"I'm not afraid, Levi," said Foster quietly. "I'm ready to go with you."

Nothing more was said by either of them till they had followed out the footpath and stood before the gateway of the old Hall. They were soon making their way cautiously amongst the fallen blocks of stone towards a turret which rose to a considerable height at the end of the ruins farthest from the gateway. "Go forward, William," said Sharples, "while I light my lantern." So saying, he paused to strike a match, while his companion threaded his way towards the turret. At this moment a figure, unobserved by Foster, emerged from behind a low wall, and, having exchanged a few whispered words with Levi, disappeared through an archway.

The two companions, having now gained the turret, proceeded to descend a few broken steps concealed from ordinary observation by a mass of brushwood, and reached the entrance of a spacious vault. "Stay a moment," said Sharples; "I'll go first and show a light." So saying, he pushed past the other, and the next instant Foster felt himself held fast by each arm, while a handkerchief was pressed over his mouth. He was at once painfully conscious that he had been completely entrapped, and that resistance was perfectly useless, for two strong men grasped him, one on either side. But his presence of mind did not desert him, and he now had learnt where to look, in secret prayer, for that "very present help in trouble" which never fails those who seek it aright. Thus fortified, he attempted no resistance, but patiently awaited the event.

In a few minutes the handkerchief was withdrawn from his eyes, and he found himself in the presence of about a dozen men, all of whose faces were blackened. On a large stone in the centre of the vault was placed the bull's-eye lantern which his companion had recently lighted, and which, by pouring its light fully on himself, prevented him from clearly seeing the movements of his captors. What was to come next? He was not long left in doubt.

"Saint Foster," said Levi Sharples, who stood just behind the lantern, and spoke in a sneering, snuffling voice, "we don't wish you any harm; but we have brought your saintship before our right worshipful court, that you may answer to the charge brought against you, of having deserted your old principles and companions, and inflicted much inconvenience and discredit on the cause of free-thought and good fellowship in Crossbourne. What say you to this charge, Saint Foster?"

Their poor victim had by this time thoroughly recovered his self- possession, and being now set at liberty—for his enemies knew that he could not escape them—answered quietly, and in a clear, unfaltering voice, "I must ask first by what authority this court is constituted; and by whose authority you are now questioning me?"

"By the authority of 'might,' which on the present occasion makes 'right,' Saint Foster," was the reply.

"Be it so," said Foster. "I can only reply that I have been following out my own honest convictions in the course I have lately taken. What right has any man to object to this?"

"A good deal of right, Saint Foster, since your following out your present honest convictions is a great hindrance to those who used to agree with you in your former honest convictions."

"I am not responsible for that," was Foster's reply.

"Perhaps not," continued Sharples; "nevertheless, we are met on the present agreeable occasion to see if we cannot induce you to give up those present honest convictions of yours, and join your old friends again."

"That I neither can nor will," said the other in a firm voice.

"That's a pity," said Sharples; "because if you persist in your determination, the consequences to yourself may be unpleasant. However, the court wishes to deal very leniently with you, in consideration of past services, and therefore I am commissioned to offer you a choice between two things.—Officer! Bring forward the 'peacemaker.'"

Upon this, a man stepped forward, uncorked a bottle of spirits, and placed it on the stone in front of the lantern.

"Saint Foster," proceeded his pretended judge, "we earnestly exhort you to lift this bottle of spirits to your lips, and, having taken a hearty swig thereof, to say after me, 'Long life and prosperity to free-thought and good fellowship.' If you will do this we shall be fully satisfied, and shall all part good friends."

"And if I refuse?" asked the other.

"Oh! There'll be no compulsion—we are not going to force you to drink. This is 'Liberty Hall;' only, you must submit to the alternative."

"And what may that be?"

"Oh! Just to carry home with you a little of our ointment, as a token of our kind regards.—Officer! Bring forward the ointment."

A general gruff titter ran round the vault as one of the men placed beside the bottle a jar with a brush in it and a bag.

"My worthy friend," proceeded the former speaker, "that jar is full of ointment, vulgarly called tar, and that little bag contains feathers. Now, if you positively refuse to drink the toast I have just named in spirits, we shall be constrained to anoint you all over from head to foot with our ointment, and then to sprinkle you with the feathers; in so doing, we shall be affording an amusing spectacle to the inhabitants of Crossbourne, and shall be doing yourself a real kindness, by furnishing you with abundant means of 'feathering your own nest.'"

A roar of discordant laughter followed this speech. Then there was a pause, and a deathlike silence, while all waited for Foster's answer. For a few moments he attempted no reply; then he said, slowly and sadly: "I know it will be of no use for me to say what I think of the utter baseness of the man who has enticed me here, and now acts the part of my judge. You have me in your power, and must work your will on me, for I will never consent to drink the toast proposed to me. But I warn you that—"

At this moment a shrill whistle was heard by every one in the vault, and then the sound of shouts outside, and the tramping of feet.—"The game's up!" cried one of the men with the blackened faces; "every one for himself!" and a rush was made for the steps. But it was too late: a strong guard of police fully armed had taken their stand at the top of the stair, and escape was impossible, for there was no other outlet from the vault. As each man emerged he was seized and handcuffed—all except Foster, whose unblackened face told at once that he was not one of the guilty party, and who was grasped warmly by the hand by Thomas Bradly and James Barnes, who now came forward.

When the vault had been searched by the constables, and they had ascertained that no one was still secreted there, the whole of the prisoners were marched into the open court and placed in a row. The sergeant, who had come with his men, then passed his lantern from face to face. There was no mistake about Sharples; his false hair and beard had become disarranged in the scuffle, and other marks of identification were immediately observed. "Levi Sharples," said the sergeant, "you're our prisoner—we've been looking out for you for a long time; you'll have to come with us.—As for the rest of you, well, I think you won't any of you forget this night; so you'd best get home as fast as you can and wash your faces.—Constables, take the handcuffs off 'em."

No sooner was this done than the whole body of the conspirators vanished in a moment, while the police proceeded to carry off their prisoner. But before the officers were clear of the ruins, a strange moaning sound startled all who remained behind. "Eh! What's that? Surely it ain't— a—a—" exclaimed Jim Barnes, in great terror. The sergeant, who was just leaving with his men, turned back. All stood silent, and then there was distinctly heard again a deep groaning, as of one in pain. "Lend a light here, Thomas," cried the sergeant to one of his constables. All, except those who were guarding the prisoner, proceeded in the direction from which the unearthly sounds came. "Have a care," cried Bradly; "there's some ugly holes hereabouts." Picking their way carefully, they came at last to the mouth of an old well: it had been long choked up to within a few feet of the top, but still it was an awkward place to fall into.

There could now be no mistake; the groaning came from the old well, and it was a human cry of distress. "Who's there?" cried the sergeant, throwing his light down upon a writhing figure. "It's me—it's Ned Taylor. Lord help me! I've done for myself. Oh, help me out for pity's sake!" With great difficulty, and with terrible suffering to the poor wretch himself, they contrived at last to draw him up, and to place him with his back against a heap of fallen masonry.

"What's to be done now?" asked the sergeant. "Leave him to us," replied Bradly; "we'll get him home. I see how it is: he's one of these chaps as has been taking part in this sad business, and in his hurry to get off he has tumbled into this old well and injured himself. We'll look after him, poor fellow; he shall be properly cared for. Good-night, sergeant, and thank you for your timely help."

When the police had departed with their prisoner, Bradly went to the wounded man and asked him if he thought he could walk home with help; but the only reply was a groan. "He's badly hurt, I can see," said Thomas; "we must make a stretcher out of any suitable stuff we can find, and carry him home between us. The Lord's been very gracious to us so far in this business, and I don't doubt but he'll bring good out of this evil." So they made a litter of boughs and stray pieces of plank, and set out across the fields for Crossbourne.

"Stay a bit, Jim," whispered Bradly to James Barnes; "lend me your lantern. Go forward now, and I'll join you in a minute." He was soon back again, having brought the jar of tar from the vault, about which and its purpose he had heard from Foster while the police were searching the place. "I must keep this," he said, "in my Surgery; it'll do capitally to give an edge to a lesson." And it may be here said that the jar was in due time placed on a bracket in Bradly's private room, and labelled in large red letters, "Drunkards' Ointment,"—giving Thomas many an opportunity of speaking a forcible word against evil companionship to those who sought his help and counsel.

But to return to the party at the old Hall. Long and weary seemed that walk home, specially to the wounded man. At last they reached the town, and carried the sufferer to his miserable dwelling, with cheery words to his poor wife, and a promise from Bradly to send the doctor at once, and that he would call himself next day and see how he was going on.

Then the three friends hastened at once to Foster's house, that they might be the first to acquaint his wife with her husband's peril and deliverance. Never was thanksgiving prayer uttered or joined in with more fervour than that which was offered by Thomas Bradly after he had given to Kate Foster a full account of the evening's adventure. Then all sat down to a simple supper, at which Foster was asked by Thomas Bradly to tell him how he came to be taken in by such a man as Levi Sharples.

"I don't wonder," began Foster, "that you should think it weak and strange in me; but you shall judge. Levi Sharples and myself used to be great friends—or rather, perhaps, I ought to say frequent companions, for I don't think there was ever anything worth calling friendship between us. He used to profess a great respect for my opinion. He regularly attended the meetings of our club, and made smart speeches, and would come out with the vilest sentiments expressed in the vilest and foulest language, such as disgusted me even then, and makes me shudder now when I think of it. He had a ready way with him, and could trip a man up in an argument and get the laugh against him. Not that he had really read or studied much; but he had gathered a smattering on many subjects, and knew how to make a little knowledge go a great way. Most of the other members of the club were afraid of him, for he had no mercy when he chose to come down on a fellow; and if any one tried to make a stand against him for a bit, he would soon talk him down with his biting sarcasms and loud sneering voice.

"I told you that he professed to have a high opinion of myself as a debater and free-thinker. He seldom crossed me in argument, and when he did he was sure to give in in the end. I was vain enough at the time to set this down to my own superior wit and knowledge; but I am now fully persuaded that he was only pretending to have this good opinion of me that he might make use of me for his own purposes. He knew that I was a skilful workman, and earned more than average wages, and so he would often borrow a few shillings from me, which he never remembered to pay back again. But he managed to get these loans very dexterously, always mixing up a little flattery when he came to borrow.

"Often and often, I'm ashamed to say, I have wandered out with him and other members of our club in the summer, on Sunday afternoons, to Cricketty Hall; and there, down in the old vault, we have been playing cards and drinking till it was time to return. I could see plainly enough on these occasions that Levi would have been only too glad to win largely from me; but I had sense enough to keep out of his clutches, as I had noticed him managing the cards unfairly when playing with others.

"I can't say that I felt any particular regret when he had to take himself off out of the neighbourhood. There were no ties that could really bind us together; for, indeed, how can there be any real union where the closest bond is a common hatred of that gospel which is so truly, as I am thankful to say I have myself found it, the religion of love? I scarcely missed him, and seldom thought of him, and was rather startled when, a few days ago, he made himself known to me in the twilight.

"We were alone, and I was going to pass on with a civil word; but he begged me to stop, and in such a tone of voice as rather touched me. He then reminded me that we had been companions in evil, and said that he had heard of the change that had taken place in me. He added that he was very unhappy, that he hated himself for his past wicked life, and that as I used to stand his friend formerly when he needed a helping hand, he hoped I would show that my change was a real one by my willingness to give an old mate a lift over the stile and into the same way of peace in which I professed to be walking myself. He had much to tell me and ask of me, he said; but he was afraid of being discovered by the police, spite of his disguise. Would I meet him at Cricketty Hall, he should feel safe there.

"I did not know what to say. I could not get rid of my suspicions, notwithstanding his changed tone and manner. He saw it, and said: 'You doubt my sincerity. Well, I suppose you'll agree that when a man's sincerity gets into his pocket it's pretty sure to be genuine. Now, you've lent me money at different times, and I never paid any of it back. I've reckoned it up, and it comes altogether to three pounds ten shillings. Here it is; and many thanks to you for lending it me. I'm only sorry that I was not an honest man before.'

"I hardly knew what to say; however, I took the money, for I knew that it was due to me. 'Well, will you trust me now?' he asked. 'Meet me, Levi, to-morrow night just after dark outside my house,' I said, 'and I will tell you then.' He hesitated a little, and then said, 'Very well,' and left me. I was sorely puzzled, and could not tell what to think. And then at last it occurred to me that perhaps it was wrong in me to hang back. There might be a real change beginning even in such a man as Levi Sharples. The Lord had been merciful to me, and why not to him? There hadn't been much to choose between us in badness in bygone days; and should I be right in repelling the poor man if I could be in any way the means of bringing him into the narrow way? Well, you know the rest. We met the next night; and, mercifully for me, Jim Barnes, as I find from him, overheard the appointment to meet at Cricketty Hall; and wonderfully and graciously has the Lord kept me in my trouble, and delivered me out of it."

"But how do you suppose that Sharples got hold of that money?" asked Bradly.

"Oh," replied the other, "I can easily understand all about that. You may depend upon it the whole matter has gone on somewhat in this way:— My old mates have been scheming how to be revenged on me ever since I left them, and showed my colours on the side of Temperance and Religion. They've known Levi's whereabouts, and were aware how thick we used to be; so they've set him upon drawing me into the snare. I don't doubt that they subscribed that three pound ten between them, that Levi might be able to throw dust in my eyes with it, and throw me off my guard."

"Just so, just so; I see it all!" cried Bradly. "Eh! Haven't they been nicely outwitted? Why, they've lost their money, they've lost the bird out of the cage, and they've clapped their own man in prison. Mark my words, William, we shan't have much more trouble from them for many a long day; but if they attempt to give us any, I shall bring them out the little jar of ointment they left behind them, and bid them tell us what complaints it's good for. Ah! Well, there's just a few words out of the good old book as'll crown it all. Here they are in the Twenty- seventh Psalm: 'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? When the wicked, even mine enemies and my foes, came upon me to eat up my flesh, they stumbled and fell. Though an host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear: though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident.'"



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

DOCTOR PROSSER AT CROSSBOURNE.

Dr and Mrs Prosser came to pay their spring visit to the Maltbys about ten days after William Foster's happy escape out of the hands of his enemies. The doctor was exceedingly glad of this opportunity of having a little quiet conversation with his old college friend the vicar on subjects which, though near his heart, were too commonly pushed out of his thoughts by the pressure of daily and hourly engagements. For his was the experience so common in these days of multiplied occupations and ceaseless coming and going: he could find no time for pause, no time for serious meditation on subjects other than those which demanded daily the full concentration of his thoughts. He was not unconscious that he was moving on all the while through higher and nobler things than those which he was pursuing, just as we are conscious of the beauties of some lovely scenery, glimpses of which flash upon us on either side, as we dash on by rail at express speed to our journey's end; but, at the same time, he was painfully aware that he was really living not merely amidst but for the things which are seen and temporal, without any settled and steady aim at the things which are not seen and are eternal. So he hoped that his visit to Ernest Maltby might be helpful to him by bringing him into an intellectual and spiritual atmosphere entirely different in tone from that with which he was surrounded in his London home and society. He had seen the true beauty and felt the persuasive force of holiness, in his previous intercourse with the vicar of Crossbourne; and he believed that it might do him good to see and feel them again, as exhibited in the character and conversation of his friend.

He was also very anxious that his wife should learn some practical wisdom from the Maltbys, which might guide her into the way of making her home happier both to herself and to him. It is true that things had considerably improved since the Christmas-eve when the doctor found her absent from home. His words of loving remonstrance had sunk deeply into her heart, and she had profited by them. She had managed to curtail her engagements, and to be more at home, especially when she knew that her husband was counting upon her society. Still, there were many self- imposed duties to which she devoted time and strength which could ill be spared, and in the performance of which she was wearing herself down; so the forced interruption of these by her visit to Crossbourne was looked upon by her husband with secret but deep satisfaction.

The only drawback to their visit was that neither Mrs Maltby nor her daughter would be at home; but Mr Maltby had begged them not to postpone their visit on this account, as his sister, Miss Maltby, would be staying with him, and would take the place of hostess to his guests. And, indeed, sorry as Dr Prosser was that he should miss seeing his old lady friends, he was satisfied that their place would be well supplied by the vicar's sister.

Miss Maltby was considerably older than her brother, and had been almost in the position of a parent to him when he had, in his early life, lost his own mother. She was one of those invaluable single women, not uncommon in the middle rank of society in England, whose sterling excellences are more widely felt than openly appreciated. She was not one of those active ladies who carry little bells on the skirts of their good deeds, so as to make a loud tinkling in the ears of the world. Hers was a quiet and unobtrusive work. Her views of usefulness and duty were, in the eyes of some of her acquaintance, old-fashioned and behind the age. Standing on one side, as it were, out of the whirl of good excitement, she could mark the mistakes and shortcomings in the bringing up of the professedly Christian families which came under her observation, and of the grownup workers of her own sex. But the wisdom she gathered from observation was stored up in a mind ever under the control of a pure and loving heart. Sneer or sarcasm never passed her lips. When called on to reprove the wrong or suggest the right, she always did it with "meekness of wisdom," her object being, not to glorify self by making others painfully conscious of their inconsistencies or defects, but to guide the erring gently into the paths of righteousness, sober-mindedness, and persuasive godliness. Practical good sense, the fruit of a plain scriptural creed thought out, prayed out, and lived out, in the midst of a thousand unrealities, and half-realities, and distortions of the truth in belief and practice, was the habitual utterance of her lips and guide of her daily life. She and Thomas Bradly were special friends, inasmuch as they were thoroughly kindred spirits, anything like sham or humbug being the abhorrence of both, while the Word of God was to each the one only infallible court of appeal in every question of faith and practice.

"You must see a good deal of the coarser-grained human material here in Crossbourne," remarked Dr Prosser to the vicar, as they strolled together in the garden in the evening after their meeting. "When I last had the pleasure of visiting you, before you came to this living, your parishioners were of a more civilised stamp."

"More 'civil' would perhaps be a more correct term," said Mr Maltby, "at least so far as touchings of the hat and smooth speeches were concerned. But, in truth, with all the roughness of these people, there is that sterling courtesy and consideration in many of them which I rarely meet with in more cultivated districts."

"Well," said the other, "I suppose that is owing to the increased intelligence produced by habits of reading, attending lectures, and studying mechanism."

"I think not," replied the vicar. "I have not, in my own experience, found true courtesy and consideration to be the fruit of increased intelligence. On the contrary, the keener the intellectual edge, as a rule, the keener the pursuit of selfish ends, and the more conspicuous the absence of a regard to the interests and a respect for the feelings of others."

"Then you don't credit education with this improvement in courtesy and consideration."

"Certainly not. I believe that with increased intelligence there is also an increased sensitiveness in all our faculties, and so an increased appreciation of what is beautiful and becoming; but it is the heart that must be touched if there is to be that real concern for the welfare and comfort of others which I have observed in many of my present parishioners. They are rough extremely, but there is an honest and warm heart beneath the surface; and when the love of Christ gets down into these hearts, and the grace of Christ dwells there, I do not know a nobler material to work with."

Dr Prosser was silent for a minute, then he said, "I suppose we are all agreed that true religion has a very humanising and refining influence. I only feel a wish, at times, that Religion herself were less hampered by creeds and dogmas, so that her full power might be felt, and to a far wider extent. I think that then religious and intellectual advancement would keep steady pace side by side."

"Do you, my dear friend?" said Mr Maltby sadly. "I must confess I am quite of a different opinion. People seem to me to have gone wild on this subject, and to have lost their senses in their over-anxiety to cultivate them. Intellect-worship is to my mind the master snare of our day. Cram the mind and starve the heart—this is the great popular idolatry. And so religion must be a misty, dreamy sort of thing; not well-defined truth, plainly and sharply taught in God's Word, requiring faith in revealed doctrines which are to influence the life by taking up a stronghold in the heart, but rather a foggy mixture of light and darkness, of superstition and sentiment, which will leave men to follow pretty nearly their own devices, and allow them to pass through this world with quieted consciences, so long as they are sincere, let their creed be anything or nothing: and as to the future, why, this world is the great land of realities, and a coming judgment, a coming heaven or hell, these are but plausible dreams, or, at the most, interesting speculations. Excuse me, my dear friend, for speaking warmly. I cannot but feel and speak strongly on this subject when I mark the growing tendency in our day to fall down and worship the cultivation of the intellect, to the neglect and disparagement of definite gospel truth, and of that education of the heart without which, I am more firmly persuaded every day, there cannot be either individual peace, home virtue and happiness, or public honour and morality."

"Perhaps you are right," said the doctor thoughtfully. "There may be a danger in the direction you point out. Certainly we men of science have, many of us, while valuing and respecting the Christian religion, been getting increasingly impatient of anything like religious dogmatism and exclusiveness."

At this moment a servant came to say that Thomas Bradly wished to have a word with the vicar when he was disengaged. "Oh, ask him to come to me here in the garden," said the vicar.—"You shall see one of my rough diamonds now," he added smilingly to his friend; "indeed, I may call him my 'Koh-i-noor,' only he hasn't been polished.—Thomas," he continued to Bradly as he entered, "here's an old friend of mine, Dr Prosser, a gentleman eminent in the scientific world, who has come down from London to see me, and to get a little experience of Crossbourne ways and manners. I tell him that he'll find us rather a rough material."

"I'm sure," replied Thomas, "I'm heartily glad to see any friend of yours among us. He must take us as he finds us. Like other folks, we aren't always right side out; but we generally mean what we say, and when we do say anything we commonly make it stand for summat."

"Well now, Thomas," continued Mr Maltby, "you're a plain, practical man, and I think you could give us an opinion worth having on a subject we've been talking about."

"I'm sure, sir, I don't know how that may be," was the reply; "but we working-people sometimes see things in a different light from what those above us does,—at least so far as our experience goes."

"That's just it, Thomas. It will interest Dr Prosser, I know, to hear how a theory about religion and truth, which is becoming very fashionable in our day, would suit yourself and the quick-witted and warm-hearted people you have daily to deal with."

"Let me hear it, sir, and I'll answer according to the best of my judgment."

The vicar then repeated to Bradly the substance of the conversation between himself and the doctor on religious dogmatism and breadth of views.

"Ah, well," cried Thomas laughing, "you're almost too deep for me. But it comes into my mind what happened to me a good many years ago, when I were quite a young man. There were a nobleman in our parts,—I wasn't living at Crossbourne then,—and his son came of age, and such a feast there was as I never saw afore or since, and I hope I never may again. Well, my father's family had been in that country for many generations, and so they turned us into gentlefolks, me and my father, that day, and we sat down to dinner with the quality; and a grand dinner it was for certain. When it was all over, as I thought, and the parson had returned thanks, just as I were for getting up and going, they brings round some plates with great glass bowls in 'em, nearly full of water, something like what an old aunt of mine used to keep gold-fish in; and there was a knife and fork on each plate. Then the servants brings all sorts of fruits,—apples and pears, and peaches and grapes,—and sets 'em on the table. I was asked what I'd have, and I chose a great rosy- cheeked apple. And then I were going to bite a great piece out of it, but a gent as sat next me whispers, 'Cut it, man; it's more civil to cut it.' So I takes up the knife, which had got a mother-o'-pearl handle to it, and tries to cut the apple, but I could only make a mark on it such as you see on a hot-cross-bun. Then I looked at the blade of the knife, and it were just like silver, but were as blunt as a broomstick. However, I tried again, but it wouldn't cut; so I axes a tall chap in livery as stood behind my chair if they'd such a thing as a butcher's steel in the house, for I wanted to put an edge to my knife. Eh, you should have seen that fellow grin! 'No, sir,' he says, 'we ain't got nothing of the sort.' 'Well, then,' says I, 'take this knife away,— there's a good man!—for it's too fine for me, and bring me a good steel knife with an edge as'll cut.'—Now, if you'll excuse my long story, gentlemen, it seems to me that the sort of religion you say is getting popular among the swell people and men of science in our country is uncommon like that fruit-knife as couldn't suit me. It's a deal too fine for common purposes, and common people, and common homes, and common hearts; it hasn't got no edge—it won't cut. We want a religion with a good usable edge to it, as'll cut the cords of our sins and the knots of our troubles. Now, that's just the religion of the Bible. It tells us what we're to do for God and for our fellow-creatures; it tells us how we're to do it, by showing us how the Lord Jesus Christ shed his blood to free us from the guilt and power of sin, and bought us grace by which we might walk in his steps; and it shows why we're to do it,—just from love to him, because he first loved us in giving Jesus to die for us. I don't see what use religion or the Bible would be to us if these things weren't laid down for us clear and sharp; if p'raps they was true, and p'raps not; or true for me, but not true for my neighbour; or half true, and half false; or true for to-day, and not true for to- morrow."

"Bravo!" said Dr Prosser, delighted, and clapping his hands. "I believe your rough workman's hammer has hit the right nail on the head, and hit it hard too."

"I'm very glad, sir, if you think so," said Bradly, "I've had chaps crying up to me now and then some such sort of views as the vicar and yourself have been talking about; but I've felt sure of this, however well they may look on paper, they'll never act. What's the use of a guide, if he's blind and don't know where he's taking you to? I remember I were once spending a night at a gent's house, and the next morning I had to walk to a town twenty miles off. It were quite a country-place where the gentleman lived, and when he were saying good- bye to me I axed him for directions, for I'd never been in that part of the country before. So he said, 'You must go for about a mile and a half along this road, and then you'll come to a wood on your left hand. You must go through that wood, and then any one'll be able to direct you for the rest of the way.'—'And pray,' says I, 'which path must I take through the wood? For I daresay there's more than one.'—'Oh, you can't mistake,' says he; 'you've only to follow your nose.' So I set off, supposing it was all right. I found the wood easily enough, but when I got to it I was quite at a nonplush. There was three roads into the wood, each one as distinct as the other. It was all very well to say, 'Follow your nose;' but if I looked down one road that would be following my nose, and so it would be when I looked down either of the other roads. I had to chance it; and a pretty mess I made of it, for I completely lost my way, and didn't get to my journey's end till after dark.—Now, some of these scientific gents as has got too wise to believe in the old-fashioned Bible and its plain meaning, what sort of directions would they give us through this world, so that we might do our duty in it, and get happily through it, and reach the better land? It would be much with poor sinners as it was with me. If we're to have a religion without doctrines and without a revelation, or if we're only to pick out just as much from the Bible as suits our fancies and our prejudices, we shall be just following our nose. And where will that lead us? Why, into all sorts of difficulties here, and the end will be nothing but darkness."

"Just so, Thomas," said the vicar; "I feel sure that you speak the truth. We want the plain, distinct teaching of the doctrines of God's Word, if we are to be holy here and happy hereafter. We want to know unmistakably what to believe, and how to act out our belief. What a blessing it is that, when we take up our Bibles in a humble and teachable spirit, we can say, 'Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.' But we are come upon strange times indeed, when professed teachers of the Christian religion can propound to us 'a gospel without an atonement, a Bible without inspiration, and an ignorant Christ.'—Well, Thomas, shall we come into my study? Dr Prosser will excuse me for a few minutes."

An evening or two after this conversation, as the whole vicarage party lingered round the table after supper, Dr Prosser turned to his host and said, "Judging from all I see and hear, Maltby, a parish like yours must be a famous place for testing the working value of many modern theories of morality and religion."

"Yes," was the reply; "what you say, my dear friend, is true indeed. Learned and amiable men sit in their libraries and college rooms, and weave out of their own intellects or consciousness wonderful theories of the goodness of human nature, the charms of a more genial Christianity than is to be found by ordinary seekers in the Scriptures, and the need of a wider entrance to a broader road to heaven than the strait gate and narrow way of the Gospels. But let such men come to Crossbourne, and have to deal with these people of shrewd and sharpened intellects, strong wills, strong passions, and strong temptations, and they will find that the old-fashioned gospel is, after all, the only thing that will meet all man's moral and spiritual needs. I have never been more struck with this than in the case of a reformed-infidel amongst us: the change in that man has been indeed wonderful, as even his bitterest enemies are constrained to acknowledge,—he has indeed found the gospel to be to him the 'pearl of great price.' The change in that man's character, home, and even expression of countenance, is truly as from darkness to light."

"I wish," observed Miss Maltby, "there was less of the theoretical and fanciful, and more of the practical and scriptural, in many of the modern schemes proposed for the acceptance of my own sex in the matter of education. I wish wise men would let us alone, and allow us to keep our proper place, and follow out our proper calling, as these may be plainly gathered from the great storehouse of all wisdom."

"Pray give us your thoughts a little more fully, Miss Maltby," said the doctor. "I think there may be one here at any rate who will benefit by them."

"Two, John, at least," said his wife, laughing: "for if I am the one who am to benefit, you will be the other; for whatever improves me will be sure to improve your home, so we shall share the profits."

Her husband held out his hand to her, and while they exchanged a loving pressure, Miss Maltby said: "Woman seems now to be treated as an independent rational being, whose one great object ought to be in this life to outstrip, or at any rate keep on a level with, the other sex in all intellectual pursuits. Did God put her into the world for this? Did he give her as a rule faculties and capacities for this? I cannot believe it. This ambition to shine, this thirst for excessive education, this craving after female university distinctions, why all this is eating out that which is truly womanly in hundreds of our girls, and turning them into a sort of intellectual mermaids, only one half women, and the other half something monstrous and unnatural. And what is the result? Let me read you the words of a high authority—Dr Richardson: 'These precocious, coached-up children are never well,' he says. 'Their mental excitement keeps up a flush which, like the excitement caused by strong drink in older children, looks like health, but has no relation to it.' And if this overtasking the mind is so injurious to the body, what will our women of the next generation be if things go on with us as they are doing at present? I must just quote again from the same authority. Dr Richardson says, 'If women succeed in their clamour for admission into the universities, and like moths follow their sterner mates into the midnight candle of learning, the case will be bad indeed for succeeding generations; and the geniuses and leaders of the nation will henceforth be derived from those simple pupils of the Board schools who entered into the conflict of life with reading, writing, and arithmetic, free of brain to acquire learning of every kind in the full powers of developed manhood.'"

"You make out a very gloomy case and prospect for us," said Mrs Prosser sadly and thoughtfully.

"I do," replied the other; "and what makes all this far worse is, that this mental overwork cannot go on without depriving the sufferers—for they are sufferers to an extent they little dream of—of that sweet privilege of being a true blessing to others which Christian mothers, daughters, and sisters enjoy, whose work inside, and moderately outside the home, is done simply, unostentatiously, and in a womanly manner. Verily, those women who sacrifice all to this mental forcing, to this race for intellectual distinction,—verily, they have their reward. But they can look for no other."

"But stay, my dear friend," interposed Dr Prosser. "I have been going with you heart and soul, only I felt a little jolt just then, as if the wheels ran over a stone. Was not that last expression a little uncharitable? Will all women who covet and strive after intellectual honours be necessarily shut out of heaven?"

"Far be it from me to say so," exclaimed Miss Maltby earnestly; "I was speaking about reward. Surely we make some sad mistakes on this subject; I mean about reward in a better world. We are naturally so afraid, some of us, of putting good works in the wrong place, that we have gone into the opposite extreme, and turned them out of their right place. It is surely one of the sweetest and most encouraging of thoughts that Jesus will condescend to reward earnest work done for him, though after all only the fruit of his own grace. But if we women are to have our share in these heavenly rewards, our hearts cannot be engrossed in the pursuit of earthly intellectual prizes. Oh! We cannot think and speak too earnestly on such a subject as this; can we, dear brother?"

"No, indeed," said the vicar, "when we remember that the Lord is coming again, and then shall he reward every one according to his works."

No one spoke for a while, and then Mrs Prosser asked, "What do you think, dear Miss Maltby, of these female guilds, and societies, and clubs?"

"I think very ill of them," was the reply; "for they substitute, or are in danger of substituting, self-imposed rules and motives for the simple rules and constraining motives set before us in God's Word."

"I don't quite understand you," said the other.

"I mean thus," continued Miss Maltby. "Let us take an example. I have some young lady friends who have joined an 'early-rising club.' They are to get up and be downstairs by a certain hour every morning, or pay a forfeit, and are to keep a strict account of their regularities or irregularities, as the case may be."

"And what harm do you see in this?" asked Dr Prosser.

"Just this," replied the other: "it seems to me that this banding together to accomplish an object, in itself no doubt desirable, gives a sort of semi-publicity to it, and thereby robs it of its simplicity, and in a measure deprives God of his glory in it, as though the constraining love of Christ were not sufficient to induce us to acquire habits of self-denial and usefulness. How much better for one who desires to live in the daily habit of unostentatious self-discipline modestly to practise this regularity of early-rising as an act of Christian self- denial, to be known and marked by Him who will accept and graciously bless it, if done to please him and in his strength. In a word, dear friends, I cannot but think that our female character is likely to suffer by the adoption of these new and, in my view, unscriptural theories and systems, and that the less of excitement and publicity there is in woman's work, and the more of the quiet home work and home influence in her doings, the holier, the healthier, the happier, and the more truly useful will she be."

"I quite agree with my sister in this matter," observed the vicar. "I believe that there is a subtle element of evil in this club system among young females which has escaped the notice of many Christian people. I mean the independence of home which it generates, as well as the new motives which it introduces. Thus, a bright, intelligent young lady friend of mine had joined a society or club for secular reading. The members are bound to read works, selected by a responsible person connected with the society, for one hour every day, a certain fine having to be paid for every hour missed. And what was the consequence in my young friend's case? Why, the society had usurped the place of the parents; it, not they, was to be the guide of her studies, and home duties must remain undone rather than this hour be infringed upon: for it was a point of honour to keep this hour sacred, as it were; and so the debt of honour had to be paid, even though the debt of conscience— that is, what home duties required—should be left unpaid. Just as it is on the turf and at the gaming-table,—the man's gaming debts are called debts of honour, and must be paid, come what will, while debts to the tradesman, whose livelihood depends on his customers' honesty, may remain unpaid. Such has been, or rather had been the result with my young friend. But finding that this reading-club was detaching her thoughts from home, weakening the hold of home upon her, causing her to lean on the judgment of others rather than on that of her parents, and to neglect, or do with an ill grace, duties clearly assigned to her by God, and to substitute for them self-imposed tasks and studies, she had the good sense and good principle to give it up. Surely a system which has a tendency to draw young people out of the circle of home duty, influence, and authority, and thus to make them independent of those whom God has given them to be their guides and counsellors, and to substitute the rules and penalties of a self-constituted society for the motives and discipline of the gospel, can neither be sound in itself, nor strengthening to the character, nor healthful either for mind or soul."

"Well," said the doctor thoughtfully, "there is a great deal, I am sure, in what you say, and I think my dear wife and myself are getting round to be pretty much of one mind with you now on these important matters."

It was with much regret that Dr Prosser and his wife took their leave of the vicarage and its inmates on the first of May. It was a lovely morning, combining all the vigorous freshness of spring with the mature warmth of summer. As the doctor and the vicar strolled down to the station, leaving Mrs Prosser to ride down with the luggage, they encountered Thomas Bradly, who was also on his way to the line.

"Good morning, Thomas," said Mr Maltby; "do you know how Edward Taylor is to-day?"

"Badly enough in body, sir," replied Bradly; "but I believe the Lord's blessing this trouble to his soul, and so he's bringing good out of evil.—And so I suppose we're to lose Dr Prosser. Well, I'm sorry for it, for all the working-men I've talked with was greatly set up with the lecture he gave us in the Town Hall the other night, and we were hoping he'd give us another."

"We must get him to run down and favour us again when the autumn comes round," said Mr Maltby.

"That I shall be charmed to do," replied the doctor. "It was quite refreshing to speak td such an audience. They don't leave one in any doubt about their understanding and appreciating what is said to them."

"That's true, sir," said Bradly, "and that makes it all the more important they should listen to them as can show them as Scripture and science come from the same God, and so can't possibly contradict one another; and that's what you did, and I was very thankful to hear you do it."

"I am glad that I made that clear," said the doctor.

"Yes, you did, sir; and I'm so glad you did it without any 'ifs' and 'buts.' Why, we had a chap here the other day—the vicar weren't at home at the time—and he puts out bills to say as he were going to give a popular lecture on the Evidences of Christianity, Historical, Geographical, and I don't know what besides. It were put about too as he were an able man, and a Christian man, and so me and some of my friends went to hear him. But, bless you, he couldn't go straight at his subject, but he must be making all sorts of apologies, he was so precious fearful of speaking too strongly in favour of the Word of God and the gospel, and lest he should be uncharitable to them as didn't see just as he did; and he were full of compliments to this sceptical writer and that sceptical writer, and told us all their chief objections, and was so anxious to be candid, and not put his own opinions too strongly, that most of us began to think as the lecture ought to have been called a lecture against the evidences of Christianity. I'm sure, for one who remembered what he said in favour of the Bible there'd be a dozen as would just carry home the objections, and forget the little as was said on the other side. Indeed, it reminded me of Bobby Hunt's flower- garden. But I ax your pardon, sir; I mustn't be taking up more of your time."

"Oh, go on by all means," said Dr Prosser, laughing; "I want to hear your illustration from Bobby Hunt's flower-garden."

"Well, sir, Bobby Hunt, as he were usually called, though he preferred to be spoken to as Mr. Hunt, had a cottage on the hills. He were a man as always talked very big. He'd once been a gentleman's butler, and had seen how the gentlefolks went on. So he liked to make things about him seem bigger than they really was. One day, in the back end of the year, he met me in the town, and asked me why I'd never been over to see his conservatory and flower-garden. I said I'd come over some day, and so I did.—'I'm come to see your flower-garden,' says I.—'Come along,' says he; 'only, you mustn't expect too much.'—''Tain't likely,' says I; but I weren't exactly prepared for what I did see, or rather didn't see. At the back of his cottage was a little bit of ground, with a few potatoes and stumps of cabbages in it, all very untidy; and he takes me to the end of this, and says, 'There's my flower-garden.'—'Where?' says I.—'There,' says he.—'I can see lots of weeds,' says I, 'but scarce anything else.'—'Oh,' he says, 'it only wants the weeds clearing off, and you'll find more flowers than you think for.'—It were pretty much the same with the gent's lecture. He showed us plenty of infidel weeds; but as for the Scripture flowers, they was so smothered by the sceptical objections, it'd take a sharp eye to notice 'em at all."

"You don't think, then, my friend," asked the doctor, "that this apologetic style—this parade of candour in stating the views and objections of the sceptical—is of much use among the people of Crossbourne?"

"No use at all, sir, here or anywhere else, you may depend upon it. We don't want such candour as that. The sceptics and, their creeds and their objections can take care of themselves. We want just to have the simple truth set before us."

"I quite agree with you," said the doctor: "timid defence is more damaging to the cause of truth than open attack."

"I believe you, sir. Suppose I were to ask you to employ one of my mates, and you was to ask me if I could give him a good character; what would you think of him if I were to say, 'Well, I've a good opinion of him myself, and he's honest and all right, for anything that I know to the contrary; but I should like you to know that John Styles don't think him over honest, and Anthony Birks told me the other day as he wouldn't trust him further than he could see him; and though Styles and Birks aren't no friends of mine, still they're very respectable men, and highly thought of by some. But, for all that, I hope you'll employ my mate, for I've a very high opinion of him myself on the whole'? If I were to give you such a character of my mate, would it dispose you to engage him? I fancy not. But this is just how some of these gents recommends the Scriptures in their lectures and their books. It's my honest conviction, doctor, they're not loyal believers in God's truth themselves, or they'd never defend it in this left-handed way."

"I'm afraid what you say is too true," said Dr Prosser; "and I shall not forget our conversation on this subject.—What a lovely day!" he continued, turning to Mr Maltby. "What a contrast to the day on which I last passed through Crossbourne."

"When was that?" asked his friend; "I did not know that you had been in this neighbourhood before."

"Oh, I was only passing through by rail on my way to town. Let me see; I was coming from the north, and passed your station late at night on the 23rd of last December."

"Ah, Thomas!" said the vicar, "that is a night we cannot forget.—Poor Joe Wright! His was a terrible end indeed."

"What! A man killed on the line that night near Crossbourne?" said the doctor. "I remember having my attention drawn to it more particularly, because it must have happened a few minutes after I passed over the very same spot; so I gathered from the account of the accident in the Times."

"You must have been going up to London then by the express," said his friend.

"Yes. And I've special cause to remember the night—it was dismal, rainy, and chilly. The train was very full, and I was a little anxious about my luggage, as it contained some articles of considerable value. There was no room for it in the luggage vans, which were full when I joined the train, and I had to speak rather sharply to a porter who I suspect was not over sober. He jerked up my things very roughly on to the top of the first-class carriage into which I got, and was going to leave one of the most important articles on the platform, if I had not jumped out and seen it put up myself. And then I had to scold him again for not covering the luggage properly with the tarpaulin, without which protection it would, some of it at least, have been damaged, as a steady rain was falling. I don't know when I have been more put out, and really I felt ashamed of myself afterwards. However, all was right in the end; the luggage was all safe and uninjured, and I had a prosperous journey."

"I'll wish you good morning, sir," said Thomas Bradly to the doctor, as they entered the station yard. "A pleasant journey to you, sir; and there'll be many of us working-men as'll be very proud to see and hear you again in Crossbourne."

"Farewell, my good friend," said the other. "I shall look forward with much pleasure to the fulfilment of my promise."

A few minutes more, and Dr and Mrs Prosser were on their way back to the great city.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

CONFESSION AND EXPLANATION.

When Edward Taylor's accident and its cause were known in Crossbourne, the consternation caused among the enemies of religion and of the temperance cause was indescribable. Thomas Bradly made no secret of what had happened, and of how Foster's persecutors had been outwitted: not in any revengeful spirit, but partly because he thought it better that the plain truth should be known, and so the mouths of the marvel- mongers be stopped; and partly because he felt sure that the enemy would keep pretty still when they knew that their late proceedings were blazed abroad. So he just quietly told one or two of his fellow-workmen all the particulars, without note or comment, and left the account to do its own work.

Nor could there be any doubt as to the result. Never had there been such "a heavy blow and great discouragement" to the infidel party as this. Not only was there a storm of indignation poured out upon the heads of the conspirators by the more sober-minded working-men,—for it took no very shrewd guessing to find out who had been Ned Taylor's companions in the heartless and cruel outrage,—but even those who might have secretly applauded had the plot been successful, were eager to join in the general expressions of disgust and reprobation now that it had failed; for nothing meets with such universal and remorseless execration as unsuccessful villainy. There were also those who never lost an opportunity of chaffing the unfortunate delinquents; while, to complete their mortification and discomfiture, a rude copy of satirical verses, headed, "A Simple Lay in Praise of Tar, by one of the Feathered Tribe," was printed and widely circulated through the town and neighbourhood. Nor was there much sympathy, under their ignominious defeat, between the members and friends of the Free-thought Club. After a few nights, spent chiefly in personalities and mutual recriminations, which well-nigh terminated in a general stand-up fight, the meetings of the club were adjourned sine die, and the institution itself fell to pieces in a few weeks, and its existence was speedily forgotten.

The heaviest weight of trouble, however, had fallen upon poor Ned Taylor. He had suffered very serious injuries by his fall into the old well, and, having utterly ruined his constitution by intemperance, was unable to rally from the shock and the wounds and bruises he had received. So he lay a miserable, groaning wreck of humanity on his wretched bed, in the comfortless kitchen of his bare and desolate home.

His old companions soon came to see him; not from any real care for himself or his sufferings, but partly to coax and partly to threaten him into silence, so that he might not reveal the names of his companions in the attempt on Foster. But Ned's wife soon gave them to understand that her husband had already had more than enough of their company; that they needn't trouble themselves to call again; and that she hoped, if he was spared, that he would have nothing more to say to any of them as long as he lived. So his old companions in evil, taking this "broad hint" as it was meant, left him in peace, and he had leisure to look a little into the past, and to ponder his sin and folly.

He was a man, like many others of his class, not without kindly feelings and occasional good intentions; but these last had ever been as "the morning cloud and the early dew," and like all good resolutions repeatedly broken, had only added fresh rivets to the chains of his evil habits. And so he had plunged deeper and deeper into the mire of intemperance and ungodliness, till scarce the faintest trace of the divine image could be discerned in him.

But now his conscience woke up, and he was not left without helpers. Thomas Bradly visited him on the day after his accident, and saw that he was properly cared for. William Foster also called on him in a day or two, and assured him of his hearty forgiveness. The poor unhappy man was deeply touched at this, and, hiding his face in his hands, sobbed bitterly. He was indeed a pitiable object as he lay back on his ragged bed, partly propped up with pillows, his head bound round with a cloth, his left eye half closed, and one arm lying powerless by his side.

"William," he said, when he could manage to get the words out, "I don't deserve this, kindness from you of all men in the world; it cuts me to the heart, it does, for sure. I think I heard the parson say once, when he were preaching in the open-air at the market-cross one summer's evening, summat about heaping coals of fire on a man's head as has wronged you, by returning him good for evil. I'm sure, William, you've been and heaped a whole scuttleful of big coals on my head, and they're red-hot every one on 'em."

"Well, well," said Foster, much touched by this confession, "it will be all right, Ned, as far as I'm concerned, and I hope you'll soon be better.—I've come to learn," he added in an undertone, and with strong emotion, "my own need of forgiveness for all I've done against my Saviour in days gone by, and it would be strange and wrong indeed if I couldn't heartily forgive a fellow-sinner."

"The Lord bless you for that word," said the other; "and let me tell you, William, bad as I've been agen you and poor Jim Barnes, I've never liked this job; and as for that Sharples, I knew as he was the meanest rascal to treat you as he did, and I only wish as I'd had the sense and courage to keep out of the business altogether."

"Well, you've learnt a lesson, Ned; and if it should please God to bring you round, you must keep clear of the old set."

"You may depend upon that, William," said the sick man; "I've had enough and to spare of them and their ways.—I'll tell you how it all began, William, and who it was as set the thing a-going."

"Nay, Ned," interposed Foster hastily, "I don't want to know; I'd rather not know. I can guess pretty well, though I saw none of their faces distinctly. They don't want any punishment from me if I wished to give it them, for they're getting it hot and strong from all sides already; and as for Sharples, poor wretched man, he's got caught in his own trap as neatly as if he'd set it on purpose to catch himself."

"Just as you please, William; I'm sure it's very good of you to take it as you do."

"No, Ned, don't say so; there's no goodness anywhere in the matter, except in that merciful God who so wonderfully watched over and protected me. I'm sure it has been worth all I've gone through a thousand times over, to have learnt what he has taught me in this trouble,—a lesson of trust and love. But I will come and see you again, Ned; you have had talking enough for one time."

The vicar also called on the sufferer frequently, and was glad to find him humble, patient, and willing to receive instruction. But it was to Thomas Bradly that the poor man seemed specially drawn, and to him he felt that he could open all his heart.

"I've summat on my mind, Thomas, as I wants to talk to you about," he said to Bradly one day when they were left quite alone; it was about a week after the return home of Dr and Mrs Prosser. The sick man was able to sit up in a chair by the fire, though the doctor gave no hope of any real or lasting improvement. Through the kindness of his friends his cottage had partly lost its comfortless appearance, and himself, his wife, and children had been provided with sufficient food and clothing. Yet the stamp of death was on the poor patient's wasted features, and a racking cough tried him terribly at times. But his mind was quite clear, and he had begun to see his way to pardon and peace, though it was with but a trembling hand that his faith laid hold of the offered salvation.

"What is it that you want to tell me?" asked Bradly cheerfully.

"I'll tell you, Thomas: I know I'm a dying man, and it's all right it should be so; I've brought it upon myself, more's the sin, and more's the pity."

"Nay, Ned, take heart, man; you'll come round yet, and be spared to set a good example."

The sick man shook his head, and then broke out into a violent fit of coughing. "It's pulling me to pieces," he said, when he could recover himself; "but I shall be happier if I can just tell you, Thomas, what's on my mind. It ain't about any of the wicked things as I've done, but I shall be better content when I've told you all about it. You remember the night as poor Joe Wright met his death on the line last December? Well, I'd summat to do with that."

"You, Ned!"

"Nay, Thomas, I don't mean as I'd any hand in killing him—it were his own doing; but I were mixed up with the matter in a way, and I thought I'd tell you all about it, as you're a prudent man as won't go talking about it; and I shall get it off my mind, for it's been a-troubling me for months past."

"Go on, Ned."

"Well, then, it were that same evening, two days afore Christmas-day, I were coming home from my work; and just as I were passing the Railway Inn I sees a bag lying on the step just outside the front door of the public."

"A what?" exclaimed Bradly, half rising from his seat. "But go on—all right," he added, noticing the sick man's surprise at his sudden question.

"A bag," continued the other. "It were a shabby sort of bag, and I thought it most likely belonged to Ebenezer Potts, for I'd often seen him carrying a bag like it: you know Ebenezer's a joiner, and he used to carry his tools with him in just such a bag. So I says to myself, 'I'll have a bit of fun with Ebenezer. I'll carry off his bag, and leave it by-and-by on his own door-step when it's dark; won't he just be in a fuss when he comes out of the public and misses it! I shall hear such a story about it next day.' For you know, Thomas, Eben's a fussy sort of chap, and he'd be roaring like a town-crier after his bag. It were a foolish thing to do, but I only meant to have a bit of a game. So I carries off the bag, and turns into the Green Dragon on my way home to have a pint of ale.

"There was two or three of our set there, and one says to me, 'What have you got there, Ned?'—'It's Eben Potts's bag of tools,' says I; 'I found it lying on the step of the Railway Inn while he went in to get a pint. I shall leave it at his own door in a bit; but won't he just make a fine to-do when he misses it!'—'It'll be grand,' said one of them, and they all set up a laugh.—'Let me look at the bag,' said poor Joe Wright, who'd been staring at it. I hands it to him. 'Why,' says he, ''tain't Eben's bag after all.'—'Not his bag!' cries I, in a fright.—'Nothing of the sort,' says he; 'I knows his bag quite well. Besides, just feel the weight of it; there's no tools in this bag.'—'Well, it did strike me,' says I, 'as it were very light. What's to be done now? They'll be after me for stealing a bag. I wonder what's in it? Not much, I'm sure; just a few shirts and pocket-handkerchers, or some other gents' things, I dessay.'

"'Well,' says another, 'there'll be no harm looking, and it'll be easily done—it's only a common padlock. Has any one got a key as'll unlock it?' No one of us had; so we says to the landlady's daughter, Miss Philips, who'd been peeping in, and had got her eyes and ears open, 'Have you got ever a bunch of keys, miss, as you could lend us?' She takes a bunch out of her pocket, and comes in to see what we should find. 'There's a lump of summat in it, I can feel,' says I, as I was trying to open the padlock. Well, one key wouldn't do, but another would, and we opens the bag. 'Nothing but bits of paper arter all,' says one.—'You stop a bit,' says I, and I turns the bag bottom up. Two things fell out: one were a book, I think, and it must have tumbled under the table, I fancy, for none on us noticed it; we was all crowding to see what the other thing was, which were wrapped up in soft paper, and fell on the table with a hard thump. 'Just you open it, Miss Philips,' says Joe Wright; 'it's better for your lovely soft hands to do it than our rough 'uns.'—'Go along with your nonsense, Joe,' says she; but she takes up the little parcel and opens it; and what do you think there were in it, Thomas?" He paused; but Bradly made no answer. "Ah! You'd never guess. Why, it were a beautiful gold thing full of precious stones, such as ladies wear round their wrists.

"Well, we all stared at it as if we was stuck. 'What's to be done now?' says I; 'this'll be getting us into trouble.'—'Put it back, lock up the bag, and take it back to where you fetched it from.'—'Nay,' says I, 'that won't pay; they'll lock me up for a thief.'—'Well, what do you say yourself? I wish we'd never meddled with it, any of us; it'll be getting us all into a scrape,' says another of my mates.—'Shall we bury it?' says one.—'Shall we drop it into a pond?' says another.—'Nay, it's sure to turn up agen us if we do,' says I. So we sat and talked about it for some time, and had one pint after another, till we was all pretty fresh. Then says I, all of a sudden, 'I'll tell you what we'll do, if you'll help me, and I'll pay for another pint all round,' (there was just four of us altogether). 'The express train from the north'll be passing under the wooden bridge in the cutting a little after ten; let's put the bracelet, as Miss Philips calls it, back into the bag, and lock it up safe, and then let's take the bag, and one of us clamber down among the timbers of the bridge, and drop the bag plump on the top of the train. It don't stop, don't that train, till it gets to London; so when they finds the bag at the other end, nobody'll know wherever it came from, 'cos it's got no direction to it, and we shall get fairly quit of it.'

"It were a wild sort of scheme, and I should never have thought of such a thing if I hadn't had more ale than brains in me at the time. But they all cried out as they'd join me, so we had t'other pint; and then we put back the bracelet, and stuffed in a lot of papers with it, and locked up the bag as it was afore."

"And the book?" asked Bradly, eagerly.

"Oh, we never thought about the book; it's never crossed my mind from that day to this. I suppose we forgot all about it, we was so taken up with the other thing. I daresay the landlady's daughter found it under the table; and if she did, she'd be sure to keep it snug and not say anything about it, as it might have told tales."

"Perhaps so, Ned. And what did you do next?"

"Why, we went our ways home; and Joe Wright took charge of the bag, as his house was nearest the road as leads to the cutting. We all met at poor Joe's at half-past nine, and walked together to the wooden bridge. It were a rainy night, and the timbers of the bridge was very slippy. It was proposed for Joe to drop the bag, and he were quite willing. I was in a bit of a fright about him all the time, for he'd drunk more than any of us, and his legs and hands wasn't over steady. Howsomever, we'd no time to lose, so Joe got over the side of the bridge, and down among the timbers, and the train came rushing on, and, as we stooped over the side, we could see as the bag fell plump on to the top of the carriage. We knowed afterwards as that were all right; for if the bag had dropped on one side, or been shook off, the police would have been sure to have found it. And then poor Joe—eh! It were awful; I can't bear to think of it. The Lord forgive me for having had aught to do with it!—he tried to climb back, poor chap; but the great big beams was wide to grasp, and very slippy with the rain, and he weren't used to that sort of thing, and so he lost his hold, and down he fell on to the rails, quite stunned; and, afore any on us could get at him, the stopping train were on him, and he were a dead man."

The sick man, having thus finished his story, sank back exhausted; but, recovering himself after a while, he said, "Well, Thomas, I've eased my mind: you know all. If it hadn't been for me, poor Joe'd never have come to that shocking end. I hope the Lord'll forgive me. But you may be sure neither me nor my mates meant any harm to poor Joe."

"That's quite clear, Ned," replied Bradly, gravely; "it was indeed a wild and foolish thing to do, but when the liquor's in the wit's out. No doubt you've much to repent of, but certainly you aren't answerable as if you'd killed poor Joe. Only, see how one thing leads to another. If you'd only loved the inside of your home as much as you loved the inside of the public, you'd have kept out of the way of temptation, and have escaped a deal of misery. Well, Ned, cast this burden on the Lord. Tell him all about it, as you've told me; and ask him to wash away all your sins in his precious blood, and he'll do it."

"I will, I will, Thomas," said the poor sufferer.

When Bradly left Ned Taylor's house, he walked home very slowly, revolving many thoughts in his mind, and, according to his fashion, giving them expression in a talk, half out loud, to himself, as follows:— "Well, now, we've got another step on the road to set poor Jane straight; and yet it looks like a step, and a good long step too, back'ards. It's all explained now what's become of the bag and the bracelet, but we're further off from getting them than ever. I don't know; p'raps it's lying at the left-luggage office in London. I'll send up and see. But I mustn't say anything about it at present to Jane. But, suppose it shouldn't be there—what then? Why, we've lost all clue to it; we're quite in the dark. Stop, stop, Thomas Bradly! What are you about? What are you stumbling on in that fashion for, without your two walking-sticks—'Do the next thing,' 'One step at a time'? Ay, that's it, to be sure. And the next thing's to send to the left-luggage office in London; and the rest's to be left with the Lord."

So that evening Bradly spoke to one of the guards, a fellow-abstainer, and a man with whom he was on intimate terms, telling him as much of the story of the losing of the bag as was necessary, without mentioning his sister's name, and asked him to make full inquiries in London. His friend accordingly did so without delay, but brought back the sorrowful tidings that nothing answering to the bag described was lying at the left-luggage office, or had been seen or heard of by any of the officials.

Poor Thomas! He could not help feeling a little disheartened. He had hoped, as Ned Taylor proceeded with his confession, that something was coming that would lead to the discovery of the long-lost and earnestly- desired evidence of Jane's innocence; and now that confession only showed that the bag had been carried hopelessly out of their reach. Had it been hidden away somewhere in Crossbourne, there would have been a good hope of hunting it out; but now that it had been conveyed away to the great metropolis, and had been carried off from the railway terminus, further search and inquiry seemed absolutely useless. Of course, if an honest man had accidentally got hold of it, and found out his mistake, it was possible he might have found some clue to the rightful owner in Hollands' letter, if he discovered that letter in the bag; but as nearly half a year had now gone by since the loss, there was no reason to suppose that the bag had fallen into the hands of any one willing, or, if willing, able to restore it. If, on the other hand, a dishonest person had got hold of it, of course the bracelet would have been broken up, or hopelessly sold away, and the bag destroyed.

It was now the beginning of June, when one evening Bradly was sitting in his arm-chair at home, with a shadow on his face, as he meditated on these things. Jane, whose quick eye marked every change in her brother's countenance, was persuaded that there was something more than usually amiss, for the light on Bradly's habitually cheerful face to be clouded, and gently asked the cause.

"To tell you the truth, dear Jane," he replied, "I am troubled, spite of myself, about your matter."

"What, Thomas! Have you heard anything fresh?"

"Yes, I have; but I wasn't meaning to say anything about it at present to you, as I wouldn't trouble you to no purpose, and I thought I'd wait for more light."

"Oh, tell me, Thomas, tell me! What is it?"

"Why, the simple truth is that the bag's been found; and yet it's lost, and worse lost than ever."

"O Thomas!"

"Well, Jane dear, don't fret; I'll tell you all about it." He then proceeded to give her the full particulars of Ned Taylor's story, and of the endeavour he had made, but without success, to trace the bag in London. Jane listened patiently, and did not speak when her brother had finished, but her lips moved in silent prayer.

"Thomas," she said, quietly and sadly, "it is a sore trial of faith, but let us still trust in the Lord, and follow your favourite maxim, 'Do the next thing.'"

"The Lord bless you, dear Jane, for your patience. You're right; only I don't clearly see what is the next thing."

"Will it not be of any use to advertise?" she asked.

"I'm afraid it's too late now," he said; "but, while we trust the Lord, we must use all the means he puts within our reach. It is possible, of course, that an advertisement in the London papers may meet the eye of the person who has got the bag, supposing, that is to say, that an honest man took it by mistake and has kept it." So the following advertisement was inserted for a week in the principal London papers:—

Five Pounds Reward.—A small, shabby-looking carpet-bag, was lost or stolen from the Northern Express on its arrival in London at the Saint Pancras Station, at 3 a.m. December 24th last year. Whoever will bring this bag to the clerk at the Left-Luggage Office, Saint Pancras Station, with the contents as he found them, shall receive the above reward.

Not much to the surprise, though still somewhat to the disappointment, of brother and sister, no application was made for the reward by the middle of June, and Bradly was obliged to confess to his sister that, every effort having now been made, without success, to recover the bag, he could do no more.

To his great surprise and relief, Jane heard him with a cheerful smile. "Thomas," she said, "remember the good old saying, 'Man's extremity is God's opportunity.' You told me a while since you were convinced God was about to clear up this trouble for us, and that you could trace his guiding hand. Now, somehow or other, my faith, instead of failing, is daily growing stronger. I'm persuaded, though I can't tell you why, that we shall have full daylight on this matter, and perhaps before long."

"The Lord be praised for this," exclaimed her brother. "O my dear Jane, I've been wrong to doubt him. Yes, when old Jacob gave up all for lost, and said, 'All these things are against me,' it were just the other way; the road was being made plain and straight for him—he was soon to see once more his long-lost Joseph. And so it will be now. You believe it, and I'll believe it, and we'll be looking out in faith and trust."



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

FURTHER CONFESSIONS.

Ned Taylor's misspent life came to an end a few weeks after his confession to Thomas Bradly of his connection with the awful death of Joe Wright. His internal injuries could not be healed; and, after many days and nights of terrible suffering, meekly and patiently borne, he passed away from a world on which he had left no other mark but the scar of a wasted life. Alas that beings to whom God has given faculties, by the right use of which they might glorify him on the earth, should pass away from it, as thousands do, to be remembered only as a warning and a shame! Not but that there was a little fringe of light on the skirts of the dark cloud of Ned Taylor's career. There was, indeed, no joy nor triumphant confidence at the last, but there was humble and penitent hope.

Bradly and Foster were among those who followed him to the grave, and listened with awe to the sublime words of the burial service. As they turned to go home, Bradly noticed a female among the by-standers, whose face he felt sure he knew, though it was nearly concealed from him by her handkerchief, and the pains she manifestly took to avoid observation as much as possible. She was one, if she was the person he supposed her to be, whom he would least have expected to meet on the present occasion; but he might, of course, be mistaken. That same evening, while he was sitting in his surgery about nine o'clock, he heard a timid knock at the outer door. He was used to all sorts of knocks, bold and timid, loud and gentle, so he at once said, "Come in," and was not surprised to see a woman enter, with her face muffled up in a shawl.

"Take a seat, missus," he said in a kind voice, "and tell me what I can do for you."—His visitor sat down and uncovered her face without speaking a word. It was Lydia Philips, the publican's daughter. She was simply dressed; her face was very pale and sad, and she had evidently been weeping, for the tears were still on her cheeks.

"Mr Bradly," she said, "will you give a word of advice and a helping hand to a poor heart-broken girl? You and I don't know much of each other, but at any rate you won't quite despise me, though you know who I am, when I tell you my trouble, if you'll be good enough to listen to it."

"Despise you, Miss Philips! No, indeed; I know too much of my own evil heart to be despising any poor fellow-sinner."

"Ah, that's just what I am and have been," she exclaimed vehemently; "a vile, miserable sinner.—You saw me to-day at poor Ned Taylor's funeral?" she added abruptly.

"I did, miss; and I own it took me by surprise."

"Well, Mr Bradly, I want to tell you to-night what brought me there. I know that Ned Taylor told you all about the bag, and the bracelet, and poor Joe Wright's death, because once when I called upon him in his illness, and found him alone, he said that he had confessed it all to you to ease his conscience, and that I had nothing to fear, for you were a prudent man, and would keep the story to yourself. I told him I was not afraid about that; and then we had a very serious talk together, and he begged me with many tears to forgive him for all the wicked words he had said in our house, and the bad example he had shown there; and he finished by begging and praying me to get out of the public-house and the business, where there were so many snares, and to care for my soul and a better world.

"O Mr Bradly, I can never forget his words. But they were not the first that touched me, and brought me to a sense of sin. That night when poor Wright was killed, when Ned turned that bag upside down which he told you about, a little book fell out of it under the table; but the men were so eager with their plan, and so frightened about the bracelet, that they never remembered or thought anything about the book; but I found it under the table when they were gone, for I had noticed that some of the papers out of the bag had not been put back, and I was curious to see if there was any writing on any of them, but there was not; they were only bits of silver paper and other waste paper. As I stooped to pick them up I noticed the little book, and took it up from under the table. It was an old-fashioned Bible, very faded and worn. As I carelessly turned over a leaf or two, I noticed that a red-ink line was drawn under some of the words. Not understanding why this was done, my curiosity was a little excited, and I read a few of the verses. There was one which seemed to have been very much read, for the Bible opened of its own accord at the place; the words were these,—'Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.' My heart sank within me as I read them. I felt that I knew nothing of this peace, nor, indeed, of any peace at all. I hastily turned to another part, and my eye caught the words, which were underlined with the red mark, 'Fear not, little flock; for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom.' I did fear, and I knew I was not one of 'the little flock.'

"We used to read the Bible every day at the boarding-school I went to, and the mistress explained it, and we used to get verses by heart, and a whole chapter or part of one on Sundays; and we had to write out on Sunday evenings what we could remember of one of the sermons. But this was only task-work; and I remember agreeing with my special friend at school what a happiness it would be when we were not forced to learn any more verses. But the words of the little book were quite a different thing to me—they seemed as if they came to me from another world. They made me miserable: for they showed me what I hadn't got, which was peace; and what I was not, which was one of Christ's little flock. I had heard all about it before, but I had never felt about it till then. And it made me wretched as I read. So I threw down the book on the table in a pet; but somehow I couldn't let it be. So I carried it off to my bedroom, and kept reading one marked verse after another till mother called for me. But I was thinking about the little Bible all the time; and yet I didn't want to think about it, for it made me more and more unhappy.

"So I determined to get rid of it; for every time I looked at one of those red-ink lines, the words above it seemed as though they were put there to condemn me. And, besides, I was afraid that any one should see me with that Bible, and want to know where I got it; for if the owner of the bag, who was of course the owner of the Bible too, should make a noise about the loss in the town, and it were to come round to him that I'd got the Bible, he'd be wanting me to tell him what had become of the bag and the bracelet. So I resolved to get rid of the little book; but something in my heart or conscience wouldn't let me burn it, or pull it to pieces and destroy it. Then, all of a sudden, it came into my mind— it may be that God put it there—that I would try to drop it somewhere about William Foster's house, where he or his wife would find it. I used to know Kate Foster well before I went to the boarding-school, as we were schoolfellows when we were little girls. I thought that perhaps the marked verses might do one or other of them good: for I felt how much they both needed it, and if the little book made me unhappy, possibly it might make them happy; and, at any rate, I should feel that I had done better than destroy it, and Foster's house would be the last place any one would be thinking of tracing a Bible to.

"So, late on in the evening, about ten o'clock, I crept round to the back of William Foster's house, and intended to have lifted the latch of the outer door softly, and placed the Bible on the window-sill inside. But just then I heard Kate's voice. I could hardly believe my ears— yes—she was praying and crying; pouring out her heart to God with tears. Oh, I was cut to the very soul; and then it rushed into my mind, 'Drop the Bible into the room,' for I had seen that the casement was a little open. I felt pretty sure that her husband could not be in; indeed I satisfied myself that he was not in that room by cautiously peeping in. Kate's head was bowed down over the cradle, so that I was not observed. So I drew the casement open a little further, and let the Bible fall inside. But in so doing, a ring for which I had a particular value slipped off my finger, and of course I could not recover it without making myself known."

Here Thomas Bradly took a little box out of one of his drawers, and handed it to his visitor without a word.

"Yes," she said, having opened the box, "this is the very ring; thank you very much for keeping it for me and now restoring it to me. I heard that it had got into your daughter's hands, though I didn't know how. I know I've done very wrong in telling stories about it and denying that it was mine; but I was afraid of getting myself and our house into trouble if I owned to it."

"Good," said Bradly, when she had finished her story; "the next best thing to not doing wrong is an honest confession that you've done it, and then you're on the road to doing right. I see exactly how things has gone; and now, my poor friend, what can I do for you?"

"Why, Mr Bradly, two or three things. In the first place, you won't mention what I've been telling you to the neighbours, I'm sure."

"Yes, miss, you may be sure; gossiping ain't in my line at all. But, after all, there's nothing to fear so far as you're concerned, for the Bible and the ring have both got to their rightful owners."

"The Bible, Mr Bradly?"

"Yes; it's been a blessed worker, has that little book. It belongs to my sister Jane. It were she as made them red-ink marks in it. Only this is to be a secret at present, if you please. And I'm persuaded as bag, and bracelet, and all 'll turn up afore long, and then there'll be no blame to nobody.—But what's the next thing you want with me?"

"Why, I want to sign the pledge in your book; for, please God, I'll never touch strong drink again."

"Eh! The Lord be praised for this!" exclaimed Bradly; "you shall sign, with all the pleasure in life.—But do your parents give their consent?"

"Yes, mother does. I've had a long talk with her, and, though we keep a public-house, she has seen so much of the misery and ruin that have come from the drink, that she says she'll never stand in the way of her child being an abstainer."

"Bless her for that; she'll never regret it," said Thomas.

So the book was brought out, and the signature taken; and then both knelt, while Bradly commended his young friend to that grace and protection which could alone secure her stability.

"And what else can I do for you?" he asked, when they had risen from prayer.

"Please, Mr Bradly, I want you to help me get some situation at a distance from Crossbourne, where I can earn my own living as a teacher. Mother is quite agreeable to my doing so; indeed, she sees that our house is not a safe and proper place for me now, and she'll be very thankful if I can get a situation where I shall be out of the reach of so much evil as goes on more or less in a place like ours."

"I'll do that too, with all my heart," said the other, "as far as in me lies. I'll speak to the vicar, and I know he'll do his best to get you suited. You've had a good education, so he'll be able to find you summat as'll fit, I've no doubt.—And now I'm going to ask you, miss, just to accept a little Bible from me, instead of that one which you've helped to send back to its right owner; and I want you to make it your daily guide." So saying, he took from a shelf, where he kept a little store of Scriptures, a new Bible, and sitting down, wrote Lydia Philips's name within the cover, and his own beneath it as the giver; and then, below all, the two texts, "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee;" and, "Fear not, little flock; for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom." These he underlined with red-ink. "Now," he said, "you'll keep this little book, I'm sure, to remind you of our meeting to-night. Read it with prayer, and you'll soon find peace, if you haven't begun to find it already."

The young woman received the little gift most gratefully, and said, "I will keep it, and read it daily, Mr Bradly; and I do think that I am beginning to see my way to peace. Poor Ned Taylor's words have not been in vain; and what you have said to-night has helped me on the way. I know I am not worthy to be called God's child, but I think, nay, I feel sure, he will not cast me out. I have wandered far, very far, from the fold; but now I really feel and understand the love of Jesus, and that he has come to seek and to save that which was lost."

When his visitor was gone, Bradly spent a few minutes alone in earnest prayer and thanksgiving, and then, with a bright face, entered his cozy kitchen, and drew his chair close to Jane's.

"Another little link," he said, "or, perhaps, one of the old ones made a little stronger." She looked smilingly at him, but did not speak. Then he told her of Lydia Philips's visit and conversation with himself. "You see," he continued, "Lydia fully confirms poor Ned Taylor's story; but then she brings us no nearer the bag. However, the Lord can find it for us, or show us as there's something better for us than finding it, if that be his will."

"True, Thomas," said his sister; "and now 'the next thing' is for you to see the vicar about Lydia Philips and her situation."

"Just so, dear Jane; I'll do so, if I'm spared to-morrow."



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

ALL RIGHT.

Ernest Maltby was deeply interested in the account which Thomas Bradly gave him of the work going on in the heart of Lydia Philips.

"This is the Lord's doing," he said, "and is marvellous in our eyes. I am so glad that she came to you, Thomas; and equally so that you have come to me about her, for I think I know of a situation that may suit her nicely."

"Indeed, sir; I'm truly glad of that."

"Yes; I heard yesterday from our old friend Dr Prosser that he is wanting to find just such a young woman as Lydia Philips to fill a place which is now vacant, and the appointment to which is in his hands. I will write to him about her at once, if Lydia is willing to go. Perhaps you would be good enough to call at her house as you go by, and ask her to step up and speak to me.—By the way, Thomas, have you heard anything more about the bag since poor Taylor made his confession to you? I have been so busy lately that I have quite forgotten to ask you."

"Nothing, sir, but Lydia's story; and that, as you see, merely confirms poor Ned's account. We're fast now: the bag's been in London half a year now, or thereabouts, if it hasn't been destroyed long ago; and, if it's still in existence somewhere or other, we've nothing whatever to show us where. I've not liked to trouble you any more about it, but I've left no stone unturned. I got a friend of mine, the guard of one of the trains, to inquire at the left-luggage office at Saint Pancras; and I put an advertisement for a week together into the London papers, offering five pounds reward to any one as'd bring the bag just as it was when it was lost; but it were all of no use, and I didn't expect as it would be, as it were taken up to London so long ago. It would have turned up months since if it had got into honest hands, and they had found our address in the bag. But I thought it best to try everything I could think of. And now me and Jane's satisfied to leave it to the Lord to find it for us in his own way."

"Yes," replied the vicar, "that is your truly wise and happy course; and now you can patiently wait.—But stay; it just occurs to me, now I have been mentioning Dr Prosser, that he must have been travelling by the very train on to which the bag was dropped. It was the night of 23rd December last, was it not?"

"Yes, sir, that was the night."

"And it was dropped on to the express train from the north to London?"

"It was, sir; but what then?"

"Why, don't you remember what the doctor said as we were walking with him to the station the morning when he left us? Don't you remember his saying that his luggage was put on the top of the carriage he was in, and that he was angry with the porter for his carelessness in not covering it properly?"

"Yes, sir; I think I remember it now, but other things have put it out of my head."

"Well, Thomas, it seems to me not at all impossible that the bag was dropped on to this carriage; and you know that the train did not stop till it reached London."

"Well, sir?"

"Might not the bag have been reckoned by the porter at London as part of the doctor's luggage, if it was just on the top of it, and have been carried off by him?"

"Possible, sir, but I'm afraid not very likely."

"No, perhaps not, but, as you admit, possible."

"True, sir; but if Dr Prosser took it home, and found it had been a mistake, wouldn't he have sent it back to the luggage office; and if so, the guard would have found it there when he inquired by my wish."

"I'm not so sure of that, Thomas: the doctor's head would be full of thoughts about other things, science, and other matters; and when he got home he wouldn't trouble himself about his luggage if he'd seen it safe on the cab; he would leave it to the servants to see that it was all brought in; and if there was your bag with it as well, he would not have noticed it. And if he came upon it afterwards in the hall, he would probably think it was something that belonged to Mrs Prosser, or to one of the servants. And as for Mrs Prosser herself, she was in those days so full of meetings and schemes of all sorts away from home, that a bag like that might have stood in their hall for days and she would not have noticed it; and so, if it really got there, it might have been carried off by the servants to the lumber-room, and may be there still."

Thomas Bradly smiled, and shook his head sorrowfully. "It's possible enough, no doubt, sir, but I'm afraid it's too good to be true. But is it sufficiently possible for me to do anything? Supposing the doctor took it by mistake, and it went with him to his house, and is stowed away there in some lumber-room or cupboard, from what you say neither he nor his missus will remember anything about it."

"That's true, Thomas; and certainly it wouldn't be worth while your going up to London on such a mere chance or possibility; but it suggests itself to me that, if Lydia Philips would like the situation which the doctor has to offer, and he is willing to take her on my recommendation, it would be a great satisfaction to me if you would, at my expense, go with her and see her safe to London, and introduce her to Dr Prosser, and you could then take the opportunity of asking his servants about the bag. You may be quite sure that if it is in the house they will be quite aware of the fact, and where it is to be found."

"You've just hit the right nail on the head, sir," replied Bradly thoughtfully. "I'll go with pleasure; and don't say a word about the expenses, for I shall feel it to be a privilege to give that little trouble and money if I can only lend a helping hand in settling poor Lydia in a better place than her own home, poor thing."

Three days after the above conversation Bradly called again at the vicarage, by Mr Maltby's request.