"How will he get along in France, think you?" said Fortune. "They've naught but frogs to eat there, have they?"

On that point the company was divided, being all equally ignorant. But Farmer Lavender's good sense came to the rescue.

"Why," said he, "Jenny here tells me Colonel Wyndham's got a Frenchman to his cook; and he'd make a poor cook if he'd never dressed nought but frogs, I reckon."

"They'll have a bit o' bread to 'em, like as not," suggested the waggoner.

"Well, I must be going," said Fortune, rising. "Jenny, what's come of your grand gown as Mrs Jane gave you? We looked to see you in it this Sunday. Folks 'll think it's all a make-up if you put it off so long."

"'Tisn't finished making up," said Kate, laughing.

"You'll see me in it next Sunday, if you choose to look," replied Jenny, in a rather affronted tone.

She was put out by Fortune's hint that the dress was considered a fiction; and she was thoroughly annoyed by the story about Featherstone's cowardly conduct. Bravery was one of the qualities that Jenny particularly admired; and she could not help feeling angry with Featherstone for thus lowering himself in her esteem. She thought of it many times during the week, when she was altering the flowered tabby to fit herself, and by the time that the dress was finished, Jenny's regard for Robin Featherstone was about finished also. Love she had never had for him; but he had flattered her vanity, and she liked it.

The next Sunday morning came, and Jenny dressed herself in the flowered tabby, with a pink bow on her muslin tippet. With a gratified sense of pride, she passed Fortune and Dolly Campion on her way up the churchyard; not less gratified to hear their respective whispers.

"Well, it wasn't a make-up, then!" said Dolly, in a rather disappointed tone.

"Dear heart! isn't she fine?" responded Fortune.

Little did Jenny Lavender think, as she passed up the aisle to her father's pew, that the Jenny who entered that church was never to leave it again. There was a stranger in the pulpit that day—a man of a very different sort from the usual preacher. He was an old man, and the style of his sermon was old-fashioned. Instead of being a learned and closely-reasoned discourse, seasoned with scraps of Latin, or a political essay on the events of the day, it was a sermon such as had been more common in the beginning of the century—simple, almost conversational, striking, and full of Gospel truth. Such a sermon Jenny Lavender had never heard before.

The text was Genesis, chapter 32, verse 26: "I will not let Thee go, except Thou bless me." The preacher told his hearers in a plain fashion, without any learned disquisitions or flowery phrases, what blessing meant; that for God to bless a man was to give him, not what he wished, but what he really needed for his soul's welfare; that many things which men thought blessings, were really evils, and that all which did not help a man towards God, only hurried him faster on the road to perdition. He told them that Christ was God's greatest blessing, His unspeakable gift; and that he who received Him was in truth possessed of all things. When he came near the end of his sermon, he bent forward over the pulpit cushion, and spoke with affectionate earnestness to his hearers.

"Now, brethren, how many here this day," he said, "are ready to speak these words unto the Lord? How many of you earnestly desire His blessing? What, canst thou not get so far, poor soul? Be thine hands so weak that thou canst not hold Him? Be thy feet so feeble that thou canst not creep thus far up the ladder at the top whereof He standeth? Well, then, let us see if thou canst reach the step beneath—'Lord, I most earnestly desire Thy salvation.' Or is this too far for thy foot to stretch? Canst thou say but, 'Lord, I desire Thy salvation,' however feeble and faint thy desire be? Poor sinful soul, art thou so chained and weak, that thou canst not come even so far? Then see if thy trembling foot will not reach the lowest step of all: 'Lord, make me to desire Thy salvation.' Surely, howsoever sunk in the mire, and howsoever blind thou be, thou canst ask to be lifted forth, and to have sight given thee. Brethren, will ye not so do? When ye fall to your prayers this even, ere ye sleep, will ye not say so much as this? Yea, will ye not go further, and run up the ladder, and cry with a mighty voice, 'I will not let Thee go, except Thou bless me'?"

When Jenny Lavender came out of church, she stood on the second step of the ladder. She scarcely heard Abigail Walker's taunt of "Well, if Mrs Jane did give her the gown, I'll go bail she stole that pink ribbon." Such things were far beneath one who had set foot on that ladder. And Jenny did not stay at the bottom; she ran up fast. By the time that she knelt down at her bedside for her evening prayers, she had come to the fourth step—"I will not let Thee go, except Thou bless me."

The last atom of Jenny's old admiration for Robin Featherstone, which had been already shaken, vanished that day. The Spirit of God, who had touched her heart through the preacher, led her to see that folly, vanity, and frivolity were utterly out of concord with Him. And then came a feeling of regret for the unkind flippancy with which she had treated Tom Fenton. Jenny knew that Tom was a Christian man; it had been one reason why she despised him, so long as she was not herself a Christian woman. There was a gulf between them now, and of her own digging. Tom had given over coming to the farm except on business; he gave her a kindly "Good morrow!" when they met, but it was no more than he gave to Kate, or any other girl of his acquaintance; and Jenny saw nothing of him beyond that. On every side she heard his praises, as a doer of brave and kindly actions. She knew that, apart from the mere outside, there was not a man to be compared to Tom Fenton in the whole neighbourhood. It was bitter to reflect that the time had been when Tom was ready to put himself and all he had at her feet, and she had only her own folly to thank that it was over. No wonder Jenny grew graver, and looked older than she used to be. Her father was uneasy about her; he feared she was either ill or unhappy, and consulted his sensible old mother.

"Nay," said Mrs Lavender, "Jenny's not took bad; and as for her sadness, it's just womanhood coming to her. Don't you spoil it, Joe. The furnace burns up the dross, and let it go! It won't hurt the good gold."

"You don't think then, mother, there's any fear of the dear lass going into a waste, like?" asked Farmer Lavender anxiously.

"No, Joe, I don't; I'll let you know when I do. At this present I think she's only coming to her senses a bit."

The old preacher appeared no more in the pulpit at Darlaston; but so far as Jenny Lavender was concerned, he had done the work for which he was sent there. Jenny had not a single Christian friend except old Persis Fenton; and she kept away from Tom's aunt, just because she was his aunt. She was therefore shut up to her Bible, which she read diligently; and perhaps she grew all the faster because she was watered direct from the Fountain-Head. Old Mrs Lavender was wise in a moral sense, but not in a spiritual one, beyond having a general respect for religion, and a dislike to any thing irreverent or profane. Farmer Lavender shared this with her; but he looked on piety as a Sunday thing, too good to use every day. So Jenny stood alone in her own family.

While all this was passing at the farm, Colonel Lane and Mrs Jane were speeding, post-haste, to France. The Colonel explained to Featherstone, whom alone of his servants he took with him, that he and his sister having had the honour of performing an important service to the King, their lives were in danger from the resentment of the Parliamentary party.

The King himself was now safe at Paris, where they hoped to join him; and on arriving there, if Featherstone wished to return home, he thought there was no doubt that he could get a passage for him in the suite of some person journeying to England. If, on the contrary, he preferred to remain in France, the Colonel would willingly retain his services.

"I have entered into arrangements," he concluded, "whereby my rents will be secure, and will be remitted to me from time to time while we remain in France. I trust it may not be long ere the King shall be restored, and we can go back with him."

Featherstone requested a little time to think the matter over. He certainly had no desire to leave the Colonel before reaching Paris, a city which he wished to see beyond all others.

"Ay, take your time," answered the Colonel. "My sister will provide herself with a woman when we arrive thither. In truth, it was not for her own sake, but for Jenny's, that she left her at home."

This conversation confirmed Featherstone in two opinions which he already entertained. First, he was satisfied that an understanding had been arrived at between the Colonel and his friend Mr Chadderton, whereby the latter was to remit the Colonel's rents under colour of keeping the estates for himself. Secondly, he was more convinced than ever that Will Jackson had played the traitor, and that it was through him the Parliament had been made aware of the Colonel's service to the King's cause, whatever it might be.

Dover was reached in safety, and the party embarked on board the Adventure for Calais. It took them twenty hours to cross; and before ten of them were over, Robin Featherstone would have been thankful to be set down on the most uninhabited island in the Pacific Ocean, with no prospect of ever seeing Paris or anything else, might he but have been safe upon dry land. It was in a very limp, unstarched condition of mind and body that he landed on the Calais quay. Colonel Lane, an old traveller, and an excellent sailor, was rather disposed to make merry at poor Robin's expense; for toothache and sea-sickness are maladies for which a man rarely meets with much sympathy.

They slept the last night at Saint Denis, where the Colonel encountered an old acquaintance, an English gentleman who was just starting for Paris, and who assured the Colonel that he should communicate the news of his approach to the King.

"Truly, I am weary of horse-riding as I may well be," said Mrs Jane, as she mounted the next morning, to traverse the eight miles which lie between Saint Denis and Paris. "Poor little Jenny Lavender! 'tis well I brought her not withal; she would have been dog-weary ere we had won thus far."

For this short distance Mrs Jane rode by herself, the Colonel mounting another horse beside her. Featherstone followed, and a French youth came last, conducting the baggage-horse. Rather more than half the distance to the capital had been traversed, when a large cavalcade was seen approaching. It consisted of a number of gentlemen on horseback, preceding one of the large cumbrous coaches then in common use, in which sat two ladies and a little girl. The coach was drawn by six heavy Flanders mares, which went at so leisurely a pace that they could easily be accompanied by a crowd of French sight-seers who ran before, behind, and all around them.

As soon as the two parties came within sight of each other, one of the gentlemen who preceded the coach rode forward and met the travellers, pulling off his hat as he came up to them. Featherstone perceived that he was Lord Wilmot.

"How do you, Colonel Lane?" he said. "Mrs Jane, your most obedient! I pray you be in readiness for the high honour which awaits you. His Majesty comes himself to meet you, with the Princes his brothers, and the Queen in her coach, desiring to do you as much honour, and give you as good a welcome as possible."

"We are vastly beholden to their Majesties," replied Colonel Lane, looking as pleased as he felt, which was very much: for the honour thus paid to him was most unusual, and showed that the young King and his mother considered his service an important one. "Featherstone!" he called, looking back, "keep you close behind, or we may lose you."

Featherstone tried hard to obey, but found the order difficult of execution. The crowd was only bent on seeing the meeting, and cared not a straw whether Featherstone were lost or not. He knew not a word of French, and was aware that if he did lose his master, he would probably have no little trouble in finding him again. Moreover, he was very curious to see the King—partly on Kate Lavender's principle, of afterwards having it to talk about. Just at that awkward moment his horse took to curvetting, and he had enough to do to manage him. He was vaguely conscious that one of the riders, who sat on a fine black horse, had come forward beyond the rest, and was cordially shaking hands with Mrs Jane and the Colonel. He heard this gentleman say, "Welcome, my life, my fair preserver!" and dimly fancied that the voice was familiar. Then, having reduced his horse to decent behaviour, he lifted up his eyes and saw—Will Jackson.

Will Jackson, and none other, though now clad in very different garb! He it was who sat that black barb so royally; the King's plumed hat was in his left hand, while the right held that of Mrs Jane. It was at Will Jackson's words of thanks that she was smiling with such delight; it was he before whom Colonel Lane bent bare-headed to his saddlebow. The awkward lout who had never been in a gentleman's service, the ignorant clown, fresh from the plough-tail, the Roundhead, the traitor, had all vanished as if they had never been, and in their stead was King Charles the Second, smilingly complimenting the friends to whose care and caution he owed his safety. If the earth would have opened and swallowed him up, Featherstone thought he would have been thankful. But a worse ordeal was before him. As he sat on his now quiet horse, gazing open-mouthed and open-eyed, the King saw him, and the old twinkle, which Featherstone knew, came into the dark eyes.

"Ha! I see an old friend yonder," said he comically. "I pray you, fetch my fellow-servant up to speak with me."

Poor Featherstone was laid hold of, pulled off his horse, and pushed forward close to that of the King.

"How do, Robin?" asked the merry monarch, who heartily enjoyed a little affair of this sort. "Nay, look not so scared, man—I am not about to cut off thine head."

Featherstone contrived to mumble out something in which "forgive" was the only word audible.

"Forgive thee! what for?" said King Charles. "For that thou knewest me not, and tookest me for a Roundhead? Why, man, it was just then the finest service thou couldst have done me. I have nought to forgive thee for save a glass of the best ale ever I drank, that thou drewest for me at breakfast on the morrow of my departing. Here, some of you"—His Majesty plunged both hands in turn into his pockets, and, as usual, found them empty. "What a plague is this money! Can none of you lend me a few louis?"

The pockets of the suite proved to be almost as bare as those of the King. The Duke of Hamilton managed to find a half-louis (which he well knew he should never see again); Queen Henrietta was applied to in her coach, but in vain, as she either had no money, or did not choose to produce it, well knowing her son's extravagance and thoughtlessness. Colonel Lane had a sovereign, which he furnished. The King held them out to Featherstone.

"There!" he said, "keep somewhat for thyself, and give somewhat to the little dairy-maid that took my part, and would have had me knock thee down. Tell her she'll make a brave soldier for my Guards, when all the men are killed. Divide it as thou wilt. Nay, but I must have a token for pretty Mrs Jenny." His Majesty cast his eyes about, and they fell on his plumed hat. Without a minute's consideration he loosened the diamond buckle. "Give her that," said he, "and tell her the King heartily agrees with her that Will Jackson's an ill-looking fellow."

It was just like King Charles to give away a diamond buckle, when neither he nor his suite had money to pay for necessaries. Robin Featherstone stepped back into the crowd, where he was pretty well hustled and pushed about before he regained his horse; but he managed to keep fast hold of the money and the diamond clasp. He was rather troubled what to do with them. The jewel had so pointedly been intended for Jenny, that he could scarcely help dealing rightly in that instance; but the division of the money was not so clear. A man who was just and generous would have given the sovereign to Fortune, and have kept the half-louis (worth about 8 shillings 6 pence) for himself; but Feathers tone was not generous, and not particularly anxious to be just. The portion to be appropriated to Fortune dwindled in his thoughts, until it reached half-a-crown, and there for very shame's sake it stayed.

"And why not?" demanded Mr Featherstone of his conscience, when it made a feeble remonstrance. "Did not His Majesty say, 'Divide it as thou list'? Pray who am I, that I am not to obey His Majesty?"

Had His Majesty's order been a little less in accordance with his own inclinations, perhaps Mr Featherstone would not have found it so incumbent on him to obey it. It is astonishing how easy a virtue becomes when it runs alongside a man's interest and choice. Featherstone had never learned self-denial; and that is a virtue nearly as hard to exercise without practice as it would be to play a tune on a musical instrument which the player had never handled before. In that wonderful allegory, the Holy War—which is less read than its companion, the Pilgrim's Progress, but deserves it quite as much— Bunyan represents Self-Denial as a plain citizen of Mansoul, of whom Prince Immanuel made first a captain, and then a lord. But he would never have been selected for either honour, if he had not first done his unobtrusive duty as a quiet citizen. Self-denial and self-control are not commonly admired virtues just now. Yet he is a very poor man who has not these most valuable possessions.

Robin Featherstone stayed with the Colonel just as long as it suited himself, and until he had exhausted such pleasures as he could have in Paris without knowing a word of the French language, which he was too lazy to learn. What a vast amount of good, not to speak of pleasure, men lose by laziness! When this point was reached, Featherstone told the Colonel that he wished to return to England; and Colonel Lane, who, happily for himself, was not lazy, set things in train, and procured for Robert a passage to England in the service of a gentleman who was going home.

"I wonder how little Jenny's going on," said our idle friend to himself, as he drew near Bentley. "I might do worse than take little Jenny. I only hope she hasn't taken up with that clod-hopper Fenton while I've been away, for want of a better. I almost think I'll have her. Dolly Campion's like to have more money, 'tis true; but it isn't so much more, and she's got an ugly temper with it. I shouldn't like a wife with a temper—I've a bit too much myself; and two fires make it rather hot in a house. (Mr Featherstone did not trouble himself to wonder how far Jenny, or any other woman, might like a husband with a temper.) Ay, I think I'll take Jenny—all things considered. I might look about me a bit first, though. There's no hurry."



CHAPTER SIX.

WHEREIN JENNY MAKES HER LAST MISTAKE.

"I marvel Tom and Jenny Lavender doesn't make it up," said Persis Fenton, as she laid the white cloth for supper on her little table. "Here's Jenny got a fine sensible young woman, with God's grace in her heart (more than ever I looked for), and Tom goes on living in that cottage all by his self, and never so much as casts an eye towards her— and that fond of her as he'd used to be, afore, too! Tony, man, don't you think it's a bit queer?"

"I think," said old Anthony, looking up from his big Bible, which he was reading by the fireside, "I think, Persis, we'd best leave the Lord to govern His own world. He hasn't forgot that Tom's in it, I reckon, nor Jenny neither."

"Well, no—but one'd like to help a bit," said Persis, lifting off the pan to dish up her green pudding, which was made of suet and bread-crumbs, marigolds and spinach, eggs and spice.

"Folks as thinks they're helping sometimes hinders," replied Anthony, quietly taking off his great horn spectacles, and putting them away in the case.

"Tell you what, Tony, I hate to see anything wasted," resumed Persis, after grace had been said. "If there's only an end of thread over, I can't abear to cast it away; I wind it on an old bobbin, thinking it'll come in some time."

"The Lord never wastes nothing, wife," was Anthony's answer. "See how He grows plants in void places, and clothes the very ruins with greenery. It's always safe to trust Him with a man's life."

"Ay," half assented Persis, "but it do seem a waste like of them young things' happiness."

"Where didst thou ever read in the Word, Persis, as happiness was the first thing for a man to look to? The Lord's glory comes first, and then usefulness to our fellows, a long way afore happiness. Bless the Lord, He do make it happy work for man to seek His glory—and that's what Tom doth. I'll trust the Lord to see to his happiness."

Just as the green puddings came out of the pan, Tom Fenton turned into the lane leading up to his own home, having been engaged in delivering a work-table that he had made for the Vicar's wife. It was a beautiful day at the end of October, very warm for the time of year, and the sun was near its setting. As Tom came to a turn in the lane, he saw a short distance before him, up a bye-road which led past Farmer Lavender's house, a solitary girlish figure, walking slowly, and now and then stopping to gather something from the bank. A slight quickening of his steps, and a turn into the bye-road, soon brought him up with the solitary walker.

"Good even, Jenny!"

"Good even, Tom!"

For some seconds they walked abreast without any further speech. Then Tom said—

"I've just been up to parson's."

"Oh, have you?" replied Jenny, a little nervously.

"Their Dorcas saith she's heard as Featherstone's back."

"Is he so?" said Jenny, in a still more constrained tone.

"Didn't like it in France, from what she heard."

"Very like not," murmured Jenny.

"He's got a place with Mr Chadderton—the young gentleman who was married of late, and who's coming to live at Bentley Hall; so you're like to see a bit of him again."

"I don't want to see him," said Jenny suddenly. "I'd as lief he didn't come nigh me."

"You was used to like him middling well wasn't you, Jenny?"

Before Jenny could answer, the very person of whom they were speaking appeared at a turn of the lane, coming towards them.

"Mrs Jenny Lavender, as I live!" said he. "Now, this is luck! I was on my way to the farm—"

"With your back to it?" asked Tom.

Mr Featherstone ignored both Tom and the question.

"Mrs Jenny, since I had the delight of sunning myself in your fair eyes, I have had the high honour of beholding His Most Gracious Majesty King Charles, who was pleased to command me to deliver into your white hands a jewel which His Majesty detached from his own hat. He—"

"Me!" exclaimed Jenny, in so astounded a tone as to remind Featherstone that he was beginning his story at the wrong end.

"Oh, of course you know not," he said, a little put out, for his speech had been carefully studied, though he had forgotten the peroration, "that His Majesty is Will Jackson. I mean, Will Jackson was His Majesty. At least—"

"Are you quite sure you know what you do mean, Mr Featherstone?" demanded Tom. "Sounds as if you'd got a bit mixed up, like. Is it the King you've seen, or is't Will Jackson?"

Tom rather suspected that Featherstone was not quite sober. But he was, though between annoyance and self-exaltation he was behaving rather oddly.

"Look here!" he said angrily, holding out the diamond clasp. "Was Will Jackson like to give me such as this for Mrs Jenny? I tell you, His Majesty the King gave it me with his own hand."

Suddenly Tom's conscience spoke. "Are you acting like a Christian man, Tom Fenton?" it said. "Have you any right to work Featherstone up into a passion, however foolish he may have been? Is that charitable? is it Christ-like?"

"Very good, Mr Featherstone," said Tom quietly.

"I ask your pardon, and I'll relieve you of my company. Good night— Good night, Jenny."

Jenny could have cried with disappointment. She was afraid that Tom was vexed with her, and wholly unwilling to be left to the society of Featherstone. As to the diamond buckle, she did not half believe the story. Tom's action, however, had its effect upon Featherstone.

"Don't you believe me, Mrs Jenny?" he said more gently. "I doubt I've made a mess of my story, but 'tis really true. Will Jackson was the King himself in disguise, and he bade me bring that to you, and tell you that he entirely agreed with you that Will was an ill-looking fellow."

When Jenny really understood the truth, she was overwhelmed. Was it possible that she had actually told King Charles to his face that she considered him ugly? Of course she was pleased with the gift in itself, and with his kindly pardon of her impertinence.

"But, eh dear!" she said, turning round the clasp, which flashed and glistened as it was moved, "such as this isn't fit for the likes of me!"

Farmer Lavender was exceedingly pleased to see the clasp and hear its story, and in his exultation gave Featherstone a general invitation to "turn in and see them whenever he'd a mind."

"Why, Jenny!" cried Kate, "you'll have to hand that down to your grandchildren!"

Jenny only smiled faintly as she went upstairs. She liked the clasp, and she liked the gracious feeling which had sent it; but what really occupied her more than either was a distressed fear that she had offended Tom Fenton. He never came to the farm now. The only hope she had of seeing him lay in an accidental meeting.

Sunday came, and Jenny dressed herself in the flowered tabby, tying her tippet this time with blue ribbons. When she came into the kitchen ready to go to church, her sister's eyes scanned her rather curiously. "Why, Jenny, where's your clasp?"

"What clasp?" asked Jenny innocently. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

"What clasp!" repeated Kate, with a burst of laughter. "Why, the clasp King Charles sent you, for sure. Have you got so many diamond clasps you can't tell which it is?"

"Oh!—Why, Kate, I couldn't put it on."

"What for no? If a King sent me a diamond, I'd put it on, you take my word for it!—ay, and where it'd show too."

"I'd rather not," said Jenny in a low voice. "Not for church, anyhow."

"Going to save it for your wedding-day?" Jenny felt very little inclined for jests; the rather since she was beginning to feel extremely doubtful if she would ever have any wedding-day at all. She felt instinctively that a jewel such as King Charles's clasp was not fit for her to wear. Tom would not like to see it, she well knew; he detested anything which looked like ostentation. And, perhaps, Christ would not like it too. Would it not interfere with the wearing of that other ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, with which He desired His handmaidens to adorn themselves? Jenny resolved that she would not put on the clasp.

"No, Kate, I shouldn't like to wear it," she said quietly. "I've got it put by safe, and you can see it whenever you have a mind: but it's best there."

"Thou'rt right, my lass," said old Mrs Lavender.

"Well, I shouldn't like you to lose it, of course," admitted Kate.

Jenny fancied, and with a heavy heart, that Tom carefully avoided speaking to her in the churchyard. Old Anthony and Persis had a kind word for her, but though Tom went away in their company, carrying his aunt's books, he never came up to speak with Jenny. It distressed her the more because Kate said afterwards:

"Have you had words with Tom Fenton, Jenny? I asked him if he'd a grudge against you, that he never spoke."

"What did he say?" asked Jenny quickly.

"He didn't say neither yea nor nay," answered Kate, laughing.

The afternoon brought several young people, and there was, as usual, plenty of mirth and chatter. Jenny felt utterly out of tune for it, and slipped out of the back door into the lane. She went slowly up, feeling very low-spirited, and wondering what God was going to do with her. When she came to the gate of the bean-field—the place where Tom had overtaken her a few evenings before—she stopped, and resting her arms upon the gate, watched the sun sinking slowly to the west. Thinking herself quite alone, she said aloud, sorrowfully—"Oh dear! I wonder if I've never done anything but make mistakes all my life!"

"Ay, we made one the other night, didn't we?" said a voice behind her.

Jenny kept her start to herself.

"Yes, we did, Tom," she replied soberly.

"I've made a many afore now," said Tom gravely.

"Not so many as me," answered Jenny, sorrowfully.

"Tell me your biggest, Jenny, and you shall hear mine."

"There's no doubt of that, Tom. The biggest mistake ever I made was when I fancied God's service was all gloom and dismalness."

"Right you are, Jenny. That's about the biggest anybody can make. But what was the second, now?"

"Oh look, Tom, those, lovely colours!" cried Jenny, suddenly seized with a fervent admiration for the sunset. "Them red streaks over the gold, and the purple away yonder—isn't it beautiful?"

"It is, indeed. But that second mistake, Jenny?"

"Nay, I was to hear your biggest, you know," said Jenny slily.

"Well, Jenny, the biggest mistake ever I made, next after that biggest of all that you spoke of just now—was to fancy that I could forget Jenny Lavender, my old love."

Two hours afterwards, the door of old Anthony's cottage opened about an inch.

"Uncle Anthony, are you there?"

"Ay, lad. Come in, Tom."

"Don't want to come in. I only want to tell you that the Lord's given me back the greatest thing I ever gave up for Him."

Old Anthony understood in a moment.

"Ay so, Tom? I'm fain for thee. And thou'lt be glad all thy life long, my lad, that thou waited for the Lord to give it thee, and didn't snatch it like out of His hand. We're oft like children, that willn't wait till the fruit be ripe, but makes theirselves ill by eating it green. And when folks does that, there's no great pleasure in the eating, and a deal of pain at after."

"That's true. Well, good night, Uncle Anthony. I thought I'd just let you know."

"I'm right glad to know it, my dear lad. Good night, and God bless thee!"

It was not for nine years that the Lanes came back to Bentley Hall. Their lives would have been in danger had they done so at an earlier date. They came back with King Charles—when Oliver Cromwell was dead, and his son Richard had shown himself unfit to govern, and a season of general tumult and uncertainty had brought England into readiness to accept any firm hand upon the helm, and an inclination to look longingly to the son of her ancient Kings, as the one above all others given by God to govern her. But she had made the terrible mistake of first driving him away into lands where he found little morality and less religion, and it was to her woeful hurt that he came back.

It was on a beautiful June evening that the Lanes returned to Bentley: and the old master of the Hall only came back to die. Colonel Lane was looking much older, and his mother was now an infirm old woman. Mrs Jane, a blooming matron of thirty, came with her husband, Sir Clement Fisher, of Packington Hall, Warwickshire, a great friend of her brother, and like him an exile for the King.

Charles did not forget the service done him by the Lanes, nor leave it unrewarded, as he did that of some of his best friends. He settled on Lady Fisher an annuity of a thousand pounds, with half that sum to her brother; and he presented Colonel Lane with his portrait, and a handsome watch (a valuable article at that time), which he desired might descend in the family, being enjoyed for life by each eldest daughter of the owner of Bentley Hall. They are still preserved by the Lane family.

A few days after the Lanes returned, Jenny Fenton stood washing and singing in the back yard of the cottage. Tom's work-shed ran along one side of it, and there he was carefully fitting the back of a chair to its seat, while a younger Tom, and a still more youthful Joe, were as diligently building a magnificent sailing-vessel in the corner. A woman of middle age came up to the door, lifted her hand as if to knock, stepped back, and seemed uncertain how to act. A child of six years old, at that moment, ran round the cottage, and looked up in surprise at the stranger standing before the door.

"Little maid, what is thy name?" said the stranger.

A little doubtful whether the stranger, who in her eyes was a very grand lady, was about to hear her say her catechism, the small child put her hands meekly together, and said—

"Molly, please."

"Molly what?" pursued the stranger, with a smile.

"Molly Fenton, please."

"That will do. Where's mother?"

"Please, she's a-washing at the back."

"Is that she that singeth?"

"Yes, that's her," returned Molly, carefully avoiding grammar.

The song came floating to them through the balmy June air.

"'O God, my strength, and fortitude, Of force I must love Thee! Thou art my castle and defence In my necessity.'"

The strange lady sighed, much to Molly's perplexity; then she rapped at the door. It was opened by Jenny, who stood with an inquiring look on her face, which asked the visitor plainly to say who she was.

"You don't know me, then, Jenny Lavender?"

"No, Ma— Dear heart! is it Mrs Millicent?"

"It is Millicent Danbury, Jenny. And I am Millicent Danbury still, though you are Jenny Fenton."

"Pray you, come within, Mrs Millicent," said Jenny cordially. "I'm right glad to see you. There's been a many changes since we met—Molly, dust that chair, quick, and bring it up for the gentlewoman."

"Ay," said Millicent, with another sigh, as she sat down in the heavy Windsor chair which it required all Molly's strength to set for her; "there are many changes, Jenny, very many, since you and I lived together at Bentley Hall."

"Not for the worser, are they?" replied Jenny cheerfully.

"Ah! I'm not so sure of that, Jenny," answered Millicent.

"Well, I'm nowise afeard of changes," said Jenny, in the same bright tone. "The Lord means His people good by all the changes He sends. Mrs Millicent, won't you tarry a while and sup your four-hours with us?"

The meal which our ancestors called "four-hours" answered to our tea; but tea had not yet been introduced into England, though it was very soon to be so. They drank, therefore, either milk, or weak home-brewed ale.

"With all my heart," was the reply, "if I'm not in your way, Jenny. You are washing, I see."

"I've done for to-day, and Tom and me'll be as pleased as can be if you'll take a bit with us, Mrs Millicent. Molly, child, fetch forth the table-cloth, and get the salt-cellar, and then run and tell father.—She's a handy little maid for her years," added Jenny, with motherly pride.

Millicent smiled rather sadly. "You are a happy woman, Jenny!" she said.

"Bless the Lord, so I am!" echoed Jenny. "It's the Lord's blessing makes folks happy."

"Say you so?—then maybe that is why I am not," said Millicent, rather bitterly. "I don't know much of the Lord."

"That's a trouble can be mended," said Jenny softly; "and you'll be main glad when it is, take my word for it."

"I don't know how to set about it, Jenny."

"Why, dear heart! how do you set about knowing anybody? Go and see 'em, don't you, and talk with 'em, and get 'em to do things for you? The good Lord always keeps His door open, and turns away none as come."

At that moment Tom came in, with a hearty welcome to his guest. Jenny, helped by Molly, bustled about, setting the table, and cutting bread and butter, while Tom drew the ale; and they had just sat down when a little rap came on the door.

"Anybody at home here?" asked a bright voice. Jenny knew it at once.

"O Mrs Jane!—I crave pardon, my Lady!—pray you come in, and do us the honour to sit down in our house."

"I'll do you more honour than that," said Lady Fisher comically, as she came forward. "I'll eat that bread and butter, if you'll give it me, for I have been a great way afoot, and I am as hungry as a hunter."

"I pray you take a chair, madam, and do us so much pleasure," said smiling Jenny. "I have here in the oven a cake but just ready to come forth, made the Princess Elizabeth's way, His Majesty's sister, and I shall be proud if your ladyship will taste it."

"I'll taste it vastly, if I get the chance," said Lady Fisher, laughing, as Jenny took her cake out of the oven.

The Princess Elizabeth was that young gentle girl who had died a prisoner at Carisbrooke Castle, a few years after her father's murder, her cheek resting on the little Bible which had been his last gift. Her cake was a rich plum-cake, made with cream, eggs, and butter.

"Did you get your other honour, Jenny?" asked Lady Fisher, as she helped herself to the cake.

"Madam?" asked Jenny, in some doubt.

"Why, the jewel His Majesty sent you. I was something inclined to doubt Featherstone might forget it."

"Oh yes, madam, I thank you for asking, I have it quite safe. It was a vast surprise to me, and most kind and gracious of His Majesty."

"Well, now I think it was very ungracious in His Majesty," said Lady Fisher, laughing. "I am sure he ought to have sent it to Millicent here, who reckoned him a Roundhead and an assassin to boot, if he meant to show how forgiving he could be to his enemies."

"Oh!" cried Millicent, clasping her hands, "shall I ever forget how the dear King took me by the hand? To think of having touched the hand of His Sacred Majesty—"

"Hold, Millicent! that's a new story," said Lady Fisher. "Last time I heard you tell it, that horrid creature, Will Jackson, only offered to take you by the hand. Has he got it done by now?"

Millicent looked slightly confused, but speedily recovered herself.

"O madam, I think he touched me. I do think I had the honour of touching His Gracious Majesty's little finger, I really do!"

"Really do, by all means, if it makes you happier; I've no objection. Jenny, I shall eat up all your cake. It is fit to be set before the Queen. Millicent, I wonder you can find in your heart to wash your hands."

"Oh, but I had washed them, madam, before I knew," answered Millicent regretfully.

"Well, I hope you had," answered Lady Fisher, "seeing there lay nine years betwixt. Heigh ho! time runs away, and we with it. Seems pity, doesn't it!"

"Depends on where we're running to," replied Tom, who had entered unseen. "Children that's running home, when they know their father's got a fine present for them, isn't commonly feared of getting there too soon."

"But how if folks don't know, Tom?" suggested Jenny, and Millicent's eyes reflected her query.

"My dear," answered Tom humbly, "it's not for the likes of me to speak afore such as her Ladyship. But I know what my dear old Uncle Anthony was wont to say: 'The only way to be certain you're on the way Home is to make sure that you are going to your Father; and to do that you must go with Him.' And I doubt if he'd speak different, now that he's got Home."

"Ay, I suppose we would all like to have God go with us," said Lady Fisher gravely.

"Madam, saving your presence, Uncle was used to say there's a many would like vastly well to have God go with them, that isn't half so ready to get up and go with God. David spake well when he said, 'Make Thy way plain before my face.' The Lord's way is the sure and safe way, and 'tis the only one that leads Home."

"I think, Jenny, you are a happy woman," said Lady Fisher, an hour later, as she took her leave. Tom had gone back to his work-shed. "Good night; God be with you."

"I am that, Madam, the Lord be praised," answered Jenny. "But the Lord is to be praised for it, for I've done nought all my life but make mistakes, until He took hold of me and put me right."

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Note: That part of the story which relates to King Charles and the Lane family is quite true, with the exception of a few small details. Authorities differ as to whether the King and Mrs Jane rode to Trent House alone, or accompanied by the persons mentioned. Lord Wilmot followed them the whole time, at a safe distance.

THE END