"No, no: it is a mummy—a human body which has been buried for hundreds and thousands of years."

Roger had never heard of a mummy; and there was no great wonder in that, when even Oliver did not rightly know the meaning of the word. All animal bodies (and not only human bodies) which remain dry, by any means, instead of putrefying, are called mummies.

"What do you mean by hundreds and thousands of years?" said Roger. "Look here, how the arm bends, and the wrist! I believe I could make its fingers close on mine," he continued, stepping back—evidently afraid of the remains which lay before him. "If I was sure now, that it was not Stephen or Nan ... But the peat water does wonders, they say, with whatever lies in it."

"So it does. It preserves bodies, as I told you. I will show you in a minute that it is nobody you have ever known."

And Oliver took from Roger's hand the slip of wood with which he had been working, and began to clear out more soil about the figure.

"Don't, don't now!" exclaimed Roger. "Don't uncover the face! If you do, I will go away."

"Go, then," replied Oliver. It appeared as if the bold boy and the timid one had changed characters. The reason was that Roger had some very disagreeable thoughts connected with Stephen and Nan Redfurn. He never forgot, when their images were before him, that they had died in the midst of angry and contemptuous feelings between them and him. Oliver, on the other hand, was religious. Though, in easy times, more afraid than he ought to have been of dishonest and violent persons, he had yet enough trust in God to support his spirits and his hope in trial, as we have seen: and about death and the grave, and the other world, where he believed the dead went to meet their Maker and Father, he had no fear at all. Nothing that Roger now said, therefore, made him desist, till he had uncovered half the dried body.

"Look here!" said he—for Roger had not gone away as he had threatened—"come closer and look, or you will see nothing in the dusk. Did either Stephen or Nan wear their hair this way? And is this dress anything like Ailwin's cloak? Look at the long black hair hanging all round the little flat brown face. And the dress: it is the skin of some beast, with the hair left on—a rough-edged skin, fastened with a bit of something like coal on the left shoulder. I dare say it was once a wooden skewer. I wonder how long ago this body was alive. I wonder what sort of a country this was to live in, at that day."

Roger's fear having now departed, his more habitual feelings again prevailed.

"I say," said he, returning to the spot, and wrenching the tool from Oliver's hand; "I say—don't you meddle any more. The curiosity is mine, you know. I found it, and it's mine."

"What will you do with it?" asked Oliver, who saw that, even now, Roger rather shrank from touching the limbs, and turned away from the open eyes of the body.

"It will make a show. If I don't happen to see the earl, so as to get gold for it, I'll make people give me a penny a piece to see it; and that will be as good as gold presently."

"I wish you would bury it," earnestly exclaimed Oliver, as the thought occurred to him that the time might come, though perhaps hundreds of years hence, when dear little George's body might be found in like manner. He could not endure the idea of that body being ever made a show of.

Of course, Roger would not hear of giving up his treasure; and Oliver was walking away, when Roger called after him—

"Don't go yet, Oliver. Wait a minute, and I will come with you."

Oliver proceeded, however, thinking that Roger would have to acquire some courage yet before he could carry about his mummy for a show.

Oliver was only going for Mildred—to let her see, before it was quite dark, what had been done, and what found. When they returned, Roger was standing at some distance from the bank, apparently watching his mummy as it lay in the cleft that he had cleared. He started when he heard Mildred's gentle voice exclaiming at its being so small and so dark-coloured. She next wondered how old it was.

After the boys had examined the ground again, and put together all they had heard about the ancient condition of the Levels, they agreed that this person must have been buried, or have died alone in the woods, before the district became a marsh. Pastor Dendel had told Oliver about the thick forest that covered these lands when the Romans invaded Britain; and how the inhabitants fled to the woods, and so hid themselves there that the Roman soldiers had to cut down the woods to get at them; and how the trees, falling across the courses of the streams, dammed them up, so that the surrounding soil was turned into a swamp; and how mosses and water-plants grew over the fallen trees, and became matted together, so that more vegetation grew on the top of that, till the ancient forest was, at length, quite buried in the carr. Oliver now reminded his sister of all this: and they looked with a kind of veneration on the form which they supposed was probably that of an ancient Briton, who, flying from the invaders, into the recesses of the forest, had perished there alone. There was no appearance of his having been buried. No earthen vessels, or other remains, such as were usually found in the graves of the ancients, appeared to be contained in the bank. If he had died lying along the ground, his body would have decayed like other bodies, or been devoured by wild beasts. Perhaps he was drowned in one of the ponds or streams of the forest, and the body, being immediately washed over with sand or mud, was thus preserved.

"What is the use of guessing and guessing?" exclaimed Roger. "If people should dig up George's bones, out of this bank, a thousand years hence, and find them lying in a sort of oven, as they would call it, with a fine carved stone for one of the six sides, do you think they could ever guess how all these things came to be here?"

"This way of burying is an accident, such as no one would think of guessing," said Oliver, sighing. "And this dried body may be here, to be sure, by some other accident that we know nothing about. I really wish, Roger, you would cover up the corpse again; at least, till we know whether we shall all die together here."

This was what Roger could never bear to hear of. He always ran away from it: and so he did now. Dark as it was growing, he passed over to the house, and mounted the staircase (which stood as firm as ever, and looked something like a self-supported ladder). While he was vainly looking abroad for boats, which the shadows of the evening would have prevented his seeing if they had been there by hundreds, the brother and sister speculated on one thing more, in connection with the spectacle which had powerfully excited their imaginations. Mildred whispered to Oliver—

"If this old man and George lie together here, I wonder whether their spirits will know it, and come together in heaven."

They talked for some time about the difference there must be between the thoughts of an ancient Briton, skin-clothed, a hunter of the wolf, and living on the acorns and wild animals of the forest, and the mind of a little child, reared in the Levels, and nourished and amused between the farm-yard and the garden. Yet they agreed that there must have been some things in which two so different thought and felt alike. The sky was over the heads of both, and the air around them, and the grass spread under their feet:—both, too, had, no doubt, had relations, by whom they had been beloved: and there is no saying how many things may become known alike to all, on entering upon the life after death. Oliver and Mildred resolved that if ever they should see Pastor Dendel again, they would ask him what he thought of all this. They agreed that they would offer to help Roger to seek for other curiosities, to make a show of; and would give him, for his own, all they could find, if he would but consent to bury this body again, decently, and beside little George.

The supper was eatable to-night; and so was the breakfast on the Sunday morning; and yet Roger scarcely touched anything. Oliver heard him tossing and muttering during the night, and was sure that he was ill. He was ill. He would not allow that he was so, however; and dressed himself again in the fine clothes he had taken from the chest. It was plain, from his shaking hand and his heavy eye, that he was too weak, and his head aching too much for him to be able to do any work; therefore Ailwin helped Oliver to finish the grave.

Roger inquired how the work proceeded: and it appeared that he meant to attend the funeral, when he found that it was to be in the afternoon. His companions did not believe him able: and he himself doubted it in his heart, resolved as he was to refuse to believe himself very ill, as long as he could keep off the thought. He found an excuse, however, for lying on the grass while the others were engaged at the grave. Oliver hinted to him, very gently, that Mildred and he had rather see him dressed in the shabbiest clothes of his own, than following their little brother to his grave in fine things which they could not but consider stolen. Roger was, in reality, only ashamed; but he pretended to be angry; and made use of the pretence to stay behind. While he lay, ill and miserable, remembering that little George alone had seemed to love him, and that George was dead, he believed it impossible that any one should mourn the child as he did in his heart.

Oliver himself took something from the chest—carefully and reverently; and carefully and reverently he put it back before night. There was a Bible, in Dutch; and with it a Prayer-book. He carried these, while Ailwin carried the body, wrapped in cloth, with another piece hanging over it, like a pall. As Oliver took Mildred's hand, and saw how pale and sorrowful she looked (though quite patient), he felt how much need they all had of the consolations and hopes which speak to mourners from the book he held.

Ailwin did not understand Dutch; so Oliver thought it kindest and best to say in English what he read, both from the Bible and Prayer-book. He read a short portion of what Saint Paul says about the dead and their rising again. Then all three assisted in closing the tomb, firmly and completely; and then they kneeled down, and Oliver read a prayer for mourners from his book. They did not sing; for he was not sure that Mildred could go through a hymn. He made a sign to her to stay when Ailwin went home; and they two sat down on the grass above the bank, and read together that part of the Scripture in which Jesus desires his followers not to let their hearts be troubled, but to believe in God and in him.

Mildred was soon quite happy; and Oliver was cheered to see her so. He even began, after a time, to talk of the future. He pointed out how the waters had sunk, leaving now, he supposed, only about three feet of depth, besides mud and slime. This mud would make the soil more fertile than it had ever been, if the remainder of the flood could by any means be drawn off. He thought his father might return, and drain his ground, and rebuild the house. Then the bank they sat on would overlook a more beautiful garden than they had ever yet possessed. The whole land had been so well warped (that is, flooded with fertilising mud) that everything that was planted would flourish. They might get the finest tulip-roots from Holland, and have a bed of them; and another of choice auriculas, just below George's tomb; and honeysuckles might be trained round it, to attract the bees.

Mildred liked to hear all this; and she said so; but she added that she should like it better still to-morrow, perhaps. She felt so strangely tired now, that she could not listen any more, even to what she liked to hear.

"Are you going to be ill, do you think, dear?"

"I don't know. Don't you think Roger is ill?"

"Yes; and I dare say we shall all have the fever, from the damps and bad smells of this place."

"Well—never mind about me, Oliver. I am only very, very tired yet."

"Come home, and lie down, and I will sit beside you," said Oliver. "You will be patient, I know, dear. I will try if I can be patient, if I should see you very ill."

He led her home, and laid her down, and scarcely left her for many hours. It was plain now that the fever had seized upon them; and where it would stop, who could tell? During the night he and Ailwin watched by turns beside their sick companions. This would not have been necessary for Mildred; but Roger was sometimes a little delirious; and they were afraid of his frightening Mildred by his startings and strange sayings.

When Ailwin came, at dawn, to take Oliver's place, she patted him on the shoulder, and bade him go to sleep, and be in no hurry to rouse himself again; for he would not be wanted for anything if he should sleep till noon.

Oliver was tired enough; but there was one thing which he had a great mind to do before he slept. He wished to look out once again from the staircase, when the sun should have risen, to see whether there was no moving speck on the wide waters—no promise of help in what now threatened to be his extremity. Ailwin thought him perverse; but did not oppose his going when he said he was sure he should sleep better after it. She soon, therefore, saw his figure among the ruins of the roof, standing up between her and the brightening sky.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

MORE HARDSHIP.

This morning was unlike the mornings which Oliver had watched since the flood came. There was no glowing sky towards the east; and he saw that there would be no broad train of light over the waters, which should so dazzle his eyes as almost to prevent his seeing anything else. It was now a stormy-looking sunrise. Huge piles of clouds lay on the eastern horizon, through which it seemed impossible that the rays of the sun should pierce. The distant church-spire looked black amidst the grey flood: and the houses and chapel at Sandtoft, which now stood high out of the water, had a dark and dismal air. Oliver would have been rather glad to believe that there would be no sunshine this day, if he had not feared there would be storm. He had so learned, in these few days, to associate reeking fogs and putrid smells with hot sunshine, that a shady day would have been a relief: but it there should come a tempest, what could be done with the sick members of the party? It was dangerous to stand under the trees in a thunderstorm; and the poor tent would be soaked through with a quarter of an hour's rain. He thought it would be best to take down the tent, and wrap up Mildred and Roger in the cloth; and to pile the mattresses, one upon another, at the foot of the thickest tree they could find; so that there might be a chance of one bed being left dry for poor Mildred.

While arranging this in his mind, Oliver had been anxiously looking abroad for any moving speck on the grey waters. Seeing none, but perceiving that the clouds were slowly mounting the sky, and moving onwards, he felt that he ought to be going to the hill, to make such preparations as were possible before the first raindrops should fall. Slowly and sadly he turned away to do so, when, casting one more glance eastwards, he perceived something moving—a dark speck, leaving the ruined roof of a dwelling which stood about half-way between himself and the hamlet.

There could be no doubt that this speck was a boat; and as it came nearer, Oliver saw that it was—a large boat, but quite full. He could distinguish no figures in it, so heavy seemed the mass of people, or of goods, with which it was crowded. It came on and on, however; and Oliver's heart beat faster as it came. How he wished now that he had kept a flag flying from the spot on which he stood! How he wished he now had a signal to fix on this height! Though the boat-people were still too far off to distinguish figures, a signal might catch their eye. If he went to the Red-hill for a flag, the boat might be gone away before his return. Trembling with haste, he stripped off his shirt, and swung it in the air. He even mounted the top stone, which, surrounded by no wall, or other defence, hung over the waters below. Oliver would have said, half an hour before, that he could not have stood alone on this perilous point: now, he not only stood there, but waved his white signal with all his strength.

Did anybody notice it?

He once thought he saw what might have been an oar lifted in the air; but he was not sure. He was presently only too certain of something else—that the boat was moving away, not in the direction in which it had approached, but southwards. He tried, as long as he could, to disbelieve this; but there it went—away—away—and Oliver had to come down from his stone, put on his clothes again, and find how thirsty he was.

There was hope still, he felt—great hope: but he must keep it from Mildred, who was in no condition to bear the disappointment of such a hope. He doubted whether Ailwin could control her tongue and her countenance, while possessed of such news. It would be hard not to be able to tell any one of what so filled his thoughts; and he resolved to see first what state Roger was in.

When he reached the tent, Roger was not there. Ailwin could not tell where he was. He had staggered away, like a drunken person, she said— he seemed so giddy; but she could not leave Mildred to see after him, though he had spoken to a lord; if indeed that could be true of a boy like him. Ailwin looked up at the clouds, every moment, as she spoke; and Mildred shivered, as if she missed the morning sunshine. Oliver saw that he must make ready for the storm, before he prepared for what might follow. He and Ailwin pulled down the long piece of cloth from its support, doubled it again and again, and put Mildred into the middle of it. Oliver longed to lay her under a leafy tree; but he dared not, on account of the lightning, which was already beginning to flash. He and Ailwin set up the deal table as a sort of penthouse over her; and then busied themselves, in her sight, in piling together everything else they had, to keep as many articles as possible from spoiling.

Oliver was just thinking that he might slip away to seek Roger, when he saw that Mildred was sobbing, under the heap of cloth they had laid upon her. In a moment he was by her side, saying—

"What is the matter, dear? Are you afraid of the storm? I never knew you afraid of thunder and lightning; but perhaps you may be now, because you are ill."

"No," sobbed Mildred.

"I cannot help being glad of this storm," continued Oliver, "though it is disagreeable, at the time, to people who have no house to go to. I hope it will clear the air, and freshen it; and that is the very thing we want, to make you better."

"It is not that, Oliver. I don't mind the storm at all."

"Then what makes you cry so, dear? Is it about Geordie?"

"Yes. Something about him that I don't think you know; something that I shall never bear to think of. It will make me miserable as long as I live. Do you know, I was tired of nursing him, and hearing him cry; and I gave it up—the only thing I could do for him! I asked Ailwin to take him. And in two days he was dead; and I could never do anything for him any more."

Here a burst of grief stopped her voice. Her brother said, very solemnly,—

"Now, Mildred, listen to me,—to the little I can say—for you know I cannot, in this place, stay and talk with you as we should both like, and as we might have done at home. I think you were almost always very kind to Geordie; and I am sure he loved you very dearly. But I have heard mother say that the worst part of losing dear friends is that we have to blame ourselves, more or less, for our behaviour to them,—even to those we loved the very most. So I will not flatter you, dear: though I don't at all wonder at your being tired of hearing Geordie cry that day. I will not say whether you were right or wrong; but only put you in mind that we may always ask for pardon. Remember, too, that you may meet Geordie again; and perhaps be kinder to him than we ever are to one another here. Now I will go, and come back again soon."

"Stop one minute," implored Mildred. "I dreamed that you all went away from this hill, and left me alone."

As she said this, she looked at her brother, with such a painful wistfulness, that he saw that she had had a fever-dream, and was not yet quite clear from its remains. He laughed, as at something ridiculous; which Mildred seemed to like: and then he reminded her more gravely, that they could not get away from this place if they would. If an opportunity should occur, he assured her he would not leave hold of her hand. Nothing should make him step into a boat without her. Poor Mildred had fancied, bewildered as she was this morning, that if Oliver knew of what she had done about George, he would think himself justified in leaving her to perish on the hill; and yet she could not help telling him. Her mind was relieved, for the present, and she let him go.

He found Roger where he first looked for him,—near the mummy. The poor lad was too ill to stand; but he lay on the slimy bank, poking and grubbing, with a stick and with his fingers, as deep in the soft soil as he could penetrate. Oliver saw that he had found some more curiosities;—bunches of nuts,—nuts which were ripening on the tree many hundreds of seasons ago; but which no hand had plucked till now. Oliver could neither wonder nor admire, at this moment: nor was he vexed (as he might have been at another time) at Roger's crawling hither, in pursuit of gain, to be made more ill by every breath he drew while stooping over the rank mud.

"Don't be afraid, Roger," said Oliver. "I am not going to touch your findings, or meddle with you. I want you to change your clothes,—to put off that finery,—and to let me know where the bag of money is that you took out of the chest."

Roger stared.

"I am going to pack that chest again; and I want to see everything in it, that it may be ready if any boat should come."

"Boat!" exclaimed Roger.

"Yes: a boat may come, you know; and we must not detain it, if such a thing should happen. If you die without restoring that money, Roger, it will be a sin upon your soul: so tell me where it is, and have an easy mind, I advise you. That will be a good thing, if you live an hundred years."

"There is a boat here now! You are going to leave me behind!" cried Roger, scrambling up on his feet, and falling again from weakness, two or three times. "I knew it," he continued; "I dreamt it all last night; and it is going to come true to-day."

"Mildred dreamed the same thing; and it is because you are both ill," said Oliver. "Lean upon me—as heavily as you like—and I will go home with you, as slowly as you will, if you will tell me where the money-bag is. You will find no boat there now, whatever there may be by-and-by: but if you will not tell me where the money-bag is, I will shake you off now, and leave you here. It is another person's money: and I must have it."

Roger said he would tell, if Oliver would promise him not to leave him alone on the island. Oliver assured him that there was no danger whatever of the deliverers of some of the party leaving others to perish. He owned that he was bound to make his sister his first care, and Ailwin his next. As boys, Roger and himself must be satisfied to be thought of last; but he hoped they should neither of them do an ill turn by the other. He asked if Roger had ever received an ill turn from him.

"That is the thing," said Roger, sorrowfully: "and you have had so many from me and mine!"

"I am sure I forgive them all, now you have once said that," cried Oliver. "I forgive and forget them all: and so would father, if he heard you."

"No! Would he? And he said once that he and his would scorn to be like me and mine."

"Did you hear him say that? You used to hear every word we said to one another, I think."

"It was Ailwin that threw that in my teeth."

"Father would not say so now: never after you had had Geordie on your knees and made him fond of you, as you did."

"Do you really think so?"

"I am almost sure of it. But he could not help thinking badly of you if you keep that money."

"I am not going to keep it. Do you go and find it, if you like, for I can't. It is in a hollow elm that stands between two beeches, on the other side of the wood. There is a little cross cut in the bark, on the south side—that will help you to find it. But don't you go till you have got me to the tent."

Oliver helped him home, amidst lightning and splashing rain, explaining as they went why the tent was down, but thinking it best to say nothing of the boat to one so weak-spirited as Roger was now. He then ran off, and found the money-bag. He wished the weather would clear, that he might look out again: but, meanwhile, he felt that he was not losing time in collecting together all the goods that were on the hill; for the tempest so darkened and filled the air, that he knew he could not have seen a furlong into the distance, if he had been on his perch at this moment. He wore his mother's watch in his pocket, feeling as if it promised that he should meet her again, to put it back into her hands.

"Now, Oliver," said Ailwin, "I am vexed with you that you did not sleep while you might, before this growling, splashing weather came on, and while there was something of a shelter over your head. If you don't go to sleep the minute this tempest is over, I must see what I must do to you: for you will be having the fever else; and then what is to become of me, among you all, I should like to know? I wish you would creep in now between the mattresses under the tree, and never think of the storm, but go to sleep like a good boy. It is hardly likely that the lightning should strike that particular tree, just while you are under it."

"But if you should chance to find me a cinder, when you thought it time for me to be waking, Ailwin—would not that be as bad as my having the fever?"

"Oliver! How can you talk so? How dare you think of such a shocking thing?"

"You put it into my head, Ailwin. But come—let me tell you a thing I want you to do, if I should be away when it stops raining. Here are Roger's old clothes, safe and dry here between the beds. When it leaves off raining, make him pull off his wet finery, and put on his own dry things; and keep that finery somewhere out of his way, that I may put it back into the chest, where it ought to be lying now. Will you do this, Ailwin?"

"Why, I'll see. If I was quite sure that he had nothing to do with this storm, I might manage him as I could any other boy."

"Anybody may manage him to-day, with a little kindness. He is ill and weak-spirited; and you can touch his heart with a word. If you only remember how George cried after him, you will be gentle with him, I know."

"Well, that's true: and I doubt whether a lord would have spoken with him, if he had been so dangerous as he seems sometimes. Now, as to dinner to-day, Oliver—I really don't like to give Mildred such food as the game on the island now is. I am sure it is downright unwholesome. Bird and beast, they are all dying off faster than we can kill them."

"The fowls are not all done, I hope. I thought we had some meal-fed fowls left."

"Just two; and that is all: and the truth is, I don't like to part those two poor things, enjoying the meal-picking together; and then, they are the last of our wholesome food."

"Then let us have them while they are wholesome. Boil one to-day, and make the broth as nice as you can for Mildred. We will cook the other to-morrow."

"And what next day?"

"We will see to that when the day comes. Oh dear! When will these clouds have emptied themselves? Surely they cannot pour down at this rate long."

"The thunder and lightning are just over, and that's a comfort," said Ailwin. "You might stand under any tree, now, Oliver; and you go wandering about, as if you were a duck in your heart, and loved the rain."

Ailwin might wonder, for Oliver was indeed very restless. While waiting the moment when he might again cross to the staircase, he could not even stand still under a tree. The secret of his having seen the boat was too heavy a one to be borne when he was no longer busy. He felt that he should tell, if he remained beside his sister and Ailwin; so he wandered off, through the wood, to try how far he could see over the waters to the south, now that the tempest was passing away.

Through the trees he saw some one—a tall person, walking on the grass by the water-side. He ran—he flew. There was a boat lying against the bank, and two or three men walking towards the wood. The foremost was Pastor Dendel. Oliver sprang into his arms, clung round his neck for a moment, and then fainted away.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

NEWS.

Oliver soon recovered. The strong, manly caress of the pastor seemed to revive him, even more than the water the others threw on his face. His first word was "Mother."

"She is safe, my boy: and she will be well when I take you to her. Are you alone here, Oliver?"

"Alone! O no! Don't let these men go and startle Mildred and the rest—"

"Thank God!" exclaimed Pastor Dendel.

The two men who were with him seemed about to raise a shout, and wave their hats, but the pastor forbade them by a gesture. He whispered to Oliver,—

"Mildred, and who else, my dear? We know nothing, you are aware. Your father—?"

"He was carried off in the mill,—out to the Humber—"

Oliver stopped, as he saw the men exchange a look of awe, which took his breath away again.

"We have something like news of your father too, Oliver. There is a rumour which makes us hope that he may be safe at a distance. Your mother believes it, as she will tell you. Is it possible that you are all alive, after such a calamity as this?"

"George is dead, sir. We buried him yesterday. Ailwin is here, with Mildred and me; and Roger Redfurn."

One of the men observed that he had hoped, as one good that would come of the flood, that the Levels were rid of the Redfurns.

"Do not say that," said Oliver. "Roger has helped us in many things; and he was kind to little George. Let me go, sir. I can walk now very well: and I want to tell them that you are come."

"Go, my boy: but do it gently, Oliver,—gently."

"That is what I want, sir,—that they should not see or hear you: for Mildred is ill,—and Roger too. Please keep out of sight till I come for you. So mother is safe,—really?"

"Really, and we will take you all to her."

Mildred, lying uncomfortably in the soaked cloth (for the rain had penetrated everything), was yet dozing,—now and then starting and calling out. Oliver took her hand, to wake her up, and asked her, with a smile, as she opened her eyes, whether she was dreaming of a boat again. Mildred believed not, but her head was sadly confused; so much so, that she heard of the boat which had really come, and the pastor and her parents, without showing any surprise or pleasure. Little ceremony was necessary with the strong Ailwin; and one of the men made short work with Roger, by lifting him and carrying him into the boat. Oliver said a word to the pastor about seeing George's grave, and about the chest and the money-bag which belonged to somebody who might want them much. The pastor took charge of the bag, but declared that everything else must be left for another trip, at a more leisure time. Mrs Linacre was waiting,—and in what a state of expectation!

While the two stout rowers were pulling rapidly away from the Red-hill, and in the direction of Gainsborough, the pastor explained to the party what they most wanted to know. Mrs Linacre had heard some rumour which alarmed her on the day of the flood, and had locked up her shed, and set out homewards when the waters gushed over her road, and compelled her to turn back. Like a multitude of others, as anxious and miserable as herself, she had ever since been wandering about in search of a boat, and imploring aid from every one she met.

For three days, it appeared as if there really were no boats in all the district. Some had certainly been swamped and broken by the rush of the flood: and there was great difficulty in bringing round from the coast such as could there be had from the fishermen. Some farmers on the hill had lent their oxen, to bring boats over the hills; and others, men to row them; and this was in time to save many lives. What number had been lost, it was impossible yet to say; but the cleverness and the hopefulness with which a multitude had struggled for life, during five days of hardship and peril were wonderful and admirable. Mrs Linacre had trusted in the power which God gives his children in such extremity, and had been persuaded throughout (except during short moments of despair), that she should see her husband and children again. In this persuasion she had been sustained by the pastor, from the moment of his finding her, after his own escape.

Of his own escape the pastor would say nothing at present. The children's minds were too full now for such tales of wonder and of horror as they must hear hereafter. Neither would he permit a word on the origin of the flood. He said they must think as little as they could of the wicked deeds of men, in this hour of God's mercy. One prayer, in every heart, that God would forgive all evil-minded men,—one such prayer let there be; and then, no more disturbing thoughts of enemies in the hour of preservation.

Oliver could not trust himself to ask, in the presence of strangers, what the rumour was, which the pastor had mentioned, about his father. The pastor was very apt to understand what was stirring in people's hearts; and he knew Oliver's at this moment. He explained to him that a sailor had declared, on landing at Hull, that the ship in which he was had spoken with a Dutch vessel, off the Humber, in the night, by the light of lanterns only, when a voice was heard, as if from the deck of the Dutchman, crying out, "Will some one have the charity to tell the wife of Linacre of the Levels that he is saved?" The sailors had some fears about this voice—thought the message odd—fancied the voice was like what they should suppose a ghost's to be; and at length, persuaded one another that it came, not from any ship, but from the air overhead; and that the message meant that Linacre was dead, and that his soul was saved. When they came ashore, however, and found what had befallen the Levels, they began to doubt whether it was not, after all, the voice of a flesh and blood man that had called out to them. When the pastor now heard how the miller was floated off in his mill, he had little doubt of the good man having been picked up in the Humber, by a vessel sailing for Holland, which could not stop to set him ashore, but which now contained him, safe and well. Within two months, he would be heard of or seen, it might fairly be hoped.

Mrs Linacre was kindly taken care of in a farm-house, near the spring— that farm-house where she had often taken her copper money to be changed for silver: but she had been little within doors, day or night. She had paced all day by the brink of the flood; and as long as the moon was up, had sat at night on a rising ground, looking over the waters towards the Red-hill. She had discovered that the mill was gone, when other eyes could distinguish nothing so far off. No one had a glass to lend her— so, at least, it was said; but some whispered that a glass might have been procured, but that it was thought she could see only what would distress her, and nothing that could do her any good.

She was on the brink of the water when the boat came near. She would have thrown herself in to meet her children, if a neighbour had not been there to hold her back.

Oliver's first words to her were, that he believed his father was safe on his way to Holland, and would soon be coming back. The pastor's first words were, as he placed Mildred in her arms—

"Two children are here restored to you. Will you not patiently resign your other little one?"

The speechless mother was hurrying away, with Mildred on her bosom, and drawing Oliver by the hand, which she clasped convulsively, when he said—

"Mother, help me to keep a promise I have made. Here is Roger Redfurn— very ill. I promised we would not forsake him. Let him go with us, till he is well."

"Whatever you will, my boy; but do not leave me, Oliver,—not for a moment."

"Go on," said the pastor. "We are bringing Roger after you. We shall be at home as soon as you."

"Home," was the friendly farm-house. There, before the end of the day, had Oliver learned that his morning signal had been seen from the large boat; and that the reason why the large boat had rowed away was, not only that it was full, but that the waters were now too shallow about the Red-hill for any but small craft. Before the end of the day Mrs Linacre had been seen to look like herself once more; and Ailwin had told to the wondering neighbours the tale of the few days, which seemed now like years to look back upon. She told more than even Oliver had observed of the miserable state of their place of refuge, which would soon have been a place of death. Scarcely a breathing thing, she said, was left alive: and, in going to the boat, she had seen the soaked bee-hives upset, and the chilled bees lying about, as if there was no spirit left in them. She shuddered when she thought of the Red-hill. Then she stimulated the farm-house people to take care of Roger,—a task in which Oliver left them little to do. They were willing enough, however; for Ailwin told them that though Roger had been an odd boy in his time, owing to his having been brought up by queer people, yet, considering that those people were drowned and gone, and that Roger had been noticed by a lord, she did not doubt he might turn out well, if it so pleased God.

How closely did Mildred clasp her mother's neck that evening! Knowing nothing else, and feeling very strangely, she yet understood that she was in a place of shelter and comfort, and felt that her head rested on her mother's bosom—on that pillow which has something so far better than all warmth and softness. By degrees she began to be aware that there was cool and fresh water, and sweet-smelling flowers, and that she was tenderly bathed, and laid to rest on a bed which was neither wet nor under a tree. There was a surprising silence all round her, she felt, as she grew stronger, which no one yet attempted to explain to her; but her mother smiled at her so happily, that she supposed she was recovering.

Mrs Linacre did look happy, even in the midst of her tears for her poor baby. Mildred was recovering, Oliver ate and slept, and whistled under the window—like a light-hearted boy, as he once again amused himself with carving every piece of hard wood he could find. It was clear that he had escaped the fever; and every day that refreshed his colour, and filled out his thin face again, brought nearer the hour of his father's return.

THE END