The effect of this speech on the meeting was most overwhelming. Every word had been heard all over the hall, for Foster had a clear and powerful voice, and had spoken calmly and deliberately, as one who weighed every word and sentence carefully; and the silence while he addressed his audience had been almost oppressive. Was it possible that Foster could be in earnest? There was no mistake about it—every man was at once convinced of this from the vicar down to the most sottish of the anti-temperance gathering. Such a man as Foster would never have come forward in this way had he not had powerful and all-constraining motives to lead him to take such a step. When he sat down there was neither shouting nor laughter: the great body of working-men, including the obstructionists, seemed stupified; they looked at one another with open-eyed and open-mouthed wonder, and whispered their amazement and perplexity. Then the vicar, struck dumb for the moment by sheer astonishment, after exchanging with his brother clergyman on the platform a glance of deep thankfulness, rose, and addressing William Foster, said, "I cannot tell you, my friend, how truly glad I am to find that you have been guided to take such a step as you now contemplate; most cordially shall I receive your signature in our pledge-book, and welcome you to our society." Then the crowd of hearers rose to their feet, and gave vent to their feelings in three hearty cheers; while the opponents of the cause made their way to the door as quickly as they could.

The next minute Thomas Bradly stood by the vicar's side, and all sat hushed in attention as he addressed the meeting. Tears were in his eyes, and half-choked was his voice as he began:—

"Friends, I've been at many a temperance meeting in my day, but never at one that I shall remember like this. Some of us abstainers came here to-night with doubting hearts; it seemed as if the evil one was a-going to put a big stone or two in the way of the temperance cause, but instead of that he's been and trod upon his own tail, as he often does. O bless the Lord for his goodness! We've had a mighty large stone took out of the way, instead of any new 'uns laid in our path. Ah! Why should we ever be fainthearted? The cause is a good cause, and it will prosper, depend upon it. And now, friends, there's many of you here to-night as came, I know, just for a bit of fun; you didn't mean no harm, but you wouldn't have minded a little bit of a laugh against us. But it's turned out just the other way: you've given us a help, and stopped the mouths of them as would have upset our meeting; so let them laugh as wins. And now, friends, I want to say a word to you about our friend William here. We're all thinking about him; he has come forward like an honest man to-night, and a right brave man too. I know he can't have done it without having to pay for it. I know, and you know too, as it'll not be all smooth work between him and his mates. Now, whether you like or don't like what he has done to-night, you can't help respecting him for it; so just keep your tongues off him when you meet him, and do him a kind turn if you can. He and I ain't of one mind, you well know—at least we haven't been; but he knows this, that in anything that's good I'll back him up through thick and thin if he'll let me. And now, here's a grand opportunity; just some of you chaps as have been cheering him like anything come up to the table and sign the pledge with him, and keep it by God's help, and you'll bless this night every day of your lives, and so will the wives and children."

There was a cheery response to this speech in many a hearty word of assent; and then the vicar closed the meeting, inviting any who were willing to come and sign. The crowded room was soon emptied of all but a very few, among whom were William Foster and about a dozen more of the working-men, who expressed their intention to sign with him. Foster himself signed his name with an unflinching hand, but said nothing. The vicar thought it wisest not to endeavour to draw him into conversation at this time, but with a kindly shake of the hand, and an expression of thankfulness at his joining the Temperance Society, bade him good-night.

As the committee and the speakers were leaving the hall, the vicar kept Thomas Bradly back, and said to him: "This is wonderful indeed; it is the Lord's doing, and is marvellous in our eyes. Now you must keep your eye, Thomas, on Foster; I think you will get at him at first better than I should be likely to do. You will be able to see just how the land lies, and I shall be ready to come in at any time; only with such a man we must use discretion, knowing what his antecedents have been."

"Ay, surely," replied the other; "I'll not let him go, sir, now that we've got hold of him—you may depend upon it. Oh! This is indeed what I never could have dreamt of. Well, we've had a grand night; and it's a sign, I believe, as we're going to have some rare bright sunshine on our temperance work."

"I trust and believe so, indeed," rejoined Mr Maltby, and they parted.

That meeting was never forgotten in Crossbourne, but was always spoken of as emphatically the great Crossbourne Temperance Meeting.



CHAPTER TEN.

LIGHT IN THE DARK DWELLING.

The day that followed the great temperance meeting was one full of excitement to the operatives of Crossbourne. Every mill and workshop resounded with the eager hum of conversation and conjecture touching the marvellous occurrence of the previous evening—the speech and conduct of William Foster. Of course a variety of distorted versions of the matter flew abroad, and were caught and carried home into the country by some who lived at a distance from the town. Among these versions was a strongly affirmed and as strongly believed account of the last night's occurrences, which set forth how William Foster, with a picked party of his friends, had forced their way to the top of the hall, and were in the act of mounting the platform for the purpose of turning the vicar out of the chair, when a voice of unearthly loudness was heard to shout, "Forbear!"—upon which the meeting broke up in wild confusion, leaving Foster prostrated on the ground by some invisible and mysterious power, where he lay till brought back to consciousness by the joint efforts of Mr Maltby and Thomas Bradly; after which, at their earnest suggestion, he there and then signed the pledge.

Foster's own companions, however, had not been altogether taken by surprise. For some weeks past he had been absent from his club, and from the public-house, and when questioned on the subject had given short and evasive answers. A change had been coming over him—that was clear enough; but whence it originated even those who had been the most intimate with him were at a loss to conjecture. And now on the morning after the meeting, when he walked into the mill-yard, while some looked on him with the sort of wonder with which a crowd would gape at some strange animal, the like of which they had neither seen nor heard of before, others began to assail him with gibes and taunts and coarse would-be witticisms. But Foster bore it all unmoved, never uttering a word in reply, but going on steadily with his work. As the men, however, were about to leave for their homes, after the mill had loosed, a sneering, sour-looking fellow, one Enos Wilkinson, who had gathered a little crowd about him, and was watching for Foster, whose work detained him a little later than the ordinary hands, stepped across his path, and raising his voice, cried, "Come now, Saint Foster, you'll be bringing out a nice little book about your conversion, to edify us poor sinners who are still in heathen darkness. When do you mean to favour us with the first edition?"—"The day after you become sober and sensible, Enos," was Foster's reply, and he walked on, leaving his persecutors unprepared with an answer.

Two hours later, and Thomas Bradly might be seen standing outside Foster's house, with a happy smile on his face, and a short whispered conversation going on between two parts of himself. "Now, then, Thomas, you're in for it." "Ay, to be sure; and in for a good thing too." "What'll Will Foster say? And what'll you say, Thomas?" "Ah! Well, all that's best left in the Lord's hands."

After this a loud, decided knock on Thomas's part, and then the cautious tread of a woman inside.

"All right, missus; it's only me, Thomas Bradly."

No answer for a minute, and then the heavier tread of a man. Foster himself opened the door, and holding out his hand, said,—

"Come in, Thomas. You're just the man I've been wanting to see."

"And you're just the man I'm right glad to hear say so," was the other's reply.

The two men walked into the inner room together. All was very neat, and the whole place wore an air of comfort far different from what had been its appearance in days past. But the greatest change was in Foster's wife. Bradly, who had met her often in the street or in the shops, could hardly believe her to be the same. "Ha, ha!" said he inwardly to himself; "the Lord's been at work here, I can see." Yes! There was that marked change on the features which can come only from a changed heart. There was peace on that face—a peace whose tranquil light had never shone there before. There was not joy yet, but there was peace. Not, indeed, peace unmixed, for there was a shade of earth's sadness there still; but God's peace was there, like a lunar rainbow, beautiful in its heavenly colouring cast upon the clouds of sorrow, but not intensely bright. As she held out her hand to Bradly to give him a friendly welcome, he could see that her eyes were full of tears. "All right," he said to himself; "the work's begun."

As he was seating himself on one side of the fire, his eye fell on a little, stout, shabbily-bound volume lying in a corner near some showily-ornamented books. Could it really be a Bible? "Right again," thought Thomas; "I ain't often mistaken about that book. The secret's out; I see what has worked the change."

"I'm truly glad, but almost ashamed, to see you, Thomas," began Foster, seating himself opposite his guest. "However, I'm glad now of this opportunity of expressing my regret for the many hard and undeserved things I've spoken against you, both to your face and behind your back."

"Never give it another thought, William," cried the other. "You've never done me the least harm; but quite the other way. It's as good as physic, and a deal better than some physic, to hear what other people think of us, even if it ain't all of it quite true to the life."

"Ah! But I did you injustice, Thomas."

"Never mind if you did. You never said half as much evil of me as I knew of myself. But let by-gones be by-gones. You've made me happier than I can tell you; for I can see plainly enough as the Lord has been laying his loving hands on you and your missus."

"You are right, Thomas; and I know it will give you real pleasure to hear how it has all come about.—So sit down, Kate, and help me out with my story."

Ah, what a different scene was this from that sorrowful time when the poor, broken-hearted young mother leant hopelessly over the cradle of her little one thirsting for that which she knew not where to find! Now the same wife and mother sat with a smile of sweet contentment, busily plying her knitting, while her husband told the simple story of how the God of the Bible had "brought the blind by a way that they knew not."

"You know what I have been, Thomas," began Foster. "Well, I am not ashamed now to confess that I never was really happy, nor satisfied with my own creed. Spite of my conviction of my own superior knowledge, I could not help acknowledging to my inward self that you were right and I was wrong; at least, I saw that your creed did for you what my creed could not do for me. It was very pleasant and flattering, of course, to be looked up to as an oracle by the other members of my club, and to get their applause when I said sharp things against religion and men whose views differed from our own. But all the while I despised those very companions of mine, and their praises; and, what's more, I despised myself.

"And another thing—I had no real happiness at home, nor poor Kate neither. I was disappointed in her—she won't mind my saying so now— and she was disappointed in me. We had nothing to bind our hearts together but a love which wanted a stronger cement than mere similarity of tastes. Besides which—for I may as well speak out plainly now while I'm about it—it was poor satisfaction to come home and find books lying about, and scarce a spark of fire in the grate; no tea getting ready, but, instead of it, twenty good reasons why things were not all straight and comfortable. And these reasons were but a poor substitute for the comforts that were not forthcoming, and only made matters worse. And if there was neglect on her part, there was plenty of fault-finding on mine. I was sharp and unreasonable; and then we both of us lost our temper, and I was glad to seek other company, and began to care less and less for my home, and more for the public-house and for the drink which gives the inspiration to the conversation you meet with in such places.

"Sometimes things would go on a little better, but not for long. And when we got to angry words with one another, we had no higher authority than ourselves to appeal to when we would set one another right. Thomas, I see this more plainly every day now. Freethinkers—would-be atheists, like my former self—are at an immense disadvantage compared with Christians in this respect. A Christian has a recognised, infallible authority to which he can appeal—the will of his God, as set forth in the Word of his God. When he differs from a fellow-Christian, both can go to that authority, and abide by its decision. Christians will do this if they are honest men, and really love one another. We freethinkers have no such court of appeal. However, let that pass.

"Things went on as I've been telling you, and were getting worse. Our two hearts were getting further apart every day, and colder and colder towards each other. This went on, and the breach kept widening, till a few weeks ago. You'll not have forgotten, I know, poor Joe Wright's sad end. Well, it was a few days after the accident that I came home much the worse for liquor, I'm ashamed to say, and in a particularly bad temper. Things had not been pleasant at the club. One of the members had been breaking the rules; and when I pointed this out, I was met with opposition, and the determined display of an intention on the part of several others to side with the offender. Words ran high, and I spoke my mind pretty freely, and received in return such a shower of abuse as fairly staggered me. So I betook myself to the public-house, and drank glass after glass to drown my uncomfortable reflections, and then went home.

"The drink, instead of driving away my mortification, only made me more irritable; and when I got into my own house, I was ready to find fault with everything, and to vent the bitterness of my spirit on my poor little wife. But, to my surprise, she did not answer me back, far less repay my disparaging remarks with usury, which she might very well have done, and would have done a few days before. I could not help seeing, too, that she had been taking pains to make the room look tidier than usual. My supper was ready for me, my slippers set by the fender, and the arm-chair drawn up near the fire. I did not choose to make any remark on this at the time; indeed, I got all the more cross, because I was annoyed by the sense of my own injustice in being angry with her. So poor Kate had but a sad time of it that night.

"However, I had made a note in my mind of what I had seen, and I was curious to mark if this change in domestic matters would continue. To my surprise, and, I am ashamed to say, not altogether to my gratification, I found that it did continue. I was suspicious as to the motive and reason for this change, and therefore not satisfied. So I took the improvement in my poor wife's temper and conduct very surlily; the real fact being, I now believe, that I was inwardly vexed by being forced to feel that she was showing by her behaviour to me her superiority to myself. But the change still continued, and I could detect no unworthy motive for it; so at last Kate's loving ways and patient forbearance got the victory, and then I began to look around for the cause of this transformation. What could it have been that had made my wife so different, and my home so different?

"While I now freely confessed to her my pleasure at the improvement, and endeavoured to repay her loving attentions by coming home regularly in good time and sober, I forbore to question her as to what had made such a difference in her, and she was evidently anxious to avoid the subject. But I was resolved to find out how this new state of things had come about, and an opportunity for doing so soon presented itself. One evening there was a break-down at the mill, and I returned home earlier than usual. I was getting near the house, when I heard my wife singing, and the tune was clearly a hymn tune. The secret was discovered now. I took off my boots, and crept slowly up to the door. The singing had stopped, and all was quiet. Then I heard Kate's voice gently reading out loud to herself, and the words she read, though I could not catch them distinctly, were manifestly not those of any book of science or amusement: I could tell that by the seriousness of the tone of her voice. The conviction then came strongly upon me that she was reading the Bible, and that this book was the cause of the great change in her. A thousand thoughts stirred in my heart. I durst not venture to look in at the window, lest she should see me, for I had not at all made up my mind what to do. So I went back a little distance, put on my boots again, and came into the house as if nothing had happened.

"I was unusually silent that night, and I saw Kate looking aside at me now and then with a half-frightened glance, as if she was afraid that I was going to change back to my old unkind ways. I watched her very narrowly, and she saw it, and was uneasy. The fact was, I wanted to get at her Bible, if she really had one, and I had not yet the courage to speak to her about it. She knew how I had talked to her against it, and made a mock at it, and I couldn't yet humble myself enough to ask for a sight of it. I noticed, however, that she looked a little anxiously at me when I turned down the baby's bed-clothes in the cradle to have a look at him; and as I could see no Bible anywhere about the room, it darted into my mind that she had hidden it under the clothes. So when she was gone up into the bedroom, to set things to rights upstairs, I found the book I was looking for stowed snugly away, and began to read it as eagerly as if it had been a rich man's will leaving me all his property."

"You weren't far wrong there, William," broke in Thomas Bradly; "for the gospel is our heavenly Father's will and testament, making us his heirs; and it's written with his own hand, and sealed with the blood of his dear Son. But go on, William."

"I don't doubt but you're right," resumed Foster. "Well, as I read the little Bible, I was quite astonished, for I saw how utterly ignorant I had been of its contents and teaching. Ah, yes; it's one thing to know a few texts, just enough to furnish matter for censure and ridicule, and quite a different thing to read the very same book with a sincere desire to learn and understand what it has to tell us. I found it so, I can assure you. So I learnt from that humble little Bible of Kate's what all my philosophy and all the philosophy in the world could never teach me.

"It isn't to the point now, but I'll tell you another time how this Bible came into Kate's hands; for of course we had not one of our own in the house. A singular chance I should have called it a short time ago; but I'm coming more and more to your mind, Thomas, that chance is only a wrong and misleading term for the guiding hand of One whom I now hope to trust in, love, and obey, however unworthily."

"The Lord be praised, his blessed name be praised!" cried Thomas Bradly, while the tears ran fast down his cheeks.

"Yes," said Foster reverently, "he may well be praised, for I have indeed good reason to praise him.—So you see I had got to the bottom of the mystery at last, and that little book has become to me now worth a thousand times its own weight in gold.

"Day after day I went on reading it by stealth, and every day I wondered more and more at its marvellous suitableness to my own case. And then I began to do that which a few weeks back I should have looked upon as simply an evidence of insanity in a man of my views. I began to pray. I hardly dared make the attempt at first. It seemed to me that were I to venture to address the great Being whose existence I had denied, and whose name I had constantly blasphemed, a flash of lightning or some other sudden exertion of his power would strike me dumb. But I did venture at last to offer up an earnest cry for mercy and pardon in the name of that Saviour who invites us to offer our prayers in his name; and then it seemed as though a mountain were lifted from my heart, and blindness were removed from my eyes.

"Next day, after tea, I quietly asked Kate for the Bible. I shall never forget her look as long as I live. Fear, hope, joy followed one another like sunshine breaking through the clouds. Could I be in earnest? She did not hesitate long, for she saw that in my face which told her that she might trust me with her treasure. Then she brought out the book from its hiding-place, put it on the table by me, and throwing her arms round my neck, wept away the sorrows of years. And it may be that at that time angels looked down upon us, and shed tears of joy to see two poor penitent sinners thus 'sitting at the feet of their Saviour, clothed, and in their right mind.'"

For a while no one spoke, for all were too deeply moved. At last Foster continued: "I knew I should have to come out on the right side openly sooner or later, but you may be sure it would be no easy matter. However, I had made up my mind: it would have to be done some time or other, so, as the Annual Temperance Meeting was soon to come off—I knew that, for Joe Wright's party were boasting of what they meant to do—I determined to show my colours by joining your society, and you have seen the result."

"Yes, William," said Bradly, cheerily, "I see it, and I bless the Lord for it; and if he has made me in any way an unworthy instrument in helping to bring about this change, I can truly say that he has paid me back interest a thousandfold for any little I've ever done or suffered for him."

"Then, Thomas," said the other earnestly, "you may be pleased to know that it was your hand that gave the first blows to the nail, though, it was my dear wife that was the means of driving it home. I often thought I could easily knock down your arguments, and, though I knew you had the best of it—for you had honesty and truth on your side—yet when I went home after one of our talks, I've vexed myself many a time by thinking, 'Well, now, if I'd only thought of this or that thing, I might have floored him.' But there was one thing that always floored me, and that was 'the logic of the life;' I couldn't find an answer to that. And not only so, but, as I said a little while ago, I saw that the religion of Jesus Christ made you truly happy, and I knew that my free- thinking never did that for me nor for any of my like-minded companions; so that deep down in my heart a voice was constantly saying, 'Tommy Tracks is right.' And now I'm sure that he is so. Thomas, I now ask your friendship and your help, as I have already asked your forgiveness."

Bradly wrung the other's hand with a hearty grip, and then said, "You shall have them, William. I know you'll be all the better for an earthly friend or two, for there'll want a deal of backing up just at first. But oh, I'm so truly thankful that you and your missus have got the best Friend of all on your side, who will never leave you nor forsake you. Yes, come what will, you can go to One now who will keep peace in your conscience, peace in your heart and peace and love in your home."

By Foster's request, before they parted, Thomas Bradly knelt with them and offered a prayer. Ah, what a sight! Glorious even for angels to look down upon! Those three uniting in prayer—the old disciple; the blasphemer, persecutor, and injurious; and the till late Christless wife—all now one in Jesus, bowed at his footstool, while the humble servant of the Lord poured out his heart in simple, fervent supplication and praise, as all bent head and knee in the felt presence of the unseen God.

Next Sunday Foster was at church in the morning, and was there with his wife in the evening, Mrs Bradly having undertaken to look after the baby. As for Bradly himself, his face was a sight worth seeing on that Sunday. It was always brighter than usual on the Lord's-day; but on this particular Sabbath every line of his features shone with a glow of gladness, as though, like Moses, he had just come down from the mount. It need hardly be said that the vicar's heart also deeply rejoiced. As for the inhabitants of Crossbourne generally, some were glad, with a spice of caution in their gladness; some shook their heads and smiled, meaning thereby to let all men know that, in case Foster should not persevere in his new career, they, at any rate, had never been over- sanguine as to the genuineness of his reformation; some simply looked grave; while the profligate and the profane gnashed their teeth with envy hatred, and malice, and exchanged vehement asseverations of "how they'd pay off the sneaking humbug of a deserter, and no mistake."



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

A BLIGHTED LIFE.

Spring had come, but the cloud still rested on poor Jane Bradly. True, her heart was lighter, for she now believed with her brother that there was deliverance at hand for her, and that the mists were beginning to melt away. She was firmly persuaded that her character would be entirely cleared. But when? How soon would the waiting-time come to an end? And what good could come out of such a trouble? Here was the trial of her faith; but she bore it patiently, and the chastening was producing in her, even now, "the peaceable fruit of righteousness." She began to improve in health and strength, and had lost much of the look of abiding care; for the habitual peace of a mind stayed on God, and the consciousness of innocence as regarded the wrong-doing of which she had been suspected, kept her calm in the blessedness of a childlike trust.

But there was one who lived not far from her, a sister in affliction, about whose sad heart the clouds were gathering thicker and thicker. Spring, with its opening buds and rejoicing birds, brought no gladness to the spirit of Clara Maltby. She was gradually wasting away. Change of air and scene had been recommended, but she would not hear of leaving home, and clung with a distressing tenacity to her round of daily studies, shortening her brief time of exercise, and seeming anxious to goad herself into the attainment of the utmost amount of knowledge which it was possible for her to acquire, grudging every minute as lost and wasted time that was not given to study. To shine had become with her the one absorbing object; to shine, not, alas! for Christ, but for self, for the world, that she might gain the prize of human applause. So she was using the gifts with which God had endowed her, not to his glory, by laying them at the foot of the cross, and employing them as talents with which she was to occupy till the Master came, but as means whereby she might win for herself distinction, and outstrip others in the race for earthly fame. But such a strain on mind and body could not last; the overtaxed faculties would assert their claim for the much-needed rest; and so, in the early spring-time, Clara Maltby was suddenly stricken down and lay for days in a state of half-unconsciousness.

At last she rallied, in a measure; and when she was sufficiently recovered to bear conversation, she earnestly begged that she might be allowed to see Thomas Bradly, and have an opportunity of saying a few words to him in the presence of her parents, previously to her being taken from home by her mother to the seaside, to which she had been ordered by her medical man, as soon as she could bear the removal. So one evening, after his work, Bradly, with a sorrowful heart, made his way up to the vicarage, and was introduced by Mr Maltby into the inner room, where his daughter had gathered together her own special library.

The patient lay on a low couch near the fire, which burned cheerfully, and lighted up, though not with gladness, the care-smitten features of the vicar's daughter. Close to her was a little table, on which lay a small Bible, a pile of photographs, and a few printed papers. Her writing materials occupied part of a larger table, and were flanked on either side by heaps of volumes—scientific, historical, and poetical; while beyond the books was a small but exquisitely-modelled group of wax flowers, most life-like in appearance, under a glass shade. Over the fire-place was a large water-colour drawing of Crossbourne Church, with miniatures of her father and mother, one on each side of it. On the mantelpiece was an ivory statuette, beautifully carved, the gift of a travelled friend; and other articles of taste and refinement were scattered up and down the room. But now the gentle mistress of this quiet retreat lay languid and weary, incapable of enjoying these articles of grace and beauty which surrounded her. There was a flush indeed on her cheek, but no light in the heavy eyes. She looked like a gathered flower,—fair, but drooping, because it can strike no root and find no moisture. Thomas Bradly was shocked at the change a few days had made in the poor girl since he last saw her, and could hardly restrain his tears. At the head of the couch sat Mrs Maltby, with a face sadly worn and troubled; and between her and the fire was her husband, on whose features there rested a more chastened and peaceful sorrow.

"Come, sit down, Thomas," said Mr Maltby; "my dear child cannot rest till she has seen you, and told you something that lies on her mind. I think she will be happier when she has had this little talk; and it may be that God will bless her visit to the sea, and send her back to us in improved health. I know we shall have your prayers, and the prayers of many others, that it may be so."

"You shall, you do have our prayers," cried Bradly, earnestly; "the Lord'll order it all for the best. He's been doing wonderful things for us lately, and he means to give you and dear Miss Clara a share of his blessings."

"Well," replied the vicar, "we will hope and trust so, Thomas. The clouds have not gathered without a cause; but still, I believe that, as the hymn says, they will yet 'break with blessings on our head.'—Clara, my child, it will not be wise to make this interview too long; so we will leave the talking now to yourself and Thomas Bradly."

"Dear, kind friend," began Miss Maltby, raising herself from her couch, and leaning herself on her mother, who came and sat by her, "I could not be satisfied to leave Crossbourne without seeing you first, as I want you to do something for me in the parish which I cannot ask my dear father to do. And I want to make a confession also to you, as it may be the means of doing some little good in the place where I have left so much undone, and as perhaps it may not please God that I should come back again to my earthly home."

She was unable to proceed for a few moments, and Bradly dared not trust himself to speak, while the vicar and his wife found it hard to control their feelings.

"Thomas," she at length continued, her voice gaining strength and her mind clearness under the excitement of the subject which now filled her heart and thoughts, "I want you to say something for me to my class—at least to those girls who belonged to it when I used to teach it. Say it to them in your own plain and simple way, and I trust that it may do them good.

"I want you to tell them from me that I have tried what the world and its idols are, and I have found them 'vanity of vanities.' Not that I have been leading what is called a wicked life; not that I have loved gay company or worldly amusements; not that I have lost sight of Christ and heaven altogether, though they have been getting further off from my sight every day; but I have been fashioning for myself an idol with my own hands, which has been shutting out heavenly things from me more and more. And now God has in mercy shattered my idol, and I trust that I can see Jesus once more as I have not seen him, oh, for so long!

"I am startled when I look back and see how far I have gone astray, and how I have let the devil cheat me with a thousand plausible falsehoods. Oh, what a useless life I have been leading! What a selfish life I have been leading! And yet I have been persuading myself that I was only cultivating the powers which God gave me. But it has not been so; it is as though I had been set to draw a picture of our Saviour, and had ability and the best of materials given me for making a beautiful likeness, and I had all the while gone on just drawing an image of myself, and had then fallen down and worshipped it.

"Tell my girls, then,—for I may never have the opportunity of telling them myself,—that there is no real happiness in such a life as mine has lately been. It is really purely for self is this struggle after distinction; God put us into this world for something far different. I know, of course, that my scholars are not any of them likely to be snared exactly in the same way that I have been. Still, they might be tempted to think what a grand thing it would be to have the advantages for getting knowledge and distinction that I have had. Ah, but what has been my life, after all? Why, like that group of wax flowers under the glass shade. Don't they look beautiful? But you see they are not real; they have no life and no sweetness in them, and they can never make the sick and the suffering happy as real flowers do. My life, with all its advantages, and what people call accomplishments, has been as unreal, as lifeless, as scentless as those wax flowers. It has not pleased God; it has not made others happy; there has been nothing to envy in it, but oh, quite the other way: it should rather be a warning. Tell my girls so, for they have their temptations even in this direction; there is so much attention paid now to head knowledge in all ranks and classes, and such a danger of neglecting heart knowledge and Christ knowledge. Show them how it has been with me. Tell them how I feel now on looking back.

"What have I really gained by this eager pursuit after earthly fame? Nothing. I have strained body and mind in seeking it—strained them, probably, past recovery. And what have I lost in the pursuit? I have lost peace; I have lost a thousand opportunities of doing good which can never be recalled; I have lost the happy sense of Jesus' love and presence.—Dear father, would you give me that open book?—These words just suit my life, Thomas:—

"'Nothing but leaves! The Spirit grieves Over a wasted life; O'er sins indulged while conscience slept, O'er vows and promises unkept; And reaps from years of strife— Nothing but leaves! Nothing but leaves!'"

She paused, and hiding her face in her mother's breast, wept long and bitterly.

Thomas Bradly had listened with deep emotion to every word, but had not yet been able to command himself sufficiently to speak. But now he stretched his hand forward, and took up the little hymn-book from which Clara Maltby had been reading, and, as he turned over its pages, said—"I don't doubt, dear Miss Clara, but you've just said the plain truth about yourself; I've grieved over it all, and prayed about it. But that's all past and gone now, and the Lord means to bring good out of the evil, I can see that, and you'll let me read you these lines out of your book, as I'm sure it ain't going to be 'nothing but leaves' after all. Listen, miss, to these blessed words, for they belong to you:—

"There were ninety and nine that safely lay In the shelter of the fold; But one was out on the hills away, Far-off from the gates of gold,— Away on the mountains wild and bare, Away from the tender Shepherd's care.

"'Lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine: Are they not enough for thee?' But the Shepherd made answer: 'This of mine Has wandered away from me; And although the road be rough and steep, I go to the desert to find my sheep.'

"And all through the mountains, thunder-riven, And up from the rocky steep, There rose a cry to the gate of heaven, 'Rejoice! I have found my sheep!' And the angels echoed around the throne, 'Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his own!'"

"Thank you, Thomas, thank you most sincerely," cried the sick girl, raising herself again. "Yes, I trust that these beautiful words do apply to me. Jesus has gone after me, a poor wandering and rebellious sheep, and brought me back again. Do then, kind friend, tell my dear class for me that I have found all out of Christ to be emptiness, and that there can be no true happiness here unless we are working for him.

"Of course, I might have pursued my studies innocently had I given to them leisure hours when other duties had been done, and then they would have been a delight to me, and a source of real improvement. But instead of that I made an idol of them, and they became a snare to me. I lived for them, and in them, and all else was as good as forgotten. Yes, even my Bible, that was once so precious,—it might as well have lain on the shelf, and indeed, latterly, it has seldom been anywhere else. I had no time for reading it; earthly studies absorbed every moment. But now it has become to me again truly my Bible; it has shown me, and shows me more and more plainly every day, my sin and my neglect. Ah! It is an awful thing when the struggle after this world's honours and prizes makes us thrust aside thoughts of God and of the crown of glory. It has been so with me. I have been chasing an illuminated shadow until it has suddenly vanished, and left me in a darkness that might be felt.

"Tell my girls, then, dear friend, to take warning from me. Tell them how I mourn over my wasted life; but tell them also that I have a good hope that God, for Christ's sake, has forgiven me, and ask them to pray for me. The great lesson I want you to impress upon them from my case is just this, that no knowledge can be worth having that interferes with our following our Saviour; that no pursuit, though it may not be outwardly sinful or manifestly worldly, which unfits us in body or mind for doing our duty in that state of life to which it has pleased God to call us, can be innocent, for it robs Jesus of that service which we all owe to him.

"And now I am going to ask you to give these photographs, one a piece, to my girls: they will value them, I know, as the likeness of one who was once happy in being their teacher, and who hopes, should God spare her, to be their teacher again; a better instructed teacher far, I hope, because taught in the school of bitter but wholesome experience to know herself."

These last few words, uttered with deep feeling, made it necessary for Clara to pause once more. So Thomas Bradly, seeing that her strength was well-nigh exhausted, simply expressed his hearty readiness to comply with her requests, and was rising to take his leave, when she signed him to remain.

"Just one thing more, dear friend," she added, as soon as she was sufficiently recovered.—"Nay, dearest mother, you must let me finish what I have to say. I shall be happier and calmer when I have told all.—O Thomas! I have been on the very edge of a dreadful precipice; nay, I almost fear that I have scarcely avoided beginning the terrible fall. Finding myself unequal to the full strain which my studies imposed upon me, I began to have recourse to intoxicating stimulants, first a little, and then a little more, till at last I got to crave them, oh, how terribly! And, alas! alas! worse still. As I was ashamed to bring such things openly into my father's house, I have employed a servant once or twice to fetch them for me, but simply as a medicine, and I have found myself scheming how I might do this to a still greater extent without detection. Oh, to what a depth have I fallen! But I see it all now; the Lord has opened my eyes. What I wanted was rest, not stimulants. And surely nothing could justify me in putting such a strain upon my mind as to make it needful to fly to such a restorative.

"I don't ask you to mention this to my girls, nor to any one else, for it might not do good, and might be a hindrance, in a measure, to my dear father in his work; but I tell it you to ease my own heart, and that you may pray for me, and that you may hear me now, in the presence of my beloved father and mother, declare that from this time forward I renounce all such study, if God spare me, as shall unfit me for a loving service of Jesus, in my home and out of it, and that I have done with all intoxicating stimulants, the Lord helping me, now and for ever."

"Bless the Lord!" said Bradly to himself, as, after a silent pressure of Clara Maltby's hand, he stole out of the room. "All's working for good, I'm sure," he added, as he walked homewards. "We shall do grandly now. One great stone has just been struck out of our good vicar's path. Satan's a queer, knowing customer, but he often outwits himself; and there's One wiser and stronger than him."



CHAPTER TWELVE.

A MYSTERIOUS DISCOVERY.

A few days after Thomas Bradly's visit to the vicarage, Mrs Maltby and her daughter left home for the seaside. In the evening of the day of their departure, something different from the ordinary routine was evidently going on at Thomas Bradly's. As it drew near to half-past six o'clock, four young women, neatly dressed, might be seen making their way towards his house. These were shortly joined by three others; and then followed some more young women and elderly girls, till at length thirteen were gathered together in the road, whispering and laughing to one another, and evidently somewhat in a state of perplexity.

"What's it all about, Mary Anne?" asked a bright-looking girl of fifteen of one of the oldest of the group.

"I'm sure I don't know," was the reply; "all I know for certain is, that I've been invited to tea at Thomas's, at half-past six this evening."

"So have I"—"So have I," said the rest.

"There's no mistake or hoax about it, I hope?" asked one of the younger girls anxiously.

"Nay," said the one addressed as Mary Anne, "Thomas asked us himself, and he's not the man to hoax anybody."

Just at this moment the front door opened, and Bradly himself, full of smiling welcome, called upon his guests to come in.

A comfortable meal had been prepared for them in the spacious kitchen, and all were soon busily engaged in partaking of the tea and its accompaniments, and in brisk and cheerful conversation; but not a word was said to explain why they had been invited at this particular time. Their host joined heartily in the various little discussions which were being carried on in a lively way by his guests, but never, during the tea, dropped a hint as to, why he had asked them.

At last, when teapots and cups had disappeared, leaving a clear table, and the young women, after grace had been duly sung, sat opposite to one another with a look of amused expectation as to what might be coming next, Thomas rose deliberately from his arm-chair, which he had drawn to the head of the table, and looking round on the young people with a half-serious, half-humorous expression, said: "Well, I suppose, girls, it may be as well if I tell you what I've asked you here for this evening."

No answer, but a murmur of amused assent being given, he proceeded:—

"Now, my dear young friends, I'll just tell you all about it; and I'm sure you'll listen to me seriously, for it's a serious matter after all. You know that poor Miss Clara Maltby is gone from home to-day very ill, so ill that it mayn't be the Lord's will she should ever come back to us again. Now she has asked me to give you all and each a message from her—perhaps it may be a dying message. She sends it to every one as belonged to her class when she taught it. I'm going to tell you what she said, not quite in her own words, but just what I took to be her meaning.

"You know as she's not taken her class for a good long time. We was all very sorry when she gave over, but it seemed as it couldn't be helped, for she was getting weak and worn, and felt that coming to church twice on the Lord's-day was as much as her poor mind and body would bear. But she wants me to tell you how she feels now she's been letting earthly learning get too much hold of her thoughts. Not as there's any harm in getting any sort of good learning, so long as you don't get it in the wrong way. But it seems as this earthly learning had been getting too big a share of Miss Clara's heart. I daresay you all know as she's wonderful clever at her books. Eh, what a sight of prizes she's got! Well, but she'd come to be too fond of her studies; they was becoming a snare to her; she'd made a regular idol of them, and could scarce think of anything else. She'd given them all the time she could spare, and more. And so it kept creeping on. These studies of hers, they'd scarce let her eat or drink, or take any exercise, or read her Bible and pray as she used to do. Ah, how crafty the evil one is in leading us astray! He don't make us jump down into the dark valley at one or two big leaps, but it's just down an incline, like the path as leads from Bill Western's house to the smithy: when you've got to the bottom and look back, you can hardly believe at first as you've come down so low.

"Now, you're not to run away with the idea that Miss Clara has forsaken her Saviour, and given up her Bible and prayer. Nothing of the sort! She's a dear child of God, and always has been since I've knowed her; only this learning and these studies have so blocked up her heart, that they've scarce left room for her gracious Saviour. But yet he'd never let her go, and she hadn't altogether forsaken him; only she's been on a wrong course of late, and she sees it now.

"Friends have flattered her, and told her what grand things she might do with such a head-piece as hers, and she's been willing to listen to them for a bit. But now the Lord has brought her to see different, and she wants me to tell you what a snare she has found this learning to be. She wants me to tell you from her that she's found it out in her own experience as there's no happiness out of Christ; as head knowledge can never make us happy without heart knowledge of Jesus.

"It's all very well wishing to shine in the world and be thought clever, but that's just pleasing self, and can never give us real peace. She's tried it, and she says it's 'vanity of vanities.' It's led her away from her duty, and made her neglect helping her dear father and mother in many ways where she might have been useful, just because her head and her heart were full of her books.

"Now, perhaps some of you may be thinking, while I've been talking, 'Well, this don't concern us much; we ain't in danger of going astray after too much learning.' Don't you be too sure of that. There's traps of the same kind being laid before you by the old enemy, though they mayn't be got up so fine as them by which he catches clever young ladies. Ah, perhaps he'll be whispering to some of you as it'll be a grand thing to get up a peg or two higher by learning all sorts of things with queer and long names to 'em. Won't you just make folks open their eyes when you can rattle off a lot about this science and that science? But what good will it do you? How much will you remember of it ten years hence? What'll be the use of it, when you've got homes of your own, if you've your heads cram full of hard names, but don't know how to mend your clothes or make a pudding? Depend upon it, there's need to listen to Miss Clara's message when she bids me tell you from her as there's no real happiness to be got in making an idol of learning or anything else, and that there's no happiness out of Christ; and that the chief thing is just to do one's duty, by grace, in 'the state of life to which it has pleased God to call us;' and then, if he means us to do something out of the way, he'll chalk out a line for us so broad and plain that we shan't be able to mistake it.

"So now I've given you the message; but there's something else for you besides.—Here, missus, just hand me that little brown paper parcel."— So saying, he opened the packet which his wife gave him, and taking out the photographs, handed one to each of the girls, saying, "It's a keepsake to each of you from Miss Clara."

As the little gifts were received, tears and sobs burst from the whole company; and when time had been given for the first vehemence of their feelings to subside, Thomas continued,—

"I've just one or two more things to say; and the first is this: will you all promise me to pray for our dear young lady, that she may be restored to us in health and strength again, and take her place once more as your teacher?"

"Ay, that we will with all our hearts," was the cry, which was uttered with tearful earnestness by all.

"And will you pray, for yourselves, for grace to remember and profit by the lesson which she has sent you?"

"We will, Thomas, we will," was again the cry.

"Well, thank God for that," said Bradly. "He's bringing good out of evil already, as he always does,—bless his holy name for it! And now, I've just to tell you, girls, why I've asked you to tea, and given you the messages and the photographs in this fashion—I daresay some of you can guess."

"I think we can, Thomas," said one of the elder ones.

"Well, it were just in this way," he continued: "I'm jealous about our dear vicar's character, and about dear Miss Clara's, and I'm sure we all ought to be. Now, if I'd given you her message in the Sunday-school, even if I'd had your class by yourselves, ten to one some of the other scholars would have got hold of things by the wrong end, and it would have been made out as Miss Clara had been doing something very wicked, and her mother had been taking her away in consequence. Now, you see how it is: Miss Clara's done nothing to disgrace herself or her family; she's been following a lawful thing, only she's been following it too closely; but she's found it to be only like chasing a shadow after all. And now that the Lord has humbled her, he'll raise her up again; she'll come out of the furnace pure gold; she'll be such a teacher when she comes back as she never was afore, if the Lord spares her. So now that I've got you here in this quiet way, I want you all to promise me you'll not go talking about what Miss Clara sent me to tell you, but you'll keep it as snug as possible; it ain't meant for the public, it's meant only for yourselves. The world wouldn't understand it; they'd think as there was something behind. And the devil, he'd be only too glad to make a bad use of it. So promise me to keep our dear young lady's lesson to yourselves in your own hearts and memories. You can show the photographs to the other scholars, and tell them as they was Miss Clara's parting gifts to her class, and that's all as they need to know."

The promise was cheerfully given by all; and then, before they left, all knelt, and in their hearts joined in the fervent prayer which Thomas Bradly offered for the vicar and his family, and specially for the invalid, that she might be spared to return to them in renewed health, and be kept meanwhile in perfect peace.

————————————————————————————————————

The evening after this little happy tea-party, Thomas Bradly called in at William Foster's. He found the young man and his wife studying the Bible together; but there was a look of trouble and anxiety on the husband's face which made him fear that there was something amiss. He was well aware that his former foe but now firm friend was but a weak and ignorant disciple; and he expected, therefore, that he would find it anything but smooth sailing at first in his Christian course. Still, what a marvellous change, to see one so lately a sceptic and a scoffer now humbly studying the Word of Life!

"Anything amiss?" asked Bradly. "Can I be of any service to you, William?" he added, as he took his seat.

"Well, Thomas," replied the other, "I can only say this—I had no idea how little I knew of the Bible till I began to study it in earnest. I see it does indeed need to be approached in a teachable spirit. But I have my difficulties and perplexities about it still. Only there's this difference now,—I've seen in my own home, and I see daily more and more in my own heart, abundance to convince me that the Bible is God's truth. So now, when I meet with a difficulty, I see that the obscurity is not in the Bible but in myself; in fact, I want more light."

"Yes; and you'll get it now, William; for the Bible itself says, 'The entrance of thy word giveth light; it giveth understanding unto the simple.'"

"I heartily believe it, Thomas; still there is much that is very deep to me—out of my depth, in fact. But there is one thing just now which is a special trouble to me. They don't chaff me so often at the mill now, but this evening Ben Thompson came up to me, and said, 'Do you think it's any good your turning Christian?'—'Yes, Ben, I hope so,' I said.—'Well,' he went on, 'just you look in the Bible, and you'll find that there's what they call the unpardonable sin—there's no forgiveness for those who've been guilty of it; and if there's truth in that Bible, there's no forgiveness for you, for you've been the biggest blasphemer against the Bible in Crossbourne.' Thomas, I hadn't a word to answer him with; his words cut me to the heart, and he saw it, and went off with a grin full of malice. And now, since I came home, Kate and I have been looking through the Gospels, and we've come to this passage, in our Saviour's own words,—'Verily, I say unto you, All sins shall be forgiven unto the sons of men, and blasphemies wherewith soever they shall blaspheme: but he that shall blaspheme against the Holy Ghost hath never forgiveness, but is in danger of eternal damnation: because they said, He hath an unclean spirit.' Now, I'm afraid I've committed that sin many times; and what then? Is it true that there is no forgiveness for me?"

He gazed earnestly into Bradly's face, as one would look on a man on whose decision hung life or death. But the other's reply brought relief at once to both Foster and his wife.

"Ha! ha!" he exclaimed; "is that the old enemy's device? I'm not surprised—he's a crafty old fox; but the Lord's wiser than him. I see what he's been up to: he couldn't keep the sword of the Spirit out of your hand any longer, so he's been trying to make you turn the point away from him, and commit suicide with it. Set your mind at rest, William, about these verses, and about the unpardonable sin; those who are guilty of it never seek forgiveness, and so they never get it. These words ain't meant for such a case as yours. This is the sort of text for you: 'God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' Jesus said it, and he'll never go back from it. 'Whosoever' means you and me; he said, 'Whosoever,' and he'll never unsay it. If you'd committed the unpardonable sin, you wouldn't be caring now about the Bible and about your soul. If you'd committed it, God would never have given you the light he has done, for it has come from him; it can't have come from nowhere else. He don't open to you the door with one hand, and then shut it in your face with the other; that ain't his way at all He has let you in at the gate, and you may be sure as he'll never turn you off the road with his own hand, now that you're on it."

"Thank God for that!" said Foster, reverently. "What you say, Thomas, carries conviction with it, for I am sure that my present views, and the change that has so far been made in me, must be the Lord's own work; and, if so, it is certainly only consistent that, as he has taken in hand such a wretched blasphemer as I have been, he should not undo his own work by casting me off again."

"Hold fast to that, William," said Bradly, "and you can't go wrong. Just hand me your Bible; I'll show you where to find another text or two as'll suit you well.—Eh! What's this?" he cried, as having taken the little book into his hand, he noticed the red-ink lines which were drawn under many of the verses. Then he turned hastily to the inside of the cover, and uttered an exclamation of astonishment, then turned very pale, and then very red, and gazed at the book as if fascinated by it. There were the words on the cover,—

Steal not this book for fear of shame, For here you see the owner's name. June 10, 1793. Mary Williams.

"Where did you get this book?" he asked at length, in a hoarse, broken voice. "It's my mother's Bible; it's Jane's long-lost Bible." Then he restrained himself, and turning quietly to Foster and his wife, who were staring at him in bewilderment and distress, said, "Dear friends, don't you trouble yourselves about me; there's nothing really amiss; it's all right, and more than right, only I was taken by surprise, as you'll easily understand when I explain matters to you. We are all friends now, so I know I may depend upon your keeping my secret when I've told you all about it." He then proceeded to lay the story of Jane's troubles before his deeply interested and sympathising hearers. When he had brought his account to an end, he said, "Now, you can understand why I was so taken aback at seeing my mother's name in this Bible, and why I'm so anxious to know how you came by it. Why, this is the very Bible which was restored, or, at any rate, meant to be restored to Jane by John Hollands three or four months ago. But, then, how did it get here? And what's become of the bag and the bracelet?"

"I'm sure you will believe me when I tell you," said Foster, "that I am as much surprised about the Bible as you are; and as for the bag and the bracelet, I have neither seen nor heard anything of either. Kate, however, can tell you best how we came by the Bible."

Mrs Foster then related how the volume, now so precious to herself and her husband as having been the means of bringing light and peace into their hearts and home, had been dropped in at her window by a female hand. Of the bag and bracelet she of course knew nothing.

"There's something very strange and mysterious about it all," said Thomas thoughtfully; "the bag and the bracelet are somewhere about, but who can tell where? If we could only find them, all could be set straight, and poor Jane's character completely cleared; but then it ain't the Lord's will, so far, that it should be so. One thing's clear, however; the tangle's being undone for us bit by bit, and what we've to do is just to be patient and to keep our eyes and ears open; but, please, not a word to anybody. And now, William, I must ask you to let me have this Bible to take to poor Jane; it was her mother's, and is full of her own marks under her favourite verses. You shall have another instead of it, with a better print."

"Of course," replied Foster; "this book is your sister's and not ours, and I would not keep it back from her for a moment. Still, I shall part with it with great regret, as if I were parting with an old friend. Little did I think a few weeks ago that I should ever care so much about a Bible; but I thank God that this little book has done Kate and myself so much good already, and I shall be much pleased to have another copy as a gift from yourself."

Thomas Bradly rose to go; but Mrs Foster said, "I ought to have told you that there was something else dropped into the room at the same time with the Bible, but it wasn't the bracelet, I'm sorry to say."

"Stay, dear friend," cried Bradly; "let me run home to my dear sister with her Bible; I'll be back again in half an hour."

So saying he hurried home, and seating himself by Jane, who was knitting as usual in her snug retreat by the fireside, said, "Jane dear, the Lord's been bringing us just one little step nearer to the light—only one step, mind, only one little step, but it's a step in the right direction."

"Thomas, what is it?" she exclaimed anxiously.

"Your Bible's turned up."

"My Bible, Thomas!"

"Yes, Jane." He then placed it in her hand. Yes, she could see that it was indeed her own dearly-prized Bible.

"And the bracelet, Thomas?" she asked eagerly.—He shook his head sadly. A shadow came over the face and tears into the eyes of his poor sister.

"The Lord's will be done," she said patiently; "but tell me, dear Thomas, all about it."—He then related what he had heard from Kate Foster.

"And you feel sure, Thomas, that the Fosters know nothing about the bag or bracelet?"

"Quite sure, Jane. I'm certain that neither Foster nor his wife would or could deceive me about this matter. But take heart, my poor sister. See, the Lord's opening the way for you 'one step at a time.' We should like it to be a little faster, but he says No. And see, too, how this blessed book of yours has been made of use to Foster and his wife. Oh, there's been a mighty work done there! But mark, Jane, 'twouldn't have been so if this Bible had come straight to you. There's wonderful good, you see, coming out of this trial already. So wait patiently on the Lord, the bag and the bracelet will turn up too afore so long; they are on the road, only we don't see them yet; you may be sure of that."

Jane smiled at him through her tears, and pressed her recovered Bible to her lips. Then she opened it, and, as she turned over leaf after leaf, her eye fell on many a well-known underlined text, and the cloud had given place to sunshine on her gentle features as her brother left the house and returned to William Foster's.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

WHO OWNS THE RING?

"You are satisfied that we know nothing about the bag or the bracelet, I hope?" asked Foster anxiously on Bradly's return.

"Perfectly," was the reply; "I haven't a doubt about it; but there's something behind as none of us has got at yet, but it'll come in the Lord's own time. Wherever the bag and bracelet are, they'll turn up some day, I'm certain of that; and it'll be just at the right moment. And so we must be patient and look about us.—But what was it, Kate, you said was dropped along with the Bible?"

"It was this ring," replied Mrs Foster, at the same time placing a small gold ring with a ruby in the centre on the table. The three examined it by turns. There were no letters or marks engraved anywhere on it.

"And this was dropped by the same hand which dropped the Bible?" asked Bradly.

"Yes; it rolled along the floor, and may have fallen either off the finger of the person who put her hand in at the window, or from between the leaves of the Bible."

"And have you mentioned about this ring to any one?"

"No, not even to my husband. I'm sure William will forgive me. It was just this way: I put it into my pocket at the time, and afterwards into a secret drawer in my desk, fearing it might bring one or both of us into trouble. When this happy change came, and both William and I began to care about the Bible, I told him how I came by the book, but thought I would wait before I said anything about the ring; perhaps something would come to clear up the mystery, and it would be time enough to produce the ring when some one came forward to claim it; but no one has done so yet."

"And you have no suspicion at all who it belongs to, or who dropped it?"

"No, none whatever."

"Well," continued Bradly, "I don't think it fell out of the leaves of the Bible, as not a word is said about it in John Hollands' letter. I'm of opinion as it slipped off accidentally from the hand of the woman as she was dropping the Bible; and since it's clear she didn't want it to be known who she was, if she knows where she lost her ring she won't want to come and claim it."

"And do you think," asked Foster, "that she is some one living in Crossbourne or the neighbourhood?"

"Pretty certain," replied Thomas. "There's been some roguery or trickery about it altogether. The bag was in Crossbourne on the 23rd of last December, and your wife got the Bible that same evening. I'm firmly persuaded there's been some hoax about it all, and I believe bag and bracelet and all's in the town, if we only knew how to find 'em without making the matter public. If we could only get at the owner of the ring without making a noise, we might find a clue as would lead us to where the bag is."

"I'm much of your mind," said Foster. "I fancy that some one of poor Jim Barnes's drunken mates has been playing a trick off on him by watching him into the Railway Inn, and running off with the bag just to vex him; and then, when he found what was in the bag, he would hide all away except the Bible, for fear of getting into a scrape. But can anything be done about the ring?"

"I'll tell you what we'll do if you'll let me have it for a while," said Bradly, with a twinkle in his eye. "I'll get our Betsy to wear it in the mill to-morrow. You'll see there'll something come out of it, as sure as my name's Thomas Bradly."

Accordingly, next morning Betsy Bradly appeared at the mill with the ring on her little finger—a circumstance which soon drew attention, which was expressed first in looks and then in whispers, much to the quiet amusement and satisfaction of the wearer. No questions, however, were asked till the dinner hour, and then a small knot of the hands, principally of the females, gathered round her. These were some of her personal friends and acquaintances; for her character stood too high in the place for any of the less respectable sort to venture to intrude themselves upon her.

"Well, Betsy," cried one, "you've got a pretty keepsake there; let's have a look at it."

The other's only reply was to take off the ring and offer it for inspection. As it was passed from hand to hand, various exclamations were uttered: "Eh, it's a bonny stone!"—"I never seed the like in all my born days!"—"It's fit for the Queen's crown!"—"Where did you get it, Betsy?"—"Her young man gave it her, of course!"—"Nay, you're wrong there," said another; "he's got more sense than to spend his brass on such things as that,—he's saving it up for a new clock and a dresser!"—"Come, Betsy, where did you get it?"

"You'll never guess, so it's no use axing," said Betsy, laughing. "It ain't mine; but it'll be mine till its proper owner comes and claims it."

"Oh, you picked it up as you was coming to the mill!"

"Ah yes!" cried another; "like enough it's been dropped by the vicar's lady, or by some one as has been staying at the vicarage!"

"You're wrong there," replied Betsy; "I didn't find it, and nobody's lost it exactly."

"Well, I never!" cried several, and then there was a general move towards their different homes.

Betsy continued wearing the ring for the next day or two, and always dexterously parried any attempt to find out how she came by it. Odd stories began to fly about on the subject, and work-people from other mills came to have a look at the ring, Betsy being always ready to gratify any respectable person with a sight of it. But still she persisted in refusing to tell how it had come into her possession. At last, one afternoon, just as the mills were loosing, one of the railway clerks came up to her, and said,—

"Are you looking out for an owner to that ring you're wearing? I've been told something of the sort."

"I ain't been exactly looking out," was the reply; "but I shall be quite ready to give it up when I'm sure it's the right owner as wants it."

"Well, I've a shrewd guess I know whose it is," said the young man.

"Indeed! And who may that be?"

"Oh, never mind just now; but, please, let me look at the ring."

She took it from her finger and handed it to him. He examined it carefully, and then nodding his head, with a smile on his lips, said, "I'll be bound I've had this ring in my hands before."

"It's yours, then?"

"Nay, it's not mine. But do you particularly want to know whose it is?"

"Yes, I do; or, rather, my father does, for the simple truth is, it's father as has got me to wear it; and if you can find out the proper owner, he'll be obliged to you."

"Just so. If you don't mind, then, lending me the ring, I'll soon find out if I'm right; and I'll bring it back to your father to-morrow night, and tell him all about it."

To this Betsy immediately assented, and the clerk went away with the ring in his charge. The following evening he and Thomas Bradly were closeted together in the "Surgery."

"So," said Thomas, "you can tell me, I understand, who is the owner of this ring you've just returned to me."

"I think I can," replied the other; "indeed, I feel pretty sure that I can, though, strangely enough, the owner won't own to it."

"How's that?"

"I can't say, I'm sure, but so it is."

"Well, be so good as to tell me what you know about it."

"I will. You know the Green Dragon,—perhaps I ought to say, you know where it is. I wish I knew as little of the inside of it as you do; it would be better for me, though I'm no drunkard, as you are aware. But, however, I go now and then into the tap-room of the Green Dragon to get a glass of ale, as it's near my lodgings. Mrs Philips, she's the landlady, you know. Well, she's a bit of a fine lady, and so is her daughter. Her mother had her sent to a boarding-school, and she has got rather high notions in consequence. But she and I are very good friends, and she often tells me about her school-days. Among other things, she has been very fond of talking about the way in which the other young ladies and herself used to be bosom friends; and one afternoon, when I was with her and her mother alone in the parlour, she took a ring off her finger, and asked me to look at it, and if I didn't admire it. And she said that one of her schoolfellows, whose parents were very wealthy, had given it to her as a birthday present a short time before she left school. The ring was the very image of the one your daughter Betsy lent me."—So saying, he took it up from the table, on which Thomas Bradly had placed it, and held it up to the light.—"I could almost swear to the ring," he continued, "for I've had Miss Philips's ring in my hands many a time. She's very proud of her rings, and likes to talk about them; and I had noticed that she used to wear this ring with the ruby in it over one or two others, and that it slipped off and on very easily. And I used often to ask her to show it me, partly to please her, and partly for a bit of fun. Well, now, it's curious enough, I've missed that ring off her finger for several weeks past. I couldn't help noticing that it was gone, for she always took care that I should see it when she had it on. I asked her some time back what had become of it; but she looked confused, and made some sort of excuse which seemed odd to me at the time. But when I asked her again, which was very soon after, she said she had put it by in her jewel-case, for it was rather loose, and she was afraid of its getting lost. But somehow or other I didn't quite believe what she said, so I asked her once more, and she snapped me up so sharply that I found it was best to ask no more questions about it. However, when I heard about your daughter wearing a ring with a red stone in it, and that it was looking out for an owner, it occurred to me at once that it might be Lydia Philips's ring—that she had dropped it by accident, and didn't like to own that she had lost it for some reason best known to herself, and that she'd be only too glad to get it back again. So when your daughter lent it me yesterday, I took it up in the evening; and getting her by herself in the parlour, I pulled it out, and said, 'See, Miss Lyddy, what will you give me for finding this for you?' I expected thanks at the least; but to my great surprise she turned first very pale, and then very red; and then, taking up the ring between her finger and thumb as cautiously as if she was afraid it would bite or burn her, she said—but I didn't believe her—'It ain't mine, and I don't want to have anything to do with it.' I tried to make her change her opinion, and told her I knew her ring as well as she knew it herself, that she must have lost it, and that I was certain this was the very ring she had showed me so often; but she only got angry, and flung the ring at me, and told me to mind my own business. So I picked up the ring off the floor, and slunk off like a dog with his tail between his legs, and I've brought you back the ring. But it's the most mysterious thing to me. I can't make it out a bit. I'm as sure now as I can be sure of anything that it's the same ring I've often handled, and that it belongs to her. Her own ring is gone from her finger, and that and this are as like as two peas; but, for some reason or other, she won't have it to be hers, so I must just leave matters as I found them."

"Thank you for your trouble," said Bradly, "and I'll keep the ring till the real owner turns up; and meanwhile, my friend, just take my advice, and keep as clear of the inside of the Green Dragon as you possibly can."

When the railway clerk had left him, Thomas Bradly sat for some minutes in deep thought, and then sought his sister. "Dear Jane," he said, "there's just another step we're being guided; 'tain't a very broad one, but I believe it's in the right direction." He then gave her an account of what he had just heard from his visitor.

"And what do you make of his story, Thomas?" she asked. "Do you think that the ring really belongs to Lydia Philips, and that she knows anything about the bag?"

"Yes, Jane, I do; and I'll tell you why. I believe that she was the person who dropped the Bible in at William Foster's window. Why she did so, of course I can't say. But I believe the ring slipped off while she was dropping the book, and now she's afraid to acknowledge the ring for her own. You know the Bible and the bracelet were in the same bag; so, as she knew about the Bible, it seems pretty certain she must have known about the bracelet too. If she owns to the ring, of course it's as good as owning as she was the person who dropped the Bible. She knows quite well, you may be sure, that the ring fell into Foster's room, and that it can only be Foster or his wife that's produced the ring, and she's afraid of inquiries being set on foot which may trace the missing bag and bracelet to her. So she's content to lose her ring, and persists in saying it ain't hers; because if she owned to it, it would raise suspicions that she or some of her people was concerned with making away with or hiding away the bag and bracelet, and that might get the Green Dragon a bad name, and spoil their custom, or even get her and her family into worse trouble. That's just my opinion; there's foul play, somewhere, and she knows something about it. The bag's in the place, hid away somewhere, and she knows where, or she knows them as has had to do with getting hold of it, and keeping it for their own purposes. So we must watch and be patient. I feel convinced we're getting nearer and nearer to the light. So let us leave it now in the Lord's hands, and be satisfied for him to guide us step by step, one at a time. I haven't a doubt we've traced the ring to its right owner, so we'll put it by for the present, and it can come out and give its evidence when it's wanted."



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

WILD WORK AT CROSSBOURNE.

It was now the beginning of April; a month had passed since the temperance meeting, and James Barnes and William Foster were keeping clear of the drink and of their old ungodly companions. But it was not to be supposed that the enemies were asleep, or willing to acquiesce patiently in such a desertion from their ranks. Nevertheless, little stir was made, and open opposition seemed nearly to have died out.

"How quietly and peaceably matters are going on," said the vicar to Thomas Bradly one morning; "I suppose the intemperate party feel they can do our cause no real harm, and so are constrained to let Foster and Barnes alone."

"I'm not so sure about that, sir," was Bradly's reply. "I'm rather looking out for a breeze, for things are too quiet to last; there's been a queerish sort of grin on the faces of Foster's old mates when they've passed me lately, as makes me pretty sure there's something in the wind as mayn't turn out very pleasant. But I'm not afraid: we've got the Lord and the right on our side, and we needn't fear what man can do unto us."

"True, Thomas, we must leave it there; and we may be sure that all will work together for the furtherance of the good cause in the end."

"I've not a doubt of it, sir; but for all that, I mean to keep a bright look-out. I'm not afraid of their trying their games with me; it's Barnes and Foster as they mean to pay off if they can."

That same evening James Barnes knocked at Bradly's Surgery door, and closed it quickly after him. There was a scared look in his eyes; his dress was all disordered; and, worse still, he brought with him into the room an overpowering odour of spirits. Poor Thomas's heart died within him. Alas! was it really so? Had the enemy gained so speedy a triumph?

"So, Jim, you've broken, I see," exclaimed Bradly sorrowfully. "The Lord pardon and help you!"

"Nothing of the sort," cried the other; "I've never touched a drop, Thomas, since I signed, though a good big drop has touched me."

"What do you mean, Jim?" asked Bradly, greatly relieved at the tone of his voice. "Are you sure it's all right? Come, sit down, and tell me all about it."

"That I will, Thomas; it's what I've come for. You'll easily believe me when I tell you," he continued, after taking a seat, "that they've been at me every road to try and get me back, badgering, chaffing, threatening, and coaxing: it's strange what pains they'll take as is working for the devil. But it wouldn't act. Well, three or four nights ago, when I got home from my work, I found two bottles on my table. They was uncorked; one had got rum, and the other gin in it. Now, I won't say as my mouth didn't water a bit, and the evil one whispered 'Just take a glass;' but no, I wasn't to be done that way, so I lifts up a prayer for strength, and just takes the bottles at once out into the road, and empties them straight into the gutter. There was some looking on as would let the enemy know. So to-night, as smooth ways wouldn't act, they've been trying rough 'uns. Four of my old mates, Ned Taylor among 'em, watches when my missus went off to the shop, and slips into the kitchen where I was sitting. They'd brought a bottle of rum with them, and began to talk friendly fashion, and tried might and main to get me to drink. But I gave the same answer—I'd have none of it. Then one of them slipped behind my chair, and pinned me down into it, and Ned Taylor tried to force my mouth open, while another man held the bottle, ready to pour the rum down my throat. But just then our little Bob, seeing how roughly they were handling me, bolted out into the street, screaming, 'They're killing daddy! They're killing daddy!' So the cowardly chaps, seeing it was time to be off, took to their heels, all but Ned Taylor. He'd taken the bottle of rum from the man as held it, and he took and poured it all down my coat and waistcoat, and said, 'If you won't have it inside, you shall have it out;' and then he burst out into a loud laugh, and went after the rest of them. If you examine my clothes, Thomas, you can see as I'm telling the truth. However, they've just been and cut their own throats, for they've only made me more determined than ever to stick to my tee-totalism."

"All right, Jim," said the other cheerfully; "they've outwitted themselves. I've an old coat and waistcoat as I've nearly done with, but they've got a good bit of wear in them yet. They'll just about fit you, I reckon. You shall go back in them, and keep them and welcome, and we'll make these as they've spoilt a present to the dunghill. I only wish all other bad habits, and more particularly them as comes through rum, brandy, and such like, could be cast away on to the same place. You did quite right, Jim, to come straight to me."

"Ay, Thomas, I felt as it were best; for I were in a towering rage at first, and I think I should have half killed some of 'em, if I could only have got at them."

"Ah, well, Jim, you just let all that alone. 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.' We'll get our revenge in another way some day; we may heap coals of fire on some of their heads yet. But you leave matters now to me. I shall see Ned Taylor to-morrow myself, and give him a bit of my mind; and warn him and his mates that if they try anything of the kind on again, they'll get themselves into trouble."

"Thank you, Thomas, with all my heart, for your kindness: 'a friend in need's a friend indeed.' But there's just another thing as I wants to talk to you about afore I go. I meant to come up to-night about it anyhow, even if this do hadn't happened."

"Well, Jim, let's hear it."

"Do you remember Levi Sharples, Thomas?"

"What! That tall, red-haired chap, with a cast in his left eye, and a mouth as wide and ugly as an ogre's?"

"Yes, that's the man. You'll remember, Thomas, he was concerned in that housebreaking job four years ago, and the police have been after him ever since."

"To be sure, Jim, I remember him fast enough; he's not a man one's likely to forget. I suppose a more thorough scoundrel never set foot in Crossbourne. It was a wonderful thing how he managed to escape and keep out of prison after that burglary business. But what about him?"

"Why, Thomas, I seed him in this town the day before yesterday."

"Surely, Jim, you must be mistaken. He durstn't show his face in Crossbourne for the life of him."

"No, I know that; but he's got himself made up to look like another man,—black hair, great black whiskers, and a thick black beard, and a foreign sort of cap on his head,—and he's lodging at the Green Dragon, and pretends as he's an agent for some foreign house to get orders for rings, and brooches, and watches, and things of that sort."

"But are you certain, Jim, you're not mistaken?"

"Mistaken! Not I. I used to know him too well in my drinking days. He'll never disguise that look of that wicked eye of his from them as knows him well; and though he's got summat in his mouth to make him talk different, I could tell the twang of his ugly voice anywheres."

"Well, Jim?"

"Ah, but it ain't well, Thomas, I'm sorry to say: there's mischief, you may be sure, when the like of him's about. You know he used to be a great man with Will Foster's old set; and, would you believe it, I saw him yesterday evening, when it was getting dark, standing near Foster's house talking with him. They didn't see me, for I was in the shadow; I'd just stooped down to fasten my boot-lace as they came up together. I'd had a message to take to William's wife, and was coming out the back way, when I heard footsteps, and I knew Levi in a moment, as the gas lamp shone on him. I didn't want to play spy, but I did want to know what that chap was up to. So, while their backs was towards me, I crawled behind the water-butt without making any noise, and I could catch a few words now and then, as they were not far-off from me."

"Well, Jim, and what did you hear?"

"Why, Levi said, 'It won't do for me to be seen here, so let us have a meeting in some safe place.'—'Very well,' says William, and then they spoke so low I could only catch the words, 'Cricketty Hall;' but just as Levi were moving off, he said in a loud whisper, 'All right, then— Friday night;' and I think he mentioned the hour, but he spoke so low I couldn't clearly mate out any more. So I've come to tell you, Thomas Bradly, for there's mischief of some sort up, I'll be bound."

Bradly did not answer, but for a time a deep shade of anxiety settled on his features. But after a while the shadow passed away. "James," he said earnestly, "I can't believe as there's anything wrong in this matter in William Foster. I can't believe the Lord's led him so far, in the right way, and has now left him to stray into wrong paths. I've watched him narrowly, and I'm certain he's as true as steel. But I think with you as there's mischief brewing. Though William has got a clever head, yet he's got a soft heart along with it, and he's not over wide-awake in some things; and I'll be bound he's no match for a villain like that Levi. I tell you what it is, Jim: it strikes me now, just as we're speaking, as Levi's being set on by some of William's old mates to draw him out of the town to a place where they can play him some trick, or do him some harm, without being hindered or found out. I can't explain how, of course, but that's my thought. Now, if you'll lend me a helping hand, I'm persuaded as we shall be able, if the Lord will, to turn the tables on these fellows in such a way as'll effectually tie their hands and stop their tongues for many a long day to come."

"All right, Thomas," cried Barnes, "I'm your man; I think you're on the right scent."

"Very good, Jim; Cricketty Hall, and Friday night, that's where and when the meeting's to be. It means next Friday no doubt, for Levi Sharples won't stay in this neighbourhood a moment longer than he can help. You may depend upon it, when these two meet at the old ruin, Levi'll have some of their old mates not far-off, and there'll be wild work with poor William when they've got the opportunity. But we'll give 'em more company than they'll reckon for. But now, Jim, we must be cautious how we act. Of course I could go and tell William privately what I think Levi's up to, but I shall not do that; I want to catch that rascal in his own trap, and get him out of the country for good and all, and give the rest of them such a lesson as they'll not soon forget. So it won't do for you or me to be seen going out towards Cricketty Hall on Friday evening, for they are sure to set spies about, and we should spoil all. I'll tell you how we'll manage. I've been wanting a day at Foxleigh for some time, as I've some business of my own there. You get leave to meet me there, and I'll pay your fare. Go by the eight a.m. train on Friday morning, and I'll take the train that starts at dinner-time. No one'll ever suspect us of going to Cricketty Hall that way. I shall tell the police at Foxleigh my business, and they'll be glad enough to send some men with us when they know that Levi Sharples will be there, the man they've been wanting to catch. We can get round to the woods above Cricketty Hall from Foxleigh without being seen, when it begins to be dark, and can get down into the ruins without their noticing us, for they'll never think of any one coming by that road, such a roundabout way. And mind, Jim, not a word to any one, not even to your missus. All you need tell her is, that I've wanted you to meet me about some business at Foxleigh, and you won't be back till late."

"All right, Thomas," said Barnes; "you may depend on it I shan't say nothing to nobody. I shall just tell my missus afore I'm setting off on the Friday morning as I've got a job to do for you, and she mustn't expect me home till she sees me; and no one'll be surprised at my turning up at the station, as they all know as I used to be porter there."

Cricketty Hall was one of those decayed family mansions which are to be met with in many parts of England. Its original owners had been persons of importance many generations back, but their name and fame had passed away. The lands connected with the Hall had become absorbed into other properties; and the building itself had gradually crumbled down, many a neighbouring farm-house owing some of its most solid and ornamental portions to the massive ruins from which they had been borrowed or taken. Still, enough had been left to show that the place had once been a mansion of considerable pretensions. The old gateway, with its portcullis and drawbridge, was still standing, while the moat which surrounded the entire building indicated that it had been originally of very capacious dimensions. The roof and most of the walls had long since disappeared; trees grew in the centre, and spread out their branches over the space once occupied by the dormitories, while a profusion of ivy concealed many a curiously carved arch and window. From the gateway the ground sloped rapidly, affording a fine view of the neighbouring country. Behind the house was high ground, once thickly wooded, and still partially covered with trees and underwood. The Hall was about two miles distant from Crossbourne, and was well-known to most of its inhabitants, though but seldom visited, except occasionally by picnic parties in summer-time. Old tradition pronounced it to be haunted, but though such an idea was ridiculed now by everybody whenever the superstition was alluded to, yet very few persons would have liked to venture into the ruins alone after dark; and, indeed, the loneliness of the situation made it by no means a desirable place for solitary evening musings.

The ordinary way to the Hall was by a footpath leading to it out of the highroad across fields for a distance of nearly a quarter of a mile. It could also be approached by a much less frequented track, which passed along sequestered lanes out of the main road from the town of Foxleigh, the nearest town to Crossbourne by rail, and brought the traveller to it, after a walk of six miles from Foxleigh, through the overhanging wooded ground which has been mentioned as rising up in the rear of the old ruins.

The only exception to the dilapidated state of the premises was a large vaulted cellar or underground room. Its existence, however, had been well-nigh forgotten, except by a few who occasionally visited it, and kept the secret of the entrance to it to themselves.

The Friday on which the appointment between Foster and Levi Sharples was to be kept at Cricketty Hall, was one of those dismal April days which make you forget that there is any prospect of a coming summer in the chilly misery of the present. Cold showers and raw breezes made the passers through the streets of Crossbourne fold themselves together, and expose as little surface as was possible to the inclemency of the weather; so that when James Barnes and Thomas Bradly left the station by the early and mid-day trains, there were but few idlers about to notice their departure.

At length the mills loosed, and Foster hurried home, and, after a hasty tea, told his wife that an engagement would take him from home for a few hours, and that she must not be alarmed if he was a little late. Then, having put on a stout overcoat, he made his way through the higher part of the town, and past the vicarage, and was soon in the open country. It was past seven o'clock when he reached the place where the footpath leading to the old Hall met the highroad. It was still raining, though not heavily; but thick, leaden-coloured clouds brooded over the whole scene, and served to deepen the approaching darkness. It was certainly an evening not calculated to raise any one's spirits; and the harsh wind, as it swept over the wide expanse of the treeless fields, with their stern-looking stone fences, added to the depressing influences of the hour. But Foster was a man not easily daunted by such things, and he had stridden on manfully, fully occupied by his own thoughts, till he reached the stile where the footpath to the ruins began. Here he paused, looked carefully in all directions, listened attentively without hearing sound of traveller or vehicle, and then whistled in a low tone twice. A tall figure immediately rose up from the other side of the hedge and joined him.

"Well, Levi," said Foster, "I have kept my appointment; and now what would you have with me?"

"I'll tell you, William," replied his companion. "You know I'm a marked man. The police are looking out for me on account of that housebreaking job—more's the pity I ever had anything to do with it. However, I'm a changed man now, I hope: I think I've given you some proof of that already, William, so you may trust me. A man wouldn't come back and thrust his head into the lion's mouth as I've done, to show his sincerity and sorrow for the past, if he hadn't been in earnest. Now, what I want you to do is this:—You know how many Sunday afternoons you and I, and others of our old mates, have spent in card-playing in the cellar of that old Hall—the Lord forgive me for having wasted his holy day in such sin and folly! Now, I've a long story to tell, and I should like to tell it in that same place where you and I joined in what was sinful in our days of ignorance and darkness. I can tell you there how I was brought to see what a fool's part I had been playing, and how I came to my right mind at last. You can give me some good advice; and I want to leave one or two little things with you to give or send to my poor old mother when I'm far away. And when we've had our talk out, we'll part at the old ruin, and I shall make the best of my way out of the country, and begin a new and better life, I trust, where I'm not known. I'm sorry to have given you the trouble to come out all this way, specially on such a night as this; but I really don't feel safe anywhere in or near Crossbourne, as the police might pop on me at any moment, and I felt sure, from what I heard of the change that has taken place in you, that you wouldn't mind a little trouble to help an old companion out of the mire. You needn't be afraid to come with me; I can have no possible motive to lead you into danger."