"Ah," interrupted Jacob, "it were the drink, of course. That's at the bottom of almost all the crime and wickedness."

"You're right, my lad," continued the other, with a deep sigh. "Ruth Canters drank, but it were very slily—so slily that her own son Jim wouldn't believe it at first; but he were obliged to at last. Oh, what a cheating thing is the drink! She were never so pious in her talk as when she'd been having a little too much; and nothing would convince her but that she were safe for heaven. But I mustn't go grinding on, or I shall grind all your patience away. Rachel had a little babe—a bonny little wench. Oh, how she loved it—how we both loved it! Poor Rachel!"

The old man paused to wipe away his tears.

"Well, it were about six months old, when Rachel had to go off for some hours to see an aunt as were sick. She wouldn't take the babe with her, 'cos there were a fever in the court where her aunt lived, and she were feart on it for the child. Old Ruth promised to mind the babe gradely; and our Rachel got back as quick as she could, but it were later nor she intended. Jim were not coming home till late, and I were off myself for a day or two. When our Rachel came to the house door, she tried to open it, but couldn't; it were fast somehow. She knocked, but no one answered. Again she tried the door; it were not locked, but summat heavy lay agen it. She pushed hard, and got it a bit open. She just saw summat as looked like a woman's dress. Then she shrieked out, and fell down in a faint. The neighbours came running up. They went in by the wash-house door, and found Ruth Canters lying dead agen the house door inside, and the baby smothered under her. Both on 'em were stone dead. She'd taken advantage of our Rachel being off to drink more nor usual, and she'd missed her footing with the baby in her arms, and fallen down the stairs right across the house door. Our Rachel never looked up arter that; she died of a broken heart. And Jim couldn't bear to tarry in the neighbourhood; nor I neither. Ah, the misery, the misery as springs from the cursed drink! Thank the Lord, Jacob, over and over again a thousand times, as he's given you grace to be a total abstainer."

There was a long pause, during which the old man wept silent but not bitter tears.

"Them as is gone is safe in glory," he said at last; "our Rachel and her babe, I mean; and I've done fretting now. I shall go to them; but they will not return to me. And now, Jacob, my lad, what do ye say to learning my trade, and taking shares with me? I shan't be good for much again this many a day, and I've taken a fancy to you. You've done me a good turn, and I know you're gradely. I'm not a queer chap, though I looks like one. My clothes is only a whim of mine. They've been in the family so long, that I cannot part with 'em. They'll serve out my time, though we've patched and patched the old coat till there's scarce a yard of the old stuff left in him, and he looks for all the world like a map of England, with the different counties marked on it."

"Well, Mayster Crow," began Jacob in reply; but the other stopped him by putting up his hand.

"Eh, lad, you mustn't call me Mayster Crow; leastwise, if you do afore other folks, they'll scream all the wits out of you with laughing. I'm 'Old Crow' now, and nothing else. My real name's Jenkins; but if you or any one else were to ask for Isaac Jenkins, there's not a soul in these parts as'd know as such a man ever lived. No; they call me 'Old Crow.' Maybe 'cos I look summat like a scarecrow. But I cannot rightly tell. It's my name, howsever, and you must call me nothing else."

"Well, then, Old Crow," said Jacob, "I cannot tell just what I'm going to do. You see I've no friends, and yet I should have some if I could only find 'em."

"Have you neither fayther nor mother living then?" asked the old man.

"I cannot say. My mother's dead. As for the rest—well, it's just this way, Old Crow, I'm a close sort o' chap, and always were. I left home a fugitive and a vagabond, and I resolved as I'd ne'er come back till I could come as my own mayster, and that I'd ne'er tell anything about my own home and them as belonged me, till I could settle where I pleased in a home of my own. But I learnt at the diggings as it were not right to run off as I did, for the Lord sent us a faithful preacher, and he showed me my duty; and I came back with my mind made up to tell them as owned me how God had dealt with me and changed my heart. But I couldn't find nor hear anything about 'em at the old place. They'd flitted, and nobody could tell me where. So I'd rayther say no more about 'em till I've tried a bit longer to find 'em out. And if I cannot light on 'em arter all, why then, I'll start again, as if the past had never been, for it were but a dark and dismal past to me."

Old Crow did not press Jacob with further questions, as he was evidently not disposed to be communicative on the subject of his early history, but he said,—

"Well, and suppose you take to the grinding; you can drive the cart afore ye, from town to town, and from village to village, as I've done myself scores and scores of times, and maybe you'll light on them as you're seeking. It's strange how many an old face, as I'd never thought to see no more, has turned up as I've jogged along from one place to another."

"Ah," exclaimed Jacob, "I think as that'd just suit me! I never thought of that. I'll take your offer then, Old Crow, and many thanks to ye, and I hope you'll not find me a bad partner."

So it was arranged as the old man suggested, and Jacob forthwith began to learn his new trade.

It was some weeks before he had become at all proficient in the knife- grinding and umbrella-mending arts; and many a sly laugh and joke on the part of Deborah made him at times half-inclined to give up the work; but there was a determination and dogged resolution about his character which did not let him lightly abandon anything he had once undertaken. So he persevered, much to Old Crow's satisfaction, for he soon began to love Jacob as a son, and the other was drawn to the old man as to a father. After a while Jacob's education in his new art was pronounced complete, not only by the old knife-grinder himself but even by Deborah, critical Deborah, who declared that his progress was astonishing.

"Why," she said, addressing Old Crow, "when he first took to it, nothing would serve him but he must have mother's old scissors to point; and he grund and grund till the two points turned their backs t'one on t'other, and looked different ways, as if they was weary of keeping company any longer. And when he sharped yon old carving-knife of grandfather's, you couldn't tell arter he'd done which side were the back and which side were the edge. But he's a rare good hand at it now."

And, to tell the truth, Deborah greatly prized a new pair of scissors, a present from Jacob, with the keenest of edges, the result of his first thoroughly successful grinding; indeed, it was pretty clear that the young knife-grinder was by no means an object of indifference to her. The public proclaiming of his vocation in the open streets was the most trying thing to Jacob. The very prospect of it almost made him give up. Deborah was very merry at his expense, and told him, that "if he were ashamed, she wouldn't mind walking in front of the cart, the first day, and doing all the shouting for him." This difficulty, however, was got over by the old man himself going with Jacob on his first few journeys, and introducing him to his customers; after which he was able to take to his new calling without much trouble. But it was quite plain that Old Crow himself was too much injured by his fall to be able to resume the knife-grinding for many months to come, even if indeed, he were ever able to take to it again. But this did not distress him, for he had learned to trace God's hand, as the hand of a loving Father, in everything. Though old and grey-headed, he was hearty and cheerful, for his old age was like a healthy winter, "kindly, though frosty;" for "he never did apply hot and rebellious liquors to his blood." Spite of his accident, these were happy days for him, for he had found in Jacob Poole one thoroughly like-minded. Oh, the blessings of a home, however humble, where Christ is loved, and the drink finds no entrance; for in such a home there are seen no forced spirits, no unnatural excitements! It was a touching sight when the quaint old man, having finished his tea, would bring his rocking-chair nearer to the fire, and bidding Jacob draw up closer on the other side, would tell of God's goodness to him in times past, and of his hopes of a better and brighter home on the other side of the dark river. Deborah would often make a third, and her mother would join them too at times, and then Jacob would tell of the wonders of the deep, and of the distant colony where he had sojourned. Then the old man would lay aside the tall cap which he wore even in the house, displaying his scattered white hairs, and would open his big Bible with a smile,—

"I always smile when I open the Bible," he said one day to Jacob, "'cos it's like a loving letter from a far-off land. I'm not afraid of looking into't; for, though I light on some awful verses every now and then, I know as they're not for me. I'm not boasting. It's all of grace; but still it's true 'there is therefore now no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus,' and I know that through his mercy I am gradely in him."

Then they would sing a hymn, for all had the Lancashire gift of good ear and voice, after which the old man would sink on his knees and pour out his heart in prayer. Yes, that cottage was indeed a happy home, often the very threshold of heaven; and many a time the half-drunken collier, as he sauntered by, would change the sneer that curled his lip at those strains of heartfelt praise, into the tear that melted out of a smitten and sorrowful heart, a heart that knew something of its own bitterness, for it smote him as he thought of a God despised, a soul perishing, a Bible neglected, a Saviour trampled on, and an earthly home out of which the drink had flooded every real comfort, and from which he could have no well-grounded hope of a passage to a better.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

FOUND.

Four years had passed away since Jacob Poole raised the old knife- grinder from his fall in the street in Bolton. All that time he had made his abode with the old man, traversing the streets of many a town and village far and near, and ever returning with gladness to his new home. His aged friend had never so far recovered from his accident as to be able to resume his work. He would occasionally go out with Jacob, and help him in some odd jobs, but never again took to wheeling out the machine himself. He was brighter, however, than in even more prosperous days, and had come to look upon Jacob as his adopted son. It was understood, also, that Deborah would ere long become the wife of the young knife-grinder. There was one employment in which the old man delighted, and that was the advocating and forwarding, in every way in his power, the cause of Christian total abstinence. For this purpose he would carry suitable tracts with him wherever he went, and would often pause in fine weather, when he accompanied Jacob Poole on his less distant expeditions; and, sitting on a step or bank, as the case might be, while the wheel was going round, would gather about him old and young, and give them a true temperance harangue. Sometimes he met with scoffs and hard words, but he cared little for them; he had his answer ready, or, like his Master, when reviled he opened not his mouth. Some one called him "a canting old hypocrite."

"Nay, friend," he replied, "you're mistaken there. I'm not a hypocrite. A hypocrite's a man with two faces. Now, you can't say you have ever seen me with two faces. I've seen many a drunkard with two faces—t'one as makes the wife and childer glad, and t'other as makes their hearts ache and jump into their mouths with fear. But you've ne'er seen that in a gradely abstainer."

"You're a self-righteous old sinner," said another.

"I'm a sinner, I know," was Old Crow's reply; "but I'm not self- righteous, I hope. I don't despise a poor drunkard; but I cannot respect him. I want to pull him out of the mire, and place him where he can respect hisself."

But generally he had ready and attentive listeners, and was the means of winning many to the good way; for all who really knew him respected him for his consistency. And Jacob was happy with him, and yet to him there was one thing still wanting. He had never in all his wanderings been able to discover the least trace of those whom he was seeking, and the desire to learn something certain about them increased day by day. At last, one fine July evening, he said to his old companion,—

"Ould Crow, I can't be content as I am. I must try my luck further off. If you've nothing to say against it, I'll just take the cart with me for a month or six weeks, and see if the Lord'll give me success. I'll go right away into Shropshire, and try round there; and through Staffordshire and Derbyshire."

"Well, my son," was the reply, "you'll just do what you know to be right. I won't say a word against it."

"And if," added Jacob, "I can't find them as I'm seeking, nor hear anything gradely about 'em, I'll just come back and settle me down content."

"The Lord go with you," said the old man; "you'll not forget me nor poor Deborah."

"I cannot," replied Jacob; "my heart'll be with you all the time."

"And how shall we know how you're coming on?"

"Oh, I'll send you a letter if I ain't back by the six week end."

So the next morning Jacob started on his distant journey. Many were the roads he traversed, and many the towns and villages he visited, as he slowly made his way through Cheshire into Shropshire; and many were the disappointments he met with, when he thought he had obtained some clue to guide him in his search.

Three weeks had gone by, when one lovely evening in the early part of August he was pushing the cart before him, wearied with his day's work and journey, along the high-road leading to a small village in Shropshire. The turnpike-road itself ran through the middle of the village. On a dingy board on the side of the first house as he entered, he read the word "Fairmow."

"Knives to grind!—scissors to grind!—umbrels to mend!" he cried wearily and mechanically; but no one seemed to need his services. Soon he passed by the public-house—there was clearly no lack of custom there, and yet the sounds that proceeded from it were certainly not those of drunken mirth. He looked up at the sign. No ferocious lion red or black, urged into a rearing posture by unnatural stimulants, was there; nor griffin or dragon, white or green, symbolising the savage tempers kindled by intoxicating drinks; but merely the simple words, "Temperance Inn." Not a letter was there any where about the place to intimate the sale of wine, beer, or spirits.

Waggons were there, for it was harvest-time, and men young and old were gathered about the door, some quenching their thirst by moderate draughts of beverages which slaked without rekindling it; others taking in solid food with a hearty relish. A pleasant sight it was to Jacob; but he would not pause now, as he wished to push on to the next town before night. So he urged his cart before him along the level road, till he came to a turn on the left hand off the main street. Here a lovely little peep burst upon him. Just a few hundred yards down the turn was a cottage, with a neat green paling before it. The roof was newly thatched, and up the sides grew the rose and jessamine, which mingled their flowers in profusion as they clustered over a snug little latticed porch. The cottage itself was in the old-fashioned black- timbered style, with one larger and one smaller pointed gable. There was a lovely little garden in front, the very picture of neatness, and filled with those homely flowers whose forms, colours, and odours are so sweet because so familiar. Beyond the cottage there were no other houses; but the road sloped down to a brook, crossed by a little rustic bridge on the side of the hedge furthest from the cottage. Beyond the brook the road rose again, and wound among thick hedges and tall stately trees; while to the left was an extensive park, gradually rising till, at the distance of little more than a mile, a noble mansion of white stone shone out brightly from its setting of dark green woods, over which was just visible the waving outline of a dim, shadowy hill. Jacob looked up the road, and gazed on the lovely picture with deep admiration. He could see the deer in the park, and the glorious sunlight just flashing out in a blaze of gold from the windows of the mansion. He sighed as he gazed, though not in discontent; but he was foot-sore and heart-weary, and he longed for rest. He thought he would just take his cart as far as the cottage, more from a desire of having a closer view of it than from much expectation of finding a customer. As he went along he uttered the old cry,—

"Knives to grind—scissors to grind."

The words attracted the notice of a young man, who came out of the cottage carrying a little child in his arms.

"I'll thank you to grind a point to this knife," he said, "and to put a fresh rivet in, if you can; for our Samuel's took it out of his mother's drawer when she was out, and he's done it no good, as you may see."

Jacob put out his hand for the knife, but started back when he saw it as if it had been a serpent. Then he seized it eagerly, and looked with staring eyes at the handle. There were scratched rudely on it the letters SJ.

"Where, where did you get this?" he cried, turning first deadly pale, and then very red again. The young man looked at him in amazement. "Who, who are you?" stammered Jacob again.

"Who am I?" said the other; "why, my name's John Walters. I am afraid you're not quite sober, my friend."

But just then a young woman came out from the cottage, leading by the hand a boy about five years old. She looked round first at her husband and then at the knife-grinder with a perplexed and startled gaze. The next moment, with a cry of "Betty!" "Sammul!" brother and sister were locked in each other's arms,—it was even so—the lost were found at last.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

MUTUAL EXPLANATIONS.

"Father, father!" cried Betty, rushing into the house, "come hither; here's our Sammul come back."

"Eh! What do ye say? Our Sammul come back?" exclaimed a well-known voice, and Johnson hurried out and clasped his son to his heart. "Eh! the Lord be praised for this," he cried, with streaming eyes. "I've prayed, and prayed for it, till I thought it were past praying for; but come in and sit ye down, and let me look at you."

Samuel was soon seated, with the whole household gathered round him.

"It is his own self, for sure," said Betty. "O Sammul, I never thought to see you no more."

"I should scarce have knowed you, had I met you on the road," said his father, "you're so much altered."

"Ay," said his sister; "he's gotten a beard to his face, and he's taller and browner like, but his eye's the same—he's our Sammul, sure enough. You'll not be for flitting again for a-while," she said, looking at him half playfully and half in earnest.

"No," he replied; "I've had flitting enough for a bit. But eh, Betty, you've growed yourself into a gradely woman. And this is your husband, I reckon, and these are your childer; have you any more?"

"No," said John Walters; "these two are all. Well, you're heartily welcome, Samuel. I'm glad to see you. Betty'll leave fretting now."

"Ay, and fayther too," cried Betty. "O Sammul, I am so glad to see you. I've prayed, and fayther's prayed too, scores of times; and he's had more faith nor me—though we've both begun to lose heart—but we've never forgot ye, Sammul. Oh, I shall be happy now. The Lord's too good to me," she said, with deep emotion; "as the blessed Book says, 'My cup runneth over'—ay, it do for sure—I've got the best husband as ever woman had, (you needn't be frowning, John, it's true); and I've got fayther, and they're both total abstainers, and gradely Christians too, and now I've got our Sammul."

"And he's a total abstainer," said Samuel, "and, he humbly hopes, a gradely Christian."

"Oh, that's best, that's best of all," cried his sister, again throwing her arms around him. "Oh, Sammul, I am so glad to see you—you can't wonder, for you're all the brothers I have, and I'm all the sisters you have; you can't wonder at it, John."

"I'm not wondering at anything but the Lord's goodness," said her husband, in a husky voice, and wiping his eyes.

"Here, Sammul," exclaimed Betty to her eldest child, "get on your Uncle Sammul's knee, and hug him with all your might. Eh! I didn't think this morn as I should have to tell you to say 'Uncle Sammul.' He's called arter yourself. If you hadn't been off, he'd a been John or Thomas, maybe. But our John knowed how I longed to have him called Sammul, so we've called the babe John Thomas, arter the fayther and grandfayther. And now you'll want your tea, and then we must all have a gradely talk when childers in bed."

Oh, what a happy tea that was! The cart was drawn into a shed, and Samuel sat gazing through the door, hardly able to eat or drink for happiness. What a peaceful picture it was! Betty was bustling in and out of the room, radiant with delight, sometimes laughing and sometimes crying, tumbling over the children, misplacing the tea-things, putting the kettle on the fire without any water in it, and declaring that, "she'd lost her head, and were good for nothing," all which delighted her husband amazingly, who picked up the children by turns, and corrected his wife's mistakes by making others himself; while Thomas Johnson sat in a corner smiling quietly to himself, and looking with brimming eyes at his son, as being quite satisfied for the time without asking questions. Samuel leaned back in his seat, as one who has accomplished the labour of a life, and would rest a while. The house door stood ajar, and he could see the roses and jessamine straggling in through the porch, the sunny road, the noble trees on its farther side, while a herd of cattle slowly made their way towards the brook. Every now and then, when the back door opened, (as it did many a time more than was necessary, for Betty often went out and returned without remembering what she had gone for), he could see the neat, well-stocked garden, with its hives of bees against the farthest wall, and its thriving store of apple and plum trees, besides all sorts of useful vegetables. He looked round the room, and saw at a glance that neatness, cleanliness, and order reigned there. He looked at a small side-table, and marked among its little pile of books more than one copy of the Word of Life, which told him that the brighter world was not kept out of sight; he could also gather from the appearance of the furniture and articles of comfort that surrounded him, that his beloved sister's lot was in earthly things a prosperous one. As they drew their chairs to the tea-table, which was at last furnished and arranged to Betty's complete satisfaction, and John had reverently asked a blessing, Samuel said,—

"Fayther, you're looking better than ever I saw you in my life."

"Yes, I don't doubt, my lad, you never seed me in my right mind afore; I were a slave to the drink then. I'd neither health of body nor peace of mind—now, thank the Lord for it, I enjoy both."

"Have you heard, Sammul?" asked Betty,—she tried to finish her sentence but could not, and the tears kept dropping on to her hands, as she bowed down her head in the vain endeavour to conceal them.

"She's thinking of her poor mother," said John in a soothing tone.

"Yes; I've heard about it," replied her brother sadly. There was a long pause, and then Samuel asked, "Did you know as I'd been back to Langhurst?"

"No," replied his father; "we heard as a stranger had been asking about me and mine, but nobody knowed who it was."

"We never got no letter from you, Sammul," said his sister; "there was a man as would have seen as we got it, if any letter had come for us arter we flitted."

"I never wrote; but I ought to have done; it were not right," replied Samuel; "and when I see'd it were my duty, it were too late for writing, for I were coming home myself."

"Weel," said Betty, "we have all on us much to ask, and much to tell; but just you finish your tea, and I'll put the childer to bed; and then you and John can take a turn round the garden, if you've a mind, while I clear the table and tidy up a bit."

And now, by common consent, when Betty had made all things straight, the whole party adjourned to the garden, and brought their chairs under an old cherry-tree, from which they could see the distant mansion with its embowering woods, and the sloping park in front. Samuel sat with his father on one side and Betty on the other, one hand in the hand of each. John was on the other side of his wife holding her other hand.

"You know, John," she said with a smile, "I only gave you the one hand when we were wed, so our Sammul's a right to t'other. And now, tell us all, Sammul dear, from the very first. You needn't be afraid of speaking out afore our John; he knows all as we know, and you must take him for your brother."

"I'll do so as you say, Betty; and when I've told you all, there'll be many things as I shall have to ax you myself. Well, then, you remember the night as I went off?"

"I shall ne'er forget it as long as I live," said his sister.

"Well," continued Samuel, "I hadn't made up my mind just what to do, but I were resolved as I wouldn't bide at home any longer, so I hurried along the road till I came to the old pit-shaft. I were just a-going to pass it by, when I bethought me as I'd like to take a bit of holly with me as a keepsake. So I climbed up the bank, where there were a fine bush, and took out my knife and tried to cut a bit; but the bough were tough, and I were afraid of somebody coming and finding me, so I cut rather random, for my knife were not so sharp, and I couldn't get the branch off at first, and as the bank were rather steep, I slipped about a good deal, and nearly tumbled back. Just then I heard somebody a- coming, and I felt almost sure it were fayther; so I gave one great pull with my knife, the branch came in two all of a suddent, and the knife slipped, and gave my left hand a great gash. I kept it, however, in my hand, but I slipped in getting back into the road, and dropped it. I durstn't stop long, for the man, whoever he were, came nearer and nearer, so I just looked about for a moment or two, and then I set off and ran for my life, and never saw my poor knife again till your John gave it me to sharpen an hour since."

"Eh, Sammul," cried Betty, with a great sigh of relief, "you little thought what a stab your knife'd give your poor sister. I went out, same night as you went off, to seek you, and coming home from Aunt Jenny's I seed a summat shining on the road near the old pit-shaft, for moon were up then; it were this knife o' yourn. I picked it up, and oh, Sammul, there were blood on it, and I saw the bank were trampled, and oh, I didn't know what to make on it. I feart ye'd been and kilt yourself. I feart it at first, but I didn't arter a bit, when I'd time to bethink me a little. But I've kept the knife ever since; you shall have it back now, and you mustn't charge us anything for grinding it."

"Poor Betty!" said her brother, "I little thought what sorrow my knife would bring you."

"Well, go on, it's all right now."

"When I'd run a good way," continued Samuel, "I began to think a bit what I should do with myself. One thing I were resolved on—I'd make a fresh start—I'd forget as I'd ever had a home—I'd change my name, and be my own mayster. It were not right—I see it now—I were misguided— it were not right to my poor Betty, my loving sister—it were selfish to leave her to bear all the trouble by herself, and it were not right by you, fayther, nor by poor dear mother. I should have borne my trials with patience, and the Lord would have made a road through 'em; but I've prayed to be forgiven, and, bless the Lord, he's brought good out of evil. Arter a while, I thought as I'd walk to Liverpool, and see if I couldn't work my passage to America or Australia. I didn't wish any one to know where I was gone, so I never wrote. I wished to be as dead to all as had gone before. It were the third day arter I left Langhurst that I got to Liverpool. I were very foot-sore, and almost famished to death, for I hadn't had a gradely meal since I left home. I were standing near a public, feeling very low and done, when some sailor chaps as was drinking there began to chaff me, and one was for giving me some beer and grog, but I wouldn't taste. Just then a Captain Merryweather, commander of the barque Sabrina, comes up. He hears what was going on, and takes me to a temperance inn and gives me a good breakfast, and asks me if I'd go with him to Australia as cabin-boy."

"To Australia!" exclaimed both Thomas and Betty; "have you really been to Australia, Sammul?"

"Ay, that I have, and back again too. Well, I were right glad to go with the captain, more particularly arterwards, as I seed Will Jones a- coming out on a public, and I thought if he'd a seen me, he might talk on it at Langhurst. When captain axed me if I'd go with him, he wanted to know my name. Eh, I were never so taken aback in all my life. I couldn't tell what to say, for I'd made up my mind as I'd drop the name of Samuel Johnson, but I hadn't got any other at hand to take to. So he axes me my name again. All at once I remembered as I'd see'd the name 'Jacob Poole' over a little shop in a lane near the town, so I thought, 'that'll do;' so says I, when he axed me my name again, 'Jacob Poole.' But I were nearly as fast next time as he called to me, for when he says, 'Jacob,' I takes no notice. So he says again, 'Jacob Poole,' in a loud voice, and then I turns round as if I'd been shot. I wonder he didn't find me out. But I'm used to the name now. I hardly know myself as Samuel."

"And which must we call you?" asked Betty, with a merry twinkle in her eyes. "Eh! fancy, 'Uncle Jacob,' 'Brother Jacob.' And yet it's not a bad name neither. I were reading in John to our Sammul t'other day about Jacob's well—that were gradely drink; it were nothing but good spring wayter. But go on, Sammul—Jacob, I mean."

Samuel then proceeded to describe his voyage, his attachment to Frank Oldfield, his landing in Australia, and subsequent separation from his master till he joined him again at Tanindie. He then went on to tell about his life at the diggings, and his conversion under the preaching of the faithful missionary.

"I began to see then," he continued, "as I'd not done the thing as was right. I talked it over with the minister; and I made up my mind as I'd come home again and find you out."

Then he told them of his voyage back to England, and of his landing with his master at Liverpool.

"Well, then," he proceeded, "as soon as I could be spared I went over to Langhurst. I went to our old place and opened the door. There were none but strange faces. 'Where's Thomas Johnson?' says I. 'Who do ye say?' says a woman as was by the hearth-stone. 'Thomas Johnson? he don't live here.' 'Where does he live then?' says I again. 'There's nobody o' that name in Langhurst,' says the woman. It were night when I got there, so I wasn't noticed. Then I went to old Anne Butler's, and I thought I'd not say who I were, for I were always a closeish sort o' chap; and if fayther and our Betty had flitted, I didn't want to have all the village arter me. So I just went to old Anne's. She didn't know me a bit. So I got talking about the village, and the folks as had come and gone; and I let her have her own way. So she goes from t'one to t'other, till at last she says, 'There's poor Tommy Johnson, as used to live in the stone row; he's flitted with his wench Betty, and nobody knows where they've gone.' 'That's strange,' says I, 'what made 'em flit that fashion?' 'Oh,' she says, 'they'd a deal of trouble. Thomas wasn't right in his head arter his lad Sammul went off, so he took up with them Brierleys, and turned teetotaller; and then his missus,'—but I canna tell ye what she said about poor mother. I were fair upset, ye may be sure, when she told me her sad end; but old Anne were so full of her story that she didna heed anything else. Then she said, 'Many of his old pals tried to turn poor Tommy back, but they couldn't, but they nearly worritted him out of his life. So one night Tommy and his Betty went clean off, and nobody's heard nothing no more on 'em, nor of their Sammul neither; and what's strangest thing of all, when they came to search the house arter it were known as Tommy had flitted, they found some great letters sticking to the chamber-floor in black and red; they was verses out of the Bible and Testament. The verse in black were, "No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of God;" t'other verse, in red, were, "Prepare to meet thy God." Some thought as the old lad had put 'em there; other some said, "The old lad's not like to burn his own tail in the fire." Howsever, verses were there for several days; I seed 'em myself: but one stormy night there came a terrible clap of thunner, and an awful flash of lightning, and it went right through chamber of Tommy's house, and next morn letters were all gone, and nothing were left but a black mark, like a great scorch with a hot iron.' This were old Anne's tale. I didn't tarry long in her house, for I didn't want to be seen by any as knowed me; but I went to many of the towns round about to see if I could hear anything about fayther, but it were no good; so I went back to Liverpool arter I'd been off about ten days." Samuel then gave them an account of the sad tidings that awaited his return, and then added,—

"I didn't know what to do, nor where to go, but I prayed to the Lord to guide me, and lead me in his own good time to fayther and our Betty, and the Lord has heard me, and he's done it in his own gracious way."

He then recounted his meeting with Old Crow, the knife-grinder, and his subsequent history to the time when, on that very evening, he was led in the good providence of his heavenly Father to turn down the lane to the little cottage.

"The Lord be praised, the Lord be praised!" exclaimed poor Johnson, when the story was finished. "Surely goodness and mercy he's been to us all. And, oh, he's been very good in bringing back our Sammul."

"We shall have a rare family gathering when we all meet, Old Crow, Deborah, and all," said Betty. "There'll be fayther, and our John, and our Sammul, and our Jacob, and our Deborah, and Old Crow, and little Sammul, and the babe. We must get the squire to build us another cottage."

"Ah, Betty, my own sister," said Samuel, "it does my heart good to hear your voice once more. Add now I want fayther to tell his tale. I want to know all about the flitting, and the black and red letters, and all, and how you came to light on this lovely spot."

Johnson raised himself in his chair, and prepared to speak. What a wondrous change Christian total abstinence had made in his whole appearance. The prominent animal features had sunk or softened down, the rational and intellectual had become developed. He looked like a man, God's thinking and immortal creature now; before, he had looked more like a beast, with all that was savage intensified by the venom of perverted intelligence. Now he sat up with all that was noble in his character shining out upon his countenance, specially his quiet iron determination and decision, in which father and son were so much alike. And there was, hallowing every line and look, that peace which passeth understanding, and which flows from no earthly fountain.

"Sammul, my lad," he said, "God has been very good to me, for I can say, 'This my son was lost, and is found.' He's given me a cup brimful of mercies; but the biggest of all is, he's sent us our Sammul back again. But I will not spin out my tale with needless talk, as you'll be impatient to know all about our flitting. You'll remember Ned Brierley?"

"Ay, well enough," said his son.

"Well, Ned were my best friend on earth, for you must know it were he as got me to sign the pledge. That were arter I got well arter the explosion. Ye heard of the explosion?"

"Yes," replied Samuel; "I heard on it arter I left Langhurst."

"It were a marvellous mercy," continued his father, "as I were spared. I'd halted rather 'tween two opinions afore, but when I left my sick-bed I came forward, and signed. Then Ned Brierley and all the family flitted, for the mayster'd given him a better shop somewhere in Wales. That were a bad job for me. I'd a weary life of it then. I thought some of my old mates 'ud a torn me in pieces, or jeered the very life out of me. Then, besides, you were not come back to us; and I were very down about your poor mother, so that I were casting about to see if I couldn't find work somewhere at a distance from Langhurst, where I could make a fresh start. It were in the November arter the explosion that same total abstinence chap as got yourself to sign came to our house, and axed me to tell my experience at a meeting as was to be held in Langhurst on the twenty-third of the month. I'd sooner have had nothing to do wi't, but our Betty said she thought I were bound to speak for the good of the cause, so I told the gentleman as I would. Now, you may just suppose as my old mates at the 'George' were in a fury when they heard of this, and some on 'em were resolved to sarve me out, as they called it, though I'd done 'em no harm. So they meets at Will Jones's house, a lot on them, and makes a plot to get into our house the night afore the meeting, and scratch my face over with a furze bush while I was asleep, and rub lamp-black and gunpowder all over my face, so as I shouldn't be able for shame to show myself at the meeting. But it so happened as Will Jones's lad John were under the couch-chair, hiding away from his fayther, all the time they was arranging their plans, and he heard all as they was saying. So Will Jones's wife Martha sends the lad to tell our Betty when the men was gone. She'd promised not to say anything herself, but that didn't bind the lad, so he came and told. What were we to do? Why, just the right thing were being ordered for us. Do ye remember old Job Paynter, the bill-sticker?"

"Ay, for sure I do," replied Samuel. "He were a good Christian man, and a thorough total abstainer."

"You're right there, Sammul," said his father; "now old Job's uncle to our John here. I'd seen a good deal of old Job of late. He'd taken to me and our Betty, and used often to call and have a cup of tea with us. He knowed how I wished to get away from Langhurst; and one night he says to me, 'I've a nephew, John Walters, down at Fairmow, in Shropshire. He's one of the right sort. I heard from him a while since as his squire wants a steady man to overlook a small colliery as he's got on his estate. The man as is there now's taken to drinking, so the squire's parting with him in December. Would you like me to mention yourself to my nephew?' You may be sure, Sammul, I were very thankful for the chance. But it wasn't chance—the word slipped out of my mouth; but I've done with chance long since—it were the Lord's doing. So old Job wrote to our John about it, and the end were, the squire offered the place to me. I got Job to keep it quite snug, for I didn't want my old mates to know anything about it. This were all settled afore I'd agreed to speak at the meeting. So when we found, from Martha Jones's lad, what my old mates was up to, I talked the matter over with old Job Paynter, and we hit upon a plan as'd just turn the tables on 'em, and might do 'em some good. It were all arranged with our John as we should be at liberty to come to his cottage here till the place were ready for me at the colliery. Then Job and I talked it over, and it were settled as our Betty should go to her aunt's at Rochdale, and take all her things with her, and meet me on the twenty-third of November at Stockport. Job was to come to our house on the twenty-second. So, a little afore nine, he slips in when it were very dark, and brings a lot of old letters with him ready cut out, and some paste. You must know as he'd a large quantity of old posters by him as had been soiled or torn. So he cuts what black letters he wants out of these, and some red 'uns too, enough to make the two texts, 'No drunkard shall inherit the kingdom of God,' and 'Prepare to meet thy God.' Then Job and me goes quietly up-stairs, and I holds the candle while he pastes the words on the chamber-floor. Then we rolls up some old bits of stuff into a bundle, and lays 'em on my bed, and puts the old coverlid over 'em. Then Job and me leaves the house, and locks the door; and that, Sammul, is last I've seen of Langhurst."

"And what about the thunder and lightning as scorched out the letters?" asked Samuel.

"Only an old woman's tale, I'll be bound," said his father. "You may be sure the next tenant scoured 'em off."

"And now," said John Walters, "it comes to my turn. Father and Betty came down to our house on the twenty-third of November. My dear mother was living then. I was her only son. I was bailiff then, as I am now, to Squire Collington of the Hall up yonder. Father worked about at any odd jobs I could find him till his place were ready for him, and Betty took to being a good daughter at once to my dear mother. She took to it so natural, and seemed so pleased to help mother, and forget all about herself, that I soon began to think, 'If she takes so natural to being a good daughter, she'll not find it hard maybe to learn to be a good wife.' And mother thought so too; and as Betty didn't say, 'No,' we were married in the following spring."

"Yes, Sammul," said Betty, laughing and crying at the same time; "but I made a bargain with John, when we swopped hearts, as I were to leave a little bit of mine left me still for fayther and our Sammul."

Thomas Johnson looked at the whole group with a face radiant with happiness, and then said,—

"The Lord bless them. They've been all good childer to me."

"We've always gotten the news of Langhurst from Uncle Job," said Betty. "He settled with the landlord about our rent, and our few odd bits of things; and he was to send us any letter as came from yourself."

"And so you've been here ever since?"

"Yes. Our John's mother died two years since come Christmas; and then fayther came to live with us. He'd had a cottage of his own afore, with a housekeeper to look arter him."

"And is your squire, Mr Collington, a total abstainer?"

"Ay, he is, for sure, and a gradely 'un too. He's owner of most of the land and houses here. The whole village belongs to him; and he'll not have a drop of intoxicating drinks sold in it. You passed the public. You heard no swearing nor rowing, I'll warrant. You'll find church, and chapel too, both full of Sundays; and there's scarce a house where the Bible isn't read every night. Ah! the drink's the great curse as robs the heart of its love, the head of its sense, and the soul of its glory!"



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

CONCLUSION.

There just remain a few creases to be smoothed out, and our story is done.

The morning after Samuel's arrival Betty made her way to the Hall, taking her brother with her. She knew that the squire and his lady, and indeed the whole family, would rejoice to hear that the wanderer was returned, for all loved the simple-hearted Lancashire girl, and had long sympathised with her and her father in their sorrow about Samuel.

Mr Collington and his lady having heard Betty's statement with the deepest interest, sent for Samuel, and had a long conversation with him.

"And what do you say to entering my service?" asked the squire. "We have learned to prize your father and sister so highly, that I shall feel perfect confidence in taking you with no other recommendation than your story and your relationship to them."

"Well, sir," replied Samuel, "you're very good. I'm tired of roving, and shall be glad to settle, if you can find me a place as'll suit me; only I mustn't forget as there's others I owe a duty to."

"You mean the friends you have left behind in Bolton?"

"Yes, sir," said Betty; "he's bound to be looking arter them. And there's Deborah, as he'll be bringing to share his home with him."

"And Old Crow too?" asked Mrs Collington.

"I cannot say, ma'am," replied Samuel; "but I must either take his cart back to him, or bring him over this side to his cart."

"Well, we'll see what can be done," said the squire.

Let us leave them for a while, and pass to Greymoor Park. Sir Thomas and Lady Oldfield have left it for an absence of several years; indeed, many doubts are expressed in the neighbourhood whether they will ever come back to reside there again. There is the stamp of neglect and sorrow upon the place. Sir Thomas has become a more thoughtful man—he is breaking up, so people say. His wife has found a measure of comfort at the only true Fountain, for her religion is now the substance—it was once only the shadow. But the past cannot be recalled, and a sorrow lies heavy on her heart which must go with her to her grave; and oh, there is a peculiar bitterness in that sorrow when she reflects what her poor boy might have been had she never herself broken down his resolve to renounce entirely that drink which proved his after-ruin. And what of the Oliphants at the Rectory? Bernard Oliphant still keeps on his holy course, receiving and scattering light. Hubert is abroad and prospers, beloved by all who know him.

And Mary, poor Mary, she carries a sorrow which medicine can never heal. Yet she sorrows not altogether without hope; for, according to her promise, she never ceased to pray for the erring object of her love; and she still therefore clings to the trust that there may have been light enough in his soul at the last for him to see and grasp the outstretched hand of Jesus. And sorrow has not made her selfish. She has learned to take a deepening interest in the happiness of others; and thus, in her self-denying works of faith and labours of love, she finds the throbbings of her wounded spirit to beat less fiercely. She has gained all she hopes for in this life, peace—not in gloomy seclusion, but in holy activity—and she knows that there is joy for her laid up in that bright, eternal land where the sorrows of the past can cast no shadows on present glory.

And now let us pass from those who mourn to those who rejoice. It is a lovely day in early September, and there is evidently something more than ordinary going on at Fairmow Park. In the village itself there is abundance of bustle and excitement, but all of the most innocent kind, for alcohol has nothing to do with it. Old and young are on the move, but the young seem to be specially interested. In fact, it is the "Annual Meeting of the Fairmow Band of Hope," which is to gather for dinner and recreation, as it always does, in the Park. So banners are flying, and children hurrying to and fro, and parents looking proud, and all looking happy. But to-day there is to be a double festivity, for Samuel Johnson and Deborah Cartwright are to be married. Deborah is staying at John Walters', and Samuel has got a snug little cottage no great way on the other side of the brook; and not far-off, and a little nearer to the Hall, is still another cottage, where Old Crow is just settled with Deborah's mother for housekeeper, for the old man could not rest content to be so far away from his adopted son Jacob, for he "means to call him Jacob and nothing else as long as he lives." The old man is not without money of his own, and he still means to do a little in the knife-grinding line. So his cart is to be wheeled up for him to the Park this afternoon, and he is to sharpen just as many or just as few knives for the squire, and scissors for the ladies, as he pleases. And now—for it is almost half-past ten o'clock—there is a straggling of various groups up to the neat little ivy-covered church. Oh, what a joyful day it is for Thomas Johnson and Betty! They hardly know how to hold all the love that swells in their hearts, and every one is so kind to them. Then the bells ring out joyfully, and the churchyard is filled with expectant faces of old and young. The squire, his wife, and daughters are to be there, and after the wedding there is to be a short service and an address from the clergyman. And now the little wedding- party winds up the hill, two and two, from John Walters' cottage, all supremely happy down to little Samuel and the babe, who are to share in the festivities of the day. All enter the church; the squire and his party being already seated. Old Crow is there, of course, for he is to give Deborah away. He has a Sunday suit on now, the garments of various eras being only for working days. Who so full of joy as Samuel, as he passes through the gazing throng with Deborah on his arm. They are to drive at once after the wedding to the Park in the squire's dog-cart. The marriage-ceremony is duly performed, and the address delivered. Then comes the band, with its brazen roar strangely jangling with the merry bells. The road is all alive with labourers in clean smocks, and lads with polished faces. The children in their holiday attire and Band of Hope ribbons run in and out everywhere. Fathers and mothers look glad, and old men and women benevolent. Flowers are to be seen in profusion, for total abstinence and flowers go everywhere together: there are flowers in the churchyard, flowers in the church, flowers in button-holes, belts, and bonnets, flowers in huge fragrant nosegays, flowers in choice little bouquets. And so, laughing, smiling, running, walking, hastening, sauntering, chatting, greeting, on go young and middle-aged and old, and the sloping sward of the Park is gained, and the Hall comes into close view. And there, under a wide expanse of canvas, is spread the healthful, bountiful repast—plenty of meat, plenty of drink of the right sort, and nothing to stimulate appetite but those odours which never tempt any but the gluttonous to excess. All are now gathered and take their places; young and old sit side by side. The squire, his lady, his daughters, and the clergyman are there. Every one is assured of a hearty welcome, and falls to in earnest when the grace has been sung. At length the vehement clashing of knives and forks and clattering of plates has subsided to a solitary click or two; all have been satisfied, and the squire rises. He has a word of kindness, love, and encouragement for each. They know how he loves them, and they listen with the deepest attention. And thus he speaks:—

"Our kind and beloved pastor has addressed us all in church this morning, and I trust we shall remember well the words of truth and wisdom which he spoke. And now it falls to myself to speak to you. I can most truthfully declare how it rejoices myself and my dear wife to see so many healthy, happy faces at our yearly 'Band of Hope' festivity. But to-day we specially rejoice, because we see here a happy couple who have just been joined together as man and wife in our church, with the blessed prospect of being fellow-partakers of the happiness of heaven. I am very thankful to number them among my tenants and people. You all of you now know something of Samuel Johnson, his trials, temptations, and struggles as a Christian total abstainer. ('Hear, hear,' from Old Crow.) What a truly happy gathering this is! I have no need to look at any with misgiving lest their bright faces should owe their brightness to excess in intoxicating liquors. We have no false stimulants here—we have no clouded brains, no aching consciences here—none will go home needing to rue the gathering and recreations of this day. And now, young people of the 'Band of Hope,' my dear boys and girls, I have just a parting word for you. Never let any one persuade you, go where you may, to forsake your pledged total abstinence. Never care for a laugh or a frown, they can do you no harm while God is on your side. Oh, remember what an insidious, what a crafty tempter the drink is! I have a short story to tell you that will illustrate this. Many years ago, when the English and French were at war with one another in North America, a portion of the English army was encamped near a dense and trackless forest. The French were on friendly terms with a tribe of Red Indians who lived thereabouts, and our men were therefore obliged to be specially on their guard against these crafty savage foes. A sentinel was placed just on the border of the forest, and he was told to be very watchful against a surprise from the Indians. But one day, when the sergeant went to relieve guard, he found the sentinel dead, his scalp, (that is, the hair with the skin and all), torn from his head, and his musket gone. This was plainly the work of an Indian. Strict charge was given to the new sentinel to fire his musket on the first approach of an enemy. Again they went to relieve guard, and again they found the sentinel dead and scalped as the one before him. They left another soldier in his place, and after a while, hearing the discharge of a musket, they hurried to the spot. There stood the sentinel uninjured, and close at his feet lay a Red Indian dead. The sentinel's account was this. While he was keeping his eyes on the forest, he saw coming from it a sort of large hog common in those parts, which rolls itself about in a peculiarly amusing manner. In its gambols it kept getting nearer and nearer to him, when all of a sudden it darted into his mind, 'Perhaps this creature is only an Indian in disguise.' He fired at it, and found it was even so. The crafty savage had thus approached the other sentinels, who had been thrown off their guard by his skilful imitation of the animal's movements, so that the Indian had sprung up and overpowered them before they could fire or call for help. Now it is just so, dear boys and girls, with the drink. It comes, as it were, all innocence and playfulness: it raises the spirits, unchains the tongue, makes the eyes bright, and persuades a man that the last thing he will do will be to exceed; and then it gets closer and closer, and springs upon him, and gets the mastery over him, before he is at all aware. But don't you trifle with it, for it comes from the enemy's country—it is in league with the enemy—repel it at the outset—have nothing to do with it—it has surprised and slain millions of immortal beings—never taste, and then you will never crave. Oh, how happy to show that you can live without it! Then you may win others to follow your example. Ay, the young total abstainer who will not touch the drink because he loves his Saviour, does indeed stand on a rock that cannot be moved, and he can stretch out the helping hand to others, and cry, 'Come up here and be safe.' And now away to your games and your sports, and may God bless you all!"

THE END