that you had your own bag when you woke in the morning, but I had your gold in the other bag. There, you know all now, you can understand all the rest. I sold your nuggets—I spent part of the money in drink—I played again—I've lost all—I shall never be able to repay you—I dare not look you in the face—I dare not look my father and mother in the face—I dare not look—it's no matter. You are an honest fellow, Jacob, and will get on, spite of my villainy. If you ever marry and have children, make them total abstainers, if you would keep them safe in body and soul. As for myself, I cannot mend—I'm past it—I've been cheating myself with the belief that I meant to mend, but I never did. I see it now. There, Jacob, I don't ask you to forgive me, but I do ask one thing—grant it me for the love you once had to me—it is this: wait a month, I shall be out of the way by that time, and then post the enclosed letter to my poor mother. I have told her how I have robbed you. My father will repay you. Tell him where he can find you. I shall soon be out of everybody's reach. And now all I have got to ask you is just to wipe me out of your thoughts altogether, and to forget that there ever was such a person as your guilty, miserable, degraded master."

"Oh, Mr Poole," said his landlady, compassionately, when he had begun to recover from the first vehemence of his grief, "I fear there's something dreadfully wrong."

Jacob shook his head.

"All lost—all ruined," he replied. Yet even now his heart yearned towards his miserable master. He would not expose him to Mrs Jones; she at least should know nothing of his own loss.

"Mrs Jones," he said, holding out his hand, "I must say good-bye. I fear my poor master's got into very bad hands. I don't rightly know what's become of him; but where there's life there's hope, and I trust he isn't past that. If you and I meet again, may it be a happier meeting. Be so good as to hand me my—my—bag I left in your charge," he added, with quivering voice.

"I'm so sorry," said the good woman, when she had fetched the bag. "I wish I could do anything to comfort you. I'm sure I'm truly sorry for the poor young gentleman. It's a thousand pities he's thrown himself away, for a nicer or freer-spoken gentleman never was, when he was in his proper senses. There, Mr Poole, there's your bag. You see it's just as you gave it me. No one has seen it or touched it but myself."

"Thank you, Mrs Jones. It's all right; farewell, and the Lord be with us both."

He turned from the door utterly broken down in spirit. Whither should he go? What should he do? Should he really abandon his master to his fate? He could not. Should he delay posting the letter? No; and yet he felt a difficulty about it; for Frank had stated in his letter to himself that he had told his mother of the robbery, and that Jacob must be repaid his loss. But who was to say what was the worth of the nuggets? He had never ascertained their value. He felt that he could not face his master's father; that he could not himself put a value upon what he had lost. His master had saved his life, and he would set that against the pilfered gold, and would forgive what had been done against himself. So having ascertained that it was only too true that his bag contained but two or three little pieces of the precious metal, he cast the rest of its contents into the sea, and determined to start afresh in life, as if the sorrowful part of his past history never had been. But first he posted Frank's letter, with one of his own, in which he stated where he had lodged in Liverpool, that so his master's parents might have every opportunity of endeavouring to trace their unhappy son. His own letter was as follows:—

"MADAM,—Mr Frank Oldfield, your son, has bid me send you the letter from him which comes with this. Mr Frank is my master. You have no doubt heard him say something in his letters from Australia about Jacob Poole. Well, I am Jacob Poole. And we came to England together, my master and me; and my master has took, I am sorry to say it, to drinking again since he came back. I wanted him to go home at once, but he has kept putting it off, and he has got into the hands of some gamblers as has stripped him of all his brass; and he has taken, too, some nuggets of mine, which I got at the diggings, but he didn't mean to keep them, only to borrow them, and pay me back. But, poor young gentleman, he has been quite ruinated by these cheating chaps as has got hold of him. So I don't want anybody to think anything more about me or my nuggets—I should not like any fuss to be made about them—I had rather the whole thing was kept snug. I shall go and get work somewhere or other; and, thank the Lord for it, I am young and strong. So, dear madam, don't think any more about me or my nuggets; for Mr Frank saved my life when he might have lost his own, so he is welcome to the nuggets, and more into the bargain. I am sorry that Mr Frank has gone off; so I cannot tell you where to find him. I have tried, but it isn't any use. We—that is, my master and me—was lodging with Mrs Jones, as I've written at the top of the letter. I can tell you no more about where to find him. So no more at present from your very humble servant, JACOB POOLE."

"Mr Frank has written to me not to post his letter for a month, but I don't think it is right to keep it from you, so I send it at once."

Such was Jacob's letter, when cleared of mistakes in spelling and expression.

Frank's letter to his mother was in these words:—

"DEAREST MOTHER,—How shall I write to you! What shall I say to you? I feel as if my pen scorched my fingers, and I could not hold it. I feel as though this very paper I am writing on would carry on it the blush of burning shame that covers me. Darling mother, how shall I tell you what I am? And yet I must tell you; I must lift the veil once for all, and then it shall drop for ever on your miserable son. I am in England now. I do not know where I shall be when you receive this. I went out to Australia, as you know, hoping to become a sober, steady man. I am returned to England a confirmed drunkard, without hope, ay, even without the wish to break off from my sin. I cannot look you or my father in the face as I am now. I never could look Mary in the face again. I shall never write or breathe her name again. I have no one to blame but myself. I have no strength left to fight against my sin. I am as weak before the drink as a little child, and weaker. I could pray, but it's no use praying; for I have prayed often, and now I know that I never really desired what I prayed for. I dare not face the prospect of entirely renouncing strong drink. I once dreamed that I could, but it was only a dream; at least, since I first began habitually to exceed. But can I go on and tell you what my love for the drink has led me to? I must, for I want you or my dear father to do one thing for me, the last I shall ever ask. Oh, don't cast me utterly out of your heart when you hear it, but I must tell it. I have robbed my poor faithful servant, Jacob Poole, of his nuggets, which he got by his own hard labour. I secretly took them from him, and spent what they fetched in drink and gaming. I meant to win and pay him back, but I might have known I never could. Yes, I robbed the poor young man who nursed me, worked for me, prayed for me, remonstrated with me, bore with me. I robbed him when his back was turned. Oh, what a vile wretch the drink has made me! Can you have any love for me after reading this? Oh, if you have, I want you or my father to repay Jacob for his nuggets which I stole. He's as honest as the day. You may trust him to put no more than a fair value on them. One more request I have to make, darling mother. Oh,—deal kindly by her—I said I would never write her name again, and I will not. I dare not write to her, it would do no good. Tell her that I'm lost to her for ever; tell her to forget me. And do you forget me too, dearest mother. I could be nothing but a thorn, a shame, a burden in my old home. I will not tell you where I am, nor where I shall be; it is better not. Forget me if you can, and think of me as dead. I am so for all better purposes; for everything good or noble has died out of me. The drink has done it. Your hopeless son, FRANK OLDFIELD."



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

A MISERABLE DEATH.

Three days after Jacob Poole had posted his letter and its enclosure, a cab drove up to Mrs Jones's door. In it were Sir Thomas and Lady Oldfield. No one who saw them could doubt of the bitter sorrow that had stamped its mark upon their noble features.

"Are you Mrs Jones, my poor—poor son's landlady?" asked Lady Oldfield, when they were seated in the parlour. She could add no more for weeping.

"Yes, ma'am," was the reply. "I'm sure I'm very sorry, ma'am, very indeed; for Mr Oldfield was a most kind, free-spoken gentleman; and if he'd only—only—"

"I understand you," said the poor sorrowing mother.

"And Jacob Poole; what has become of him?" asked Sir Thomas.

"I'm sure, sir, I don't know. All I can tell is, that he's sure not to be anywhere in Liverpool; for he told me the morning he left me that he was going to leave the town, and should not come back again."

"I'm grieved to hear it," said the baronet. "And can you give us a clue, Mrs Jones, to our dear misguided child's present place of abode? Can you suggest no way of finding it out?"

"I fear not, sir; Mr Oldfield has left nothing behind him except his Bible and Prayer-book, which he asked me to accept as a token of his kind feeling and regard, he was good enough to say."

"His Bible and Prayer-book! Oh, let me look at them," exclaimed Lady Oldfield.

Mrs Jones brought them. The Prayer-book was one given him on his twelfth birthday by his mother. His name in it was in her own handwriting. The Bible was a much newer book, and bore but few marks of use. It was a gift from Mary Oliphant. The handwriting of his name was hers, as was also that of two texts below the name, which were written out in full—

"Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life."

"There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man; but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able, but will, with the temptation, also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it."

Lady Oldfield gazed at these books and the writing in them for a long time without uttering a word, and without shedding a tear. It seemed as though the sight had for the moment chained every other feeling, and left her only the power to stare wildly at the two familiar handwritings.

"And he has parted with these," she said at last, half out loud; "he has given them away. Oh, merciful Father in heaven, what has become of my unhappy boy?"

"Calm yourself, my dear," said Sir Thomas; "let us hope that things may be better than our fears."

"I'm sure, ma'am," said Mrs Jones, "I should never think of keeping these books if you or Mr Oldfield's father wish to have them."

"Oh, it is not that, it is not that," sobbed Lady Oldfield. "Are you a mother, Mrs Jones?" she cried, turning abruptly to her.

"Yes, ma'am; I've had seven children, and five are living now."

"Then you'll understand my feelings as a mother. I fear, oh, I cannot say how terribly I fear, that poor Frank means to do something dreadful; perhaps to—to—oh, I can't bear to think of it."

"Why, my dear, why," asked her husband, "should you think so?"

"Why, Thomas! Oh, isn't there something terrible in his parting with these two books, my gift and dear Mary's gift, and at such a time? Doesn't it seem as if he was turning his back upon everything that is good and holy, and simply giving himself up to despair. Isn't it like saying, 'The Bible's no longer a book for me, for God is no longer my God?' Isn't it like saying, 'Prayer is no longer for me, for God will not hear me.'"

"My dearest wife," said Sir Thomas, anxiously, "don't look at the darkest side. Don't lose your faith and trust now. My good Mrs Jones, you see we're in sore trouble. You can understand how our hearts are almost broken about our erring son, but still he is our son, and very dear to us; and we want you to help us to find him, if it be possible."

"I'm sure, sir," replied the kind-hearted landlady, "I do feel for you both with all my heart, and only wish I knew what to advise. But really I know no more than yourselves where Mr Oldfield is likely to be found. It seems that he's wished to keep it a secret, and so he has purposely kept me in the dark."

Sir Thomas sighed.

"I understand exactly how it is," he said. "I do not see what we can do, except endeavour to get a clue through the police. By the way, Mrs Jones, you don't happen to know the names or lodgings of any of his associates? That might help us, if you did."

"I do not, sir; for I never saw one of them enter this house. Your son never brought any one home with him as I know of. Jacob Poole and he were the only persons who ever were together here while he had my lodgings."

"Do you happen, then, ever to have heard him mention where any of his companions lived? I mean those persons he used to stay out with at night or in the day?"

"Never, sir."

"Nor so much as the name of any of his associates?"

"Not once, sir. I fear—that is to say—"

"Speak out, Mrs Jones, pray. You know this may be a matter of life and death to him, and perhaps to us also. Don't be afraid of wounding us; we want to know everything that can in the least help us in our search."

"Well, sir, I was going to say, only I hesitated to say so much to my lodger's own father and mother, that I feared he had got mixed up with companions as wouldn't be likely to meet him in any private house."

"I understand you; you think he met his friends, (his companions or associates, I mean), at some common rendezvous or club."

"Yes, sir; I fear so from all I heard and saw, and from what Mr Poole has said."

"I fear, then, that you can afford us no information that will help us at present. But here is my card; we shall be staying for some days probably, possibly for some weeks, at the Albion Hotel. Will you kindly, without fail, let us know, and that without loss of time, if you hear or see anything either of our poor son or of Jacob Poole, or of any one who may be able to give us any light or any help in our search?"

"You may depend upon me, Sir Thomas," said Mrs Jones; "and I'm sure, sir, I hope you and her ladyship will excuse this homely room. It's only very plainly furnished, but it's the one your son occupied."

"Pray, don't make any apologies," said her ladyship; "they are not needed. It is not fine rooms and grand furniture that can give peace. I have just one thing to ask you to grant me before we go, and we must not delay, for time is precious."

"I'm sure, my lady, I'll grant you anything in my power."

"Let me, then, see the room where my poor boy slept."

"Certainly, ma'am, though it's in a sadly untidy state. I've not had time—"

"Never mind, Mrs Jones; I shall not notice any defects. My heart aches too sorely for me to heed these trifles. There, thank you; now leave me alone in the room for five minutes. And will you kindly tell my husband that I will join him almost directly!"

When the door was closed upon the unhappy mother, she threw herself on her knees beside the bed on which her son had slept, too commonly, alas! the drunkard's sleep, and poured out her heart with tears to God that she might find her poor, lost, and guilty child before it should be too late. Rendered calmer by this prayer, she joined Sir Thomas.

"Farewell, Mrs Jones," she said, as they left the house; "many thanks for your kind sympathy. I trust we may have a less sad tale to tell when we meet again."

They drove to their hotel, and Sir Thomas wrote at once to the superintendent of police, requesting him to call upon him at the "Albion" at his earliest convenience. In about an hour that functionary appeared. He was a tall and stoutly-built man, of a decidedly military carriage; slightly bald, with a peculiarly searching eye, and thin decided lips. His manner was remarkably quiet, and his language precise and deliberate. He evidently always thought before he spoke, and then spoke what he thought, and nothing more. Taking the seat offered him by Sir Thomas, but declining any refreshment, he put himself in the attitude of listening, as one accustomed to weigh evidence, and to put every fact and conjecture into its right box.

"I have requested your kind attendance, Mr Superintendent," began the baronet, "that I might ask your advice and help in a matter in which Lady Oldfield here and myself are most deeply concerned."

The superintendent gave a slight bend forward, as much as to say that this introduction to the subject in hand was a matter of course.

Sir Thomas then, with some embarrassment of manner, gave his hearer an account of his son's unhappy career, and his own difficulties about tracing him, and concluded by saying,—

"And now, sir, I would ask your help to discover my poor boy before it be too late."

The superintendent signified his assent.

"What do you think?" asked Sir Thomas.

"We can find him, no doubt, if he is still in Liverpool," said the officer.

"And do you think he is now in Liverpool?" asked Lady Oldfield.

"I do."

"What makes you think, so?" asked the baronet.

"Several things. First, he'll be likely to stay where he can get most easily at the drink. Secondly, he'll not go away to any near country place, because he'd get sooner marked there. Thirdly, as he seems hard up for money, he'll have to pawn anything he may have left that's worth pawning, and he can do that best and most secretly in a large town."

Poor Sir Thomas and his lady felt a shiver through their hearts at the matter-of-fact way in which these words were uttered.

"You don't think, then," asked the baronet, "that he has started in any vessel for America or Australia?"

"No; because no captain would take him as a sailor, and he'd not be able to raise money to go even as a steerage passenger. Besides, he wouldn't risk it, as he'd know that all the outward bound vessels might be searched for him by that man of his—Poole, I think you called him."

"But don't you suppose he may have left by railway, and gone to some other large town?"

"Of course he may, but I don't think he has, because he'll have sense enough to know that he can't have much to spare for travelling, if he's gambled away his ready money, and don't mean to ask you for any more."

"Perhaps he has done, or means to do, something desperate," said Lady Oldfield, tremblingly; "he seemed to hint at something of the kind in his letter to me."

"No, he'll not do that, I think—at least not just yet. Habitual drunkards have seldom got it in them. They'll talk big, but still they'll go on hanging about where they can get the drink."

"Then you believe that he is still in Liverpool?" said Sir Thomas.

"That's my belief."

"And you think that you can find him?"

"I do think so. Was your son fond of low company when he lived at home?"

Poor Sir Thomas and his wife winced at this question, but it was put by the superintendent simply as a matter of business.

"Why, not exactly," was the reply; "that is to say, he never frequented any gatherings of low people, as far as I know. But he was very much in the habit of making a companion of my under-groom, Juniper Graves."

"Ah, exactly so! And this man drank?"

"Yes."

"And they played cards together?"

"I fear so."

"Then he's most likely hooked in with a low set—that makes it easier."

"Do you suppose that he is still in connection with any such set?" asked Lady Oldfield.

"Pretty certain, if he has let out, when he was tipsy, that his father is a gentleman of property. They'll help him on a bit, if they think there's a chance of bleeding him again."

"But you know he has resolved to keep us in ignorance of his abode, and all about himself."

"Yes, he meant it when he wrote; but when he's so hard up as to be near starving, perhaps he'll change his mind."

"How then would you propose to proceed?" asked Sir Thomas.

The superintendent thought for half a minute, and then said,—

"Have you a photograph of your son with you?"

"I have," said the poor mother. She took it out of her pocket-book, and handed it to the officer. He looked at it very carefully for some time, and then said,—

"I suppose he must be a little older looking than this."

"Yes, surely," was the reply, "for it was taken three years ago, before he went out to Australia."

"I must ask you then to spare it me for a few days, as it may help us materially."

"And how soon may we hope to hear anything from you?"

"In a day or two I expect, perhaps sooner. But don't call at the office; it will do no good. You may depend upon hearing from me as soon as I have anything to communicate."

That day passed over, a second, and a third day of sickening suspense. How utterly powerless the poor parents felt! Lady Oldfield prayed, but oh, there were sad thoughts of bitter self-reproach mingling with her prayers. She could not but remember how she had herself been the chief hindrance to her son's becoming a total abstainer when he was bent on making the attempt, and had avowed his intention. Oh, she would have given worlds now could she but recall the time, and her own words, when she had dissuaded him from renouncing those stimulants which had proved to him the cause of sin, ruin, and perhaps death. Yes; who could tell what might have been now had that unhappy remonstrance never passed her lips. Ah, it is easy to laugh down, or press down by a mother's authority, the holy resolve of a child who sees the gigantic monster drunkenness in some of his hideous proportions, and would gladly take that step which would keep him, if leaning on grace for strength, free from the deadly snare; easy to laugh down or crush down that resolve; but oh, impossible to recall the past, impossible to give back to the utterly hardened drunkard his fresh vigorous intellect, his nervous moral power, his unstrained will, his unwarped conscience, his high and holy resolution! Lady Oldfield felt it; but the past was now gone from her, beyond the reach of effort, remorse, or prayer. At last, on the morning of the fourth day, the superintendent again made his appearance.

"Have you found him?" cried both parents in a breath.

"I believe I am on his tracks," was the reply.

"Oh, thank God for that!" cried the poor mother, clasping her hands together. "He still lives then?"

"I cannot be sure, but I should think so."

"Oh, then, cannot you take us to him?"

"No, madam, not yet; we are only on his tracks at present."

"Would you tell us in what way you have proceeded?" asked Sir Thomas.

"Certainly. In the first place, the young man's photograph was shown to all our constables. Some thought they knew the face, and could fix upon the right person in one of the low haunts they are acquainted with. But after a two days' search they were all disappointed. Young men dress so much alike in these days that it's often very difficult to tell who's who till you see them very close. Then I had the likeness taken round to all the publicans' wives, for the women are closer observers of features than the men. Some thought they'd seen such a face, some hesitated, one was quite sure she had. I could tell at once that she was right."

"When was this?" eagerly asked Lady Oldfield.

"Yesterday."

"And what did she say?"

"She said that he had been there several nights running with two regular cardsharpers, and they'd been drinking. She was sure it was him, though he had disguised himself a little."

"And did you find him?"

"No; he hadn't been there for the last two or three nights. Perhaps he had nothing to spend, for he came the last time in his shirt-sleeves; so she supposed he'd pawned his coat."

"Well?"

"Well, I sent one of our men last night to see if he'd come again, but he never did."

"And what can you do now?"

"Oh, I've left the photograph with the landlady, and she is to see if any of her customers recognise it; it'll stand on the counter."

"And what do you think about him now?" asked Sir Thomas.

"That he'll turn up again in a day or two, if he's not ill."

"Oh, can he—can he have destroyed himself in a fit of despair?" gasped Lady Oldfield.

"I think not, madam. Pray don't distress yourself. I believe we shall be able to hunt him out in a day or two. I shall send a man in plain clothes to the gin-shop again to-night to watch for him."

Early the next day the superintendent called again.

"We've found him," he said.

"Oh, where, where is he?" exclaimed the poor mother; "take us to him at once! Oh, is he living?" she asked vehemently, for there was a look of peculiar seriousness on the superintendent's face which made her fear the worst.

"He is living, madam, but I'm sorry to say that he's seriously ill."

"Send for a cab at once," cried Sir Thomas.

"I have one at the door," said the officer; "one of you had better secure a respectable lodging and nurse for him at once, while the other goes with me."

"Let me go to him," cried Lady Oldfield.

"It will be a strange place for a lady, but you will be safe with me."

"Oh yes, yes, let me go," was the reply; "am not I his mother? Oh, let us go at once."

"Well, then, Sir Thomas," said the superintendent, "we will call at the hotel as we return, if you will leave the direction of the lodgings with the landlord."

"And how did you find out my poor boy?" asked Lady Oldfield, as they hurried along through a labyrinth of by-streets, each dirtier and more dismal than the last.

"My man in plain clothes, madam, watched last night for a long time by the bar, but saw no one come in like your son. At last an old woman, who was come for a quartern of gin, stared hard at the likeness, and said, 'Laws, if that ain't the young gent as is down ill o' the fever in our attic!'"

"Ill of the fever!" exclaimed Lady Oldfield.

"Yes; it seems so. Of course that was enough. My man went home with her, taking the photograph with him, and soon ascertained that the young gentleman in question is your son. But we must stop here. I'm sorry to bring your ladyship into such a place; but there's no help for it, if you really wish to see the young man yourself."

"Oh yes, yes," cried the other; "anything, everything, I can bear all, if I may only see him alive, and rescue him from his misery and sin."

"Wait for us here," said the officer to the cabman, as they alighted in the middle of a nest of streets, which seemed as though huddled together, by common consent, to shut out from public gaze their filth and guilty wretchedness. Wretched indeed they were, as the haunts of destitution and crime. All was foul and dingy. Distorted roofs patched with mis-shapen tiles; chimneys leaning at various angles out of the perpendicular; walls vile with the smoke and grime of a generation; mortar that looked as though it never in its best days could have been white; shattered doors whose proper colour none could tell, and which, standing ajar, seemed to lead to nothing but darkness; weird women and gaunt children imparting a dismal life to the rows of ungainly dwellings;—all these made up a picture of squalid woe such as might well have appalled a stouter heart than poor Lady Oldfield's. And was she to find her delicately-nurtured son in such a place as this? They turned down one street, under the wondering eyes of old and young, and then plunged into a narrow court that led to nothing. Here, two doors down on the left hand, they entered, and proceeded to climb a rickety stair till they reached the highest floor. A voice that sent all the blood rushing back to poor Lady Oldfield's heart was heard in high strain, and another, mingling with it, muttering a croaking accompaniment of remonstrance,—

"Well, you're a fine young gentleman, I've no doubt; but you'll not bide long in that fashion, I reckon."

Then came a bit of a song in the younger voice,—

"Drink, boys, drink, and drive away your sorrow; For though we're here to-day, we mayn't be here to-morrow."

The superintendent knocked at the door, and both entered. The old woman uttered an exclamation of terror at the sight of the strangers, but the appearance of Lady Oldfield reassured her, for she divined almost immediately who she must be. On her part, Lady Oldfield instinctively shrunk back at her first entrance, and well she might; for the revolting sights and odours almost overpowered her, spite of her all-absorbing anxiety to find and rescue her beloved child.

The room, if it could be justly called so—for it was, more properly speaking, a kind of loft—was lighted, or rather, rendered less dark by a sort of half window, half skylight, which looked out upon a stack of decayed and blackened chimneys, and so much sickly-looking sky as could be seen through the undamaged panes, which were but few, for lumps of rags, old stockings, and similar contrivances blocked up many a space which had once been used to admit the light, while the glass still remaining was robbed of its transparency by accumulated dirt. There was neither stove nor fire-place of any kind. The walls, if they had ever been whitened, had long since lost their original hue, and exhibited instead every variety of damp discoloration. Neither chair nor table were there—an old stool and a box were the only seats. In the corner farthest from the light, and where the ceiling sloped down to the floor, was the only thing that could claim the name of a bedstead. Low and curtainless, its crazy, worm-eaten frame groaned and creaked ominously under the tossings to and fro of the poor sufferer, who occupied the mass of ragged coverings spread upon it. In the opposite corner was a heap of mingled shavings, straw, and sacking, the present couch of the aged tenant of this gloomy apartment. The box stood close at the bed's head; there were bottles and a glass upon, it, which had plainly not been used for medicinal purposes, as the faded odour of spirits, distinguishable above the general rank close smell of the room, too clearly testified. Across the floor, stained with numberless abominations, Lady Oldfield made her shuddering way to the bed, on which lay, tossing in the delirium of fever, her unhappy son. His trousers and waistcoat were thrown across his feet; his hat lay on the floor near them; there was no coat, for it had been pawned to gratify his craving for the stimulant which had eaten away joy and peace, hope and heart. Flinging herself on her knees beside the prostrate form, his mother tried to raise him.

"O Frank, Frank, my darling boy," she cried, with a bitter outburst of weeping; "look at me, speak to me; I'm your own mother. Don't you know me? I'm come to take you home."

He suddenly sat up, and jerked the clothes from him. His eyes glittered with an unnatural light, his cheeks were deeply flushed with fever heat; his hair, that mother's pride in former days, waved wildly over his forehead. How fair, how beautiful he looked even then!

"Ah, poor young creetur," croaked the old woman; "it's a pity he's come to this. I knowed he were not used to sich a life—more's the shame to them as led him into it."

Ay, shame to them, indeed! But oh, how sad, how grievous that the young hand, which might have raised to untainted lips none but those pure draughts which neither heat the brain nor warp the sense of right, should ever learn to grasp the cup that gives a passing brightness to the eye and glitter to the tongue, but clouds at length the intellect, fires the brain, and leaves a multitude of wretched victims cast ashore as shattered moral wrecks. To such results, though from the smallest beginnings, does the drink tend in its very nature. Oh, happy they who are altogether free from its toils!

The wretched young man stared wildly at his mother.

"Who are you?" he cried. "I don't know you. More brandy—where's the bottle? 'Here's a health to all good lasses; pledge it merrily, fill your glasses.' Shuffle the cards well; now then, nothing wenture nothing win. Spades are trumps."

"Oh, my boy, my boy," cried the agonised mother, "can nothing be done for you? Has a doctor been sent for?" she cried suddenly, turning to the old woman.

"Doctor!" was the reply. "No, ma'am; who's to pay for a doctor? The young gent's been and popped all his things for the play and the drink; and I haven't myself so much as a brass farden to get a mouthful o' meat with."

"Oh, will any one run for a doctor?" implored the miserable mother. "Here, my good woman," taking out a shilling, "give this to somebody to fetch a doctor; quick—oh, don't lose a moment."

"Ay, ay, I'll see about it," mumbled the old woman; "that'll fetch a doctor quick enough, you may be sure."

She made her way slowly and painfully down the creaking stairs, and after a while returned.

"Doctor'll be here soon, ma'am, I'll warrant," she said.

Lady Oldfield sat on the box by the bed, watching her son's wild stare and gesticulations in silent misery.

"I'm glad you've came, ma'am," continued the old woman; "I've had weary work with the young gentleman. I found him outside the door of the 'Green Dragon' without his coat, and shaking like an aspen. I couldn't help looking at him, poor soul. I asked him why he didn't go home; he said he hadn't got no home. I asked him where his friends lived; he said he hadn't got no friends. I asked him where he lodged; he said he didn't know. I was a-going to ask him summat else, but afore I could speak he tumbles down on the ground. We'd hard work to lift him up; some was for calling police, others wanted to make short work with him. But I said, says I, 'You just let him alone, I'll look arter him;' and so I did. I just heaved him up, and got him to a door-step, and then I fetched him a quartern o' gin, and he got a little better; and then I helped him here. I'd hard work to get him to climb up, but I managed it at last. So here he's been ever since, and that's a week come Friday."

"God bless you for your kindness," cried Lady Oldfield. "You shall have no cause to repent it."

"Nay," said the kind-hearted old creature, "I knows I shan't repent it. It's a poor place, is this, for such as he, but it's the best I have, and it's what the drink has brought me to, and scores and thousands better nor me, and will do again."

In a short time the doctor arrived. A very rapid inspection of his patient was sufficient to show him the nature and extent of his complaint.

"Is he in any danger?" asked the poor mother, with deep anxiety.

The doctor shook his head gravely.

"In great danger, I fear."

"Can we remove him without risk?"

"Not without risk, I'm afraid," was the reply; "and yet it may be worse for him to be left here. It is simply a choice of risks. We had better wrap him up well in blankets, and convey him to proper lodgings at once."

"Is there any hope?" asked poor Lady Oldfield, with streaming eyes.

"I trust so," was all the doctor dared to say. Blankets were at once procured, and the emaciated body of the patient was borne by strong and willing arms to the cab, for there is a wondrous sympathy with those suffering from illness even in the breasts of the most hardened and godless; while, at the same time, great was the excitement in the little court and its neighbourhood. Lady Oldfield poured out her thanks once more to the old woman who had taken compassion on her son, and put into the poor creature's hand more money than it had ever grasped at one time before.

"Eh! my lady," she exclaimed, in delighted astonishment, "you're very good. I'm sure, never a thought came into my head, when I brought home the poor young gentleman, as any one would have come down so handsome. I'd have done it all the same if I'd never have got a penny."

"I'm sure of it," replied her ladyship; "but you have done for me what money can never repay. I shall not lose sight of you; but I must not stop now. God bless and reward you;—and oh, give up the drink, the wretched drink, which has been my poor boy's ruin, and come for pardon and peace to your gracious Saviour."

"Ah!" muttered the old creature, as she turned back to her miserable garret, fondly eyeing the golden treasure which she grasped tight with her withered fingers; "it's easier said nor done, my lady. Give up the drink? No, it cannot be. Come to my gracious Saviour? Ah! I used to hear words like those when I were a little 'un, but the drink's drowned 'em out of my heart long since. I'm too old now. Give up the drink! No; not till the drink gives me up. It's got me, and it's like to keep me. It's taken all I've had—husband, children, home, money—and it'll have all the rest afore it's done. I must just put this safe by, and then I'll go and wet my lips with a quartern o' mountain dew. It's a rare thing, is the drink; it's meat and drink too, and lodging and firing and all."

In the meanwhile the cab sped swiftly on its way to the Albion Hotel, and from thence to the lodgings, where Sir Thomas was anxiously waiting their arrival. They carried the sufferer up to his bed-room. What a contrast to the miserable, polluted chamber from which Lady Oldfield had just rescued him! Here all was cleanliness and comfort, with abundant light and ventilation, and a civil and experienced nurse waited to take charge of the unhappy patient. Having parted with the superintendent with many heartfelt expressions of gratitude, Sir Thomas, Lady Oldfield, and the doctor proceeded to the sick-room. Frank lay back on the snow- white pillow, pale and motionless, his eyes closed, his lips apart. Oh! was he dead? Had the shock been too much for his enfeebled body? Had they found him only to lose him at once for ever? Sir Thomas and his wife approached the bed with beating hearts. No; there was life still; the lips moved, and the hectic of the fever returned to the cheeks. Then the eyes opened wide, and Frank sprang up into a sitting posture.

"Frank, Frank, don't you know me?" asked Sir Thomas, in a voice of keen distress.

"Know you? No; I never saw you before. Where's Juniper? Come here, old fellow. You're a regular trump, and no mistake. Give us some brandy. That's the right sort of stuff; ain't it, old gentleman?" said Frank, glaring at his father, and uttering a wild laugh.

"This is terrible, terrible!" groaned the baronet. "Doctor, what can we do?"

The medical man looked very grave.

"We must keep him as quiet as possible," he replied; "but it's a bad case. He's a bad subject, unhappily, because of his intemperate habits. I hope we shall reduce the fever; but what I fear most is the after exhaustion."

"Oh!" exclaimed Lady Oldfield, "if he would only know us—if he would only speak rationally—if he would only keep from these dreadful ramblings about spirits and drinking! It breaks my heart to hear him speak as he does. Oh! I could bear to lose him now, though we have just found him, if I could only feel that he was coming back, like the poor prodigal, in penitence to his heavenly Father."

"You must calm yourself, madam," said the doctor; "we must hope that it will be so. Remember, he is not responsible for the words he now utters; they are only the ravings of delirium."

"Yes; he is not responsible for the words he now utters," cried the poor mother—"but oh, misery, misery! I am responsible. I held him back, I laughed him from his purpose, when he would have pledged himself to renounce that drink which has been his bane and ruin, body and soul."

"Come, come, my dearest wife," said her husband, "you must be comforted. You acted for the best. We are not responsible for his excess. He never learned excess from us."

"No; but I cannot be comforted, for I see—I know that he might now have been otherwise. Ay, he might now have been as the Oliphants are, if his own mother had not put the fatal hindrance in his way. Oh, if I had worlds to give I would give them, could I only undo that miserable past!"

"I think," said the medical man, "it will be wiser if all would now leave him except the nurse. The fewer he sees, and the fewer voices he hears, the less he will be likely to excite himself. I will call early again to-morrow."

Lady Oldfield retired to her chamber, and poured out her heart in prayer. Oh, might she have but one hour of intelligence—one hour in which she might point her erring child to that loving Saviour, whom she had herself sought in earnest and found in truth since the departure of her son from home! Oh, might she but see him return to the Gatherer of the wandering sheep! She did not ask life for him—she dared not ask it absolutely; but she did ask that her heavenly Father would in pity grant her some token that there was hope in her beloved child's death, if he must die. And does not God answer prayer? Yes, alway; but not always in our way. When sin has found the sinner out—when warnings have been slighted, mercies despised, the Spirit quenched, the gentle arm that would guide us to glory rudely and perseveringly flung aside—then, then, it may be, not even a believing mother's prayer shall avail to turn aside the righteous stroke of the hand of that holy God who is to his determined enemies a consuming fire.

All the night long did Frank Oldfield toss to and fro, or start up with glaring eyes, calling on his drunken associates, singing wild songs, or now and then recalling days when sin had not yet set its searing brand on his heart and conscience. About midnight his father and mother stole into his chamber. The nurse put up her finger. They cautiously shrank back behind the screen of the bed-curtains out of his sight.

"Juniper, my boy!" exclaimed the wretched sufferer, "where's my mother? Gone down to the rectory! Ah, they're water-drinkers there. That don't do for you and me, Juniper. 'This bottle's the sun of our table.' Ha, ha!—a capital song that!"

Lady Oldfield sank on her knees, and could not repress her sobs.

"Who's crying?" exclaimed Frank. "Is it Mary? Poor Mary! She loved me once—didn't she? My poor mother loved me once—didn't she? Why don't she love me now? Where's my mother now?"

"Here I am—here's your mother—your own loving mother—my Frank—my darling boy!" burst from the lips of the agonised parent.

She flung herself down on her knees beside the bed. He stared at her, but his ramblings went off the next moment to something else. Then there was a pause, and he sank back. Lady Oldfield took the opportunity to send up a fervent prayer. He caught the half-whispered words, and sat up. He looked for the moment so collected, so much himself, that his mother's lips parted with joyful astonishment, and she gasped,—

"He knows us—his reason is restored!"

The next moment she saw her sad mistake.

"How funny!" cried the poor patient; "there's our old parson praying. Poor old parson!—he tried to make me a teetotaller. It wouldn't do, Jacob. Ah, Jacob, never mind me. You're a jolly good fellow, but you don't understand things. Give us a song. What shall it be? 'Three jolly potboys drinking at the "Dragon."' What's amiss? I'm quite well—never was better in my life. How d'ye do, captain?"

These last words he addressed to his father, who was gazing at him in blank misery.

And was it to be always so? Was he to pass out of the world into eternity thus—thrilling the hearts of those who heard him with bitterest agony? No; there came a change. Another day, the remedies had begun to tell on the patient. The fever gradually left him. The fire had faded from his eye, the hectic from his cheek. And now father and mother, one on either side, bent over him. Lady Oldfield read from the blessed Book the parable of the Prodigal Son. She thought that Frank heard her, for there was on his face a look of mingled surprise, pleasure, and bewilderment. Then no one spoke for a while. Nothing was heard but the ticking of Lady Oldfield's watch, which stood in its case on the dressing-table. Again the poor mother opened the same precious Gospel of Saint Luke, and read out calmly and clearly the parable of the Pharisee and the Publican. Then she knelt by the bed and prayed that her boy might come with the publican's deep contrition to his God, trusting in the merits of his Saviour. There was a whispered sound from those feeble lips. She could just distinguish the words, "To me a sinner." They were all, but she blessed God for them. An hour later, and the doctor came. There was no hope in his eye, as he felt the pulse.

"What report?" murmured Sir Thomas. The doctor shook his head.

"Oh, tell me—is he dying?" asked the poor mother.

"He is sinking fast," was the reply.

"Can nothing restore him?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, Frank—darling Frank," appealed his mother, in a whisper of agonised entreaty, "let me have one word—one look to tell me you know me."

The weary eyes opened, and a faint smile seemed to speak of consciousness.

"Hear me—hear me, my beloved child," she said again. "Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners. Jesus died for you. Jesus loves you still. Look to him—believe in him. He is able to save you even now."

Again the eyes slowly opened. But the dying glaze was over them. A troubled look came across the brow, and then a faint smile. The lips opened, but could frame no words for a while. Lady Oldfield put her ear close to those parted lips. They spoke now, but only three short words, very slowly and feebly, "Jesus—Mother—Mary." Then all was over.

So died Frank Oldfield. Was there hope in his death? Who shall say? That heart-broken mother clung, through years of wearing sorrow, to the faint hope that flickered in those few last words and in that feeble smile. He smiled when she spoke of Jesus. Yes; she clung to these as the drowning man clings to the handful of water-reeds which he clutches in his despair. But where was the happy evidence of genuine repentance and saving faith? Ah, miserable death-bed! No bright light shone from it. No glow, caught from a coming glory, rested on those marble features. Yet how beautiful was that youthful form, even though defaced by the brand of sin! How gloriously beautiful it might have been as the body of humiliation, hereafter to be fashioned like unto Christ's glorious body, had a holy, loving soul dwelt therein in its tabernacle days on earth? Then an early death would have been an early glory, and the house of clay, beautiful with God's adornments, would only have been taken down in life's morning to be rebuilt on a nobler model in the paradise of God.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

"OULD CROW," THE KNIFE-GRINDER.

"Knives to grind!—scissors to grind!—tools to grind!—umbrels to mend!"

These words were being uttered in a prolonged nasal tone by an old grey- haired man of a rather comical cast of countenance in one of the streets in the outskirts of the town of Bolton. It was about a week after the sad death of Frank Oldfield that we come upon him. Certainly this approach to the town could not be said to be prepossessing. The houses, straggling up the side of a hill, were low and sombre, being built of a greyish stone, which gave them a dull and haggard appearance. Stone was everywhere, giving a cold, comfortless look to the dwellings. Stone- paved roads, stone curbs, stone pathways—except here and there, where coal-dust and clay formed a hard and solid footway, occasionally hollowed out by exceptional wear into puddles which looked like gigantic inkstands. High stone slabs also, standing upright, and clamped together by huge iron bolts, served instead of palings and hedges, and inflicted a melancholy, prison-like look on the whole neighbourhood.

It was up this street that the old knife-grinder was slowly propelling his apparatus, which was fitted to two large light wheels. A very neat and comprehensive apparatus it was. There was the well-poised grindstone, with its fly-wheel attached; a very bright oil-can, and pipe for dropping water on to the stone; various little nooks and compartments for holding tools, rivets, wire, etcetera. Everything was in beautiful order; while a brass plate, on which was engraved the owner's name, blazed like gold when there was any sunshine to fall upon it. At present the day was drizzling and chilly, while the huge volumes of smoke from a whole forest of factory chimneys tended to impart a deeper shade of dismalness to the dispiriting landscape. The old man himself was plainly a character. No part of his dress seemed as if it could ever have been new, and yet all was in such keeping and harmony that every article in it appeared to have faded to a like degree of decay by a common understanding. Not that the component parts of this dress were such as could well have been contemporaries on their being first launched into the world, for the whole of the old man's personal outward clothing might almost have been mapped off into divisions—each compartment representing a different era, as the zones on a terrestrial globe enclose differing races of plants and animals. Thus, his feet were shod with stout leather shoes, moderately clogged, and fastened, not by the customary clasps, but by an enormous pair of shoe-buckles of a century old at least. His lower limbs were enclosed in leathern garments, which fastened below the knee, leaving visible his grey worsted stockings. An immense waistcoat, the pattern of which was constantly being interrupted by the discordant figuring of a large variety of patches—inserted upside down, or sideways, or crossways, as best suited—hung nearly to his knees; and over this he wore a coat, the age and precise cut of which it would have puzzled the most learned in such things to decide upon. It probably had been two coats once, and possibly three may have contributed to its formation. It was clearly put together for use and not for ornament—as was testified by its extreme length, except in the sleeves, and by the patches of various colours, which stood out upon the back and skirts in startling contrast to the now almost colourless material of the originals. On his head the old man wore a sort of conical cap of felt, which looked as though it had done service more than once on the head of some modern representative of Guy Fawkes of infamous memory. And yet there was nothing beggarly about the appearance of the old knife-grinder. Not a rag disfigured his person. All was whole and neat, though quaint and faded. Altogether, he would have formed an admirable subject for an artist's sketch-book; nor could any stranger pass him without being struck with pleasure, if he caught a glimpse of his happy face—for clearly there was sunshine there; yet not the full, bright sunshine of the cloudless summer, but the sunshine that gleams through the storm and lights up the rainbow.

"Knives to grind!—scissors to grind!"

The cry went on as the old man toiled along. But just now no one appeared to heed him. The rain kept pattering down, and he seemed inclined to turn out of his path and try another street. Just then a woman's voice shouted out,—

"Ould Crow—Ould Crow! Here, sithee! Just grind me these scissors. Our Ralph's been scraping the boiler lid with 'em, till they're nearly as blunt as a broom handle."

"Ay, missus, I'll give 'em an edge; but you mustn't let your Ralph have all his own way, or he'll take the edge off your heart afore so long."

The scissors-grinding proceeded briskly, and soon a troop of dirty children were gathered round the wheel, and began to teaze the old man.

"I'll warm thee!" he cried to one of the foremost, half seriously and half in joke.

At last the scissors were finished.

"I'll warm thee, Ould Crow!" shouted out the young urchin, in a mimicking voice, and running up close to him as he was returning to his wheel.

The long arm of the knife-grinder darted forward, and his hand grasped the lad, who struggled hard to get away; and at last, by a desperate effort, freed himself, but, in so doing, caused the old man to lose his balance. It was in vain that he strove to recover himself. The stones were slippery with the wet: he staggered a step or two, and then fell heavily forward on his face. Another moment, and he felt a strong arm raising him up.

"Are you much hurt, old friend?" asked his helper, who was none other than Jacob Poole.

"I don't know—the Lord help me!—I'm afeerd so," replied Old Crow, seating himself on the kerb stone with a groan.

"Those young rascals!" cried Jacob. "I'd just like to give 'em such a hiding as they've ne'er had in all their lives afore."

"Nay, nay, friend," said the other; "it wasn't altogether the lad's fault. But they're a rough lot, for sure; not much respect for an old man. Most on 'em's mayster o' their fathers and mothers afore they can well speak plain. Thank ye kindly for your help; the Lord'll reward ye."

"You're welcome, old gentleman," said Jacob. "Can I do anything more for you?"

"Just lend me your arm for a moment; there's a good lad. I shall have hard work, I fear, to take myself home, let alone the cart."

"Never trouble about that," said Jacob, cheerily. "I'll wheel your cart home, if you can walk on slowly and show me the road."

"Bless you, lad; that'll be gradely help—'a friend in need's a friend indeed.' If you'll stick to the handles, I'll make shift to hobble on by your side. I'm better now."

They turned down a by-street; and after a slow walk of about a quarter of a mile—for the old man was still in considerable pain, and was much shaken—they arrived at a low but not untidy-looking cottage, with a little outbuilding by its side.

"Here we are," said the knife-grinder. "Now come in, my lad. You shall have your tea, and we'll have a chat together arterwards."

Old Crow pulled a key out of his pocket, and opened the house door. The fire was burning all right, and was soon made to burst into a cheerful blaze. Then the old man hobbled round to the shed, and unbolting it from the inside, bade Jacob wheel in the cart. This done, they returned into the kitchen.

"Sit ye down, my lad," said the knife-grinder. "Deborah'll be back directly; the mills is just loosed."

"Is Deborah your daughter?" asked Jacob.

The old man shook his head sorrowfully.

"No; I've never a one belonging me now."

"That's much same with myself," said Jacob. "I've none as belongs me; leastways I cannot find 'em."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the other. "Well, we'll talk more about that just now. Deborah, ye see, is widow Cartwright's wench; and a good wench she is too, as e'er clapped clog on a foot. She comes in each morn, and sees as fire's all right, and fills kettle for my breakfast. Then at noon she comes in again to see as all's right. And after mill's loosed, she just looks in and sets all straight. And then, afore she goes to bed, she comes in, and stretches all up gradely."

"And are you quite alone now?"

"Quite. But I've a better Friend as never leaves me nor forsakes me— the Lord Jesus Christ. I hope, my lad, you know summat about him."

"Yes; thank the Lord, I do," replied Jacob. "I learned to love him when I was far away in Australia."

"In Australia!" cried the old man. "Deborah'll be glad to hear what you have to say about Australia, for she's a brother there. And how long have you been come back from yon foreign land?"

"Not so very long; but I almost wish as I'd never been."

"And why not?"

"'Cos I shouldn't have knowed one as has caused me heavy sorrow."

Poor Jacob hid his face in his hands, and, spite of himself; the tears would ooze out and trickle through his fingers.

"Come, my lad," said his new friend, compassionately; "you mustn't fret so. You say you love the Lord; well, he will not leave you comfortless."

"It's the drink, the cursed drink, as done it," said the other, half to himself.

"Well, my lad; and if you have been led astray, and are gradely sorry for it, there's room in the Lord's heart for you still."

"Nay, it isn't that. I'm a total abstainer to the back-bone, and have been for years."

"The Lord be praised!" cried Old Crow, rising from his seat, and grasping the hand of his companion with all his might. "I shall love you twice over now. I'm an old teetotaller myself; and have been these many years. Come, you tell me your tale; and when we've had our tea, I'll tell you mine."

Jacob then told his story, from his first encountering Captain Merryweather at Liverpool, till the time when he lost sight of his young master.

"And now, old friend," he concluded, "I'm just like a ship afloat as don't know which way to steer. I'm fair weary of the sea, an' I don't know what to turn myself to on land."

"Perhaps we may set that right," replied the old man. "But here's Deborah; so we'll just get our tea."

The kitchen in which they were seated was a low but comfortable apartment. There was nothing much in the way of furniture there, but everything was clean and tidy; while the neat little window-curtain, the well-stuffed cushion in the old man's rocking-chair, and the broad warm rug on the hearth, made of countless slips of cloth of various colours dexterously sewn together, showed that loving female hands had been caring for the knife-grinder's comfort. Deborah was a bright, cheery- looking factory-girl, who evidently loved the old man, and worked for him with a will. The tea was soon set out, Deborah joining them by Old Crow's invitation. Jacob had much to tell about Australia which deeply interested both his hearers, especially Deborah. When the tea-things were removed, and Old Crow and Jacob were left alone, the former said,—

"Come; friend Jacob, draw thy chair to the fire. Thou hast given me thy tale, and a sad one it is; now thou shalt hear mine."

They drew closer up on to the hearth, and the old man proceeded with his story.

"I were born and reared in a village many miles from Bolton; it makes no odds where it were, my tale will be all the same. My fayther and mother were godly people, and taught me to love the Lord by precept and example too. I worked in the pit till I were about twenty; when one day, as my butty and me was getting coal a long way off from the shaft, the prop nearest me began to crack, and I knowed as the roof were falling in. I sung out to him, but it were too late. I'd just time to save myself, when down came a big stone a-top of him, poor lad. I shouted for help, and we worked away with our picks like mad; and by the help of crows we managed to heave off the stone. The poor young man were sadly crushed. We carried him home as softly as we could; but he were groaning awful all the way. He were a ghastly sight to look on as he lay on his bed; and I'd little hope for him, for he'd been a heavy drinker. I'd talked to him scores of times about it, but he never heeded. He used to say— 'Well, you're called a sober man, and I'm called a drunkard; but what's the difference? You takes what you like, and I takes what I like. You takes what does you good, and I takes what does me good.' 'No,' says I, 'you takes what does you harm.' 'Ah, but,' says he, 'who's to say just where good ends and harm begins? Tom Roades takes a quart more nor me, and yet he's called to be a sober man; I suppose 'cos he don't fuddle so soon.' Well, but to come back to my poor butty's misfortune. There he lay almost crushed out of all shape, with lots of broken bones. They sends for the doctor, and he says— 'You must keep him quiet. Nurse him well; and whatever ye do, don't let him touch a drop of beer or spirits till I give ye leave.' Well—would ye believe it?—no sooner were doctor's back turned than they pours some rum down the poor lad's throat, sure as it'd do him good. And so they went on; and the end on it was, they finished him off in a few days, for the poor fellow died mad drunk. Arter that I couldna somehow take to the pit again, and I couldn't have anything more to do with the drink. I said to myself; 'No one shall take encouragement to drink from you any more.' So I joined a Temperance Society, and signed the pledge. I'd saved a little money, and looked about for summat to do. I hadn't larning enough to go into an office as a writer; and I wouldn't have gone if I had, for I should have wasted to skin and bone if I'd sat up all the day on a high stool, scrat, scratting with a pen, and my nose almost growing to the papper. So I bethowt me as I'd larn to be a knife-grinder. It'd just suit me. I could wander about from place to place, and have plenty of fresh air, and my liberty too. So I paid a chap to teach me the trade, and set myself up with my cart and all complete. But after a bit, my fayther and mother died; and I felt there were one thing as I were short on, and that were a wife. My brothers and sisters had all gotten married; so I wanted a home. But I wasn't going to take up with any sort; I meant to get a real good wife, or I'd have none at all. Well, I found one just the right make for me—a tidy, loving Christian she were. I loved my home, and were seldom off more nor two or three days at a time, when I took my cart a little further nor usual. We never had but one child; and she were a girl, and as likely a wench as were to be found in all the country round. She were a good daughter to me, Jacob, for many a long year; for her mother died when she were but ten year old, and I didn't wed again. Poor Rachel! she were no ordinary wench, you may be sure. She were quite a little woman afore she were as high as my waistcoat. All the neighbours used to say, 'He'll get a good wife as gets your Rachel;' and I used to say, 'Well, I don't want her to leave me, but I'll ne'er say No if she keeps company with a fellow as loves his Bible and hates the drink.' Well, there were an old widow in our village as made a great profession of religion. She were always at chapel and meeting, and as full of pious talk as an egg's full of meat. Our Rachel thought her almost too good for this sinful world; but somehow I couldn't take to her myself. I feared she were not the right side out. I had many a talk with Ruth Canters—for that were her name. She were always a-sighing o'er the wickedness of the neighbours, and wishing she knew where she could find a young woman as'd suit her son for a wife. I didn't like her looks always, and I thought as there were a smell of spirits sometimes, as didn't suit me at all. But she were ever clean and tidy, and I never see'd any drink in the house. There were always the Bible or some other good book at hand, and I couldn't prove as all were not right. Howsever, her Jim took a fancy to our Rachel, and she to him. So they kept company, and were married: and the widow came to live with us, for Rachel wouldn't hear of leaving me. Jim were a good young man, honest and true, and a gradely Christian. But now our Rachel began to suspect as summat was wrong. I were often away with my cart for three or four days together; and when I were at home I didn't take so much notice of things, except it always seemed to me as widow Canter's religion tasted more of vinegar nor sugar—there were plenty of fault-finding and very little love. Says I to Rachel one day, when we was by ourselves, 'Thy mother-in-law's religion has more of the "drive" nor the "draw" in't.' The poor thing sighed. I saw there were summat wrong; but I didn't find it out then."