"'This afternoon I witnessed a very touching scene. A French soldier of the Thirty-third Line Regiment, belonging to the corps of General Frossard, had been made prisoner at the outposts. He is a native of Jouy-aux-Arches, where his wife and children now reside. On his way to Corny, where the head-quarters of the prince are now situated, he asked permission to be allowed to see his wife and children. Need I say that the request was immediately granted? The poor woman, half delirious with joy, asked to be allowed to accompany her husband at least to Corny. This was also acceded to. But then came the difficulty about the bairns. The woman was weak, and could not carry her baby, and at home there was no one to mind it. As for the little chap of five, he could toddle along by his father's side. The difficulty was, however, overcome by a great big Pomeranian soldier, who volunteered to act as nurse. This man had been quartered close to the poor woman's house; and the little ones knew him, for he had often played with them. When therefore, bidding the poor wife be of good cheer, he held out his big strong arms to the little infant, it came to him immediately, and nestling its tiny head upon his shoulders, seemed perfectly content. So did the Prussian soldier carry the Frenchman's child. When I first saw the group, the wife was clasped in her husband's embrace; the little boy clung to his father's hand; while the Prussian soldier, with the baby in his arms, stalked along by their sides. Then the Frenchwoman told her husband how, when she had been ill and in want of food, the Prussian soldiers had shared their rations with her, had fetched wood and water, had lit the fire, and helped her in their own rough, kindly way; until at last those two men, who belonged to countries now arrayed against each other in bitterest hate—who perhaps a few days since fought the one against the other—embraced like brothers, while I, like a great big fool, stood by and cried like a baby. But I was not alone in my folly, if folly it be: several Prussian officers and soldiers followed my example, for we all had wives and children in far-off homes.'

"Now, I ask you all, friends, to give me an honest answer: could such a thing have happened if those countries, France and Prussia, hadn't both of 'em been enjoying the light that comes from the Bible—as Christian nations by profession, at any rate—for long years past? You've only to look at wars between nations that know nothing of the Bible to get an answer to that."

"You had him there, Tommy," cried one of the auditory, considerably delighted at Foster's evident discomfiture.

But the latter returned to the charge, saying, "All very fine, Tommy Tracks; but you haven't fully answered my objection."

"I know it," was Bradly's reply. "I understand that you deny that the Bible is a revelation from God because it has failed, (so you say) to do what it professes to do."

"Just so."

"Well, what does it profess to do?"

"Doesn't it profess to convert all the world?"

"How soon?"

"Before the Second Advent, as you call it."

"Show me, William, where it says so."

So saying, Bradly handed a little Bible to his opponent, who took it very reluctantly; while those around, being much interested, and at the same time amused, exclaimed,—

"Ay, to be sure! Show it him, William; show it him!"

"Not I," said Foster, endeavouring to hide his annoyance and confusion by an assumption of scorn; "it's not in my line to hunt for texts."

"True," said Thomas quietly; "if it had been, you wouldn't have made such a blunder.—He can't find it, friends, for it ain't written so in the Bible. Before the Lord comes again he'll gather out his own people from all nations. But that's not at all the same as converting all the world; that's not to be till after his coming again, according to the Bible. And this is just what's happening now in different countries all over the world; exactly according to the teaching of the Bible, neither more nor less. So he hasn't proved his point, friends; has he?"

"No, no!" was the universal cry.

But William Foster, though sorely angry, and conscious that his arrows had utterly failed of hitting their mark, was determined not to be driven ingloriously out of the field; his pride could not endure that. So, smothering his wrath, he turned again to Bradly and said,—

"Here, give us one of your precious tracts, man." The other immediately handed him one.

"Now see, mates," continued Foster, "what I've got here—'The Power of Prayer.' See how it begins 'Prayer moves the arm that moves the world.' And you believe that, Tommy Tracks?"

"Yes," was the reply; "I believe it; and more than that, I know it—I know that it's true."

"And how do you know it?"

"First and foremost, because the Bible says so; not those very words, indeed, but what means just the same: as, for instance, 'The Lord's hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; neither his ear heavy, that it cannot hear.' And, better still, I have it in our Saviour's own words: 'If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?'"

"Well, now, let me tell you, friend Bradly, that it's all a delusion."

"You're at liberty, William, to tell me what you like; but I can tell you that it's no such thing as a delusion, for I've proved it myself to be a blessed truth."

"What! You mean to say that your own prayers have been answered?"

"I do mean to say so, William. There's nothing like experience. I can tell you what I know myself. I've put the Lord to the proof over and over again, and he has never failed me. I've always had what I needed."

"Hear him!" cried Foster, derisively. "Why, it isn't a week ago that I heard him myself tell John Rowe that he'd like to build another cottage on the bit of land he bought last year, only he couldn't afford it just at present. And now he says he has only to pray for a thing, and he can get whatever he likes.—Why didn't you pray for the money to build the new cottage, Tommy?"

"Not so fast, William; a reasoning and scientific man like yourself ought to stick close to the truth. Now, I never said as I could get whatever I liked—though I might have said that too without being wrong; for when I've found out clearly what's the Lord's will, I can say with the old shepherd, 'I can have what I please, because what pleases God pleases me.' What I said was this: that I always got what I needed when I prayed for a thing."

"Well, and where's the difference?"

"A vast deal of difference, William. I never pray for any of this world's good things without putting in, 'if God sees it best for me to have it.' And then I know that, if it is really good for me, I shall get it, and that'll be what I need; and if he sees as I'm better without it, he'll give me contentment and peace, and often something much better than what I asked for, and which I never expected, and that'll be giving me in answer to prayer what I need."

"Then it seems to me," said the other, sneeringly, "that you may just as well let the prayer alone altogether, for you don't really get what you would like, and you can't be sure what it is you really want."

"Nay, not so, William Foster; my Bible says, 'Be careful for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.' I just go and do this, and over and over again I've got the thing I naturally liked; and it's only been now and then, when God knew I should be better without the thing I fancied, that he kept it back. But then I always got something better for me instead, and the peace of God with it."

"And you call that getting answers to prayer from a heavenly Father?" said Foster derisively.

"I do," was Bradly's reply. "My heavenly Father deals with me in the same way as I used to deal with my children when they was little, and for the same reason—because he loves me, and knows better than I do what's good for me. When our Dick were a little thing, only just able to walk, he comes one evening close up to the table while I was shaving, and makes a snatch at my razor. I caught his little hand afore he could get hold; and says I, 'No, Dick, you mustn't have that; you'll hurt yourself with it.' Not that there was any harm in the razor itself, but it would have been harm to him, though he didn't know it then. Well, Dick was just ready to cry; but he looks at me, and sees a smile on my face, and toddles off into the garden; and an hour after I went and took him a great blunt knife as he couldn't hurt himself with, and he was soon as happy as a king, rooting about in the cabbage-bed with it. I did it because I loved him; and he came to understand that, after a bit. And that's the way our heavenly Father deals with all his loving and obedient children."

There was a little murmur of approval when Bradly ceased, which was very distasteful to Foster, who began to move off, growling out that, "it was no use arguing with a man who was quite behind the age, and couldn't appreciate nor understand the difficulties and conclusions of deeper thinkers."

"Just one word more, friends, on this subject," said Bradly, not noticing his opponent's last disparaging remarks. "William said, a little while ago, as it's all fancy on my part when I gave him my own experience about answers to prayer. Well, if it's fancy, it's a very pleasant fancy, and a very profitable fancy too; and I should like him to tell me what his learned scientific authors, that he brags so much about, has to give me instead of it, if I take their word for it as it's all fancy, and give over praying. Now, suppose I'm told as there's a man living over at Sunnyside as is able and willing to give me everything I want, if I only ask him. I go to his door, and knock; but he don't let me see him. I say through the keyhole, 'I want a loaf of bread.' He opens the door just so far as to make room for his hand, and there's a loaf of bread in it for me. I go to him again, and tell him through the door as I wants some medicine to cure one of my children as is sick. The hand is put out with medicine in it, and the medicine makes a cure. I go again, and say I want a letter of recommendation for my son to get a place as porter on the railway. There's no hand put out this time; but I hear a voice say, 'Come every day for a week.' So I go every day, and knock; and the last day the hand's put out, and it gives me a letter to a gentleman, who puts my son into a situation twice as good as the one I asked for him. Now, suppose I'd gone on in this way for years, always getting what I asked for, or something better instead, do you think any one would ever persuade me as it were only fancy after all; that the friend I called on so often wasn't my friend at all, that he'd never heard or listened to a word I said, and had never given me anything in all my life? Now, that's just how the matter stands. It's no use talking to a man as knows what effectual prayer is, about the constancy of the laws of nature, and such like. He knows better; he has put the Lord of nature and all its laws to the proof, and so may you too. I'll just leave with you one text out of the Scripture as'll weigh down a warehouseful of your sceptical and philosophical books; and it's this: 'Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.'"

Not a word more was spoken on either side, and the party broke up.



CHAPTER SIX.

THE VICAR OF CROSSBOURNE.

Of all the true friends of "Tommy Tracks" none valued and loved him more than the Reverend Ernest Maltby, vicar of Crossbourne. There is a peculiar attraction in such men to one another, which cements their friendship all the more strongly from the very dissimilarity of their social positions. For each feels dependent on the other, and that the other possesses gifts or powers of which he himself is destitute. The refined Christian scholar, while in perfect spiritual accord with the man of rougher mould and scanty learning, feels that his humbler brother is able to get at his fellow-workmen for good, as being on the same level with them, in a way denied to himself. While, on the other hand, the man of inferior education and position is conscious that all real increase in knowledge is increase in power, and that his brother of higher-station and more extensive reading can grasp and deal effectually with topics of interest and importance, which could not be done justice to by his own less skilful and less intelligent handling. And thus, as each leans in a measure on the other, being in entire sympathy as they are on highest things, the force of their united action on the hearts and lives of others is powerful indeed. Such was the case in Crossbourne. The combined work of the vicar and Thomas Bradly, both for the salvation of souls and the rescue and reformation of the intemperate, was being felt by the enemies of the truth to be a work of power: they were therefore on the watch to hinder and mar that work by every means within their reach; for Satan will not lose any of his captives without setting his own agents on a most determined and vigorous resistance.

The vicar himself was just the fitting man for his position. Gently yet not luxuriously nurtured, and early trained in habits of self-denial and consideration for the feelings of others, he had entered the ministry, not only with a due sense of the solemnity of his responsibilities, and under a conviction that he was truly called to his profession by the inward voice of the Holy Spirit, but also with a loving self- forgetfulness, while he sought earnestly the truest welfare of all committed to his charge. And when he passed, after some years' experience in the ministerial Work, to the important post of vicar of Crossbourne, he had come to take a peculiar interest in the study of individual character, and to delight in gathering around him workers of various temperaments and habits of thought. Rugged enough were some of these in their general bearing and their way of expressing themselves; but he knew well, when he had broken through the outer surface, what a firm-grained material he had to work upon in the hearts of such, and how he would be sure to win from them, in due time, by force and consistency of character, respect and affection as abiding as they were sincere.

It was his happiness also to be united to a wife like-minded with himself in views and work. On one point alone they had differed, and that was as to the mental training of their only child, a daughter.

Clara Maltby was now eighteen. She had been brought up by the united teaching and example of both parents "in the nurture and admonition of the Lord." Naturally thoughtful and retiring, and fond of learning, she had mastered the lessons taught her in her earliest years with an ease which awoke in her mother's heart an ambition that her child, when she grew old enough, should gain some intellectual distinction. And as Clara herself was never happier than when she had a book in her hand, all that her parents had to do was to choose for her such branches of study as she was best calculated to shine in. Nor did she disappoint her teachers, but threw herself into her lessons with an energy and interest which made it certain that she would rise to eminence among competitors for the prizes of learning proposed to her own sex. And thus it was that what might have been a rational thirst after knowledge, and have led to the acquirement of stores of information which would have made their possessor an ornament to her home and to the society in which she moved, grew into an absorbing passion.

She came at length to live in and for her studies. All her other pursuits and occupations were made to be subordinate to these, and were by degrees completely swallowed up by them. Not that she was unaware that there were duties which she ought to fulfil in her home and in her father's parish, which could not be done justice to without shortening her hours of study. She saw this plainly enough, and deplored her neglect; but she had come to persuade herself that success in her intellectual pursuits was the special end at which she was to aim for the present; and she believed that her mother, at any rate, held the same view.

And yet her conscience was not at ease on the matter. Home and parish work which used to fall to her was either left undone or transferred to others. "Mother," she would say, "I am so sorry not to be of more use; I ought to help you, and to take my share of work in the parish; but then you know how it is—you see that I have no time." Once her class in the Sunday-school had been her delight, and the object of many an anxious thought and earnest prayer, while each individual scholar had a place in her heart and her supplications. But by degrees the preparation for the Sunday lessons became irksome and too much for her already overworked brain. She must make the Sabbath a day of absolute rest from all mental exertion, except such as was involved in a due attendance on the services in the house of God, which her conscience would not allow her to absent from.

As for week-day work in the parish, such as taking her turn in visiting the girls' day-school, undertaking a district as visitor, looking up and tending the sick and the sorrowful in conjunction with her father and mother, the excuse of "no time" was pleaded here also; so that she who was once welcomed in every home in the parish, and carried peace by her loving words and looks to many a troubled and weary heart, was now becoming daily more and more a stranger to those who used to love and value her. Indeed, she seldom now stirred from home, except when snatching for health's sake a hasty walk, in which she would hurry from the vicarage and back again along roads where she was least likely to meet with interruption from the greetings of friends or neighbours.

Light, purer light, the light of God's truth, had indeed shone into her heart, but that light was suffering a gradual and deepening eclipse through the shadow cast by the idol of intellectual ambition, which had usurped for a while the place where once her Saviour reigned supreme. And the poor body was suffering, for the overstrained mind was sapping the vigour of all its powers. And then there came a resort to that remedy, the stimulant which spurs up the flagging energies to extraordinary and spasmodic exertion, only to leave the poor deluded victim more prostrate and exhausted than ever.

The vicar had never been satisfied with his daughter's course. Life, in his view, was too short and eternity too near to justify any one in pursuing even the most innocent and laudable object in such a manner as to unfit the soul for keeping steadily in view its highest interests, and to engross the mind and life so entirely as to shut all the doors of loving and Christian usefulness. While acknowledging the value of storing, cultivating, and enlarging the mind, he became daily more and more convinced that such mental improvement was becoming a special snare to the young and enthusiastic; beguiling them into the neglect of manifest duty, and into a refined and subtle self-worship, which, in the case of those who had set out on the narrow way, was changing the substance for a shadow, and destroying that peace which none can truly feel who rob their Saviour of the consecration of all that they have and are to his glory.

But deeply as he deplored the change in his daughter's habits, and her withdrawal from first one good work and then another, he had not fully realised how it had come about, and the mischief it was doing to the body, mind, and soul of the child he loved so dearly. It was only gradually that she had relinquished first one useful occupation, and then another; and circumstances seemed at the time to make such withdrawal necessary.

Then, too, his wife's reluctance to see that, after all, she had mistaken the path on which she should have encouraged her daughter to travel, had led her to make as light as possible of the evil effects, which were only too plain to others not so nearly interested in her child's well-being. She could not bear to think that, after all, Clara's pursuit of intellectual distinction was physically, morally, and spiritually a huge mistake, and that she was purchasing success at the cost of health and peace. "There was nothing seriously amiss with her," she would tell her husband, when he expressed his misgivings and fears; "she only wanted a little change; that would set her up: there was no real cause for anxiety. It would never do for Clara to be behind the rest of the girls of her age in intellectual attainments: it would be doing her injustice, for she was so manifestly calculated to shine; and if God had given her the abilities and the tastes, surely they ought to be cultivated. She could return by-and-by to her work in the Sunday- school and the parish. And then, how much better it was that she should be acquiring really solid and useful knowledge, which would be always valuable to her, than be spending her energies on any of the worldly or frivolous pursuits which were entangling and spoiling so many well- disposed girls in our day."

Alas! The poor mother, whose own heart and conscience were not really satisfied with these reasonings, had forgotten, or failed to see, that the same devotion to study which kept her daughter out of the ensnaring ways of worldliness and frivolity, equally kept her from treading that path of shining usefulness along which all must walk who would fulfil the great purpose for which God has put us into this land of probation and preparation for our eternal home.

Thomas Bradly saw plainly how matters were, and when the vicar hinted at his difficulties connected with his daughter's pursuits, as they were talking together over Sunday-school and parochial work, spoke out his mind plainly and faithfully.

"Well, Thomas," said Mr Maltby, "you see a little how I am situated. My dear child is, I trust and believe, a true Christian; but I am free to confess that I am sadly disappointed at the turn which things have taken about her studies."

"I can well believe it, sir," was Bradly's reply, "and I feel for you with all my heart. And I'm disappointed myself about Miss Clara, and so's scores more in the parish. The Sunday-school ain't the same as it was—no, nor the parish neither, now that she don't come among us as she used to do. But there's a twist somewheres in people's views about the education of young ladies in our day. 'Tain't so much in my way, sir, it's true, as it is in yours, to notice these things; but sometimes them as is standing a little way off gets a better view of how things really are than them as is quite close by."

"Quite so, Thomas," said the other. "Tell me, then, candidly what you think about this matter."

"I'll do so, sir, as I know you'll not misunderstand me; and you know that I love you and yours with all my heart. Well, sir, it seems to me as they're beginning at the wrong place altogether, in filling young ladies' heads, as they do, with all sorts and sizes of knowledge."

"How do you mean, Thomas?"

"Just this way, sir. I were in Sheffield for a day or two last June, and as I were a-staring in at one of the cutlers' shops, I caught sight of a strange-looking article stuck upon a stand right in the middle of the window. It were all blades and points, like the porcupine as I used to read about at the national school when I were a boy. It was evidently meant for a knife; but who would ever think of buying such a thing as that, except merely as a curiosity? There must have been some fifty or sixty blades, and these were all sorts of shapes and sizes, just, I suppose, to show the skill of the workman as contrived to fasten such a lot of them together; but they would have been no earthly use to a man as wanted a real working article. Now, as far as I can see and hear, the young ladies in these days is being got up something like one of 'em fancy knives. It seems to be the great wish of these young ladies' parents or friends to put into their heads a lot of learning of all sorts—so many languages, so many sciences, so many accomplishments, as they calls 'em, as thick as they can stand together. And what's the end of it all? Why, folks wonder at 'em, no doubt, and say a great many fine things to 'em and about 'em; but they're not turned out a real serviceable article, either for their homes or for the great Master's work as he'd have them to do it."

"It is too true, dear friend," said the vicar with a sigh.

"Ay! And if I'm not too bold in speaking my mind," proceeded the other, "that ain't the worst of it. You'll excuse my homely way of talking, sir, but I can't help thinking of Timothy Pinches' donkey-cart when I reads or hears of these young ladies with their science classes, and their Oxford and Cambridge local examinations, and their colleges, and what not. Timothy Pinches were an old neighbour of mine when I didn't live in these parts—that were several years ago as I'm talking of. Now Timothy had a donkey, a quiet and serviceable animal enough, and he'd got a cart too, which would carry a tidy lot of things, yet at the same time it weren't none of the strongest. He used to cart my coals for me, and do an odd job for me here and there. Well, one day I met Timothy with a strange load in his cart; there was a lot of iron nails and bars for the blacksmith, two or three bags of potatoes, a sack of flour, a bottle or two of vinegar, a great jar of treacle, a bale of calico for one of the shops, a cask of porter, and a sight of odds and ends besides. And they was packed and jammed so tight together, I could see as they were like to burst the sides of the cart through. 'Timothy,' says I, 'you'll never get on with that load; it's too much for the donkey, and it's too much for the cart.' 'All right,' says he, 'we'll manage.' 'Nay,' says I, 'it's too much for the poor beast; make two journeys of it, and you'll do it comfortably.' 'Can't afford the time,' says he. But he could afford the time to keep the poor donkey often standing before the door of the public for an hour and more together. But just then he'd had an extra glass, and he wasn't in a mood to be spoken with. So he gives the poor beast a fierce kick, and a pull at his jaw, by way of freshening him up, and the cart goes creaking on up a hill by a winding road. I could hear it as I went on by a footpath as took me a short cut into the road again. Then the noise stopped all of a sudden; and when I'd got to the end of the path, there was Timothy Pinches looking anything but wise or pleasant, and cart and donkey had both come to grief. The side of the cart was burst right out; the donkey had fallen down and cut his knees badly; the potatoes was rolling down the hill; the flour had some of it come out of the sack in a great heap, and the vinegar and treacle was running slowly through it. When I looked at poor Timothy's face, and then at the break-down, I couldn't help laughing at him; but I gave him a helping hand, and I hope he learnt a useful lesson. You see, sir, it don't do to overtask a willing beast, nor to load a cart with more goods than it's meant to carry, specially if it ain't over strong. But they're making this very mistake with many of the young ladies just now—I don't mean anything disrespectful to them in likening them to a donkey-cart, but it's true. These young ladies themselves are overtasking their constitutions which God gave them, and they're loading their brains with more than them brains was designed to carry. The Lord hasn't given them, as a rule, heads fit to bear the strain as men's heads were made to stand. I'm sure of it; it's the opinion, too, of Dr Richardson, who has the best right of any man, perhaps, to speak on this subject, as he's studied it, I should think, as much or more than any man living. Now, sir, just look at your own dear child, Miss Clara,—why, it makes my heart sore every time I look at her; she ain't got the right healthy look in her face; her mind has got more to bear than ever her Maker meant it to have; and there's no reason, surely, why she shouldn't be as cheerful as a lark and as bright as the flowers in May."

"Most true! Most true!" said the vicar sorrowfully. "I only wish Mrs Maltby and my daughter could see things in this light; but when I express my fears and misgivings on this subject, they tell me that I must not take a gloomy view of things, nor alarm myself needlessly. But perhaps, dear friend, you may be able to put in a word, I know your plain, homely good sense and observation will have weight with both mother and daughter."

"I'll make bold to say a word or two to them on the subject," replied Thomas Bradly, "when next I get an opportunity."



CHAPTER SEVEN.

A SHADOW ON THE HEARTH.

Thomas Bradly was pre-eminently a bright Christian. A quaint old author says that "a gloomy Christian does not do credit to Christ's housekeeping." There was no gloom about Bradly's religion: it shone in his heart, in his life, on his face, and in his home; it attracted the troubled and sin-burdened; it was the concealed envy of many who scoffed at and reviled him. And yet there was not unclouded sunshine even in his happy home: a shadow, and a dark one, rested on his hearth.

It has been said that he had an unmarried sister who lived with him, and that she was an invalid. Jane Bradly was a year younger than her brother Thomas, but sickness and sorrow made her look older than she really was. She was sweet and gentle-looking, with that peculiar air of refinement which suffering often stamps on the features of those who are being spiritualised by fiery trial and are ripening for glory. And there was something, too, that was very strange about her case. She was not confined to her bed, and was able to leave the house in order to attend the services at the church, which she did most regularly. Yet she very rarely left the house on any other occasion, and never visited a neighbour; and if any of her brother's friends came in, she would leave her chair by the fire and retire into another room.

When the family first came to Crossbourne, a good deal of curiosity was felt and expressed about her, and many attempts were made to draw her out; but as neither Bradly nor his wife nor children ever gave the smallest encouragement to questioners, and as Jane herself quietly declined every invitation to take a meal or spend an hour away from home, curiosity was obliged to seek gratification elsewhere, and baffled inquirers to talk about her amongst themselves with ominous whispers and shrugging shoulders.

Clearly, Jane's complaint was one which medicine could not reach, for no medical man ever called on her at her brother's house; though well- meaning persons used at first to urge on Thomas the advisability of consulting the parish doctor for her. And when others recommended their own favourite patent remedies which had never been known to fail—at least, so said the printed wrapper—he would thank them, and say that "it wasn't physic as she wanted." "Ah! Then she must have met with a disappointment where she had placed her affections; was it not so?" To which Thomas dryly replied that "he was not aware that it was so; but if it had been, he should have kept it to himself." This and similar broad hints at length closed the gossiping mouths of Crossbourne—at any rate, in the presence of any members of the Bradly family—and Jane and her troubles ceased to occupy much attention out of her own home.

Still, the deep shadow lay across the hearth and heart of her brother. Very touching it was to see the considerate tenderness with which he always dealt with her. Never a loud or hasty word did she hear from him, nor indeed from any member of the family. When he came in from his work his first words were for her: some cheery little speech, yet uttered in rather an undertone, lest his natural abruptness unchecked should startle her. The best massive arm-chair, and the snuggest nook by the kitchen fire, were hers; and by the Bible, which was her constant companion, and lay on a little table which stood beside her, a few bright flowers, as their season came round, were placed as tokens of a thoughtful and abiding love.

Yet she pined, and grew gradually weaker; but no murmur was heard to escape her lips. The sorrow which lay on her heart like a mountain of snow could not deprive her of God's peace, while it was chilling and crushing out her life. As far as they would allow her, and her strength would permit, she took her part in the household work; but she was principally occupied with her needle, and as she was an excellent workwoman, she was never without such orders as she was able to undertake.

The vicar was deeply interested in her, and was a frequent visitor; but while she manifestly derived comfort from his instructions and prayers, any attempt on his part to draw her into confiding to him, (as a friend and spiritual adviser) her special sorrow at once reduced her to silence. And yet it seemed to him that there were times when she was on the very verge of breaking through her reserve. Not that he desired this, except for her own sake. How gladly would he have shared her burden with her, "and so fulfilled the law of Christ," would she but have in trusted him with it! It was so sad to see the deep shadow of an abiding care on that gentle face, the unnatural flush on the cheeks, and the eyes at one time filled with tears, and at another with a look of earnest beseeching, as though she longed to unburden her troubled heart, and yet dared not—as though she yearned for his advice and sympathy, and yet could not bring herself to open to him her grief. And thus it was that the poor afflicted one was drooping lower and lower; and the cloud which rested on her quiet, patient features was to be seen at times on her brother's also.

It was a few days after the accident on the line by which the miserable Joe Wright was hurried into eternity, that the vicar, who was coming out of the cottage of poor Joe's widow, met Thomas Bradly as he was on his way home from his work. Both looked very grave; and Mr Maltby said,—

"I see, Thomas, that you feel, as I do, what a shocking accident this has been. The drink, I don't doubt, must have been at the bottom of it, for we know too well what the poor man's habits were. What can I say to comfort his unhappy widow? Of course, it is not for us to judge her husband; we do not know what passed in Joe's heart during his last moments. But that is very poor consolation, after all, when we know that, 'as a man sows, so shall he reap.' All I can do is to try and lead the poor woman herself to her Saviour. We know that the door to pardon and peace is not yet closed to her."

"That's too true, sir," replied Bradly. "I fear we can't have any comfortable thoughts about Joe; the least said about him the better. But, to tell you the truth, sir, I were just then turning my own trouble over in my mind, and that's what made me look so grave."

"What—about your sister Jane?"

"Yes, sir. I know as it's all right; and yet somehow I can't help feeling a bit anxious about her. She must either mend afore long, or break down altogether. I should very much like her to open her heart and her trouble to yourself, sir; for I'm sure it would do her good. I know it all myself, of course; but then I've promised her to be as close as wax, and never to talk about it to a soul without she gives me leave. And her Saviour knows it all, too. She goes with it regular to him; but still she brings back some of it with her each time. She don't mean it; but it's more nor flesh and blood is equal to, to leave it entirely to him. Now, I do believe, if she would just tell you all, or let me tell it you before her, it would help to lighten her heart and ease her mind. She knows, indeed—as of course every true Christian knows from his Bible—that no mortal man, be he who he may, can do for her what the blessed Saviour only can do; but I am sure that it will make your words, your counsels, and your prayers more precious and profitable to her when she feels that her pastor knows her great sorrow, and can join with her in taking it to the throne of grace, and pleading for light and guidance, and a way out of it too, if the Lord will."

"I quite agree with you, Thomas," said Mr Maltby. "At present I can give her only general words of advice and comfort, and can only pray for her about her sorrow in a general way; but if she sees it to be right, and can bear to confide the story of her trial to me, I shall then be able to assist her in grasping with an increasing faith those 'exceeding great and precious promises' which will be specially applicable to her case, and may meet any peculiar circumstances connected with her affliction."

"Thank you, sir, most kindly," said the other. "I think I have nearly persuaded her to let me tell you all; and I believe it will be best done before herself, for then one telling will do for all, and she will be able to put in a word here and there to make all clear."

"Just so, Thomas," said the vicar. "I can easily understand that when once she has broken through her reserve with me, or suffered you to break through it for her, she will be able better to bear the full disclosure, from having part of the weight already removed from her heart."

"That's just my view," said Bradly, "and I've told her so more than once. I'm sure she'll feel lighter in her heart when once she has fully made up her mind that you shall know all, even before you've heard a word of her story; and I'm sure she sees it so now herself. So, if it won't be troubling you too much to ask you to step over to our house to- morrow night about seven o'clock, unless I send you back word, we'll have the best parlour all to ourselves, and I believe the Lord will make it a blessed night for poor Jane and for us all."

"It shall be so then, Thomas," replied the vicar. "I will, if spared, be at your house at seven o'clock, unless I hear anything meanwhile to the contrary from yourself."

It was with a feeling of deep interest, and a fervent prayer for a blessing, that Ernest Maltby knocked the next evening at the door of Thomas Bradly's quiet dwelling. Thomas welcomed him with a smile. "It'll be all right, I know," he said; "I've told her you're coming, and she has made no objection; and now that the time's come, the Lord has taken away the worst of the fear."

The vicar entered, and found the invalid seated by a bright fire, with her little table and the Bible on it by her side. Her poor wan cheeks were flushed with a deeper colour than usual as she rose to greet the clergyman; but there was not so much a look of suffering now in her eyes, as of hopeful, humble, patient trust. Her needlework lay near her Bible, for her skilful fingers were never idle.

Her brother set a chair for their visitor near the fire, and seated himself by him. For a moment no one spoke; then Jane handed the Bible to Mr Maltby, who opened it and read the Hundred and Forty-Second Psalm, giving special emphasis to the words of the third verse, "When my spirit was overwhelmed within me, then thou knewest my path." He offered a short prayer after the reading, and then waited for either brother or sister to spread out the trouble before him.

"You must know, sir," began Thomas, with an emotion which checked his usual outspoken utterance for a while, "as me and mine don't belong to these parts; and I daresay you've heard some of the queer tales which them as pays more attention to their neighbour's business than their own has got up about us. However, that matters very little. Our native place is about fifty miles from Crossbourne. Maybe you've heard of Squire Morville (Sir Lionel Morville's his proper title). He lives in a great mansion called Monksworthy Hall, just on the top of the hill after you've gone through the village. There's a splendid park round it. Most of the land about belongs to Sir Lionel; and he's lord of the manor. Well, I were born, and my father and grandfather before me, in Monksworthy, and so were Jane; and all things went on pretty smooth with us till a few years back. We'd our troubles, of course; but then we didn't expect to be without 'em—Wasn't to be looked for that our road through life should be as level all the way as a bowling-green. Sir Lionel were very good to his tenants; but he were rather too fond of having lots of company at the Hall—more, I'm sure, than his lady liked; for she was a truly godly woman, and I don't doubt is so to this day.

"My father and mother had a very large family, so that there wasn't full work for us all as we growed up; and, as I was one of the younger ones, they was glad to get me bound apprentice, through the squire's help, to my present trade in the north. But I liked my own native village better than any other spot as I'd ever seen, so I came back after I'd served my time, and picked up work and a wife, as a good many of the young people had been emigrating to Canada and Australia, and Sir Lionel wanted hands just then. Well, then, God sent us our children, and they soon grew up, and it weren't such easy work to feed them and clothe them as it is in a place like this. However, the Lord took care of us, and we always had enough.

"Jane went to the Hall to be housemaid soon after I married; and Lady Morville were so fond of her that, she would never hear of her leaving for any other place.—Nay, Jane dear, you mustn't fret; it'll all turn out well in the end. There's One as loves us both, better than Sir Lionel and his lady, and he'll make all straight sooner or later.

"Now, you must know, sir, as I'd come back from the north a teetotaler. I'd seen so much of the drunkenness and the drink-traps there that I'd made up my mind as total abstinence were the wisest, safest, and best course for both worlds; and Jane, who had never cared for either beer or wine, took the pledge with me when I came home, for the sake of doing good to others.

"Lady Morville didn't concern herself about this; but there was one at the Hall who did, and that one were John Hollands, the butler. It was more nor he could put up with, that any one of the servants should presume to go a different road from him, and refuse the ale when it went round at meals in the kitchen. So, as all his chaffing, and the chaffing of the other servants, couldn't shake Jane, he was determined he'd make her smart for it. And there was something more than this too. I've said that Sir Lionel were a free sort of gentleman, fond of having lots of company; and of course the company wasn't short of ale, and wine, and spirits; and so long as there was a plentiful stock in the cellar, the squire didn't trouble himself to count bottles or barrels. He was not a man himself as drank to excess; he thought drunkenness a low, vulgar habit, and never encouraged it; but he spent his money freely, and those as lived in his family were never watched nor stinted. You may suppose, then, sir, as John Hollands had a fine time of it. He were cock of the walk in the servants' hall, and no mistake. Eh, to see him at church on Sunday! What with his great red face, and his great red waistcoat, and his great watch-chain with a big bunch of seals at the end of it, I couldn't help thinking sometimes as he looked a picture of 'the devil and all his works, the pomps and vanity of this wicked world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh,' which the Catechism tells us to renounce.

"You may be sure such a man had a deal in his power; and so he had. And it wasn't only the wine, beer, and spirits as he used pretty much as he liked. Eh! The waste that went on downstairs was perfectly frightful; and a pretty penny he and the cook made between 'em out of their master's property, which they sold on the sly.

"Jane saw something of this, and longed to put a stop to it; but, poor thing, what could she really do? She did once take an opportunity of speaking her mind gently to the butler, when they happened to be alone, and tried to show him how wrong and wickedly he was acting. But all she got was, that he gave her back such a volley of oaths and curses as made her feel that it would be no use talking to him any more on the subject just then. And he weren't content with merely abusing her; he threatened her besides as he'd make her see afore long what sort of paying off 'sneaking spies' usually got for their pains. And he kept his word.

"Lady Morville had got a favourite lady's-maid, who came to her when Jane had been some years at the Hall. This maid were a stylish, dashing young woman, and had a tongue as would turn any way it was wanted. So she soon made herself so useful to her mistress that she was more like an equal than a servant. But she were a thoroughly unprincipled woman, and hated Jane almost as soon as she had set eyes on her. Now she were far too deep to do anything as would get herself into trouble. She might have robbed her ladyship in many ways; and so she did, but not by taking her jewels or anything of that sort. She would wheedle things out of her mistress in the slyest way. And then, too, Lady Morville would trust her to pay some of her bills for her; and then she'd manage to pop things into the account which my lady had never ordered, or she would alter the figures in such a way as to cheat her ladyship. And she hadn't been long at the Hall, as you may suppose, before she and the butler became fast friends; and a pretty lot of robbery and mischief was carried on by them two. Jane couldn't keep her eyes shut, so she saw many things she longed to expose to her mistress; but it would have been very difficult to bring the wrong-doings to light, even if Lady Morville had given her the opportunity of doing so—which she never did.

"Georgina—that were the name of the lady's-maid—was fully aware, however, that Jane had her eyes upon her, and she was resolved to get her out of the way. But how was that to be done? For Jane bore a high character in the house, and her ladyship would not listen to any gossiping tales against her. Her mind was soon made up: a little talk with John Hollands, and the train was laid.

"Now, she could have taken a bit of jewellery from her mistress, and hidden it in Jane's box, or among her things; and this was John Hollands' idea, as Jane afterwards found out from another fellow- servant, who was sorry for her, and had overheard the two making up their plans together. But Georgina said: 'No; that were a stale trick, and her ladyship might believe Jane's positive assertion of innocence. She would manage it better than that.' And so she did.

"To Jane's surprise, both the butler and the lady's-maid changed their manner towards her after a while, and became quite friendly: indeed, Hollands even took an opportunity to thank Jane for her good advice, and to say that he was beginning to see things in a different light; and Georgina made her a present of a neat silver pencil-case. Jane couldn't quite understand it; but having no guile in herself, she weren't up to suspecting guile in other folks, and she were only too thankful to see anything that looked like a change for the better.

"Things were in this fashion, when one morning, just before Sir Lionel's breakfast-time, as Jane was sweeping and dusting the back drawing-room, John Hollands looked in. There'd been a large dinner-party the night before, and the family was rather late. Steps were heard overhead in her ladyship's bedroom, and then Georgina comes in. 'Come in here, Mr Hollands,' she says, 'and look here, both of you; see what I've found on the stairs!' The butler came in, and the lady's-maid holds out to him a beautiful bracelet all sparkling with jewels. He took it in his hand and turned it over, and says, 'It must have been dropped by one of the ladies as dined here yesterday; you'd better give it to her ladyship.'—'Of course I shall,' says the other; 'only there's no harm looking at it.—Ain't it a love of a bracelet, Jane? Just take it in your hand and look at it afore I take it up to mistress.' Jane took the bracelet, and said that it was a beauty indeed, and was going to return it to Georgina, but that wicked woman had turned her head away, pretending not to notice Jane's hand stretched out to her. Then steps were heard close to the door, and Georgina cried out half aloud, 'There's her ladyship coming; won't you catch it, Jane! Come along, Mr Hollands;' and they were gone out at another door in a moment, just as Lady Morville came in at the other end of the room. And there stood poor Jane, her face all in a blaze, with her broom in one hand and the bracelet in the other.

"Scarcely knowing what she did, but not wishing; of course, to be found with the bracelet in her fingers, Jane tried to slip it into her pocket; but it wouldn't do, her mistress had already seen it. So she says, quiet and calm-like, 'Jane, don't attempt to hide it from me; I believe that's one of the bracelets Sir Lionel gave me on my last birthday. I couldn't find either of them when I was dressing for dinner last night, nor Georgina either. Come, tell me, Jane, how did it come into your possession?'

"What could poor Jane say or do? She bursts out a-crying, poor thing, and then turns her round, when she'd thrown up a little prayer to the Lord from her heart, and she says, 'Please, my lady, I never saw the bracelet till a few minutes ago. Georgina brought it in while I was sweeping, and showed it to Mr Hollands and me; and I was just going to give it back to Georgina, for they said that some lady must have dropped it last night—and I never knew it was your ladyship's—and they ran out of the room and left it in my hand—and then your ladyship came in and found me with it.'

"Now you may be sure, sir, as Jane had no easy work to get them words out, and, I suppose, Lady Morville thought as she was making up a lie; so she says very gravely, 'I don't at all understand you, Jane: how can Georgina have brought the bracelet to you? She was searching for the pair last night herself, and knows that they were missing from my jewel- case. And how can she have said that some lady must have dropped this bracelet, when she must know it perfectly well to be my own? Besides, it is only a few minutes ago that she told me she believed I should find it in this room somewhere, only she didn't like to say why.'

"Jane saw it all now—they had laid a cruel trap for her, and she was caught in it. At first she had no answer but tears, and then she declared that she had told the simple truth, and nothing but the truth. 'It may be so, Jane,' said her mistress; 'of course what you say is possible, but, I fear, not very probable.'

"She rung the bell, and Georgina answered it with a smirk on her face. 'Just call Hollands, and come in here with him,' said her ladyship. The butler soon came in; and Jane says, if ever the devil looked through any man's eyes, she believes he did through his, as he glared at her with a look of triumph, his mistress's back being turned towards him. Lady Morville then asked them if Jane's story was true, and if Georgina had shown her the bracelet. John Hollands lifts up his hands and eyes, and cries out, 'Was there ever such hypocrisy and deceit!' As for Georgina, she pretends to get into a passion, and declares as it was all a make-up thing to rob her and the butler of their characters. And then she says, 'Why, my lady, I've missed things myself, and I've had my suspicions; but I've not liked to say anything. There's a silver pencil-case, which my dear mother gave me, and it's got my initials on it: it's gone from my room, and I can't hear anything about it.' Jane at once pulls the pencil-case out of her pocket, and lays it on the table. 'I see how it is,' she says; 'you two are determined to ruin me; but the Lord above, he knows I'm innocent.—Your ladyship, Georgina made me a present of that pencil-case a short time ago. I didn't want to take it; but she wouldn't be refused, and said I must keep it as a token of good-will from her.'—'Well, did I ever hear such assurance!' cried Georgina. 'I wonder what she'll say next? But one thing's clear, my lady: I can't stay here, to be suspected of robbing your ladyship. I've not lost my character yet, if Jane's lost hers. But, at any rate, she has got your ladyship's bracelet; you found her with it yourself. Now, as she has got the one, she'll know, of course, where the other is. You may be sure, my lady, that the same person as took the one took the pair. It ain't likely there were two thieves in the case. If I might be so bold, I would, if I were in your ladyship's place, ask her to produce both the bracelets, and restore them to you; and when she's done that, it will be for your ladyship to say whether you do or do not believe her to be innocent, and that she's told the truth about my pencil-case.'

"Nobody said anything for a minute, for it were plain as Lady Morville were very much grieved and perplexed. At last she turns to Jane, and says, 'You hear what Georgina says, Jane; it is not unreasonable. Two bracelets have been taken, and one of the pair is found on you. I cannot say how you came by it, but it seems most likely that you must know where the other is. Produce it, and the matter shall go no further. I've always had the highest opinion of you up to this moment; and if sudden temptation in this case has led you into a sin, the best and wisest thing for you to do is just to own it, and to give up the other bracelet, and then the matter shall drop there, and we will all agree that by-gones shall be by-gones, for the best among us may be overtaken in a fault.' But by this time poor Jane had recovered herself a bit. She dried her tears, and, looking her mistress steadily in the face, said, 'I have told your ladyship the simple truth, and nothing but the truth; and I appeal to your ladyship, have you ever found me out in any untruthfulness or deceit all these years as you've knowed me? I see plainly enough why Mr Hollands and Georgina have been plotting this cruelty against me; but it would, I know, be of no use if I was to tell your ladyship what their carryings on has been—I should not be believed. But there's One whose eyes are in every place, beholding the evil and the good, and he will set it all right when he sees it to be best, and he'll clear my character.'

"No more were said at that time; but in the afternoon Lady Morville sends for Jane, and has her in her own room by herself, and she tells her as appearances are very much against her; but as she'd never knowed anything to her discredit before, and she had borne a very high character all the time as she'd been at the Hall, this matter should be hushed up, but she felt it wouldn't be right for her to remain. And so my poor sister, as she couldn't say no otherwise than she did before, and as she couldn't bear to face the other servants any more, left the Hall that very night by her own wish, and told me her story as I've told it you; for we've talked it over together scores of times, and I've got it quite by heart. And from that day to this she's never looked up; for, as it says in the psalm, 'the iron has entered into her soul.'

"I couldn't stop long after that in Monksworthy, and so we all came over here; and the Lord has prospered us—all but poor Jane; and yet I know she'll tell you he has never left her nor forsaken her, and he's made his promises 'yea and Amen' to her, spite of her sorrow. But it's a very sore trial, and the burden of it lies heavy on her heart still.

"There, sir, you've had the whole of it now, as well as I could give it you; and I'm sure you'll deal gently with the poor creature, like the good Master who wouldn't break the bruised reed."

For a little while no one spoke. Mr Maltby was deeply touched, and Jane, whose face had been for some time past buried in her hands, could not for a while restrain her sobbing. At last she looked up and said: "Yes, dear Mr Maltby, Thomas has told you exactly how it all was, as he has often heard it from me. They tell me not to fret. Ah! But it's good advice easier given than followed. I don't want to murmur; I know it's the Lord's will; but the trouble's gnawing and gnawing my life away. Disgraced, dismissed as a thief and a liar, without a character, a burden instead of a help to those who love me—oh, it is hard, very hard to bear! But those blessed words of the psalm you read, oh, how they have comforted me! And in that Word of God I know I shall find peace and strength. Ah, that reminds me Thomas has not mentioned to you another thing that added weight to my burden. I had, when I was living at the Hall, a little Bible of my dear mother's, which I used to read every day. Only a very short time before the day when the bracelet was shown me, that Bible was taken out of my box; and I've never seen it since. I asked all the other servants about it, but every one declared they had neither touched nor seen it. It could not have been taken for its value, for it was very old, and worn-looking, and shabby, and the paper and print were very poor; but I loved it because it was my dear mother's, and had been given to her as a reward when she was a very little girl. It had her maiden name and the year of our Lord in it—'Mary Williams. June 10, 1793.' Oh! It was such a precious book to me, for I had drawn a line in red-ink under all my favourite texts, and I could find anything I wanted in it in a moment! I can't help fearing that John Hollands or Georgina took it away just to spite me."

"Poor Jane!" said the vicar gently and lovingly "your story is a sad one indeed. Truly the chastening must for the present be not joyous, but grievous; and yet it comes from the hand of a Father who loves you, who will, I doubt not, cause it in due time to bring forth the peaceable fruit of righteousness."

"And you do, then, dear sir," cried Jane, with tearful earnestness, "believe, after what you have heard, that I am really innocent of the charge which has been made against me?"

"Believe it, Jane!" exclaimed Mr Maltby; "yes, indeed! I could not doubt your innocence for a moment; and remember, the Lord himself knows it, and will make it before long as clear as the noonday."

"Oh, thank you, dear sir, a thousand times for those cheering words! I am so glad now that all has been told you; I feel my heart lighter already. Yes, I will trust that light will come in his time."

"It will," replied the vicar, "and before long too. I feel firmly persuaded, I can hardly tell you why, that it will not be so very long before this dark cloud shall pass away."

"May the Lord grant it!" said Thomas Bradly; and added, "You understand now, sir, exactly how matters lie; and we shall both feel the happier that you know all, for we are sure that we shall always have your sympathy and prayers, and if anything should turn up we shall know where to go for advice; and in the meantime, we must wait and be patient. I can't help feeling with you that, somehow or other, poor Jane's getting near the end of the wood, and will come out into the sunshine afore so very long."



CHAPTER EIGHT.

TANTALISING.

A few days after the disclosure of Jane Bradly's trouble to the vicar, he met her brother Thomas in the evening hurrying away from his house.

"Nothing amiss at home, I hope, Thomas?" he inquired.

"Nothing amiss, thank you, sir, in my home, but a great deal amiss in somebody else's. There's nearly been an accident this afternoon to a goods train, and it's been owing to Jim Barnes having had too much drink; so they've just paid him off, and sent him about his business."

"I'm afraid," said the vicar, "there has been too much cause for such a strong measure. Poor James has been a sad drunken fellow, and it is a wonder they have kept him on so long."

"So it is, indeed, sir; for it's risking other people's lives to have such as him about a station. I suppose they have not liked to turn him off before partly because he's got such a lot of little 'uns to feed, and partly because it ain't often as he's plainly the worse for liquor when he's at his work. But when a man's as fond of the drink as Jim Barnes is, it ain't possible for him to keep off it always just when it suits his interests. And then there's another thing which makes chaps like him unfit to be trusted with having to do with the trains—who's to be sure that he ain't so far the worse for drink as to be confused in his head, even when he shows no signs of being regularly tipsy?"

"Who, indeed, Thomas? I am very sorry for poor James and his family; but I am sure he is not the man, while he keeps his present habits, to be trusted with work on the line, which requires a steady hand and a cool head."

"Well, sir, I hope he'll begin to see that himself. Now's the time to get at him, and so I'm just going down to try what I can do with him. Jim's never been one of my sort, but he's not been one of the worst of the other sort neither. He's a good-natured fellow, and has got a soft heart, and I've never had a spiteful word from him since I've knowed him."

"Yes, Thomas, I believe that's true of him," said Mr Maltby; "he has been always very civil and obliging to me. But, as you know, I have tried more than once to draw him out of the slough of intemperance on to firm ground, but in vain. I trust, however, that God may bless your loving endeavours to bring him now over to the right side."

"I trust so too, sir."

The house where Barnes lived was in one of the worst and dirtiest parts of Crossbourne; and as some of the inhabitants, whose temperament inclined to the gloomy, declared Crossbourne to be the dirtiest town in England, the situation of Jim's dwelling was certainly not likely to be favourable to either health or comfort. There are streets in most towns of any considerable size which persons who are fortunate enough to live in more agreeable localities are quite content with just looking down, and then passing on, marvelling, it may be, to themselves how such processes as washing and cooking can ever be carried on with the slightest prospect of success in the midst of such grimy and unsavoury surroundings. It was in such a street that James Barnes and his family existed, rather than lived; for life is too vigorous a term to be applied to the time dragged on by those who were unfortunate enough to breathe so polluted an atmosphere. There are some places which, in their very decay, remind you of better times now past and gone. It was not so with the houses in these streets; they looked rather as if originally built of poverty-stricken and dilapidated materials. And yet none of them were really old, but the blight of neglect was heavy upon them. Nearly at the bottom of one of these streets was the house inhabited by the dismissed railway porter, and to this Thomas Bradly now made his way.

Outside the front door stood a knot of women with long pipes in their mouths, bemoaning Jim's dismissal with his wife, and suggesting some of those original grounds of consolation which, to persons in a higher walk of life, would rather aggravate than lessen the trial. Two of the youngest children of the family, divested of all superfluous clothing, were giving full play to their ill-fed limbs in the muddy gutter, dividing their time between personal assaults on each other, and splashings on the by-standers from the liquid soil in which they were revelling, being occasionally startled into a momentary silence by a violent cuff from their mother when they became more than ordinarily uproarious.

The outer door stood half-open, and disclosed a miserable scene of domestic desolation. The absence of everything that could make home really home was the conspicuous feature. There was a table, it is true; but then it was comparatively useless in its disabled state—one of the leaves hanging down, and just held on by one unbroken hinge, reminding you of a man with his arm in a sling. There were chairs also, but none of them perfect; rather suggesting by their appearance the need of caution in the use of them than the prospect of rest to those who might confide their weight to them. A shelf of crockery ware was the least unattractive object; but then every article had suffered more or less in the wars. Nothing was clean or bright, few things were whole, and fewer still in their proper places. The two or three dingy prints on the walls, originally misrepresentations in flaring colours of scriptural or other scenes, hung in various degrees of crookedness; while articles of clothing, old and new, dirtier and less dirty, were scattered about in all directions, or suspended, just where necessity or whim had tossed them. There was on the available portion of the table part of a loaf of bread, a lump of butter still half-wrapped in the dirty piece of newspaper which had left some of its letters impressed on its exposed side, a couple of herrings, a mug half-full of beer, and two or three onions. And in the midst of all this chaos, on one side of the grate, which was one-third full of expiring ashes, and two-thirds full of dust, sat James Barnes in his railway porter's dress and cap, looking exceedingly crestfallen and unhappy.

"Good evening, Jim," said Thomas Bradly, making his way to the fire- place, and taking a seat opposite to Barnes; "I was sorry to hear bad news."

"Yes, bad indeed, Thomas—you've heard it, I see. Yes, they've given me the sack; and what's to be done now, I'm sure I don't know. Some people's born to luck; 'tain't my case."

"Nay, Jim," cried the other, "you're out there: there's no such thing as luck, and no one's born to good luck. But there's an old proverb which comes pretty near the truth, and it's this, 'Diligence is the mother of good luck.' I don't believe in luck or chance myself, but I believe in diligence, with God's blessing. It says in the Bible, 'The hand of the diligent maketh rich.'"

"Well, and I have been diligent," exclaimed Jim: "I've never been away from my work a day scarcely. But see what a lot of children I've got, and most of them little 'uns; and now they've gone and turned me off at a moment's notice. What do you say to that? Isn't that hard lines?"

"It ain't pleasant, certainly, Jim; but come, now, what's the use of fencing about in this way? Jim Barnes, just you listen to me. There's not a pleasanter chap in the town than yourself when you're sober— everybody says so, from the vicar down to Tommy Tracks. Now it's of no use to lay the blame on the wrong shoulders. You know perfectly well that if you'd have let the drink alone things would never have come to this, and you wouldn't have been living now in such a dirty hole. But I'm not come down here, Jim, to twit you with what's done, and can't be undone now. If you've done wrong, well, there's time to turn over a new leaf and do better; and now's your time. You see what the drink's brought you to; and if you was to get another place to-morrow, you wouldn't keep it long. There's no business as ever I heard of where the masters advertise in the papers, 'So many drunkards wanted for such a work.' No, no, Jim; just you think the matter over, and pray to the Lord to show you the right way. You know my 'Surgery' at the back of my house: you come up there to-night and have a talk with me; it's no use trying to have it here. I think I'll show you a door as'll lead to better ways, and better times; and you shan't want a good friend or two, Jim, to give you a helping hand, if you'll only try, by God's help, to deserve them."

Poor Jim's head had become bowed down on to his hands during this plain speech, and the tears began to make their way through his fingers. Then he stretched out one hand towards his visitor without lifting up his head, and said, in a half-choked voice, "Thank you, Thomas; I'll come, that I will,—I'll come; and thank you kindly for coming to look after me."

And he kept his word. Just as it was getting dark a tap was heard at Bradly's "Surgery" door, and James Barnes was admitted into a bright and cheery room—such a marvellous contrast, in its neatness, order, and cleanliness, to his own miserable dwelling. When the two men were seated, one on either side of the fire-place—which was as brilliant as Brunswick black and polishing could make it—Bradly began:—

"James Barnes, this night may be the turning-point for good and for happiness, for you and yours, both for this world and the next. I want you to sign the pledge and keep it. You've tried for a good long time how you can do with the drink—and a poor do it has been; now try how you can do without it. Never mind what old mates may say; never mind what such as Will Foster and his set may say; never mind what your wife may say,—she'll come round and join you if you're only firm,—just you sign, and then we'll ask God to bless you, and to enable you to keep your pledge."

"Thomas, I will," said James Barnes, much moved; "all as you've said's perfectly true—I know it. The drink's been my curse and my ruin; it's done me and mine nothing but harm; and I can see what doing without it has been to you and yours. Give me the pen; I'll sign."

The signature was made, and then, while both men knelt, Thomas Bradly poured out his heart in prayer to God for a blessing on his poor friend, and that he might truly give his heart and life to the Lord. "And now, James," said Bradly, "I'll find you a job to go on with, and I'll speak to the vicar, and you and yours shan't starve till we can set you on your feet again."

James Barnes thanked his new friend most warmly, and was turning to the door, but still lingered. Then he came back to the fire and sat down again, and said, "Thomas, I've summat to tell you which I've been wanting to mention to you for more nor a week, and yet I ain't had the courage to come and say it like a man."

"Well, Jim, now's the time."

"Thomas," said the other sorrowfully, "I've done you a wrong, but I didn't mean to do it; it's that drink as was at the bottom of it."

"Well, Jim," replied Bradly, smiling, "it can't have been much of a wrong, I doubt, as I've never found it out."

"I don't know how that may be, Thomas, but you shall hear. You remember the morning when poor Joe was found cut to pieces on the line just below the foot-bridge?"

"Yes, Jim, I remember it well; it was the day before Christmas-day."

"Well, Thomas, it were the day before that. I was on the platform in the evening, waiting for the half-past five o'clock train to come in from the north. It were ten minutes or more late, as most of the trains was that day. When it stopped at our station, a gent wrapped up in a lot of things, with a fur cap on his head, a pair of blue spectacles over his eyes, and a stout red scarf round his neck, jumps out of a third-class carriage like a shot, and lays hold of my arm, and takes me on one side, and says, 'I want you to do a job for me,' and he puts a florin into my hand; then he says, 'Do you know Thomas Bradly?' 'Ay,' says I; 'I know him well.' 'Then take this bag,' says he, 'and this letter to his house as soon as you're off duty. Be sure you don't fail. You knows the man I mean; he's got a sister Jane as lives with him.' 'All right,' says I. There weren't no more time, so he jumps back into the carriage, and nods to me, and I nods back to him, and the train were gone. It were turned six o'clock when I left the station yard, and the hands was all turning, out from the mills, so I takes the bag—it were a small carpet-bag, very shabby-looking—and the letter in my pocket. Now, I ought, by rights, to have gone with it at once to your house, and I shouldn't have had any more trouble about it. But as I was passing the Railway Inn, I says to myself, 'I'll just step in and have a pint;' but I wouldn't take the bag in with me, as perhaps some one or other might be axing me questions about it, and it weren't no business of theirs, so I just sets it down on the step outside, and goes in and changes my florin and gets my pint of ale. Well, I got a-gossiping with the landlady, and had another pint, and when I came out the bag were gone. I couldn't believe my eyes at first, for I've often left things on benches and steps outside the publics, and never knowed 'em touched afore this; for they're as honest a people in Crossbourne as you'll find anywhere. Howsomever, the bag were gone; there were no mistake about that. I went round into the yard and axed the hostler, but he hadn't seed nobody about. I looked up and down, but never a soul could I see as had a bag in his hand, so what to do I couldn't tell. Then I thought, 'Maybe some one's carried it back to the station by mistake.' So I went back, but it weren't there. I can tell you Thomas, I were never more mad with myself in all my life; for though I haven't been one of your sort, I've always respected you, and I'd rather have lost almost any one else's things than yours. I only hope it ain't of much consequence, as it were a very shabby bag, and didn't seem to have much in it, for it were scarcely any weight at all."

"Well, James, don't fret about it," said the other; "you meant no harm. As to the value of the bag, I know nothing more than you've told me, for I haven't been expecting anything of the sort. I only trust it'll be a warning to you, and that you'll stick firm to your pledge, and keep on the outside of the beer-shops and publics for the future."

"I will, Thomas; I will. But you know I told you as that gent who put the bag in my keeping gave me a letter besides. Well, I ain't lost the letter, but I've really been ashamed to bring it you, as I couldn't bring the bag too. And the devil said to me, 'You'd better throw the letter behind the fire, and there'll be an end of all bother;' but I couldn't do that, though I've never had the courage yet to give it you. But here it is;" and he took from his pocket a discoloured envelope, and handed it to Bradly. It was directed in a crabbed hand, with the writing sloping down to the corner—"Miss Jane Bradly, Crossbourne."

"Stop here a minute or two, Jim," said his friend, "and I shall be able perhaps to set your mind at ease about the bag;" and he left the room.

"Jane," he said, addressing his sister, who was seated in her usual place by the kitchen fire, "I've a letter for you, and it has come in rather an odd way;" and he then repeated to her James Barnes's story.

Much puzzled, but with no great amount of curiosity or interest, Jane took the letter from her brother's hand. From whom could it have come? There was of course no postmark, as it had been sent by messenger; and she knew nothing of the handwriting. When she had opened it she found only one small leaf, and but very few words on that; but these words, few though they were, seemed to take her breath away, and to overwhelm her with overpowering emotion. She sat staring at the miserable scrawl as though the letters were potent with some mighty spell, and then, throwing the paper on the table by her, gave way to a passionate outburst of weeping.

"Jane, Jane dear, what's amiss?" cried her brother in great distress. "The Lord help us! What has happened?"

She did not look up, but pushed the letter towards him, and he read as follows:—

"Dear Jane,—I am sorry now for all as I've done at you. Pray forgive me. You will find a letter all about it in the bag; and I've put your little marked Bible, and the other br—-t with it, into the bag. So no more at present from yours—JH."

Slowly the facts of the case dawned on Thomas Bradly's mind. John Hollands was trying to make amends for the cruel wrong he had done to poor Jane, and had sent her a written statement which would wipe off the stain he had himself cast on her character; and with this he had sent Jane's dearly-prized Bible and the companion bracelet to the one seen by Lady Morville in Jane's hand, and given up by her to her mistress on that unhappy morning. And what of John Hollands himself? No doubt he was making the best of his way, under fear of detection and punishment, to some foreign country; and had left the bag through a feeling of remorse, that he might clear Jane's character. Both brother and sister saw this clearly; and that the means of relief for poor Jane had been just within their grasp, but now, by the cruel carelessness of James Barnes, had slipped away from them, and perhaps for ever. Where was the bag which had in it what would set all things straight? Who could tell?

"I see it all," said Bradly, sadly, to his sister. "It's very trying and very tantalising; but the Lord knows best how to deal with his own."

"O Thomas," exclaimed his sister, "this seems almost more than I can bear!"

"I know it, I know it, Jane; and yet remember the promise, 'He will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.' Nay, cheer up, darling! 'the Lord does not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men.' He'll never let his people be vexed a moment longer than's good for them. I feel certain now as the bag'll be found sooner or later. Whether we can find it or no, one thing's certain,—the Lord knows where it is he's got his eye upon it; and it'll turn up just at the right time. Now, my dearest sister, just take this for your comfort. The Lord's sent you this letter just to show you that deliverance is on the road; it'll come, I'll be bound, afore so very long. Just you help yourself along by the light of his promises, and by my two walking-sticks, 'Do the next thing'—'One step at a time.' The next thing for you now is to wait his time in faith and patience. Remember those precious words of the psalm: 'Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass. And he shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and thy judgment as the noonday. Rest in the Lord, and wait patiently for him!'" Jane dried her tears, and held out her arms to her brother, who drew her tenderly to his heart, and again bade her take comfort. "And now," he said, "I must go to poor Jim."

"Well, Thomas," said Barnes, on the return of his friend, "I hope there's nothing very bad come of my losing the bag?"

"James," replied the other, gravely, "I can't say that; I wish I could. The loss of the bag is a serious business to us; but we must do our best to try and find it, and you must help us."

James looked very sad and crestfallen. "Thomas," he said, "I wish I'd only knowed as that bag were of so much consequence. But then that's nothing to do with it; I ought to have brought it to you at once—I know that. I'll do my very best, however, to find it; and, come what will, I've had a lesson as I shan't easily forget. The inside of the public has seen the last of me."

"Stick to that, Jim," said the other, "and put a prayer to it to the Lord to keep you; and that'll do more to make up for the loss of the bag than anything you can possibly do for us. Good-night, Jim. Keep firm to your pledge, and you'll not want friends here and above."

"Good-night, Thomas; and the Lord bless you for your kindness!"

And now, what was to be done? It was quite clear that the bag contained the means of a triumphant establishment of Jane's innocence with Lady Morville, and consequent freedom from all stain or slur on her character. But was it possible to find the bag? The circumstances connected with the bag's loss were communicated to the vicar, who helped Bradly to institute every possible inquiry after it in a quiet way, for they did not wish, especially on Jane's account, to make the matter a nine days' wonder in Crossbourne by advertising. But all was in vain; not the faintest clue could be got by which to trace it. Of course, it might have been possible for Jane to ascertain through her brother whether John Hollands had really left Monksworthy Hall, and whether or no any of his evil practices had come to light since his departure. And, supposing such discoveries to have been made, she might have produced the letter signed "JH," and have shown its contents to Lady Morville. But then Jane would naturally be expected to produce the bag alluded to in the letter, or, at any rate, the companion bracelet which was said to be in it; and the having to tell what would look like a roundabout story concerning its loss would not be likely to leave a thoroughly favourable impression on the mind of her late mistress.

Poor Jane! She felt that without the bracelet she could not hope to claim a full and frank acknowledgment from her ladyship that her innocence was completely vindicated. She must therefore wait, trust, and be patient.

"Light has begun to dawn on your trouble, Jane," said the vicar; "and be sure brighter light will follow. We must do our best, and leave it to the Lord to carry out his own purposes in his own wise and gracious way. Sure I am of this, that you will find the fuller light come in due time; and, more than that, that you will see that good has all the while been working out, through this trial, to others as well as to yourself."

"I'm sure you're right, sir," said Bradly; "she'll have cause in the end even to bless the Lord for this affliction. And, after all, I don't see why we shouldn't try and find out Hollands' whereabouts through some of his old companions, when he's been a little while in foreign parts; and if we write and tell him about the loss of the bag, I don't doubt, if he's truly sorry for what he's done to Jane,—and it seems likely as he is,—he'll write her back such a letter as will clear up all with Lady Morville. But the next step is just to leave all in the Lord's hands for the present."

And so it was left.



CHAPTER NINE.

CROSSBOURNE ANNUAL TEMPERANCE MEETING.

Week after week rolled by, and James Barnes continued firm to the pledge which he had signed in Thomas Bradly's "Surgery." And now the usual time for holding the annual meeting of the "Crossbourne Temperance Society" had come round, and a meeting was accordingly advertised to be held in the Town Hall. But mischief was apparently brewing; for all the bills announcing the meeting which were posted on the walls were either torn down or defaced the same night that they were put up,—a thing which had never happened before. So it would seem that the enemies of the temperance cause were prepared to offer more than ordinary opposition, and that very possibly they might try to spoil or interrupt the meeting itself.

And the friends of the temperance movement in Crossbourne had not to look far to find the cause. There had been mutterings of a coming storm for some time past. The lovers of strong drink, supported by those who made capital out of their unnatural and ruinous thirst, had been laying plans and concocting schemes for thwarting the steady advance which temperance was making in the town. And now the sudden and shocking death of poor Joseph Wright, so far from teaching any of his old associates the lesson which God, who can bring good even out of man's evil, would have had them learn from that frightful disaster, had only made them plunge more deeply into the slough of drunkenness; and so total abstainers and their principles got more abuse and hatred from them than ever. Conscience would be heard for a little while, roused into utterance as it was by the death of their miserable companion; but they hated that inward voice—it exasperated them. Drink they would have, and cordially would they hate more and more all who would try, however gently and lovingly, to draw them away from the intoxicating cup. And now the desertion of James Barnes, as they considered it, to the enemy, made the fire of their wrath and indignation burn with a tenfold intensity.

"We're like to have hot work to-night, sir," said Bradly to the vicar, as he sat in the vicarage study on the morning of the meeting talking over the arrangements for the evening.

"I fear so," said Mr Maltby; "so we must take proper precautions. I hear that the friends of poor Joseph Wright intend to muster in full force and spoil the meeting if they can. However, I have spoken to the police sergeant, and he will be there with one or two of his men to prevent any serious disturbance. You must see that they don't turn off the gas, and get us into trouble that way."

"All right, sir," replied Bradly, "we'll take care about that; but I ain't much afraid. There's a deal of bluster among those chaps, but it don't take much to empty it out of 'em. Somehow or other I think we're going to have a good meeting after all."

Nevertheless, it was not without some considerable feeling of anxiety that the vicar entered the committee room of the Town Hall about a quarter of an hour before the time of commencement. He was accompanied by a brother clergyman from a distant county, who had brought a plain working-man with him from his parish. These were to be the chief speakers of the evening. Thomas Bradly was to bring James Barnes with him, and both were to take their places among the audience, but near the platform, so as not to attract more observation than necessary, at the first.

The hall, which was a spacious and well-lighted building, began to fill as soon as the doors were opened. There was manifestly an unusual interest taken, not necessarily nor probably in the cause itself, but, at any rate, in the present meeting. The friends of Joseph Wright and their companions had made it publicly known, and a matter of open boasting, that they intended to be there; and this announcement was the inducement to a number of idle men and boys to attend the meeting in the hopes of having some diversion. But Thomas Bradly and his friends were quite equal to the occasion; they were fully alive to the intention of their adversaries, and acted accordingly. As the opponents of temperance entered the hall, members of the Temperance Society contrived to slip in with them, and so to distribute themselves over the seats that no large number of the other side could be gathered in a compact body together.

By the time the minute-hand of the clock over the chairman's seat had reached twenty-five minutes past seven—the meeting being advertised to begin at half-past seven—the hall was densely packed from one end to the other, the only unoccupied places being one or two seats close under the platform. Punctually at the half-hour the party from the committee room walked on to the platform, headed by the vicar; while at the same moment Thomas Bradly, followed by James Barnes, emerged from a side door near the platform, and the two friends placed themselves on two of the vacant foremost chairs. The entrance of these two parties was greeted by a roar of mingled cheers, laughter, and a few groans and hisses.

Mr Maltby advanced to the front of the platform, and there was instantly silence. "Just one word, dear friends, before we commence our meeting," he said. "I have such confidence in your manly English honesty and common fairness, that I am persuaded that, whether you agree with us or no, you will give myself and my friends a quiet and uninterrupted hearing. We are come here to try and do some good. Bear with us, then, and listen to us."

This short speech had the desired effect. There was indeed a grand effort made to obstruct and disturb on the part of the drinking faction; but it became apparent at once that the great bulk of the working-men present—though most had come chiefly with a view to be amused—were not at all disposed to allow the vicar and his friends to be hissed or shouted down. The few straightforward words just spoken aroused their better feelings, and the intended rioters felt that they must wait a little before attempting any further demonstration.

Thankful for the success of his brief speech, Mr Maltby proceeded to open the meeting with Scripture and prayer as usual. All were very still; but as he rose from his knees his eyes fell upon a man who sat at the extreme end of the front bench to his right. That man was William Foster. Never had the vicar seen him before at any meeting where he himself was present; and as he took his seat in the chair, he whispered to his clerical friend, "Do you see that man at the extreme end of the front bench? I am afraid his being here to-night bodes us no good, for he is the leading infidel and mischief-maker in the place."—"Indeed!" replied his friend; "well, let us hope the best. Perhaps the Lord will give us a word even for him to-night. At any rate, we have a noble and intelligent audience before us; and let us do our best for them, and leave the issue in higher hands."—"Thank you," whispered the vicar; "I feel ashamed of my want of faith. Doubtless all will be overruled for good."

He then proceeded to give a short address, in which, avoiding all harshness and bitterness of expression, he strove to leave on his hearers' hearts the impression that love and nothing else constrained him and his fellow-workers in the efforts they were using to promote the spread of temperance in the parish and neighbourhood. The other speakers followed in the same strain; the working-man being able, in his rough-and-ready way, to carry with him the great majority of the meeting, so that a feeble attempt at disturbance from the opponents proved a decided failure.

But now a strange stir and excitement rustled through the vast assembly as James Barnes, at the invitation of the vicar, mounted the platform, and stood unabashed before his fellow-townsmen. But scarcely had he begun to open his lips when a torrent of yells and shouts burst from a score or two of drunken throats; others cheered, many laughed, some shouted; then followed a thunder of clapping and stamping, whistling and shrieking, and it seemed for a few moments as though the triumph were to be on the side of disorder and intemperance. But, as a second whirlwind of uproar was beginning, the vicar again stepped forward, and, raising his right-hand as begging silence, smiled pleasantly on the excited crowd, while he placed his left hand on the shoulder of James Barnes, who stood his ground manfully. Then followed shouts of "Shame, shame!"—"Sit down!"—"Hold your noise!"—"Hearken Jim!" and the storm gradually subsided into a calm.

"I'm one of yourselves," began Jim bluntly, as soon as order was restored, and not in the slightest degree discomposed by this rough reception; "you shouldn't make such a din. How's a fellow to make himself heard? Why, it's worse than half a dozen engines all whistling at once." There was a buzz of amused satisfaction at this professional illustration, and James Barnes had got the ear of the meeting. "I'll tell you what it is, friends," he went on; "it's true I ain't much of a speaker, but I can tell you a thing or two about myself as may be useful. I've got my Sunday coat on to-night, and it's my own, and it's never been to the popshop. I couldn't have said that a month ago, for I'd never a Sunday coat then. Another thing, I'm spending my own wages; that's more nor I've done for many years past, for the devil's been used to spend the best part of them for me and put 'em into the landlord's till. Now I takes 'em to buy bread and clothes for the wife and children. Another thing, and better still, I've got one or two good friends as pulled me out of the mire, and won't let me go. Tommy Tracks there, as you call him, he's one of them; and your good friend the vicar,—for he is your friend, think as you please,—he's another. And, best of all, I've got a clear head and a clear conscience, and a hope of a better home by-and-by, and a Saviour above all to look to; and I shouldn't have had none of these if I'd been going on in my old ways. So you may laugh if you please when you say, 'Jim Barnes has turned teetotaler;' but I mean to sing when I says it, for it's true, and he means to stick to it, with God's help, all the days of his life."

Having delivered himself of this brief address, James Barnes hurried down from the platform, followed by a roar of hearty applause, which completely drowned the efforts of a few dissentient voices.

The vicar was now just rising to call on another speaker to address the meeting, when his attention, as well as that of the whole audience, was turned to William Foster as he got up deliberately from his seat. Mr Maltby had watched him narrowly during the evening, and not without considerable anxiety and interest. Up to the close of Barnes's speech Foster had apparently taken little or no interest in the proceedings; certainly he had not joined either in the applause or in the dissent. What was he now about to do? Turning to the vicar, amidst a breathless silence throughout the hall, he said, in a firm and clear voice, "Mr Chairman, may I say a few words to this meeting?" The vicar hesitated. Was this man going to spoil all? His eye at that moment caught Thomas Bradly's. Thomas nodded to him, and then turned to Foster and said, "Get you on to the platform, William; the vicar and all the rest of us will give you a patient hearing, I'm sure." Foster then mounted the platform, and stood for a moment facing the audience without speaking. He was very pale, and his voice trembled at first, but soon recovered its firmness as he spoke as follows:—

"Mr Chairman and fellow-townsmen, I have not come here to-night to oppose the temperance movement, but quite the contrary. I am quite sure that movement has been doing good in this town, and is doing good still. You have only to look at Jim Barnes to see that. Everybody knows what he was, and everybody knows what he now is; there is no sham nor deceit in the matter. Now, whatever our creeds may be, whether we think alike in other things or not, there can be no two opinions about this matter with honest and reasoning men. The temperance movement is doing good, and we have before us a plain proof of it. Now, I am not here to-night merely to talk. I should not have come if that were all. I have come to act. I have professed to be a reasoning man, and to belong to a party that prides itself upon being governed by reason, and yet I have allowed myself to come more or less under the dominion of that strong drink which just turns a reasoning man into something far lower than an irrational brute. 'Well, then,' some of you might say, 'can't you exert your own will and give it up without coming to a temperance meeting to talk about it?' Yes, I could; but that would be just merely doing good to myself. Now, I can't help being aware that your chairman, the vicar of this parish, and his right-hand man, Thomas Bradly, are not content with being total abstainers for their own benefit, but are doing their best, spite of ridicule, opposition, and persecution, to get others to become abstainers also. They can have nothing to gain by this except the happiness of making others happy. I see this plainly; and my reason (they would call it conscience, I suppose) tells me that, if I am a really honest and unprejudiced man, I ought to follow their example. I am here to-night to do it. I have other reasons besides for taking this course, but I do not think it necessary to mention them on the present occasion. I know what it will cost me to take this step, but I have well weighed the consequences and am prepared to accept them. Mr Chairman, I will sign the pledge to-night in your book, and join your society, if you will allow me." Having spoken thus, William Foster quietly resumed his seat.