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OLIVER OF THE MILL

MAI^L\ LOUISA CIIAKLKSWORTll.

;■ i '. . "i

.^■•■^

^(s: //<//^i.^,J^ii^i<y..^4<>zn^.4h^i&^

OLIVER OF THE MILL

A TALE

MARIA LOUISA CHARLESWORTH,

MONTREAL :
DAWSON BROTHERS— PUBLISHERS.

1876.

\'^t

-<j

Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada, in the
year 18Y6, by Dawson Brothers, in the OflSce of the
Minister of Agriculture.

JPthuRte)^

TO THE OLDER LIFE OF

RONALD. EDWYN AND OSCAR BARCLAY,

IHE INFANT CHEERERS OF

^ J

MY SOLITUDB.

" Grace begun shall end in glory ;
Jesus, He the victory won ;
In His own triumphant story
Is the record of our own."

"Wherever Jesus came when upon earth He brought
peace and happiness. Wherever He trod He seemed to
dissipate grief. It could not, therefore, be possible th;it
sorrow could ever intrude into His presence in heaven.
Sorrow and sighing are often as the Christian's convoy on
earth, but they quit him for a better convoy the moment
the disembodied spirit escapes from its earthly tabernacle.

" Oh think !— to step on shore, and that shore Heaven
—to take hold of a Hand, and find it God's Hand— to
breathe a new air, and find it celestial air— to feel invigo-
rated, and find it immortality. Oh think !— to pass from
a storm and a tempest for one unbroken smile ; —

" To wake up and find it glory ! "

" My heart is resting, O my God !
I will give thanks and sing ;
My heart is at the secret source
Of every precious thing."

PREFACE.

After a period of ten years, the writer meets the
wishes of many friends, and offers another Tale, in
the trust that it may prove an interest and aid to
some youthful minds.

It has not been easy for the writer to select a
subject which seemed in harmony with her own
feelings. The buoyancy and beauty of earth's morn-
ing existence are left far behind her ; the deeper emo-
tions and Diviner loveliness of its receding life are in
view — the eye following those who, having done the
will of their Father in Heaven, are departed or
departing to be with Him for ever. The glories
of the sunset sky are attractive to every mind, but
the sunsets of human life may be oppressive to those
who have no assurance of the radiant morning to
follow. Yet, to be written truly, a tale must thrill
with the deep impressions of life on the writer's own
spirit. The light of the morning of Childhood is bright

PREPACn.

and diffusive in its influence ; but the gleams that
break through the clouds to older life's sobered eye,
revealing the Heaven beyond them, have more power
to arrest and penetrate the soul.

May it be allowed to the writer to say to any
wishing to use a tale such as this for mothers' meet-
ings or schools, that there is no need to pass over
portions as above the range of the class in view ?
Higher thoughts than once lay before the minds of
our people are welcome to them now. The wonder-
ful dissemination of the Bible opens the mind of the
class who most value and read it, to the grandest
conceptions of thought and feeling; and though it
may be that intellectually they do not rise to them,
yet the soul receiving them expands to a capability of
interest in the reflections which may unfold the
moral or spiritual life of a tale.

The shadow of evil lowers over the scene; hut
such is earthly life! No parish in which it is not
known ; few families who are unacquainted in some
form with its saddening gloom. There is but little
unconsciousness of the existence of outward forms of
evil now; the novel and the newspaper circulate in
every class. The need is, not to attempt to hide its
existence, but to let its darkness and misery prove a

PRKFACF.

beacon to warn that " the way of transgressors is
hard." Truth also requires that the contrast be given
— the parish struggling alone as to earthly guidance in
Divine life, of which so many are found ! v -th the
change when the light of a Christian life and a
Christian ministry form the centre and bond.

" O Lord, are not thine eyes upon the Truth ? "

The Cottage. NutfiELD.

'Tt'

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

CHAPTER I.

" By what name shall we call him ? " a?ketl Oliver
Crisp, as he leaned over the bed where his young,
wife, Naomi, lay, with his infant son in his arms.
The face on which the husband and father intently
gazed was chiselled into that perfect form that the
Angel of Life often leaves impressed on the features
when the silver cord is loosened, and the golden
bowl is broken. Naomi waited a few moments in
silence; this silence was natural to C'iver Crisp,
who was himself slow to speak; if a quick reply
were given him, he took the longer to consider its
bearing. He gazed stedfastly on his wife, without
a glan-^p on the infant she had placed in his arms.
Then Naomi looked up into the face of her husband,
tears trembled in her dark eyes — his were calm and
clear as they met hers overflowing with deep emotion ;
but his bowed form, the trembling hands, and quiver-
ing lip told that the strong man was no stranger to
strong feelings. , ;.

It"

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Naomi's cheek flushed a moment as she said, " I
should wish that thou shouldest call him by the
name that may seem best to thee."

Again all was stillness in that chamber; its case-
ment open to the west; the September sun was set-
ting, and its golden light rested on Oliver's bent
head, gilding the baby's robe of white, and filling
the glistening eyes of Naomi. She did not close her
eyes against the radiance of the setting sun, nor
seem to heed it; she had seen beyond the portals of
that land where " the sun shall be no more thy light
by day,'' and earthly light or shadow were little now
to her.

Oliver made no reply; Naomi said slowly in a
tone that seemed reflecting on the past —

" I had thought that I would like to call him
Malachi, for he was last of all the prophets before
Messiah came ; and if Messiah's return be near, our
son may be the last of all your house before His
second coming 1 "

Still Oliver made no reply, and Naomi held out
her arms for her child.

" Thou wilt kiss thy babe ? " she said.

Oliver bent lower and laid a kiss on the infant
head, and breathed a quiet blessing; then gave him
back to his motiier's arms, and rising, stood at the
open window. As he looked on the earth and sky,
he thought on the same aspect of all things seven
years before, when village bells at evening told the
gladness of his marriage-day. He looked on the
earth — the harvest pjlowed as then in the rays of the

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

setting sun J he looked on the sky — its glory had
not dimmed — heaven knows no fading hues. With
a heavy sigh he turned again to her, " his lamp on
earth ; " the brightness of that light was flickering,
and would soon expire for him; then earth, how
dark, how drear ! The strong man struggled with
his grief, but his cheek was white with anguish, as
he took his silent place again beside the bed. Naomi
laid her hand upon his knee, and softly said, " When
I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a light unto me.*'
He in sad undertones replied in words he had heard
her murmur on her bridal day, " Thy sun shall no
more go down.*'

This silent man, with all his strong reserve,
seemed understood by Naomi as readily in silence
as in speech. With the quick instinct that devoted
love can give, Naomi often answered to her husband's
thoughts, until he would forget he had not spoken j
his thought and feeling so clearly read and fully
understood by her responsive spirit. Words from
her lips that had ever lighted the present, now shed
a gleam on the future, as she murniured low once
more, " When ! sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a
light unto me." Her husband yielded his spirit to
them, as he always did to words from her, and be-
lieving, he beheld by faith the form of Hini who is
" the Resurrection and the Life," of Him who hath
abolished death ; from whom, and in whom, there is
no separation.

The old woman came who nursed Naomi, and
gave her wine and bread. Naomi smiled, they knew

OLIVER OP '•'riE MILL.

not why. Then looking up adoringly, she took it as
though to her it were the supper of the Lord.

The aged woman took the infant and stood
beside the bed. Naomi had closed her eyes, her
hand laid in her husband's; they watched awhile.
" She sleeps," he said. At his dear voice she looked
back again, as if half unconscious what she saw j yet
in her eyes the spirit depths of light and love. Her
eyelids closed again, and with one sigh her spirit
passed away. The old woman's tears fell on the
infant on her arm. " She sleeps ! " again her
husband said, more audibly, as though to assure
himself that she would wake. "'Tis the last
sleep!" the old nurse answered. Unable to bear
the thought, Oliver Crisp broke through his reserve,
and uttered the precious words, "He giveth His
bdioved sleep ! " Then said, " Good mother, take
the babe away." And Oliver was i'^ft alone.

Yet not alone ! Another Eye is vvatching ; an-
other Heart is throbbing, when the loved depart.
" Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death "
(now the "sleep ") " of His saints." When we take
the cup of bitterness from the hand of Him who
drank its very dregs for us, we find that He who
was Himself "the Man of sorrows and acquainted
with grief," has mingled for us the balm of life in
that cup of bitterness. The heavens were opened
above the Son of Man on earth ; they have never
closed again. VVhcre Jesus stands, beside the child
of sorrow, the heavens are open still ; and though at
times the mists of earth may dim the eye, yet it is

OJLIVER OF THE MILL. 5

freely given to look with open face into the heaven
of heavens, to follow whither Christ hath led, to see
the light, and feel faint earnests of the life of im-
mortality.

Oliver Crisp took his farewell look on the fa^-e
that had been the sun and centre of earth's gladness
to him ; so Still in its beauty, the hush of expectancy
on it, as though awaiting with listening joy and awe
the voice that would awake it from sleep I Oliver
Crisp stood long with fixed and earnest gaze; then
said —

" My jewel ! there is One who sold all to buy
thee. I give thee to Him ! "

Then turning away, he wept tears that eased and
softened the heart whence they flowed.

CHAPTER II.

" Hast thou thought on a name for thy child, my
son ? " Oliver Crisp was slow to answer. Who
could wonder I The question drew back on a sudden
the veil that closed in the earthly sanctuary of his
heart — that scene of overwhelming feeling, the last
on memory's page ; that scene, every touch of which
was graven in his heart for ever, whose record lay
apart from every other, which nothing could efface,
nor, he thought, relieve with the softening mist of
distance ; standing out clear in the reality of its
earthly agony, its heavenly tenderness and glory.
In the secret of his soul it was ever present, and
there, he thought, through earthly life's long years
it will ever lie, in the forefront of all things, until,
through the same separation of soul and body he
should pass to eternal reunion. In the freshness of
bereavement he did not know how, as the distance
lengthens behind us, and our solitary steps advance
on the "Better Countiy,^' the ties broken here
brighten before us there ; and we learn to say with
ever-deepening thankfulness, not only, " I shall
go to him,*' but also, "he shall not return to
me!" .

Oliver Crisp could not reveal that sacred scene to

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Other eyes ; he did not know how to enter on the
question, so he was silent. - " -

" The poor mother might well have named him
Benoni, 'the son of my sorrow j ' and thou mightest
call him ' Benjamin, the son of the right hand ; * for
if the boy be like his poor mother, he will full surely
be that unto thee."

Oliver Crisp rested his elbow on the arm of his
chair, covering his face with his hand. Mistress
Crisp, seeing that the subject troubled him, said no
more.

Was the term *' poor " then to be the one used
for the future to describe his Naomi, his wife, the
mother of his child ? She who ever seemed to him
the richest creature that walked the earth, in all her
human skill and tenderness, and heavenly grace
and love, and was she now to be called "poor,"
because she had passed from the sin and suffering and
sorrow of earth to her eternal rest? A stranger and
a pilgrim here, no v she was with the Father in
heaven, the absent gathered home; the child of
Light and of the Day had passed from earthly sha-
dows to the life on which darkness cannot lour.
Thus thinking of her, the sad word ''poor" fell
with a strange bewildering sound upon his ear ; but
as the struggle passed he reverted to the question,
saying —

" Not the son of her sorrow, mother ; rather say
the son of her joy ; for she is gone to all that was
more her own than anything here." . ^^^

Oliver Crisp was the fifth generation bearing the

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

same na The last three had owned the Mill

where they now lived and worked. His father at-
tended the parish church, though the highest lessons
he learned were not taught by man, but direct from
the Holy Word. He had married early into a
Quaker family, in the neighbouring town. In the
first years of married life they often drove to the
Quakers' meeting in the town, but this custom gra-
dually dropped, and they went together to the parish
church, or Mistress Crisp sent all beside, while she
kept house. She was a woman of most upright
mind ; erect in figure, rather hard in countenance,
but of a kindness of heart that sometimes showed
itself in outward expression to the surprise of those
who did not know her well. Her opinions and feel-
ings were many of them narrowed and stiffened by
early pressure from without, instead of being freely
expanded from within. This want of early expansion
of heart and mind caused her the loss of many
touches of feeling and thought that would have
moulded her strong nature with more beauty and
delicacy. Yet, true in Christian principle and feel-
ing, she lived to win the respect and regard of those
who knew her; though her influence over others was
not what under freer and fuller training it might have
been. Her home was the undivided centre of her
earthly love, though her kindness extended to many.
During her son's married life Mistress Crisp had
occupied a small but pretty cottage at the foot of the
green hill on which the Mill and the Mill-house
stood,. but now in his bereavement she had returned

OLIVER OF THE MILL. $

to make her home with him and his motherless
infant.

Oliver Crisp was the first of the name who had
not been baptized in infancy. It would have been
a strain of feeling to his mother, to which his
father would not subject her; but Mistress Crisp
knew that Naomi's feeling was strong, and con-
cluded it would probably have its influence. Wish-
ing not to add any difficulty to his mind in his
circumstances of sorrow, she herself began the
subject when some weeks had passed away, say-
ing—

" Dost thee mean to sprinkle the child )"
Baptize, mother, they call it.^^
I know it,'' she replied ; " but Baptism is of
the Holy Spirit, which many have had who never
were sprinkled. I am well assured thou hast been
baptized of the Holy Spirit, my son ; but thou never
wast sprinkled."

On this subject Oliver was ready with an answer.
He had often listened silently to the fervent words
of Naomi ; he had pondered and read on the ques-
tion, seeking counsel from the one only source of
true Wisdom; and now, to the surprise of his
mother, he replied at once — .*

"We may be sure God doth not tie up His
grace to the outward forms, so that they cannot
be parted if it so pleaseth Him; but if He, who
was man for our sakes, did use water when the
Baptism of the Spirit came on Him, we cannot be
wrong if we follow in His steps, who hath laid Bap-

OLIVER OF THR MILL.

tism on us as a command, and a means of salvation.
He stood for us all the way through, and who can
say but we should be wrong, if we slighted the
sign, when we sought for the grace ? "

" Dost thee mean for thyself, son ? *'

'*WeIl, mother, the child and I are left alone,
and we must stand as one. God grant His grace
may keep us one for ever \ "

Mistress Crisp was silent, and Oliver was con-
sidering what he had said. The October twilight
was growing duskier as they sat beside the fire; it
was perhaps an easier time to Oliver Crisp for con-
verse than the light of busy day. A feeling came
over him as if he might have seemed to shut out his
mother; she had made no comment on his declara-
tion : and presently he said in a low tone, " Mother,
might not you be the third ? "

"Ah, son! I never would at the word of thy
father; he asked it of me when thou wcrt an infant.
I have sometimes wished 1 had not denied him ;
but when we have looked only on one side, ^tis not
easy to turn for the other. We seem to have a born
knowledge that our way must be right; but I have
come to believe we should look into the Scriptures to
learn from the Word and the Spirit ; and then, may
be, we should not always stick fast where we were ! "

"Then, mother, receive the outward sign with
the child and with me; and who knows but an add^d
grace may come to us with it I "

" How could I turn for thy word, son, when I
stood out against thy father's ? '*

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

"Not my word, O mother! but His word, who
said| *A11 power is given unto Me in heaven and in
earth: go ye therefore, and teach all nations, bap-
tizing them in the Name of the Father, and of the
Son, and of the Holy Ghost.' "

"Ah, son! if it be His word, I have stood
against Him so long, I dare not turn as persuaHed
by thee."

"Yet why not?" asked Oliver Crisp. "He
who stooi as son to His mother on earth, would
never be against a son prevailing for good."

The da/s passed on quietly until Oliver Crisp
said, " I would not see October O'lt without the child
being christened."

" Well," answered Mistress Crisp, " I can tell
thee I have scarce thought on anything else. I
think I can see light in it for thee and for me ; but
for the poor babe who cannot tell one thing from
another, it seems to me superstition and nothing
less nor more.'*

Then Oliver Crisp answered slowly but readily,
as one might who spoke from a book, or from long
consideration and settled conviction, "The grace
that receiveth the poor babe that departs this life, is
free to the infant at all times. It is His grace who
knoweth no change nor shadow of turning. Thou
must deny the dead babe His mercy, or grant it free
to the living. The question of responsibility and
free-will belongeth not to babes. It is a simple case
of mercy for infants, through Him who took their
nature that they might be received in God*s mercy

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

through Him. The case of neglecting salvation or
rejecting the blessing doth not touch them. Mercy
floweth free to the babe ; thanks be to Him who was
the sinless infant of Bethlehem for them ! "

As he spoke he turned his eyes on the sleeping
infant, and the fervour of Naomi's voice came over
his soul as she said, " Did He not command that
the children should be brought unto Him? Did He
not blame those who would have kept them from
Him ? Did He not take them up in His arms and
lay His hand upon them and bless them, and exhort
all to follow their childlike spirit, if they would
inherit the kingdom ? O, Oliver," she added, " if
when we were yet without strength Christ died
for the ungodly, there surely is a welcome for the
strengthless bibe to His arms and His covenant !
What would Naomi have felt if Obed, born to Boaz,
might not have received the outward sign of God's
covenant with Israel his people 1 And what would
every Naomi, from the birth of Messiah down to
your own Naomi to-day, feel, if their infants were
denied the tender seal of the covenant of peace that
now embraces their parents ! "

Naomi had spoken to this effect, and the feeling
of her words came back over the soul of her hus-
band. Her Jewish fervour had been roused by the
question, yet she asked no promise, and never named
the subject again. Left free, Oliver Crisp felt the
personal responsibility which led him the more
earnestly to consider, and more fervently to act,
when conviction had come to his mind.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

His mother listened, but made no re^^Iy. After
a while Oliver Crisp took up the subject again, in-
creasingly anxious that his mother should see and
act as appeared right to him.

" You would hold, mother, that while we are
constantly seeking for the Holy Spirit to enlighten
our minds in the Scriptures, and the knowledge of
Christ, who is Himself the Word, you would hold
we are bound to act up to the light that we have,
without regard to the past of our life, or to man,
wouldst thou not ? " *

" Yes, thy words have a right sound," she re
plied ; " but I fear I have thought a deal of the
past, and the way I was brought up in, and had
much respect to man. I like thy discourse, and
would have thcc say more. I often wish now that
I had let our poor Naomi speak more freely with
me; somehow something rose up against it when
she tried to begin.'*

" Ah, mother, that leads us back to the babe, and
to Him who said, ' Whosoever shall humble him-
self as this little child, the same is greatest in the
Kingdom of Heaven; and whoso shall receive one
such little child in mv Namk receiveth Mel'
How then should not the little child De baptized in
His Name?''

" But they say baptism signifieth believing."

" So it must,'' replied her son, " for those of
older years, such as were those whom the Apostles
were to teach. Nor can baptism avail aught to
the child in after years if it be not followed by

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

faith. But baptism acknowledgeth the death of
nature and the raising up to a new life in Christ,
who both died and rose again that we might die
v*. His death, and be raised in Him. This baptism
signifieth ; and this the beheving parent may desire
to show forth in his child. I do ofttimes see that
a word is taken and made a block in the way, hmder-
ing and shutting out, when the blessed Truth is
opening its arms on one side and the other.*'

The name he should give his infant cost Oliver
Crisp many a thought. He said over and over,
" Malachi," " Malachi," as breathed from the lips of
Naomi ; but though a name revered in the Bible, it
had a strange unnatural sound to his ear in the
familiar life of every day. Many times, when alone,
he repeated it aloud to try whether he could get
accustomed to the thought that one named Malachi
could be the child of Oliver Crisp ; but he always
found his mind led by the name to some inspired
words of the prophet^, and never to the infant son of
his home. He remembered the reason which
Naomi had given for her choice of the name, but
that reason was one Oliver Crisp failed to take in.

Naomi's mother was a Jewess by birth, the
daughter of Jewish parents of foreign nationality.
Receiving the Christian faith she had lost all that
family ties could provide ; she had married a Jewish
missionary and had come with him, in his failing
health, to England ; led by his native ties to this
village of the West, which was the dwelling-place of
the Crisps. Left a widow, and losing all that had

OLIVK^. OF THE MILL.

»5

led her husband there, she earned a maintenance for
herself and her child by her skill in embroidery —
embroidery of the needle being in great request in
those days.

Naomi's mother, passing from the intense expec-
tation that pious Israelites held of a coming Messiah,
had found a still higher hope in the blessed expec-
tation that Jesus Christ, whom she now knew as
Israel's true though rejected Redeemer, was coming
again — that He was coming again, not first to
receive to His glory His people Israel, His typical
Bride ; but to receive first His Church to Himself,
"the Lamb's wife" — that the day and the hour of
His coming no man knew ; that all were to watch
lest coming suddenly He should find them sleeping.
Naomi's mother had but changed her expectation
from a first coming to a second coming in glory;
when the children of the Light and of the Day would
be "caught up on clouds to meet Him in the air,
and so w^ould be for ever with the Lord."

The Jewish week of six thousand years having
nearly expired, Naomi's mother dwelt in thought on
the seventh thousand — the Sabbath of rest and
blessing — and she stored the heart of her daughter
with the prophetic visions of millennial peace.

This intense personal love and expectation of
Him who had once been despised and rejected of
men, this hope full of immortality, steeped the
fading years of earthly privation to Naomi's mother
in the glow of life everlasting; and gave to her
child, Naomi, an elevation of thought and feeling.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

which raised her above the depression of early cir-
cumstances, enabling her to tread in " blessed hope "
the pathway of life, daily waiting and watching for
the Messiah's return.

Oliver Crisp had never caught the inspiration ot
this hope. He rested in the work wrought for man's
salvation, and believed it was a finished work. He
trusted his daily life to His Providence whose grace
had saved his soul. His spirit was restful, his life was
consistent ; but it lacked the onward, upward tendency
that strong expectation gives. His life lacked the
spiritual brightness given by constantly turning to
One whose return is ever drawing nearer, One in
whom every hope is to meet its infinite and eternal
fulfilment.

On the day of the infant's baptism Oliver Crisp
said finally to himself, " Maliichi ! She must have
been dreaming some old Jewish dream, or had some
vision of things to come which I cannot understand !
She said, ' I should wish thee to call him by the
name that may seem best to thee.' She was always
the wisest of women ; she knew she was leaving this
world for a better, and was more likely herself to
judge by that world than this ! I know of no name
for honest trading like Oliver. It is a name that has
stood well for generations gone by, and may for
generations to come. It was my father's name, and
he gave it honour — for a worthier man never traded
in flour. It must be settled to-day. I shall be glad
when it is done with. I am sure I had best name
him Oliver ! " . •

4>£
'i

CHAPTER III.

It was the last day of calm October. Oliver Crisp
did not go to his Mill. The day of his motherless
infant's baptism was sacred to him as a Sabbath.
The old nurse who had tended the mother looked in,
asking leave to dress the baby, to which Mistress
Crisp gladly consented, for her mind was on the
s.;rain with the events of the day, and she hardly
trusted her servant girl on a day so special ! But
when she found the old nurse fixing tiny rosettes of
crape on each little sleeve, and on the band of the
white robe which Naomi had made and embroidered
in anticipation of that day, she was displeased, and
bade her keep such conceits for those who made
mourning a question of dress. The old nurse was
hurt, and said it was unchristian to let the poor babe
go out into the world with no signs of its sorrow
and loss. Mistress Crisp might have spoken
severely, for her feelings were much on the strain,
but her son came downstairs dressed in heavy black
cloth, which made a striking difference in him, as he
wore, except in deep mourning, corduroys and top-
boots i and his hat was covered with crape. This
satisfied the old nurse, and his presence calmed his
mother. People have a way of saying, " What a sin

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

to put yourself out when going to a holy service 1 "
not considering that in the weakness of nature it is
often deep feeling keeping the spirit on the strain
which makes self-control so readily lost. Self-con-
trol is a cold victory; but the quivering spirit, if stayed
on the Lord himself, can be kept by Him in perfect
peace.

Oliver Crisp took his infant on his arm, and
wrapped it up in Naomi's shawl with as much tender-
ness as a mother. He said to the old nurse, " Pass
on, and we will follow." Then, in a voice that
struggled with emotion, " Mother, we are ^oing to
show forth that we receive the kingdom of heaven as
ittle children to-day j let us kneel at His feet whose
blessing we seek." Mistress Crisp kneeled by her
son ; it had not been her custom to kneel, she sat
on her chair at morning and evening prayer, but now
she felt it a comfort to take the outward posture of
supplication. Her son kneeled on one knee, on the
other lay his infant asleep on his arm ; quiet tears
fell from the mother's eyes, calming and softening
her spirit in prayer.

" Lord Jesus, we come in Thy name. We are
slow of Speech, and slow of understanding Thy love;
but here we offer and present ourselves, our souls
and bodies, to be unto Thee a reasonable sacrifice,
praying Thee that we may be filled with the Spirit.
We bring this infant to the arms of Thy mercy,
beseeching Thee that as one whom his mother com-
forteth. Thou wouldest receive, keep, and comfort
him, both now and evermore, to the glory of Thy

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

ervice ! **
lire it is
he strain
Self-con-
if stayed
n perfect

irm, and
h tender-
;e, " Pass
Dice that
pjoing to
leavcn as
'et whose
d by her
, she sat
but now
osture of
e, on the
liet tears
softening

We are
rhy love ;
)ur souls

sacrifice,
le Spirit,
ly mercy,
;her com-

comfort
/ of Thy

grace, O God, our heavenly Father, in our ever-
blessed Lord and Saviour. Amen."

Then Oliver Crisp put on his hat, and stepped
slowly and cautiously down the threshold-step ; he
walked as one carrying a burden; it was not the
weight but the treasure he bore that made him tread
so heedfully. They said he had never taken the
infant in his arms before that day; they did not
know the secrets of Naomi's departing hour.

As Mistress Crisp passed her own cottage gate,
she said, " I will be up with you in no time ;" and
hurrying to the casement of the now deserted dwell-
ing, she plucked a red rose, that hung its head as if
it mourned the summer. She laid it in the white
folds of her neckerchief, and hastened on. As they
trod the winding lane to the church, they saw one
and another gathering there. Farmer Caxton, in his
Sunday coat of black; Keziah,the servant girl, followed
him, with a child dressed in mourning in her arms,
Baby Meg by name; Mistress Caxton hurrying after,
with her prayer-book in her white pocket-handkerchief.
Mother Dumbleton, the village help. Old Joe
Richards, with his thin bent legs, leaning on his
oaken staff; he looked hard at Mistress Crisp, for
his small eyes were keen, he could read fine type
without glasses, and he was pretty sure he caught a
sight of the red rose that was not meant to be seen.
It was afternoc a-school time, but children were
watching down the lane to see the baby come, and,
walking slowly on before was Dame Truman, the
village schoolmistress; she held up her hand and

OLIVKR OF THE MILL.

looked to heaven as the baby passed, as though to
ask a blessing on him.

Near the church porch stood a figure never seen
there but once before — a Jew, with long black beard :
he was not an old man, but he stooped as though he
were, with do.vncast looks. Oliver Crisp had not
spoken all the way, oppressed, it might be, by the
sight of a gathering company, but now he said,^
" i here's Benoni ! " Mistress Crisp replied, " Sure
he will never come in to such a service; thee will not
ask him ; he is one who resisteth the Spirit I " Thev
passed in silence under the old church-porch, but as
they passed Benoni clasped his hands; he did not
rpeak nor look up. They left him there, and when
they returned Benoni was gone.

They entered the church, close by where the old
font stood, typical of admission by baptism to the
outward and visible church. The sponsors were
already standing there, the children of the old
Castle, whose tower and turrets rose above the
forest-trees that clustered high upon the eminence
on which the Castle stood; — Isabelle and Conrad,
eldest son and daughter of the Colonel and Madame
Gray, sponsors for Naomi^s child, and witnesses of
the elder baptisms.

The three generations — niother, son, and infant,
with the youthful sponsors, gathered round the
font. It was beautifully wreathed with creepers and
white chrysanthemums, but the flowers were lost on
Oliver Crisp ; nor did he sze the friendly people, nor
the outer wreath of clustering children, awed from

OLIVER OF THK MILL.

pressing nearer by Dame Truman's lifted finger, and
the tears she wiped away — he only saw the little
chamber in the sunset's golden light, the young
beloved wife, the extended arms holding his infant to
him, the dark eyes swimming in their tears, and
heard her low tones — earth's only music to him 1 ,
Yet was the service real ; and as its holy words drew '
back his absent heart, they led his downcast eye to
mark another presence there; — even His who gathers
the lambs in His arms, folds them in His bosom,
and gently leads the burdened ones.

When the minister gave back the infant, Isabelle
took him in her arms, and her gentle k'ii,s on the
sleeping brow left her lips wee with the sprinkled
dew. " Oliver," Naomi's child, her first god-child ;
it WLS hard to give him up when all was over, but
friendly greetings were gathering roimd the font; she
gave him to Mistress Crisp, who folded him closer
than ever before, with the secret feeling of " one
Lord, one faith, one baptism. '^ Isabelle and Conrad
turned for the Castle, and a group of many fric 's
trod the lane to the village with Oliver Crisp.

Oliver Crisp walked, thoughtful and almost silent,
in the midst of his friends. It might be singular
that a man of such silent* reserve should be so much
thought of as was this man. A stranger would not
have called him a pleasant man ; but all who knew
him felt his worth. You might not be sure of his
words, but you might be sure of his heart ; and when
his words were given they were pretty certain to be
right words.

OLIVER OF THB MILL.

Mistress Crisp hastened on, glad to find herself
alone with the infant, now drawn to her heart by a
spiritual tie. She could not be alone in company as
her son could, and her heart was overflowing with
feeling; her mind was relieved; a blessing had come
in her desire " to fulfil all rio-hteousness." He-^ son
had read the fourth of Matthew in their early service
that morning, and above her the heavens seemed
opened as never before, and the words passed and
repassed through her mind, how, when John forbade
the Saviour to seek baptism of him, the divine
Redeemer answered, *' Suffer it to be so now, for
thus it becometh us to fulfil all righteousness. Then
he suffered Him." And truly she felt more one
with Him, her gracious Saviour, on whom the out-
poured water was the sign of the fulness cf the
indwelling Spirit.

In her deeper tenderness of feeling she was sorry
she had wished to shut out Benoni. Still she
thought that a wandering ped'ar, an unbelieving Jew,
could not be in the right place in such a service, and,
was it not said in the Acts, of such unbelieving Jews,
"Ye do always resist the Holy Ghost!" Yet, for
all that, she felt kmdly now even to him. It was
strange that an outward rit? that seemed meant to
shut her in to the faith by a visible sign, instead
of making her feel more divided from those outside,
should draw her closer in feeling to such outcasts :
she could not understand this ; but she felt she had
none to inquire of save her silent son ; so as usual
she let the question alone.

OLIVER OF THE MILL

son

She did not know, and she had none to tell her,
that everv a:t of simple obedience, faith, and love
draws us cldser to the Lord himself. God is Love !
and he that dwelleth in Love dwelleth in God, and
God in him. Whether the act have an outwaid
form or be only a spiritual exercise, none can set
their heart to keep the words of Christ, without
finding the promise of Christ fulfilled, "My Father
will love him, and we will come unto him, and make
our abode with him." This was the secret of the
deeper tenderness, whether flowing through an
appointed sacrament or any other means of grace j —
the deeper consciousness of the indwelling Christ in
the soul.

And then, as small things mingle with great,
when undressing the baby, she thought of her dis-
pleasure at the little crape-rcsettes and at mourning
in general. She recollected the heavy mourning of
Isabelle Gray — her son's deep mourning did not
appear unnatural to her — Isabelle had been left
fatherless only a few months before ', and it seemed
to Mistress Crisp, in her softened feeling, that the
deep mourning made a silent appeal to those around
her to remember her sorrow, not to expect from her
what at other times would have been given — special
greetings to all assembled there ; it made a softened
barrier, a shield from the outer world, for which the
sorrowing heart was unready ; and she thought she
would not again condemn the raiment of sorrow.

When Isabelle gave back the infant, Mistress
Crisp said, " Wilt thee come and see him some-

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

times ? I know thou hadst a kindness for his poor
mother/'

The word "poor" took young Isabelle by sur-
prise ; she had loved Naomi as the friend of her soul
— a brief friendship, from her tenth to her fifteenth
year. She stood there enriched with the treasures
of Naomi's heart, and the wisdom Naomi had
learned fn m the Only Wise; the pitying word
" poor " could never be linked with Naomi's name 1
She did not know then that those who^e thoughts
cleave to the dust of the mortal body, who see not
the glory and feel not the power of the " present with
the Lord," in Whose presence is fulness of joy and
pleasures for evermore, can only speak in pitying,
though tender, terms of the departed.

Isabelle gladly accepted the invitation; and,
taking her brother's arm, they turned up the long
avenue of old chestnuts that led from the church to
the Castle.

It was one of those autumns that linger in the
mind as a perfect ideal of the season. The sky was
intensely blue, the trees in full foliage of gold, un-
touched by the wind, the stillness of the autumnal
air only more felt for the caw of the rooks floating
high overhead, and the nearer song of the robin —
that old song of hope and trust, though wintry days
may be near, heard often but slowly learned. The
children of the Castle sat under the trees on one of
the many seats placed at fine points of view. The
uplands of the park opened before them, and they
wondered at the glory of the golden foliage, and

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

*vatched the stately deer as they browsfxl under the
trees, and the touch of autumnal decay blended with
their sorrow.

The sense *of being suddenly left fatherless is a
strange surprise to a young heart. Conrad was yet
only in his seventeenth year. The shield that had
always been raided between him and the world had
suddenly dropped j the hand that had held it lay
buried cold and deep and could not raise it again.
The lieart that ever responded warmly was silent ;
he must enter life's battle fatherless! As he thought
on this, how poor seemed all the wealth at his
command, and all the outward means of advance-
ment and pleasure, weighed against that one buried
heart, to whose wisdom and tenderness he could not
now return or appeal ! But Conrad knew a Father
in heaven of whom he could say, " Thou hast given
me the shield of Thy salvation ; and Thy gentleness
hath made me great." Of all that his father had
left him, the richest and most sacred inheritance was,
he knew and felt, the life that father had lived, and
the prayers that had been offered for him.

They sat in the stillness and beauty until Isabelle
rose with thoughts of her mother^ and they hastened
home. They had spent the eaHy morning wreath-
ing the font -with bright flowers for Naomi's sake ;—
Naomi — who had entered on an inheritance incor-
ruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away.

As Oliver Crisp walked home through the lane
to the village. Mistress Caxton remarked on the
beautiful flowers adorning the font; he had not

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

noticed them, a flower had no natural attractions for
him ; but an car of corn was a marvel to his mind-
its structure, growth, aild perfection. You might
often see him lingering in a corn-field, examining,
admiring, and, we may say, adoring the bounteous
Creator. " This also cometh forth from the Lord of
Hosts, who is wonderful in counsel and excellent
in working."

Oliver Crisp asked his mother, in the evening,
if she had noticed the flowers, of which the people
in the church made such admiring mention.

His mother had noticed them; but she thought
them out of place ! Mistress Crisp had a saying,
" Things out of place are more hurtful than help-
ful." She always had a wise reason to give why
they were hurtful; yet it made the lines drawn
round her appear very strict, as many things in
her view were thought out of place, and too often
it might be that they were so in reality. Brought
up in the strictest discipline of Quakerism, strongly
bound in feeling by its outward regulations; then
placed in the midst of those who entirely disregarded
them, cut off from strict membership from the body
of Friends by her marriage, she held the more
strictly to all that outwardly belonged to that reli-
gious section. She had none to lead her above and
beyond forms and systems, to show her that the
letter alone killeth ; but the spirit giveth life. Be-
lieving the principles of the society in which she had
been brought up to be more spiritual thai» those of
any other, she had clung to outward regulations and

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

observaixces as though the shell of necessity held
the kernel. She was one whom all felt must follow
her own views j whom no one endeavoured to move
or influence; until Naomi called her " mother I " and
unconsciously drew the stiffened spirit into the softer
blendings of truth, natural and divine.

It v/as not long after the happy union of her son
with Naomi that others began to find they could
awake a new response in Mistress Crisp, even on
subjects on which they had known her mind to have
been made up before. You could penetrate the
surface now, and the pure water of the heart's true
feeling instantly sprang up to view.

Old Joseph Richards was one of the first who
discovered in Mistress Crisp a greater readiness to
listen with interest, and fall in with the feelings of
others. It was natural that old Joseph should be one
of the first to discover a softening response ; as he
was a great lover of conversation, when the subject
matter could be of his own choosing and con-
ducting.

A conversation arose between them when Mistress
Crisp had passed her first winter in the cottage at the
foot of the hill on which stood the Mill. The cottage
garden had been gay in past years — much admired by
the passers-by. Its hedge of close-clipped yew, and
yew pyramids, closely cut, on each side of the gate,
only threw into brighter relief its gay borders, where
every standard cottage-flower might be viewed in its
season. Mistress Crisp's first work on entering
was to clear out the borders ; a heap of leaves and

■^

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

roots slowly consuming, was the last relic of that
gay little garden. It was then well dug up and
closely planted with vegetables and fruit, with a bed
of herbs large enough to have supplied the kitchen
of the Castle.

The passer-by felt the change a dull one; it added
to the retirement of the cottage, as no stranger now
stopped to gaze; the only added company it brought
was the birds; they at once iiicreased in number,
the larger supply of fruit being attractive to them ;
they crowded the trees that skirted the garden, and
paid their tribute of song. It was impossible for
Mistress Crisp to have a cultivated taste for music,
and having no natural love for it, she often found
their harmony oppressive, beginning at early dawn,
and the nightingales in full chorus by night ; but to
shoot them would be a wanton outrage, and to deny
them their share of her fruit, even though she found
it a large share, would have been contrary to her
benevolent feelings; so the birds sang on, and
Mistress Crisp only expressed a regret when her
black currant and red currant jelly ran short in supply
for the sick.

It was a warm evening in spring; the first
season of the change in the garden, when old Joseph
Richards passing by, stopped to greet Mistress
Crisp, who was carefully watering her herbs.
Mistress Crisp knew how welcome a talk was to
old Joseph, and asked him in to take a seat in the
porch. Joseph entered the gate, and stopped at
every step, remarking the change.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

"Where be the grand old pi*ny that used to
roll out his red balls from yon corner? He was
king of the garden ! Did the frost nip him
up?"

"There was no need to wait for the frost,"
replied Mistress Crisp j " there is a fine bed of leeks
in that corner, and many a poor body, I hope, will
know the difference this winter between a pi )ny and
aleek/'

" Well, mistress, for all you could neither boil
him nor bake, T liked the old tree."

"Flaunting colours have no favour with me,"
replied Mistress Crisp, with decision.

"WeD, now," said Joseph, who had taken his
seat in the porch of the cottage, "when I was in
the seafaring service, I saw a deal of foreign parts,
and ni be bound you'll scarce think it creditable "
(meaning credible), " but the birds there are as gay as
any blossom; decked out, I can promise you, as gaudy
as can be. Why I have seen red and yellow and
green, all laid on together, and a touch of black, as if
to show up the colours. They were the cheerfulest
fowls you could think to see for colour ; but never
a piper amongst them ! Pll be bound, mistress. He
that made them so gay is wiser than we ! "

"But, friend, hast thou no notion of the difference
between birds of the air, and mortals, who put on
their finery for pride and conceit I "

" Well, now, mistress, don't take me amiss j you
see I have travelled amain, and that stirs a man up
to take notice. How it hurts me to see our poor

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

fellows by dozens just lay by their plough or their
sickle, as may be, for their platter, and their pipe, and
their pillow ! 1 do twit them with never looking off
the brown earth ; but they keep their eyes afore them,
and never look up nor around ! '*

" But what has that to do," asked Mistress Crisp,
" with the parading of colour ? '*

" Deary me ! " answered old Joseph, " I don't
know. I suppose I was wandering. I am given to
that sort of thing; it^s a bad feeling when your recol-
lection has broke away from the bridle, and you get
pulled up, and don't know where you be ! But as I
was thinking, for I do remember that, I never Hked
my old woman so well as when she was dressed out
in her blue gown ; it was home-spi:r, bv her mother,
and dyed a real blue; and her red -• ')bnn pinned
round her head 1 Her hair was as white as the snow,
turned right back off, as good, aye ! and as hand-
some a face as ever I wish to see 1 Sometimes she
would grow thrifty, and pin on a ribbon of black.
Wouldn't I soon have it off! I always was a
man for colour, and, mistress, you'll not think the
worse of me," said old Joseph, in a pleading tone ;
" but I do think if our old dears and our young all
travelled the waysides in black, we should look as if
we followed a funeral 1 "

" Thee may have brown, friend, and grey, with-
out seeking for show ! "

" I ^■;now it, mistress, I know it ; but only to see
how the red cloaks \ vcvn you up by the look of
them, all the same as a simbeam ! And I have sat

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

h or their

pipe, and

ooking off

fore them,

ess Crisp,

"I dWt

1 given to
our recol-
d you get

But as I
2ver liked
essed out
;r mother,
»n pinned
the snow,

as hand-
times she

of black.
ys was a
think the
ing tone;

young all
look as if

rey, with-

ily to see
e look of
[ have sat

by the firelight, and taken notice of the red poppies
on my old woman's print-gown until I have felt like
taking a walk on a gay summer-day ! Deary me !
if it had been nothing but black, I should have
thought she was sitting there mourning for me ! But
beside this, I find a blessing in it too. I have got a rose
as red as any pi'ny ; it covers my chamber-window.
I am not much for sleep now ; I always wake with
the sun, when the first bird gives its twitter under
the eave. There I lie, for it rests my old bones,
and what should I do up ? So I watch for the first
red rose that blooms, and the next, and the next ; and
you may believe me, as I lie there, with the rising sun
shining full, they mind me of the great drops of
blood that were shed in the garden from Him who
kneeled in anguish for us 1 You may not see how
they can show up like that ; but they are as like to
great drops of blood as two things can be; and
when you have once taken the notion, there is no
doing awav with it. I used to weary and weary of
the sun up so early ; but now he might shine all the
night, and I should not complain, for when I open
my eyes and see the red roses there, I am away in
that garden ! I think of Him there, then the cross,
and the grave, and the angels, and the village wher**
He turned in to sup, and the room with the doors
shut, and the shore, and the hill where He went up,
and the clouds hid Him, until they open again and
we rise up to meet Him. I finish one part before I
begin another, and now, by my thinking it over so
often, it runs as clear through my mind as yon brook.

3»

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

and I am scarce ready when I ought to be stirring
and down ! "

" Couldst thou come at a small tree for me that
would run over my window ? "

" I could gra.f one/' replied old Joseph.

" If thou couldst I would thank thee."

" Yes, yes, I can do that as well as the trained
men. I have always had nature in hand all my
day. The top gardener at the Castle, he would say
to me, 'Joe,' says he, 'I can trust ye, and a little
trust goes further than a deal of skill.' I have
known him set me to open or shut the vine-houses,
when an inch too much or too little might ruin the
fruitage. 'Be very particular, Joe/ he would say;
he knew very well it was just what I was, or he
never would have set me to do that. I had been
used in my time more to favour plantations. How
glad my lady was to get me with my bill-hook in
hand ! I used to feel vexed to hack away as I did,
for I thought, Who had made them ! but she would
look wonderful pleasant, and say, ' They will only
grow better, Joseph ! ' I did think that was a lesson
for me, to see how one bough after another has been
lopped off from me ; but I believe it was true ; for
my thoughts were all upon them when they grew
about me, and now my old heart is just resting
wholly in Him.

"But as I was saying, I can see to the tree.
We must just get a wild stock from the wood, put
in a graft off my good tree, and the wild stock will
change its nature. Is not that written out as clear in

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

the truth as if writ in a book, to teach us that the
old nature must be changed to the new., not of its
self but of a gift from above I Yes, yes, a graft
from the one tree of life, that is He who died and
rose again, in whom our life is hid ; we live if He
live in us! Ain't it so, Mistress Crisp ?"

" Yes, friend, thy memory must be a great com-
fort to tbee."

" It did not come out of my memory," replied
Joseph ; " it came from Him who gave me the gift.
O, mistress, 'tis an unspeakable gift I Haven't you
found it so ? " - *

" May be it will come fuller to me when I have
thy rose-tree! But few can have riicmoiies like
thine."

" Ah, mistress, so they say ; but I tell them we
are fashioned alike, but folks let their memories go
napping when they should be at work. I know
well *tis easiest to get slothful and stiff, and doze
away in my chair ; but T say, ' Wake up, old Joe,
and stir about, or thy limbs won't long serve ye ! '
But folks won't do that with their memory, as I tell
them ; they say 'tis gone, when 'tis no more dead
than I "am, but only just sleeping for sloth. 1 say
to them that make that excuse ready, ' Wake it
and work it, and you'll find there's life in it
yet!'"

"I don't know, friend Joseph; thy advice is
good, no doubt, but there is a weakness comes over,
that when you would remember good things you
cannot." '

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

"Well, mistress, I am always hobbling about,
having a word with one and then with another.
It IS all I can do, for I am seventy-three if I am
a day. And if I would sit and listen, folks young
and hearty, aye, children to me, would talk by the
hour and tell me all things that had happened,
aye, and things that had never happened too ; and
then when I try to turn them upon good, they say
their memories are weak. Well, I take them at
their word, and I say. No doubt that they be ! • Then
they are just satisfied and comfortable like; for there
are plenty have a notion that if old Joe will agree
with them they must be right. It ain't the thing to
set up a poor sinner like that, but that is their
notion. So when we be all agreed that their
memories be weak, I put it to them, ' How do
you serve a weak body ? Do you starve it because
it's weak?* * No,' they say, ^ we feed it.* Then
I say, ' Don't you crave to nourish it up with meat
and with wine ? ' ' Yes,' say they. ' Well then,' 1
say, ' for why do you starve your weak memory ?
Don't He say who is the Truth, " My flesh is meat
indeed, and my blood is drink indeed I " Ah, dear
souls,' I say, ' if you did feed upon Christ you would
find your weak memory grow stronger to think upon
Him ! Read of Him, speak to Him, speak of Him,
and hear of Him when you can and where you can,
and you will soon find that whatever else you forget
your memory will be strong to think upon Him.' I
put it many ways as it seems to come at the time,
and sometimes I seem to think it helps them a bit !

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Sfj

But, mistress, I be ashamed talking here for this
while. You see I be an old man, and my heart's
been filling so long that now it runs over ; but I
thank you kindly for the discourse we have had,
and I won't be slow to see after the tree. I wish
you a good night." And old Joseph raised his hat
and bowed low as he rose to depart, for no per-
suasions of Mistress Crisp had ever succeeded in
constraining the old man to forego the respect he felt
due, by uncovering his head.

" Fare thee well, friend Joseph ; I hope thee will
call in again.'*

The rose-tree was planted and flourished, and it
lacked not care. Mistress Crisp tended it with
affectioi?^ and old Joseph often looked in. He was
still a pilgrim six years after, and able to reach the
church on the day when Naomi's infant was bap-
tized, with father and grandmother, the day when
Mistress Crisp hid the red rose in her necker-
chief. Across the little pathway from where the
red rose grew over the lattice. Mistress Crisp
had a border of tall white lilies : when in bloom they
formed a beautiful contrast to the crimson blossoms
of the rose, and she preserved the lily petals in brandy
for cuts and bruises; so in one way or another the
little garden became both useful and ornamental.

CHAPTER IV.

In real life there is no such thing as monotony. An
occupation may be monotonous, or affliction may
exclude the endless variety naturally open to all, but
life itself has no monotony. The secret of the
stage holding such power to interest and enchain the
mind, is because it supplies in an exaggerated form
what every human being ought to be able to find, in
due proportion, through the emotions and percep-
tions of life.

Susceptibilities that have not their healthy exer-
cise always demand compensation in an unhealthy
and exciting form. There is more true tragedy and
comedy in real life than can ever be found woven
into the drama ; year by year they open their varied
scenes and blend their influences. Comedy is but
the ripple of the surface, catching the fitful play of
light ; tragedy the depths below. Wit or humour,
it true to the human heart, has its grace and tender-
ness; if devoid of purest feeling it may amuse the
fancy, which is itself a misshaping tool, but cannot
charm the imagination, the soul's creative faculty.
Tragedy has its emotions of joy as deep as those of
sorrow. Tragedy and comedy often blend even as
we see the tear and the smile. It is difficult to give

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

ny. An

:ion may

all, but
t of the
chain the
ited form
) find, in
i percep-

thy exer-
m healthy
ledy and
id woven
eir varied
;dy is but
il play of
humour,
d tender-
muse the
Lit cannot

1 faculty.
> those of

even as
It to give

either in strict truth with human nature; but comedy
more difficult than tragedy. Its ripple on the sur-
face is often so slight, the light that plays in it so
changeful or so fleeting, that words fail to embody
it J in its richest, purest form its essence is so subtle,
it cannot be caught and confined in the written
page; it is soon robbed of its delicate grace, and
becomes exaggerated and coarse. But it may surely
be affirmed that both are found existing in all fully-
developed life; whether rich or poor, learned or un-
learned.

It was the deeper emotions of life that were
aroused in Naomi's mother. She had been the
daughter of wealthy Hebrews, brought up in a home
of learning and elegance, enabling her to impart
much to her child tha.. raised her, both in mind and
heart, above the ordinary level even of those whose
means enabled them to command the education of
the day. Yet as the child of poverty, Naomi was
trained in all the simplicity and homely duties of
cottage life. No village " help " was seen in her
mother's home; it was Naomi who kept the floor of
cold cement, common in those parts, so clean ; who
polished the old furniture, left by her father's parents,
until you saw the bright reflection of fire or candle in
it. All was done so neatly that the little working
woman never looked untidy, nor had anything untidy
round her. It was a happy life she lived, too young
to remember any other. She was her mother's
earthly all; a child clothed with humility, and her free
and loving nature made her a general lavourite. At

3»

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

home in almost every cottage, she had many friends ;
while her constant companionship with her mother,
who most carefully taught and trained her, kept
her from the danger that her free childhood might
have found, in association with many who lacked
the grace of mind and heart that adorned her
mother.

Naomi was an English child, and dearly loved
her native home ; while the dreamland of her heart
was the fair inheritance of Israel's scattered race ;
and its horizon the blissful scene of bright millen-
nial years. Naomi's mother had never lost the feeling
of a stranger in a strange land j she could not
blend with her own life the ties that clustered round
her child ; living so intensely in feeling, shortened
her years ; few and evil life's days seemed to her ;
yet the little moment wore a halo of glory in the
love that redeemed from all evil. Naomi was the
one flower in life's wilderness for her, the one only
object for which she still toiled. At times she
almost lost sight of the past, and lived only in the
present and future, while she cherished her child.

The village miller, Oliver Crisp's father, felt from
the first the high claim that the widow had to re-
spect and attention. His kindness had cheered the
last days of her husband, and then became the
solace of the widow. He was a plain man, living
in the same house that his father occupied before
him; not caring, with better means, to enlarge his
expenses; but with a heart to feel and a hand to aid
in distress. Mr. Crisp (he too was an Oliver) some-

>m^

OLIVER OF THE MILL,

friends ;

mother,

ler, kept

d might

lacked
ned her

rly loved
ler heart
ed race ;
: millen-
le feeling
3uld not
ed round
hortened

1 to her;
•y in the

was the
one only
mes she
ly in the
child,
felt from
id to re-
eered the
:ame the
m, living
;d before
large his
nd to aid
er) some-

times found he had a bushel of flour "on hand/*
or half a sack of potatoes " not wanted ; '* or flour
had risen in the market, and Naouii's mother must
share the Ijciiefit. A grave and somewhat gruff
man to strangers, he had a blunt, kind way of giving
gifts that made them seem so natural that the re-
ceiver was never surprised, and had to think over
the event before the favour was exactly understood.

The last visit he paid her she could never forget.
It was winter, a cold snowy night; but he looked in
on his way from market ; he could not stay, only
inquiring kindly, as he had not seen them at his
house for a while ; then as he turned from her little
fireside, he said —

" I met the agent on his way yesterday for the
rent. I said you were but sadly, and would not
want to be bothered, so I paid it up; don't think of
it more, it makes no odds to me ! "

He never crossed that threshold again. An
illness of a few weeks removed him from the midst
of the busy life he led, and the deeds ( f kindness in
which he delighted. The miller's son, Oliver, was
fully able to take his father's place ; he was a son
worthy of his parents, thoughtful, true, and good to
all. Ten years older than Naomi, he had been to
her a brother, a friend, and almost a young father.
Naomi had never known life without her friend Oliver
as her playfellow.

The Mill-house was a palace in those days to
Naomi, for the farm-houses were not open to her
and her mother. It was a singularly bare abode^ for

Tpf

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Mistress Crisp removed even the few quaint con-
ceits of its former days ; but the much larger room,
the white bricks neatly sanded, the old oak furniture
from past generations, the great eight-day clock, the
upstairs rooms with their fa- -caching view, and the
wonders of the Mill, the ter f the sails that came
round so inevitably, with tnat strange low swoop,
her hand safe in her friend Oliver's whenever she
went near ; the liv e stock — two horses^ a dog, two
cats, and a poultry-yard, a large rabbit-house, and
occasional additions of little silky pigs — all this was
great advancement to Naomi; and always enjoyed
under Oliver's fostering care, his father's grave yet
tender kindness, and Mistress Crisp's cordial wel-
come, what could it lack to charm the child.

Yet this was not all, for Oliver was bent on
pleasing Naomi in her cottage home. Her canary,
looking like a drop of amber, sung in her low thatched
cottage, in a cage that Oliver had made. Her own
little rabbit-hutch was his work, and every woodland
walk she took with him, he carried her across the
streams dryshod; and while he climbed higher, he
let down a hand to help the little active girl to the
lower branches of the trees. Neither had a friend
beside, a sister nor a brother; who could help rejoic-
ing that they found all this in each other 1

As Naomi grew into her tall girlhood, the inter-
course changed ; they did not meet less often, but it
was not now for free joys of childhood. But Naomi
could still tell all their daily life to Oliver, and he
still cared for every want and wish.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

He was seven-and-twenty when his father left
him, his widowed mother's stay. It was his first
bereavement, his first sorrow. All he wanted he
had found in the two homes, and the few hearts that
made the circle of his inner life. He had no idea of
sorrow until his fcither went ; the loss fell on him
like a blow. Strong man as he was, he could not
rally ; he turned from the Mill, turned from the
market, he Feemed to turn from all; while Naomi
and her mother wept together the loss of such a
friend as Oliver's father had been.

It was many days before Oliver crosstd their
threshold; and when he came, though he sat there
as of old, he scarcely spoke; yet he came again and
again, as if their starting tears and few brief words
of sorrow had power to soothe. " He is a true man,"
said the widow, " who mourns so for a father ! "

Naomi looked up, and her full heart drank in her
mother's praise of Oliver.

It was at this time that Mistress Crisp felt called
upon to counsel her son, saying, " Is it thv mind
to know whether thy visits are acceptable to Naomi ?
If it he, thou hadst better go forward at once ; if
not, keep thy distance; thou hast been free long
enough 1 "

The cloud of bereavement that had hung so
heavily over Oliver Crisp now seemed to deepen,
and the lights that had lighted his pathway went
out one by one. Too sad at heart to seek earthly
happiness while the sods were scarce welded on the
grave of his father^ he withdrew from his friends

OLIVER OF THE MILL,

of the cotUge; and a heavy reserve, that seemed
a cliilling coldness, took the place of his once friendly
manner.

Then it was that Naomi started into womanhood,
and knew what her past life had been, what her
present was not, and what her future was never
likely to be ! A desolation stole over her young
heart, that her mother's tenderness, though it
soothed, could not cheer. The widow's soul was
pierced with a deeper grief than she had known
before ; her wan cheek grew paler, and her strength
declined. They were not left to want in temporal
things; in some way — they hardly knew how — every
want was supplied.

Mistress Crisp, quite surprised at the turn things
had taken, often called in. She never imagined
that the chilling separation could in any way have
arisen from her desire to bring thin s to an issue,
to make both happy, or save both from misery.
It was, and always had been in life her one desire
to do the right thing ; she had no second pur-
pose ever to serve ; no inferior reason ; only this
one object; — to do, and help others to do, the right
thing. Therefore, perhaps, it was, that she never
felt conscious of a mistake. If a thing took a wrong
turn, she always felt she had done the utmost to
keep it right ; if it could have been put right, what
she had done would have accomplished that end.
This was not any conscious self-assertion, but the
result of her one single aim and desire, always to do
right. Any one of less integrity would have readily

Si& All.lll' '

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

supposed the possibility of a mistake, where Mistress
Crisp felt assured she had done all for the best. She
was disappointed and sorry, for no one to her
equalled Naomi. She could not follow a stream
that flowed rock-bound out of sight.

Oliver sometimes looked in on the widow and
her daughter, but the visits were brief, and the heart-
ache deepened under his civility. He must be con-
cerned in many kindnesses done, yet they could not
tell how. Oliver now became a far more reserved
man than his father. Many kindnesses were still
shown around ; bat you could seldom trace his foot-
steps, and you seldom heard his words. He would
make suggestions to his mother, who vvas ready to
follov/ them out; she would sometimes say, '* I
don't know how it is, but the things my son can see
do not seem to strike me ! "

No one could take a liberty with Mistress Crisp ;
her high-minded character and decision kept people
at a distance. All the village felt disappointed m
the failure of their expectations, and many rumours
were afloat. Now and then a word on the subject
reached her; and if it were from any to whom she
felt called to reply, she said at first, " It's just my
son's honour; he is breaking off" to leave Naomi
free ; and then, if she is constant, he will ask her
outright." But when two years ran their slow
round, her heart became troubled, and she said,
" If evtr man sinned by honour, 'tis my son 1 I
believe he will carry it on until it meets where it
begun, right round in a circle, and love clean shut

'If

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

!■ I

out ! And if he does, I for one will maintain a
man's honour may harden his heart j for it keeps
apart two sent on earth to be one — if ever there
were such a thing as two made for each other ! And
for all that I have asked her, she has not been in
this house for a twelvemonth I "

" May be," said Mistress Caxton, who was the
one engaged in a friendly talk at this time in a call
at the Mill-house ; " may be, your son thinks of
you, and fears to break up your home."

"I wish he did think of me/' replied Mistress
Crisp, with some sharpness ; " he has heard my
mind often enough to have made up his own, and
been married, aye, twenty times over ! I have given
it up now ; for, as they say, love can't be driven.
I never felt so sure of anything as of him and Naom'.
I have vexed and fretted, too, until I have now let it
alone."

Naomi was seldom seen out; her mother required
her constant care ; and except for their liule pur-
chases, and the pint of new milk she now daily
fetched at evening milking from Farmer Caxtou's cow-
byre, she was seldom seen abroad. The childhood
she had kept so long in happy freedom of thought
and feeling, was gone ; her very youth seemed passing
away, and womanhood, with all its depth, was hers.
Her mother was fading day by day, bearing now a
broken heart, that bowed resigned, but seemed to have
no power to rejoice, feeling that her child must soon
be left quite unprovided for — to a cold, evil world,
without a friend. Her longing eyes were bent so

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

sadly on the dark future of her daughter, that they
failed to see or seek the blessedness awaiting her
own departing spirit.

This was one of those strange pauses that some-
times come in human life, when the very wheels of
existence seem locked, dragging heavily, and all
stagnates within and around. The solemn pressure
of a heavy hand is laid on the spring that governs
life ; it weighs heavier and heavier: there seems little
hope that it can ever be lifted, and the heavy-laden
spirit toils on in the dead calm of existence. So it
was with Naomi and her widowed mother ; and so
it was with Oliver. He was naturally a man of
close reserve, and when once lie had shut himself up
in his sorrow, and lost the living play of Naomi's
life on his own, his natural reserve grew and
strengthened ; he nurtured the gloom that a father's
lost presence in everything cast over him ; and had
not, it seemed, the spirit or the energy of will to
launch out into any new interest and blessing.

Old Joseph's keen eyes had long been observing
all that troubled his friends j but true religion im-
parted true feeling to him. He often said, when
others were impatient to judge, or to hurry anything,
" Remember there is a time to speak, and a time to
be silent ! Let be, let be ; don't be meddling too
soon; meddle and mar are words to hang alwavs
together. Sometimes when I am in a heat to be
doing or speaking, I strike down my old staff and
spell out the word, ' wait.' 'Tis a wonderful word !
Tens of tens of times it has held me back from

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

mischief. T have lived a long day, and most of the
troubles I have seen folks come out the wrong side
of, was just for the want of laying down at their feet
that one little v/ord ' wait/ If they had but known
the meaning of that word, they would have ended
right instead of wrong. I always hold with teaching
the young; there's nothing like it, I say. Well,
you know I am old Joseph, and there is never an
urchin but can give me the slip ; so I say I must not
set up for a teacher ! But when I have a few odd
halfpence, I just buy up a few goodies^ and when 1
happen of a child handy, I fish one out, and I say,
' Now, youngling, I'll give you this goody when you
can spell me a word ;' and then I spell, w-a-i-t.
How quick they catch it up, to be sure, with their
eye on the goody ! And it's got such a hold on
their memories, that there is scarce a child when
they meet me but cries out, ' I can spell wait/ Then
I say to them betimes, * Now, you will find that
word, WAIT, is one of the main secrets of life.
Old Joseph will soon lie under the green turf; but
when you are big lads and girls, and men and
women, you come and stand by where he sleeps, and
spell his word, wait; and what's more, you look in
the Book where he found it, and you will find a
blessing laid on it there/ I have known the time
that I have given them a goody for every separate
WAIT they would find in the Book. The poor
rogues ! I had nothing better to give them, and they
took it kindly from me/'

He was at this time a busv labourer in the Castle

■t

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

plantations, but often found time to look in at
Naomi's house, to inquire for her mother. In the
early spring of the year, more than two years since
the loss of the kind miller, he called in one evening,
and finding the widow alone, and in weakness and
pain, he sat with her awhile. Her spirit was de-
sponding, and old Joseph encouraged her to tell
out her trouble.

" Master Richards," she said, " i have never
spoken to a creature of the heavy weight on my
mind; hut we two are alone, and I believe I may
speak safely to you. 1 am dying, my days are few
now; and I have not a friend to whose care I can
commit my Naomi ! An orphan and friendless is a
terrible thing for one only nineteen, in an evil world
like this ! "

" Have ye thought on the words, ' Leave thy
fatherless children with Me ! I will preserve them
alive, and let thy widows trust in Me ? ' "

" Yes, I have read, and thought, and prayed over
every promise I could find ; but the rest and the
peace do not come.''

Then old Joseph sat considering awhile, as
though he took counsel with a wiser than himself.
At length he said kindly, "I know the trouble
must be great ! To our thinking, an earthly pro-
tector was provided, and now that blessing seems
gone 1 "

" Indeed it does," said the widow.
" Have they said one another nay ? " asked old
Joseph.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

"No, never a word but of kindness between
them."

" Be there any obstacle laid in the wav ? **
" No, I am sure of that ; there is nothing."
"Then," said Joseph, "it is but a darkness
raised up by the Evil One ! Many a time 1 have known
him raise up a cliill mist, that has crept over poor
souls, they did not seem to know how; and it's
nipped them uj) like a frost-bitten rose, the beauty
just gone, and they can't tell how it came. Some-
times it takes them with a chill to Him that's above
them, and they can't get the better of it, because
they think it's in them ; whereas it's no such thing,
but it's just round about them ; and if they would
believe it and strike through it, they would get above
it in no time. Sometimes it just comes between
them and folks here, and makes a coldness and a
gloom that keeps on troubling their minds ; and
they say, it is this, or 'tis that, when it's just no
such thing, but only a cold mist that's risen up
round their spirit ; and if they would only strike
through it, there's peace and love just beyond it.
It's a net for the feet, and it holds many a warm
heart fast bound against this or that ; and there is
only one Deliverer; but thanks be to God, there is
a Hand, if they would but take it, would lead them
out in a step, and that chill left behind them for

ever.

" I think it must be so, Master Richards ; but I
see no help for it ? "

Well, now, I am not of your mind in that ;

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

there is always help for tbem who know where to
look for it j but may be^ you have been asking and
asking to have it done from above, when it's just
left to you to do it below ? *'

" O, Master Richards, I could not do anything I

" Why not ? are they not both as your children,
the one almost as much as the other ? Have they
not both taken your word, and minded your way in
days that are past ? You are bound to speak up as
much for the good of the one as the other. I will
not say any more, for that's my word of advice, and
I can't add to it nor take from it j but you see, if I
am right and if I am sent with this message to you,
the opportunity will full surely be given, and you do
your part and use it. But let come what may, hold
your trust to Him who has promised all shall work
together for good."

The widow waited and watched. It was not
long before Oliver called in to inquire how she was ;
she was alone, and he sat down and seemed to speak
more freely than before. Any one who had anything
to say to Oliver Crisp was sure of many an oppor-
tunity in the silences between his few sentences.
Gathering up the courage of faith, the widow said,
with strong effort, " My days are numbered now — the
life you have nourished so long has well-nigh run its

earthly course. I have only one care " she

paused. Oliver neither spoke nor looked up — "one
treasure I " Oliver looked at her. " To whom shall
I leave my Naomi ? "

The stillness that followed was terrible to the

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

widow J it was only of moments, but how long
they can be !

Then with a voice of deep emotion Oliver
answered, " To me ! "

The widow clasped her hands in unspeakable
thankfulness. But when they sat silent a^ain, the
answer seemed so natural — it was the answer given
of old more often than any, — " Leave it to me; " the
words might mean no more than His care for the
orphan. The question arose in her mind, but was at
once answered by Oliver rising and asking, " Where
shall I find her ? "

" She is gone to the farm for the new milk for
me, and will now be returning."

"Does she often go there?" asked Oliver, with
an eagerness not natural to him.

" Most days, we have no one to send, and I live
on it now."

In absence of mind Oliver forgot to take leave of
the mother, and left the cottage. He took the wood
' that skirted the fields, and saw Naomi returning,
with Jonathan Caxton, the farmer's eldest son, at
her side. Hastiiy retracing his steps, he re-entered
the cottage, saying in hurried tones, all unlike him-
self, " Naomi cannot be mine I yet, believe me, I
will guard her, though it be with my life ! " and
having said this he left the cottage as hastily as he
had entered.

The mother watched for Naomi's return with
feverish anxiety. She came with her pitcher, but no
trace of any trouble on her face. The mother could

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

not question, she knew not what to ask ; she had no
clue to guide her ; and she feared to tell Naomi what
had passed. Days came and went, and Oliver did
not return. At length he came before the usual
hour of the evening milking, bearing in his hand a
new can. Taking off the lid, he held the can to
Naomi, saying, "I have cows on the Mill-fiel^
now ; can they save you your evening walk ? ** He
looked into her face as he spoke, not with the old
free glance, but with an earnest, searching gaze.

"That is good!" said Naon.i, "isn't it, mother?"

The milk now came daily, sometimes brought by
Oliver himself, sometimes sent ; but all hope seemed
likely to sink again into the same troubled waters as
before. Yet not the same; one was nearing the
shore where no tempests break nor rough billows
swell. The last sands of earthly life ran out quickly.
Old Joseph called again, and sat once more alone with
the widow ; he had often looked in when Naomi was
there, now she was absent. " Have ye been able to
settle the question between them ? " he asked.

" No,'' she answered ; " 1 took your good advice,
and it seemed to prosper, but it has all fal'x'n out
wrong, I cannot tell hov^r ; but I have no care left
now. The Lord will provide ! that word is enough
for me now. He may grant me to see that desire
fulfilled j if not, I can leave it with Him. Master
Richards, my trust is wholly wound about Him who
loved me and gave Himself for me: it cannotfail now I "

"That's right," said the old man. "Hold on.
He you trust will not fail you 1 "

OLIVER OF THB MILL.

It was evening, late in June. The mother had not
risen that day, and Naomi watched with faint heart
the sundering of her one only earthly tie. Her ear
caught a step she knew in the cottage room.

" Mother, Mr. Crisp is come in ; *' she had
called him so of late.

" Ask him in here," said the mother.

Oliver entered the little inner room, and stood by
the bed, looking down with silent sympathy.

" I know Who sent you ! " said the widow.

" No one sent me,'' replied Oliver ; " I have
been absent these two days, and came to inquire."

" You know not who sent you, but I know !
Kneel by me," she said, looking first at Oliver, then
at Naomi.

They kneeled on either side; then reaching out
her thin, transparent hands, she waited for a hand
from them, they gave it ; then laying Naomi's hand
in Oliver's, she slowly and solemnly said, "My
children, ye are one I God bless and make ye
blessings ! " Oliver trembled, Naomi was calm and
cold, but he felt the slight pressure of her hand in
his own, and said, " Naomi ! " She answered,
" Oliver ! " he clasped her hand in both of his, and
they rose up one from that hour.

Oliver saw that with the peace of every hope
fulfilled, the long-tried spirit was passing to its rest ;
and saying, in a low voice to Naomi, " I will fetch
my mother, and return directly," he hastened home.

On entering the Mill-house, he took his mother's
hand, saying, " Naomi is mine 1 *'

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

«€

her

Nay, son, but hast thou spoken ?

" It is no time for words," he replied j
mother is departing.'*

Mistress Crisp tied on her sheltering bonnet, and
hastened to the cottage. She watched through the
night with Naomi. The stars shone out in the
azure sky, scarcely dimmed by the one taper's feeble
ray. For many nights Naomi had had only snatches
of feverish sleep, while she tended her mother's
broken slumbers. Each dawn she had seen the
morning star rise over the hill, it came like a
messenger from heaven to her, bringing home in their
freshness the words, " I am the root and offspring of
David, and the bright and morning star ! '* As she
waked and watched in that lone chamber, while a
world was sleeping unconscious of her grief, the star
arose to greet her; it seemed to say, *'0 child of
sorrow, thou art not forgotten ! The voice that rolls
the stars along, spake all the promises ! " This night
she (lid not watch for the rising of the star, she was
alone no longer j but as the dawn broke over the sky
and slowly brightened, her mother said, " He cailoth
me ! " Instinctively Naomi raised her eyes towards
the hill J the morning star had risen, and its soft
splendour full in view, was linked for ever with the
last breathings of a mother's voice, and a husband's
dear embrace. In strange confusion in her young
heart the thrilling words blended themselves with
every mingling feeling — *' I will give him the morning
star " — her mother's, her own, and Oliver's !

CHAPTER V.

Naomi would not leave her now desolate home until
she left it as Oliver's bride. Mistress Crisp, with a
mothfi's care, divided her time, always sj)cnding the
night m the widow's lowly cottage. She had a
noble nature. To her it was nothing that her son's
wife was chosen from so humble a dwelling. Naomi
was her own fortune; — her lowly mind, ever seeking
heavenly grace and wisdom ; and her pure and de-
voted heart, were the richest dower. Three months
she kept her cottage home, and then consented to
the marriage-day.

Oliver brought her the wedding-dress. Long and
far had the wandering pedlar Benoni sought for one
that would satisfy Oliver. It was soft in texture
and hue as the wing of a dove, and woven of finest
wool. Naomi had always shunned all finery and
fashion, and became her simple garments well — true
woman, daughter, wife.

" My daughter, wilt thou give these garments of
thy grief away, now that God hath given thee rest
in the house of thy husband ? "

"Yes, I will not take them there," said Naomi;
" my mother is beyond the shadows, and we will not
cling to them here.'

ULIVKK OF TilK MILL.

They wandered under the forest-trccs in the
evening hour before their marriage-day, and Naomi
said, " Thou wilt not have the bells to-morrow ? "

" So my mother says," rcpHcd Oliver; "she fiilis
them tinkling cymbals I I will not have them rung
against thy will, but why dost thou say so ? "

" It is not that I do not like the bells," she said,
but it was such a little while ago they tolled so
heavily, it brought me back from my mother's joy to
our own loss and the dark grave."

"All shall be ordered as thou wilt," he answered.
"To-morrow is thine own day, and no one can unsay
thy will. But if happy spirits could list our village
bells, I know that there is one to whom they would
be dear I She thinks on thee in Paradise, and
to-morrow will fulfil her wish."

" The village would wonder," said Naomi, " that
T could be glad so soon ! "

Oliver smiled and said, " That's a long task, to
look out against other folks' wonder 1 Keep thine
own heart true, and let them wonder on ! **

" Well, I don't know, I am sure," she said ;
"but would not you feel it, — ringing over that grave? "

" Ah I " said Oliver, " I have sinned enough
over a grave not to wonder at thee ; but the thoughts
that never came to my help seem to rise up for
thine ! 1 was thinking but now that when we sow
the corn in the earth we don't think of its lying in
the darkness ; we think of its springing up again in
the blade and the ear, and the full com in the ear;
like the harvest-fields we are looking on now."

5«

OLIVER OF Tri MIa^L.

They wandered on in the beauty of evening and
the fulness of converse, as long ago, each feeling a
change in the other. In Naomi there was now the
quiet depth of a woman ; the free gush of her child-
hood and crirlhood was gone, but a power was there
that the heart of her husband could safely trust in.
He felt that her love and tru*-h would water his life,
and leave their well-spring only deeper within. Oliver
had less surface readiness than before j he seemed to
have taken a step back from his fellows in distance
and reserve, but it was not really so, for he who
draws nearer to Gcd can never really be more
distant from man, but equally nearer, though the
surface may not reveal it at sight. It was well that
they had been parted thus, to meet in greater depth
and power. Could we see the end of the Lord in
every trial, we should ir scribe " It is well " at its
close.

Mistress Crisp dressed the bride, tied on her
close straw bonnet, trimmed with white ; pinned her
shawl of white crape j and then finally added a plain
gold brooch r>he had had prepared with her mother's
hair. This Naomi welcomed with a tear ; and then
Mistress Crisp led her to the church,, where her
bridegroom avv aited her. As they entered and saw the
gathered people, Naomi trembled; but courage returned
when she stood at Oliver's side, and they took the
marriage vow, and prayed the marriage prayer, and
received the marriage blessing, and she was Oliver's
wifsj, and they returned to his home.

All was prepared^ as could most comfortably be

and

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

done^ for Mistress Crisp in the cottage, which it was
her settled purpose to enter at once ; but she spent
the day at the ^xlll-house, where she had prepared a
dinner for their friends. Many came from far and
near who could not be received; invitations had
only been given to a few, but so many greetings,
congratulations, and good wishes met them on their
way that it took a long time to accomplish the walk
to the Mill. Old Joseph uncovered his white head
as they passed, and a tear glistened in his grey eye.

The entertainment was abundant, and warm
friends sat round the hospitable board, which lacked
nothing that good feeling could supply. After their
meal, Oliver took his guests to the Mill ; the wives
and daughters remained with Naomi and Mistress
Crisp, but the latter took all the strain of the
day on herself. She talked with one, appealed to
another, and then drew all into some general sub-
ject; her motherly feeling for Naomi made her
eloquent. The head can make an orator, but elo-
(^uence is the voice of the heart ; and the most
unlearned are found eloquent when the heart is
deeply stirred. It must not be thought from this
remark that Mistress Crisp was unlearned. Her
education had been a superior one, but she seldom
put forth her powers of conversation. It took her
guests by surprise; while Naomi felt the kindness of
the shield extended over her.

Mistress Crisp arranged an early tea, after which
with many warm benedictions, yes, many a heartfelt
God bless yc I the guests departed ; and many re-

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

marks were made from one to another to the effect
that they had never seen Mistress Crisp so pleasant
before ! " She must be mighty pleased to get her
soil married, and shift herself to the lone cot," said
one, with a touch of sharpness in her tone.

" Ah," said another, " it is Naomi ! there's
none such as her j she has got her son a prize, and
she knows it."

When the guests were all gone, Oliver, who
seeemed to share his mother's animation, said,
" Now, good mother, take a rest in your chair : if
none but you could prepare, there are fdcnty to
clear 1" then taking Naomi's hand, he drew her arm
within his own, and gathering up his mother's shawl,
said, " Let's tike a turn to the old Mill."

She trod the soft turf; there were no swooping
sails coming terribly round as of old; the Mill had
not worked on that day ; yet her hand was in Oliver's,
as safe as when long years before he had held her back
from any fear of venturing too near. The mill-steps
stood facing the valley on that glowing September
evening.

The large white shawl wrapped Naomi's head
and shoulders, her fine Jewish features were not less
striking so enveloped ; the breeze that blew over
the hill had all the softness of summer, though it
bore to their ears a band of reapers' first song of
harvest-home. Few fields were yet cleared, and
much corn was still standiu^ ; the white-shirted men
were pressing stradily on in a field below them, the
corn falling before that unwavering line, and the

OLIVER OF THE MILLi

le effect
pleasant
get her
)t," said

there's
ize, and

er, who
n, said,
shair: if
Icnty to
her arm
's shawl,

iwooping
Mill had
Oliver's,
her back
nill-steps
eptember

li's head
; not less
lew over
:hough it

song of
red, and
rted men
:hem, the

and the

sickle gleaming on the shoulder, as each reaper raised
his hand of wheat-ears for the bind.

She sat as of old on the steps of the Mill. It
was a lovely scene to watch when every feeling of
the soul was rest, peace, and home. The valley
opened in its autumnal glory at the foot of the steep
grassy hill on which the Mill stood, then widened
and stretched away in the distance; while broken
lines of hill caught the fast declining rays of the sun;
— now in deep purple, then suddenly suffused with a
golden mist, then a rose tint, and as the sun's rays
sank lower, the deep solemn blue of the hills became
contrasted with the pale evening sky ; when suddenly
the s king sun threw up a radiance that covered the
western heavens with crimson, and tinged the soft
clouds of the eastern sky. It was like a grand
exhibition before the eyes of the two who sat almost
silently there, watching the closing splendours of
the day — impressed by the magnificence above, and
the beauty and bounty beneath.

In the valley at their feet every spot had its in-
terest for them. Every cottage nestling under the
trees was familiar to Naomi, and supplied by Oliver
with flour — for each cottage in those days had its
oven and baked its home-made bread. Naomi
could see the roof from under which her mother had
entered her rest; the old church-tower within the
shadow of which they had made her grassy grave.
The river winding under the trees, gleaming in the
radiance of the sky. The water-mill where the
stream flowed deepest, and the turrets of the old

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

castle on the height to the left, amid the glory of its
trees ; while the forest, scarcely touched by autumn's
golden fingers, stretched beyond it to the far distance.
Naomi caught the sunlight on the castle, and won-
dered in her heart whether any one in its grandeur
could be as happy as she was 1

Often in childhood's first glee Naomi had sat on
those Mill-steps with Oliver. They had sat there
together when she numbered more years — when first
i feeling woke up in her heart of a love more than a
brother's, and a protector that would always shield
her ! Two years had passed since then, the wintry
time of her life ; now she sat there in the rest of a
love that seemed to her nothing new, but the old
trust given back without a fear. As the sun dipped
behind the hills, she murmured softly the blessed
word, " Thy sun shall no more go down ! " Oliver
answered them not, but long after, when the sun of
earthly joy was setting for him, Naomi heard them
again from his lips, his assurance to her I

The evening star rose in the sky, her eyes rested
upon it ; she remembered the messenger of peace
that the star of the morning had been to her, and
she silently thought on those words of tender re-
monstrance, " Why sayest thou. My way is hid
from the Lord, and my judgment passed o^li
from my God. Lift up your eyes on high and
behold, Who hath created these ? That bringeth
out their host by number? He calleth them all
by names, for that He is strong in power, not one
failethl"

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

Suddenly, in the stillness, the sound of bells broke
on her startled ear, smiting the soft evening air,
awaking a thrilling emotion. "O, Oliver!" she-
exclaimed, overcome by the peal that rose over
village hearts and homes to greet them on the hill ;
" O, Oliver ! " But Oliver's face was all one plea-
sant smile as he said, "Well done, old boys ! Naomi,
you won't mind them now ! " Out they rang a true
heart-peal, clear and glad, from hands determined
that Oliver should find that village men knew how to
tell out the day. Bravely they lang, rising and fall-
ing on the ear, reverberating from hill to hill — the
only voice of the twilight, and that voice filling the
air with happy melodies for them.

" 'Tis loveiy ! " said Naomi.

"'Tis grand ! " replied Oliver; and he began to
call up in the silence of memory what special cause
the men had to ring wedding-bells for him ? Then a
few pleasant facts rose up in the gladness of Oliver's
heart, as he listened to the pealing of those happy
bells. Naomi loved them up there, where no one
was near; and as the sound floated away to the dis-
tant sea, the light on whose waters she had caught
before sunset, the words of Bunyan's Pilgrim came
back on her spiritual mind — " And all the bells of
the city rang again for joy."

Famous bells they were ; a peal, the gift of the
last maiden possessor of the Castle, and each bell
bore its own inscription :—

1st bell — " Let Christ be known around."
2nd bell — " And loved where'er I sound."

6% OLIVER OF THE MILL.

3rd bell — "Then shall true joys abound."
4th bell— "Before Him lowly fall."
5th bell — "And praise Him Lord of all."
6th ^jell— " Whene'er I lift my call."

The men were trained ; and this evening it seemed
as if every influence combined to stir the hearts and
nerve the arms of those stalwart ringers. Old John
was not much over seventy years then — the oldest of
the men, and not very strong on his legs ; but his
arms, long practised in ringing, had a wonderful
power, and he would not give up his soft tenor bell.
Oliver had no ear for music, but he knew the old
man would be there ; and to Naomi's gifted ear, his
silver bell held the music of all.

Over the woods of the Castle they rang. Its
happy circle was unbroken then. Conrad and
Isabelle were playing bowls on the lawn. She
stopped to listen, exclaiming, " How pretty the bells
sound ! I wonder why they are ringing ? "

" Now come on I " said Conrad ; and the bells
rang over their young heads unheeding.

The same sound had touched two hearts — the
child's, amid the glory of her ancestral woods ; and
Naomi's, on the high steps of the Mill. The voice
of Naomi wa , soon to be sweeter than evening bells
to young Isabelle, but as yet Isabelle had never spoken
to one who was to become her first friend.

Another ear caught the peal, and knew well the
occasion. Jonathan Caxton had turned out alone
when the bells broke on his ear. Now he buried his

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

«3

, bcemed
irts and
)ld John
oldest of
; but his
wonderful
jiior bell.
' the old
1 ear, his

ng. Its

irad and

n. She

the bells

:arts — the
ods ; and
The voice
ning bells
'er spoken

well the
out alone
buried his

face in his hands j those marriage beiis rang a knell
to his heart.

But on the bells rang, never heeding who heard ;
or rather, as determined that all should hear and
know that village men can make their warm con-
gratulations to be heard, when, not for gold, but for
hearty goodwill, they ring out their peal.

Then Naomi said, " Let us go ! I shall cry if
we stop here — the bells seem so glad 1 "

Oliver turned } her eyes were swimming in tears.
*' Let us go," he said, cheerily, " and see what my
mother thinks of the bells ! " and with the stars
biightening above in the blue sky, they hastened
ho.ne.

Mistress Crisp, fatigued both in body and mind,
had had a long sleep in the arm-chair. She woke up
at their entering, and suddenly hearing the peal,
exclaimed, "What a clatter of bells ! I call it just
folly to rouse up a village when children and old
folks are sleeping ! "

So it is that the same sound awakens feelings so
varied ! The heart-echoes are drawn from the life,
not only by evening bells, but by every voice both of
nature and grace. With Naomi at her side, Mistress
Crisp soon regained her motherly composure and
tenderness, while Oliver went to shake hands with
the ringers. They each wished him well ; but old
John raised his hand as if to invoke a blessing as he
let go of his quivering rope, and said, " A4ay ye live
long and be blessed, and be, as thy father was, like
untc the Father of fathers ! "

CHAPTER VI.

The quiet flow of happy life — two lives blended
in one, a noiseless current in its depth, and less
observed, because more complete — this life of Oliver
and Naomi leaves us free for a time to turn more
fully to others.

Mistress Crisp had decided at once to make her
own home a separate one, though still on the Mill-
property. She said it was of no use to put young
folks in the [^ood ways of the old ; for you have no
sooner taught them, than something new was sure
to turn up, making them wish for a change ! Her
decisive sentence was, " Let them meet the world
as it is, and find out for themselves ; for that is not
half-learned that Experience has not had the teaching
of ! " Yet she dwelt not far off, with a motherly
heart. She tended her herb-beds and vegetables ;
such quality you could find nowhere else; and her
single border of white lilies, multiplied year by year,
you would have supposed it the flower of her heart,
and so it was; and its purity might well make it dear to
one pure in spirit as she was ; but when vou saw her
pull off petal by petal in the prime of the blossom,
and carry them in to steep in bottles of brandy, you
knew that the compassions of her soul exceeded her

lended
d less
Oliver

1 more

ike her
e Mill-

youn^
lave no
as sure

! Her

2 world
t is not
eaching

otherly
tables ;
lud her
by year,
r heart,
dear to
saw her
lossom,
jidy, you
ded her

OLIVER OP THE MILL. OJ

admiration of the white blossoms courting the sun.
When Joseph Richards planted the red rose, no one
diminished its beauty; it blossomed abundantly, as
if it knew that it held an unequalled place.

There was not a hurt in all the country round but
Mistress Crisp shared in the credit of the cure; and
many a sufferer would trust no one but her. She
had never quite understood the ways of her husband
and son. A lone widow's, or a sick man's bill
written on " Paid," when no money had been re-
ceived, was to her mind a confusion, and not quite
the right thing. But she always said that business
ways were beyond her, and she left them alone. We
need not dwell on the exact differences of opinion in
such cases ; as Mistress Crisp settled the point by
saying, " Men have their way, and women have theirs;
and let that end the question; for we have not to look
after each other in the things that belong to the right
hand and the left ! " '

Yet she had the highest esteem for her husband.
She often said, " Thee know I was ' read out ' for
marrying with Oliver Crisp ; but what ' Friend ' in
all England would not have done so if Oliver Crisp
had been the reason 1 And the whole Society, had
they but known him, might have been glad to keep
him on second hand I " — She in, and he out ! She
kept strictly to the dress of the " Friends," and the
Bible use of personal pronouns ; and she taught the
same kindly form of speech to her son. Her son
had been brought up with no strict association with
any ceremonial of worship. "To do justly, love

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

mercy, and walk liiimbly with God," was the motto
and the hfe of the home he jrrcw up in.

Full () know Mistress Crisp, you must ask of
thf poor ; they hot know the eloquence of praise
for those whose reinenibrance dwells in their hearts.
It is a strange ttiought, the dirtercnt registers of
earth ! 1'here are the iiiand state records that tell
and that test the history ot nations. In the palace
homes and the hotels of Old England when you pass
in or out, you write your name in a book. In the
homes of the rich you leave a card, when you call,
which may be read, to tell who are the acquaintances
and friends of the family ; but ask of the poor who
their friends are, and you read the name graven on
the heart; — the fervent tone, the tearful eye, will tell
you that their friends are friends indeed 1 ^

Dress was then, as it is now, a subject of frequent
remark ; and the villagers would say, " Did ye ever see
Mistress Crisp in a bran new thing, or yet in one to
say old ? " Her perfect neatness kept everything
without spot ; and her erect, quiet movements pre-
served her garments long in wear. Her great love
for flannel and unbleached cloth for the poor made
her very unwilhug to think anything new a necessity
for herself. Mistress Crisp had attended most of the
sick-beds in the village for thirty years ; and few had
departed without her ministering aid to body and
soul. Once she failed; — it will be remembered that she
was not with Naomi in the last hours of earthly life.
When Naomi was sinking slowly in her brightness
and beauty, Oliver Crisp said, ''Mother, thee wilt be

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

with her?" But Mistress Crisp answered, weeping,
"It is no slight on thee, my son, but I ean't see her
depart I She has been the Hght of my eyes, and the
life of thy heart; and if 1 looked on, it would finish
thy mother I Thou hast sore need of a better helper
than I am, and He will not fail thee when that hour
has come/'

As far as Mistress Crisp understood others,
she spoke with kindness and truth. Yet it was
not the less a fact that many a word from her fell
with the strength and weight of a stone into the
under-current of deeper natures than her own. Such
words would sink, raising circle after circle of thought
and feeling, th.tt would have been incomprehensible
to her. Such stone-like words in life often descend
into the deepest current of feeling, troubling tlu^ still
waters, and sometimes lying in the bed of the current
like a block, always making an eddy in the stream;
but this does not prove the speaker to be hard or
insensible, but only unconscious of that which lies
hidden under the surface. Moreover, there is a great
difference between dropping a stone unawares, and
throwing a stone. Mistress Crisp did the former,
but seldom the latter.

The one whom, perhaps, she never really troubled
was Naomi. The latter's life was a crystal; you seemed
able to see the very well-spring of her thought and
feeling. Mistress Crisp had never had a daughter,
and she looked on Naomi as a rare thing, to be
handled with care. She always softened under the
beam of Naomi's full eyes, and the angles of her

;

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

sentences and sharpened tones of her voice melted
and dissolved into tenderness for her. She kept to
her principle of aliovvinir young folks to learn by the
mistakes that they made ; and passed no comment
on the slight changes that gave a grace and a finish
to the once singularly plain home of Oliver Crisp.

Children had a pleasant awe of Mistress Crisp;
however fretful in sickness, they were patient when
she s^at beside them, and they told their bad feelings
to her in a way that could not be drawn out by their
mothers. She never failed for want of a remedy ;
that it was not always successful is the lot of all who
administer medicine. Her good broth of boiled bones
and herbs was often her most restorative aid, and no
sick nurse could equal her barley-water and gruel.
She had also a closet filled with shelves, on which
were strong sheets and linen for the poor in their
sickness. It was one of her chief personal pleasures
to add to this store, and everything she possessed
was mended and repaired to the last with snch neat-
ness by hers ;lf, or her well-instructed servant, that it
was a (jucstion wiiether the garment was not more to be
admired at last than at first. The keys of this village
linen-closet, of a chest of drawers, of a closet of pre-
serves, and her small cellar, with its home-made wine
and other stores, — indeed all her keys, she carried in a
large buckram pocket j and another ample pocket con-
tained ginger md peppermint-lozenges for the aged,
and sweetmeats for the children — when the children
were good ! Mistress Crisp always took it for granted
that children were good, and this well-known expecta-

OLIVER OF TTIE MILL.

«9

tion, or persuasion, or almost certainty, together with
the hulls'-eyes, sugar-candy, and other sweetmeats,
which somehow found a place in her capacious
pocKet, went far to produce the good behaviour
expected.

There was no personal effort that Mistress Crisp
so carefully avoided as the finding fault with old or
young. Many a fault she did not see ; not from any
indirectness of vision, but because she thought an
escape might prove a warning. But when she under-
took to train a young servant, for whom she felt
responsible, nothing escaped her remarks, though she
did not make every fault a subject of censure. Her
domestic arrangements were always kept in such
order that they never wanted putting to rights, and
the best of household maids were those who began
with Mistress Crisp. It must be remembered that it
was far easier in those days to train a young servant
than in these; for girls then made their place of
service their home ; they felt its interest and its wel-
fare their own; their quiet and becoming dress went
on much the same year after year, they did not hurry
into ftishion and folly ; their attraction lay in them-
selves, and not in their dress ; and many a servant
became a trusted friend, loved and cared for to the
end as one of the family.

Mistress Crisp put her servant-girl well and
patiently into the way of doing evervthiiig, and then
expected her to attend to all that she had taught her.
She had but one penalty for inattention — it was a
singular one, but it answered. If dust were left aftci

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

the duster, or a litter on the floor, or a wrinkle on
the bed-quilt, or spots and marks on furniture, or a
smear on the china when washed — her old china was
choice, and she used it, but it did not signify how
common the ware if the smear were upon it — for any
failure of this kind Mistress Crisp put on her tortoise-
shell spectacles the next day, and sat in the centre of
the room watching the whole proceeding ; and unless
you had once seen her in this position, you could
scarcely imagine how f ffectivc it was. There was a
saying amongst the village mothers, " Get your girl
to Mistress Crisp, and you have made her for life."

It would not now be easy to find such a one as
Mistress Crisp. Some fifty years ago such charac-
ters were not so uncommon. The waves of restless
thought and action that now everywhere agitate life
flowed with comparative stillness then. Personal
character had time to take form, and there was space
and leisure for others to observe the form that it
took. But now, when crowd meets crowd, when
distance is reckoned by moments, when events lose
their order of succession, and claims press in on all
sides, how can marked character be readily formed ?
Or, if formed, who will pause to observe and record ?
We miy write of the past, and find it easy to trace
the foot-prints of souls calmly treading life's path,
and living out for others the experience they had
won ; but will the future give these again, or far other
jiicturcs of life ? Eyes that looked around half a
century ago return to the past for quiet portraits; —
portraits of those high enough in general excellence

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

kle on
e, or a
la was
y how
for any
)rtoise-
ntre of
unless

could
B was a
)ur girl
life."
, one as
charac-
restless
;atc life
ersonal
IS space

that it
1, when
tits lose
a on all
formed ?
record ?
to trace
;'s path,
hey had
far other
\ half a
:raits ; —
xcellence

to be. models, yet low enough to be left in the sweet-
ness of seclusion.

We turn now to Jonathan Caxton. He it was
to whom Naomi's marriage-hells were but a muffled
peal, ringing backwards the hope of his heart.
He was the eldest son of the largest farmer of the
place — a njan who, though rich, kept up all the habits
of a plain farmer's life. His sons went out for their
day's work, and all that was done on Farmer Cax-
ton's farm was well done. Jonathan had felt an
early attraction to Naomi. Her birth graced her
lowly station, and carried into it a simple dignity and
gentleness rare even in those quieter days of Eng-
land's daughters. The village never dou'jted the love
between Oliver Crisp and Naomi ; but when Oliver
nppcarcd a changed man, reserved, and with a shadow
hanging over him, it was supposed he must have been
denied, and young Jonathan's hope grew strong.
But Naomi's was no heart to change. Oliver was
cold, but this might yet pass, and he, and he only,
she felt, could he one with her life.

Jonathan jiskcd not her hand, but showed her
what kindness he could in friendly manner. Yet,
meeting no encouragement, he determined to get the
question settled by speaking to his mother, through
whom all appeals were made to his father, and then
asking Naomi, who could not refuse him when no other
suitor urged his prayer. He knew not the strength
that can repose beneath gentleness. But it never
came to this point ; for Farmer Caxton, a successful
maker of money, had also acquired the love of money.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

m I

On any subject involving money he was very hard
to approach ; no one in his family could venture it
except his wife, and she with great caution.

" Farmer Caxton/' said Mistress Caxton — for on
grave occasions she would so address him — " our
Jonathan has set his mind on the girl Naomi. I
am well assured he might look higher, and not do
better, and shall be as glad for my part as the lad if
you will not say him nay."

"Jonathan marry the widow's daughter! I
should like to know when ? When he has made both
ends meet for himself, I can tell him 1 Shall I work
my life out, that my sons may go and take up with
paupers ! You may tell him Naomi shall never
daiken my door, nor he either, if he stirs a step
after her.'^ And Farmer Caxton turned out.

Naomi darken a door 1 She who came as a sun-
beam from heaven ! lliere are souls on earth whose
very presence attempers the atmosphere around them.
Sent from God, they have more than an angel's
mission here. They come to minister to others' need.
They come to walk in love, and dwell in love ; for they
dwell in God, and God is love. And such as these
was Naomi.

" Mother, I can't be denied 1 Here or other-
where, I must have Naomi."

'' Lad, it is of no use ; your father never changes
his mind. I was dead set against marrying him
myself j I told him over and over that I never would ;
but he just held on till I found myself his. It is no
manner of use speaking of it again j you might as

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

soon move a r^ck as turn your father from one way
to the other."

"Well^ mother, I have told you the end; so you
had hest let him into the light of it too."

Mistress Caxton watehed her opportunity for
many a day, then said, in a pleading tone, *' Father,
have you any young woman in sight for our Jona-
than ?'"

ISow Farmer Caxton was a plain-spoken man,
and he answered, '' Not 1 ! But I have this thing
in sight — that a farmer wants capital to do any good,
and a farmer's wife must bring money. Do you
suppose I would have made you Mistress Caxton if
you had brought me no money ? Young folks take
a liking, a.nd they think that reason enough to go
marrying. Our eldest son, too, and half-a-dozen
y(HUiger ones after him, treading on each other's
heels ! What^s a father for but to look out for his
son ; and to begin with agreeing to a thing like that,
where, pray, would it end, but in ruin and
want?" *

" Well," said Mistress Caxton, with a touch of
displeasure in her tone, " I think you have proved,
if ever man did, that it is a head and a good pair of
hands that are worth every bit as much in a farm as
the money a woman brings. And it's my mind, and
I'll speak it, that if ever woman had the gift to make
mucli out of little, it is Naomi."

" I have said it," saiJ Farmer Caxton, "and I'll
not hear of it again."

^' Then I had better warn you the lad may be off;

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

for he has got a will like his father's — not given to

change.

" Let him go," said Farmer Caxton, in the cold-
ness of anger ; " his brother shall stand in his
shoes."

Jonathan heard the decision from his mother. He
waited awhile in doubt, dreading his father's hard
nature; and Naomi was given where alone her heart
could give its affection.

ven to

e cold-
in his

ler. He
's hard
r heart

CHAPTER Vn.

If it be the strong influences that govern, it is the
gentle influenccF that mould into beauty. The
strength of the wind may be irresistible, and its
purifying fury a blessing; but it is the soft breeze and
baluiy air that expand nature and bring it to per-
fection. The rushing torrent cleaves a pathway
through rocks, but it is the gently-flowing river and
gliding streamlet that fertilize. This is the Divine
teaching in creation : it is the same teaching by the
Word of God. Green pastures and still waters are
the experience of blessing in following the Good
Shepherd. Elijah stands out in Holy Scripture with
a grandeur unrelieved by the softer touches of nature ;
yet even to him the Lord came not in the strong
wind that rent the mountains and broke the rocks,
nor in the earthquake, nor in the fire, but in the still
small voice; at that still small voice Elijah wrapped
his face in his mantle and went out. The great
lawgiver who had dwelt alone with Jehovah, amidst
the flame and thunder of Sinai, uses the gentlest
imagery to describe the Divine Word, with the
grandest introduction ever penned or b'cathcd —
" Give ear, O ye heavens, and I will speak ; and hear,
earth, the words of my mouth. My doctrine shall

'^ihrS%:

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

iifi'i

drop as the rain, my speech shall distil as the dew ;
as the small rain upon the tender herh, and as
the showers upon the grass/' The same truth is
summed up in the declaration of Jehovah — " As one
whom his kother comforteth, so will I comfort
you;" a mother's name being the central point of
earth's tenderness. And this is acknowledged in
the declarative response of the human heart to
Jehovah, "Thy gentleness hath made me great."

Over the Mill-house there now reigned a tender-
ness of quiet peace. For two years before the settled
engagement with Naomi it had been a grey atmos-
phere, where nothing brightened in warm sunshine;
now a deeply loving nature — that richest sunshine of
earth made the life of the home; and its atmosphere
therefcre expanded all that was tendeiest and best in
those who dwelt within its influence. Naomi's light
step glided through work which another might have
made a labour. She had not only the home-work on
her hands, but two cows in her dairy — Jess, and Bob-
tail, — called so from a misfortune that robbed the good
cow of the useful tuft at the end of its whisking tail.
A poultry-yard soon increased under her care, and
the Mill became the resort of hucksters for young
fowls and eggs. She had a tall pigeon-house, and she
sometimes stood quietly to watch the white pigeons
sweep under the sky, and turn .1 their rapid circles,
catching the sun})eam. She had geese fed on the
green hill, and soon added bees to her garden ; they
flew the valley's length, bringing back on their toil-
some ascent of the high hill the nectar from every

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

flower. Cats, of course, there were, but not indoors.
Mistress Crisp had trained them well ; a pretty race
of cats they were, pure white, with cypress tails.
And a noble dog, a gift when quite young to Oliver
Crisp at his marriage, from "a well-wishing friend :''
Though not allowed indoors, the dog attached itself
greatly to Naomi; its name was Aleppo. Naomi
had wished for a golden canary, in memory of the
one dear in her childhood, but Mistress Crisp had
said that a bird in a cage was a thing out of place;
and Naomi would not willingly strain a single feeling
of her mother-in-law's ; and truly never home less
needed a singing-bird, for Naomi's voice was a carol
of joy, and oftentimes when she sat at her embroidery
on the door-step of her cheerful room, leaning against
the side door-post, where she could see the Mill and
her husband's white figure at the door when the Mill
steps turned that way — oftcntinjcs she sat there at
her embroidery and sang. It was at first always by
herself that she sang ; for she feared that singing
might not be pleasing to Mistress Crisp, and Oliver
had no ear for music ; but Naomi discovered that he
had a voice, and after a time she Vv^ould persuade
him to sing hynms with her.

Naomi's skilful hand, and her eye for tasteful
arrangement, soon gave a simple charm to the Mill-
house it had not had before. Her induluent mother-
in-law had left a supply of old china, which Naomi
removed from the closet-shelves, and displayed on
the high mantelpiece and dresser, and she nailed
slips of blue cloth with small brass nails on the edge

3 1

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

of the worm-eaten boc/k-shelves ; such novelties as
these Mistress Crisp did not see — we mean she did
not comment upon, except to herself. "A)oung
thing's fancies ! even she can't be perfect ! " It
might be questioned whether Mistress Crisp was
ever conscious of an error or mistake in herself; her
upright, blameless life, her kindness and consistency,
were faultless. It mi^ht almost have been wished
that she could commit a fault, and feel that she
had ; her strong nature would have been opened and
softened by the sense of failure.

Only one thing Naomi pleaded for in her new
home, and that one was flowers. There was not a
flower in the Mill-house garden, save the grand old
white lilies. Oliver could not deny her, but he said,
" I thought such things were more bother than good ! "
still he freely consented. But when creeping rose-
trees and other climbers were begged for, he replied,
"They will only grow to make litter." Yet Naomi
prevailed, and the house, walls, and garden began to
feel a brightness when the summer sunshine fell on
them.

And so she lived as \Mfe and daughter there, a
life of love and blessing; busy in daily work, yet with
a hush upon her spirit, as of one listening in heart for
what any moment might bring — the coming of the
King of kings ! in whose presence groans would
cease to mar creation's peace, and lose would blend
its discords into harmony. Sometimes she would
read with her mother-in-law from Holv Scripture;
none save Naomi could have asked for this from the

Ot.IV I R OP THE MILL.

reserved Mistiess Crisp ; but when Naomi's radiant
tvcs lov^ked up at prophet voices, that told of millen-
uiul blessedness. Mistress Crisp would firmly, though
gently, answer to the appeal, " I do not tamper with
sueh mysteries. It is best to suppose them spiritual/'
Her husband loved to hear her read the Bible. At
evening, when the great ledger was put away, he
would say, "My jewel!'' for that was what he ealled
her, •' Where's the Book r " There were many
books upon the shelves, yellow-leaved and old, but
they puzzled Naomi's head, and Oliver could not
understand them when she "oad them aloud; so they
had the more of the one liook whose words are as
silver purified seven times in a furnace of earth.
There were some volumes of Owen, Baxter, and
Bunyan, and these were her personal delight. Her
Bible and her Pilgrim's Progress had both been gifts
in her happy childhood from Oliver, and now he had
her all his own, trained by their heavenly teaching.

As the winter passed away. Mistress Ca.xton of
the farm felt uneasy at her son making more frequent
excuses than she could account for, to ride to the
distant town.

''Why so unsettled, lad? What's the town
company, that you cannot rest in your home ? "

" I am after pleasing father, if it must be told/*
he replied.

" What, a wife, Jonathan ? be ruled by your
mother, and bide your time yet. Lad, you neither
know the world nor yourself, and von will set your

OMVKR OF THE MILL.

foot in a net, and then thcrc^s never the hand that
can loose it acrain ! "

" I can't help it, mother ; father never thought
of me ; he only eared for the purse. I can't find
another heart, and no use if I did, if the purse were
not equal. So I will have no more contention, hut
buy his free will I "

" O, lad! 'tis no good buying and selling like
that ! Work on steady awhile, and fiither will put
vou in a farm ; and if there has been one true heart
in the world, you may be sure there's a second, for
there never was a thing in creation that hadn't its
fellow. And what's more, you will happen of it, too;
for they that will put up with anything, why let them
take it; but they that wait for the best, and know
where to look for it, 'tis certain to be given. Dost
know, lad, where to look ? "

Jonathan made no reply.

" I mind you, lad, 'tis never said a wife is from
the Lord, but 'a prudent wife is from the
Lord.' When lie gives, FIc gives what's worth
the having; but that's a poor fate that just takes
anything."

" Well, mother, if father talked like you, I would
not stir without his word. But you know it is plain
enough to be seen when it is not to be heard, that
it's ju;;t what money a thing will fetch or lose. I
have often thouglit I hated money; but lam changed
now, mother — I am going in for it, too 1 "

" Why so hasty ? Don't you know one step
will take over the rock, and where are you then?

ipp

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

There's no taking it back to stand where you once
stood before ! '*

" What account would you give, mother, of the
woman for me ? "

"Three things, lad, *tis your need to consider.
First, what's the worth of her spirit? will she turn a
fair face on you when, may be, life turns a dark one?
A holiday wife is a poor toy at the best ! Next,
what's the worth of her head ? Can she tell wliich
you need, the bridle or spur ? and how to use them,
and not chafe you either ? — And can she make both
ends meet when the measure runs short, as well as
when it is full ? I can tell you, it takes a good head
to do these 1 And then, what's the worth, of her
hands ? Can she turn them to one thing when another
won't do ? — Will she go quietly on it until work lies
under her power? When you have settled those three
things, you are pretty safe for this world ; and you
have not learned yet to look beyond it I Take your
motiier's word for it — you may eniptv a full purse,
but vou will never drain a heart that is true ! "

"Ah, mother ! 'tis too late! I want vou to tell
father that I have fixed my mind on Alice Cramp ;
he knows there's money there 1 "

The nsother's counsel was in vain ; and the town
bells rang merrily for Jonathan Caxton and his bridi?.
They were married as sunuDcr came in ; and a farm
engaged for them in the next parish.

Farmer Caxton had taken no notice of Oliver's
marriage ; but this did not trouble Oliver Crisp. His
jewel was brightening in his home day by day ; and

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OLIVER OF THE MILL.

he gave his kind word upon Jonathan's marriage,
when he met Farmer Caxton, as pleasantly as if
no slight had been put on himself. Naomi, too, ex-
pressed her best wishes for Jonathan's happiness,
iiaviiig been no stranger to his feeling for herself,
though she could not respond to it. But Mistress
Crisp, who had heard, as probably all the village had
heard, of Farmer Caxton's word about Naomi — " As
that he should say, she should never darken hus door!"
This was a word she could never pass over. It was
not only Naomi, — though were it her alone it would
be quite offence enough not to pass over ; but it
appiled equally to her son and herself; and even to
her departed husband ; for had not Naomi been
as free of their house as any child could be of her
home ? "

Mistress Crisp, af>.er that saying was reported,
took no further notice of Farmer Caxton. She gave
no recognition when they met, and if he attempted
it she would not see it. She did not consider whether
even a strong ^itterance of displeasure might not be
bettor, than to cut off a neighbour from life's courtesies
because of a wrong feeling and wrong utterance on
his part ; or whether the better course might not be to
pass it over as an error, that some day might be
repented of. Life is too short, .and mutual needs are
too great, to wait for repentance in those who do us
wrong, when the wrong is of a nature that only
requires a personal overlooking. Naomi could well
understand the hard feeling of the farmer, and was
not surprised at it. Those who have right on their

OLIYER OF THE MILL.

«S

side can best afford to pass over an offence ; and the
higher the nature, the more readily will it take in
view the standing-point of the offender, which will
often account for the offence. A low range of vision
cannot understand, and, therefore, fails to excuse, or
forgive, or forget. But, any way, an outburst of in-
dignation or displeasure is far better than a cold
isolation.

Isabelle, the eldest daughter of the Castle, at that
time in her tenth year, often rode with her father over
the green hill crowned by the Mill. It commanded a
most extensive and lovely view, and was a point to
which the Colonel often took his friends. His fre-
quent visits to the spot increased his acquaintance
with and regard for the Crisps, who had held the
Mill for several generations; and young Conrad,
only son of the Castle, had early formed a friend-
ship with Oliver, the Mill becoming a special interest
to him as a child ; and his frank, warm nature won
Oliver's regard. Conrad was two years older than
Isabelle, and full of youthful energy.

The courteous Colonel did not. forget to offer his
congratulations soon after the evening bells had rung
the marriage-peal. Dismounting from his horse, he
entered the wicket-gate to greet Naomi; and then
invited her to the garden-paling to speak to Isabelle.
Naomi curtseyed to the child. Those were days
when English women and English girls knew how to
curtsey. It appears now to be a courtesy peculiar to
the Court; and in lowly life a crooked bend takes
the place- of the significance of a curtsey. Isabelle

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

shook hands from her pony, and looking at Naomi,
said, " I am so glad you are come ! " Why should
the sti;anger-child be glad ? She could not have told
why, yet this first meeting linked her with a secret
sympathy to Naomi. They met at intervals on the
hill, or in the village, or in Mrs. Gray's morning-
room, when Naomi sometimes took an order for her
lovely embroidery ; which, though the wife of Oliver
Crisp, she still liked to employ herself in ; and
thus the feeling strengthened between the child of the
Castle and the wife of the miller.

The second summer of her home, Naomi gathered
courage, and asked if the young ladies and the young
gentleman would please to come and partake of her
strawberries and cream. Isabelle's face flushed with
pleasure, and Mrs. Gray gave consent. The forest
that stretched away to the left of the Mill, when you
stood facing the valley to the west, had no doubt
once covered the hill. It still clothed the neighbour-
ing Castle-height; and just below the white Mill-
house an oak-tree had been spared. It had grown to
a splendid size, quite unsurrounded, and its low
branches spread out a close covering overhead. It
was under this spreading canopy, on the soft turf,
that Naomi prepared for her friends. The little
girls were shy, and kept with their nurses; but
Conrad was soon in the Mill with Oliver Crisp, avid
Isabelle slipped her hand mto Naomi's, and went
with her to look at the creatures.

Then Naomi, to please the little ones, called her
cows to follow her, and they came and stood under

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

the far side of the oak-tree, and Naomi milked little
old-fashioned tumblers full of frothing milk, which
delighted the children. Then the geese came flying
at her call, with their outstretched wings skimming
the ground, and the little ones clung to their nurses
at the cackling approach of such a formidable body ;
but as soon as they were gone, they wanted them
back again. Naomi wisely called her white pigeons
instead, who flew to the ground, and one, more tame
than the rest — a white, fan-tailed pigeon — lighted on
Naomi's shoulder and took the bread from her lips,
and then sat on her finger, to the delight of the
children, who shouted to have it. Its mother had
by some means been shot, and Naomi had brought
it up from a nestling. It so pleased the children that
Naomi, always ready to give pleasure, presented it to
Isabelle, to the delight of the child — her first living
possession. She carried it home in a basket, and it
had a wicker-cage in the hall.

Conrad had no young friends near at hand, and
Oliver Crisp most safely shared his confidence. The
boy talked over the past, present, and future with the
miller. Many a long, earnest talk they had at the
top of the Mill-steps. A willing listener is a gift to
a young heart, and Oliver's few words, when he gave
a reply or a comment, were not forgotten by the
ardent boy. These summer visits became a frequent
treat, though Naomi was not allowed to be taxed ; a
basket came with provisions — not half so good,
Isabelle and Conrad maintained, as the first feast
provided by Naomi !

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Of all the performances under the oak-tree,
Aleppo's were the most amusing and most con-
stantly asked for. At first, when Naomi said,
" Aleppo, fetch your master ! " Aleppo ran up the
Mill -steps and tugged at his master's coat, and Oliver
and Conrad came gravely down, greeted by a burst
of happy laughter from the children. But at length,
when the dog was sent up, Oliver only looked and
smiled when Aleppo pulled and tugged. Aleppo him-
self was soon up to the cheat, and when told to go,
at the request of the children, he pretended not
to hear ; and if compelled to take notice, he only
wagged his tail, and pushed his nose into Naomi's
hand, as if saying, " You know you don't want the
master !" Then Oliver's stick was put in some place
difficult of access, and Aleppo was desired to fetch
it. All the different attempts of the sagacious dog,
and the inge;?uity with which he accomplished his
task, delighted the eager children : especially when
Aleppo climbed the Mill-steps of his own accord, and
laid the stick at his master's feet, and Oliver Cricp
stooped and took the stick, and gave Aleppo a pat of
commendation, guessing at the expectant eyes below.

The visits to the Mill were varied by Naomi being
invited to the nursery-tea at the Castle j and then the
visit to Isabelle's room, and the sitting in Isabelle's
chair to look at her treasures.

" Have you any treasures ? " asked Isabelle.
. Naomi's full eyes met the eyes of the child as she
answered, " In Heaven ! "

Isabelle was silent, and Naomi said, "Does it

«p

OLIVER OF THR MILL.

((

not say, ' Where our tn-asure is, there our heart will
be'?"

" Yes," said Isabelle ; " but I meant pretty things

here."

" I have some,'* answered Naomi, " but very few.
I have a little old china ; but that is all, I think."

"What have you in Heaven? " asked Isabelle.

" My mother is gone to be with Christ, and my
father went before 1 can remember ; and the Lord
Himself is there, who loves us more than father or
mother \"

Does He really ? " asked Isabelle.
Yes," answered Naomi. "We may learn to
say, ' He loved me, and gave Himself for me ! ' "

" How do you know He loves you ? " asked
Isabelle.

" Because I love Him, and the Bible says, * VV^e
love Him because He first loved us ! * " and seeing
the child was forgetting her earthly treasures in the
light of a treasure in the Heavens, Naomi went on,
" Once I had no other love to look to. My mother
was dying, and I had no one else ; and then I found
that the love of Jesus was near, and strong enough to
keep me from being afraid of being left all alone in
the world."

Isabelle sat silent in her little chair before
Naomi; and Naomi, fearing that the subject was
weighing too much on her young heart, said, " There
are a great many treasures in Heav6n — harps of gold,
and crowns, and palms, and precious stones I "

I don't care so much for them," answered

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Isabellc, " as to hear of Him whose love could make
you happy all alone."

" Yet they must be very beautiful," said Naomi;
" but I never saw a precious stone."

"Did you never see a precious stone?** asked
Isabellc. " I \vill ask mamma to show you hers when
vou come again. You will come soon again? " she
asked, for Naomi had risen to go. " Do come soon,
Mrs. Crisp!" - ' " ^

. " Will you not call me Naomi ? I am, or, at
least, I used to be, Naomi to all the village ! "

The lady of the Castle engaged Naomi to instruct
Isabellc in embroidery — a work much in favour with
ladies in those days. These lessons took Naomi
once a week to the Castle, and many a hallowed talk
passed between the two, leaving the needle less busy
sometimes than it might have been ; but Mrs. Gray
saw enough of Naomi willingly to trust her child to
the happy hour of work and converse. Naomi saw
the jewels, and ! er delight was great in really look-
ing upon the ruby, the emerald, the sapphire, the
diamond — all stones of the High Priest's breast-plate;
and not less so, the pearl of the New Jerusalem. The
reality of tiiese things to Naomi brought them home
with a new feeling to young IsabcUe.

One day, to her surprise, Isabelle discovered that
Naomi was looking for the second coming of the Lord.

"But will He come," asked Isabelle, "while we
are living on the earth ? "

" No man knoweth of that day nor of that hour,"
answered Naomi. " He may come while you and I
are quietly working here I He said Himself, ' Watch,

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therefore, for ye know not what hour your Lord doth
come r "

" Does it make you glad ? " asked Isabelle.

"Do you not thmk," replied Naomi, "that if
One who was worthy of all love had died for you,
and lived again, and was coming back to take you
with Him, — would not your heart watch day and
night for His return ? '*

" Yes, if I were not at all afraid ! ** said Isabelle.

Naomi replied with her tenderest smile, " If you
are afraid of Him, it is only because you do not yet
know Him ! You have a little Bible there — if you
read of Him when you are alone, and ask Him to
show Himself to you through its blessed words. He
most surely will ; and when you know Him you will
love Him more, and perfect love castcth out fear I "

" Shall I read with you ? " asked Isabelle, who
seemed in some degree a stranger to her Bible.

" Yes," answered Naomi ; " we can always read
when I come, if I may keep you so long ; but you
will learn it best alone. Don't you know that you get
to know any one with whom you are often alone ?
And so we learn to know the Lord when we are alone
with Him. And though you will always want the
help, — which may God give you I — of being taught by
those who best can teach, yet to learn to know the
blessed Saviour, you will find to be easiest to you
when in His own Word you see Him, alone with
Him, and learn His love for you — learn to know and
believe the love He has for you. He says, * He that
loveth Me shall be loved of My Father, and I will
love him, and will manifest Myself unto him ! '

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

It passeth knowledge ! that dear love of Thine,
Lord Jesus! Saviour I yet this soul of mine
Would of that love, in all its depth and length,
Its height and breadth and everlasting strength.

Know more and more.
It passeth telling ! that dear love of Thine,
Lord Jesus! Saviour! yet these lips of mine
Would fain proclaim to sinners far and near
A love which can remove all guilty fear —

And love beget.
It passeth praises / that dear love of Thine,
Lord Jesus ! Saviour ! yet this heart of mine
Would sing a love so rich — so full — so free—
Which brought an undone sinner, such as me,

Right home to God.
But, ah ! I cannot tell, or sing, or know
The fulness of that love, whilst here below :
Yet my poor vessel I may freely bring !
Oh ! Thou who art of love the living spring, -

My vessel fill. ^ •

I am an empty vessel I scarce one thought
Or look of love to Thee I've ever brought ;
Yet, I may come, and come again to Thee
With this — the contrite sinner's truthful plea —

" Thou lovest me /"
Oh ! Jill me, Jesus ! Saviour ! with Thy love !
May woes but drive me to the fount above :
Thither may I in childlike faith draw nigh.
And never to another fountain fly

But unto Thee! ,\ -

And when, Lord Jesus ! Thy dear face I se(s—
When a* Thy lofty throne I bend the knee.
Then of Thy love~in all its breadth and length,
Its height and depth and everlasting strength—
My soul shall sing, and find her endless rest

In loving Thee !

CHAPTER VIII.

• f

Farmer Caxton had but one standard in life, pro-
vided always that outward propriety were observed ;
and that one standard was the abundance that a man
possessed ! — provided also that the man had made
his money by his own industry, skill, or good fortune.
Therefore, he now slighted Oliver Crisp, because
Oliver might have done well for himself in the world,
and matched moi ey to money ; instead of which he
had let himself down in the world; which Farmer
Caxton thought reason enough for casting him off.
Mistress Caxton had a different view, and tried to
show every civility in her power. Yet, with all his
love of money, Farmer Caxton was by no means a
miser, in the general sense of the word. He edu-
cated his children, paid his men well, had the best
workmen, the best farm-buildings, horses, and cattle
on the Castle jpstate. He was a thorough man of
business ; but he would rather hold back until he got
his price, than sell at a lower. He knew how to
drive a hard bargain ; but he kept his cottages in
good repair, and did not neglect his men when dis-
abled. Yet money was his idol ; what could be
gained or lost in any transaction was his chief con-
sideration.

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OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Jonathan's marriage pleased him well. Mr.
Cramp was the largest tradesman in the neighbouring
town. His shop was one of those comprehensive
places more common a century ago, which on one
side served groceries of all descriptions, candles and
cheese, and on the other side, drapery of all sorts.
He also dealt in corn and hay ; and, of late years,
he had added a banking-business. He was quite the
chief tradesman of the place. Mr. Cramp gave an
allotted sum to each daughter on marrying; on the
express understanding that under no circumstances,
would another penny be added. " I have sons and
daughters enough," he said ; " and when I marry
a daughter, I consider her off my hands, and done
with ! " but the marriage portion was large enough
to satisfy all parties concerned.

Farmer Caxton pursued much the same plan, for
he stocked his son's farm — a very costly thing, then;
this done, in addition to the money that Alice Cramp
brought, he considered his son well off his hands.
Mistress Caxton furnished the house.

When the short absence after the wedding was
over, Mistress Caxton received her daughter-in-law
at the new farm ; all was in beautiful order, a servant-
girl engaged, and everything ready to hand. '

"Now you will not need to churn again until
Friday," said Mistress Caxton. " I will send over
that day to put you in the way."

Sally Dumbleton was the village help at Farmer
Caxton's. She arrived, brushing away the dew with
her hasty step by six o'clock on the summer morn-

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

ing ; but the farm was asleep, the men were waiting
outside, no master to direct. Alice Caxton and her
husband had been at a late party the night before, in
the town ; and Sally Dumbleton did all the dairy-work
alone. On the following Tuesday she made trial
again ; but Alice Caxton had given a return party at
the farm, and it was seven o'clock before a master
in slippers looked out to set his men on.

" None of the old go here, I can see 1 *' said a
man transferred from the parental farm to this;
" they say the women can make or mar, and 'tis
plain our new mistress don't come of farm-life 1 "

" I tell you what, Cely," said Sally Dumbleton
to Cecilia, the farm maid, "your pans tell the lack
of hot water ; sour cream and sour milk will just
ruin your dairy ! "

The warning was true, but there were none to
heed it. Mistress Caxton herself grew hot in remon-
strance ; but Alice, her daughter-in-law, said, " I
think it a hard case if the purse that I brought is
not long enough to find me help I "

Alas, for the farm 1 The butter came back from
the market unsold ; the village women gave up any
regular coming for milk that was sour. Jonathan
was angry. His wife cried, and said she was
not born to labour I Sally Dumbleton gave up, and
one help proved only worse than another. Jonathan
called up the yard-boy for bringing no eggs. "Please,
sir, I was just to and fro the town with mistress's
band-box ; and the day afore I walked in and out for
sweet pies for the supper.'

»»

OLIVER OF THE MILL,

It was not dairy produce alone; the home was a
scene of continual discomfort. Alice's mother, Mrs.
Cramp, was a bustling, active woman, but she had
not trained her daughters to household work ; they
gave their attention to dress and visiting ; and when
the daily duties of an active farmer's wife came on
poor Alice, she could not tell at which end to begin ;
nor hov7 to handle work. She made her farm-parlour
gay, and in frequent visits to the town tried to amuse
herself as well as she could.

" I cannot eat these lumps of lead ! " said Jona-
than, throwing down a cake of bread.

" Cely," said Alice Caxton, " you know I told
you to make it light."

" Yes,'' answered Cely ; " but you called and
called for me just between the rising and the sinking
of !:he dough ; and that is how it came heavy. It
was not my fault, I am sure ! "

Mar the dairy, and the comfort of home, and you
will not find the fields continue to flourish. Jonathan
began to take to company, and often spent his even-
ings out, and Alice fretted at home. One infant
after another only added to her cares and her help-
lessness. Farmer Caxton seldom went near the
farm, and Mistress Caxton had given up her good
counsel in despair.

Their truest friends were Oliver and Naomi.
Olivei^'s heart smote him, for he remembered the
past — he remembered his long-cherished grief for his
father, and how his mother's words, falling on a heart
at that time unready, had led him to slight Naomi,

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

and to give reason for Jonathan's hope. He was not
slow to think that disappointment might have led 'to
an ill-matched union. He tried to win Jonathan's
confidence, and to advise him for a better course. It
was an effort on Oliver's part; not from lack of good-
will ; but because he never went out of his way in life
to win any one nor anything; though he often went out
of his way to aid in other need. Jonathan responded
to the feeling of kindness, and several times Oliver
saved him from rash resolves. Naomi, too, became
a welcome visitor at the farm. Poor Alice Caxton
felt herself ill-used in being expected to attend to
duties for which she had never been trained. She
was not true woman enough to know that it is a chief
point in woman's life, to be ready for any and every
variety of daily duty ; to apply both heart and head
to each small task, and never to measure the present
or the future by the past.

" You see," said Naomi, " you were, not born and
bred to these things. I am more in the way of them,
and might help you a little."

" 'Tis past help, Mrs. Crisp ; I often tell
Mr. Caxton there is nothing for it but giving up
farming."

" No, sure, not that ! " said T^aomi ; " you will
p-et into the way of things before long, that seem
strange to you now."

" I am not made for work, Mrs. Crisp ; I
brought him a fortune, and 'tis hard to be expected
to slave as if I had not had a penny."

*' I think I could find you a good sort of bodv.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

who would just take your dairy in hand, and make
your butter your pride." . '

" I am sick of the dairy, it is always turning sour,
and I cannot help it ! I always knew milk did not
keep more than the night. I say, sell the cows, it is
but one thing less, and that one no end of bother;
then Mr. Caxton breaks out, and says you may as well
sell the farm, for the dairy's the gauge of the whole.
Sell it all then, I say, and let us live on in peace."

" Shall we," said Naomi, "take a day through in
our minds, and see how we could order so as to give
you more quiet ? "

" Take a day through ? why, that's nothing new I
It's what I know by heart to my sorrow and care.
Here, the first of the morning, just the best hours for
sleep, there is such a turn-out all over the place — the
cocks are all crowing, and the squeaking of pigs, and
the yard-boy will hollow out the names of the cows,
jntil I hear them all in my dreams ; as to sleep, it^s
no rest ! it drives me to be late ; and when I come
down there is such an outcry in every direction —
there rumbles tb old churn, and the butter won't
come ! Then the women crowd to the door, wanting
a penny off here and twopence off there, for milk that
they say turned sour. Cely has got her arms in the
cheese-curds; and there's the beat, beat, of the linen
doll. Then in comes the yard-boy with a dead duck,
and a hatful of young ducklings just out of the eggs,
and their mouths all a-gape, and I never know what
to put in them ! I had heard say peppercorns were
good things, so I fed them with those, but they died

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

everyone. Then a horse or a cow is sure to be ill ;
or a man comes on business and Mr. Caxton has
been off and two hours away, and no one knows
where, and Httle Joe conies crawling down-stairs in
his night-shirt, and the baby screaming above. Such
a drive ! — it knocks me up before I have so much as
turned round in it. And as to my being mistress,
and not a creature to wait on me, nor to make the
cold breakfast hot! I should like to know who
would not give up in despair ! "

Even Naomi was hopeless I Still she often went
to the farm ; it eased poor Alice Caxton to pour out
her troubles, and the baby got a comfortable dressing
and nursing in her ready arms.

A third infant added to their difficulties. Four
years had now been passed in the farm, and the case
was proved hopeless. It was at length settled that
the only thing for Jonathan Caxton to do was to sell
his farm-stock, pay his debts, and with the remainder
of his wife's money try his fortune in America. The
farm was re-let, and in September, four years and a
half from their marriage, they were to wind up and
sail from their native land. Mistress Caxton took
the boy Jonathan. Alice was to go with her parents,
and Naomi begged to keep baby Meg; — at all events,
until the parents were settled, and might be able to
send for her out to them.

The question arose where the last days before
they sailed should be spent. Jonathan dreaded his
father, but his poor wife was afraid of both her father
and mother. Those whose pride it is to make money.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

have seldom much sympathy for those who lose. It
was settled by Mistress Caxton that they must come
home — as she called it from her materual heart, and
spend the last days at the old Farm. Naomi went
over to help on the day of winding-up ; it was a
sorrowful scene, and the confusion of all things made
every one useless. Farmer Caxton's large gig came
in time to fetch them to tea, with a cart for the
personal luggage. Only the baby was left, asleep in
her cradle, unconscious of all that was changing and
fixing life's destiny for her; she slept while her
parents and brother and sister departed, nor felt nor
feared the lot of the forsaken.

Naomi stood at the garden-gate, and saw them
depart ; she watched them along the winding lane,
and her eyes filled with tears for a home deserted.
But she returned to the sleeping infant, took it in
her arms without its waking, folded the cradle
blankets round it, laid its scanty wardrobe in the
cradle, directed the yard-boy to follow her with it,
and took her way across the fields to the Mill. The
fields were cleared, for it was late in September, and the
still light of autumn mellowed the land. There was
something in the breath of a September evening that
alvsays sent a thrill through Naomi ; it seemed to her
on such an evening that the air was full of the distant
melodies of pealing bells. An*' now she carried home
a treasure for which she had been scarcely able to re-
press the longing — a child — an object for the wealth of
her affection; one who needed all that she could give;
one who would repay it all ; — proving a blessing by

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

receiving now, and then by giving back when they
most needed it in years to come.

At the Farm, Mistress Caxton had spread her
hospitable board ; a pang was in her heart, but she
wore a pleasant look, as one who had too often met
with trouble to feel surprise at its return. Jonathan
had long felt the weight of his father's cold displea-
sure, and dreaded now the meeting him in this for-
lorn conclusion. The farmer sat by his wood fire j
he did not rise to meet them ; but as they stood on
entering, he stooped to place more wood upon the
hearth -stones, and said, " Are ye not a cold ? ye had
better come nigher." The evening meal was a silent
one; no one was hungry, and all were glad to retire
early to rest.

The sun was flushing the sky as Naomi with her
burden reached the foot of the hill. Oliver from the
high steps of the Mill had been watching for her
return. He locked the mill-door, and came down tc
meet her at the gate.

" You have had a long day of it ; tired out, I
should think ? "

" I watched to see them away, and then I brought
home our treasure," Naomi said, and sat down on
her low chair, uncovering the wraps, and disclosed a
poor baby not three months old, in a little old bed-
gown that had served its elders ; a little plain cap
drawn with bobbins, and eyes closed in sleep.

" Isn't it such a beauty ? '* asked Naomi.

''You are a bit of a prophet,*' said Oliver,
smiling. " No doubt it will be 1 "

100

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

-ll

The yard-boy was humbly waiting at the door
with the cradle. Oliver slipped a sixpence into the
hand of the poor boy, now out of place ; and they
drew to their tea-table beside the blazing hearth, — the
baby asleep on Naomi's lap. Another name to add
to their evening sup|)lications, another head to find a
pillow, another heart a home.

Amongst the farms of the parish was a large and
prosperous one, rented by one Farmer Butterly.
Mis was the hand of the diligent which maketh rich,
and those were grand times for farmers, when wheat
sometimes rose to a golden profit. Many a fine
pasture was ploughed up in those days to grow more
corn; and Farmer Butterly always had been a man
for success. He had begun life in a small way; but
now held a good farm. He had married rather late
in life, on taking the farm, and his children were as
yet very young. There were few days Susan Butterly
■ — for so she was familiarly called — more thoroughly
enjoyed than the great monthly wash and ironing days
of the farm, when she could talk freely without hin-
drance to work, and speak her mind to her help,
JNJartha Hukerback, who was sure to carry abroad all
that Susan Butterly said ; and probably much that
Susan Butterly thought or might be supposed to think.
" It puts one in spirits, I am sure, such a day of
October as this," Susan Butterly said. "Take one
thing with another, it's just alike good for all I
There's not a horse but is at plough, and they say
the moulds crumble just right. I can't tell how to
work fast enough on such a day 1 I think long till

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

lOI

we get the linen hung out ; the air is wholly a per-
fume, and the sun is right hot. I suppose, Martha,
you saw that poor family off from their farm, where
it just seems but yesterday they made such a grand
start ? I do say, let things be as they may, one
mistake lay there in the. start, for young folks who
had not learnt how it is that one and one make two.
The way to take life is to do as my good man and I did,
long before ever we thought of marrying — begin with
earning a trifle, then get on to more, and so feel your
foot firm on one step of the ladder, and hold on for
another; there is no way like that for yourself, nor for
those you bring up. Look at my three 1 abes there ! I
will answer for it they shall know the worth of every
penny, and, what's more, how to earn it ! Why, those
two — they had money they never brought in, and they
only knew one thing, and that was, how to waste it.
I suppose you saw them away ? "

Martha nodded assent. She had learned from
experience that such a reply was the one most pleas-
ing to Susan Butterly.

" A fine young man like that," continued Susan
Butterly, '' to be ruined, and go out of the country,
as I say, little better than a convict ! "

"Never say it, mistress; never say it again!**
said Martha Hukerback, in displeasure. " He is
gone out as honest a man as ever lost a penny ; and
as to the going out to those foreign parts — it is what
my Ned did, and he has risen to the top of the tree,
and is always writing home for his father and me;
and T do say Master Jonathan is as honest as day-

102

OLIVER OF THE MILL,

light. He came out to me, and thanked me so
handsome for all my good service ! I would ne^'cr
hear tongue lay a slander on him while my name is
Martha Hukerback."

" You are right, Martha ; you are right ! I have
a great respect for the young man; not but what I do
say it is enough to break any man's credit to settle
in as he did, and then turn out like this. The truth
is — he put the wrong woman in the place, and I do
say a woman has no right to the name, let her
pounds, shillings, and pence be what they will, unless
she can be up and doing. She may be a fine lady,
but I say it that have seen it, she is no true woman
for all that. Dear me ! I thought it friendly to call
and ask a few neighbourly questions ; our two farms
lie so handy I could not be off it in showing a kind-
ness. I said, ' Do yon find the dairy-work come easy
to hand ? ' for she did not look to me as if she had
ever turned up a sleeve above elbows for anything.
She said, * I have a woman for that 1 * ' What, for
cheeses and all ? ' I enquired. ' Yes,' she said ; ' I am
glad to say I am able to pay for all work I require to
. have done.' I thought it would be neighbourly just
to give her a bit of advice, so I said, ' You may pay
out, but I warn you there will be no paying in ! Mrs.
Jonathan Caxton,' I said, ' let me show you a kind-
ness, I will look in for a week, off and on, and that will
set you forward with all. I would not value the time
nor the trouble,' I said, 'to put you into the way.' But,
if you will believe me, she would not take my offer !
So 1 just gave her up from that day, and I said to my

OLIVKR OF THK MILL.

J 03

good man, ' The sooner that concern breaks up, the
better !' I always was one for seeing the end from
the beginning ! Show me the way young things
begin, and I will show you what it is pretty cer-
tain to end in. But the children — to turn them on
charity ! I do say it is shameful ! **

" Ah, well 1 '* said Martha Hukerback, deter-
mined to be heard, "the mother is just broken-
spirited — down-hearted, you may say, and the
grandmother always was overfond of the boy ; and
as to Naomi, as we used to call her — though I
should say Mrs. Crisp, for all that she does smile
when she hears her own name — she is as fond of the
babe as if it were her own/' -

''For all that," said prosperous Susan Butterly,
'Svhen it comes to stowing away your children like
that, T should wish I had never seen them l)cfore
such a day came I Now, Dora, here's your lift ; peg
the linen tight, for the breeze blows up stiff". Molly,
turn another screw of your cheese-press. Billy, you
don't half work the dolly ; you will get no wages if you
slur work like that I Molly, now come I can you see
your face in that copper saucepan ? As I say, make
your own looking-glass; and then, if you can't
admire your face, leastways you can your work.
Here they comf* in for bait ! Well, I think we will
all take a quiet ten minutes ; we shall make that up
easy when we set to again.'

Colonel Gray at the Castle, said —

" l^oor young Caxton is with his father, I find."

104

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Mrs. Gray. — *' It must be a great trial to them
all, — he seemed a young man of such promise."

Colonel Gray. — " The drag on the wheel has been
his poor wife j her ignorance of business and love of
dress and company."

" What a shame ! " exclaimed Conrad, " for a
woman to drag a good fellow down like that ! "

Colonel Gray. — " The shame may lie deeper, my
son, than a woman's fo!;y. A man has the choice;
and if he chooses a wife in no way fitted for the duties
she has to fulfil, the folly lies with him. Jonathan
Caxton knew what would be required of the woman
he made his wife : she could not tell what her
responsibilities would be, and could not be blamed
for accepting tnc man who judged her capable. It is
an oft-told tale, Conrad, this after-blame of a wife ;
but go back to the' first link of the chain that has
drawn the calamity on, and you will often find that
the folly and shame censured so freely lie at another's
door. I must go down and see the old man ; I fear
it was his love of money that led on to so unsuitable
a choice ; if so, it will make the Wow harder for him.
You and Isabelle can ride with me if you like."

Farmer Caxton was out in his fields. His house
was a sorrowful place for him, with its broken-
down inmates. Colonel Gray rode on to find him.
Conrad went round to the rick -yard where Jonathan
was stacking; and Isabelle went into the house.
There, for a few moments, all her gathered-up sym-
pathy disappeared in a flush of pleasure, at seeing
Naomi seated with baby Meg in her arms. " Naomi !

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

105

I did not think of finding you here." Isabelle spoke
in perfect unconsciousness of any slight in past days
on Naomi, but Mistress Caxton replied, " Yes ; the
grandfather said, do ask of Mrs. Crisp if she would
step do\^'n with the babe; they may as well see the
poor rogue while they can."

"Then wiil the baby be yours?" asked Isabelle,
eagerly.

"It is hers, indeed!" replied Mistress Caxt(»n.
" What could the poor mother do on the seas with
three children ? I have taken the boy, and Mrs.
Crisp is so good, she will mother the babe."

" It's not the first bit of her goodness," said
Jonathan's wife, in a more cheerful tone than might
have been expected. The open sea and the ship,
and a foreign land, and two children left behind, were
all light troubles to the poor wife, now that she had
dropped for ever the weary load of farm-life, which
had grown heavier each day, until existence was a
burden. All other ills she could face, and hope for
better times ; but the busy sounds of the farm, that
make music for many ears, were the knell of her
comfort. The impossibility had rolled from her life,
and already she began to look up. Mistress Caxton
also, her mother-in-law, had changed her look and
tone of displeasure for one of sadness and sym-
pathy ; she thought the trial of breaking up a home
for want of ability to manage it, enough to be the
death of any woman, and the kindness of her nature
rose to the surface in sympathy. Jonathan, her hus-
band, no longer chafed over everything, but w; s kin I

io6

OMVKR of Tfli: MILL.

in quiet regrets ; there was some one else to manage
the children, and life already began to -admit of a
hope.

" Will the baby live with you ? " asked Isabelle
of Naomi.

*' Yes, indeed, she will," replied Naomi, holding
her out to Isabelle, who rejoicingly took her with
many conmiendations ; and secret thoughts of how
she really would take to plain- work, which she had
alwayLi tried to escape. Even then and there she
thought over her work-box, its reels, needles, tapes,
and pins, and counted over the contents of her purse;
resolved that hem and sew for the baby she would ;
and how glad her mother would be to see Tsabelle
industrious at last I

Conrad had found Jonathan, who threw v'awn his
pitchfork and came aside to the pony. Conrad shook
his hand heartily, but did not quite know what to
say, except, " I am out and out sorry ! "

Jonatiian looked away, and stroking Alaric's
mane, said, " It is a bad job, but it might have
been worse ; and I hope we will look up the other
side of the water."

" Well, Jonathan, you know I am to be a soldier
like my fothcr, and I :ihall go to America. I want
to see the Falls ; of course you will go and see
Niagara ? and I will try all I can to get your boy, for
he will be sure to like to be a soldier ; you know all
boys like that, and then we two will come on and see
you. Now, mind you make haste and get ready, for
I shall want to stay at your house."

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107

Jonathan smiled a slow smile, as if all visions of
the future lay in one dull page for him ; the bound-
ing pulse of his youth was quite gone, and little Joe
for a soldier would be no bright dream to him.

"Well, Jonathan," said Conrad, in a low,
softened tone, after a little more talk on things as
they were, " I have often felt glad that a boy could
trust in God, and I am sure you can, and that God
will bring you through your trouble/* and Conrad
raised his rein with his kindest good-bye. A tear
was swimming in Jonathan's eye, as he bowed and
turned back to his pitchfork and stack.

Farmer Caxton lived on one of the Castle
farms ; his father had been tenant before him, and
he had looked to his son's coming after. This blow
had fallen heavily, and the Colonel did not find him
inclined to respond to his sympathy. The father
and his children rode home reflecting on the line of
thought each interview had opened. Ascending
the Mill-hill they passed Mistress Crisp on her
way to the Mill-house. Now Mistress Crisp had
looked thoughtful for some days ; she felt for the
sorrows of others, and she was anxiously weighing
in her mind the burden Naomi had taken. She did
not grudge the poor babe a home, that A^as certain ;
but to take up another's child as your own was a
thing to be looked at on all sides. There was the
disposition, and the constitution, and the continu-
ation, and the consequences, and, when you put so
many serious words together, a general state of re-
flection was easier than any definite thought. Then

io8

OLIVER OF THE MILL,

the step was taken, the act was completed, and the
consideration, that possibly did not weigh all before-
hand, must now gather in a mist over what might be
yet to come. The horse-hoofs and the CclonePs kind
" Good-morning," broke up the reverie.

The Colonel stopped, saying, " We have been to
see the poor Caxtons. I am sorry for them, one
and all ! except for the child your son and daughter
have taken — that one is sure to do well."

Mistress Crisp smiled a half-smile — the lips, not
the eyes, consented to smile. " I am heartily sorry
for them," she replied ; " ills, thee know, are sooner
lamented than mended ! "

" There^s youth on their side," said the Colonel,
"and I trust they will yet look up and do well."

" It's late in beginning," observed Mistress
Crisp, who was not in cheerful spirits that morning.
" ' Take the day with thee/ has been my maxim
through life; don't be making thy start when the
sun's at its hciy;ht ! "

"And yet/' said the Colonel, kindly, "there is
many a darkened, noon-day sees a bright sunset/'

" Thee art right ! thee art right 1 " she replied,
and th? Colonel rode on, and Mistress Crisp said
" Farevv'ell/'

CHAPTER IX.

The several classes of society are recognized in the
Scriptures. Their order is of God, and every effort
to overthrow that order by a general intermingling
has had most baneful results. But the intermingling
of spirit often found by persons of one class in
society with those of another, is the result of a still
higher and permanent law impressed on our common
humanity. "God created man in His image; in the
image of God created He him." The secret sym-
pathy that draws, and the hilJen tie that unites
individuals of one class with those of another in
friendship, is independent of all the temporary order
of rank and station.

One cause of this may be found in the fact
*hat refinement of mind is not confined to any
class. It is a native quality of the mind, in some
of ihe lowest as truly as in some of the highest.
Refinement of mind is of three kinds. There is
the first and lowest — refinement of wealth, raising
the individual's social position j this refinement con-
sists in circumstances, and observances imposed from
without. There is next the higher refinement of
cultivation or education, expanding the nature, and
becoming more or less acute, and often fastidious

.t^s\.

110

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

and over-critical of others. The last and highest is
the nati /e refinement of mind — an instinct of the
heart, not the result of circumstances^ nor helplessly
bound by general observances, and never fastidious
nor over-critical; able to discern true heart-refine-
ment in some by whom outward rules may be broken,
and not less conscious of the lack of it in others who
may observe every outward refinement.

In no stage of human life can the mind be more
influenced by this native rciinement than in childhood.
The rules and regulations of polished society are
unknown to the free i.eart of the child; social
position may have its fetterings for the young life,
and the lowlier heart and lowlier hearth may yield a
pleasant and useful freshness : there is found no high
aspect to awe, no self-assertion to repel, the young
spirit finds nothing to impede, and the clasp of its
response is often close and enduring.

It is, moreover, the custom of civilized life to
class men by their trades ; all thought of the man's
individuality seems too often lost in his trade; a
miller, a baker, a farmer, a locksmith, a cab-man —
but still a MAN ! This is the use of the printed page,
that in quietness we may view the man or the woman
in the life to which the trade is only an addition of
circumstances.

We now return to the happy influence, the mutual
joy and blessing, of Isabelle's intercourse with Naomi.
Visits became still more frequent to the Mill-house,
and Naomi was bound to a weekly visit with baby
Meg to the Castle. There was no work, and some-

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

I 11

times little conversation in these visits, but these
deficiencies were made up for by unbounded admi-
ration of the growing baby. Isabelle was allowed by
her indulgent mother to have the little cot their own
baby had outgrown, in one corner of her own room,
and here the Mill baby slept when Isabelle could
give her up, while she talked and read with Naomi.
Naomi's mind was capable of intelligent interest on
any subject to which Isabelle's unfolding education
could introduce her; and one interest of many a
volume was, how pleasant it would be to read from
it to Naomi !

Naomi's book was still the Bible, not only the
Book of books, but the ( ne book to her. Isabelle,
with her young affections strong for every hope,
learned to look onward to the glory yet to be
revealed ; the beauty of earth rejoicing in its King,
Creator, Lord j when " the floods shall clap their
hands, and all the trees of the wood rejoice before
Him. When the mountains shall bring peace and
the little hills righteousness ; all kings shall fall down
before Him, and all nations serve Him." When
*• He shall redeem the souls of the poor, and precious
shall their blood be in His sight."

Naomi would picture to Isabelle's young eye the
sceuvis that the earth will behold when the beasts of
the field shall honour Him, and man shall learn war
no more. When the slave shall be free from his
oppressor, and " musical as silver bells their falling
chains shall be."

They talked together of Israel's glory then, as

.'<^.>

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

the typical Bride of the King of kings. When
on Jiidah's high throne He should sit whose right
it is. When those ten tribes lost, as Naomi believed,
should return to their country. The thought had
not risen on Naomi's soul that has flashed on many
in this generation, that Israel's ten tribes may only
have been hidden because we knew them not. The
two disciples walking from Emmaus knew not the
stranger at their side for their eyes were holden.
Josoph^s brethren thought him lost in some low
slavery, or lower dungeon, or lower grave of Egypt,
his kingly splendour blinded their eyes that they did
not know him. So now, it may be, Israel is hidden
only by the light of her glory, encircling the earth
and possessing the gate of her enemies. But Naomi
had no thoughts such as these. Only here or there,
in minds unknown to her, a glimmer, a dream, a faint
echo of such a grand possibility had arisen. It was
enough for Naomi that He, the true Messiah, who
had been despised and rejected of men, would come
again to reign before His ancients gloriously. That
while Christ should present the Church unto Him-
seir, a glorious church, Israel should be a crown of
glory and a royal diadem in the hand of her God.
l5Hi)elle caught the gleams of distant splendour as
much from the radiance of Naomi's eyes, as from
the impassioned words which fell from her lips.
While their hearts glowed in the light of the sacred
page, made spirit and life to them by a living faith.
Their horizon was boundless j the things of to-day
were touched with the light that is eternal ; every power

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

they possessed was expanded and ennobled, and the
lowliest aim of life enshrined the energy of the infinite.
' Naomi's voice of song had never been a silent
one ; — not only when alone, but often in the evening
hour, when the open Bible lay before her husband,
she sat a.id sang with him. Mistress Crisp thought
it a dangerous gift to cultivate, but heard in silence ;
and secretly, when in the distance she caught the low
tones of Naomi's voice, she listened, and would have
missed the melody if it had ceased from earth. But
now Naomi sang to the baby sleeping ; she sang to
the baby waking, and sang to the baby playing at her
feet while busy with her needle ; and baby Meg looked
up with a quiet face, that told her spirit was one
attuned to song.

" Naomi, thee will sing thy heart away, I fear !
thee gets too vocal.*'

" I fear I do," Naomi answered 1 " I don't know
how it is, only this happy life I live seems as if it
must be sung."

" Thee must be careful, my daughter, how thee
venture too much to please the ear or please the eye;
they both let danger in. To study quietness and
plainness of speech and appearance, are duties that
belong to us here ! " -

Naomi's eye fell on the bright blue frock in which
she had dressed her fair Saxon baby. She took the
counsel, and sang less, and put on the littl-^ gown of
drab which Mistress Crisp had bought for the child.

The baby g'^ew a perfect sunbeam, healthy and
merry to excess. Even Mistress Crisp would look

8 ,

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114

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

■i

on complacently as the child laid its head with its
clustering curls of shining gold on Naomi's shoulder j
whose raven hair, close braided, made the baby's head
appear a shining gem ; the little face looking upward
from its hiding-place, in glee that sparkled in the blue
eyes, while Naomi's looked down in their heavenly
lustre ; her happy tones answering the glee of the
child. Oliver's observant eye often rested on the
two ; he sometimes longed that the child were indeed
her own ; but he gave as freely as Naomi, if not as
fully, the kindness of his heart and the blessings of
his home.

Each day was to Naomi as a Sabbath. The sun-
beams slept upon the deep calm river of her life, that
flowed on peacefully in its swift current to the ocean
of Eternity ; the sunbeams slept upon it, and it
mirrored back in softened beauty every object as it
flowed along — flower, and tree, and bird that skimmed
its surface with light wing; and clouds that crossed
the heights of blue above; all met an answering feel-
ing in Naomi's life.

Many a friend called in at the Mill-house. A
sunbeam, as we have said, rested there, and people
liked to sit awhile in its light and warmth. One
visitor could hardly have been an expected one : it
was old Farmer Caxton. No one would have called
him " old " before his son's misfortunes. His strong-
built frame was then erect ; the hard features un-
marked by care, for all he touched seemed to turn to
gold: his hair was scarcely grey, and he looked
independent of all men. But a Hand had been laid

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

on him — an invisible Hand ; it fell not as with a
blow at once, for then he might have risen again, but
he had to :eel its heavy pressure for years — the
wasting away of his money, his hopes, his son's
prospects, and his own credit, as the most prudept
and successful of men. Such discipline remmds of
the expression of the Psalmist, "Thy hand presseth
me sore " ; not a blow, but a long, heavy pressure,
from which there is no uprising. His stalwart
frame was bowed ; he looked down, as if avert-
ing his eyes; instead of his former aspect, which
appeared ready to challenge the world. His step was
slower, and his sharp replies were less ready. Some-
times he grew angry and passionate j but you felt it
was the outburst of a troubled heart, which you longed
to soothe— not the outbreak of a proud, vindictive
spirit. None had cared for Farmer Caxton before.
All who could afford it had been ready to deal with
him; because, though his price was high, the article
was sure to be good ; but no personal feeling existed.
Men sought him for barter, not for friendship ; and
this keen atmosphere that everywhere existed around
him, hardened him the more. Now a pity grew up in
the minds of men for him; eyes looked on him in sym-
pathy, and even market tones softened. This softened
feeling in others softened Farmer Caxton the more.

Not long after Jonathan had sailed. Farmer Caxton
walked to and fro at the foot of the Mill-hill, with
a strong wish to ascend it and call at the Mill-
house, but the effort was too great. He remembered
every word he had unreasonably uttered ; the slight

mimm

ii5

OLIVER OF THE MILL,

he ha<l put on Naomi and Oliver; and now she had
taken the child, as if she owed them her gratitude;
and Oliver had stood his son's friend with a kindness
that ought to be acknowledged ; but how to take the
first step was more than Farmer Caxton knew. Pride
worked against better feelings ; he had never con-
quered self, and the Mill-hill seemed too steep to
climb. Several times he drew near to the ascent, and
as often turned away ; unti' one day he met Oliver,
who greeted him kindly, anci said, " Won't you come
up and see the child ? " and they went up together.
Naomi drew the arm-chair near the door, and while
Oliver conversed with Farmer Caxton on the crops
and the weather, Naomi hastened upstairs, took up
the baby and brought her down, with the roses of
sleep on her cheeks and a sleepy surprise in her eyes.
"*Tis grandfather, baby! Shake hands! Give
grandfather a kiss ! " said Naomi. Baby Meg put
one little arm round his neck, as was her way with
Oliver; and the old man was pleased, and took the
child, who looked intently in his face from the land
of dreams. Her half-sleepy condition favoured the
interview ; and from tiiat day the old farmer often
crossed that dear threshold. He made no confession;
it was not needed there. He said very little, but he
felt the warm light of the home, and the little child,
all his own, in its shelter, beamed on his sterile heart
with a glow; and seeds of better things, long buried
in its wintry soil, began to spring up and blossom; —
few, and slow in untolding; bur spring had begun,
and spring leads on to summer. Every one he had

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

117

to do with felt a change in the man. On one sub-
ject it was observed he never spoke row — the subject
of money ; it was a root of bitterness to him. Old
habits still held on : he still quietly took back his
sample or cattle at market if the price he asked were
not given, and would never give more for anything
than the one price he offered ; but there were many
traces of kindness, and a quietness that had not been
seen in him before.

When Mistress Caxton received a letter from her
son, — for they were always addressed to his mother,
Farmer Caxton would ask at once, " Are they well?"
And when Mistress Caxton wrote, he always said,
"Tell him to write what he wants.'* But no want
eyer came. Jonathan's good education enabled him
soon to get a clerkship; his wife could manage her
little home j and, taught by past troubles, she studied
her own pleasure less and her husband's comfort more.
After a few years they rose to a thriving condition ;
but their family grew large, and their absent children
were not sent for.

And so the dark cloud broke in blessing, and
left traces of fertility. For

Who the thunder swayeth,
Who with lightning playeth,
Who the storm obeyeth,
He ruleth and schooleth
Both thee and me.

' There was another visitor at the Mill-house who
must not be passed over. It was Benoni, the Jew.
He was a pedlar, and bent with the weight of the

I :'

Tl8

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

pack he had carried for years. In those days
of sitting still, a pedlar, selling many useful and a
few ornamental things, was a welcome visitor,
Benoni studied always to have something new, and
laid out his small returns with great caution and
skill. He was not a vendor of news — an easy way
for a pedlar to secure an entrance ; he was a reserved
and silent man. Being a Jew, he felt but little inte-
rest naturally about the people his lot was cast
amongst ; though it was not hard for those in distress
to awaken his sympathy, and he was known to have
shown kindness to many. He would undo his pack
in a house, sitting down to rest, and leaving the little
group, who soon gathered, to inspect its contents;
but his eye was never off his goods, though he was
silent in their praise. He never sold on trust, and
he never lowered his price. No one asked where he
lived ; he was regularly expected, and he regularly
came. The pedlar Jew had no home; he slept in
public-houses by the highway-side, or in some hidden
corner in the large town in which he replenished
his store.

When Benoni first travelled his rounds, Naomi
was a child ; her Jewish features caught his eye as
he called at her mother's door. The widow welcomed
him; asked him to her frugal meal; pressed him to
come whenever he returned; and as his visits became
regular, the Christian Jewess spoke to him of hopes
fulfilled, which to Benoni lay in the far distance.
Benoni listened, but never received the earnest teach-
ing of the widow's faith. His interest fastened on

OLIVKR OF THE MILL.

119

Naomi ; to her he brought the small ofleriiigs of a
countryman's affection ; it was her young face that
lived before him all his weeks of wandering, until
he returned again to mark its brightening grace.

Benqni in those days never visited the Mill-house.
Mistress Crisp misdoubted him ! She said that
when she went to a Christian shop she knew what
she bought, but she never wished to see the inside of
t le pack of a Jew! These remarks reached Benoni ;
he keenly felt the suspicion, and avoided the Mill-hill
altogether.

Oliver Crisp did not share his mother^s aversion.
Many a commission he had given Benoni ; it was
Benoni who had with the greatest care procured the
wedding-dress for Naomi. Shops were then chiefly
confined to the towns, and travelling-men took
orders from all sides; a large amount of money
passed through their hands. Naomi longed for her
friend at the Mill-house, and at her request, Oliver
desired him to come. Mistress Crisp, who could
not understand any friendship with Benoni, said,
" It is nothing better, daughter, than the lust of the
eye and the pride of life. Thee may as w'ell throw
thy money in the depths of the sea, as lay it out in
the pack of a Jew ; and better, by lar ; it will help no
deception down there ! " But Naomi would never
give up a friend : such Benoni had ever been to her ;
and she gladly saw him resting by her winter-fireside,
or amongst her flowers on her garden -bench in
summer. Mistress Crisp, if there, always retired, for
she never greeted the pedlar Jew.

120

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

Naomi soon ventured more than her widowed
mother had done; — less in one sense, though more in
another. Naomi always asked his permission to read
to him ; he could not deny her, and it was her habit,
whenever he came, to sit by his side and read from
the Holy Word. She seldom made a comment, never
raised a question ; she only quietly read a chapter,
generally both from the Old and the New Testament;
or a Psalm, with a passage from the Gospels. Benoni
listened in silence ; but when Naomi read of the
" Crucify Him I crucify Him I " it could not be
hidden that tears filled his eyes, and he would say,
" Not that I not that ! I never can stand it I " Still
he was Benoni the Jew.

Here, in the brief calm that precedes the storm,
we may quietly ask what it was in Mistress Crisp,
and in her religious associations and creed, which
gave religious limit, as well as religious power. The
Society of Friends were devout witnesses to the
Divine Person of the Holy Spirit; they were the
standard-bearers of that great and glorious truth.
This was the secret of their hallowing influence.
But it may be asked whether their tendency was not
too much to stop there — looking for inward teaching
and guidance — waiting for the Divine Monitcr
within ? The promised office of the Holy Spirit is,
to take of the things of Christ, and show them unto
us. The Saviour says, "He shall testify of Me.'*
The Divine Person of Immanuel, God with us,
though believed in, appears to have been less the
constant object of faith and contemplation than the

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

121

inward guidance vouchsafed. What the truly
spiritual members of the Society sought for, they
found ; — Divinely-taught, Divinely-led witnesses for
the indwelling Presence of God the Holy Ghost.
But the yet higher advance, when the Holy Spirit
reveals the Lord so fully to the heart that the apostle's
words express the fact — " I live, yet not I, but Christ
liveth in me " — this fulness of grace and truth has a
deeper influence, ft expands the life to the constant
receiving from without, instead of the constant in-
spection within. It is the Divine l^erson, perfect
God and perfect man, constantly attracting — drawing
out the soul to Himself, and therefore associating it
more fully and freely with all that is of Him in
nature, as well as in grace. There is no point in all
the circle of our being, or in all the universe of God,
that is not touched with Light Divine through the
Humanity of Christ our Lord. The eyes that con-
template Him most intently gather in most of His
rays; and they learn to see all things in Him. " In
Thy Light we shall see Light.'* " I am the Light
of the world : he that followeth me shall not walk in
darkness, but shall have the Light of Life,'

\ .^±\

CHAPTER X.

ill

The wing of softest plumage that gleams athwart
the skies, still casts a shadow if it stoops its flight
near to the earth beneath it. So it is with the angel
of life when bending tenderly above an earthly home,
to gather to his embrace the one for whom he came.
Though himself light and life, the shadow of b's
presence falls. Even so the shadow fell on that fair
village of the West, when, without warning, the hus-
band and father of the Castle was taken from its deep
affection. No embrace of earth can hold so closely
that life's angel cannot loose the clasp. So gently
done ! no wresting from the grasp ; the arms enfold as
closely as before, but, lo ! their treasure is not there.
The shadow fell, and the home was bereft. Tt
fell without warning, but not without preparation.
True soldier of the King of kings, his ear was ready
for his Captain's call :

At midnight came the cry,

" To meet tiiy God prepare ! "
He woke, and caught his Captain's eye :

Then, strong in faith and prayer,
His spirit with a bound

Burst its encumbering clay :
His tent, at sunrise, on the ground^

A darkened ruin lay.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

123

Not in battle's nerce conflict, when heading his
column, he desperately broke on the foe : — Not when
single-handed he stood in the breach, and held it
against the ranks of the enemy until succour was
given : — Not in hurrying defeat, for he had never
turned his back, not even to rally his fast-lessening
company against the masses that gained on their
lines: — Not in victory; for he lived to bear its
honours, and leave them as incentives to the soldier-
son of his line. Yet he fell, as suddenly, as utterly
gone as if the whirring ball of the rifle had rudely
broken entrance and summoned forth the noble
spirit from his castle and home; the noble spirit that
never wronged an enemy nor neglected a friend 1

Beneath and around the Castle few knew their
loss until the early morning, when the heavy bell
from the church-tower tolled out a knell over hearts
and homes. Then each one as they learned who
was gone, gazed up to the Castle on its wooded
height: — it looked unapproachable in the awe of
that solemn shadow— solemn, yet soft, even then ;
for the eye looked up from the Castle to the heaven
above, — the snowy masses of cloud standing out
against the blue sky; bending like a canopy over that
lofty home; and they said, each one to themselves,
or one to another, " He is better off"."

There was a hush over all the busy life of the
farms, and the fields, and the homes. Men's voices
were low, and the children were quiet in the village
street. All things bore testimony that a great and
a good man — a father of the people, was gone.

"TV

124

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

The poor man dies and is buried, and the wealthy
around may not know. It may be, a petition is pre-
sented for decent burial, which parish economy does
not always afford; or the widow and the children
lack the necessaries of life, and the gold or the silver
may be given, and the object of it forgotten. But it
is not so when one of the upper class is taken from
the village life of England. The inquiry is constantly
passing from one villager to another, how the sick-
ness is going ? what turn has it taken ? is there
hope ? And the prayer arises from many a home,
that the steps of the sufferer have never entered and
his hand never cheered. And when all is over on
earth, where must you go for the starting tear, the
words of true feeling, the sorrow and pity for the
bereaved ? Not always to relatives and acquaint-
ances, to those on the same level ; but surely to the
surroundir<5 homes of the poor.

Naomi had for some time seemed to lose
strength, the colour had deepened on her cheek, till it
became consumption's hectic flush. On this morning
she was quietly preparing the breakfast, when her
mother-in-law hurried in with agitated manner and
shawl unpinned. Breathless from her rapid climb of
the steep hill, she sat her down and said, " Hast
heard the heavy news ? Conrad Gray, the father, is
dead ! Where is Oliver ? "

Naomi stood for a moment transfixed, then her
colour fled, and she sank fainting on the floor.
Mistress Crisp knew not what to do; she fell upon
her knees beside her, and looked in anguish to the

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

125

door. It was Oliver's time, and he entered. He^
too, stood pale and motionless a moment, then said,.
" She has fainted 1 " and kneeling on one knee, he
raised her head, then wound his arms about her, and
carried her to her bed. Mistress Crisp regained her
self-possession, ministered restoratives, and Naomi
revived. It was long before her strength returned
sufficiently to allow her to leave her bed ; and when she
did come down, it was evident that she was far weaker
than before. The mournful day of interment came, and
Oliver attended, as did all the country round, in sad
respect. When a little time had passed, Oliver made
personal inquiries at the Castle, of Mr. Howe, the
butler, and mentioned how heavy the grief had laid
j;>on his wife. Before the week was over, Isabelle
wrote a note to Naomi, which came as the balm of
comfort to her ; and when a little longer time was
over, and Naomi was better able for the task, the
pony-carriage fetched her to the Castle.

She was taken to Isabelle's room as of old, and
in a moment more the young mourner, so dear to her
heart, entered, clad in her heavy garb of sorrow, her
face white with grief and tears. She threw herself
into Naomi's arms, who clasped to her bosom the
orphan weeping for a father's loss — a kind of suffer-
ing Naomi had never known.

No moment this for words j never was uninspired
proverb more true than that which says, "Speech
is silver, but silence is golden." Eyes poured
forth the passion of orphaned weeping, which words
could not utter; Naomi's parted lips above that young

126

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

head, breathed the prayer they could not speak ; her
arms ventured not to press too closely the form they
held, with a love for the young life they encircled, even
more tender than that for baby Meg ; — all this was
eloquence, from heart to heart. Then as the passion
of those tears passed by, Naomi softly said, "Them
that sleep in Jesus, God will bring with Him."

" O Naomi, he is dead ! I never knew before
what death was ! "

Naomi, trembling with emotion, laid Isabelle upon
the couch and sat beside her, and said, " Not dead !
not dead ! He could not die ! He who is the Truth
is saying even now to you, 'He that liveth and
believeth in Me shall never die. Believeth thou this ?*
Thy father lives with his God and thy God ! "

" But I shall never, never see him ! "

" Never ? You will see him for ever I and it may
be to-day — to-night. ' We which are alive and remain
shall be caught up together with them on the clouds,
to meet the Lord in the air, and so shall we ever be
with the Lord.' These are the words with which we
are to comfort one another ! "

"Yet the time, being uncertain, must seem so
long ! " said Isabelle.

"It will if we spend it in sorrow," answered
Naomi; "grief darkens life, and we drag a heavy
chain when we walk in darkness, making shortest
lives seem long. But if you rise up, holding the
Hand stretched out to support you ; if you set not
one step alone, but only learn to lean harder on that
supporting Hand, you will find that separation is but.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

l2^

as it were, for 'a moment/ and that moment a golden
one j for the light of Christ's presence will shed on
it a glory that will shine brighter and brighter to the
perfect day of reunion. I know it, indeed, for I have
tried it."

"I will try,** said Isabelle, "by His help I
will ! " and unfalteringly she kept the resolve of that

hour.

From that day Isabelle often sent for Naomi in

her little carriage, and took her through the forest

drives, where the foliage sheltered from the summer

heat, and the familiar deer scarcely started from their

path. These summer-drives, slowly winding through

woodland pathways, were blessings to them both.

There is this difference between a heavenly horizon,
and an horizon of mere earthly expectation. The
latter dwarfs the present, makes nearer objects of less
interest, and absorbs the mind with thoughts of a
desired future. But the heavenly horizon— though
infinitely extended, brings out the present into clearer
form, defines and brightens every claim, and sheds
the softening of an ennobling purpose on every rigid
line of earthly toil and care.

Sometimes when all the loveliness around brought
home with a fresh anguish the thought to Isabelle,
of the father who had delighted in the beauty of his
home — with whom she had shared each walk, admired
each varied scene— Naomi would remind her how
we might expect that in millennial days the glorified
may revisit the scenes endeared in earthly life ; revisit
th(Bm with those who shared that love, to sec them

■\

r^^

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OLIVER OF THE MILL.

i 1

clothed in richer beauty ; or if change had passed over
them, clothed anew in vernal graces. Each hope
that thrilled their souls, each expectation of the mani-
festation of the sons of God, gathered around the
Man Christ Jesus : — He who must ever be the centre
and the sun, the light of life in all the unfolding of
the present and the future.

The harvest ripened, and bright September days
saw gathered grain. Naomi had no longer strength
for the little drives that had given such hallowed
hours. Isabelle came down to see her now. The
sun was setting on her wedding-day, and she walked
to the garden-gate with Isabelle. They stood below
the birch-trees that grew on either side, and looked
over the valley to the western sky. They caught the
distant shouts of harvest-home, the reapers* carol in
the quiet air, and as they stood together, Naomi said,
"It was on such an evening that they rang our wedding
bells; and ever since, on such a clear September
evening, I have fancied that I heard them ringing in
the distance, as if they still were glad as then. I do
not hear them now ; only at times I seem to catch
the sound of sweeter music, and I wonder. Can it
be the harpers, harping with their harps, in glory ? '*

They never met again. Naomi had taken
Isabelle by the hand, and led her on the shining way
mitil, beyond the portals, the spiritual form receded
from her view.

Naomi bore a son, and gave him to her hus-
band's arms ; and left him to his care with looks of
love that lingered like evening sunbeams in his soul.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

129

ging in

I do

) catch

Can it

ory ? "

taken

Strange anguish fills the heart that turns away,
to leave alone in earth's last slumber, the form of
one round whom the deepest affections and tenderest
associations of life are entwined ; to leave that form
to rest alone within the quiet grave. O, faith
divine 1 that then can trust its all with God. The
sleeping body to His holy keeping ; the riven heart,
bereft of its treasure, to His healing hand; and life,
made desolate of earthly joy, to His grace, which
can illumine with celestial radiance the shadows that
otherwise would gather round the soul in darkening
irloom. Even so did Oliver turn from Naomi's
grave. The sun had dipped behind the hills, and
twiliirht reijxned within his heart and home.

Siowlv and calmlv niaJit came on, and when the
peasant slept upon his pillow, and the lights were
out in the Mill-house, and all the land around was
still, a lonely man stood by the new-made grave,
looking down in silence, with fingers clasped as if to
grasp the struggling passions of his soul. There lay
beneath that heaving sod the all of earthly love for
him — Bcuoni ; she who as the child, the maiden, and
the woman, had saved him from earth's worst curse
— a hardened heait. Yet he had only loved to lose;
and in his lonely agony he would have welcomed the
blow that could lay him low beside her there. He
did not know that such a lot would then have been
eternal separation.

Oliver inscribed the stone that he raised to his
Naomi, with the words, "They shall be - nine, saiih
the Lord, in that day when I make up my jewels. V

ll
I

I I

CHAPTER XI.

There are times — who does not know them? — when
for us earth holds but one beloved form ; the eye can
scarcely wander from it, or if it looks around it is
but outward seeing. The spirit trembles over the
quivering flame of one beloved life ; bends over it in
sheltering care, that fain would breathe it back to
earthly existence again; and when that quivering
flame sinks and expires, a darkness falls on all
around — the glory and the beauty now is dim;
creation wears a solemn pall, and mourns with us —
its tribute to the kingly sceptre which was man's
birthright ; and though the hand proved all unworthy
to maintain its right, and the sceptre lies broken at
our feet, yet nature, by the shadow over it, still
mourns its rightful Lord.

So it was wi: Jiiver ; he fulfilled his daily task,
but ever as he wwrtxCti he looked upon Naomi's face.
Within the Mill, amongst his sacks, or over his ledger,
still he saw thit face fading like summer-light away —
as when you know that its last gleam will shortly
fall, and then the glory gone, the quiet night comes
on. His eye had never kindled in the hope that lit
Naomi's — the light of resurrection-life ; his sad eyes

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

13'

were ever turning from the Mill-hill to the tall elms
round the old church tower, where she lay sleeping by
her mother's side. Naomi had seldom thought upon
a silent grave and sleeping dust; her eyes were on
the risen saints — how soon the wilderness and the
solitary place would be glad for them, and earth re-
joice beneath the tread of their beloved feet. This
clastic hope cheered not Oliver ; no such amaranthine
flower bloomed for him ; he had enshrined Naomi in
his heart's pure love, he still enshrined her there j
but the melody her presence made through heart and
home, sent back no echoes from another shore j it
slept within the grave for him, and the silence that it
left made Oliver a still more silent man.

The Mill-house became again the rare of Oliver's
mother. She left the cottage at its foot, and brought
her maid to nurse the baby and do the work
required. The baby had his mother's eyes, but not
the light that lighted hers. He was a quiet child,
seldom crying, but he also never raised the happy
crew — the merry laugh of baby glee. In talking to
him you might win a smile upon the little face; but
no one played with him: his young nurse had been
trained three years in the Quaker quiet of Mistress
Crisp's small home; a strong, active girl, whose aim
it was to keep the baby still. No one ever sang to
him, and you could almost fancy as you looked at
him that he was listening to some voice not here,
whose far-away tones were falling on his ear.

Oliver would sometimes stand and look upon his
infant sleeping ; and when alone, a smothered groan

TF*-

132

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

a moment's prayer, a starting tear, told the heart's
anguish and its love. Naomi was not there, froni
whose dear arms to take his infant j and the father
seemed a stranirer to his child. Mistress Crisp was
always praising the bahy, saying, " Never was there
a stiller child upon earth!" But praise constantly
repeated loses its point, and the baby showed no
signs of pleasure at the hcarttelt connnendations.
Two friends he had who divided all his interest —
Aleppo the dog, and baby Meg. Aleppo, strange to
say, had made his way indoors with a most dercr-
mined purpose ever since the baby boy dwelt in the
Mill-house room. Aleppo slept by his cradle, or laid
at his side when he learned to sit still on the floor,
stooped his large head to be hugged, and g.ive a
paw or an ear as might best suit the baby hand ;
though Aleppo^s paw was too large a handful for the
child for many a long day.

Baby Meg had not remained at the Mill-house;
she would have been far too lively for Mistress Crisp.
One event would have settled this removal if nothiiio-
else had. On the day of Naomi's sudden faintncss,
Mistress Crisp carried baby Meg home with her, sorely
against the strong will of this two-years old child.
Being anxious soon after to run up and see how
Naomi then was. Mistress Crisp tied baby Meg into
her little arm-chair, safe in her parlour. Not long
after, a howl from Aleppo led Oliver Crisp to look
out from the window of Naomi's room, from which
he saw Aleppo standing by some unaccountable
thing, and holding up his head with another long-

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

133

winded howl. He went down and found it nothing
else than bahy Meg, who, unal)le +0 disentangle her-
self, had managed to get on her knees with the little
arm-chair at her back, and regardless of the garden
gravel-walk, made her way through the unlatched
aate, and was climbing the hill on hands and knees,
with a cry of " Mammie ! Mammie ! " Mistress
Crisp said such determined self-will was all too
jiiuch for her I Baby Meg was welcomed home by
her grandmother at the Fa"m.

Mistress Caxton could hardly be silent in her
laments and praises of the departed Naomi. Dame
Truman, who taught the children in her private day-
school — for pai ish-school there was not — was a
heartfelt mourner for Naomi ; never had she set such
store by any scholar as by her! She would say, "I
•culled her my fawn, I did!'' Many a time Dame
Truman stepped up to Mistress Caxton, and they sat
or stood, as the case might be, while lamenting
together. " I always fancied the girl," said Mistress
Caxton, '^and if Farmer Caxton did not, that was
no fault of mine. She had those artless, simple
ways, as a child, that are not manners taught^ but
manners natural, as you may say."

Dame Truman interrupted, " Mistress Caxton, I
have taught manners from the time I taught any-
thing. But there are some that won't learn them,
let you be as strict as you will."

Mistress Caxton, scarcely conscious of interrup-
tion, continued, " You could read her heart in her
young, innocent face. I have always held to true

I ''

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OLIVER OF THE MILL.

measures, — even dealing j for if you go and favour in
buying or selling, you wrong them that don't, and
may be that can't ; but for all that, I never could
help filling her niilk-can up to the brim; and when I
said, * Keep your penny,' she would blush as pink
as a cabbage-rose ; and when I dropped an egg or
two into her basket, I have often looked after her
with a tear in my eye, how light-footed she ran back
to her poor mother, as if you had given her a crown.
There were a few words between Farmer Caxton
and me, because my Jonathan was courting the girl,
and as I always said, ' Not to blame, neither ; ' he
could never have done better, only to see how that
Mill-house was kept like a palace I and her husband,
how he turned out like a prince I He was always
before a sort of half-open man, but he came out as
free and easy as you could care to see. And her
dairy ! you would have thought she had been born
and bred to it. I'll be bound, there was not a word
to be said between the Mill butter and my own ; and
the market knew it, too ! And that butter might
have been turned out on Jonathan's farm 1 But there
is no good in wishing too late; and as I said. Farmer
Caxton and me had a few words between us : he was
always for money, and I was for work ; poor man,
he has had his lesson on that sco;e — that money
without hands to turn it round the right way is a
back-door to ruin. I never bring it up against him,
still it's natural that I, as the poor lad's mother,
should feel it ; and a better son than Jonathan I
never wish to see, not so far as this life goes ; and

«p

. OLIVER OF THE MILL.

^35

we might have all been so comfortable together I but
there, it was not to be, so there is no use in my
thinking it over as I do."

"I took notice/* said Dame Trui lan, <'how
good she was to all I It was just as I always taught
her — a good turn for a bad leaves you the upper
hand ! "

"Ah I 'tis too true!" answered Mistress Caxton.
" She had that, any way ! When I could not so
much as look pleasant upon them, — Jonathan and
his wife, — how she would turn things right about,
if they had but had the sense to keep them so!
And then to see how she mothered the babe; I
could never have taken a young thing like that.
I took her home here when the last illness came
on, and how the poor wean did fret, to be sure !
She would cry nothing but * Mammie ! ' and would
not put up with me. But the strangest thing of all
was how Farmer Caxton turned round ! Whenever
he was out of the way, he was sure to have travelled
u)) there ; and the babe had got hold of his heart and,
dear me, how it did please him when she cried,
' Grand-dad ! ' and would go straight to him, when
she would have none of me. I never saw him take to
a small thing before. Do you think he'll stir if she is
asleep on his knee ? not he ! I don't think a bargain
would drive him .to disturb her ! She has got the
upper hand already, I tell him, and it may not be the
better for her some day, as I say."

"'Tis teaching and training must put that right.
Mistress Caxton. When Meg comes to me, there's

136

OLIVER QP THE MILL.

■1 i

not one above another. I rule them alike, and keep
the upper hand of the lot/*

''^ Well, I never said so much to any creature
before ! " Mistress Caxton observed. "There is one
thing to be said, if you do have the best, you are
worse off when you lose it! and that's the long and
short of the comfort some have here."

It was a sad fact that Farmer Caxton never
ventured to the Mill-house again. Mistress Crisp
never concealed her displeasure when it was roused
against any one j when out of her favour, it was
enough once to have met her, to be fully aware how
you stood in her opinion and feelings. Oliver would
have been glad to see him ; but neither Bcnoni nor
Farmer Caxton ever called in agam. Oliver himself
would often fetch b;iby Meg, for the child seemed
more to him now than before; and on any busy day
Mistress Caxton took advantairc of the kind offers
made, and sent her up. So the child divided her
time between two homes, in both of which she felt
herself an object of love. She still called Oliver
"Daddv," and always distinguished him from her
grandf-'ther, who was "Grand-daddy."

It was a pretty sight to see the three on the
summer turf — Baby Meg, with her golc'en head, a
dazzle of light on its clustering curls and on her
laughing lij)s and eyes, her little head often pressed
close to the baby Oliver's quiet face, with his dark eyes
and close curls ot raven hair; little Oliver pullinp; the
head of a daisy or dandelion, and giving it to baby
Meg, who talked in a language evidently pleasant to

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

137

id keep

creature
e is one
you are
mg and

never

Crisp

roused

it was

are how

ir would

oni nor

himself

seemed

)usy day

id offers

ided her

she felt

d Oliver

Vom her

J on the

head, a

on her

1 pressed

Jark eyes

ill in p; the

to baby

^asant to

him, but who for the most part threw down his daisy
or dandelion -head, which he would jiick up again and
hold out once more to her hand — so early in life is
character shown, and its after-histories often spelled
out in its infant days ! Aleppo would sit close
beside them, looking out in quite a different direction,
as if otherwise mentally engaged ; but at any differ-
ence of sound or movement, the quick turn of his
head proved his ears were attentive. Sometimes he
lay down beside them, and baby Meg would lean the
golden lustre of her little head upon his side, close by
his noble head of black and tan ; and little Oliver
would look on, and say, " Me ! me ! " which no one
underitood.

It was a picture scene on that hill-side still,
with the far-reaching world below. Oliver on the
mill-steps, by the mill-door; Mistress Crisp sitting
in- view at the Mill-house, where Naomi's roses
clustered still; and the children at play on the turf.
It may be said that the faithful Aleppo taught little
Oliver to walk. He was not at first strong on his
feet ; and Aleppo would put his nose under his
shoulder, encouraging Oliver to drag himself up, and
then moving gently with the child clinging to him.
One thing struck you — that the wistful look went
from the baby's dark eyes when Meg was at play
beside him. The look he had at other times, a half-
dreamy, wistfui look, was just the same as you had
seen in Naomi's eyes in those last months, when in
her heart she knew she was dejiarting, and looked on
into the distance, catching the nearer gleams of the

138

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

} :

glory of the Eternal — looking also if He who shall
come might come before the hour that would sever
the ties of earthly association, with the life so closely
blended as her husband's with her own. The reflec-
tion of this look was in her baby's eyes. The village
women shook their heads. One said, " Poor child !
This world will not contain him ; he looked beyond
it from his coming in." Another said, " Did ye ever
see the like — how the poor thing looks after its
mother, and knows she is justaway over there ? You
will see he'll go after her; that far-away look is just
drawing him on I " Oliver saw it in his silence ; for
the silent sometimes see more than those swift to
speak ; he watched the change when baby Meg was
at play at his side, and fetched her the oftener — the
only way that he knew of to brighten his child.

Oliver was a man of full height, strongly built;
but he stooped from the day he was left. It seemed as
if the weight of sorrow bent his head, and he never
recovered erectness again. He still looked upon all
things around him — was as capable and quietly- decided
as ever ; while across his heart lay that buried form —
the softest shrine that earth can offer ; and he waited
for the time that would so surely come, when he
should go to her who might not return to him.

Mistress Crisp stirred but little abroad ; she felt
less active than before, and she feared to lose sight
of the baby. No one noticed a change, for she was
as upright as ever — as clear-sighted and careful. All
that utmost watchfulness could do to prevent ills to
young Oliver, Mistress Crisp did ; her greatest pain

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

was to hear him cry. " It is not natural/' she would
say, " for so still a child, in such health and com-
fortable circumstances, to cry ! " She always had a
ready sweetmeat to allay the irritation, and when it
subsided into stillness. Mistress Crisp felt her ease
of mind return.

We have seen one heart that was left desolate by
Naomi's departure — the childless, homeless, friend-
less Benoni, the pedlar Jew. He had never known
the ties of home ; he could not remember any ten-
derness from father or mother. An early outcast
from a foreign land, he had fought his way up. Life
had gone hard with him. The world made use of
him, but any other would be all the same if he did
them like service. The cords of his inmost spirit had
stiflbned ; no hand had cared to try if response
could be there; no melody awoke until he looked
on Naomi. He saw the mould of his nation
in her, which left no barrier between them ; in his
sight, there was a glory round about this child of
Israel. Her eyes looked into his very soul, and
seemed to him to read the secrets of his heart,. as,
with a child's simplicity, she talked with him of
many things. She liked to sit upon her stool within
the open chimney of her mother's cottage, and, lean-
ing forward, w ith her hands upon her knees, eagerly
listen to Benoni's tales of his long travels. The
wood fire lighted up her form, glowed on her cheeks.

and kindled in her

eyes

and Benoni lost his cold

reserve, and loved to tell when she, the child, was
there to listen. The door of his heart, so hard to

140

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

l'>'

open, had unclosed to the step of the widow's child ;
she had entered, and the dreary cell of that poor
human heart was lighted up by her bright presence.
Wherever he travelled then, the child Naomi cheered
his lonely way. He thought of all things as of a
tale to tell to her. She loved the pedlar Jew whose best
joy ^'iemed to be to remember her, and bring her some
new pleasure or new tale. All fair things bore some
touch of the one flower that bloomed for him. Still
stepping on his way — often with weary feet and still
more weary heart— he had never, in his fifty years of
life, heeded bird or blossom, earth or heaven ; but
now he felt the voice of Nature, and each touch of
the full octave had some melody of sight or sound
that brought her to his view. He heard her take her
marriage vow, hiding in a lone corner of the village
church ; he passed for an old man then, though he had
not reckoned sixty summers, but in his heart he was
a younger man by far than when he first walked with
Naomi to her mother's cottage -door, twelve years
before. Seven years he shared the blessings of her
married lot ; and then her sun went down at noonday,
and his life darkened over — lighted only by the ever-
livino; sense of what had been its blessino- and its
Joss. It is a strange desolation when the empty
•heart, that one bright form has filled, finds itself left
with only the vivid shadow on its walls — the living
|)resence gone ! It was this man — half-dead for
other men, only a pedlar Jew to all the world, but to
Naomi a friend, a father in his tenderness ; he it was
who stood in grief so utter by the porch of the village

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

141

Its

church, where each one passed him by, when they
bore Naomi's child to baptism. He shunned the
Mill-hill now; and slowly darkening over into his
old heavy sense of all things, he lived once more for
traffic/ with the weight of his heart-sorrow.

We are sometimes struck with the way in which
a self-evident fact suddenly dawns on an absent
mind — a fact that lay in view, yet unperceived,.
until suddenly waked to a consciousness of it.
Oliver Crisp, looking from the door of his Mill, saw
his child holding on by Aleppo, and so supported
attempting to walk, with a tumble on the turf, and a
clamber up again, dragging by Aleppo's ear. The
father hastily descended, and gave a hand to the baby
boy who, still clinging to Aleppo, made slow and
steady way. Then he took him in his arms for the
iirst time since his baptismal day ; but unused to his
father's companionship, looked down at the dog
crying, '' Bow, wow ! " Aleppo stood up, leaning
his fore-paws on his master, as if to assure the child
that his unusual position was a safe one, and he was
close by in attendance.

This was the beginning of ;i new life for little
Oliver, who soon took to his fatlicr's arms beyond all
other means of conveyance, stretching up his baby
hands at all times to be taken, and his father could
seldom refuse. He went up the Mill-steps with his
father, or sat on the Mill-floor by the hour together,
Aleppo always entering at those times, which he
never did at other times, sitting beside the child
while the father was busy. The first shout little

142

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Oliver was ever heard to give was for his father, and
now havi'.^f once found an object to shout for, he
shouted on every fresh appearance.

He soon learnt to steady himself on his feet as
far as the wicket-gate of the garden. Many an
anxious look did Mistress Crisp give when busy
within, to see that the latch was quite safe ; there the
child would stand holding by the narrow bars, his
face pressed close to them, and his large dark eyes
peering through ; and whichever way his father came
the firsr voice he heard was the shout of his child —
that note of gladness, that assurance of heart bound
to heart.

It would have been strange if Naomi's child had
not been his father's delight. The cloud that bore
her upward had its radiance towards heaven, its
earthward side was a darkening shadow, hiding for
awhile the two left behind, the one from the other.
It had been so when Oliver Crisp mourned his father,
and the same nature again fell into the same error.
How often do faults resulting from character repeat
thems^K cs unconsciously ! But they had found each
other i AV ; the child's life expanded in the father's,
and the fithfr's in the child. Blessed ties of earthlv
relationship- -iat-her, mother, child, bride, husband,
brother, sister, friend ! To many, alas ! the type
may be wanting ; not reflecting in rainbow hues, the
beauty and glory of the antitype. Yet such may
learn, even by their present lack, the blessing of
that which lies open to their eternal possession.
While others learn more peacefully, but not neces-

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

143

sarily more fully, the infinite in the finite — things
present the earnest of things to come.

There came at length a clay of high festival.
Conrad, the soldier son of the Castle, celebrated his
majority. He came of age at twenty-one, and the
day was to be kept by the whole village population.
The bells from the church-tower awakened the day,
and the villagers rose — all looking up to the Castle
once more. The flag waved mast-high on the top-
most tower, and the old gun of the Castle was fired.
Twenty-one booms it gave, saluting the day. Then
under the distant trees in the light of the morning
gleamed white-plumed helmets, and horsemen rode
in with dazzling regimentals and splendid horses to
bear them ; up the rocky street the horse-hoofs
-clattered, and the village gazed in awe, until, lost in
the long avenues, with only a gleam here and there,
they entered the old gateway, which closed again
behind them. Twelve o'clock was the time for all
the village guests to arrive. Before that hour large
companies of men, young and old, women and
children, were pressing on in groups all ou foot ; for
horses, gigs, and carts were provided for in the village.
The Castle was silent ; the flag waved on high. Then
the clock in the old gateway slowly struck the hour,
the heavy gates were thrown open, and Conrad rode
out, while behind him, drawn up in phalanx, were his
military friends, such as could be there, both officers
and men, and a strain of martial music broke forth on
the ear. Conrad ro le his young war-horse, Bavicca,
noted far and near by name, a wondrous horse he

144

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

was — as gentle as a Iady*s palfrey when Conrad was
his rider, but desperate in any other hand. Not a
groom liked to mount him; ^' his sides foam white
as a sea-wave," said the one who had charge of the
noble steed in his stable, " if any try to ride him, only
our master ; " yet to Conrad's hand he answered,
scarcely needing the rein, stepping lightly along, as
if hardly condescending to tread on the ground^ his
crimson nostrils dilated, and yet in his full eye a
softness that those could little imaoine who had onlv
seen the fiery eye in his speed. Conrad rode that
day in the first glory of his manhood, a noble mien
he had, and a yet nobler nature. As the gates opened
to let him forth, he saw the thronL!;s of gathered
people and bowed his plumed helm, grcetit;g the
village with uncovered head. The people had raised
a shout, and women's eyes dimmed with tears, and
children rushed on with their welcome, girls with
their pinafores of gathered flowers, and boys with
caps high in air; they strewed the fair emblems
before him, and the horse trod so lightly he seemed
not to crush them. The elders ther° all knew his
childhood and his youth, and both were .'rue and fair;
he seemed the glory of his line, the ho.iour of his
home, his widowed mother's staff and stay, his sisters'
shield and blessing. That day he took the rent-rolls
of the rich lands of the Castle ; the son, the brother,
the master, and the friend. For him the shout was
raised loud and long, while above it the pealing bells
broke forth again. Then dismounting he tui'ned, and
led the people in. The old courtyard was well adorned

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

145

was

ot a

,vhite

f the

, only

/ered,

ig, as

i his

eye a

d only

le that

I mien

:)pcned

ithered

ug the

I raised

,rs, and
with
with

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seemed

lew his

nd fair ;
of his
sisters'
nt- rolls
brother,
out was
ng bells

Hed, and
adorned

that day with all that taste could best arrange. One
sight was there which fixed all eyes j upon the broad
flight of steps that led to the Castle door, stood'
Conrad's widowed mother; she had laid aside her
h'javy weeds, but wore still a widow's dress ; and
by her si-le her daughters, all in white ; they formed
a group that drew the eye from all the festive show.
Conrad ascended the steps, stood by his mother's
side, and made his maiden speech, in this his child-
hood's, and now his manhood's, home.

How many were entertained that day none could
tell. But not one who was there ever forgot the feeling
that it gave. Oliver Crisp was there, and his child
held his father^s hand. Mistress Crisp declined the
pressing invitation j strains of martial music were
unpleasmg to her, and festivals had never suited the
quiet tenor of her life. Fa'^mer Caxton was there,
and baby Meg was one of those wno sea tered flowers
^eneath the young Squire'' horse's feet. DameTruman
had a place, and even Benoni was not forgotten.
Mr. Howe, the Castle butler, had full supremacy on
all hospitable occasions, and Benoni did much busi-
ness in the servants' hall. Mr. Howe could trust
him ; and if you had referred to Mr. Howe's private
book, you would have found, stretching back over
many a year, on such and such a day, breakfast, or
dinner, or supper to Benoni. To the upper house at
the Castle, he was only known as a pedlar Jew ; but
Mr. Howe took care that he was not forgotten. In-
deed, who could tell of a creature forgotten that could
lay claim, near or distant, to remembrance that day I

j ,

;

■ '.

CHAPTER XII.

Each sequestered village^ each homestead, and each
heart, has its own history, which, if the pen coulil
tell, would find a listening interest beyond the
village limits. It does not need some great event
to wake responsive feeling. The simplest tale ol
hiiman life, if true to character, can arrest the noblest
mind ; heart echoes unto heart in true vibration, and
the highest power only more quickly answers to the
lightest touch. And so the summers came and wenl
in that woodland villaoe of the west, with its laiigh-
ing river, its steep and rocky street, with here and
there a rustic cotjage more outwardly attractive than
comfortable within ; and yet they wore a pleasant
aspect through the open door — the bits of polished
furniture, the old china ware, the fire on thf hearth-
stones, and the neat attire of the good mother
with her rosy children. All went on in quietness,
and passers-by could mark no change. The Castle,
amidst its lofty trees, looked still the stnmghold and
the guardian of the land ; the high mill-sails went
round upon the sister hill, telling of peace and plenty.
The cuckoo called the summer in, then left it to its
glory. The nightingales sang to the stars in the
ash-trees that shaded then the low thatched roofs

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

■wliere the cottagers lay sleeping. The children
nestled in the primrose-banks, and gathered violets
and daffodils. They tossed the hay with merry laugh,
and gleaned the scattered cars of corn, and crimsoned
their cheeks with blackberries, and eyed the rosy
nuts that clustered on the hazel-trees : then filled

the chimney corners
spring returned again.

by the blazing logs till
sowing her lilies o'er the
land."

Now and then an aged head lay down in weari-
ness to sleep beneath the church's shade; and infants
at the font told that another generation was coming
in to take their place. One aged head the village
mourned and missed with more than common feeling
— old Joseph Richards. There was scarce a villager
he had not counselled, nor a child he had not tried to
lure to holy things. They crowded round the old
man's grave, and many a heart iclt thoughtful there,
that had not heeded his simple words before. His
illness had been short; and Mistress Crisp, with her
accustomed kindness, had ministered to his daily
wants.

There was a fervour and a glow of feeling in him
she could not understand ; and sitting down one day
beside his bed, she questioned him.

" How is it, Joseph Richards, that thou art so
confident? I do not hear thee speak as a poor sinner
should. Let me ask thee, dost thou think upon thy
sins ? "

" Ah, Mistress ! Every thought old Joseph has
is fixed on Him who saved me from them ! My

148

OLIVi'.R OF THE MILL.

thoughts, at best, arn't many nor great, and such as
they he they gather close round Him ; there's not
even one that can he got to lag behind and delve for
sins \]c covered long at'^o with His most precious
blood ! "

*' lint art thee sure that He whom thou hast
sinned against in past times may not have them in
His eye?"

" Yes ; certain sure ! I mind the words, ' Thou
hast in love to my sou! deliv red it from the pit of
corruption : Thou hast cast all my sins behind Thy
back/ "

" Friend Joseph, T sliould like to see thee more
humble and less confident. There is a Judgment-seatl
Canst thou be sure thou wilt be clean before it?"

" O, Mistress I what's the worth of me, a poor
old sinner, for you or I to fix our minds on ? He is
clean who stood for me ; and isn't that enough ? "

Mistress Crisp could make no impression on old
Joseph. He had no thoughts of self, good or bad;
it was no use asking him of anything save of Him
who was all his salvation and all his desire. He
slept himself away; his departing hour was like an
infant's slumber. Mistress Crisp was the last friend
to look upon him when the neighbours gathered
round for the last office to the mortal body. His
favourite tree was thick with summer-roses ; and
Mistress Crisp, through the open lattice, gathered
those that grew around the little chamber-window,
and laid them reverently upon the sleeping body;
—emblems of those drops of precious blood that

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

149

had made the blood-red rose so sacred to old
Joseph.

The miller's man was Richard Dolman. lie had
served both father and son, and was the main-stay of
the Mill. He had a thrifty wife, who, being rich in
sons, had long desired a daughter. A daughter canje
at last, and llaimah Dolman was much engaged with
the question of the name. She thought on all she
knew, but none appeared just right; until, in her large
I5il)Ie, she one day lighted — as it seemed to her, by
h.i|)py chance, or happier direction — on the verse that
gives the ncord of Job's daughters. She took the
first — Jemima — for her infant girl, remarking,
" Maylje, I'll come again, and have the other two ! "
Another daughter and another came, and took the
names in waiting, Ke/ia and Keren-happuch.
Richard doubted as to the second, and objected to
the third; but Hannah Dolman said, "Mind ye!
there were no women found so fair as the daughters
of Job ; and how could I go for to part them ! "
How could she break a daughter off from such a
group ! When the name was given at baptism, not
being pronounced quite correctly, the minister asked
Hannah if she could spell so unaccountable a name?
upon which Hannah replied that " it was no
unaccountable of hers ! as the minister would find
if he looked in the Bible." Richard was displeased
that his wife should speak up to a parson ; but
Hannah was lifted up in her mind by what she felt
her knowledge of the name; whence it came, and the
merit it had.

150

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Hannah Dolman felt a constant satisfaction that
her three daughters were settled in one verse of the
Bible. But when her youngest grew up into practical
life, her name became a subject of difficulty. Poor
Richard Dolman declared that he could not turn it
roui;d on his tongue to get it out right, nor, indeed,
to get it out at all ; he was in danger of beginning
where he ought to end. Hannah, too, when in prac-
tical haste, found herself in danger of forgetting the
order she wished to give by the time she had said,
'' Keren-happuch ! " In consequence of these neces-
sary considerations, Hannah found that it behoved
her to shorten the name for the daily appliances of
life. So after some thought, she said, *' Take the
first letter, and just call her ' K.' 1 'K.' stands for
kettle, and kitchen, and king; it's a letter, to the best
of my knowledge, that heads words that are honest,
and useful, and grand — if you go to the top of the
tree ! " (For how should the good Hannah Dolman
suppose that "knave" had anything to do with the
honest letter " K " ?) It was settled to be the only
resource ; and the poor girl was not sorry^ for the
troublesome boys of the village would shout '* Keren-
happuch'' more distinctly than she could enjoy. In
time, Jemima became an under-nursemaid at the
Castle; Kezia entered Mistress Caxton's pleasiuit
farm-house; and Keren-happuch was engaged by
Mistress Crisp, who said, " I suppose thy name
must be Kate, s.hort for Kathcriue ? "

*'No, ma'am, my name is Keren-happuch."

It must be confessed that Mistress Crisp was

wmamm

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

151

caught in ignorance or forgetfulness, and declared the
name a heathenish one. But little K. said, " Please,
ma'am, mother named me after Job's oungest girl ;
she said she could not part the three, they all lay
together so handy in the Book."

Mist''ess Crisp was silent a moment, but no one
ever saw her confused. She now replied with a
slight addition of dignity, " If thy mother hunts out
the names dead and buried, no one knows how long,
she should put chapter and verse at the end of them.
Let me tell thee, girl, those old names don't lie in the
Book to be pinned on to the pinafores of babies new
born ! I will call thee K., as others do, but let me
hear no more of thy name, or thou wilt not long be
my servant, I can tell thee ! "

Little K. heard most humbly, and when ques-
tior.ed in future, she only said her name did not
please her mistress, who would have her only called
K. It was K. who was kind and good to the baby
when her mistress returned to the Mill-house j she
had grown a stout young woman now ; faithful in
service, and capable of relieving her mistress of many
of the cares of the Mill-house and small farm-yard
in point of work.

As Oliver's years of childhood increased, he
sometimes showed the faults of a child. He was of a
sensitive nature, with strong feelings, not often ruffled;
but when they were, they were strongly moved. His
father's arms and the Mill put all things right ; but
when alone with his grandmother, if there came an
outbreak her trouble was great. On these occasions

ill

i5«

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

she thought it wisest to bring up, as she expressed
it, a feeling for his departed mother; with the idea of
its having more effect, and keeping up the vanished
influence. She would say, " Oily, (that was the name
by which he called himself), thy poor mother would
never have overlooked thy bad temper, she would
have punished thee for this ! " Poor little Oliver
never heard of his mother except in this way, as
a departed terror. Well meant but most sadly
mistaken. Names of the blessed departed cast no
shadow. They should not be left as Oliver Crisp left
his Naomi's name, in the dark mine of sorrow; still
less should they be used as a distant terror. Such
names should shine in open day as the gems of the
home ; they should emit the diamond's rays ; we
should let the light fall for others on their many cut
facets; — each emitting a radiance from having been
perfected by the purifying fire; that their memory,
like themselves, may be blessed.

Little did Oliver Crisp think that even then a
hard feeling was growing up in the heart of his boy
for the mother whose tenderness would have been
the shrine of his childhood ; and little did Mistress
Crisp imagine that by calling up an unknown
authority she was steeping the blessed memory of his
mother in bitterness to the child, fiow wondrous
the power of words ! Who can venture to live with-
out the prayer—" Let the words of my mouth, and
the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in Thy
sight, O Lord, my Strength and my Redeemer ! "

But there is a love more tender than a mother's^

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

153

often breaking by tr light incidents the evil spells of
life ! It might be thought that Isabelle would have
taught the child to know his angel-mother: she had
made many attempts, both at the Mill-ho.ise and the
Castle, to win the child to confidence, but the quiet
stiflfness of the grandmother, and the shyness of the
child, baffled all her attempts. The only place where
little Oliver was at home, away from the Mill-house,
was Farmer Caxton's ; — there he was always quite
happy with baby Meg. One day a young son of
Mrs. Butterly's was there, familiarly called Dick.
Mrs. Buttcrly had what was called a long family, but
she often said she took a mother^s pride in each one;
for her part she did not mind how many, it would
only \u\p her to show hat the training is the
making. O, mother, boast not thyself of to-morrow I
There are roots of bitterness even in children's hearts
that yet may spring up to trouble thee. Thou
mayest water them with thy tears, but find the evil
root too strong for all thy power and skill to over-
come. Rather look up in humble prayer to Him
who hath said, " I will take away the heart of stone,
and give a heart of flesh."

Dick was older than Oliver by two years ; of an
even age with baby Meg, with whom he liked to
come and play. On one occasion Dick was trouble-
some; he was not ready at any time to submit except
to his mother. Kezia reproved him in vain, and
then added, " If you do it again I will just take
you off to your mother.'^ On hearing this, Oliver
said with great decision, "Ps glad Vs not got a

I ! -i

154

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

mother ! " The sound of these words seemed to
break Farmer Caxton's light sleep in his arm-chair
by the fire. He turned his head quickly, caught
Oliver by the arm, and holding him before him, said,
"Thou dost not know what thou sayest, child!
There is not such another on the face of the earth as
thy mother was ! Pay her weight in gold, and you
would have bought her up cheap. Boy, she would
have made a man of thee; a better man than without
her thou art ever likely to be ! " Oliver stood fixed
in attentive surprise. Faii/,er Caxton rose up dis-
turbed by the strong emotion and went out; baby
Meg ran after him, and catching his coat-tails,
followed his steps.

The " making a man of him,^' sunk into Oliver's
mind, and dispelled the dislike he had felt to the
thought of his mother. Now when Mistress Crisp
said, '' Thy poor mother would never have allowed
thee to do this ! " Oliver considered that it might
be because it would hinder his being a man, and the
reproof became more effectual.

Thoughts and feelings are woven together in
strange combinations in the mind of a ch'ld, and
none can fully tell the effect that words are producing
in the misty realm of the young imagination. Where
the objects are few, they fill the space in proportion,
with undefined forms and long shadows; the shadows
and the forms scarcely known apart. How happy
the child who early learns what it is to walk with a
hand held in His — the man, Christ Jesus, the way,
the truth, and the life; to know the clasp of safety

B^sasasH

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

I.')5

and tenderness; and, so led, to walk through the mists
of life's morning, the glare of its noonday, and the
shades of evening, with Christ, — " I will fear no evil,
for Thou art with me ! "

One day in the Mill, Oliver ventured out to the
door, and looked down the steps. " Come back/'
said his father; "you must not go there alone until
you are a man ! "

" My mother would have made me a man I "
said Oliver, looking up in his father's face.

"My mother !" How the words thrilled through
the silence of Oliver Crisp's soul 1 " Who told you
so?" he asked.

" Grand-daddy told me," replied Oliver.

Oliver Crisp felt bewildered while, but the iron
spell had been broken, and from that day he talked
to the child of his mother. There was a willing heart
in the boy, ready to open and receive ; and so at length
it came to pass that perhaps few living parents ever
grew into more influence than that departed mother —
departed, but not dead ; that is not death which is but
absent from the body and present with the Lord.

" He is not dead whose holy mind
Lifts thine on high,
To live in hearts we leave behind,
Is not to die."

Mistress Crisp knew nothing of the quiet Mill-
talks between the father and the child ; and when
she marked the growing reverence in the boy at any
mention of his mother, she would sav, "It hf»s alwavs

156

OLIVER OF THE MILL*

been my way to keep the feeling for his mother in
him ! " Alas ! our mistakes are the last things that
we learn to read aright.

The step was easy from the mother to the mother's
book, the Bible. Oliver Crisp always kept a Bible and
a copy of Wesley's hymns on a shelf in the Mill, and
now, instead of little Oliver's playing at his father's
feet, his father sometimes read to him, saying, "This
is the book thy mother loved the best — God's Book."
And the boy listened with the tender awe of childhood,
linking in one the Bible, his absent mother, his father,
and his father's God. This was blessed training, but
he did not learn to read, and his grandmother said it
was high time for him to be sent to school, if he was
not to be a dunce. What a dunce was, young Oliver
had no idea ; but it was evidently something to be
avoided. Baby Meg also was to go to school, and
this alone was a reason for Oliver's going. She was
much more advanced in the art of reading and spell-
ing, but not in any way trained, nor opened in mind.
Baby Meg had long become the little tyrant of the farm-
house ; she must never cry, never be punished, if her
grandfather knew. Whenever a lettercame from abroad,
it was his first, and perhaps only fear, that they might
want the child. Had they wanted her, it is certain
rarmer Caxton would have bought her with gold;
the lustre of her little head was brighter to him than
his once highly-prized wealth ; but Mistress Caxton
said, "'Tis certain things can't hold safely that way;
'tis Meg rules the day, and Farmer's nought but a
child

)}

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

157

Dame Truman, who taught the village children,
was a tall, elderly woman, of upright figure, with
a white mob-cap, and rather austere manners, but a
kind and ruling spirit. She kept strict discipline;
two punishments constituted the penalties of dis-
obedience or inattention — no graver fault was ever
contemplated. " If they be naughty," said Dame
Truman, " I set them up in the corner till they be
rid of their ill-convenience; but if they be outrageous,.
I beat the table wilh this rod; it makes more noise
and scares them more than if I laid it on them ! "
School- days began for Oliver and iVIeg. Ii was no
easy task to restrain baby Meg's wild laughing glee
within bounds ; but she at length fell into place and
order, and submitted herself as every other child had
done, to Dame Truman's consistent and impartial
rule. Out of school she was still the child of frolic
atid fun ; her clean print-frock was stained or torn
with each day's wear, and her white cotton hat hung
off her head over her shoulders ; a picture-child she
was, but not a pattern-chi'd. The two children on
summer evenings often went hcnne to the farm to-
gether, until K. fetched Oliver, lingering herself for
a talk with her sister Kezia.

The incidents of life were small, yet marking
character. The two children were left alone in the
dairy; baby Meg swept her fingers over the cream
covering a pan of milk; then, hearing her grand-
mother's returning step, she ran away. Mistress
Caxton's eye fell on the milk-pan. " Is this your
trick ? " she said, with sharpened tone, to Oliver,

<«'»

158

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

who replied, in a decided voice, " I won't tell a lie !
Siipposing this to be a confession, Mistress Caxton
asked no more, but said, " Now, let me see you out
of the dairy, and never see you in again ! " Another
day, Meg's frolic overturned the buttered toast for
tea as it stood on the steel cat before the kitchen
fire. Meg ran away, leaving her little substitute as
before. Kezia questioned hard, hut Oliver only
replied, " T never did tell a lie ! " and would say no
more. Meg saw him not allowed any buttered toast at
tea, while she was quietly eating her own. This selfish-
ness of nature was cultivated in the child by the fond-
ness of the old man, who let her escape all correction,
until she began to feel that escape was the thing to
be expected at all times. Well is it for us that life's
lessons come sooner or later from a Hand that
cannot be mistaken ! Happiest for them who learn
them readiest; for the unready leaner strains the
measure, and makes a jarring discord in the melody
of the Divine teaching ! Much that stamps its
character on life arises out of what seem trifling
incidents.

Oliver Crisp never left the village churchyard on
the Sunday afternoon without standing by the grave
of Naomi, lie had often done this silently with
Oliver in his arms, or holding his hand ; but when
the words, " My mother ! " had passed the lips of the
child, and his father had begun to speak to him
of her, as he stood by the grave holding Oliver
by the hand, he said, '' This is where thy mother
tsleeps ! "

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

159

" Is my mother asleep ? "^Vill she wake again ? "
OHver asked, eagerly.

" Yes, she will wake ! " and as Oliver Crisp
repeated the words, " She will wake ! " the grave, so
dark and sad to his heart, glowed in the light of resur-
rection. " She will wake, she will arise ! " he said
again, not heeding the earnest uplifted face of his
bov, as he felt how he had dwelt with the darkness,
while already on the silent grave 1 y the promise of
life — " Thy dead shall live ; my dead bodies they shall
arise. Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust, for thy
<iew is as the dew of herbs ! " (or of the dawn).

"When, father, when will my mother wake? "

"When Christ shall call her ! " answered Oliver.
" I cannot tell you more, but we will read together
in the Mill"

What were those readings to the two — the eager
<:hild, the father in whose heart bereavement still lay
fresh, his boy the rainbow-span across that sorrow's
cloud ? Earnestly they read, with many pauses,
many a question from the child ; and many a thought
and feeling Naomi had breathed came back in
strength and blessing now on her husband's soul, as
slowly, week after week, they made their blessed way
through such glorious passages as i Thessalonians
iv., I Cor. XV., John xi., Isaiah xxv., xxvi. And
Oliver Crisp found that the light of resurrection-life
shines forth on earth for those who believe the
blessed words of man's Redeemer — " I am the
resurrection and the life. He that believeth in me,
though he were dead, yet shall he live ; and whoso-

i6o

OLIVER OF THE MILL,

ever Hveth and believeth in Me shall never die '* ; and
from that time, as he stood beside the grave, he
thought how soon the sleeper's form would rise in
radiance on his sight; raised fron he dead to die no
more, but to be as the angeh of God in heaven. And
the child Iciirncd to know that over those who sleep
in Jesus the grave has no victory ; it is but the bed
of rest, on which the dawn of the resurrection-morn-
injr is sure to break.

" Blessed Lord, our souls are longing,
Thee, our risen Head, to see,
And the cloudless morn is dawning
When Thy saints shall gathered be :

Grace and glory,
All our fresh springs are in Thee,

" All the joy we now are tasting
Is but as the dream of night :
To the day of God we're hasting,
Looking for it with delight.

Thou art coming,
A id wilt satisfy our sight.

" Tiiie, t^e silent grave is keeping
Many a seed in weakness sown ;
But the saints, in Thee now sleeping,
Raised in power shall share Thy throne.

Resurrection !
Lord of glory ! 'tis Thine own.

"As we sing, our hearts grow lighter;
We are children of the Day ;
Sorrow makes our Hope the brighter ;
Faith regards not the delay :

Sure the r»romise,
We shall meet Thee on the way."

cind

; in

; no

^nd

leep

bed

oin-

CHAPTER XIII.

One summer day in every year Dame Truman was
invited with her school to the Castle. It was a
grand day, one of the few yearly events in the village.
The feasts and games were out of doors, and nothing
was left undone to make the day a happy one. Dame
Truman gave her instructions many tunes over, and
always the same. '^ Now, children, you will all be
in the presence of the Quality, and )ou must one and
all behave yourselves accordingly. Now, remember,
none of your round-about ways, frolicking from
beginning to end ; that^s not the thing for the (Quality!
You must keep minding of me. If I smile, you may
smile too. Remember, I may seem to be taken up
with the Quality, but my eye will be on you all the
same. And when you are called up to repeat your
chapters and Psalms, remember, none of that natural
way you get into with me will do for the Quality !
You must say them up in a sacred, hollow voice, as
the Quality would ! "

The instructions were learned by heart ; but,
alas ! when the eventful time came, the wild woods,
the stately deer, the noble trees, and swings that flew
high as the tree-tops; the bowls that rolled down
hill, while boys despairing to catch them by a run,

l52

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

rolled after them ; and that would not roll uj) the
green slopes without returning again. The aviary,
the gold and silver pheasants, and fish that swam
after them round the large reservoir, and the golden
eagle ; the out-of-door feasting — pics, cakes, syl-
labubs and fruit; the sweetmeats that boys tumbled
and climbed and jun)))ed for, while the girls looked on,
and the winning boy presented half to some delighted
girl, but not to the same twice over. CJirls were not
tlien allowed to tumble in shoals with the boys ; and
it used to be a saying in after life, " You gave me
the leaper's sweetmeat, you know ! '' And in truth,
the fun of looking on pleased them best. All this
world of merry-making kejit the children as natural
as nature, and v^ry unlike what Dame Truman con-
sidered the right thing for "the Duality." Yet when
the dav was over, she could never find in her heart
to reprove or correct them ; only expressing a hope
that each one would remember next time ! Each
and all were too happy for blame. Dame Truman
made excuses for them, saying that '' the kind words
and pleasant smiles of the Quality, and the books and
work-bags, and 'the altogether' quite carried them
beyond themselves and their manners I " And there
was always a present for Dame Truman. So the
woods and the lawns rang with happy shouts and
laughter, and the echoes of gladness came Luck on
the summer air, which delighted the children, and
made them laugh louder, and echo laughed too. And
then they shouted, "How do you do?'' and echo
returned tlie inquiry; but the little ones wondered

OLIVER OF THE MILL,

163

that the old man of the hills never said, " Quite
well, thank you." So the bigger boys taught him,
and then he said the same. But when the boys
asked, " Come and play ! " echo only said, " Come
and play ! " and the children replied they would
rather not! They thought he must be a big man to
answer so far, and wondered if he would be there and
talk to them that way next year. But when they
asked Dame Truman, she said, "My poor children,
it is your ignorance to think it an old man, — it is the
hill itself that says back what you say to it ; it is by
means of a long word, children, called circunibocution!
That is five syllables, and you can none of you spell
beyond three; but you will some day, if you live and
do wc 11." This voice of the hill did not lessen the
mystery, and every year it was one of the wonders of
the day.

On these clays there was one child of all children
for Fsabelle — young Oliver, iiaby Meg was too wild
in her glee to be caught and won to any (juiet con-
verse. Isabellc would draw young Oliver away to
some quiet seat or walk with her, and they talked
together of some wonder of power and love in the
blessed life of the Lord. Oliver still learned with
his father far more than even Dame Truman could
teach. Or Isabelle taudit him to sinir some of the
hymns his mother loved best; he had her rich voice
and her ear for music, and caught a tune quickly;
and then in the Mill his father would sing them with
him, as he had with his moth'^ ;. Isab^ille would
talk to Inm of his mother, who was already to the

i.M I

I I"

if.

';ll

164

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

heart of her boy all that could draw forth his rever-
ence and love.

One day Isabclle gathered him a beautiful rose-
bud Vv'hich he noticed, for his jacket button-ho!e, and
he said to her, •' I take care of mv mother's flowers I
Father says I must, and he helps me. Father
says they answer to my hand as they did to my
mother's ! "

"Shall I come and see them ? " asked Isabelle.

"Yes/' answered Oliver, eagerly; "come on
Saturday, for I have no school that day. We have
such beauties ! "

We of^^en see the power of affection to im.part
tastes unknown before. Isabelle found Oliver quite
a florist — trained by his father. Who could have
guessed that Oliver Crisp had no love by nature for
flowers, who saw him evening after evening with his
child, watering, weeding, and carefully tying up the
trees and c''mbing plants ! It was not long, by
Isabelle^s aid, bt:fore such a spot was not to be seen
for its size, of gay blossoms and fruit, as the Mill-
garden. The great variety of gay colours rather tried
Mistress Crisp, who kept her herb-garden large in
proportion ; but she made no remark ; rememi)cring
only too well the far fairer flovvc; that had faded on
earth, for whose sake every blossom was held dear.

It was a happy life they lived, more happy than
they knev/ while the current flowed peacefully on.
Every life h^tS its unexpected events, and those who
yield themselves to the training of the Heavenly
Father 'lave, it may be, most of life's discipline.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

165

After quiet years, a crisis often comes, when events
Tncet together as though combining to produce the
difficulty or trial ; and no doubt they are combined
for that purpose by His wisdom and love who alone
knows how to train the many sons He is bringing to
glory.

It was to such an unexpected crisis that the Mill
family came. Oliver was almost nine years old. The
reapers were busy over the harvest in August, a
month before the time of his birth. Baby Meg
was eleven, though a stranger would have reversed
the figcs, for Oliver was tall, strongly-built, and a
thoughtful child, which gave a weight to his early
years, while Meg was baby Meg still. It was a
day of the week at the end of which Dame Truman's
school broke up for the general interval of harvest,
and the plcanino; for the cottage children. Oliver

DO -J

Crisp had left home — a most unusual event; the
decease of an aged uncle, and the settlement of his
aflitirs, detained him. All promised well as on any
day before ; but on the way home from school, Dick
Butterly got baby Meg in close talk, or rather, close
listening to him. This alone drew young Oliver's
atcention, and he heard baby Meg say, '' Vou bad
boy ! if you talk like that I won't walk with you 1 "
Still baby Meg did not >2;o, and Dick whispered in her
ear, " For shame, Dick ! " said baby Meg ; but at
that word, young Oliver collared Dick from behind
and drew him down on his back, saying, " You bad
boy 1 you shall not talk to Meg ! "

" I will talk as I like,'^ replied Dick, with a blow

i66

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

of his fist in Oliver s face which fetched a stream of
blood from his nose. Baby Meg, seeing blood, ran
home, crying and screaming; the younger children
looked on, and the boys struggled together. Oliver
had the best in position, though the worst in blows;
yet he would not give in until Dick had given his
word that he would not talk bad any more. Then
Oliver gave up his hold, and Dirk ran off, bespattered
with mud, but nolnmg the worse. As he went, he
took iip a stone, vvhich he threw back at Oliver,
cutting open his forehead. Oliver hastened home,
torn and bleeding, though conqueror — which satisfied
him.

But no father was there to understand the boy-
rights of the case. Mistress Crisp was appalled,
and K. said she was fiiighrened out of her life, though
she hastened to wash otT the blood ; and Mistress
Crisp, with her lily leaves, dressed the only wound
on the temple, and put Oliver, sorely against his will,
to bed — that bei:ig the place, Mistress Crisp con-
sidered, for a he ). Mistress Crisp said it was all
over for school until the holidays were gone, but
Oliver maintc'ined that he must go. He had worked
hard for his prize; and, what Oliver felt still more,
it would look as if he were afraid of Dick if he stayed
away at home I So a compromise was made — Oliver
to keep quiet the next day, and go on the Wednes-
day, and have the three last days of the school ; but
Mistress Crisp had made up her mind to inipose
some restriction vvhich should be efleetual to prevent
another outbreak.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

167

"To see the child take to fighting ! '* said
Mistress Crisp ; " who could ever have thought it ?
I am sure neither father nor mother ever raised hand
against any ; and this child must turn ruffian, and
fight out to the end I If this evil be not nipped in
the bud he will be enlisting some day, for it is plain
the fighting-nature is strong to show itself so early I
We never had a fighting man to disgrace my own
family, since first Friends came forward to teach the
world peace; and I don't believe that the Crisps had,
either. I have no notion how it comes in the child ;
but however it came, it is a rank weed, and must be
cast out at once I "

Mistress Crisp addressed her rcma'-ks partly to
K., but still more to herself. K. was mostly at the
bedside, giving such comfort as came to her mind,
but not such as Mistress Crisp would approve. " I
would not care, Oily ! " she said. " You had the
best of it, and made that bad boy give his word, and
if he don't keep it, that's no fault of yours ; and,
may-be, a stronger than you will take him in hand !
I know I would not see evil get the day if I had the
name of a boy I And sometimes I have thought, if
the men would not fight, why, the women nuist; but
I suppose it would not be right, for all that ! "

Baby Meg ran in with her consolation — "^ O,
Oily ! they say you did it like a man, and they only
wish every man would put down bad till there was
none ! "

This was dangerous praise for Oliver, that he had
done like a man I and all the more so as comiiicr

'■U

i58

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

from Meg, who had sometimes made him feel that
his years were younger than hers. But he said, " I
say, Meg, you must not hear bad talk ; if you do
that will make you bad ! and you know a bad boy
will talk bad. I have fought hard for you, Meg — I
don't mind that ; but this lying a-bcd, I hate it, and
it's all for you, Meg. Now promise you won't hear
bad talk, nor talk to bad boys any more I "

Meg promised, and Oliver never doubted the
word when a promise was given.

Farmer Caxton had never entered the Mill-house
since Naomi departed. Mistress Crisp had niade
her feelino; atraiust him too plain to cncouraue him
to venture; but now his anxiety for the boy could
pot be restrained. Mistress Crisp saw him entering
the gate, and withdrew into the back-room of the
house, saying to K., " I do not see Farmer Caxton ;
but if he chooses to see the child he can do so." K.
went to the door, and received him. Oliver was
sitting, with his head still bandaged, in the arm-
chair; the old man sat down beside him. After a
few kind enquiries, he said, '^ 'Tis a hurt from the
hand of a coward ! But, take my word for it, there
IS little good to be got in fighting the right out ; it
has turned right to wrong before now, and may 'mu!
up worse than is thought of. If the lad acts ugly b ■
you, have nought to do nor to say to hhn. You liavc
settled it once ; they kiu)w you can stand for the
right! Don't lay hands on any again, for your
mother's sake, child ! She ruled down the wrong by
a word or a look. Evil never held up its head betore

OLIVER OF THK MILL.

T69

her. You may buv peace, as they say ; but she
made it! Ah, child ! if you he vour mother's son,
you will find a better way than blows to turn evil off
hand I "

The next morniiiii; the wound was ready for a
plaster, and Oliver was up for his breakfast. His
little bag of books was ready ff)r school, and he was
himself ready to start when the early meal was over.
Mistress Crisp had before instructed K. " I shall
send thee with the child to school, K. Thee shall
see him safe there, and then fetch him safe home,
till the break-up on Friday."

" It is not a bit likely," said K., " that Oily will
be tied to my apron-strings ! "

" K., thee base forgotten thyself ! I tell thee to
do it — let that be enough. The boy has got a notion
that it is manly to fight ; if he finds that it leaves
him only a mistrusted child, he will not fall to fiaht-
i.)g again. If I had my way, I would have every
soldier sit down to make his red coat before he could
fight in it; aye, and knit the stockings to march in I
It is more than men know what the needle can do !
1 have worked off many a chafing of spirit. When
you sit down to sew or to knit, the ferment works
off' in a wav you scarce notice. I have made up my
mind that I will not see this winter gone without the
child knitting his own stockings — if for no other
reason than this ! "

K. had the greatest respect for ht r mistress ; siic
felt that the needle must be better than the sword —
perhaps the law of the land could order it so; yet

170

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

II ^

how to take Oliver to school was more than she
could sec clearly. She had a misgiving that evil
was coming, and could not make a breakfast.

Oliver took his cap and his hag. " Now, Oliver/^
his grandmother said, looking full at the child
through her large tortoiseshell specf .cies, "thou hast
forgotten thyself in this fight, and thou canst not be
trusted alone for awhile. K. will take thee to school
and fetch thee safe honie, and I hope thee will learn
to forbear ! "

Oliver's white cheek fluslicd red. "Granny, I
will never go to school like a baby ! 1 fought like a
man — father would know [ did ! I will go alone, as

))

I have always gone !

But Mistress Crisp had her hand on the door-
latch, and she said, in her toii. of stiictest authority,
" K., thou knowest thy duty ! If the child won't go
quiet, thou must carry him there ! "

K. thought it the most hateful measure of safety,
but she never d/sobeycd her mistress. She v\as
strong-built and of full hcight,and she swepther strong
arms round the boy and carried him off. Now, let
it be said to his honour, when he got his arms free,
he gave no blow for liberty to iv. Too manly to
strike a woman, he only wriimled like an eel to worm
himself out; but the clasp was very tight, and the
arms were very sti'ong. Still K. had more than
enough of her burden, and going down the steep
hill-side had much ado to keep steady ; and when out
of sight of the Mill-house, she said, "There! you
will walk quiet now ? " and loosened her hold. The

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

171

boy struggled to his feet, panted a moment, then
started full speed, not the way to the school, hut
along the foot of the hill, straight to the river. K.
stood still with horror as she saw him rush through.
The dry harvest-time favoured his desperate attempt,
and the spriug of his step carried him safe frou) one
stone to another in the river's rocky bed. He reached
the further side, coming down on his knees, but was
soon up again, and, without looking back, made for
the wood.

The wood was a forest in those days ; the trees
thick and large then, where now only pleasant
avenues lead the eye on to distant glimpses of
scenery. The grassy paths of the forest interwound,
and those who did not know it well would soon lose
their way. It was, perhaps, never crossed on foot
except by gipsies, and men of worse character, who
in those days haunted lonely places undiscovered.
K. hastened as fast as her feet would bear her to the
bridge, where the water flowed dcejier and turned the
wheel of a mill ; she crossed it and hastened towards
the forest, but Oliver was quite out of sight. She
called, but all was silent; she shouted, and the far-
off echo did but mock her with an answerinii; call of
" Oily ! " Poor K. had never known before the reel-
ing of despair ; she sat down on the grass, breathless
and terrilied. Some one might come by who knew
the forest. It was useless for her to venture, and
would be reckless — sure to lose herself, and her poor
mistress distracted at home ! But no one came; so,
with many a backward look on the heavy mass of

V i !

172

OLIVT^.P OF THE MILL.

•f

i f-

foliage, and many a lingering step, she returned,
thinking, " Sure, he will never go far, child as he is
— he will be afraid ! Me will get over his tantrums,
and come home i.umn\ ! "

Then a fear of returnins; seized K. What would
her mistress say ? How could she pacify her ? She
did not know. She sat down on the old wooden
bridge to '"onsider, and said to herself, " I wish I
had i)ecn olfand away like master, and never had in
hand such a business as this. The child has such a
spirit, it don't hold with women to rule it, and yet
he never denied us before. f have heard Dame
Truman say he is a lamb of the fold it ever there
was one. I wish enough she had had the carrying,
or any one but uic; he stood like a young lion, and
just seemed to say, 'Take me up if you dare!' I
didn't like it I am sure, but I was afraid to be crossed
in my mistress's order ; and now who knows what
may happen; he maybe caught by the spring guns
or uinsies, or die of hunger in the ni<i;ht-time. H'is
a terrible Job! I don't believe you can trample
douii natuie; mv mistress is so set against fight-
ing, and to see the wars in the Bible; but my
mistress says that was never meant to be now since
the Prince of Peace came, and no doubt she knows.
Then there is our young squire, what a soldier he is 1
(^h, if only Miss Isabelle would come! I'll just
.ask my mistress to let me run up to the Castle ; they
wouM not be so hard on the j)oor child, for they be
all liihtiufi men. And to see how he never raised
his hand against me ; he'll be a brave man if ever

OLIVER OP THE M1UI»

173

there was one, and women will just have fair play.
Poor child I I douht he has wwi liad it tmm us.
Weil, I just wish his \\{\\\\ father were home, l»e
would have ordtred the thing very difTcrent to this.
But I know I would not be in at the telling, no, — not
for a guinea paid down.''

K. rose from her seat on the old wooden bridge,
and slowly niade her way up the hill. She had but
little oj)portunity of speaking her mind to any one,
and she found it neeessary sometimes to have things
out with herself, generally coming to some con-
clusion in this way ; as now she resolved to ask
leave to hasten on to the Castle as the best thing to
be done.

" Why, girl, what a time thou hast been ! " said
Mistress Crisp, who stood on the door-step with a
very anxious face.

"Yes,'' answered K., "and the wonder is I am
come back at all ; Oily ran right out of my arms
throuiih the river. I saw him rush in, and I tliouoht
I should have dropped, he made otf to the forest. I
hurried off after, but I never got a sight nor a sound.
And now let mo run t( the Castle iUid just tell Miss
Isabelle, they will flnd him in no time, for he may be
dead by to-nu)rrow ; there are foxes and serpents and
wild folks they say, who stop at rothing!"

Mistress Crisp sank down in a chair. '^ Hold
ihy tongue, girl, let me think ; " and K. looked out
at the door. The forest stretched away in the dis-
tance. Miatress Crisp sat with set lips, and eyes
fixed, yel- seeing nothing the while ; at length she

i li

174

OLIVER OF TIIK MILL.

spoke. "Thee must not do it, girl ! The disgrace
it would be — the fight, and the temper, and the child
running away; our families on both sides have been
so respected, and never heard speak of an outbreak
like this! Thee must not make it known. 'I'he boy
is (juiet enough — if the fight had not set him on
fire; only to sec v; hat it leads to! Let them that
encourage fighting answer for that ! Mind thy work,
and hold thy tongue, and the boy will come home and
say, 'Granny, I am sorry,' and go peaceably with you.
It is only the fight that has brought him to this."

When baby Meg ran up between school to see
Oily, she was only told she could not see hini then,
and sent home in a troubled surprise. Mistress Crisp
had many a sharp word with poor K. that day. It
was true, as K. freely owned, she had lost many looks
from the window, but her mistress scarcely looked
any other way, by reason of which she thought K.
wrong when she was not. Poor Mistress Crisp!
she was all ajar, but her outward composure refused
to give vent to her inward trouble of mind. No
child returned.

Dinner passed almost untasted. Mistress Crisp
watched until the sun was sinking in the west. The
tea-things were set. Mr. Crisp might return; they
waited, and at sunset he came. K. hurried out at
tlie back, but her mistress soon called her in ; he
stood just by the door, as she left him coming
in, and saying, " Where is the child ? " those Were
always his first words on coming home. Mistress
Crisp sat down in her chair. K. said she did not

OLIVER OF TIIK MILL.

175

believe her poor mistress could stan J. Tier master
scarce spoke a word, and she told it all clear from
the first to the last, for she said, as she stood there
she thoujzht, if it shoidd have to come up before the
justice at the Court siie must tell it all, and had hrst
do it at once. " My master," she said, " he iie\er
took his eyes olf me, and when I had done he never
spoke a word, hut he just came forward, drank u])
the pitcher of milk, put a cake in his pocket, called
the doii. and went oil."

((

car

me ! " said K. to her mistress : "the doji

to he sure ! If mortal could find him it would he
the dog. They say women are not wise, I never
thoutrht of that: or we would have had him home
by this time; 'tis like he don't know his wav, and
the dog will just lead him; and here the |)oor brute
has been sitting all day on the watch, and we never
thought of sending him off. Well, he's gone now
for certain. There is master takinii straight throui>h

le river, an

d Al

cj)po IS a

after him ! " This K. said

at the door, as she shaded her eyes from the last
radiance of sunset to look over the tricamino' water
to the dui K reaches of wood ; but she could see no
further, and she turned in to try and cheer her poor
mistress, and persuade her to take some food.

^
.<^^^

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

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lit li

12.0

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Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WiST MAIN STRiiT

WfBSTIR,N.Y. MSn

(716)t72-4S03

CHAPTER XIV.

K. SOON returned to her station at the open door,
looking on into the fading radiance ; looking on inta
the gathering gjloom. The moon rose grandly over the
forest trees, the night-wind bore in the fragrance of
the jessamine that grew about the porch, and the
white owl of the Mill swept by on heavy wing. Still
K. leaned against the door-post, her feet close set
together, her arms close folded, her eyes fixed on the
gloomy forest, and the moon-lit river, whose ceaseless
murmur as it flowed over its rocky bed, was the only
sound that broke the stillness ; the reapers had sung
their evening song, and the tired village lay asleep.
The lights of the Castle went out one by one, and
the church clock struck eleven.

" Canst thee see, girl ? " asked Mistress Crisp
for the twentieth time from her chair.

" I can see," answered K., without altering her
fixed gaze for a moment, which took in bridge, river,
and wood ; " I can see, but there's nought to be
seen. I say, mistress, won't you just go to bed ?
I'll watch till they come, if it be till the dawn."

" I don't know, girl ; I feel as weak as a babe, I
don't think I can get myself there."

r 1 just settle you there," said K., " and then.

OLIVER OF THT? MllJ^,

177

trust to mn." K. laid her poor mistress to rest as
she would have laid a child. It was the first time in
all her service that her most independent mistress
had needed her help. K. gave it tenderly, and when
her weary head reached the pillow, Alistress Crisp
said, "There, leave me now, my good girl, and don't
come again; I don't seem able to bear the news,
either way. Let me sleep till I wake, and then, may
be, rU feel better able to hear it."

Oliver Crisp had crossed the river reckless of
where. Aleppo followed his master, and both made
for the forest. Those were days of strange terror to
parents, when gipsies stole children, and wander-
ing: travellers stole children, and sold them in towns
and cities to chimney-sweepers ; there was fear
that a lost child was lost indeed in those days —
terrors of more than half a century ago, that do
not trouble parental hearts now. Yet '* lost in a
forest" had terrors enough, if none other haunted
the heart.

Before entering the forest, Oliver Crisp said to
his dog, " Oily 1 Oily ! Where's Oily ? Hie, boy I
find the child I " Aleppo sniffed the ground, caught
the scent between the river and the wood ; running
with nose close to the ground, he entered the forest.
Oliver followed hard ; the dog took this path, then
that. Oliver forced back the crossing underwood, to
make way for his tall figure when the path was shut
in above; but all in vain, he could not keep pace
with the dog. He dared not call him back, but he
lifted his voice, and amidst the dark forest- trees he

178

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

shouted, " Oliver ! " and the echo repeated his cry.
Awhile he struggled on, following as well as he could
the fleet steps of the dog, but he soon lost his track ;
he whistled, but the dog did not return ; he whistled
again, and heard an answering bark in the distance,
l)ut far too uncertain to guide him in the darkened
forest.

He had reached a small grassy glade, where no
underwood grew ; the full moon cast the shadows of
the trees in close tracery across it, and th>j giant
stems of the forest showed pale in the moonlight,
giving each shadow a defined, sharpened outline.
He could go no further ; he might as well have been
alone on the trackless sea without compass or chart.
A strange horror seized the heart of the father — a
horror that has no name save despair; he leaned
against a tree-stem, through whose top the pale
moon-beams quivered, and the shadow of death passed
over him ! He had felt it before in early manhood,
when the father, the friend of his youth, was taken
from him. It had come again when golden sunbeams
lighted the sky, and he could almost see his blest
Kaomi enter the gates of Rest ; but now a horror of
great darkness came over him — his child, his only
child lost in the gloom, the danger; lost, it might
be, in cruelty and evil ; lost, perhaps, for ever ! From
the father's hervrt rose a groan deep and intense ! no
echo caught the sound, it fell to earth in that dread
silence I Not so ! the echo of a groan from broken
or crushed hearts on earth, rises to the heart of che
Eternal Father:

OLIVER OP THE MILL. 1 79

**Full many a cry has reached Thee from the wild,
Since the lone mother weeping there,
Cast down her fainting child ;

Then turned away to weep and die,
Nor knew an angel-form was nigh."

He knew not how, but over his spirit stole a
cahn, intense and holy. He sasv, in thought before
him there, the grass, the trees, the moon-beams, of
Gethsemane ! Was it not so alone, in such a scene,
on such a night. He suffered who came to seek and
to save that which was lost ? — Lost doubly, soul and
body ! Lost utterly ! Lost ! The word re-echoed
in Oliver's soul. He gazed on that lone glide, as if
he saw that sacred form — the Holy One laid there in
prostrare agony, and bathed in His own blood. He
heard the cry, " Father, if it be possible, let this cup
pass from me j Father, not my will, but Thine be
done ! " He had made no effort to recal the sacred
scene, of the Highest sinking to the lowest deep of
woe unspeakable, to save tb.e lost ; he leaned in
silence there against the giant fir, his eyes and heart
alike intent on what he spiritually saw. It was as
Jacob when alone at Bethel ; he found this solitary
glen the house of God, the gate of Heaven.

Then, in the stillness, there passed before his
spiritual sight, the form of One, with mangled brow
and hands and feet, bearing in His folded arms, close
pressed upon His bosom, a lamb, on which the
tender eyes looked down with love intense. No voice
fell on the outward ear, but through the listening
soul of Oliver the words breathed out in undertones

i8o

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

from depths of joy, "Rejoice with Me, for I have found
My sheep which was lost ! " Oliver sank upon his
knees in speechless adoration. He saw but one
object, the Shepherd, wounded and torn, bearing the
lamb in I lis bosom, with a heaven of love in His
divine yet human eyes. He heard but one voice,
" Rejoice with Me, for I have found ! "

He knew not how long he kneeled, but he kneeled
till the blissful vision changed. A glorious Man was
wafted afar on clouds of dazzling white — a glorious
Man, yet in His hands and feet He bore marks of
the cross, prints of the nails; and resting on His
breast, Oliver saw himself, Naomi, and their child I
There seemed no other object in creation ; cloud
above cloud veiled all horizon, concealing all above,
below, only that glorious Man — the very same who
lay in the moonlit glade alone, amid the darkening
trees, in prostrate agony, breathing the cry, " Thy
will be done I " The very same who had passed by
with wounded hands and feet, with head bent down
in love, with gaze no mortal eyes can give, on that
one rescued lamb. The very same now wafted on
the clouds, His seamless robe of dazzling white.
Himself as calm in His majestic tenderness as when
He passed through that lone glen ; and Oliver knew
and felt himself, with his Naomi and his child, laid
safely on His breast^ without a care, without a fear
•^not thinking how they came, nor whither they
were going, but safely there, laid on His bosom, in
perfect rest! The dark waves of anguish rolled
heavily around him, but above them rose the glory of

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

I8l

a Presence, the Light of the world, in whom dwellcth
all the fulness of the Godhead bodily ; and the calm
of fellowship with Jesus stilled the rush of the
tempest, and illumined the dark waves with radiance.
All around lay the havoc of those surging billows,
the wreck of uncertainty and loss ; while his spirit
was hid in the secret of His Presence, with whom is
the fountain of life, and in whom there is no con-
demnation and no separation.

Think it not strange that such visions are given.
To those who walk with God (albeit imperfectly,
with man) an eriing, stumbling step), yet, in their
heart's desire — walking with God — He showeth
great and mighty things that they have not known.
" The secret of the Lord is with them that fear Him,
and He will show them His covenant." When the
eyes of the spirit are Divinely enlightened, they
behold vvhat mortal vision cannot trace. " tye hath
not seen, nor ear heard, neither hath entered into the
heart of man to conceive, what God hath prepared
for them that love Him ; but God hath revealed it
unto us by His Spirit." Why should any suffering
heart be wrung with lonely anguish, in utter desola-
tion, when such a Comforter is nigh — the Man of
sorrows, the Incarnate Son, the Consolation of Israel
— even He who says, "Come unto Me, all yc that
labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest;"
"As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I
comfort you j " " When thou passest through the
waters I will be with thee, and through the rivers,
thev shall not overflow thee " ?

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OLIVER OF THK MILL.

The night wind rose and swept the forest- 1 recs ;
their branches creaked beneath its power; clouds
chased their hurried course, veiling the stars and
darkening the moonlight. Oliver Crisp felt the chilh
that creeps over the earth before the dawn of day.
He rose, and by the fitful glimmer made his way as
best he could, until he reached the open ground ;
crossed the bridge, and climbed the hill-side. Bereaved
he felt, but not desolate. An aching heart, yet irk
its depths a deeper trust than he had ever known
before. Nor did the vision fade, but lay before his
inner sight in ics eternal blessedness. So spake He
when He said, " My peace I give unto you. Net as
the world giveth, give I to you. Let not your heart
be troubled, neither let it be afraid."

Poor weary K. sat by the open door, leaning her
head against the door-post, sleeping in her lengthened
watch. Her master woke her with a quiet voice,
saymg; *' Go and rest now ; we must wait until the
day breaks. The dog is gone, and, there is little
doubt, v^ill find him."

When K. heard that the dog was gone, the sense
of the child's utter desolation passed from her heart.
" The dog," she said, " will not come home without
him ! "

She crept to the bed of her mistress, still sleeping
in exhaustion of mind and body. K. feared to leave
her alone, and, wrapping her shawl round her, lay
down by her side, and was soon in sound slumber^
forgetting the trouble that had darkened the day.

Oliver went to the stable ; gave Depper, the good

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

183

horse, another feed of corn, for his past day's journey
had been long ; then came in, and waited for light to
break over the hill. He left the door on the latch —
the child was outside ! and many a time he went out
to look abroad. He saw the morning-star rise over
the hill, and thought on the lonely nights of wakeful
sorrow when it came as a messenger of peace to
Naomi ; but a Presence was with him in which the
morning-star grew pale. His eye could find no
earthly rest away from the forest, the river-bridge,
and the hill-side, yet no little figure was there — no
sound save the breeze that blew the rose-buds against
the lattice window-panes, and the first chirp of
waking bird beneath the eaves. Strange contrasts
filled the soul of Oliver Crisp — the living grace and
glory of the things eternal, and the desolation of all
things temporal; sustained by the one, he sank not
under the other.

When the sun had risen he called K. She hasted
and prepared his breakfast; he packed in a basket a
bottle of milk and two harvest-cakes thick with
plums (K. knew for whom !) ; then, breaking a loaf
in half, he laid some cheese in the centre, for him-
self, and said, " Tell Granny not to fear."

"Shall I say you will be home to-night?"
asked K.

" I shall not come back asrain until I hear of the
child ; but let that alone — you cheer her with hope !"
And he turned out; and K. heard Depper led out of
the stable, and the master was gone, while the world
still seemed sleeping. K. took her own breakfast

J 84

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

in better cheer; the rising sun of itself was reviving,
and her hopes rested even more on the dog than on
her n)aster — the dog would go where he could not !
She made a comfortable cup for her mistress, and
went to her room with a little tray prepared in as
tempting a way as she could devise.

"'Tis time to feed, mistress," said K.

"Is the child home?" she asked.

" Not yet/' answ'M-ed K. ; " but Aleppo's with
him by this time, and master is oft' with Depper to
brine: them both home."

Mistress Crisp looked hard at K., who only said,
"It is time you should feed. Master made a break-
fast, and 'tis certain you must."

The little meal was taken silently, and then the
weak and weary head lay down again, and she said,
" If the child does not come home I just hope I'll
sleep on and not wake, up again ! " And K. left her,
sleeping for sorrow !

With the morning, the tidings of the lost child
flew like wild-fire. Richard Dolman, the mill-man,
had told the night before on leaving the Mill that the
child was lost somevvlicre, but he did not know
where. All were late in the fields, and the tidings
were not spread until morning; then many steps
were astir. All the facts of the case now became
known, for Meg, in her sorrow, told all. Farmer
Butterly gloomily promised Dick the horse-whip, it
Oliver did not come home safe. Dick slunk off to
the harvest-fields, not without thoughts of running
away himself. K. stood at the gate of the Mill-

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

185

house, and told all the particulars to all who came
up that way ; she could not leave the premises with
her mistress ill in bed. Farmer Caxton could not
rest within doors, nor without. ' The weather was
dry, and the corn shelling on the ground, but he
sent his son off on the fleetest horse they had. " I
would turn out every man that I have," he said, " if
it would not be just a sin to let the grain perish, for
which so many mouths will be hungry." It was
alTcctiug to see the restlessness of the old man, in
and out, inquiring of all. He came in and asked for
his "bait," but before the harvest-cake was cut, or
the cider on the table, he was out again, no one
knew where. It was no use to speak on any other
subject, he did not understand what you said. Mis-
tress Caxton went about with a tear in her eye, but
to those vv'ho lamented she said, " Don't tell me that
Naomi's child can be forsaken and lost ! "

Dame Truman could not teach in her school.
She said " It's of no use to talk of your prize-day I
There will be no breaking-up, I can tell you, till
school begins again ; and if the child be not found.
Dame Truman can never keep school any more 1 "
She turned the children all back, with orders to be
on the watch and listen, and she stood on her door-
step, and asked of all who passed by, " What I have
they heard of the child ? " As to Dick Butterly,
Dame Truman, with her extremcst native dignity,
said, "Don't ask me if he will come back to school!
* Evil communications corrupt good manners.' If
he were the son of the Castle, or the Lord Mayor of

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OLIVKR OP TIIR MILL.

London, I would not receive him while I am Dame-
Truman ! *' Susan Butterly keenly felt the discredit
on her son. She said ** there were faults on both sides,
and a child made such a iuss about as the boy Oliver,
was likely enough to give plenty to fr.ss over! " But
in her heart she knew that Dick was a wilfid and
wicked boy, and the one reason why she had blinded
herself to his faults was because he flattered her
pride by always obeying his mother. Alas! he had
found that if he submitted to her, she would excuse
his evil ways against others. A boy's obedience to
his mother is not always a test of a hopeful character.
Baby Meg was an April-day, now crying for Oliver,
now riding in empty waggons with glee. Farmer
Caxton did not count his sheaves, nor reckon the
gold they would bring; he would have given all they
were worth to lay his h uul once more with a bless-
ing on the dark clustering curls of the young head
that lay, like Baby Meg's, in his heart as its treasure.
At the Castle, its lady had walked down at the
butler's request, to look at some thirty young pigs^
unequalled in beauty, his particular interest. Mr.
Howe, the Castle butler, was a portly man, quite
beyond usual dimensions, but his benevolence was as
expansive as his size. There was not the creature
that Mr. Howe did not care for; ever on his feet, he
was the kind patron of all living things. The fowls
he watched over flapped their wings with a crow or a
suitable cry at his approach. The culture of pigs
was a favourite pursuit, but never preoccupied his
time. There was not a guest at the Castle, from the

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187

highest to the lowest, who was not the better for his
attentions and care. Man and Ix-ast were befriended
by him. The poor fly-horses, generally scorned and
left outside, had a special wooden building for their
reception; they knew the excellence of the Castle corn,
and people remarked on the quickened pace of the
hired horses when the Castle rose in view, for Mr.
Howe had a headship over things without doors as
well as within. Yet Mr. Howe was no careless pur-
veyor. He kept a daily diary in which everything
was recorded; the work done by each man, including
himself. Every promiscuous meal given, every
additional horse or man, the birth or death of
poultry, pigs, etc., etc., every event that occurred.
A book might be written from Mr. Howe's diary !

His private room was a museum of interest, the
unfailing delight of many a boy. Its curiosities
could not be enumerated. We can only allude to
a clock of remarkable history, and a Bible in- '
scribed with a name of eminent worth, for which
he gave two pounds, and when ofiered five for
it he answered, " No, not for ten would I
part with it I " It may well be thought that the
love which the Bible reveals to us as of God, moved
his universal kindness to all.

His lady had come down at his personal request
to look on his young pigs, which were of eminent
quality. Not having the least idea which to adniire,
she ..ad singled out one which Mr. Howe found it
necessary to tell her was the worst of the lot. At
this moment one of the gamekeepers came by, saying

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OLIVER OF THE MILL.

he was off to the woods, for Mr. Crisp's boy was
lost and supposed to be there.

Then Mr. Howe forgot the pigs, and insLantiy
asking his lady's pardon, hastened to do all that could
be done. He had a donkey of sagacity and beauty,
quite capable — not of carrying him, but of drawing
him out in a small convenient carriage, also his own,
which he also used for giving the maids an airing
when they were dull ; for no one was forgotten by
him. He ordered his donkey, uhen looked for Miss
Isabelle, he found she had been the first to hear it
while feeding her parrot on the lawn, the garden^tr
had told her ; she had ordered her horse, and was
seeking her mother. The coachman, by his lady's
wish, took another direction. Mr. Howe said, "The
slowest was sometimes the surest," and set out with
his carriage and donkey. Hearts were stirred on all
sides, and hurrying steps trod the road, and the
harvest-men looked from their wains to the forest,
and the women rested on their rakes in the barley-
fjcids, talking it over each time with the same con-
ckuaon. Isabelle rode to the Mill, and poor K. at
length had her outpour to the Castle ; but small
hopo was in Isabelle's heart, which sank within her,
when she heard the whole story; yet she gave her
palfrey, Lufra, the rein, and took the lanes that
skirted the forest, hoping to meet some bringer of
tidings to comfort or direct.

K. took her mistress a little dinner, but she
refused to eat or raise her head, and the faithful
servant's trouble began to pass from the child to her

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

189

mistress. Early in the afternoon she made ready a
tempting little tea-tray, which she carried up, saying,
" Do, mistress, sit up a bit and eat ! If only you
had seen how quiet master came in and went out, I
know you would have hope."

"Ah, girl! 'tis the quiet kills me; the voice of
the child if it don't soon come, there will come the
voice of an angel for me ! "

Poor K/s tears flowed with a feeling of ''iso-
lation ; the child gone and the mistress going,
suasion was a thing that none had ever venti
try with Mistress Crisp, but K. felt she must iry it
now. " Now don't ye take on like that, I say
mistress, as if the poor child might be dead and
buried. I am jiretty sure he and the dog be nestled
up somewhere, if we could but See. 'i'ake a bit
morsel, and drink up the tea, and you will seem well
when 'tis down 1 "

" 'Tis no use to lift up the head if thee can't lift
up the heart, girl ! "

" Well now, mistress, I do say it will be nothing
less than a sin to starve the life out of us, because
we be not sure if the child be on earth or in heaven.
We know for certain he is in one or the other, and
if we go aflTron'jng the mercy that feeds us, we may
never see the mercy that brings liim safe home."
Mistress Crisp took the little meal, and she lay
down again with a pink flush of life on her pale
cheek.

There was no self-reproach in the extreme sorrow
of the grandmother. She had no feeling of having

JIW

190

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

made any mistake in the discipline she imposed.
She considered the punishment a very mild one, only
a safcjiuard. She did not know that the correction
which makes a child an object of ridicule and laughter
to other children, is far worse than the severity that
would make him an object of compassion. A great
mind or a comprehensive heart would never lower a
child by correction. It is certain that the mind is a
small one, and the heart equally narrow, which
can consciously make a child the . object ot
laughter and ridicule. It was with no such idea
that Mistress Crisp had devised the remedy ; she
thought it a necessity of the case to lower the boy's
manly feeling, lest it should break out again in a
fight.

How many a mistake marks the course of human
life — mistaken acts that seem to lead to evil ; mis-
taken words that leave a wound ; causes of pain that
even the softening touch of time does not heal I
Yet are thLV mistakes? In one sense they are,
arising from a mistaken judgment or feeling in those
from whom thcv come; but in another sense no
mistake — for they come by His permission who
numbers the hairs of our head ; they are part of His
appointed discipline — to show us what manner of
spirit we are of, to make manifest the hidden evil of
the heart, that being made manifest it may be con-
fessed and cleansed. If received as from man they
too often irritate and embitter the spirit, the object
of them feels not understood, and the lonely heart
grows narrower and harder. But if received through

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

191

the Heart of divine tenderness, they fulfil the highest
purposes of the will of God concerning us. — Con-
forming to the mind and will of Christ ; softening
the spirit until it bears without resentment, and
enlarging the charity until it rises to cover with
the full tide of love the things that naturally tend to
check its exercise.

I LEFT it all with Jesus

Long ago ;
All my sins I brought Him

And my woe ;
When by faith I saw Him

On the tree ;
Heard His still small whisper

'Tis for thee !
From my heart the burden

RoU'd away,

Happy day.

I leave it all with Jesus,

For He knows
How to steal the bitter

From life's woes ;
How to gild the tear-drop

With His smile,
Make the desert garden

Bloom awhile;
When my weakness leaneth

On His might,

All seems light.

I leave it all with Jesus

Day by day ;
Faith can firmly trust Him,

Come what may.
Hope has dropped her anchor,

Found her rest
In the calm, sure haven

Of his breast ;
Love esteems it heaven,

To abide

At His side.

Oh ! leave it all with Jesus,

Drooping soul 1
Tell not half thy story.

But the vvhoh*.
Wot-lds on worlds are hanging

On His hand,
Life and death are waiting

His command ;
Yet His tender bosom,

Makes thee room,

Oh 1 come Home I

CHAPTER XV.

Oliver did not stop to recollect himself until he was
far in the green paths of the forest. Then he stood
still to think ; he had never been far in the forest
before, and he had never been allowed to enter it
alone. Great trees were around him on every side,
and he knew not which way to turn; as he looked
around in the loneliness he felt frightened, and turned
back to see once more the hill's green side and the
corn-fields that skirted the forest — then, when safe,
he could think what to do, whether to go home, or
to Dame Truman, or to Farmer Caxton. " Oh ! if
father were but there ! " thought Oliver. But his
father was not there, and he was alone in the wood.
He tried to return, but the paths came to no ending ;
he had to give up the attempt, and could only wander
on h:;lplcss and hopeless. He saw everywhere the
same great trees, and the same green paths. Some-
times the path was lost amidst brushwood, and the
blackcock and the wild rabbits crossed his path.
The squirrels played in the branches, and ran before
his feet. Gieat birds flapped their wings in the trees
and startled him by flight. Frightened and tired, he
could only press on; he dared not sit down to rest^
he had no guide and no helper on earth. His legs

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

»93

seemed too weak to carry him further, and his feet
too tired.

There was only one thing that could be done in
such a plight — to pray ! Oliver often prayed with
his father. His tather had taught him the l.ord's
Prayer, instructing him to look out for himself all
the texts of Holy Scripture he could find which
seemed to him to be like each petition, and so to add
from memory one or another text to each petition.
To add also any special want he might feel, or con-
fession or thanksgiving. In this way prayer became
a real thing to the child, not a few sentences hurried
over, but a prayer.

What now could he do in the lonely forest but
kneel down and pray ? He had one way quite his
own of beginning the prayer; no one had taught him,
nor had he, probably, ever heard it ; it was the instinct
of a child's heart linking the Name through which
alone we can draw nigh to God, with the uttered
prayer, " O Lord Jesus ; O our jf ather I '* He also
of his own accord used constantly the pleading
words, " I beseech Thee ! " The little weary knees
sank down upon the grass to pray.

" Our Father, which art in heaven,—

" I beseech Thee, comfort my father when he
comes home, and take me back to him.

" Hallowed be Thy Name, —

" I beseech Thee, for Thy Name's sake, lead me
and guide me !

Thy kingdom come,—

({

194

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

I thank Thee, Lord Jesus, for

not, little flock, it is your Father's good pi
give you the Kingdom.

saying
easure

Fear

Thy will be done on earth as it

; in heaven
r saying.

" I thank Thee, my Saviour, tor saymg, * it is
not the Will of your Father in heaven that one of
these little ones should perish.'

" Give us this day our daily bread, —

" I thank Thee for saying, ' He giveth food to the
hungry' — I am hiingvy.

" Forgive us our trespasses,—

" Forgive me, my Saviour, for running away.
Look upon my affliction and my pain, and forgive all
my sin.

" As we forgive them that trespass against us,—

" Forgive Dick, and make him a better boy.

" Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us
from evil.

"O Lord Jesus, I beseech Thee, deliver me out
of this trouble.

" For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the
Glory, for ever and ever. Amen."

With his father, Oliver generally added a Psalm
of praise or prayer. He often chose the 23rd, which
he called the Good Shepherd's Psalm ; or the 25th,
or 32nd, or 65th, or 133rd, or 146th. For prayer
was no hurried necessity with young Oliver, but a
breathing his heart to his Father in heaven, and
generally offered at his parent's side. The interest
of first finding the texts that answered to the petitions.

lam

OLIVER OF THE MILL,

I9J

cl\

then remembering them according to his need, gj
a constant freshness and force to his prayers. Olivei
was never allowed by his father to use the expression,
" I have said my prayers," but " I have prayed."
Oliver Crisp's devout and reverent spirit was one to
guard the use of words which have their influence on
the mind. While some children v/eary with a text
or two, otheis, like Oliver, learn to delight early in
the Word; their memories being well stored; knowing
from their childhood the Holy Scriptures, which are
able to make them wise unto salvation.

Oliver was weary, and did not add his Psalm ;
but he rose with comfort of heart which helped his
tired body. For the child can as truly as the prophet
Daniel kneel before his God, praying and confessing
his sin, and as surely as Gabriel, the angel of Jesus,
was sent to the Prophet, so surely will God in His
own time and way send help and deliverance to every
heart confessing and praying in the name of the Lord
Jesu3. The bad feeling of being a runaway boy was
gone from the heart of 01iv»'.r now, and he went on
more steadily, keeping one pathway, instead of rest-
lessly wandering from one to another.

The effects of our faults follow us here, even when
the sin is forgiven ; the eft'ects of our faults are often
painfully sad ; but when sin is forgiven, we may take
the suffering and sorrow in patient trust, that it will
be amongst the all things God has promised shall
work together for good to them that love Him. Oliver
still thought of his father returning and finding him
lost; and he longed to sit down and cry for sorrow

196

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

at what he had done ; but he was too frightened to
sit down, and too faint to cry, so he still went on his
way i wandering on, hour after hour.

Presently he heard a gun, then a flutter down
through branches near him, and a ring-dove with
bleeding wing fell at his feet. He did not know
what to think of the gun — he might be shot himself,
hid amongst those great trees, or v^ounded like the
poor bird, and unable to go on. Some one else must
be in the wood ; he knew that bad men, as well
as good ones, shot with guns j this might be a bad
man, and if a bad man found him, what could he
do ? There was no place to run to, and if there
were, he was too weak to run. He could only re-
member our Father in heaven, and trust to His care.
He stood still and looked down at the poor struggling
bird. He did not like to leave it there to die; so he
took out his pocket-handkerchief, and tied the
corners in the button-holes of his jacket, and laid the
wounded bird gently in this small swinging bed; he
had to use his hands to push away the low branches
when the path was not clear.

He did not hear the gun again, though he listened
in fear ; but the sun's declining rays began to slant
bright gleams along the tree-stems, and the poor
worn-out boy began to look for the first place in
which he could lie down, unable to keep his feel any
longer. As he struggled on, the path widened, and
he found, to his comfort, that he was near to another
side of the forest. He pressed on until he saw a
cart-road along the forest-side, and a field of beans

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

197

on the other side of the road. There was a little
glade at the edge of the wood, and there at length he
sat down to rest and to wait, hoping that some cart
might pass; — some one who would take him to safety
if not to home. How he wished he were at home —
wished he could only see K., or any one who would
care for him, a poor helpless boy I

He sat down, and leaned against a tree-stem
close by the road-side, but while waiting and watching
he fell asleep. He was awakened by a dog pulling
at the handkerchief that held the poor bird. He got
up with difficulty, for he was very stiff, and clasped
the bird in both hands to protect it, for the dog was
of a kind accustomed to steal, and did not look at all
inclined to take a friendly denial. Close by, Oliver
saw a. covered travelling-house, a boy loosing the
horse, a woman breaking sticks for a fire, dirty
children running about, and another sight he could
never forget — a man lying full-length on the grass,
his black eyes fixed on Oliver, and a gun by his side.
They had all come up while Oliver was asleep. The
man was resting on one arm, his head raised, a short
pipe in his mouth, and a terrible look in his eyes,
which were fixed on Oliver. It was the first time
that Oliver had known what it was to feel afraid of
any human being; but those eyes had a look of
desperate evil that struck a terror through the boy,^
and seemed to fix him where he stood.

But he did move. With a fast beating heart he
walked on — his terror grew greater — he could not run
—he thought the man would come after him — those

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

evil eyes seemed to glare on him still — he was giddy,
and tottered along. The grisly dog followed him
close — perhaps he would seize him, and drag him
back to the man I He struggled on, and saw a gate,
and men in the next field cutting the corn. The gate
was not fastened ; he \.i:ut through, and, quite spent
with fatigue, hunger, and fright, he fell down by the,
first stand of sheaves that he got to. lie felt the
grislv dog drag at his handkerchief — felt the poor bird
flutter in terror, but was too weak and faint to lift up
his little hand to protect it. It was well that he could
not, for the dog's fangs wei e sharp ; they were soon
astened in the poor bird, which was dragged away,
and the dog disappeared with his prey.

The reapers soon saw a child lying there, and a
man came up to him, and said, " What art ailing,
lad ? " But Oliver could not answer ; he heard a
voice, but could not tell what was said. The man
saw a bloody handkeichief tied to his button-hole,
and lifted it to see if the child had a wound. It was
only the empty bed of the ring-dove he had tried to
save. Then the man took him up in his arms, and
went back to his gang, and said, " Here is a child,
more dead than alive I What shall we do with him?"

The men gathered round. " Can't leave him to
die I " said one man, a fat'.ier ; " here, lay him down
on my coat. Mother Tibby will soon be here; I'll
be bound she will know what to do 1 Here comes
Matty Trundel with beer. Here, Matty 1 try your
hand on this bit of a chap lying here ; bring him to,
if you can, and let Mistress Tibby know."

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199

"Who is he? " said Matty, turning to him with
her can.

" You must give him a tongue," said the first
man. "and tlien, maybe, he will tell you. I reckon
you might sj)are him a bit of your own 1 "

Matty I'ru ndei |)aid no heed to the compliment,
but turned to the cliiid^ and the men gathered round
for their ale.

" Here is a bit of bread," sad the fatherly nian ;
" *tis dry with the sun, but make a bit sop, and you
may get it down."

Matty Trundel tried, and the child swallowed, and
she tried again ; still the progress was slow. The
men drank their ale, and returned to their sickles. At
length, one shouted, " Here's Mother Tibby ; she
will know what to do ! "

Mistress Tibby came on through her fields. She
walked with a long oaken staff' that reached above
her shoulder ; she had a strong, decided step, that
seemed to know no difference, whether treading the
stubble or green sod. She gave a look at her reapers,
and saw Matty kneeling down beside something, and
looking after her.

" What's got there ? " said Mistress Tibby.

" A child, just a-dying ! " shouted Matty.

Mistress Tibby came on, and looked down on the
white face, the closed eyes, and the little hands
stretched lifelessly out.

" And ye be drenching the poor babe with ale,
girl I " said Mistress Tibby to the woman of fifty.
" Ye will just finish him out, girl, I say 1 Hie home

200

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

with him, do I and I will be after ye soon. Lay him
down on my bed, I say, and give him a wee drop ot
spirit in a wine-glass of milk, with a tea-spoon; wait
a bit in betwecn-whiles, and keep on till I come.
Here! give me the am, and you lug home the child."

Matty TrundePs strong arms had a heavier weight
than poor K.'s, for the child lay like one dead. But
the burden was no way heavy to Matty, who could
toss a sheaf or a forkful as high on the waggon as
any man on the farm. Matty prided herself more on
the skill than the strength, saying, " It was the
knack of the thing, if the men did but know I " So
she carried the boy in her arms to the little, lone
farm-house, and laid him down on Mistress Tibby's
own bed, and did as Mistress Tibby said.

It were long to tell how Mistress Tibby and
Matty Trundel kept watch all that night beside the
bed on which Oliver lay ; how they blessed him while
he slept, and fed him when he woke I It was that
night on which Oliver Crisp was alone in the forest;
on which Mistress Crisp was sleeping for sorrow,
and K. sitting in the doorway at home looking on
to the river and forest. In the morning before noon
of the next day, after some long hours of the sweet
sleep of a child, Oliver was able to get up and walk
to the open chimney-hearth, and feed himself with a
bowl of bread and milk. You might have thought
the child was their own, so glad were those true-
hearted women over the young life they had saved.

Poor Oliver was glad to lie down again, and did
not stir from the little farm-house on that day ; his

OLIVER OF THE MILL,

201

him
p ot
wait
oiiie.
ild."
eight
But
could
m as
re ou
the
So
lone
bby's

head was weak and wandering, he grieved for his
lost dove, but seemed too weak to think of his ho'.iC.
When Mistress Tibby questioned him, he said he
lived at the Mill. Mistress Tibby said, " What
Mill ?" he could not tell what Mill. "But what is
thy name, child ? '*

" Oliver Crisp," he replied.

Then Mistress Tibby knew who he was. But
what could be done ? There was only a post two
days in the week ; happily one was the next day.
The distance was long round by the road, and the
claims of harvest could not be set aside ; the horses
were tired in the night-time in carrying the corn, and
the men had only fiva hours^ sleep. All this was
talked over in the fields, and the man who was a
lather said he did not value a night, though he was
tired out, to set a father's heart at rest, if Mistress
Tibby would let him off the two or three hours more
that he could get there and back in. But Mistress
Tibby said it was more than mortal could do to walk
all the night through to and fro, and har/est a day
on each side of it. The child was safe, and there
was no merit in killing a man and a father in order
to say so. The next day was a jjost, and the tidings,
though slow, would be sure.

" My poor dove \" said Oliver, as he lifted up his
blood-stained pocket-handkerchief.

"There, there," said Matty Trundel; "I will
just rinse out the blood stains, and let the bird be, as
'tis best that it should be out of the way, and you be
saved to do good in your day to many."

202

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

How many feet were astir on this day of quiet
rest to young Oliver ! but none took tlie cart-road
through the field, or if they did they saw not the
reapers who had left their sheaves standing, and
were gone elsewhere. The only one who heard
tidings was Mr. Hove with his donkey. He heard
tell that a child had been picked up dead, and carried
off by some reapers, but no one knew where. Mr.
Howe would not mention this to any without de-
siring them not to tell, and they in their turn said to
those whom they told, " Do not speak on it to any,"
he would not tell his young lady on any consideration.
But each telling another, the tidings soon spread.
Oliver Crisp was away, and so did not hear it; he
was seeking his lost child on all sides of the forest.
One is easily lost, but is at hard cost found. Poor
K. heard the tidings, and cried torrents of tears, till
she could hardly lift up her head.

'' What ails the girl ? " said Mistress Crisp from
her bed, at sight of swollen eyes.

" I take it hard," answered K., " that mistress
won't feed ; there's poor master away, roaming no
one knows where, and he will just find you a skeleton,
and lay the blame all on me."

Mistress Crisp took her food, but she looked
hard at K., and said, " Girl, if thee k no west more,
thee will find the blow fall the heavier from far off
than near."

At evening, as Oliver sat up for his bread-and-
milk supper in the open chimney-corner. Mistress
Tibby said, " Child, can you write?" •

OLIVER OP THE MILL,

303

" Yes/' answered Oliver.

"Then we will order and send a letter by post
to-morrow. My belief is it will be two days on the
road, for this place lies out of the way, but all are
main busy now; and Oliver Crisp will get a letter as
soon as any man in the place, for there's no end o'i
the respect felt for them all the country-side round ;
vou came pretty nigh as the crow flies, but 'tis a long
many miles, if you take the road-side round. But s1clj»
well to-night, and you will be a man by to-morrow,
and give thanks to Him who delivered you when you
were brought nigh unto death."

This reminded Oliver that he had not kneeled to
pray, as his habit was at morning and evening; indeed
he was too weak when he rose ; but when Mattv
Trundell began to take off his jacket, to lay him in a
little bed made of chairs alongside of the settle in the
farm-kitchen, Oliver said, " I must pray."

" Quite right," said Mistress Tibby, as she sat
close by the wood-fire that burned on the hearth that
August evening. Oliver kneeled with folded hands
a few moments in silence, he could not feel so free
as when with his father, or alone. He waited be-
tween each petition, as he had been taught, but added
nothing more until he prayed "Give us this day our
daily bread," then adding: " I thank Thee for these
good grannies who feed me. Forgive us our trespasses
— forgive me for running away ; as we forgive them
that trespass against us ; forgive the man and the dog
who took my young dove ! Lead us not into tempta-
tion, but deliver us from evil, — I thank Thee, my

204

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

; i

ill

Saviour, for delivering me, and bringing me here. I
pray Thee to take me safe home, and bless these kind
grannies ; for Thine is the kingdom, and the power,
and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.*'

"Shall I say the Good Shepherd's Psalm?"
Oliver asked, looking up at Mistress Tibby.

" Say all that is in thine heart," she replied. And
how sweetly rose its melody of thanksgiving and
trust from the heart and the lips of the child who
had I perienced its truth !

When Oliver rose Mistress Tibby drew him close
to hf r side. " God bless thee," she said. " It is He
who teacheth the heart to know Him as our Father
in Jesus — the Son of the Blessed ! "

Matty Trundel was wakeful that night, and crept
in once or twice to look at tne child, but he did not
awake, and seemed not to have moved. The farm
was early astir, but Oliver was up and dressed when
Mistress Tibby came in; he had prayed his morning
prayer aloud, as he always did at home, greatly to
Matty Trundel's comfort, who said nothing ever so
troubled her heart before, for she never knew we
could put things together in that way, but now she
would try from that day !

Taught by his father to pray from his own know-
ledge of the Scriptures and the daily experience of
life, his prayer was never a mere repetition, while the
brief and blessed frame-work of the petitions taught
by our Lord kept in his mind the great points of
prayer and thanksgiving.

After breakfast Oliver had to write his letter. It

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

205

ere. [
5e kind
power,

ilm ? "

And
and
d who

1 close

is He

Father

1 crept
id not
i farm
when
)rning
tJy to
er so
w we
^ she

now-
ce of
e the
ught

ts of

was his first attempt, and he was quite a stranger to
the art ; but he knew what he wanted to say, which is
the principal point in a letter, so he wrote : —

" Father, do come for Oily ! I am here with
Grannies at Dell Croft, who saved me from the man
and the dog ; the dog took my young dove which I
found. I am so sorry I ran away from Grannie
and K."

It was done up and directed, and a wafer put on,
and it was sent to the post. Oliver sat on a stool
outside the door, watching the life of the farm, so
familiar to him. At length an old man, bending
beneath the weight of a pedlar's pack, came in at the
wicket-gate of the garden. It was Benoni, the Jew I
Oliver r^n to meet him, for though Benoni never
even crossed the Mill-hill, he was well known to
every village child, and his special feeling for Oliver
gave him a tenderness of manner which had won the
heart of the child.

" O, Noni, I am so glad to see you ! "

Old Benoni stood still and looked at the child.
" What, all this way from home, with Mistress Tibby,
of the Dell?"

Oliver did not answer to the surprise, but slipped
his hand in Benoni's, and they walked up to the
house. Benoni laid down his pack, wiped his fore-
head, and sat down with Oliver on the settle outside,
and learned how all had happened. Mistress Tibby
and Matty Trundel came in, and they all took a
noon-day meal together, for Benoni was well known
at the Dell — he was the walking shop of the neigh-

2,o6

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

i
li

boiirhood. When the traffic was ended, Benoni,
after considering awhile, said, "Why should not I
take the child home with me ? I am working my
way round, and sleep only two nights on the road.
The child can have a being with me, and we can rub
on together ! "

Oliver was glad, and Mistress Tibby relieved at
the thought of certainty for the child. And Matty
Trundel said it was a main chance to happen; for as
to trusting to a bit of paper getting safely so far,
with all the hands it was pretty certain to go through,
and half of them not able to read, it was a poor look-
out at the best ! Not but what to keep the child
would be wholly a pastime to her: but it was right to
consider nature, and the father no doubt had his
feelings.

So, all things considered, the old man and the
child were to set off together. Oliver stood ready,
hat in hand, while Benoni settled his pack; then the
child looked up for a kiss to Mistress Tibby, saying,
"Thank you, dear good grannie!" "Bless the lad!"
said Mistress Tibby, and she laid her weather-beaten
hand upon his head, and her lip quivered with a pas-
sion of deep feeling strongly restrained. Matty
Trundel caught him in her arms and said, " If thou
be lost again, may Matty Trundel find thee ! "

" ni never run away any more, and then I shall
never be lost any more," said Oliver ; and he and
Benoni went out at the gate. Matty Trundel
watched them as far as eye could see, but Mistress
Tibby sat down on a chair — the child had laid hold

mmi

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

20:

of her heart, and it did not feel steady in its old life
of much labour and few thoughts. We may have
chosen our own way, without regard to the will of
our Father in heaven, or to the feelings of others ;
we may have found that the way of transgressors is
hard ; we may have repented and confessed our error,
and found the full and free forgiveness which flows
through Him who purchased it for us with His own
blood — and yet we may have to find that the chasten-
ing follows us still, for it is to make us partakers of
God's holiness. This is the experience of childhood,
youth, and old age. We cannot undo the act, recal
the word, or retrace our steps. So far as we arc con-
cerned, the past is still the past, and its lengthening
shadows follow us through life. But in Christ there
is no darkness at all, " I am the Light of the World,
he that foUoweth Me shall not walk in darkness, but
shall have the Light of Life." The eye on self re-
cals the shadow ; the eye on Christ leaves no part
dark, but the whole body full of light, even when we
have still to eat the bitter fruit of our own way.

Young Oliver started in gladness with Benoni.
To travel with Benoni was a great thing to do, and
to be sure of getting home again a still greater.
Beuoni's traffic lay quite as much in lone houses as
in villages : there wero few that had not some dealings
with him. He took the field-road by the forest, but
Oliver did not remember it until they reached the
bean-field ; then all can.e back on his memory j the
little glade, the man, the liog, as all connected vviili
that road. " Noni, do not go that way ! " he said.

208

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

But Benoni answered that it was quite safe, he
had often gone that way, and he could not reach his
places of call any other way. Poor Oliver's pleasure
was all gone, he kept close to Benoni, remembering
the man too painfully for any ease of mind. But
they went quietly on t'leir w iv, and passed the
dreaded spot remembered by Oliver. Soon after, his
quick ear caught the bark of a dog ; he looked round,
but no dog was in sight. The bark was no savage
bark, but eager and repeated ; he still looked anxi-
ously round, and presently exclaimed, " Ally ! Ally 1 "
— he had always as a little child called himself Oily,
and the dog Ally, which names still clung to both.
On tore the dog, witli a rope about his neck, and
such speed that his shape could hardly be seen, and
none but the cliild misrht have known him. Oliver
shouted for joy, and stood to welcome the dog. But
in the still further distance the man with the gun
came out from the wood, and the ragged children
shouting ; the man levelled his gun and shot the dog
as he ran ; then he turned into the wood, and the
ragged children and they saw him no more.

Oliver forjTOt his terror of the man, and ran to
the dog; he lay down beside it, put his arms round
its neck, saying, ''Ally ! Good Ally ! Poor Ally ! "
The faithful dog licked his hand. Benoni was afraid
to go back with his pack into such company, but he
stood watching the child, and vainly wishing some
friend would come by. The poor dog lav panting.
Oliver ran with his straw hat to a little stream that
flowed close by under the trees, but Aleppo could not

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

209

lift his head. Oliver wetted his fingers, and laid the
drops on the poor dog's tongue, which he seemed to
like, but he soon shut his eyes, stretched out his
limbs, and was dead. Oliver sat down beside him

and cried. ..11

" Poor dog ! " said Benoni, who had m pity slowly
retraced his steps. " But we must not stay here.'*

" I can't go ! I can't go ! " said Oliver.

"I am afraid of that bad man," said Benoni. Oliver
looked round in terror, and got up from the ground.

« Don't leave him there! " said Oliver, entreatingly.

Benoni, touched with compassion for the grief of
the child, laid down his pack. They drew poor
faithful Aleppo on to the grass under the trees, ?nd
then with many a backward look from Oliver, they
went slowly and sorrowfully on.

\>>

'I-

r.4

CHAPTER XVI.

Olivkr Crisp had not returned to his home since
he left it at dawn on that eventful night; he had gone
the extre.ne length of the forest, enquiring at every
village aiid scattered dwelling that met his view; he
had turned the far end of the forest, and was now
making homeward with a weary weight of sorrow.
The earth lay around him, wondrous in beauty; corn-
fields still waving in the soft wind of August, or
looking richer still in gathered sheaves; hill-sides
clothed in the massive foliage of summer, throwing
out from their dark background the glory of harvest ;
or softer hill- sides, where the white flocks were feed-
ing, and verdant pastures with cattle; blue hills in
the distance, of which no details were seen, yet
giving the beauty of form and hue.

But Oliver Crisp felt not the beauty, — his eye
sought only one object, that one little form, the child
of his heart — the child of his home, filled the great
world for liim. Yet he could not fail to see the
earth filled with the goodness of the Lord, and at
length the words rose in remembrance : " The Lord
as good 1 — a stronghold in the day of trouble, and He
knoweth them that put their trust in Him ! " He
felt his restless heart had been unthankful^ and look-

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

211

Since
gone
every
; he

ing off from his sorrow unto Jesus, the scene took in-
stantly one of those blissful aspects the Holy Ghost
the Comforter will ihow to the troubled heart, that
is willing to cast its care on Him who careth for us.
He saw in spirit the divine Son of Man standing as
once He stood on the green hill-side, and heard Him
saying, "They need not depart, give ye them to eat."
He saw as then the gracious eyes uplifted in blessing ;
and as the loaves and fishes then multiplied in the
omnipotent hands, Oliver Crisp saw Him, the Lord
of all power and might, still standing in the midst ot
earth's fallen children in blessing; saw the year
crowned with His goodness, the little hills rejoicing
on every side, the pastures clothed with flocks, the
valleys covered over with corn, to fill the hungry with
good things ; and as the scene carried back his
thoughts, familiar with Scripture, to the glowing
picture of the Psalmist, he remembered the opening
words, " Praise waiteth for Thee, O God ! O Thou
that hearest prayer, unto Thee shall all flesh come I '*

The soul that sees Jesus standing in the midst,
may be tt-oubled on every side and perplexed, yet
not in despair. Trust in God regained its blessed
influence over Oliver Crisp.

The sun was declining, and he and his child were
now not far apart ; he was on the very field-road
which the boy had trod that afternoon with Beuoni;
but there is often in life a strange lengthening of
trial, for a purpose sometimes hidden, sometimes
s^hovvn ; and so it was, Benoni had turned out of the
road into a bye- way across the fields to a distant

It <i

212

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

farm where he had custom ; glad to escape the forest-
side in the day^s decline, from fear of the man who
had already done them such wrong. Oliver Crisp
drove slowly on that very road-side, passed over the
footprints of his child, and did not know it. Aleppo's
keen instinct would have soon told him this ; but as
he passed on, hard by the road-side, under the trees^
the faithful Aleppo lay dead. Oliver sprang from
the cart, took the dog's head in his hand; he lay life-
less and stiff. "My dog! my poor dog!" he ex-
claimed, with a tenderness of feeling, as past scenes
of a blessed life — scenes associated with that faithful
dog — rose to mind. Oliver examined the cord ; it
was tied first in a noose and then in a knot, showinnj
that the dog had been caught. The other end of the
rope looked as if gnawed by the dog, no doubt to
free himself. A cold shudder of fear for his son
passed over him, as he lifted poor dead Aleppo into
his cart — a dead dog instead of a living child — and
went slowly on.

At some distance a man lay at the edge of the
wood, and ragged children played under the trees.
Oliver Crisp stopped, " Do you know this dog ? " he
enquired. " Yes,'' replied the man, without looking
up, " he was shot by a gamekeeper along this road."
" I know better," said Oliver Crisp. "The Castle
gamekeepers know the dog, and would not make away
with him. Have you seen a young boy about in the.
wood ? '* and a terror, as he asked, chilled his heart ;
feeling his child might have fallen into the hands of
this ruffian.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

213

rest-

who

Jrisp

the

po's

t HS

■ecs.

*' Yes/' answered the man.

" What was he like ? " asked Oliver Crisp, with
intensity of feeling.

'* Dark clothes, straw hat, dark curls on his head,
and dark eyes," said the man.

" Where is he ? " asked Oliver, with a feeling as
if death and life hung on the lips of that man.

" I don't know," said the man ; " but mayhap I
could find him."

" Find him now ! " said Oliver, with a terrible
imperativeness.

" I can't," replied the man ; " but if you come
here to-morrow, or tell me where to take him, I will
find him up, if you care to make it worth my while
to be after him."

Oliver sprang from his cart, saw the man's
gun, and seizmg it, said, " Wretch ! You have
shot the dog and hid the child ! And if you don't
tell me, I will just bind you hand and foot, and
carry you where you will have to tell ! " And
Oliver's powerful form looked well able to do all he
had said.

'^ Will you ? " replied the man, without looking
up; "you lay down that gun where you found it,
or you will find yourself worse off than you
think 1 "

The man quietly whistled, and from the wood
came out men, ill-looking and strong, able to work
their own will.

" Lay down the gun where you found it,'* said
the man ; ** I know you for a better man than you

274

OLIVKR OF TIIK MILL.

' IM
In

show yourself here, or you would not be let off as

you

are

I >'

iver.

I don't care a straw for your let off!" said
nie, where is the ehiid ? You arc

fathers, or

wou

Id hi

feel I

none
for one !"

" For the matter of that/' said the man, " I
scorned the advantage wlien I might have got a
king's ransom for the child ; and to show you we
can do a good turn to one who don't deserve it, you
may just ask at yon farm in the Dell for the
child ; and when you have found him, you can ait
fair by us, since you have rough words to answer
for/'

"Take it now/' said Oliver, "to prove I can
trust ! " and he emptied his pocket of its silver and
gold, into the hand of the man, laid down the gun,
and drove hurriedly on. Before he left the road
through the fields, he saw reapers at work. They
confirmed the tidings, and he hastened to the farm-
in the Dell. There he heard all 1 So it was that
comfort dawned when his terrible night of trial was
blackest ; when his worst fears were awakened, peace
flowed in like a river ; and the strong man whose
harrowed feelings liad carried him away, sat down
and wept like a child.

No one could tell him the way that the travellers
had taken, but his heart was at rest ; he stabled poor
weary Depper, and accepted the kind cheer of the
farm for the night. All the house was up with the
daylight, for harvest makes short nights. Oliver

OLIVliR OF THE MILL.

)fr

215

I* said
)u arc
rt'cllng

\n, "I

t a
)ii we

3 you

r the
m ait
nswcr

Crisp started for the long miles home, in the ha|)jiy
trust that ail would be well. And now as he
looked around on the rich fields in the sunbeams of
jTiorning, he still saw the form of the gracious Son
of Man, as He stood in the midst multiplying bless-
ing, and heard again the word of peace from His
lips, " They need not depart, lest they faint by the
way, for divers of them came from far I '* He re-
membered his prayer for the child at his baptism ;
how truly had it been answered now to the boy, —
" As one whom his mother comforteth, so will I
comfort you/' Mistress Tibby, Matty Trundel, and
Bcnoni — what arms of compassion for a little wan-
derer to rest in I

It was much for the child to walk the five miles
of Bcnoni's travel on that sultry day. But Benoni
took his path chiefly by fields and shaclv laiKS,
where he found the scattered homestculs with
which his trade lay. Oliver had many a rest, and
sometimes a sup of nulk and a cake, from farm-house
hospitality. At length, after set of sun, they com-
pleted their journey, at the little road-side inn at which
Benoni had stopped for many long years. Here they
sat to their evening meal. Oliver shared Bcnoni's
room ; but before he lay down he looked at Benoni,
and said, " I must pray."

Benoni, as he sat by the bed on the one chair
in the little room, took his hat from his head. The
child knelt to his evening prayer, —

" Our Father, which art in Heaven, —

" I beseech Thee take care of my father, and Meg,

« ; 1;

'fi i.

2i6

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

tt'

and Granny, and K., and Noni, and me, and take
us safe home.

*' Hallowed be Thy Name, —

" A Name which is above every Name, that at
the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of things
in heaven, and things in earth, and things under the
earth, and that every tongue should confess that
Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the
Father.

Thy Kingdom come, —

When my mother will wake out of sleep.

Thy Will be done on earth as it is in heaven, —

" For Thou hast said, ' Whosoever shall do the
will of my Father in heaven, the same is my brother
and sister and mother.

*' Give us this day our daily bread, —

'* I thank thee, my Saviour, for the kind Grannies,
and Noni, who feed me.

" Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them
that trespass against us, —

" If any man have a quarrel against any, even
as Christ forgave you, so also do ye."

At this, Oliver waited and looked up in silent
distress at Benoni ; he seemed unable to add, " For-
give the man who shot poor Aleppo ! " Accustomed
to look up into his father's face when at a loss, he
looked up at Benoni. Tears were rolling down the
aged tace of the Jew. Oliver thought Benoni was
crying for poor Aleppo. He found no response to
his look, but the silent sympathy of tears helped the
struggle of his young spirit to pray, —

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

217

take

lat at
[hings

&r the
that
the

€t

Forgive the man who shot poor Alej)po !

" Lead us not into temptation, but deh'ver us
from evil, —

" We thank Thee, Lord Jesus, for keeping us
safe from the man who shot poor Aleppo !

" For Thine is the Kingdom, the Power, and the
Glory, for ever and ever. Amen."

The child was soon asleep on Benoni's pillow,
but the old man sat weeping. He had heard such
a prayer, with a silent wonder, in the Mill-house,
when Naomi sometimes constrained him in his
rounds to make his rest there for the night; the
simplicity and power of its all-comprehensive petitions
had gone home to the heart of the Jew. It was true
that Naomi and her husoand believed in a Messiah
rejected by the Jews; and rejected, as the Jews
believed, by God ; yet Benoni could never resist the
feeling that of such as Naomi and Oliver Crisp,
Jehovah was the Father I And now, when, after nine
years, he heard those petitions again from the lips of
Naomi's child — heard them mingled with the child's
natural feelinus and words, all uttered as to a God
ready of access, inclining His ear to hear, and believed
in as ready to do all that was asked in that prayer — '
the past impressions and feelings that seemed to have
withered, revived in his heart, and. overcome by deep
emotion, while the child slept he fell on his knees,
and longed, like him, to say, " Our Father ! " But
he could not! His tears fell like rain, and he could
only groan to the God of Israel for light in his dark-
ness, and help in his utter sense of need.

1 1

2l8

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

1 m

At length, he rose from his knees, and lay down,
but not to sleep. He thought of the aged Eli, and
the child Samuel who ministered before him; and the
voice that called not to Eli, but to the chill; and that
Eli perceived that the Lord had called the child, and
how the child had made answer, " Speak, Lord,
for Thy servant heareth ! " In the morning, as he
hoped and expected, such a prayer was offered again.
Oliver seemed to offer it with less efibrt than the
night before, and Benoni had wept his tears dry.
They had their breakfast, and set forth on their
way.

As they went by the way, the old man longed to
talk to the child, but his solitary life had left him an
unready speaker. He had not shed a tear, since he
wept alone, with the September moon above his hi 'kI,
at the grave of Naomi, until those tears rained from Iti-
eyes the night before. He could recal many a dark,
despairing hour, many a revengeful feeling and bitter
hatred, but never, save then, a tear. He had long
given up all hope of getting rich, which had been his
early ambition ; he had of late had only one wish^
to gather money together to reach th;. Holy City, to
weep at the wailing-place there, and be buried amidst
the dust of Jerusalem. A troubled feeling crossed his
mind, that the tears he would only have shed under
the old stones of Jerusalem had flowed, once at the
grave of one who was an apostate from the fai»:h of a
Jew ; and once at the prayer of a child, — that prayer
offered in the Name h? had been taught to abhor —
the Name of Him who was rejected and crucified in

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

219

lown,
and
|d the
that
and
^ord,
ts he
[gain,
n the
dry.
their

siC

Jerusalem. And yet he felt in his lonely heart that
the only love that ever lighted his soul had been for
the child Naomi; and that it would cheer his way
with sunshine from Heaven if only he could keep
her boy as his companion day by day. His darkened
mind was bewildered. All the love he had ever met,
glowed in hearts that enshrined the Name of Jesus a&
Messiah — the Name he had been taught as a Jew to
despise and dishonour.

Benoni, amidst these thoughts, was more silent
than ever. Oliver, too, was not ready to talk.
His thoughts went back to poor Aleppo — he should
not find him at home. He must tell his father j
perhaps poor Aleppo had come looking for him?
Oh, if he had never run away ! He had never
known grief nor fear before; and now he had lost his
childhood's friend — lost, perhaps, in looking for him!
So true it is that whatsoever we sow, that we must
reap, if we sow trouble for others, we must reap
grief for ourselves !

So passed the day ; and the sun set again, and the
moon rose in calm splendour over the wealth of harvest
strewing the earth. They reached a little inn where
this last night would be spent, and young Oliver's
heart grew full of his father and his home. Benoni
sat by the bed that he might gather up the prayer of
the child. He had no prayer himself; he had tried
the night before on stiffened knees — he had longed
to pray as the child had prayed, but he could only
raise a groan ; he did not mean to try again. Prayer,
he thought, was not for him ; he said in his heart

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OLIVER OF THE MILL.

that there was nothing for him but to hold on in the
xiarkness to the hope that he should yet stand in
Jerusalem, and wait for the promise made to his
fathers. Yet still he felt that nothing on earth had
been to him like the prayer of the child. It seemed
to water the seed Naomi had long since sown in his
soul. The child, too, had wept in his infant prayer;
his young spirit had struggled against anger and
revenge, to ask forgiveness for him who had done so
cruel a wrong as to shoot the faithful dog on its way
to his arms. This was real ; it was no mere lesson
taught to his lips. Benoni would listen again, and
feel for a little that softness come over his heart
which, even in despair, was far better to him than
the hard stone he had long felt within him.

Oliver thought not of Benoni; he was a stranger
to all that filled that life-long wanderer's soul. As
he kneeled to pray, he thought of his Father in
Heaven, and thought how soon he would now be
again with his earthly father in the Mill — those
hours coming again of close union of heart and brief
converse of words. In the silence of the little inn-
chamber, old Benoni sat by the bed while Oliver
kneeled to pray.

" O Lord JesLis ! O our Father, which art in
•Heaven, we beseech Thee take us home to my father,
and comfort him, and Granny, and K., and never let
them be unhappy any more ! **

But the thought of home so near, not only
touched the child's heart with deep feeling, butbrought
thoughts of how he must tell them that Aleppo

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

221

the
[d in

his

had

Ned

his

was dead ; and his tears came again, and he got
bewildered, weak and weary, too, with his long day's
walk. He could not lemember what came next, so
he looked up to old Benoni, as he would to his father,
and said, " What comes next ? " The Jew remem-
bered the words, but how could he say them ? The
child was praying in a Name he had lived, not to
hallow, but to hatt — the Name of Jesii of Nazareth.
The pleading eyes of the boy were uplifted to him ;
the prayer, he thought, would not be his own — it
would be only helping the child. All this was the
thought of a few moments, and as Oliver waited
Benoni said, '^ Hallowed be Thy Name ! "

Oliver did not repeat it after him, but went on
as if the prayer united them in one. "Thy king-
dom come 1 '' Then the question rose in Benoni's
heart. Was not this the prayer that every religious
Jew had been praying from generation to generation ?
He had not prayed it, but why nr>t ? Because he had
never looked for that kingdom to come to him ; he
had only thought of dying in captive Jei ;»salem ! He
saw how low he had fallen; sunk in ignorance, sin,
and despair. Lost in these thoughts, he heard no more
of the prayer. Oliver having ended his petitions, rose,
and embracing Benoni, as he always embraced his
father, after his evening prayer, I dd down to sleep.

Benoni was up with the dawn, and sat in thought by
the bed. He was accustomed, on summer mornings,
to start very early on his way when his places of
call lay distant; but he would not awake the child
who slept on, tired with his long travel the day^

222

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

before. This morning also was the last, poor Benoni
felt, in which he should hear the voice of prayer, for,
•since the Mill-house had been closed to him, no voice
of prayer had ever fallen upon his lonely heart. The
little inn-room had now become as a sanctuary to
him ; and a feeling, for the first time since his earliest
years, came over him, that he wished he could open
his window towards Jerusalem. Stil! more earnestly
did he wish that he could kneel and pray, and say,
with the same undoubting assurance as the child,
-^' Our Father, which art in Heaven ! " Then came
back the heavy feeling, — this morning was the last !
He should find the little room all desolate next time.
A happy life would that day re-open before Oliver
in his home; a darker night would close for ever
over him, when the only star in Love's heaven was
hidden from his eyes.

Then Benoni thought again, " Why have I no
home? Why docs the Jew wander homeless on the
face of the earth ? Why have these Gentiles who
follow Jesus of Nazareth, a man forsaken of God ! —
why have they such homes as might have been in
Paradise; while we, the favoured People of Jehovah,
wander helpless and homeless — our very name a
curse and a by-word ? As he thought on these thinjis,
the solemn words that Naomi hid read rose to his
remembrance — " His Blood be on us and on our
children I " Is it possible that that Blood can be a
curse on our heads, which these Gentiles claim as
their dearest blessing? His Blood I Ah ! no ortered
sacrifices pour atoning blood now, since that wild cry

tioni
for,
'^oice
The
y to
iest
pen
stiy
sav.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

2i3

of " Crucify ! crucify ! " (Benoni did not say, "Him
— it seemed to trouble him still as when Naomi had
read it.) Again he thought, " The Lamb of God 1 "
How could it be ? Then on his heart rose the re-
membered prayer, — " Father, forgive them, for

THEY KNOW NOT WHAT THEY DO ! " The WOrds

brought back the feeling of the child's prayer — his
struggle to ask forgiveness for the cruel wrong done
him. "Lamb of the Fold ! " said Benoni, aloud, as
he looked at the sleeping boy. Then Naomi's plead-
ing eyes came back on his view as she raised them
from the Book, when she read, " I am the Good
Shepherd; I lay down My life for the sheep ! ^'

Again he thought on the prayer, " Father, for-
give them, for THEY know not WHAT THEY DO!"
The love was "lore than mortal, the majesty divine!
That prayer, as he thought of it, seemed to enfold his
spirit ; it gathered closer and closer round his heart j
it seemed all he wanted, it was at least a holy prayer;
why might he not keep it ever lying on his soul ? It
S'^emed to bring a breathing of home — what does
" Father " mean but home ? What would that sleep-
ing child feel before set of sun, when his father's arms
were round him, but home! "Father, forgive
them ! " Then, if forgiven, might he not look up and
say, " Our Father, which art in heaven ? "

But how could prayer put away sin ? Is it not
written, " It is the blood that maketh an atonement
for the soul ? " But when that prayer arose His blood
was flowing ! Whose blood ? Could He be " the
Lamb of God " ? Abraham's reply to his son rose in

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OLIVER OF THE MILL.

his remembrance, " My son, God shal! provide Him-
self a Lamb ! " Could this be He ? Eighteen cen-
turies had passed away, and there had never beerk
another ! He trembled, and dared not, yet longed,
that he could believe. Once more in the struggles of
his spirit, the slow tears fell from his eyes. Oliver
awoke and looked up. " Noni," he said, " why do
you cry ? We arc almost got home ; we shall get
there to-day ! "

But the old man's tears only fell faster.

" Noni, are you so sorry for poor Aleppo ? Don't
cry! Father will be so glad; he won't be unhappy
when I get back home.''

Benoni replied, in bitterness of spirit, " Yes,
home for you ; but there is no home for me I 1
shall die like a dog some dav, and no one will care
where the old Jew lies buried, for they have happy
homes 1 "

Poor Oliver could not fathom the feeling, though
he felt the despair; and, not knowing what else to
do, he said, " Noni, shall we say, ' Our Father ' ? "

" I cannot 1 " replied Benoni. " I have no
Father."

*' I mean ' Our Father which art in heaven/ "
said Oliver.

" [le is not my Father ! " replied Benoni, in the
same tone of des|)air.

" Why not ? " asked Oliver, with surprise and
alarm.

" I can't rightly tell," replied Benoni, " I am a
hardened old sinner 1 "

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

225

cen-

|beei>

iged,

)liver

get

(t I

"But, Noni, I have learned the text, 'Jesus
Christ came into the world to save sinners'! "

Oh that He could save me ! " groaned Benoni.
I know He can/' said Oliver, rising on his arm
in bed, and looking up into Benoni's troubled face.
" I know He can do all things ! Won't you ask
Him ? "

Benoni sank on his knees, crying, " Save me 1
Save me ! "

Oliver rose from the bed and kneeled by Benoni,
and the cry of the old man being silent now, the
child was left to take up the prayer : —

" Our Father, which art in heaven, —

"Jesus said, 'Let not your heart be troubled ;
ye believe in God, believe also in Me. In my
Father's House arc many mansions.' "

" Hallowed be Thy Name, —

" For Thy name's sake pardon my iniquity, for it
is great. Thou shalt call His name Jesus, for He
shall save His people from their sins. Let those that
love Thy name be joyful in Thee.

" Thy kingdom come, —

"Jesus said, ' Fear not, little flock, for it is your
Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom.

" Thy will be done on earth as it is in
heaven, —

"Teach me to do Thy will, for Thou art my
God : Thy Spirit is good, lead me unto the land of
uprightness.

" Give us this day our daily bread,—

"Jesus said, 'I am the Bread of Life; he that

»S

Ill

m I
pj'""

226

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Cometh to Me shall never hunger.' Lord, evermore
give us this bread !

" Forgive us our trespasses — " Beiioni took up
the prayer, "Forgive! forgive!" lost in remembrance
of the blessed words, — " Father, forgive them, for they
know not what they do ! " Oliver waited as Benoni
still said, " Forgive ! " And then, as without an
effort, Benoni, in the ful! sense of the forgiven one,
added, "as we forgive," without one feeling of bitter-
ness left in his soul — the tide of forij^ivinsi; love had
flowed in, — the much forgiven I until every feeling of
the meltins!; soul was the fulness of love to God and
man I Nor could he in that blissful moment dis-
tinguish the love that flowed in upon him, — the for-
given one, and the love that flowed out from his
soul unto all men ; the fountain was the same, it was
not his own niggard nature that now forgave others,
but the mighty love that flowed into his soul and
flowed through it to all. He waited, wrapped in for-
giveness, while the child in the silence continued the
prayer, " Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us
from evil, for .Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power,
and the Glory, for ever and ever. Amen." And a
sense of blessed safety gathered around Benoni as he
said, " The Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of
us all ! "

Then, rising, he clasped Oliver to his heart,
saying, " O child ! thou wast lost that old Benoni
might be found 1 " And they went to their morn-
ing meal with heaven opening above the soul of
the eld man, in the heart of our God ; through Him

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

227

in whom alone we can say « Our Father I He
who, having died for our sins, and "^^J^ f«^,°^^
iustification, said, « My Father and your Father, as
the inner circle of infinite tenderness, before He said
- My God and your God," as the outer cu'cle of
infinite power.

CHAPTER XVII.

1 1

It was still the prime of the morni hen Benoni
and the child set forth on their way ; the brightness
and freshness of early day. The aged man — for
aged he looked, though not yet seventy — had become
a little child, and entered a new world. The home
of the heart is the heart of another ! Benoni had
found his home. — " The eternal God is thy refuge,
and underneath thee the everlasting arms.'* Creation
wore a robe of glory to his gladdened sight.

" His are the valleys, and the mountains His,

And the resplendent rivers ;

Who with a filial piety inspired,

Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye,

And smilXiig say, ' My Father made them all!*"

Earthly forgiveness — the forgiveness of man to
man — is the passing-over an offence. The Divine
forgiveness puts the oflence away as if it had never
been; and, infinitely more than this, brings the for-
given one within the heart of Redeeming Love, so
that it can never be an unforgivcn soul again I Who
can tell the change to one like Benoni ; a lonely
wanderer, with none to care for him, none to cherish
the weary life, or cheer the tired spirit; with no
fellow-feeling in any soul for him ; his glimpses ot
affection closing in to leave his dreary life the darker I

i'!:

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

239

lenoni
itness
I — for
ecome
home
li had

— for such an one to know and believe the Love
that forgiveth all trespasses ; for such an one, who
was afar off, to be brought nigh by the blood of
Christ, and to be able to look up to the Highest and
say, "My Father! " t find himself inclosed within
the blissful circle of a love that passcth knowledge,
that hath no variableness, nor shadow of turning j
to know that nothing could henceforth separate from
the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
This was a heaven of rest I This is Life Eternal.
The clasp of the Father's embrace to the returning
son confessing, " I have sinned ! " the best robe, the
shoes on the feet, the ring on the finger, the outcast
no more — the son with the Father. Bcnoni was a
new creature. Before, he was like the son whose eye
was always on "the portion of goods that fell to him ;"
now he saw all things as his Father's — this was their
glory in his sight. But words cannot picture this
new-born life. It is high as heaven, and must be
experienced to be understood ; without the experience
of it, words are but as idle tales which are not believed.
Benoni in his long life had never had a companion
by the way before; all through a life-time he had walked
silently; and while walking the road he was silent
still, even though the living water was springing up
in his once dry and barren heart, — springing up to
everlasting life. At noon, when the sun was hot,
they turned aside where a stream wound through
cool meadows under aspen-trees, and there they
rested and took their mid-day meal. The boy's
heart was a shifting scene of changeful feeling; now

230

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

he fancied himself in his father's arms, then by
Grannie's arm-chair, who looked grave as remember-
ing his faults; then K. speaking reproachfully to
him for running away from her. Then Baby Meg
came on the scene, and the sorrow for Aleppo.
Farmer Caxton — what would he say ? and chief of
all, Dame Truman ! Oliver felt a flutter of fear^ and
wished it were not all quite so near; but then again
he thought of his father, and everything else was lost
in his sense of tlie clasp of his strong safe arjns.
" Father will be there ! '' he said to himself at every
troubled anticipation, " Father will be there ! "

Sittino; bv the cool stream, eatino; their noon-dav
meal, Benoni saicl, " Child, I would give this pack
for one sight of vour mother ! Would that she knev/
that Benoni can say, ' Our Father ! ' "

"My mother will wake when His kingdom
comes,'' said Oliver,

"All!" said Benoni ; "how often she said He
came once to put away sin by the sacrifice of Him-
self: lie is comino; arain as Kino- to reio-n in
Righteousness! You can't tell what that means,
child, as old Benoni can. Ah, that ' Crucify I
Crucify ! ' how it rin^s through my soul ! My heart
was one with theirs in that hellish cry; how it rose
like a blast from the pow-ers of darkness, and swept
Him away ! But listen, listen, child ! as He goes, hear
Him pray, 'Father, forgive them, for they
KNOW NOT WHAT THEY DO ! ' That prayer rose
for hearts as hard as Benoni's. That prayer opened
heaven, and quenched the flames of hell-fire. That

OLIVER OF THE MILL,

231

prayer bore the crucified thief into Paradise ; and that
prayer stoops its blessed wings under the lost, and
bears them up to the arms of our Father 1 O child^l
that's where Benoni is, in the arms of our Father 1 '*
Blessed type and antitype ! the lost child returning
could only think of one refuge, the arms of his father
on earth'; the lost soul returned had only one con-
sciousness—the everlasting arms of our Father ui

heaven !

Still they took their noon-day rest, for the sun
was hot. *^Yes,'' Benoni said, "He is coming
again ! He who was despised and rejected is comnig
to reign. I used to think only of Israel's glory when
Messiah should come ; but now all that seems as
nothing— I can only think of Him 1 How sweet
those Hosannahs will rise where once they cried,
' Crucify ! Crucify ! ' And, child, we shall see the
King in His beauty! Ah! to think how I have
slaved to gather money that I might die in Jerusalem !
Now they may lay me where they will, for the
Lord of Hosts shall reign in Mount Zion and Jeru-
salem } and let old Benoni sleep where he may, when
He comes He will wake him, to see His glory and be
with Him for ever ! ''

'' Did my mother know all that ? " asked Oliver,
surprised and unable to understand the change in

Benoni. „

" She read to me more than ever I can tell you,
replied Bencni. " It all seemed gone from me when
she went; but now it is as if a light had broken over
the page ; it comes to my remembrance agam ! "

332

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

" I have a Bible, and I read it to father, and find
texts by myself," said Oliver.

"That's what I have not got/' said Benoni;
"but I will never rest till I have one."

"But, Noni, do you know where to find the
places ? "

"No, that I don't!" he answered; "but I will
just begin and go through, and not leave a word out.
How it will come back to me — don^t I know how it
will ! O child ! you were lost that old Benoni might
be found ! "

" Noni, shall yni always say, 'Our Father' ? I
always say it. Do you think my mother did ? "

"Ay, child, I'll be bound she did ! She was just
a living pravcr. Timers and often, I am right certain,
she has laid my nauie at the feet of the Merciful,
and now I am there mvself — a lost sinner found ! "

At the Mill-house Oliver Crisp had that morning
received the letter, confirmina; the tidinirs he had
gathered at the Dell. The sun was now sinking to
the hills, and Oliver Crisp stood at the door of the
Mill : there he had watched and waited louir. How
lovely the scene in the glow of the evening, but
Oliver Crisp saw it not. His eye was searching the
distant roads, not knowing by which the travellers
might come. For one little figure he looked ; the
great world was centered for him in that one small
form. He listened for one little foot-fall amidst its
countless steps, for the sound of one young voice-
earth's melody for him.

K. had spread out her table with all her skill could

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

233

devise. Mistress Crisp had found life in the hope,
and had risen to occupy her arm-chair j the evening
was warm, but she drew to the fire. All the village
knew the lost child was found, and many were watch-
ing with glad hearts for his return. At length, Oliver
Crisp, from the high mill-steps, saw old Benoni slowly
ascending the hill ; but where was the child? The
child had seen his father, had made one rush up the
hill, now reaching the mill-steps — then clasped in
his father's arms, as if for ever !

It was joy unutfcred, untroubled ! Then, without
a word from his father, his little hand in his father's
hand, they descended the steps. Benoni stood at the
foot. Oliver Crisp could not speak ; he pressed the
hand of the old man, and they went in together at the
garden-gate. K. stood at the door, and gave an
embrace; but the child was at his grandmother's
chair, his arm round her neck — " O, Granny! dear
Granny ! Oily is so sorry. Granny! "

The ased o-randmother shook with emotion, but
she spoke calmly as ever — " Hast thee walked far.
Oily? Art thee hungry? K. will give thee thy
supper. Where is thy good friend Benoni ? " Oliver
turned away to bring in Benoni, and Mistress Crisp
looked into the fire, saying, with clasped hands, " He
was lost, and is found ! "

When Benoni came in, she attempted to rise and
receive him, but sat down again, feeling her weak-
ness, and held out her hand. Benoni came up to
her, and took it. She laid her other hand on his,
saying fervently, "Thee art welcome here I Thee

234

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

hast shepherded the lamb that was lost; may the
good Lord shepherd thee, and bring thee safe to His
fold ! " Benoni bowed his head, and said, solemnly,
"Amen."

All was arrantjed for Benoni to rest there that
ninht — and not that nio-ht onlv. He was brou2;ht to
a promise that whenever his beat lay that way, he
would sleep at the Mill-house; his little chamber
would always be ready ; — for the long, white Mill-
house had its gtiest-chambers, though but seldom
used.

After tea, the father took Oliver's hand, and led
him out. They went alone to the Mill, where Oliver
had so often longed to be. The father said not a
word, but kneeled down to give thanks; and the child
knew by the depth of the thanksgiving, the danger he
had run and the feelino; he had cost. As they walked
back the father said, " There is no good Aleppo,
Oily, to be glad to see thee home ! "

" No, father. They shot him as he was running
to me; I saw him fall dead ! ''

" Who shot him ? " asked Oliver.

"A man with hard eyes, by the wood, with a
gun. We thought he would shoot us, so we could
not stay. We draffced him under a tree."

" Poor dog ! " said the father ; " he was looking
for thee ! The man must have caught him while
following tlic scent. I found him under a tree, and
have buried him here " — and they stood at a little
mound close by the Mill.

" Were you there ? " asked Oliver.

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OLIVER OF THE MILL.

235

"Yes J thy poor father was looking for thee!"
Oliver held his father's hand tighter, but was silent.
Then his father said, " If my boy had not run away,
good Aleppo would not lie here ! "

But the passionate outbreak of the child's tears
stopped all further converse. Oliver ran in by a back
way, and found his grandmother already gone to her
rest, and his father joined Benoni.

Oliver laid himself down by his grandmother^s
side, saying, "Granny, do forgive Oily! Oily is

terrible sorry ! "

" Thee hast never been unforgiven," she replied.
" But if thou hast not found it already, thou wilt
find, that the way of transgressors is hard. Thou
canst not wash out a wrong foot-print with tears ;
thou hast need to pray, ' Order my steps ^ in Thy
Word, and let not any iniquity have dominion over
me.' But don't fret ! Take a sleep on Granny's
pillow till K. be ready to settle thee." And the weary
child fell asleep with tears on his cheek, and was
hardly conscious when K. carried him off and put

him to bed.

Many a thought had passed through the mind
of Oliver Crisp, "as to what token of gratitude he
could oflcr to Benoni for his care of the child. He
could not offer him money j it must be some better
gift. He would like to give him a Bible; but would
Benoni, a Jew, accept such a gift. There was one
Bible he might be more likely to receive than any
other: it was Naomi's, from which she had often
read to Benoni j sacred to her husband, but never

236

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

used by him. Unable to utter her name, he had felt
unable to make her Bible his own. The tie to
her was strong as ever, but the earthly presence
was departed; he could not read from her Bible
without her. He had laid it up to give one day as a
sacred treasure to her child ; but he knew not when,
for he could not bear to see that Bible used even by
him ; — it would always seem to say — Naomi is not
here 1

That Bible he thought might have a claim on
Benoni's heart that no other could possess. How
often he had seen it in her hand as she read to
him ; her face lighted up in the radiance of its divine
truth and love ! How often she had looked up with
an expression of tenderest pleading on the downcast
face of the silent Jew ! The more he thought, the
more he felt that he had found the right gift to present.
He had taken it out when quite alone, had unfolded
the paper, opened it with trembling hands, looked
into it, could not read, for a mist dimmed his eyes ;
he looked up to heaven with a silent prayer, pressed
its open page to his lips, and tied it up in its paper
again. Her dear name was in it; — it had been his
gift to her while she was yet a child. Bibles were
more scarce in those days than now ; — this had been
her treasure. This Word she had taken as her heri-
tage for ever, it had been the joy and rejoicing of her
heart.

Yet the question arose, how to present it ? Be-
noni had been a very silent man; he no doubt had
the pride and prejudice of his nation; he had

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

conferred a lasting benefit on them, and it might
seem no time to venture a condemnation of his

creed !

Such questionings are common as we walk in our
blindness. But though we may walk in darkness,
He who leads us is in light. His promise is sure to
those who seek His guidance. " I will instruct thee
and teach thee in the way that thou shalt go, I will
guide thee with mine eye." The decision may be
taken with much feeling of uncertainty ; it may be
that there is but the weight of a grain more for than
against it ; but that is enough for the single eye of
faith, and will prove right in the end.

The hour for evening worship was early in the
Mill-house. Oliver Crisp was used in past years to
have Benoni present. Benorii had always sat by
through the service. This night Oliver Crisp read
, Isaiah Iv., " Ho ! every one that thirsteth, come ye
to the waters ! " Who can read that chapter and
not feel what it must be to a soul so avvakcnetl as
Benoni's ! To him it flowed like living waters and
streams from Lebanon. And when the prayer was
offered, Benoni sunk upon his knees, and a strange
feeling came over Oliver Crisp that a heart was
pleading with him in the supplications, and rising in
the thanksgivings. When they were left alone,
Oliver Crisp drew the precious Book from his pocket
and said, " This is her Bible, who once read to thee !
There is none else upon earth I would so wish should

have it.'^

Oliver Crisp had meant to ask Benoni to take it

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OLr-^ER OF THE MILL.

for her sake, but he stopped short, unable to say
more.

" For me ? " said Bcnoiii. " Blessed token that
our Father in Heaven receives the wretched sinner
who believes in His Son ! Her child has taught me
to pray ; and now my feeble steps will be supported
and guided by the staff and the rod that led her in
the faith and the hope of our fathers ! "

Oliver Crisp listened in wonder and joy ; but
quite unable to question Benoni, they parted for the
night. With what unutterable thankfulness did
Oliver Crisp stand and gaze on his sleeping child !
The little wanderer had been a reaper, and had re-
turned, bringing his sheaf with him ; unconsciously
completing the blessed work of his departed mother.
The soul of the aged Jew had lain in the dark mine
of ignorance, sin, and death ; but the rays of Divine
Truth and Love had reached the hidden recesses
where it lay ; the fire of the Spirit of God had pene-
trated it, and now in the pierced hand of Immanuel,
the once dull clay lay a gem of crystal radiance,
reflecting those ever-varying rays of Divine Truth and
Love. When the little family gathered to their
breakfast, they found that Benoni had started long
before on his way.

There had been no school-keeping at Dame
Truman's since the sorrowful Monday of Oliver's
loss. And now in the early morning Baby Meg ran
up from the farm to see Oliver, and the children were
locked in a close embrace. They had never been
parted before. Baby Meg had been a most restless

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

239

creature j not the less so from a secret sense that the
trouble would never have happened if she had run
away from Dick when his talk was not good. She
grew more careful now, and more devoted to Oliver,
who had 2;one through so much for her sake.

After breakfast, Oliver Crisp took young Oliver
and Baby Meg down the rocky street of the village
to Dame Truman. Oliver had longed when lost
to see the kind old face he had looked up to so
often; but now he felt afraid of the rebuke. While
the child's safety was in doubt, Dame Truman had
strained every feeling in her anxiety on his behalf.
Dick was not to cross her threshold again, and Baby
Meg dared not appear. *But when Dame Truman
heard of his safety at the Dell, and his expected return,
she began to consider in what way it would be most
befitting her position, as the instructress and trainer
of the young, to .eceive the culprit. She stood erect,
as if he were already before her, and said in her tone
of sternest reproof, " Oliver ! is this to be the
conclusion of three years' reading, writing, arith-
metic, and manners under Dame Truman ; that
you run away ! a lost truant like this ? " This was
doubtful. Dame Truman felt, so she sat down in a
milder attitude and said, " I had been persuaded ot
better things from you, Oliver i these prognostics
foretell dul)ious results ! " That sounded better, but
. although Dame Truman had repeated it several
times in an audible voice, as if the children were
before her, it quite escaped her memory the next day.
For two days the village mistress composed, revised,

140

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

altered, and reviewed the address to her recovered
scholar, so as might on the whole be most suitable ;
combining brevity with emphasis, tempering decision
by mildness, and while pronouncing censure, leaving
an outlet for hope and amendment. The right ar-
ran<rement and the emendations of this sentence laid
such hold on this village mentor that she lay awake
composing and re-modclling her address by night,
and could in no other way occupy herself by day.
Many times she changed her position, studied her
own aspect, her intonation, changed a short word for a
long one, as more clfcctive, and finally judged it better
to say, either standing or sitting, as the case might
be, "Oliver, is this tantrum the conclusion of all my
intuitions ? if so, it had been better that Dame Tru-
man had never endued the children of this generation
with education and manners ! " But this was affect-
ing, and cost Dame Truman a tear. Most earnestly
she wished that the interview were over; such an
occasion had never occurred before ! as she many
times observed; and it was by no means easy, even
for her energies, to be always up to the mark for
emergencies. The intensity of the composition went
on without relief or release, until Oliver appeared in
sight with his father. Baby Meg held back, she had
already had a sharp reprimand for assorting with evil
communications ; she wished to keep near, but not
to venture in sight. Oliver's cheek was very white as
he crossed the cottage-threshold with his father, into
the dreaded presence of Dame Truman. It happened
at that moment that Dame Truman did not know.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

241

and could never tell, nor recal, whether she were
sitting or standing ; and the first sight of the child,
she aUvavs said afterwards, made at the moment a
clean sweep of her head ; so that before she knew
one thing from another she caught him right up in
her arms, and wept as any child might have done !
and if the poor lost thing did not cry too, and sob
out, " I am so sorry I " and hang round her as tight
as ivy to oak I And when she came to her recollec-
tion she could not for anything remember the words
she had put together.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Oi-ivER Cpisp returned to the Mill-house, and the
children went on to tlie Farm, with many a groeling
as they pass.'' along. Mistress Caxton gave a
mother's emhraee. Farmer Caxton looked down
with a sorrowful heniujnanev. "Thou art hut a
small candle, child, yet it darkened our hearts when
thy light was lost ! " I'armer Caxton was standing
in the farm-kitchen, with his hat on and his stuff in
his hand, and having said this, he went out. The
two ciuldren followed him. Farmer Caxton looked
at his men and his harvest-fields here and there, and
then sat down on a large wooden farm-roller, with
his long line of reapers in sight. Oliver sat hy him,
glad to he at his side again, and Meg seated herself
on the stuhhle, playing with scattered ears of corn.
The old farmer was leaning hoth hands on the round
knob of his oaken staff, looking over the field in its
harvest-glory. At length he said, " Child, I would
not have thee take in hand to fight any more ! '*

" I couldn't help it, Grand-daddy, I didn't want
to fight, I am sure."

"Thoi* wilt not be able to help it next time,
child."

" What next time ? " asked Oliver.

OLIVER OF TUB MILL.

243

"Ah! the temptation will rise up unthought of,
and just overmatch thee ! That's what folks say,
* How could I help it?' as if they thought help
against wrong lay in them. Ah ! 1 said it to myself
as free as any, all my life of wrong-doing. I knew
nine things out of ten were wrong, and I just said
to myself, * I could not help it 1 * I used to say to
myself of my gains, 'The chance was given me;
I couldn't help taking it ! ' and when I raved like a
fool, I used to say to myself afterwards, when I felt
the warring within that even had men will feci, I
used to answer, ' Why did they j)rovoke me ? I
couldn't help it ! ' Child, you arc young. 1 warn you,
I, who have lived the world through, 'tis the Devil's
lie that he lays on lips that never suspect he is near.
Ah! there was hut one eye clear enough in tais
world to see him lurking behind it 3 and the most
part walk on in darkness because the Devil, who is
the god of this world, hath blinded their eyes; as 1
did all my born days till grey hairs were upon me.
And so they just (juiet the conscience left in them
by saying, '1 couldn't help it!' but, child, the lie
that deceives us is worse than the act it covers."

" How could I help it, Grand-daddy? I couldn't
stop Dick any other way r "

" Vou couldn't; but there was One who could,
and you might have asked Him. Mind, child, I
don't say that to put down wrong by main strength
may not be right ; but I do say you can't go through
the world putting wrong things right by the strength
of your right arm. You have got a high spirit, boy.

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OLIVER OF THE MILL,

and there's one who will just hound you on, as he
has done thousands before, till you get the high hand
on lI\ sides, and then have to flee at the last ! "

" Who from. Grand-daddy ? "

" Well, what am T, for you to sit learning from
me? Here, Meg ! you fetch me the Bible, and my
spectacles on it. Now, child, we are as well off here
as within doors, and you read up ; and, Meg, FlI
have you listen — you will stand in need of it yet.
Turn up the fourth chapter of Matthew, and read
those eleven verses/*

Oliver read the Temptation in the \\ ilderness.

" Now understand what you read. He who was
tempted of the Devil was the Holy One of God.
Never did Light and Darkness stand alone together,
not before nor after, as I can make out. He was
hungered ; He had not fed for forty days. He had
all power and might ; yet He waited God's time !
See Him sec on the high point of the Temple — such
a place as foot of man never stood on before. He
stood only by faith, on a point up that height 'twas
misery not to fall, yet He waited God's help 1 See
Him upon that mountain, all the world at His feet;
He had power and might to rule the whole, and put
wrong thin/s right, yet He waited God's gift ! That
makes life, boy — God's time, God's help, and God's
gift! Live so, and you will find His strength is
made perfect in your weakness. That chapter lets
3/0U into the light of it. There is a Tempter, and he
is just where you would least think to find him. I
can't lay out words like a parson, but I can see it all

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

245

> he

clear. I always knew there was a Devil, but I just let
that alone. He did not let me alone. No, no ! He
had taken my meas .e, and cut out my gear. I was
all for gain : I knew what it was to be right hungered
for gold, and the more I got the more I still wanted.
No man in our markets sold the year round as I
did. I held back the corn till they gave what I asked;
and when I got it, how I gripped it ! It was more
than my children to me; it was just my god, and
nothing short of it; and the wonder is, it had not
sunk me down where there is no rising up ! I can't
tell the tale, but I will bring it round at the finish.
It is a game, all the same, as I have plaved at the
Public, scores of times. There is one who shuffles
the cards who is wholly their master. He chucks
gold to one, and a book to another; and for one
there's the pleasures of sin, and another he sets up
till he must not be crossed by a word, but must
ride rou2;h-shod where he will. They don't see him
who is skulking away in the dark ; but they drive on,
just as I did, till their eyes be opened, and then
they see where they are, and maybe no place to flee
to!''

" Why not. Grand-daddy ? "

"Ah, child ! it is written, ' How shall we escape
if we neglect so great salvation ? ' There is a shelter
open now. It is Him who conquered the foe. You
have read it — how the Tempter laid his track fair,
but the Holy One would not set foot in the snare,
neither in one, nor another. But He was given up
at the last for the Devil to do his worst, and He was

246

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

^ I

just drawn through darkness, torment, and death;
but He came out as He went in — a Lamb, aye,
whiter than snow ! And it is just He, and He only,
who can keep the Devil away. I can tell you he is
not scared at your lighting, nor your learning, nor
your gold ; but if ye be hiding that slain Lamb in
your heart, he will not venture nigh ye, whoever ye
be, not now nor for ever ! "

"Don^t good men fi^ht, Grand-daddy ?''
"Ave ! if it be their work to guard their king and
their country, let them see they do it well when they
are about it; but 'tis not the way for you, child, to
be ruling the right by a blow ; and I do say the
bravest, if he stands alone in his might, will just
have to flee from that foe at the last. There, you
read up again, ' Not many wise men after the flesh,,
not many mighty, not many noble are called ; but
God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to
confound the wise, and God hath chosen the weak
thinos of the world to cf)nfound the things which are
mighty.^ I sit hours together and study the Book,
and try things by it in the world I have lived through,
and I see it stands out clear with them all.

" It is not often I sit talking like this, but when
once I have begun I like to make a finish. How
clear I saw that mv aold was all the same as a bajr
of stones that you hang round a dog's neck to make
sure work of drownnig. 'There, mistress,' I said to
your grandmother, ' take the key ; nf) more looking^
and counting, and hoarding forme! Take it, and
use it, and let it do good to them that have need,.

OLIVER OF THE MILL,

247

th;

lye,

is
lor

in
ye

and save me from the curse it had like to have been/
Ah ! I had just got to know the Lamb, and was ready
to let all the world go. I had seen it was not my silver
nor gold, but the blood He shed for me. Deary me,
what a change! Why, the one, it just hardened to
stone; and the other, it melted me down as tender as
the love of a mother.

" I don^t know how you children can take it, for
I have not the words to make it clear ; but it was
your mother, boy, that helped me to see. My heart
was just broken over the money dripping away from
Meg's poor father ; and I began to hate the money,
because after all my labour and heaping together it
paid ni out with a hole at the bottom, and dribbled
away. Ah, child ; and I saw that your mother had
a treasure, always enough and to Sj)are! 5^he could
return good for evil ; and all seemed to grow to her,
and nothing wasted away, and her name scorned a
blessing; and I thought, 'there's a power! it ain't
money/ I said, ' nor learning, nor might.' One day
she and I were alone, for I often called in, by her
goodness, and I asked her, ' Naomi,' said I, for
she went by her christened name, ' what's the
meaning that you are always so gay (glad) and so
free ? ' She looked full serious at me, and she said,
* The blessing of the Lord it niaketh rich, and He
addeth no sorrow unto it.' I thought I knew where
her words grew, so I just asked no more, but I set
to looking myself. I thought I never should find it
— I was ashamed to ask her. I read the Bible by
the hour, and found thintrs I never thought on. I

248

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

could have given my word it was not there, but I
found it at last. What a treasure I thought it,
and the gift came with the words. I don't know
how, but they do hang together in a wonderful
way. Since then, I may say the Bil)le has taken
more attention from me than the crops and the
weather; and I would have you both lay it to heart, —
it will save you many a snare, and many a wasted year,
and many a sin ; for the Evil One will be lurking and
hiding where you are least aware. I do say that the
grandest enuuig is that word in Rev. xii. ii : * They
overcame him by the blood of the Lamb, and by the
word of their testimony.^ So, child, 1 would not
rule down evil by blows, but carry the I.amb of God
in your heart, and He will give you a power."

The words oozed slowly from the old farmer's
brain. Baby Meg heeded them not; though in after
years they came back on her memory, indistinct and
hal f- forgotten ; vet with the fecHng many know, of a
warning unheeded. Oliver could not fully follow
them, hut he received an impression. He was a
child whose listening face led on the dullest speaker;
and made the slowest mind teel it had a power to
mterest and arrest.

In these days books are everywhere ; they are
written in a style all can follow. The tide of thought
flows in and around the homes and lives of all men;
not with a lazy current, but with a strong and often
rapid sweep. Slow speakers and not clear would
hardly gain attention now ; but in those past days it
was not so ; many would listen, when one v idd

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

249

speak, and a human voice was, for the most part,
clearer than the printed page. Parish preaching, too
often, had no teaching, and Sabbath-schools were
rare. Oliver cared to listen j and they who care to
listen are sure to learn.

In the evening-hour in the Mill, when the sails
were fast for the night, Richard Dolman gone home,
and before the Mill-door was locked, Oliver, alone
with his father, told him all he could of Farmer
Caxton's discourse. Oliver Crisp listened in silence,
as was his wont. Then, giving Oliver the Bible
from the little shelf of books, he said, " What text
do you say when you pray, ' Lead us not into
tcmptanor/' ?> Turn Grand-daddy's teaching into
prayer; that is the only way to use it aright; and
give thanks to the Good Shepherd, who faced the
tempter for you. Look in Hebrews, and you will
find a text to say in your prayer : read up to me.'
The child read the magnificent opening of the
Hebrews, the first chapter, — then the warning that
follows ; and the infinite stoop of the Highest to
take part with the lowest, — Jesus tasting death for
earth's fallen children, that rising in Him they might
for ever be delivered from him that hath the power
of death— that is, the Devil ; and be brought unto
glory as the brethren of Jesus and sons of the Lver-
lasting Father. At length, the child's inquiring eye
fell on the text — " For in that He Himself hath
suffered, being tempted. He is able to succour them
that are tempted." And he linked it to his prayer
that evening, alone in the Mill with his father.

250

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

" Lead us not into temptation, —

" Lord Jesus, 1 thank Thee for facing the
tempter for me. ' For in that He hath suffered
being tempted. He is able to succour them that are
tempted.'

" But deliver us from evil, —

"I beseech Thee, dcl'ver mc from the Evil One!"

These chapters in the H<^.brews were a commen-
ta*"/ to Oliver on the words of old Farmer Caxton ;
each impressing the other more deeply on his soul.
Then with the brightened spirit that heavenly com-
munion always gives, he hastened to tend the garden,
which greatly needed his care. While working" there,
Isabelle rode up from the Castle, and this crowned
the gladness of the evening-hour.

The Sunday that followed, was the first since the
solemn and sacred night passed by Oliver Crisp in
the forest, i^fter the service he waited until the
villagers were gone, and then stood by the grave, with
his child, where Naomi slept. As he stood there a
surprise of secret rapture filled his soui, as he recalled
the blessed visions of that night of anouish, and
remembered that while such glimpses are given to
the spirit that tabernacles below, they are the cease-
less experience of the disembodied in glory. Then
in the 'light of resurrection he saw Naomi's risen
form in heavenly radiance ; the glory in her eyes, the
light upon her brow, the lips ready again to breathe
forth blessing. So on his silent soul the gladness
broke of that approaching morning, when, clothed in
immortality, he and his Naomi and his child, all

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

251

would arise, caught up on clouds to meet their
Saviour in the air. " Neither shall they die any
more, but they are the children of God, being the
children of the resurrection."

It was said of old, " She goeth unto the grave to
weep there!" But resurrection changed the scene.
Yet that was a resurrection amidst the darkening
shadows of sin and death ; f he eye of faith beholds a
resurrection from weakness unto pow(ir, from corrup-
tion to incorruption, from dishonour to glory. Faith's
eye on resurrection has power to change the aspect
of the grave. As on some solemn mountain-side
that overhangs with gloomy and oppressive weight,
whtri a sunbeam falls, its receding form is kindled
into life and beauty — crimson heather, pine-fcests,
and dewy herbage: — so on the silent grave there hangs
death's shadow ; but touched with the living light of
resurrection, the shadow softens and illumes into a
celestial glory, and life and immortality rise on the
longing eyes. And as the sunbeam cometh from
above, so comes the beam of resurrection-light; —
consoling and raising the spirit, by glimpses of the
glory yet to be revealed.

Still Oliver Crisp was silent; he could not give in
words the things unseen by mortal eyes. 1 he father
and the child walked home together; and when the
happy meal of the Sabbath evening was over, he took
his child as he was wont to do, to the Mill-steps,
before the hour at which they gathered in the home
for the hymns of praise and voice of prayer. With .
open Bibles on their knees, the father and the child

^s^

OLIVER OP T^ 2 MILL.

sat together in the calm that breathes in Sabbath
hours, — a deeper stillness and a brighter smile on
earth's fair face, telling that the primal blessing
lingers still, which sin and sjrrow, care and toil, can-
not efface ; waiting in faint earnest until He comes
who will restore the Sabbath of our God, creation's
rest.

To those who know in any measure the power of
Christ's resurrection, the week's first-day rest thrills
even now with everlasting life. A risen Saviour, seen
by faith, in grace and truth, amidst His children on
the earth He watered with His life-blood, and on
which He will yet reign in righteousness. The light
of His countenance lifted up upon them, illumes all
the past, and over the brief earthly future opens the
splendours of Eternal Day. Oliver Crisp saw the
grave as the step on which resurrection's angel
waits the unfolding gates of Heaven; while even now
to watching and expectant eyes the glory gleams
that soon will pour its living effulgence wherever
reposes the dust of those who sleep in Jesus.

Yet Oliver Crisp could not steep his child's young
spirit in the glow that had suffused his own. Seldom
from eye to eye can that radiance glance ; each must
receive it straight from Heaven. It may be long-
looked for, or it may suddenly surprise the thoughtful
soul, as it did Oliver Crisp's. Blissful hours are
those when things eternal light up things temporal
with the living hues of Heaven. Clouded again and
hidden from the spiritual view they may be, but they
li Mf. left their witness in the soul ; they have shed a

OLIVER OF THE MILL,

^53

celestial radiance on life's bereaved or saddened path-
way. We know that they will break again upon our
sight, and gild the night of sorrow with heralds of
the coming day.

The lather and the child read then together
John xi. and i Cor. xv. The infinite tenderness of
personal detail in the first, veiled in the splendours
of 'the second, me' all the fulness of awakened feel-
ing now kindling in the father's soul, and gently
trained in heavenly truth the opening spirit of his

child.

" Did my mother know all this ? " asked Oliver.

His father replied, "She knew the Scriptures
from a child. She lived looking unto Jesus, until it
seemed to me she saw beyond our earthly vision.
She used to say to me, ' There is no distance to the
eye of faith; it sees through time and space, and
can bring all things near which it pleaseth God to
reveal. It is a true word. Oily, ' He giveth more
grace 1

>>f

CHAPTER XIX.

Oliver had not expressed his sorrow for having run
away, in words to liis fatlicr. The father was satis-
fied ; for he had seen the grief of tliat young heart
in niauv starting tears, — his soljs over Aleppo's
grave, and with his grandmother and Dame Truman.
Still it was well, that father felt, that some word
should pass between them, exi)ressive of the feeling
on both sides. The older and the younger heart
were so entirely one, that this might not be really
necessary; but as father to child and child to father
it was right. Ri^ht, but not easy ; for there was
seldom much talk between them, though thev lived
in true communion of spirit. And the past had
'iorely tried the parent. Scarcely could he have borne
it but for tliose manifestations of the unseen presence
of the Lord, fidlilling the promise, '^ When thou
passeth through the waters I will be with thee, and
through the rivers they shall not overflow thee ! "
And to re-open th2 foimt of riief and tears in that
yonuiT heart was a areater sorrow to him than it
could be to the child. Autl so weeks passed away,
and the current of the boy's haj)py life flowed tran-
quilly on ; leaving behind it the rocks and rapids of
those troubled days.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

^5S

Oliver Crisp was one who waited for time and
opportunity. This has its own danger, as he had
ir'>re than once proved in the experience of his jiast
life. Waiting may become delay or lingering, and
then it loses its virtue and hi^^onies a hurtful thiuLi,
Even so energy may lead to hurry, and fi rnmess
may become hard, and quickness,' haste of temper.
The child's confidence in his f;ither was beautiful;
the certainty that he would understand how the
impulse arose that led to such results. Well did
that father deserve such confidence. He did not
sur])risc him by a re|)roof, but waited teiuKilv to
train him in the knowledge of truth. It ntiiy be
remarked again that Oliver Crisp never marred the
lessons he taught by a hard imjiatience in the uttering
them J sure of the heart ol his child, he did not seek
to arrest, but to train him. " (jod is strong and
patient;'' patient because he is strong; we are
imj)atient because we are weak. And by the weak-
ness of impatience manv a sin is mndc out of a folly,
and many a heart is tlu-own oif that miiiht ha\e been
trained into higher and truer feeling; the danger is
alike on either side, and the path of balanced leeling
that lies between is narrow and but rarelv trodden.

The strain of the past anxiety had laid the he.ivy
hand of age on Mistress Crisp. There was a
stoop in her erect figure, the keen glance of her eve
was more downcast and absent, and she was glad to
leave household cares as far as possible to the faithful
K. Young Oliver saw and felt the ehauije, and knew
himself to be the cause. His thoughtfulness for his

256

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

grandmother extcndetl to everything. He would sit
by her chair, read or talk to her, wind her worsted ;
and sometimes, to her great satisfaction, knit a few
rounds of the stocking. If out at work in the garden,
he oitcn ran in to see what Granny wanted, and
seemed niore necessary to her every day; liis gentle-
ness was all she needed. Whenever he was out, she
looked oitcn to the door, and would say to his father,
" Is the child sure to he rijiht ? "

Slowly and doubtfully as the year advanced,
Oliver Crisp came to the resolution to send Oliver to
school at the neighhouring town. Baby Meg already
went to the same town to a boarding-school ; and
it was full time for Oliver to follow. Mistress Crisp
made no ren)onstrance; her (]uiet tears were her
only rejily. Christmas passed and liabv Meg came,
bright as ever, to make the life of the winter hearth;
but a weight of dread oppressed the Mill-house as
the time drew near for Oliver to leave it.

Oliver and his father read now beside the winter
fire, and Mistress Cris). would often say she found her
best comfort in that eve ling hour. On the last home
evening Oliver Crisp gave his child the thirty-seventh
eha|)ter of Genesis to read. Oliver read, but as the
history went on, a consciousness broke over him,
and he could scarcely command himself. When he
reached the thirtieth verse, "The child is not, and
I, whither shall I go ? " his father said, " That was
what father felt once, Oily ! " The child could not
answer nor look up ; he read on, but when he came
to the words, " He refused to be comforted, and he

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

^57

said, I will go down into the grave unto my son,
mourning I " the father said, " That is what father
will feel if Oily runs away any more! "

Then the ehild threw his arms round his father's
neek in a passion of tears, saying, " Father, \ will
never, never, never run away any more 1 "

It was not easy to still the outburst of grief; hut
after awhile Oliver stood ealmly within his father's
arm. Then Mistress Crisp, feeling that the fatlier
had not followed up the lesson to the root of the
matter, said, " Oliver, will thee promise never to
fight any more ? "

But the father replied, "Nay, Granny, we will
not ask a second promise. We will trust that Oliver
will not raise his hand lightly against another, when
doing it once has cost us all so much I "

But Mistress Crisp could not be satisfied, and
said, "Thee wilt not fight again, Oliver; — promise
thy granny ? "

" We will not bind him," said her son^ calmly,
but decidedly ; " there are worse things than blows ;
but when he remembers the meekness and gentleness
of Christ, he will not lift a hand hastily. I say to
thee, my son, and thy grannie says it, Suffer wrong
thyself rather than resent it ; but when others a''e in
danger, I must leave thy conscience, and thy cause,
to better light than mine,"

They sat on in the fire-light, K. knitting on the

farther side of the table. At length Mistress Crisp

said, " Thou shalt rebuke thy neighbour ; thy Lord

did this 1 "

«7

! i:i- 1

258

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Oliver Crisp turned to the words in Leviticus
xix. 17, "Thou shalt in any wise rebuke thy
neighbour, and not suflor sin upon him." Oliver
Crisp read the words, then after silence, said, "He
did rebuke ! lie was holy, harmless, undellled, and
separate from sinners. There is a woe uttered
atrainst those who call evil o-ood, or pood evil. Mayst
thou never make light of any sin, Oily, nor triHe
with, iniquity. But if thou see'st any overtaken in a
fault, endeavour to convince and restore such an one
in the spirit of n.eekness ; considering thyself, lest
thou also be tempted. Can you tell me what else
our Lord Jesus did for those who reviled and crucified
Him ? "

Oliver remembered at once Benoni's deep feeling,
and said, " He prayed for them ! "

" Yes, O iver, that is a safe, high, and holy way
for you — to pray for one who does evil. You may
not change him by pulling him down by your
strength j but you may change him by lifting up a
prayer for him. Your prayer will follow Christ's
prayer; it will rise in Ilis name, and the heart of our
Father will receive it and answer it.'^

Then Oliver Crisp turned to the nineteenth of
St. Luke, and gave Oliver the 41st and 42nd verses
to read. " And when He was come near, He beheld
the city and wept over it; saying. If thc/U hadst
known, at least in this thy day, the things that belon'^
untc thy peace ; but now they are hid from thine
eyes." Oliver, the people of that city had taken up
stones to cast at Him j they were hateful and hating

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

259

iticus
thy
3]iver
" lie

, and
tered
ayst
iride
in a

1 one
lest

t else

::ified

one another, yet our Lord Jesus did not strike them
down in His power — He wept over them in His love.
He wept for them who " >ald not weep for them-
selves. He gave tears, as well as prayers 1 And
what then, Oliver ? "

" He gave His life," the child replied.

" Yes, he was the grandest man that ever stood
upon this earth, or will ever stand in Heaven, for He
was the God-Man. He said. All power is given to
me in Heaven and in earth; yet the greatest things
He ever did were to pray, and weep, and bleed, and
die, for those who hated Him and His Father.
Remember always that our Lord Jesus has given you
three words to fill up your life for others ; you will
find them in a chapter you know well, Matthew v. 44 ;
Love, Bless, Fray. — That ye may be the children of
your Father in Heaven I

The boy went to school, and the father and
granny and K. knew what it was to live without
him ; but it cannot be written and printed, for it was
the want and the weight of every day.

Oliver Crisp found his business oppressive. It
continued to increase, and his rounds were often
long. He oirc-ed to take young Jonathan Caxton
as an apprentice. Jonathan's school-days were
finished when Oliver's began ; and his grandfather
was (jucstioning what to do with the boy, so the pro-
posal was gladly accejited. The farm-house lay near
enougli for the lad to go home for his meals, and
everything promised well. But unfortunately jona-

26o

OLIVER OF TIiH MILL.

than's aml)ition was to follow the young squire as a
soldier to the wars : he had grown up too dutiful a
lad to oppose the wish of his friends ; but he took
privately to the Mill a drum he had long possessed,
of which his c;randfather could not endure either the
siixht or the sound: always afraid that it led on to
enlistment. But to vomin- Jonathan there was
nothing that gave such relaxation and relief fron)
].Tl)our as playing a drum-acconij aninient, while
he hunnned some military air. ' "I'he drum was hid
in a safe place in the Mill, and at odd hours
and odd moments you heard the heat, now faster,
now slower^ as the air ran in Jonathan's memory.
It had a singular effect, and far from agreeable, and
quite foreign to the familiar sounds of the Mill; but
poor Jonathan had enlisted the good miller's sym-
pathies on his side, and Oliver Crisp having n.o
nerves, and no prejudices, and no scruples, he scarcely
knew when the drum beat and when it did not. But
v.tU Mistress Crisj) the ease was far diircrcnt. Of
aii instruments of nuisic the druuj was most abhorrent
to her ; she never heard a single beat but there rose
up before her mind's eve a recruiting sergeant and a
company of lads in their corduroys, fresh from the
plough and the team, with ilying ribbons on their
hats, and mothers' broken hearts in their homes.
The irritation to her of this uncertain drum, — the lear,
when it was silent, that it wou'd be beoinninir as>ain ;,
the arbitrary way in which the performance went on
without any arrangement — you might have three
beats, or thirty, none could tell ; no calculation

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

261

could ever avail to estirriLte how long or how short
the performance would be ; nor when it might begin;
nor when it would end.

It had been one of the strictest principles of
Mistress Crisp, in her practical life, never to interfere
beyond her own line of things ; therefore, what-
ever went on in the Mill, she left alone, and the
force of this life-long principle was all-constrain-
ino; still.

'' That horrible drum ! " said Mistress Crisp as
its beat came full on her ear in the breeze of a fine
autumn morning, when the mill-door faced the door
of the house.

" It is very mon-no-to-ne-ous ! " said K., in sym-
pathy, as she supposed, with her mistress's feehng.

" Mon-no-to-ne-ous, girl ! " said Mistress Crisp.
*'Thee talkest without understanding. I say it is
the hatefullest sound that ever was invented, and
wliat on earth ca,n possess the lad nobodv knows !
One would think he was turning the heads of the
fowls round the Mill-house to enlist for the war. I
luartilv wish he would be off there with his drum :
there is no such thing as peace in the air since he
came. It airffravates me to that dcirrce that I can
no ways rise above it, nor knit it off on my ])ins.
It's neithci one thing nor another, and there's never
an end ! When he comes to a finish, he may go all
over again, or wait an hour, or a day, while one sits
on the stretch, always waiting in dread for its begin-
ning again."

The trial was a sore one, for when the nerves

262

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

once resent a thing, let it be what it may, they
quiver and shudder in dread of repetition, or at the
least symptom of return. Mistress Crisp was at
length constrained to speak her mind to her son -,
but to her distress and surprise, having gone fiom
her principle of non-interference and made an appeal,
he only said, ''It meant nothing, and was a harmless
amusement that pleased the poor lad, who had given
up his wish for the life of a soldier/^ It was impos-
sible to make Oliver Crisp understand how every
nerve of his mother was stretched in suflTerino; irrita-
tion, until she felt that under the liability of that most
irregular drum the peace of her home life was gone.
But there is an Eye of infinite tenderness, that can
read the secret vibrations of irritated nerves ; a Heart
that cares for them, and can wholly understand all
that jars on the delicate chore's, from the least discord
to the greatest ; and a Hand that can aid and send
means of relief!

Benoni had become a frequent guest at the
Mill-house, equally welcome to all. On one occa-
sion, when earlier than usual in arriving, he heard at
intervals the beat of a drum, now low and now loud^
now fast and now slow; and his oS'^cvv^nt eye saw
Mistress Crisp discomposed.

" Are they soldiering near? '^ arvkjd Bfnoni,
"Thee may well a^k ! "' replied i'^'li-tr-s Crisp;
"'tis a foolish lad in the Mill; he keep ; -)n at that
drum more or less every day, till it is v, !»; >iy miser-
able to be near him ! If there be a sound that
I hate, 'tis the beat of a drum ; and the worst of this

■f

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

263

they

the

s at

on ;

nom

is, you can never say it has done. I have heard it at
the cock-crowing, and could never sK ep a wink more,
from lying exj)ccting him tc dru!T^> out again. I
have lain weary hours, and was perhaps just drop-
ping oft, when for no reason on earth another beat
came ! I have almost lost my senses over that
detestable drum ; and the strangest thing is, my son
cannot see that it's next door to death to be always
in hearing. I am sure I have wished I were deaf,
and all because of that drum ; but then I have been
thankfid that I was not taken at my word, for I
should never hear a^ain the voice of the child ! Ah !
he was made for oil on the waters ; there's no out-
landish ways, nor no jarrings in him ! I shall never
see him in j)eace under that terrible drum. Some-
times I have thought if we could but contrive for the
wind to perform, as they say it does on a harp —not
that I ever heard it, for such things are no practices
of mine, and never were ; — but if only we could tell
when that drum, drum, would come, and when it
would cease ; or if it would go on for ever, one might
get accustomed ; but now the stop is as bad as the
start ; for you never know where you are, nor what
will be next ! "

" It is very mon-no-to-ne-ous ! " said K., taking
her mistress's part.

" Hold your tongue, girl ; you know nothing
about it; a drum is a drum to you and nothing
more ; but to me, aye, and to many, it means blood-
shed and death ! "

Benoni stood in reflective silence. At length, he

264

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

iV I

said, " Sure, a drum is a small thing to settle 1 I
think I can engage it shall end."

" Friend, thee must not destroy it ; my son gives
consent, and the act might lose us thy company, for
he is full as indulgent to Jonathan Caxton as ever he
was to our Oliver/*

" No, no ! V\\ not use any violence, nor risk my
one earthly home," said Benoni, with a smile; and
he walked away to the Mill.

K. watched, and he entered it; they soon heard
the drum, now fast and now slow, now stopping,
then beginning again.

At length Benoni reappeared, and with him the
drum, the terrible drum, the mar-peace, the discord
of life !

" Friend, w liat hast thou done ?" asked Mistress
Crisp, in alarm.

" I have not stolen nor begged, only borrowed,"
said Benoni. " I find the lad can carry many an air
in his head ; he has plainly a gift in music. I pos-
sess a flute, 'tis a black ivory liute with silver keys.
I never would sell it, — it was given me once by a
young fellow whom I tended when dying. He had
known better days, and had parted with all except
this llute, which he loved like a friend. I did n» c
leave the inn while he needed help, but ah ! I knew
not then Him that hath abolished death, and brouiiht
life and immortality to life. I have talked to the lad,
he is to lend me his drum to be held in safe keeping;
as I tell him he has mastered it now, and I am to
lend him my flute to keep till Benoni asks it of him

■

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

265

again ; all as pleased as is possible, and the drum
will be far away soon. Yet I will write you a slip
that he may know where it is if some day Benoni
docs not return ; but rest safe that he will never go
back to drumming again^ when he has once learned
his part on the flute."

True to his time came Benoni with the beautiful
flute; it lay in its box, and he lent it with strict
charges to Jonathan, and a golden piece in the lad's
hand to pay for a few lessons when he went to the
town.

The first elTect of this peace-making at the Mill-
nouse was, that Jonathan felt himself kindly wel-
comed within doors, riie discord was gone. Mis-
tress Crisp had a pleasant word that ujade all easy ;
and the quiet lad grew sociable there ; it became
a second home, and a happier one than his own, for
Farmer Caxton had never taken Jonathan to his
afiections — Babv Meg had filled his heart; and Mis-
tress Caxton, though kind in everything, was a grave
woman, greatly taken up with the business of a large
farm, Oliver Crisp was a most fatherly man, and
treated Jonathan as a son, and when the drum was
safe away, Mistress Crisp became the more cordial
from the contrast of relief.

The home of our birth has the chief part in
moulding, it may be, unconsciously to ourselves, our
nature; but the home to which youthful life may
ally us has a power of influence hardly second to the
first. Jcuiathau had lived a boy's life with his one
silent dream of a soldier's career ; this had closed in

266

olivj:r of Till'; mill.

tlie Mill; yet lie had still thought of the life as the
only one to he desired ; his drum, his sole synipa-
thetie companion. But the. flute opened a new taste
hefore him ; he learned to play well, and you might
constantly see him somewhere ahr ut the Mill-house
when not in the Mill; he was always welcome at its
hospitahle hoard. And on winter evenings the group
might have attracted a painter's skill ; when Oliver,
with Bahv Me<r at his side, sat siiijiinsr together the
carols of Christmas, like young hetrothed hridegroom
and bride, while Jonathan performed on his llute ;
Oliver Crisp joining in, and sometimes Benoni's
deep voice giving a note here or there when he was a
guest.

The sweet melodies lulled Mistress Crisp into
slumber; the flickering fire-light played on her face,
and the children sang softer, until as they paused at
the end of hynm or carol she looked up dreamily,
and said, the music was good, and pleased her well !
she had heard it in dreams, peaceful dreams, disturbed
by no sound and no thought of earth's tumult.

Or in lony; summer eveninos Oliver sanjjj amidst
his flowers, and Baby Meg on the door-step where
Naomi once sat, and Jonathan leaned on the paling
with his flute. And only one fear awoke in the
mind of Mistress Crisp; which was, that the lad
played so well, and the children so sweetly sang, that
some day they would be tempted away to make
music for money ; and a nuisical life was only second
to a military one to Mistress Crisp. So after this
fear had once aris'^n in her mind, she spoke in a

OUVKR OP Tllte MILL.

267

the

ipa-
aste
ight
mse

its
oup

more decided tone, and said, the perforinancew-as very
well considvving all things^ but was not likely to take
with those better acquainted with such things than
they were ; and she hoped they would content them-
selves where they could be approved, and not go
farther to fare worse.

And the happy life flowed on of holiday and
school, and Oliver and Meg were as one, sharing
every interest and joy, and Jonathan grew into the
home and forgot his soldierly ambition. How slight
a thing may change the current of a life, — open or
close the heart, expand or narrow the whole being 1
Some discord keeps asunder those who niight have
strengthened life by blending; some door is closed
or only half opened that might have changed the
aspect qf existence ; hard thoughts are woven in the
fabric of our being when softer niight have deepened
every hue. There is no refuge from such facts save
in the thought of " Our Father."

CHAPTER XX.

"Benoni was now a frequent visitor ; to none m jre
welcome than to Mistress Crisp. In the absence of
the child nothinii; cheered her like conveise with
Benoni. He had not, like herself and her son,
grown up slowly and imperceptibly into the life
divine; he had, as it were, taken one bound into the
glorious liberty; this gave a freshness and a fulness
to his experience, which made it a powerful influence.
The contrast is sometimes met with in life ; those
who have grown up in the knowledge of and
obedience to the divine prece))ts, appear to lack
the full assurance and the intense consciousness
that may be seen in some who were once hardened
in their reckless unbelief. We know it cannot be,
that God is less willing to give to the one what the
other so richly possesses. " God is not unrighteous
to forget your work of faith and labour of love,
which ye have shown for His name^s sake.'' May
it not be that the one, like the returning prodigal, can
look at nothing in self? "Father, I have sinned!"
sums up all the personal consciousness ; to hiin the
Father and the P'athcr's love must be all in all. In
the other case there may be a feeling of a life divinely
regulated, a self-consciousness — " Lo, these many

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

259>

years do T serve Thee, neither transgressed I Thy com-
mandments." The Father may be even then saying,
"All that I have is thine;" but the self-introspee-
tion excludes the joy. Joy in the Father can only be
in measure as self is left outside, accounted dead, and
the life hid with Christ in God.

Mistress Crisp was conscious of a life of effort
and desire to do and be right in all things; a sinful
liature she knev/ she had, l)ut right principles and
right motives she felt had been hers. Shv. did not
doubt the freeness of salvation, tiie all-sufficient
Saviour; but hers was not Rcnoni's experience, as
recorded in Psalui cvii,: " He satislieth the l{)n<rin2:
soul, and fillcth the hungry soul with goodness."
General truth, more than individual appropriation,
had been her aim. She rested not in a Divine
Person, so nuich as in a divine fact; not so 'Tnich in
a Saviour, as on a finished salvation ; therefore her
soul lacked the expansion, and her spirit the glow,
that Bcnoni had, in self lost, and Christ found. He
would sit in converse with Mistress Crisji, and in
the fulness of his heart scarcely notice how far she
miiiht enter into his apprehensions as he spake of
Eujmanuel, God with us. She could not fully under-
stand, but she felt the reality, the glow of a Presence
that was filling the aged Jew ui^l) ;i life and a power
not his own; and the longing anti .he hunger of her
soul began to awake, that she too might drink of the
river of God's pleasures ; that she too might know
the fulness of rest in the Lord.

When the Easter of the following year drew

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WEBSTER, N.Y. M5M

(71«) •72-4503

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370

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

near, Benoni, sitting in the Mill-house with Oliver
Crisp and his mother, said, " I have to ask baptism,
and where can I seek it but here ? "

There was silence awhile, then Oliver Crisp
replied, " It can be had, but couldst thou not find it
elsewhere with more comfort ! "

" I know not where," replied Benoni ; " and
here, at least, I have you, and the child, and Mistress
Crisp, my best friends on earth ! "

" It is the sin of the system, son," said Mistress
Crisp, " tied up to a man ; if he fail you, where are
you then ? You should meet and let them speak, to
whom the grace and the power are given, instead of
following the ungodly to lead where they will I "

"Ah!" said Oliver, sorrowfully, "'tis often
hard to know what course to take."

" 'Tis not the man that I want, good Mistress,"
sr.id Benoni. " It is the Christ's name named upon
me, in the ordinance appointed of Him — in whom I
believe. That three-fold blessing I reckon will be
sealed to nic then: — 'The Lord bless thee and keep
thee ; The Lord make His face shine upon thee
and be gracious unto thee; The Lord lift up His
countenance upon thee, and give thee peace ; * ' And
they shall put My Name upon the children of
Israel ; and I will bless them.' It is the putting on
of that Name to the scalino; of that blessino;. I
can't answer for the man; 'tis the divine ordinance I

crave.

>»

At Easter the children came home, and in its
resurrection-light of life, old Benoni, with young

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

271

Oliver's hand in his, and many a friend beside,
with Mistress Crisp and her son Oliver as witnesses,
accomplished his desire, and took the Christian
name. He would keep the name of Benoni still,
for he said, " I had been a son of sorrow for ever, but
for Him, the true Son of the Right Hand ! "

At that time, whenever Benoni came, they had
evening worship at the Mill-house; reading of the
Scripture by Oliver Crisp; sometimes Benoni would
speak, and praver was off'ered there; and Dame
Truman would (eome, and Mistress Caxton some-
times, and Richard Dolman and others, and the
children sang a hymn when at home. It was a
church in the house, blessed to many, and an ever-
increasing comfort to Mistress Crisp. For the one
Teacher and Guide is bound to no man, but freely
imparts heavenly grace. And probably you will
never find a parish, however desolate and forsaken of
all teaching by man, where some soul is not shining,
a solitary light and witness for God.

On that baptismal day, who did not recal the
baptism of the child, when Benoni stood alone at
the porch, and dare not enter unasked ; and there
was no voice of invitation nor welcome,— not one
to say, " Come with us, and we will do thee good" ?
The solitary Jew had wept his bitter tears alone m
the night-wind, by the grave of his one only friend ;
vet not alone, a pitying Presence stood beside hini
unseen. One whose voice said of old, " I know their
sorrows ; " "I have seen thy tears ; " and that child
had become the guide of his long- wandering feet

Z']^

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

, I

into tfie paths of peace. A frequent surprise of earth
is to find that one to whom our steps have been led,
has been waiting for all tliat our presence may bring;
or the reverse, — to find our own need supplied in
those who may cross our pathway. Yet why should
it surprise us, if we believe that our Father in heaven
dirccteth our steps, and delighteth in our way \
*^Are not five sparrows sold for two farthings, and
not one of them is forgotten before God ? But even
the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear
not, therefore, ye are of more value than many
sparrows.'^

That evening, even the children sat silent within ;
impressed by the solemn ordinance and deep feeling
thev had witnessed that day. And as Benoni, whp
had a habit of short ejaculations, said fervently, '* He
loved me, and gave Himself for me! ^^ The " He"
and the "me" so wondrously linked, came home to
the soul of Mistress Crisp with closer power. One
habit Benoni had acquired, as he dwelt alone, was of
repeating from time to time the confessions of faith
in Jesus, Messiah, that lie in liviiuT liuht in the
g()si)els. Such as " Behold the Lamb of God which
tiiketh away the sin of the world!" "We have found
tile Messias, which is being interpreted the Christ 1 "
" Kabbi, Thou art the Son of God ; Thou art the
Ring of Israel ! " "Thou art the Christ, the Son of
the Living God 1 " on to the confession of Thomas,.
" i\4y Lord and my God ! " Almost unconscious
whether alone or with others, there was ever an
exultation in his tone, a fervency of adoration, that

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

273

raised in the devout listener's heart a measure of the
sacred emotion that filled his own. In no other
words could he so truly express his feeling, as in
those of Holy Scripture. The Holy Spirit is the
subliniest master of language; — all the highest and
deepest emotions of the soul towards God find their
fullfist and truest utterance in words inspired by
Him.

When summer verdure clothed the earth, when
summer's sun gloweci on the green corn-fields, and
the crimson poppy answered to its rays, and gardens
wore a blaze of colour, and the care of their young
families stopped the full song of birds; when the
bkie-bclls no longer purpled the woods, and the
stately fox-glove grew up in their place, when the
night air was laden with perfumes, and the fruit was
beginning to ripen, there came another grand day at
the Castle. The Squire returned home to his
mother; and not a maternal heart in the village but
throbbed for her with a feeling, and many with a
thanksgiving. He came home to give away as a
bride a younger sister of his house. Gay carriages
and white favours, and flags flying, and wedding-
bells, and wondering people, made the village astir;
but it was not their own Miss Isabclle, as they
always called her, — so their hearts were at rest.
Their attention was chiefly given to their grand
young soldier Squire. How fine a soldier he made,
his sword by his side, his helmet and plume! There
could be no fear for the country while their young
Squire looked after it ; the very sight would daze any

274

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

J 1

!'f

man that could be after striking at him ! And
Bavicca, his noble steed, seemed a part of himself,
and able, no doubt, to take his plaee in the wars !

Mistress Crisp would not look on the show j
s!>e shook her head sorrowfully. Conrad did not
forget to make a call upon her, but his pleasant way
niiide her painful feeling the deeper. He was seen
on the top of the Mill-steps with Oliver Crisp — the
friendship between them was not forgotten by Con-
rad. Jonathan felt a slight stir of the old longing
come over him ; but Conrad was charmed with
Jonathan's flute, made him play to him, promised
him music, which came without delay ; and finally
asked Jonathan, if he did not really think that it was
far better to stay at home and live to feed people,
than it would be to go out of the country to kill
them ? Jonathan had never seen it in that light,
and thought there could be no question ; and only
felt a slight wonder that the Squire did not see this
for himself; and he secretly hoped that Benoni
would never get tired of the old drum, and want the
flute back instead.

Farmer Caxton said, when Conrad had paid his
visit to the Farm, " He is like his father, all over,
and carries a brave heart for his God and his country.
He'll be safe for the next world ; but I am no certain
for this. I know the ways of him that's the god
of this world — 'tis just by a red coat he clears oft
many a fair blossom that would ripen to fruit if he
had not been a mark to be shot at ! "

'Tis a thousand pities," said Mistress Caxton,

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

OH-

^'to think he should risk it. You may take up the
Scripture, and say, 'The only son of his mother,
and she was a widow ! ' So free, too, and pleasant as
he is, to be hacked down by good-for-nothing fellows
not fit to hold his stirrup — 'tis a thousand pi-les, I
say ! The good be not so plentiful as to cast them
off in their prime, when the good Lord who sent
them marked them for blessing."

And the pageant all passed, the young bride was
gone, and before the year closed in, Conrad was
away, and the village was quiet again, and the Castle
lay still in its woods. Isabelle was grown into a
woman now ; though all the simple manners of her
childhood clung about her still. Itwasof her. Mother
Dumblcton said, "1 call her a pink of a lady; vou
may say a clove ! for there be that about her that
sweetens your senses if she do but smile on you.''
True it was that Isabelle kept every pathway she
trod more verdant and bright for her presence.

And so the quiet months and years passed away,
working slow changes. Isabelle had now a Sunday
school at the Castle, in which the village children de-
lighted ; and sometimes those no longer children in
years were sitting with them to learn. Dick But-
terly had gone to sea ; his mother said he wanted
freedom and space, and she considered he was likely
to find both on the ocean. The pride of Sally But-
terly's heart, her youngest — she, too, was named
Margaret— was still under Dame Truman's tuition.
Meg was a sunbeam, and Oliver's quieter nature
responded to the lighter glee of her spirit. Once a

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OLIVER OF THE MILL.

year Oliver Crisp took his boy to sec Mistress Tihby
and Matty Trundcl : — tliose were happy visits to
Oliver, and dear to the hearts of the old women,
who felt a tenderness for the child they had saved,
beyond what they iiad ever felt before.

There was much to feel in this (juiet flow of life,
though but little to tell, until the sununer of Oliver's
thirteenth year. The children came home as before
to 'enliven the village, and make the sunshine of the
hearts loving them best, when suddenly tidings like; a
thunder-clap fell. The young Scjuire lay low, with
wounds, none knew how many; lighting in the breach
he had fallen ; the dead lay beneath and around him,
almost single-handed he stood, lie kcjit the breach
open until friendly bayonets were behind him, then
yielded the post of danger and death, and sank into
arms stretched out to receive him. They unclasped
his sword, to which his finoers were cliniiinii", un-
braced his helmet, with its white j)lume dyed in blood.
They bore him down the steep bank, laid him by the
stream, gave him water, and pillowed his head on a
veteran chieftain's breast. He looked up, gazed a
moment on anxious faces bending ovc 1 him, then
upward to the skies, their blue depths calmly tra-
versed by the white clouds of sunnner, floating in
their stillness and beauty, as over the wooded
heights of his castle home, where his widowed
mother might be gazing upward with thoughts of
her son ; his sweet smile grew sweeter as he softly
murmured, " Home ! home ! home ! " and " his spirit
passed in that happy dream, like a bird in the track

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

277

t)f the bright sunbeam." His eyes closed like a
child in quiet slumber, and his head drooped on the
old soldier's arm : they wrapped a cloak round him
and returned to the fight.

When sunset crimsoned the west, and the red
Ijlood crimsoned tlie stream, and England's flao;
waved on the hciuhts in victory, thev returned tc the
sleeper. Too dcen was his slumber for the ro'l-call
to reach him ; he slept his last sleep, for his king and
his country ! Not even the voice of his mother
could have wakened him now. The next voice he
«will hear will be His voice who said, " I go to awake
him out of sleep." A connadc kneeled and cut a
lock from his brow, reverently kissed the cold f( re-
head, and while men all around were burying the
dead, thev bore him further down the winuinirs of
the stream, and turned the sod where the trees were
thick overhead, and where the rippling waters over
the clear stones would keep a low music by that
pillowed head, and where the sound of the trumpet,
and the clash of war, would reach him no more.
^ Words cannot picture the grief that swept
through the Castle and over the village. Lie was
gone — the hope of all hearts, the stay, the prop, the
head, the blessing of his home — his young life cast
away, with none to succour, none to save. The cry
of anguish that followed him was almost tearless in
woe. It came, it passed, he was gone; no prayer
could detain or recal him ; no love win him back ;
it was over for ever ; the blessing, the beauty, the
hope of his home was departed.

278

OLIVER OF TllJi MILL,

It was long before the widowed sonlcss mother
was seen by any, and when Isabelle at length drove
and rode out again, a paleness was on her check,
the smile that gladdened those on whom it fell,
though it lingered on her lips, seemed gone from her
eyes. Oliver Crisp, who had never spoken abroad
of his own past trc)u))les before, spoke now, saying,
" There be many deaths in this one ; I seem to know
the feeling. I knew it once when I could only say
in my heart, * The child is not, and I, wliither shall
I go ? * and I am sure they know it now ! "

As golden autunm rolled away with its rich
treasure from the land, word was brought that his
war-horse Bavieca was coming home to the Castle.
Oliver and Meg were fetched home, partly that they
might not lose the impression of what to that
secluded village was a national scene; and partly
because Oliver Crisp feared the further efiect on his
mother, whose grief had been silent and deep.

When the sorrowful procession drew near, the
bells rang a muffled peal, and the Castle gun slowly
fired ; glittering armour was seen in the distance,
and as the company advanced, Bavieca was led
on by a dismounted soldier on foot, in advance of
both officers and men. The noble steed stepped on
lightly as ever, but his fiery eye was downcast. Well
he knew that his rider was gone! Bavieca bore the
battered helmet and arms. Not a labourer had gone
to work on that day ; all had turned out to meet the
grief-sealing procession. Men in tears threw their
arms round the neck of the steed, children sobbed at

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279

his side, and women, unable to stand, sat by the
roadside hiding their faces in their aprons as they
wept, unable to bear to look on such trophies of
sorrow. Tears may water the memory, but cannot
win back the treasure.

« Violets plucked, the sweetest showers
Will ne'er make grow again ! "

Meg cried abundantly, but Oliver's large eyes
were fixed in tearless grief upon those touching re-
cords of a loss which, like every good and perfect
gift from above, nothing can replace, save Him, Him-
self who is the giver.

The utter silence of Mistress Crisp in her sorrow
made her son uneasy about her. She spoke not a
word against war ; said nothing of her past expecta-
tions fulfilled; she only wept her silent sorrow.
Oliver Crisp could not hide from himself that she was
failing more rapidly than before, and he promised
that Oliver should leave school at Christmas to cheer
the house for her. She took no notice of the promise,
and Oliver went with his grandmother's tear on his
cheek when he left her to return to his school.

lib

li|<

!ii, I

CHAPTER XXI.

Oliver had returned to school, but he could not
stay; his grandniotlicr seemed to fail day by day. Her
appetite failed. " Thee need not persuade mc to take
more food/* she said ; " I eannot eat for sorrow !
The beauty of Israel is slain upon the high places.
Would that my old life could have gone for his !"

" I think thou art better to-day, mother/' said
her son, seeing her knitting in her arm-chair.

" It pleases thee to think so, my son, but life
here is too lieavy a load. I have borne it long, and
am weary. I am going to Him who has promised
me rest."

When Oliver came home she revived for a time,
and even sat at the table at her meals, 'i'he boy's
pleasant ways made her take an interest in many
things that without him she would have passed un-
heeding. The days were short, and she seldom sat
on through the long evening, but went early to rest;
and Oliver always went in to see her before he laid
down to sleep.

One night, as he sat on her bed, she said,
" Child, thou dost pray with thy father ; canst thou
not pray with thy granny ? " Oliver kneeled. His
prayer was still his old prayer, ever fresh in its infi-

OLIVKR OF THF MILL.

281

nitc feelings, and clear to his young heart, as his life
year by year hud linked itself with it.

" Our Father, whieh art in Heaven, —

" ' Like as a father pitieth his children, so the
Lord pitieth them that fear Him; for He knowetu
our frame, He rememhereth that we are but dust.'

" Hallowed be Thy Name,—

"'He sent rcdenipticm unto His people. He hath
commanded His covenant for ever, holy and reverend

is His Name.'

" Thv kincjdom come,— -

« ' Lord, Remember me, when Thou comcst in
Thy kingdom!' 'They that love His Name shall

dwell therein.' ,

"Thy Will be done on earth, as it ism Heaven,—
"Jesus said, 'Whatsoever ye shall ask the Father
in my Name, He will give it you ; ask, and ye shall
receive, that your joy may be full.' If it bclhy
will, make granny well, I beseech Thee!
" Give us this day our daily bread, —
" ' Your Heavenly Father knoweth that ye have
need of all these things.'

" Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them
that trespass airainst us, —

"Jesus said, 'Thy sins are forgiven thee; go m
peace ' ' Be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted,
forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake
hath forgiven you.' ' Having forgiven you all tres-
passes ! '

" Lead us not into temptation, —

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OLIVER OF THE MILL.

" Jesus said, ' Because thou hast kept the vvorcJ
of my patience, I also will keep thee from the hour of
temptation, which shall come upon all the world, to
try them that dwell upon the earth.'

" But deliver us from evil, —

" ' The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil ; He
shall preserve thy soul. The God of peace shall
bruise Satan under your feet shortly.'

'' For Thine is the Kingdom, and the Power, and
the Glory, for ever and ever. Amen."

'' Can thee tell where those texts are, child > to
find them in the Bible ? "

" Yes, granny, I know them all."

"I will have thee turn them up for me to-morrow.
Now kiss thy granny ; and mayst thou sleep well ! "

Oliver found all the places, and put slips of paper
in, and wrote the chapter and verse on the paper in
his grandmother's Bible, and she was often seen
studying them over.

One day, when Oliver was sitting alone with his
grandmother by the winter fire, she said, "Child,
thou art so like thy mother ! Granny could talk to
her, and she can talk to thee. I have thought a deal
over those texts thou dost thread on the prayer that
they call the Lord's Prayer. There is one of tho«;e
texts that has wrought a change in my mind that
no'thing ever could bring me to come to before."

" What text, granny ? "

'' It is that text marked down here. You read it
up, and the verse that lies before it."

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283

e word
hour of
)rld, to

il ; He

shalJ

■r, and

u; to

rrow.
II ! ''

3aper
er m
seen

his
hild,
i to
deal
that
o«;e
hat

Oliver read Eph. iv. 31, 32— "Let all bitterness,
and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil-speak-
ing, be put away from you, with all malice. And be
ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one
another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven
you,''

" Now read up the other."

Ol'ver read Col. ii. 13— "Having forgiven you
all trespasses."

" I have a word, child, to say to you. 'o. t it
say that the Word of God is quick ant erful,

sharper than a two-edged sword j and like a hammer
that breaketh the rock in pieces ? That's wha*: it did
for me that night you prayed by your granny ! It
was that little word ' as ' that fixed in my mind like
an arrow — * Forgive one another, even as God for
Christ's sake hath forgiven you ; ' and then came
upon it — ' Having forgiven you all trespasses.' I
seemed never to have known it before ! When you
were asleep on your pillow I kept saying over, ' For-
giving one another, as God for Christ's Si Ve hath
forgiven you.' Ah, I thought, that's what I have
not done ! I wanted to say. But I will ! yet I
couldn't say it. I thought, I never have hurried over
anything; ! will wait and consider; it may not
mean all I seem to think it does now. Sometimes
the day alters the feelings we had in the night ; Til
not be in a hurry. But, oh, child ! I have just been
miserable, for that 'as 'lies as clear in the day as
ever it sounded by night. I can't get away from it,
and, what's more, I don't want. Why should I find

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II;

1 !

i 111
ill I

it so hard to say out the truth, and confess that I
have carried a stone in my heart ? "

" Have . you carried a stone in your heart,
granny ? "

" Aye, child, years afore you were born ! You
are no child now, but your old granny's best friend ;
and I will just tell you. You may have taken notice
that Meg's grandfather and your granny were not
over-friendly to one another. In truth, it is twenty
years since I have shaken hands, or said, ' How art
thou, friend?' or so much as looked on him! I took
ill some few words he let drop. I believe he said
them when hasty and hot, for he once was a man
that a feather would ruffle. He is wonderfully
changed since that time. I know that, though I have
shunned him. There is no call to bring the words up
now, but I held off from that day ; from that day, as
you may say, he has had nothing from me but my
shadow. I said I would not be friends where I did
not feel friendly. I did not see that the wrong was
in letting words settle, and fret, and fester, until I
got a sore and then a hardness against an old friend.
I thought I was right in having nothing to say to
one who could speak hard, and hasty, and untrue, as
he did. Ah ! I never considered that he was hard
and untrue in his hasty temper, but I was hard and
untrue to the Saviour I followed in my cool mind — -
which is worse, I do say it, twenty times over !

" Chi'd, your mother did plead with me. 'O,
mother,' she said, ' let us forgive and forget ! ' I said
she might do as she liked ; I, for my part, liked to

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

2«5

that I

heart.

You
riend;
notice
e not
wenty
>w art
' took
said
nian
rhiUy

have
ps up
ly, as
t niy
I did

was
til I

end.
r to
> as
ard
md
U.

lid
to

show I knew wrong from right, and I would have
nought more to do with him that spoke them unless
such words were first taken back. But now I say.
Where were I if I had to take back all my hard
words before my Lord would have aught to do with
me ? Just lost, lost for ever !

" You see, child, granny's weak, and she can't
make a short tale out of a long one. How your
mother would plead with me ! doesn't it come back
to me now ! ' Only think/ said she, 'if He who so
loved us were to keep before Him all our hardness ;.
the things we say or do before almost we know what
they are ! I am sure we don't go confessing to
Him not one half of the ills that He sees in us; and
vet He says He has foroiven us all, and He'll not
remember our sins ! '

" Once she said to me (she was sitting down on
that door-step with her work, and the red roses that
clustered the casement hung their blossoms just over
her dark hair, and she looked up like a white rose
herself, and said,) ' Those hard words of Farmer
Caxton, they be just like a stone in your way,
mother, and you won't heave your foot over, and go
on in the pathway of love; you roll the stone on
before you, and it keeps your pathway so hard !
Oh, think of the hard stones !n His way! our
blessed Lord whom we follow: wh ,t false thi'ius they
said, and He only poured out His life-blood to cover
them ! And just think of Peter — that was the
hardest of all — to deny Him in death, with a curse ;
but it was His look of love brought confession and.

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OLIVER OF VHE MILLJ

sorrow/ But I would not! that was just my pride j
I would not turn from the way I had taken. It
seems to me strange how I thought I was right ; it
was blindness to think so. I see it now — ' forgiving
one another, as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven
you ! '

" Now, child, I could not say all this to any but
thee. Thou art thy granny's friend. Don't take
notice of this to any. Let by-gones be by-gones.
But you go to Farmer Caxton, and tell him granny
is not long for this life, and if he can step up and
see her it will just be her comfort; he might come
this afternoon when we have a chance to be alone.
I would not let to-day pass ; for we know not what
shall be on the morrow."

Farmer Caxton did not wait for afternoon, but
returned with Oliver to the Mill. He took a seat by
the fire near Mistress Crisp's arm-chair, and Oliver
went off to Jonathan in the Mill. How changed
were the two since they last met together, twenty
years before ! Mistress Crisp's hair, now snow
white, lay smoothly under her cap ; the old farm^-r's
hung down to his shoulders ; both faces had once
been hard, both were softened now ; the eyes of both
had been keen, both looked kindly now.

*' I am glad to see thee, Jonathan Caxton, and I
thank thee for coming."

"I hope. Mistress Crisp, you are getting the
better of this weakness ? "

" I don't take much notice of that," she replied,
" I have found worse ills than those of the body. I

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287

have carried a hard heart within me, and set up my
pride, and thought it a virtue, and held it right not to
look over things said or done wrong. I don't want
to look back, nor dost thou, I am sure, but only to say
to thee, I am heartily sorry for all my hardness and
pride. O, Jonathan Caxton, I have lost many a
blessing your humbled heart has won ! They do
say the highway to kindness from you is to do you
an injury now ! So I hope I may find it not too late
to repent."

" Mistress Crisp ! Mistress Crisp ! " said the old
farmer, without trying to hide a falling tear, " I have
that respect for you that I could not sit under your
words if I were not right sure that 'tis God's holy
will that we should confess our faults one co another.
A thousand times over I have wished that I had
never said what passed from my lips — aye, I have
never ceased to grieve that ever I said it, and I
would have said so to you if I hrid not felt your kind
respect gone, and never a chance given me to see
vou. But we both know it now, and I believe the
good God lets us have many a slip and brings us
down low, just to humble us together, as you and I
are now. Aye, Mistress Crisp, you and 1 may just
say, ' Father, I have sinned I ' and find peace in His
pardon j which was more than he had who could say,
' Neither transgressed I at any time Thy command-
ments.' My old woman lays your sickness much to
heart. She begs her respects, and she would hold it
a favour if you had anything wanting she could
provide."

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OLIVER OF THE MILL.

!p;

I "

" I am sure I am boundcn to her, and will thank
thcc to say so ; but it is just all given me, far above
my need. I am hasting away, and am lighter for
going now I have had these few words with you. I
shall take it kindly if you will look in again. I know
your goodness to the child. I hope Meg and he
may some day be one ; but that's no ordering of

ours.

'^ I reckon tliat has long been a settled thing,"
replied Farmer Caxtonj " thev have so grown
together therc^s nothing but death now could part
them. I fear our loss of our young Squire has been
a great hurt to you ? '*

" Well, I do believe it was the finish ; and I can
say it now, I have i)cen hard on the lighting men —
harder than on anvthinii; else. But I see there are
tender hearts go to war, and I am not just able to
judiie, for the world is the world still, and I suppose
might nuist compel right for them that are in
authority. The kingdoms are not vet become the
kiniidoms of our Lord and of ITis Christ. But they
will, Jonathan Caxton, they will I and then, it com-
forts me to think, ' thev shall learn war no more.' I
have done with that hardness. I prav God order the
riiiht ; and if their hands must deal death, may their
hearrs breathe His Peace 1 "

The flame of the aired life flickered loner • some-
times reviving in a softened brightness, sometimes
sinking away in patient, meeknes'^. The perfected
work of grace olten lingers in beautv, as if to be a
witness to the immortality of the soul, whicli

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

289

brightens and expands in Nature's decay. Once
more she filled her chair at the Christmas hearth, and
listened to the carols there. Once more she saw the
New Year in, and smiled upon the frosted beauty oi
trees of dazzling sheen, and every blade and every
straw and leaf strewn with its crystal gems.

Oliver's was a busy life, divided betv/een his
books (for his father directed his lessons and book-
keeping now), his happy time with Meg, and his
quiet hours with his grandmothei*. These last were
never wearying to the boy. His thoughtful mind
received all that she opened to him in frequent con-
verse : he woald linger with her, — never willing to
leave unless others were there, or she were resting.

"Oliver!''

" Yes, Granny, I am here."

" I want thee, child, to take a word from my
lips; they can't counsel thee long. Come here on thy
stool by my side. Don't let it vex thee, what I am
going to say ; it wiii be for thy good when thy
Granny's away. Once, thee knowst, thee ran away
from her correction ! Maybe, I did not fit the
burden right to the back ; but, child, let me tell thee
that the good God makes no mistakes ; thou art
His child, and be sure He will chasten thee. Don't
thee run away from the correction He gives ! Let
His stripes be what they may, be sure thee don't run
away 1 There is no saying which way the Heavenly
Father will try thee ; it may be in body, it may be in
mind, it may be in circumstances. It may come
straight from His Hand, or through others. Let me

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II :

1:'

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OLIVER OF THE MILL.

tell thee the last is the hardest to meet ; thou wilt be
ready to chafe at thy fellows, when thou wouldest
submit to thy God ! But I can tell thee it is all one
and the same ; there is never a word, nor an act, no,
nor a thought, that can trouble thee, except it were
given it to do so from above. For the very hairs of
thy head are all numbLMcd; much more the joys and
the sf)rrows of thy heart. Take all straight from
whence it comes ; have little or nothing to say to
them that stand in between. Take thy joys and thy
sorrows from thy Father in heaven, and He has
passed His word for it they shall all work for thy
good. But now promise mo, whatever God sends
thee, thou wilt not run away, but stand still and
receive it humhlv from t^im. Wait, and thou shalt
see Ilis salvation ! "

" I will promise, Granny. I wish enough I had
never run away ! I don't think you have been just
ri<2;ht ever since I did."

" Don't thee lay that to heart, child ! I tell thee,
don't vex when I am at rest as if thou hadst helped
to send me there ! Our times are in His Hand who
will loose the silver cord at His will, if we don't let
violence and war break the golden bowl in its beauty.
Ah, me 1 I can't think on it 1 May they have comfort
that need it so sore I I will just gather back my
thoughts ; they go wandering so, and I can t mind
now what I was going to say. But I think I am
tired ; we will talk another day."

It was a New Year of bright frosts, sunshine
without, and warm crackling logs on the low hearth ;

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

291

ilt be
jidest
one
t, no,
were
rs of
s and
from
ay to
d thy
i has
' thy
ends
and
shalt

and sometimes on clear days the sun's descending
rays lit up the distant sea with a glory that seemed
like the verge of a Land whose radiance was far
excelling this. It was only seen from the Mill-steps,
therefore Mistress Crisp did not see it ; but she had
dwelt by the shore in her childhood, and the feeling
came back on her heart. She often spoke of the
sea. One day she said to Oliver, "The sea is full-
tide, and lies calmly outspread, just a silver ripple,
and no more. I can't see it break on the shore ; it is
up level to the grey rocks ; and I am floating away to
where yonder glory lies dazzling. The rough waves
are no more; only ripples that just bear me on.
You will lose me when I enter yon glory, but you
will follow me there. Never heed whether the dis-
tance be dark or bright. It's all one, for He stands
at the door Who opened it with His Life, and Death
can shut it no more. Keep looking unto Him, and
your entrance is sure."

The earth wore a mantle purer and whiter than
any that fuller can whiten; — sparkling snow on the
hills, and the fields, and the thatched cottage-roofs,
and the low orraves in the churchyard. Through the
village a company moved, still gathering in number.
Slowly, silently, and tenderly, they gathered around
the sleeping form of one whose life had been purified
whiter than snow, washed white in the Blood of the
Lamb. Some mourned in true love; all mourned in
respect. How strange to young Oliver's heart the
vacant chair, the silence of home, the thought of the
grave where his Granny slept near his mother ; and

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292

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

then, when they would wake ! Many a thought filled
his heart, and many a tear filled his eye. But for him
his Granny still lived, as his mother had done since
he learned to know her; and the world of the blessed
was too near his young heart for those who had
entered it to be thought far away. He grew at his
father's side, a blessing from Heaven; dear to
Jonathan as a brother; cared for by faithful K. at
every turn, and the child of old Bcnoni's heart.
Meg's sunny life rippled over his, while as yet she
seemed to lean on his love in all things.

ilM

" Oh ! for the robes of whiteness ;
Oh ! for the tearless eyes ;
Oh ! for the glorious brightness
Of the unclouded skies."

" Oh ! for the * no more weeping'
Within the Land of Love —
The endless joy of keeping
The bridal feast above."

': i

CHAPTER XXII.

Oliver and his father now dwelt alone. Yet those
who knew the Mill-house felt that no love had de-
parted from it; scarcely could you feel that they were
e;one whose presence once had blessed it. On those
remaining, lingered the reflection of the departed.
If you hall known that house in all its changes, you
could not now fail tc see the father, mother, and
Naomi in the younger and the elder Oliver. We
sometimes find a home of which the depth is more
felt than the surface ; a consciousness of power and
tenderness comes over us beyond all that we see; a
strancrc, mysterious sweetness silently testifying that
all that has been, still breathes in all that is : past
elements of life blending in present influence, around
those still left in the broken circle whose brightest
gems may be set in Heaven.

The older and the younger heart were linked m
perfect confidence and most devoted love. The boy
grew in mind beyond his years, sharing all the silent
wealth of his father's thoughtful mind. And the
father forgot his often cold reserve,— drawn out into
expressive life by the bright and buoyant spirit of his
.child. When perfect sympathy exists between an
older and a vounger mind, the union is close and the

<„ I.

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294

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

I.;

mental blessing great; each receives its need from
the other — the wealth of the older love, and the play
of the younger aflection ; the depth of the one, and
the sparkling surface of the other ; the sympathy of
the older heart and tiic trust of the younger; the
rcstfulness of the one, and the activity of the other,
form an exquisite i)lending of age and youth.

The evenings at the Mill were full of gathered
life, when Jonathan lingered, and Meg cnnie up and
presided at tea, which K. prepared. Meg was a
most trusty hel|)er at the farn» ; taking the large
dairy entirely, and would never leave until her work
was done ; but then it was her chief gladness to be
off to the Mill and spend her evenings there. This
self-indulgence was never checked, it being her grand-
parents' comfort to s'c the younsi; lives strengthening
in one; and Jonatiian was there as. well as Oliver to
see her home. Meg read from Oiiver's Bible, and
Jonathan had one of his own. They never parted
without the evening worship, and often lingered
longer over their hynms and simple songs. Jona-
than liked to share Oliver's work in the garden; every
niche of which seemed to make som.e return of
flower or fruit or vegetable, and Meg upon the door-
step sat and sang to them ; Oliver Crisp within,
intent on his ledger or his books. And when Benoni
joined the circle, the gladness brightened round him;
age with him was rich with a glory his youth had
never known. Each outward form obeys God's
law of nature sooner or later ; but many a heart
grows younger in its age than in meridian life ; all

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

2ijS

»er.

who meet its freshness feeling that it has tlie H?vv of
its youth.

So at the Mill the days flowed on in peace and
plenty ; neither want, nor care, nor sorrow, now
marked their onward way. The village had its
history, but wc can only follow the selected few.
One event disturbed its ordinary life. A single
woman, who called herself a school-n)istress, came
from a distance and took a house, and canvassed the
farms and tradesmen for scholars; professing to
teach " Grammar, History, and Geography,^' — in
short, "the rudiments of all things human and
divine 1 " This raised much questioning and not a
little feeling on all sides. The more as|)iring parents
sent their cliildren to the higher educational training.
Others inquired what grannnar nnght be? for village
schools knew little of such acconiphshments in those
days ; and when informed that it was to teach the
manner of right sjicaking, they were highly alVronted,
and said, if they could not teach their children the
use of their tongues, they did not know who could!
One would think that the new schoolmistress took
them for dunnnics or fools ! Dame Truman had
never thouoht such a thin<2; was so much as to be
named. As to geography, they were quite sure that
the less that children knew of foreign i)arts the better;
for it only tempted them to be wandering auav, when
they were a thousand times better at home. And
as for history, they could rriost of them go back as far
as their great-grandfather; and what they could have
to do with those dead and buried before them, it was

296

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

not easy to see. They surely had enough for simple
folks in the Bible; if they knew more of that it
would be all well ; but for the r^st, it must be for
want of something to do, that any took up their time
and their thoughts with what was over and gone long
before they saw light !

An opposition began, and the children of one
party were often not on the best terms with the
children of the other. It was expected that Dame
Truman would rise in offended dignity, and say
something criisliing and equal to the occasion ; but
with advancing age the good old woman had learned
meekness, and she only observed ♦"hat " her best was
quite ready to give way to what might be better;
that she would still do all that was in her power;
but as to ' the rudiments of all things human and
divine,' which the new schoolmistress held herself
able to teach, she believed, for her part, that it was
nothing else than a taking up of the elements, which
she had always taught meant wind and weather, and
were best left alone to a Wisdom better than our
own ! She had seen many honest men and women
grow up in the world, whose learning had all come
from her; — they had done well in their day, and were
thought well of when gone; but she was quite sure
they had never so much as heard say what ' rudi-
ments' were ! She must leave all to be proven when
another generation should grow up, and it should be
seen if they were more worthy of respect than those
trained up by her I

" If any liked to stay and learn her old stock over

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

297

mple
at it
3 for
time
ong

one
the
anie
say
but
rned
was
ttter :

again, she would do her endeavour so to train them
they should never be ashamed to meet the eye of the
Quality ; and what was far better, she would learn

them the good and the right way; to fear God,
honour the king, and meddle not with them who
were given to change ! But if the pretty dears liked
to be after the new learning, she would think no ill of
them until she saw how it turned out. If they did
well she would praise them all the same as if they
had had it from her ; but if they did not, she would
not praise them, so there was an end of it ! ''

At length, a shadow of uncertainty and care
crossed the happy life of the Mill-house. Meg's
friendship had been gradually changing. She came
up less often, — never took a long wandering walk
with Olivier, nor seemed to care for his presence as
before. This growing coldness on Meg's side went
on, notwithstanding all Oliver's efforts to win
and retain the former confidence and warmth
of affection. Their difference in age was not
shown by a visible diflference in person : — Oliver
looked the older of the two, and certainly was
so in character and mind. In the winter Meg
paid a visit to her grandmother in the town; — an
old woman with daughters who took the lead.
Mistress Caxton had never favoured Meg's visits
there ; she could not altogether hinder them, but they
had always been short. This winter the visit was
lengthened by various excuses to several weeks. It
was a heavy time for Oliver, who greatly missed, and
a little feared for, his companion. On her return.

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298

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Mistress Caxton rf proved her, and Meg did not take
it well ; things went wrong for a time ; but as sprnig^
advaneed they seemed to brighten, and past troubles
were forgotten in present hope.

At length delay was no longer possible to Oliver.
He drew Meg out for a walk where the broad forest
skirted the corn-glades ; and wlicn seated alone
under the shadow of the trees, where no eye and no
car save that of nature were near, he said, " I say,
Meggie, my own Meggie, — father says f may ask you
to j)romisc to be mine, if we only wait awhile before
we marry. You always have been dearer than life
to me ! I want you to promise, for I cannot tell
how to live on unless I am quite sure! "

Earnestly he looked into her face; but Meg
turned awav her head as if in surprise, and said with
a decision that she seldom showed, —

" My brother ! Oliver, but never my lover I "

Oliver rose and threw himself at her feet with all
the half-uttered entreaty of a nature whose depths of
passionate feeling could not find utterance in words;
but Meg only repeated her " Never 1 " and turned
suddenly away and left him alone.

What were they, those two hearts thus abruptly
paited ? — One the chastened and disciplined child of
tie heavenly Father; his native nobility of nature
regulated by earthly training and heavenly grace;
the other the undisciplined child of indulgence : could
the closer union have proved a blessing ? Yet Oliver
never doubted it would. We need not closely follow
the events of that day. Meg was silent and distant

lot take

spring

roubles

Oliver.
1 forest
alone
and no
1 say,
sk you
before
an Jifci
lot tell

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

299

Meg
d with

th all
ths of
ords;
urncd

iiptly

k\ of

ature

•ace;

ould

liver

How

tant

to all. But for Oliver creation had changed ; he
scarcely knew where he was nor what he did ; the one
earthly hope, the one earthly love he had cherished,
lay faded and dead at his feet. The crown of his
manhood had fallen from his head, he must toil
as a mere trafficker for ever on earth ; every duty a
labour, and every claim a painful pressure. A cloud had
suddenly descended and wrapped in its chilly mantle
his home, the mill, and the very earth at his feet.

It was a paralysing blow; such as made the
strong man quiver, and left him with the feeling of
one suddenly forsaken, to whom the light and hope
of youthful love must be for ever a stranger. Alone in
th( darkness of a withered life-time, — blighted ere its
noonday had come, with a heart that could for ever
enshrine but one object as the chosen of life; and a
home that a woman's presence could never brighten
again ! The troubled river of his life lay shrouded in
darkness; no sunlight glowed on its waters; no
moonbeam shone there ; not even the pale star of a
hope reflected in its depths ; all dark and gloomy it
must break away through life's rocks, it must force
its way onward — one wild rush to the ocean.

But, " He knowcth the way that I take ; when He
hath tried me I shall come forth as gold," was as
true as ever : thouii;h the troubled heart could not
hear the whisper, " shall come forth as gold," life's
river, now dark and troubled, would again shine in
golden light, reflecting the radiance from heaven. He
who laid Isaac on the altar of sacrifice, Jacob with a
stone for his pillow, and Joseph in the low dungeon.

300

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

l.\.

r-iii

each in youth's brightest morning, has the same
discipline now, for " those whom He loveth He
chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom He
receiveth." And well can all tell the difference
between the chastened and unchastened soul !

Meg had turned from the clasp of a love that
she still believed would be hers, as it had ever been;
it had satisfied her as it was, it had been to her as a
brother's ; she knew not her need of its shelter, she
felt not her want of its fulness. She would like to
retain it, but at the same tinie be free for a new
affection and interest j something her fancy and the
romantic talk of others had pictured as unlike any-
thing she had known before. She knew neither her
own heart, nor the world. Itmidit seem coldness in
her, but it is an experience of constant return towards
a love that is far higher. "My son, give me t hy heart,"
is the appeal of the heavenly Bridegroom; but the soul-
that knows not its danger, feels not its need, would
keep the divine love as its own, and yet hold itself free
to yield to the attractions of a world at enmity with
Him. Many see it in its true light in the type,
while unconsciously acting tlie same towards the great
antitype. Where were our hope, if the heavenly bless-
ing were as readily lost as the earthly often is ?

With a colourless cheek and quivering lip did
Oliver tell his father that night that Meg had said,
" My brother, but never my lover.'' Oliver Crisp
was hardly less surprised than his son ; for awhile
he was silent; then he said, " Take comfort. It is a
W(Mium's way."

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

301

same
He
I He
rence

»i

replied Oliver, " not to know-

woman's M
her own mind ? "

" It is not her mind, son ; — that she did not know,
but thy mind. Thou hadst made up thy mind, and
taken thy time, but on her it came suddenly ; taken
like that, there's many a woman says No. They
hold it too great a thing to take up with at once.
She had thought to keep thee as a brother, free as
the sunlight; and win a husband besides. You must
give time for these changes, and all may yet come
right.''

It was hard to refuse comfort; yet harder to take
it. The subject dropped into silence, and the weary
days dragged out their heavy length. There was
but one other friend to whom Oliver could speak,
— old Benoni. He had given up his pack, as now
beyond his strength; but he still travelled the road,
taking small orders and bringing the things required,
without keeping a stock for choice, and all were glad
to trust him with commissions of all kinds. Many
a lover's gift he had chosen for Oliver, to bestow
upon Meggie; and Uke others he had never doubted
that the two were one in heart.

Oliver knew his day for calling; and he had
walked to meet him. Eenoni saw him in the distance
of the wooded lane; it was not the first time Oliver
had come to bring to him his welcome ; but the
old man saw at a glance that to-day there was
sorrow.

As Oliver drew to Benoni's side to walk with him,,
Benoni said, " My son, is there trouble ? "

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302

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

" Yes, a living death ! O, Noni, my life is
gone into darkness and almost into death ! "

" By what cause ? " said Benoni, stopping fhort
and looking earnestly into Oliver's face. " Is all
well with thy father ? ''

" Yes, he is well," replied Oliver.

" And Metrsie ? " asked Benoni.

" Yes, well, but never to be mine ! Meggie will
be another's ! "

" VVhf)se ? '* asked Benoni, and his eve lighted
up in a fire of indignation. " Who dares to rob
thee of the jewel thou hast worn on thy heart from
thv birth ? "

" No other yet/' replied Oliver, " but Meggie
denies vac, shesays/My brother, Oliver, — but never
my lover ! ' And I never heard her speak half so
firmlv. I am sure that she holds a settled mind."

Benoni trembled, he took Oliver's cold hand
and said, " I am weary, and was just holding on
until I saw the dear old Mill. Let us sit on this
fallen tree, ior I cannot go further."

Oliver felt ashamed of his haste to pour into the
old man's tender heart the anguish of his own.
They sat down by the road-side and he said, " Father
says it only wants time, and 1 may wait on in hope."

" Thy father never yet spoke an ill-considered
word," said Benoni; " wha*" comfort he gives thee
he feels, rest assured. But, my son, there is only
one course for thee."

" What course, Benoni ? "

"The thing is from the Lord! Now take an old

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

303

life i

■0" Fhort
'Is all

i:ie will

lighted
to rob
: from

ieggie

never

alf so

hand
ig on
ti this

o the

own.

ather

ipe.

Jered

thee

only

old

man's counsel. I know how often thou hast earnestly
said when praying to our Father in heaven, 'Thy
will be done.' I know it is as death 10 tiiee to say
it now without any holding back, but for all that,
those words are the arrow that must go through
thine heart. Let Meggic's words alone for what
they are worlh. A settled mind may be unsettled, —
thou canst not tell. This is what thou hast to do — •
let those words, even those, ' Thy will be done,' go
right through thine heart. They will pierce as they
go, but they will bring thee a peace none can give
nor take awav. Thou canst not do it now at the
word of an old man, but thou canst do it at the feet
of Him who said it in 'an agony.' Let that be thv
first care, — thy one only endeavour. Those words are
ail arrow ; let them go right through, — don't block
their way ; not even with a prayer tliat things may be
other than they are, until thou hast said them full and
free to thy Father in heaven. O, son, if thou dost
not do this, Mcggie's words will always be pricking
and frcttiao' and niakinii; thee sore, and thou wilt be
a withered man in thy prime ! Let her words alone,
and take these fresh from the lips of thy Lord and
warm with f lis life-blood. I say, take them straight
from His heart, which they pierced through as He
said them, and let them go through thine own. I
can tell thee, though thou lose all the colour from
every blossom below, thou wilt live to bless Him
who sent thee both the sorrow and the grace. And
when thou seest His face thou wilt forget thy life's
anguish."

304

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Mi,:t!li:it'

I il

It was the word in season to Oliver j days of
terrible darkness had passed, in which wild thcmghts
had crossed his heart, of flying from his father, and his
home, and the Mill, because he could not live to see
Mcgfljie another's. Each desperate thought had been
staved by his grandmother's words rising up in
remembrance, " Promise me, Oliver, that thee wilt
never run away from the chastening of thy Father in
heaven. He makes no mistakes \" Still so terrible
was the struggle that he felt his sacred " I will pro-
mise/* would be overwhelmed by this continued
agony ; until Benoni showed him the arrow. Not
tlie poisoned arrow of unresponsive human affection,
that had entered to wound, almost to slay; but the
arrow that had passed through the strongest, tenderest
heart that manhood ever knew, the heart of Immanuel \
That arrow enters only to heal — softened by the
Saviour's life-blood ; could Oliver refuse ? He could
not ; and that night, prostrate like Him whose prayer
he now prayed, he said to the Searcher of hearts,
without one reserve, unfettered and unfenced by any-
other petition, " Thy will be done on earth, as it is
in heaven ! "

A joy mingled with awe followed that praver,,
and flowed In the depths of his grief-strickcp. soul
Amidst his heavy sadness, with the mist still hang-
ing around and clouding all the gladness of earth, he
yet felt the peace of God which passeth all under-
standing, keeping his heart and mind. He wondered
at himself. He knew the arrow of the Almighty
will had pierced through his spirit, but he knew not

OLIVER or THE MILL.

305

davs of
hdughts
and his
e to see
ad been

up in
lee wilt
ather in
terrible
ill pro-
itiniied
. Not
bction,
)ut the
iderest
lanuel f
by the
! could
prayer
learts,
>y any

it is

rayer^
'. soul
lang-
:h, he
nder-
dered
ighty
V not

fully then that a pierced Hand had been laid on his
spirit's trembling weakness, to stay its anguish
the while, and make it possible to say, "Thy Will
be done." That pierced hand, that is always so laid
on every human heart that is made willing to be
purified by the Divine Will. Truly Oliver knew him-
self to be another man, the fevered restlessness and
the fearful chill were gone ; he went into the day
strong and calm, and, though heavy and sad, he was
able to live, a blessing to others, a man of purpose

again.

" Calm me, my God, and keep me calm,
While these hot breezes blow ;
Be like the night-dew's cooling balm
Upon earth's fevered brow.

« Calm me, my God, and keep me calm,
Soft resting on Thy breast ;
Soothe me with holy hymn and psaim,
And bid my spirit rest.

« Calm me, my God, and keep me calm ;
Let Thine outstretched wing
Be like the shade of Elim's palm,
Beside her desert-spring."

i; i:

I 1

CHAPTER XXIII.

Mf.ggie Caxton's was not a character which
written words can readily describe. Nothing save
life's surface had ever been cultivated in her. The
deeper powers of her nature lay untouched. She had
been the object of indulgent love from her infancy —
more used to receive than to give. Yet there was a
charm about her young life, a brightness that lighted
up others; it seemed by constraint that every one
smiled upon her. Her mirth was never noisy, but it
was ever-flowing, rippling over life's pathway with a
melody ; her absence always left a blank; — all missed
the voice of song, the gleeful eyes, the ready word
that made things pleasant, the willing step and hand
of Meggie Caxton.

But all was changed now. Meg had spoken her
denial ; and at her words a chasm had opened. It
yawned wider, until a gulf lay between her past and
present life. For awhile she knew not what she had
done, nor hardly where she stood. But slowly it broke
upon her that her old life was gone^ when Oliver
came not, and a secret fear held her back from the
Mill. When, after peace had calmed the wild
tempest of Oliver's feeling, he came to the farm
and spoke kindly to Meg, as if he would let her

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

307

feel no change, she only felt it the more because it
Avas kind ; each day made her more fully know what
her past life had been — what her present had become.
Sometimes she long^ to rush back to his side, and
say, "Forgive me the past, and let us both live again;
for this is not life to me now ! " And if she could
have seen the deep anguish that still wound its slow
current through his lonely heart, she would, she
might have done so. But who will reveal the depths
to one who has made them life's Marah ? She saw
him calm and kind, as though he took her at her
word, satisfied to hold himself her brother. This
was unendurable; and she resolved to shun him.

If Oliver went to the farm, she did not see him;
she avoided every place where she was likely to meet
him. The hours of service in the church had seldom
but one thought, one feeling for Meggie — that Oliver
was there, and how could she avoid the disquiet of
meeting him ! Oliver had accepted her ** Never ! " —
he believed its repetition real on her part. He had
accepted it from the Heavenly Father j he did not,
therefore, seek her, seeing her unwilling to be found.
The near or distant sight of her sent a faintness
through his heart ; the very thought of her unnerved
him. All things were blended with her; she mingled
in all that made life to him. All earthly joy was
darkened ; the mirth of the land was gone !

But from that night in which he was enabled to
say, " Thy Will be done ! "—even though it rent his
heart as the tearing thence a rooted tree whose
closely-woven fibres could not be withdrawn without

il'll

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308

OLIVER OF THE MILL,

rending in every part the heart in which they had
rooted and grown — since that night his Hfe liad
changed; its circle moved in another orijit. Meggie
had been his central point on eartii ; his very hie had
flowed around her : but in that nigiit in winch he
surrendered iiiniself without reserve — in which, at
the feet of his Father, he simply prayed without a
single limitation in thought or feeling, "Thy Will
be done on earth, as it is in Heaven ! " — the current
of his life, of his being was changed, and flowed
to the IJeart of God revealed in Jesus Christ.
Slowly, with heavy tides of sulleriiig, but surely, it
circled round the Man Christ Jesus; lie who had been
the Man of sorrows, touched with the feeling of our
infirritities ; in His infinite sympathy, knowing the
depth of sulfering and underlying it, there was the
balm of healing. The Christ of God had power and
will to draw the bitter poison from lile's woe, and
to strengthen Oliver's suddenly-divided life by union
with Hikmself. It was this rest of spirit, calming
the countenance, and giving a depth of (juiet
to the whole character, which made Meg shrink away
in deeper misery, at the tone and aspect strangely
unlike her restless feeling.

Mistress Caxton had soon guessed the truth. It
broke more slowly on the old farmer, whom his wife
had feared to tell. He would ask Meggie where
Oliver was ? or what ailed him that he did not come?
Meggie put off his questions. But one day he raised
his eyes, and fixing them on her, said, " Hast thou
blown out the candle that would have lighted thee

ly had

ic had

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

309

through this world to the next ? " Mcggic was
silent. "O foolish, wicked wean! I tell thee tliy
night will he dark, and thou wilt fret for its light
when it cannot be kindled again ! "

He said no more to Meggie, hut to his wife he
said, "Mind niv word ! I will have no fools of men
conje courting our Meggie's gay face ! They that
will have none of the best are like to come to the
worst, if Meggie takes to folly, I will have her
sent right away over the seas to her father. I will
have no frivolations and dolorations here, you can see
with half an eye; and I lay it on you to do what I
say."

Mistress Caxton heard with a silent tear. The
disa))pointment to her was a real one. But she
thought to herself how a rank seed sown long ago
will spring up and bear fruit in an evil hour! How
dead-set he was against our poor boy taking Naomi
— ;just a priceless woman was she! and now Meggie
won't have her son — ^just such a man as she was a
woman I " Poor Farmer ! " she inwardly said, with
a sigh ; " he, at least, has reason to know that word
is a true one, ' Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall
he reap.' "

Meggie felt her grandfather's fond indulgence
gone; her grandmother, always kind, looked as if a
weight of care had suddenly fallen on her ; hut
Meggie still said, " Why am T to marry Oliver
because I have loved him a.s a brother ? " She did
not ask herself, " Can I ever be happy without the
-outward expression of his love ? "

Hi.

310

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

■ii !

' ' I

Oliver had been drawn more closely than ever to
the aged Benoni, who had become his spiritual coun-
sellor in this hour of need ; and as winter set in he
proposed to his father that they should ask Benoni
to shaie their home. Oliver Crisp gladly consented,
for Benoni was to him as a brother. The old man
shed tears of thankful joy at a home — and such a
home ! — on earth for him ; but nothing would induce
him to take it as a gift. Why should he, he asked,
do so, when he made much and spent little, and had
no kindred save the one Family in Heaven and
Earth ? " Why should I keep this perishing gold
together ? I have no son but Oliver ! Jerusalem,
which is but a heap cf stories — I have no wish now
to be gathered to my fathers there. ' Our Father,
which art in Heaven,* an<l the Jerusalem which is
above — it is there my heart and treasure are ; it is
there I am already sitting in Heavenly places in
Christ." So the home received Benoni, to be blessed
and made a blessing there ; but Meggie, who might
have been its life and light, its joy and comfort, held
her place outside.

The Lord leaves no man His debtor ; whatever is
done for His Name's sake receives a hundredfold
even in this life. The child Oliver had ministered to
the aged Benoni ; and now Benoni's heart is his
earthly shelter, counsellor, and rest. His father felt
for him, but his calmer nature and comparative
silence could not give all that Oliver had needed.
The Jew had a depth of passionate feeling, a strong
nature which the hard world had crushed under its

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

:ver to
couu-
in he
enoni
ented,
man
iuch a
nduce
sked,
id had
n and
gold

feet, but through the scent of the living water it had
revived, and poured forth its fervent affection to
heaven and earth. The old man's heart, with its
deep and tender feeling, and yet its strong, unwaver-
ing allegiance to our Father in Heaven, was the one
earthly pillow of rest for Oliver's aching spirit.

The winter evenings came, but they did not sing
their hymns. Oliver could not sing ; he said his
voice was gone. It was true it had lost its h gher
notes, but its deeper tones — were they not fuller and
richer than ever ? One early winter's day, a well'
secured parcel arrived for Benoni. In the evening
he directed Oliver to open it; it was a trumpet of
finest quality. " You have a musical gift," said
Benoni, " and must not leave it silent. There are
jarring sounds enough on this earth — too many for
any who have the gift to neglect it. This is the
chosen instrument of the Lord God Almiuhtv. Bv
tlie voice of the trumpet he proclaimed the giving of
the Law ; the voice of the trumpet waxed louder and
louder, as do the commands of the Law to the
awakened conscience, until all the people trembled.
It was the melody of the silver trumpets that called
Israel to the door of the tabernacle, where stood the
blood-sprinkled ark of the Mercy Seat ; and the voice
of the silver trumpets, in the doy of their gladness
and their solenm days, rose above their burnt-offer-
ings and peace-offerings to Heaven. The same silver
trumpets directed their march, for the Angel of the
Covenant was in the pillar of the cloud. It is a
sacred instrument, the only one that the Lord God

;:r

I m

312

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

\ ;i

; 'i.l
' • I

will breathe through Himself, for it is written in
Zechariah, ' He will blow with the trumpet/ It was
the voice as of a trumpet that revealed the Lord to
John in Patmos, and the same trumpet-voice that
called him up into Heaven. It is the trumpet
sound with which the Lord shall descend ; and the
trumpet is the voice of resurrection. It should be as
dear to the Christian as to the Jew ! It is long years
since I have heard one/' said Benoni. He had
spoken with his hand laid reverently on it as it lay
on the cubic. Now he raised it to his lips, and blew
a blast loud and long ; then changed to low tones
that thrilled Oliver's soul. " I think I can be your
master yet,'' said Benoni, as he laid it down with a
smile. " We will have no more silence, my sci^ for
the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth, and hath done
whatsoever pleaseth Him."

They had no lack of melody now ; to Oliver the
rich tones of the trumpet were like Meggie's voice,
which he ceaselessly longed for. His trumpet be-
came a friend. Guests would often drop in of an
evening — Dame Truman, when the evenings were
lengthened ; and Farmer Caxton sometimes ; for he
loved better than anything the evening hour of the
Scriptures and Prayer at the Mill. He would some-
times say, " Meg, art coming ? " but she ever said,
*' No," though her heart w^as there before him.

Farmer Caxton and Benoni were both men greatly
changed, but the contrast was singular. Farmer
Caxton had been a tad, stout, tough man, who fixed
his iron look upon everyone. IT jw often he had

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

3^3

en 111
It was
ord to
that
mpet
i the
be as
years
had
it iay
blew
tones
your
ith a
for

looked through the anxious buyer of corn, and seen
that he could not refuse to buy at a higher price than
he offered ; wanting the corn too much to let it go.
Then Farmer Caxton's grip was upon him, and the
corn went at a price almost loss to the buyer, but
Farmer Caxton had his gold. Now there was a
stoop in the strong figure of the man, since his son's
ruin at home, and a downcast look had come over
him, l)ut his face was a softened one, and no one
could ask help of him in vain ; even the worthless he
could only deny by making them over to his wife's
better knowledge. Benoni, in past years, had walked
with a figure bending under the weight of his pack,
with a shuffling step and a face that never seemed to
look up. He now trod the ransomed earth a con-
sciously-redeemed man ; with a face lighted, and lifted
on all. There was even a majesty, as well as meekness,
about the aged Jew ; lie walked as one new-born to c
kingdom, a yet uncrowned king on the earth. " He
lifteth the beggar from i he dunghill to set him among
princes, to inherit the throne of glory."

The strength of manhood had come to Oliver
early ; the strong-built frame of his father, with his
mother's height of person and her courteous manners,
he was already felt to be the man of the place. His
father sent him out on all business journeys; glad to
create the variety he now felt necessary for Oliver,
and to escape them himself. The custom grew more
rapidly — the wind had as much to do as it could
possibly accomplish, and Jonathan worked as a son,
under Oliver Crisp in the Mill.

314

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

;i 'i

t \ir

Two yearly balls were given in the neighbouring
town; one at Christmas, and one at the Whitsuntide
holidays; for the world has its gaieties when the
Church has its festivals. Mistress Caxton had always
refused to let Meggie go ; but Meggie was of age
now; she persisted aiid went. It was her first
public dance — a night, too often, of sad memories to
many a town and village girl ! It passed with its
pleasant excitement, hut it left Meggie with a more
restless spirit than before. She did not see Oliver
before she went, nor did she see him after her return;
for it was her study to avoid him ; but Oliver knew
she was there — wherever she was she was followed
by a sheltering prayer.

The leaves were thickening in the forest, ihe
blossoms thick on orchard-trees, the hedges gay
and the fields green, while birds poured forth their
gladness in a ceaseless tide of song. Farmers had
then no sparrovv'-club — at least it was not spoken of
as now, nor did men poison singing-birds by hundreds
on the garden-side. They shared the freedom of the
forest glades. A restlessness had come over Oliver;
you did not hear the thrilling trumpet at the sunset,
or beneath the star-lit sky from the far Mill-steps,
or from under the roof- tree. If he had heard ill
tidings he did not say, he never told, but it was plain
that his nnnd was burdened, tlis father thought
he knew, and did not question why. Benoni was
sure none knew, yet would not question, for well he
knew, when ready for sympathy or counsel, Oliver's
trustful nature would confide its trouble. The lover's

'•

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

3IS

eye had caught a glimpse of what none other might
have seen.

One evening h^ followed, as he had often done
before, the river's rocky bed ; he crossed the bridge
and skirted the forest; it had been his favourite walk
in happier years. He entered the forest shade and
passed the outer glades. He heard low voices in the
distance, and bound as by a spell, he leaned against
a tree. Two figures passed in the wood s wind-
ing pathway. He saw them, he heard them, and
he saw and heard no more ; his head swam as
when a child he had tottered in faintness in the
forest- shade. But his was manhood now, and he
roused himself to greater strength. One look of
anguish through the tracery of summer branches
up to the calm evening sky, and he entered the
pathway and followed slowly out of sight and out of
heariiis};.

As the shadows deepened he saw, as he expected,
one figure returning alone. A man, raised above him
in station. Walking with hurrying 3tep he came
suddenly upon Oliver, in the narrow path between
the tangled brush-wood.

" Stop, sinner ! " said Oliver, in a voice of terrible
power.

" Who are you ? " demanded the other, " who
dare address me so ? "

" I am Oliver Crisp, of the Mill, and I say, stand
and hear me."

" Man, what mean you ? What right have you
to block my way ? "

f i

316

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

"The right of a man to resist the devil!*' re-
plied Oliver, ill the white calm of his anguish.

" I will have you taken up for assault, libel, and
villany. Hold off, I say ! "

" I will lay no hand on you," replied Oliver.
" Your life could yield no recompense for the evil
you have done. But in the Name of the sinner's
Saviour, I say, stand and hear me ! "

He stood, and Oliver, calm in his agony, said,
" You are poisoning the soul of Meg Caxton, as the
Serpent beguiled Eve under thj trees of the garden.
Rob not earth of its beauty, and Heaven of its
glory ! How dare you pollute her soul, and darken
a jewel of the crown of the Eternal ? She is shielded
by prayer, and will be rescued for ever ! but you,
where will your lost soul repent ? O man, by Him
who is Jesus the Saviour, who died and rose between
the sinner and his sin, I charge you repent and
forsake your iniquity, and thou, yes thou, shalt find
mercy ! "

Oliver stepped aside and the other passed on.

Motionless for awhile, Oliver stood in the forest,
to recover strength to return. All was darkness in
his soul, until a thought of peace arose, dawning on
the terrible gloom. Had he not been used as a
shield, led across the pathway of danger to one
dearer to him than life ? This was a hope, breaking
the iron chain of despair; he returned home in the
strength of it. Benoni was walking in the garden
beneath the spangled skies; as Oliver entered, Benoni
stood, then taking Oliver's arm he led him on ; they

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

II'' re-

\h and

Hiver.
|e evil
iner's "

said,
s the
J'den.
f its
irken
elded
you.
Him
Ween
and
find

•est,
J in
on
s a
3ne
ing
the
en
>ni
ey

317

paced the garden-path silently awhile, then Benoni
said, "The Lord is good unto thein that wait for
Him, to the soul that seeketh Him. It is good that
a man should both hope and quietly wait for the
salvation of the Lord. For the Lord will not cast
off for ever, but though He cause grief yet will He
have compassion, according to the multitude of His
mercies." Then entering the house Oliver pressed
Benoni^s hand, and they parted, each to his chamber,
neither to sleep.

Benoni to plead for Oliver, the son of his love.
Oliver to wrestle in prayer that his Dove might be
saved from the fowler's snare, that the snare might
be broken and she be delivered. O human love, the
type of Love Divine, which still endures through
all, which many waters cannot quench, neither can
the floods drown it ! for love is strong as death.
This was a sorrow none could share, his heart's
desire that none might know except the One who
knows us altogether, " yet loves us better than He
knows.'' It was a woe that cast him alone on Him
who understandeth our thoughts afar off, with whom
is love to atone, power to help, grace to cleanse, and
mercy to forgive. " Light is sown for the righteous,
and joyful gladness for the true-hearted."

He who has once been cast upon God alone in
sorrow that none can share, that none may know,
has a depth of knowledge and experience of the God
of his life that none can have with a more divided
heart. Alone with God, able to pour out the soul
before Him, able to receive from Him, in whom all

Il ''

318

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

fulness dwells, the supply of all his need ; to find
this enough in the souPs deepest anguish, is the
grandest and noblest standing that the creature can
have. It is breathed in the words, "My flesh and
my heart faileth, but God is the strength of my
heart, and my portion for ever/

}}

" Bear with the night, in hope of the morrow ;
Bear with the seed time, in hope of the corn ;
Bear with the winter, and bear with sorrow,
In the hope of spring and a happy morrow.
Bear, though the right be overborne,
Though the thoughts thou lovest be theme for scorn,
Though thy cause be weak and old and grey,
Bear till it win to a brighter day.
For falsehood and wrong shall not last for aye,
They shall pass like snow from the mountain head,
And truth and righ: shall be green in their stead.*'

CHAPTER XXIV.

A FEELING of sheltering care led Oliver again to the
Farm. A terror had passed over Meggie's soul, and
she was thankful to be again in his presence ; a
sense of safety came over her in it, and day after
day it was her one hope he would come. He did go,
yet she was silent— a further distance between her
poor heart and his noble soul. She knew it, she felt
it, she could never be his ! yet there was nothing like
his presence; her one lor.<ving that she could be always
in it. She n^ver shunned him now, but a shadow
lay over her ; her brightness was gone. She was a
beautiful woman, and capable in every household
need, and her time was never wasted, and her spirit
less wilful, but her glee was all gone ; and she looked
Lvraver than Oliver; while all things around her
seemed grave and cold. How often she longed that
her grandfather would but once say, "Meggie,
child ! " again, if only to soften her heart, which felt
so hard ; or that Oliver could be once again as he
was before all that had passed between them.

One day, at Oliver's request, she went up to the
Mill, but it did not fulfil her hopes. She could not
rise to her place, nor rally her spirits. She said she
could not sing— that she never sang now. The

ggHlWIWI

320

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

evening dragged heavily to all. Oliver walked with
her home. The walk was as heavy as the evening
had been. When they reached the bridge they stood
there, for Oliver was arrested by the moonlight on
the river ; he leaned over the parapet, and looked
down on the golden light of the hurrying ttde,

" It is a long time since you and I stood here
together, Mej^tjie ! " he said.

" You are so dull now 1 " Mcggie replied ; "there
is no getting any cheer."

Oliver stood upright, and looked at her. " So 1
am, Meggie!" he answered] "I am always telling
myself so. But look down on that shining river —
how it leaps over the stones, and gains force by the
blocks in its way, and keeps up a ceaseless music for
all who will listen!"

" What has that to do with it ? " said Meggie,
glad to lead on the subject, which she felt was from
Oliver's heart.

" O, Meggie ! if you parted that river in two, and
made separate streams, it would lose its life and
force, and creep more sluggishly down ? "

Meggie well understood the (juestioning tone,
and she longed, even then, to say, " Let the stream
of our lives flow as one ! " She had felt the world's
hollowness ; the tempting words of flattery still rung
on her ear. She was woman enough to know her-
self in danger, and Oliver's side was the tenderest
shield i but she could not say it then. She was not
ready to meet him with joy ; a shadow lay over her
heart — the shadow of willing contact with evil. She

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

321

had lost her brightness of spirit; she had better
go on as she was — at least, she thought, she would
wait awhile.

And so she was silent, and the two, walking side
by side, knew nothing of what was passing in either
heart. Two hearts in full confidence may dwell in a
silent communion of spirit, with continents and seas
lying between them — may know what fellowship of
spirit is when one is dwelling above, and the other
on earth ; but when once a separating feeling has
arisen, they may be in the closest outward connec-
tion, and yet such a chasm between, that nothing can
be known of what passes in each heart by the other;
— so it was with Oliver and Meg.

As they crossed the green approach to the Farm,
Oliver said, " Do you remember, Mcggie, the
wounded dove I tried to save when I was lost in the
wood ? I shielded it once, but my hand lost its power,
and the cruel dog had it at last ! Do you remember,
Meggie ? "

He did not see the deepening blush as she
answered, " Yes; " and with a brother's kiad "Good
night," he left her at the door.

And so the months of autumn rolled on into
winter's frost and snow, and the fires blazed on the
hearths, and gathered families spoke of the world
outside, which, though but a small world, was large
to them. Only at the Mill-house no such converse
passed, for there were none there to take up the
village talk. A question arose at Mistress Caxton's
fireside as to Margaret Butterly. Mistress Caxton said

322

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

"„ i?

hl>-

\<\

"she had a great respect, no one more, for Anthony
Butterly and liis wife. Theirs was the hand of the
dihgent that maketh rich; they had worked up fn)m
nothing, and brought up tlieir eliildren to work. Dick
had turned out a had fellow, hut there was generally
one crook in the lot ; still, for all tl 'spect that she
felt, she must say she did not a| , -.>ve Margaret's
dress. She could not understand how a sensible wo-
man, such as Susan Butterly had |)roved herself to
be, should encourai!:e such dress in her dauichter. She
knew she was the youngest, and a bit of a favourite,
but that was no reason why she should come out in
such tawdry follies. 'I'hings that were well and fitting
for the gentry — that might, as you say, have grown
to them — when you hung them about a farm-house,
did but make its daughters a gazing-stock, like stalk-
in<!;-horses or fi2:ures of fashion. One thinji; was
certain — that the dress of your station was the only
dress you could become or really look well in, — least-
ways going up the ladder. She would not say
anything as to coming down it; for she believed the
gentry might look as much gentry as ever in the
dress of a farm, or a farmer in the dress of the cottajre.
But for Margaret to go and copy the forms and the
fashions of the gentry, was like feathering a barn-
door fowl with the plumes of a peacock I For all
she knew, the barn-door fowl might be the best of
the two, but certainly not when bedizened with folly
and finery."

Kezia replied, ''Mother Dumbleton said she had
heard say it was the gentry that helped Margaret to

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

3^3

ithony
of the
) from
Dick
leially
at she
aret's
e wo-
cH to
She
)iirite,
Dut in

finery ! " This much displeased Mistress Caxtoii, who
said, " It is a poor way of working, from outside to
in ! Let the gentry instruct her to know her jilace
and her station, tliat slie may know what becomes
it, instead of rig-iiig herself out in their flashy
favours. No one ever rose liigher by taking tinsel
for gold ; but many a poor soul has lost all with the
glitter ! " At length, Mistress Caxton wound up by
saviuii:, "I do not intend to have new-fanded ways
brought inside my doors ; therefore, Margaret Hut-
terly may just keep her distance until she learns
to know true friends and true behaviour ! "

The winter dragged on more heavily with Meggi'*
than even the sunnner had done. She found that
her mirthful fancy had no strength to stand under
trouble; it was withered like a ilower trampled
under foot, and what had she left ? a desolate heart !
She had lived on the surface, and that now lay
barren. Her Grandfather called her Meg now, not
'' Mcnuie, child/' as he used to do. Oliver had
dropjK'd all the free warm converse of heart, all the
delight in her that he had once made her feel ; he
spoke in kind tones it was true, but in quieter words,
and she missed the tender glance of his eye. Yet
she thought to herself that she could bring it all
back any day, when the shadow that had fallen
would be a more distant thing; when she would feel
less afraid of Oliver knowing, — less oppressed by the
presence of an undefined danger.

Whatever our aspects of thought and feeling may
be, the seasons delay not their change. The warm

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

breath of spring wandered again over the hills
and valleys. The silvery buds of the birch-trees
glistened in the blue sky, and on all sides the larks
were singing unseen above in the blue. The mt*y-
blossoms scented the lanes, the primroses clustered
in the green banks, and young life was rejoicing on
all sides. It was a season to wake every heart to its
gladness. The feeling of its beauty stole over
Oliver's soul ; for nature, beneath the blessing of its
Maker, helps the sad heart that will yield to its
influence. Even Meggie looked brighter in the busy
life of the spring ; hers was a hand never idle, she
tended well all the creatures under her care. Old
people crept out in the sunshine, and the children
made garlands for the queen of the May.

Theii a shock passed over the village, — a thrill of
horror. Margaret Butterly, the fair child of the Farm,
only sixteen years of age, was lost from her home, gone,
no one knew where, but all soon knew with whom,
when the wail arose from the forsaken and desolate.

The father sat transfixed in mute anguish on his
chair; her brothers rode wildly in diflerent directions;
her mother wrung her hands in an agony ; her burn-
ing eyes refused a tear. But friend and counsellor
there was none.

The lonely village stood appalled ; there were
none to whom appeal could be made. Helpless
parents, helpless people. It was the third time of a
lost child from its home and its love. Oliver of the
Mill had been lost, sought, and found. Conrad of
the Castle had been reft away, and tears had dimmed

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

3^5

hills
-trees
larks
m^y-

srered
ng on
to its

over

of its

to its

s busy

e, she

Old
ildren

every eye for that noble heart. But now for the
child of the Farm it was woe dark as sin ; it was loss
that might be deep as hell. A sorrow on which hope
cast no gleam and Heaven gave no smile.

When Meggie heard the tidings she almost
fainted ; she stagu;ered to her chamber, where after
awhile a torrent of tears gave relief. She could only
wonder how she herself had been drawn from the
snare, and grieve for another caught in an evil hour.
She had never known the strength of prayer, and
now brought in terror to her knees, she could only
weep her thankfulness for deliverance, and her
entreaty that Margaret Butterly might return to her
home. When Oliver heard it he could hardly
breathe. Had Meggie indeed been scarcely saved 1
But this was not all. Had he rescued one that
another might fall ? How earnestly did he review
his words ! Could he have used that solemn
moment for other warning or entreaty than he had
uttered ? He did not know, yet feared he might
have e'Tcd. Such questionings may be seldom
unknown to deep natures ; their estimate of what
might be, what ought to be, being always deeper than
what is. One thing he knew, — that he had prayed ;
and when we plead with God for any, we may trust
to His grace and mercy our pleadings with man.

Over all the neighbourhood was questioning sor-
row and dismay ; but there were none to act ; all
inquiry seemed vain, and the woe of a living death
darkenec the life of the busy Farm.

Meggie still felt as if the ground were hardly safe

'^■ai— pwwiPi

326

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

h •<

I .:

III

I ill

♦

under her feet; as if she too might yet be swept
away beyond recal. While night and day her
thoughts followed the unhappy child, drawn from
the shelter of her home none knew where, for her
return she wept and prayed ; nor thought nor felt
how much she herself needed prayer, nor knew how
her heart's prayer for another was softening her own
proud, impetuous nature. And even as she thought
on these things she found one earthly end to every
feeling, and that end was Oliver. Yet too distant
he seemed to her for any renewal of the past ; each
event had in her self-reproachful feeling left her
further from him. Vainly she longed that she could
blot out the present and restore the past ; that she
felt was impossible, and therefore she often longed
that she could be far away ; cross the seas to her
unremembered parents, or find another home. She.
did not know the grace and love that can restore the
years the canker-worm hath eaten ; she did not know
that the Heavenly Father can take up his lost and
wandering child at any point. We may have left
our earthly blessings withered in the path we have
trod, but He who gave them ever liveth to make
intercession for us, and can make our very loss yield
in us the richest fruit.

What we look for we are likely to see, — what we
seek for, to find. How often is this seen in earthly
things ! — " He gave them their desire, but He sent
leanness withal into their souls." The world is ready
for us, but for the Lord we often have to wait. God
keeps us waiting to prove that no substitute can be

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

327

swept
y her
from
or her
or felt

Iv how
r own
ought
every

istant
each

t her

could

It she

lod

found; that nothing apart from Him can satisfy; the
world gives quickly, lest we should weigh its gifts
too closely, and reject them for objects of infinite
worth.

It was the summer of the year when a horseman
came by a bridle-path upon a small secluded glade,
a spot of wild but perfect loveliness; it lay olf
from the road a little way, but on the farm of
Meggie's grandfather. She had gone to fetch her
cows, and was returning through this summer glade,
shaded by oak and ash ; a sparkling stream flowed
through it, and the depths of green were lighted up
by the fourteen red cows, each one of the same rich
colour, driven by Meggie with a giant fox-glove. It
was a picture to charm any eye, for all was loveli-
ness ; and the quiet beauty of Meg Caxton's face
was more impressive than its girlish mirth wouM
now have been.

The rider asked his way, then enquired about the
Farm, and finally requested short rest there for his
horse ; all he asked was granted, and he made him-
self welcome, — an easy thing to do in England's
hospitable farms. He came again, which raised a
thought, and yet again, which raised a question ; a
question as to who he was. He was an architect in
the neighbouring town, residing with his mother and
sisters. A few visits revealed his object; he asked
the hand of Meggie Caxton, which she did not
refuse him. He was a man whom, in earlier years,
P'armer Caxton would have welcomed, but he looked
coldly on him now ; he felt that the best was lost, and

328

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

what had he to do to welcome any other ? Mistress
Caxton had a different feeling. She had shuddered
over the thought of Margaret Butteliy so often, that
a man of known character was welcome to her, —
welcome as a necessity of circumstances.

Meggie now had found the object on which her
fancy rested. A lovei', one who was to be her hus-
band ; one fresh and unknown before. But what was
its reality ? Far other than her undefined imagina-
tions ? Too soon she found she had lost the reality
and waited for the shadow only. It was true he often
came, he talked, he wrote, he brought her gifts ; but
evermore her heart was weighing the emptiness of
all with the worth of all that had been. What was
a paltry present, some tinsel finery or useless gift to
Meggie, who had known Oliver's self-forgetfulness
with every thought for her ? What were the words
of flattery and promise, to one who had lived in the
outpour of the love of Oliver's soul ? She must
forget the one before she could love and honour the
other.

Oliver would somi^times meet her lover at the
Farm, and always spoke with kindness, and talked of
passing things, Meggie wished he were not able to
be kind and free ; thought all his love for her must
now be dead, and tried the more to crush her own.
Was she likely to know the inward strife midst which
he sought to lend a brother's shelter to her still !

Amidst the wedding-gifts sent in came one
on which, when she opened, she found on an inner
paper inscribed, "Meggie, from her brother Oliver."

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

[stress
fdered
v that
ler,—

her
hus-
|t was

329

She scarce could read amidst her blinding tears. It
was a wedding-dress, so suitable for her, and yet so
costly, of finest woollen fabric and soft(;st hue, with
miniature white doves on finest tracery of branches,
and, wrapped within, a Bible of clear type and perfect
binding, with a clasp of silver, and on the clasp
"Margaret Caxton" was engraved. Within was
written, '' Margaret, from her brother Oliver," and
underneath, the words, " In all thy ways acknowledge
HIM, and He shall direct thy paths.''

This Meggie knew she had not done in any one
of the past eventful acts. She felt as if she could
not do it now. She refolded the parcel ; none should
see it. The dress she could not wear; it would just
break her heart. The Bible, his gift, she could not
read, that would just break it too. She did not know
that that was the one thing she needed — a broken
heart, which God will not despise. She only wrote in
answer —

" Meggie thanks her brother Oliver, whom she
will ever love,'' and hid away her gifts and waited for
her expected lover. That evening he did not come ;
he had never missed an appointment before. No
tidings followed for some days, — days of strange
suspense ; then he wrote to say that an opening with
better business-prospects had called him suddenly
to London, and he would write again. Again they
waited. Meggie wrote, but no reply; they sent
through his clerk, but no answer came. Meggie
waited in burning indignation ; her heart that
had never been warm in love was hot in anger.

330

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Oliver came to offer his aid ; she would not see him,,
and refused to have any further inquiry made. But
after a delay of weeks a letter came, saying, that
his present position was one requiring full attention;
he must for the present give up all thoughts of settling^
in life; he was sorry for what had passed ; present cir-
cumstances were then quits unforeseen, and he feared
that the position he was likely to fill might not prove
suitable to one brought up in the retirement of
country life; he should ever think of her with
affection, and " begged to subscribe hiirself ever her
friend/'

Meggie tore the letter to shreds and threw it in
the fire ; then, spent with all the mingling feelings
of weeks, laid her head upon her grandmother's
shoulder, and her consciousness fled. She knew no
more for days. The struggle and the conflict of years
of feeling, with the grief cherished for Margaret, and
hopes of happiness she all the while felt were vain
for herself, had proved too much for her, and rest on
her pillow was the blessing given. Yet when con-
sciousness and memory woke, and she saw her kind
and patient grandmother sitting by her side, and
Kezia moving about, the feeling of rest and home
was lost in the sense that she was now a forsaken
woman ; cast off and rejected. She felt it too terrible
to bear; how could she face the villajre ? how could
she meet Oliver? The only refuge would be her dis-
tant parents and Canada. It was hard to leave her
aged grand -parents when most they needed her; harder
far never to see Oliver again ; truly as she thought

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

33»

him now the noblest of men ; the greater m her eyes
because the joyousness of youth had mellowed mto
manhood's calmer grace. His home appeared a
heaven on earth after all she had passed through, but
that she felt was lost for ever. He would see her
now a rejected woman, cast off as not worthy to
share the lot of one whom none could compare m
excellence to him. The further from lost happmess,
the less, she thought, should she be remmded oi it.
Every tie that had endeared life, every association
that bound her, even the presence and love of Oliver
as a brother, must be cast aside, because he could
not now be her lover.

CHAPTER XXV,

:.i

** Who is that under the casement, Kezia ? " asked
Meggie, the first day that she sat up in her chamber.
Through the open lattice many sounds of the farui
came in, and amongst them one voice that K^zia
heard not.

"It is only master out there; he is just home
from market, and some of the men have waited to
see him."

" Kezia, just go to the window and look; I am
sure some one else is there 1 "

Kezia gave a glance. "Oh, yes; 'tis Master
Bucklebury come about buying the roan filly."

But a voice came in upon Meggie's ear that was
not of this world's business, but of that world's love to
her. It was gone again, and there was silence in her
heart; for the men thtit talked of yesterday's work and
to-morrow's, their voicv^s were nothing to her — they
broke not the dreary still. less that had reigned around
her so long j they were less than the lowing of her
cows, or '.he bark of the household dog. But that
one voice brought back to her dreary heart the dreams
and the gladness of childhood ; and in her weakness
as she sat propped up with pillows, she fancied her-
self back in its happy life; stepping over the slippery

5ked
iber.

OLIVER OP THE MILL, 333

Stones of the river flowing low in its summer-bed,
and Oliver holding her hand and taking the worst
himself, that she might walk safely over; and she
could not weep — too weak for tears, but she wished
in her heart that that river were life, and her hand in
Oliver's to lead her through !

" Has any one been here to-day, Granny ? *' she
asked, when Mistress Caxton sat by her bed.

" Any one, child ! the world goes on the same^
and the back-door latch is on the go all the day/'

" I thought I heard Oliver's voice," said Meggie,
and her pale face flushed she knew not why.

"'Tis like you did, he is not long away. Morn-
ing, noon, and night he has crossed the river, to hear
of you. I have told him he may just rest contented
away, for the turn has come for the better, and you'll
be looking up now."

"^on't close the lattice, Kczia; the night is
warm, and I scr the stars as I lie. I am tired of
s'^ep, and shall wake and watch."

" I dare not for the life of me let the damp in.'*

" It is only the evening dew, Kczia, and the
breeze blows fresh : the day has been hot, and the
freshness will give me strength."

" Then I will leave it awhile, and come back again
when the night has cooled the air."

The stars were shining large in the blue heavens,
and the nightingales sang in the old ash-trees that
grew round about the homestead, and the breath of
flowers came in on the night wind ; but it was not
the song of the birds, nor the breath of the flowers.

334

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

nor shining stars, that stilled Meggie's soul — it was
the thrilling tones of a far-off strain, the trumpet's
notes she hc^rd.

In two days she crept down-stairs, almost too
weak, yet longing to be there. When left alone
with her grandfather, he said, in his old tone of tender-
ness, "Meggie, child, I would not be so sore of
heart. It is mercy's hand that held thee back. It
may show thee the curse of money ! It is the gold
he is clutching now. Meggie, my poor wean, thee
would have found it a hard pillow to lay thy young
head on — a heart choked with the base clog, and
hungering for more. Meggie, child, 'tis mercy stops
thee!"

And Meggie felt that she could not leave her
grandfather, all that had ever made life dear in the
Farm came back with that " Meggie, child ! "
Meggie sat in the chimney-corner all the next day,
but Oliver did not come. Now he knows my life is
nafe, thought Meggie, he does not care ! Again she
thought, If he should ask me now as his bride, it
might only be from pity, seeing me forsaken and cast
away. I hate to be pitied ! I would never marry a
man vi'ho pitied me, and I am quite sure that Oliver
must.

So in her folly she steeled her heart once more
as;ainst the love that was true, with this fresh inven-
tion of " fancy's mis-shaping tool." " He that trusteth
in his own heart is a fool," and countless thousands
have proved it, blocking out and warding off the
blessed reality of love in daily life by some false mist

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

335

was
[pet's

too
iloiic
luler-
re of
It
gold
thee

)Ullg

and
itops

her
the

day.

•of self ttiat bent the ray of affection's light, making
it appear a broken beam.

Early the next morning, while still in her chamber,
a letter came to Meggie. Her trembling hand could
scarcely open it. She read,—

{(

My Sistkr Mkggie,

" I hope this will find you better, as it leaves
me, your devoted brother. I know you have been
troubled in mind. I wish I could speak to you like
a comforter ! There is One who can do this ; I
believe He will brinjji; your heart to Himself. Meofti-ie,
this has not been the hand of man, it is the hand of
your Saviour. He has been a Saviour to you against
your will, I have seen that you can never truly give
yourself to another until you have given yourself up
to Him. We are not our own to give ; we are bought
with a price. All our giving will come in the end to
losing. But when the Lord gives it is for ever and
ever I

" Meggie, have you no will to be His who loved
you, and gave Himself for you ? You will never be
truly your own until you are His. You will never
find yourself until you find Him. I have seen it is
all a losing game that we do not take from Flim.
We may think we are getting and holding; but for
all that, it is just slipping away, and some day we
shall open our hand and find it empty.

*' Meggie, I can hear a voice calling you, 'Come
unto Me, and I \\ ill give you rest.' He stops
you short in your own way, that you may give

IM^ii!

i i'

33^

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Him your hand and let Him lead you in His way.
I ean see that the Lord Jesus won't let you alone.
That's the end of all h()j)e, when we he let alone to
wander and jierish ! Other things may turn up, and
you may get a step further, and find it too late to
turn haek.and have a lonsx learninir of a short lesson.
O, Meggie! we have been parted for many a day,
for I am not walking now where you arc if you arc
still in the way of your own heart. I have seen Ilim
who, .. iien onec you have looked on, you will never
leave I Jim n>ore, for lie is fairer than the children
of men. ' \ hen onee you are His, you will let Him
do what He will with llis own; and He will do you
only good, and that eontiiuiallv. I hoj)e I shall sec
you soon. I have just waited, for I thought you
might like these few words on paper, from your
devoted brother, Oliver."

This letter was not what Meggie expected. She
read and re-read, and sat and considered. The
words were plr.in against her, and yet there breathed
from them a comfort and peace. There was a hope
for her — not Oliver — but a hope higher than earth.
There was a heart waiting to win her — not Oliver's
■ — but One all power and love. There was One
to whom the shadow of evil was no block, for she
knew that He could wash the reality away. She
thought of Oliver's gift, never opened since the day
she received it. She took out the parcel, she did not
heed the dress now, but the Bible. She opened it,
the ribbon was in at Matthew xi., and the words-

OLIVKR Ol' THK MILL.

3.37

way.
(alone.

>nc' to

h and
[ite to
f'sson.
(lay,
>ii arc

flim
never
ildrcn

/Tim
you

I sec

you
your

were unclerlincd in red ink, " Come unto Me, all ye
that labour and are heavy-laden, and I will give you
rest." " Take niy yoke upon you and learn of Me,
and you shall find rest unto your souls; for My yoke
is easy and My burden light." Meggie said to herself,
''Oliver thought, then, that I should be just weary-
hearted and restless, but how did he know ? Ah !
but there is One who knows that I am weary-
hearted, and it is He who says 'Come unto Me,
and I will give you rest.' "

Meggie kneeled, but felt as if she knew not how
to pray. All that at length she could say was, "I
am weary, O Saviour ; I come to Thee I "

There was rest in the prayer, for it breathed the
heart to Him who is its only rest. She put the
letter in her pocket, the Bible in her drawer, and
went down. She stirred about a little until all was
clear, and then went again to her chamber, and sat
by her casement, reading Matt. xi. I;'very word
went home to her heart. She came to the verse,
" At that time Jesus answered and said, I thank
Thee, O Father, Lord of Heaven and earth, because
Thou hast hid these things from the wise and
prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes ! " Oh,
to be a child as^ain in heart I how often she had
longed for that; — to lose the sense of all this weary
questioning of earthly love, and live again in
unquestioning affection 1 " Revealed to babes 1 "
Meggie knew the text of Holy Scripture, and re-
membered the words, " Except ye be converted and
become as little children, ye shall not enter into the

11-

338

Kingd(

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

)fH(

But h(

the^e things be ?

leaven.
1 ne answer was there. " All tnnigs are aeiiverea unto
Me of My Father, and no man knowcth the Son but
the Father; neither knoweth any man the Father save
ihe Son, and he to whom the Son will reveal Him."
Then it is the Father whom the Son will reveal
to babes ! O blessed hope, to see, to know, to have
the Father I I, who never knew a father's love !
My father loft me, but the Fat'^er whom the Lord
Jesus reveals to babes has said, T know He has said,
" I will never leave thee nor forsake thee ! " The
prayer was ready on Meggie's lips, " Lord, show me
the Father ! " but she heard the voice of Jesus say-
ing, " Have I been so long time with you, and yet
hast thou not known Me? He who hath seen Me
hath seen the Father 1 " Wondrous thoughts of
heavenly light and love, breaking in on Meggie's
long-dark jned, half-dead heart ! The great thoughts
rolled in like naves of the mighty ocean, and seemed
almost toj much, — not gloomy, troubled waves, but
glowing in light divine. Who knoweth what it is
for a poor empty heart, robbed of its sense of early
purity, of love, of home and hope, to find such
blessings flowing in with the fulness of the ocean-
tide !

She sat by her low casement awhile with the
open B'c!e, in deepest feeling rather than in thought.
Then calm and rested she read again, " Come unto
Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden^ and I will
give you rest." What rest ? Why, it must mean
what she had so long wanted — rest of heart 1 It

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

339

save

■must mean what He was giving her now, filling her
empty soul with Himself. But was she sure it was
for her ? Yes ; it said, " All ye 1 " But had she
really come ? Ov ♦^his she pondered and read again.
"All things are delivered to Me of my Father.^' " All
things/' Then she herself was one of those " All
things" which God had given to his Son, our Lord
Jesus Christ ! Could it be that she had not to wait
to be given, but had been given long ago, and was
His already, in His hand, in His heart, to save her,
to keep her for ever?

The blissful fact was there. " He says it, ' All
things are delivered to Me of my Father; ' then I am
His, and I have just been pulling and dragging to get
away if I could, and did not know He was holding
me back and would not let me ii;o ! I see it ! I sec
it! 1 am His, and His I will be! " And she threw
herself at His feet with overflowing tears of repen-
tant sorrow; and the love was deeper than the
sorrow; for the sorrow was temj^oral, but the love of
God shed abroad in the heart by the Divine Com-
forter is eternal.

Meggie could not leave her chamber again that
day; still weak, the infinite love, the eternal joy, had
overpowered her. She laid her head on her pillow,
too exhausted for food. But the same kind care was
ever ready at the Farm ; she was tended again as in
the days of past illness, and as a tired child weeps
itself to sleep on its mother's arm, so Meggie wept
herself to sleep in His tender keeping, whose love is
greater than a mother's. She was down the next

340

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

morning ; pale and wan was the face that had
once been so bright in its bloom ; but a light on her
brow, her eyes a quiet sunbeam, and the smile of
love and peace on her lips, which had so long worn a
heavy discontent.

"Blessings on thee, Meggie, child I Where hast
thou borrowed a face ? "

" O, grand-daddy," said Meggie, " I was just
weary-hearted, and I have heard Him who speaks to
the weary, and He has given me rest ! ''

" Well, that's just the blessing. Ye sore needed
it, child, and 'tis just His way to give to them that
have need. And you are a deal better off, if you
have given up to Him, than if you had all a prince
could bestow. You will never see the wronsi: side of
that blessino; ; it will lie warmest at heart when the
wintry day blows the coldest. There is a beginning
of it, as you have found, but there is never an end.
Himself hath said it — ' None shall pluck them out
of My hand.^^'

In quiet hours Meggie returned to her treasured
Bible. As she read and thouo;ht on these thinfrs,
the light that shone on her soul grew steadier, and
every time she read she saw something she had not
seen before. She had reached the Divine words,
"Who is My mother, and who are My brethren?
And He stretched forth His hands towards His
disciples and said, Behold My mother and My
brethren! For whosoever shall do the will of My
Father which is in Heaven, the same is My brother,
and sister, and mother/' The word Brother had a

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

341

had
her
Sleof
>rn a

hast

just
:s ta

heart-arresting force for her now. Could it be that
auch was the tie that the Lord of Glory would o vn?
" My sister ! " Could it be from the Divine lips of
the Son of God ? There it lay, in the page of
Divine inspiration, " My sister ! " breathed by Him
to whom all power was given in Heaven and earth,
and whose love passcth knowledge.

She could not read on. A word will sometimes
fill the heart to overflosving. But as she sat in the
summer evening, watching the steady soothing
flight of the birds above the trees to their nests, the
.grace and glory of the divine words, " My sister ! "
echoing everywhere around her — she saw Oliver
crossing the green with her grandfather. She laid
her Bible back in the drawer and went down. No
wish vas felt now to avoid him; glad at heart,
glad in face, and in word, to see him again. He
looked at her as if with surprise, then said, '^O,
Meggie, it is comfort to see you again ! " Again he
looked, and she met his earnest eyes with a smile,
for she knew he saw in her face that all was changed
tiow to her, from earthly unrest to the peace that
passeth understanding. *' It was a good letter you
sent me, Oliver," she said, '' but the Bible you gave
nie has spoken home to my heart.''

" O, Megaie, can it be ? Are we one in His
love V' And she answered, ''He has given me rest,
forgiving me all trespasses, and filling my soul with
His peace." And the old look of deepest tenderness
• came back to Oliver's eyes as he said, " It is like
Jitc from the dead to hear this from thee ! " And he

,;!.■! ji!

li Un

342

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

did not say, " My sister Meggie " any more, and
Meggie was glad. But Jesus had said to her heart,
" My sister ! " and He had given her rest, and would
teach and enable her to do in all things the will of
His Father in Heaven.

" One there is above all others —

Oh, how He loves !
His is love beyond a brother's —

Oh, how He loves !
Earthly friends may fail or leave us;
One day soothe, the next day grieve us.
But this friend will ne'er deceive us —

Oh, how He loves !

"Through His name we are forgiven—

Oh, how He loves !
Backward shall our foes be driven—

Oh, how He loves !
Best of blessings He'll provide us,
Nought but good shall e'er betide us,
Safe to glory He will guide us —

Oh, how He loves 1 '*

and

tart,

)uld

CHAPTER XXVI.

There came at length a change ; a brighter day
dawned on that lonely village than it had seen for at
least a century. The darkness had rolled in heavy
clouds away, and light divine broke over all the land.
Who can tell the blessing, when the pastor is a minis-
ter of " the true sanctuary which the Lord pitched, and
not man/' The minister came at first to the Castle,
and was seen the next day walking down the wooded
slopes of the park to the valley in which the village
lay; he wore a broad-brimmed hat, beneath which
his silver locks flowed freely j his face was such an
one as angels might love to gaze on ; but dearer
still to the eyes of the suffering and sorrowful.
Within his open coat lay the broad and snowy frills
of cambric, fastened together by one sparkling gem.
He wore silver kncc-bucklcs and silver buckles to
his shoes, and walked with a silver-headed ebony
cane. The feeling of the villagers who looked on
him was. Who is this ? It was a question soon
answered.

The old clergyman's steps were closely followed
by the large collie-dog of the Castle. Nero was a
dog of unfeoriable manners, and supposed to be of no
intc'cst to any one except as a guard ; but the old

lii

344

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

clergyman had said to him, " Nero, wilt come
shepherding with me ? " and the dog bounded for-
ward and they went together. From that first day
Nero walched for tins his first friend, and always
accompanied the pastor's steps. He never quarrelled
at the farms, nor showed any unseemly curiosity at
the cottages, but lay down outside the door, waiting
quietly.

This aged pastor was truly one whom having
looked on once, you would wish to look on again.
Day after day you might see him in the early after-
noon coming down amongst the homes of the people.
He was tall in person, but with the slight stoop so
often seen in those whose heads are bent above the
beds of suffering. His step was the gentle tread
that had learned its measure by the couch of pain.
All were struck by his appearance, and won by his
manner. When he took off^ his hat as he entered a
cottage, and they looked on his head, white and
shining almost as snow in the sunbeam, and heard
him say in kind tones, "My people!" or "My
friends ! " or " Dear sheep of the flock ! whom I
trust the Good Shepherd has gathered, or will
gather ! '' all thought, and some said, ^^'Tis a father
indeed ! "

In his call at the Mill he sat long with Oliver
Crisp and Benoni. When the distance was too far
he was driven in the Castle pony-
in some way he reached all. Farmer
Caxton said, " He never had set eyes on one whom
he should take to come so near to the Good Shepherd

for walking.

carriage

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

345

Himself!" To Meggie the pastor said, *'Is thy
heart opened to attend to the things tliat are spoken
in the Scriptures to thee ? " and Meggie answered,
"Yes;'' and the venerable face lighted up with a
smile and said, " 'I'he Lord bless thee, and keep
thee ! " Dame Truman wept under his good words
when he called upon her, and she said, " Seventy years
and more I have lived in this place, but never did I
see nor hear tell of such a blessing as this ! Who
could have thout>ht it I " Mother Dumbleton had
many tales to tell, which she had heard on one side
of the parish, and told on the other. She had heard
say that he lived when the martyrs were burnt (only
changing where for when), and the people did say he
would have been burnt himself, only he was always
hidden, so that when they went to take him in one
place he was safe in another I which she said was
not hard to believe, for she had not met the person
already with whom he had not had a word, let them
bide where they might. Also Mother Dumbleton
said, it was plain the Castle dog knew it ; " for if
there was not some miracle of mystery, a hasty beast
as he was would never lie quietly at his feet by the
half-hour together, without so much as turning an
eye on your cat 1 "

But a greater surprise was to follow. The folk
scarcely believed their own eyes when they saw the
venerable man ridiuiz; down the village street on
Bavicca ! It could not be ! yet it was ! Bavieca had
run loose in the park — no one thougiit to see him
ridden again ; but the old clergyman had soon made

54<5

OLIVKR OF THE MILL.

ii: ''P

'. ,'ii

acquaintance with the no' le steed, now grown old;
and had nsi<ed to be allowed to ride him on his more
distant visits. The grooms said, "There never was
but one hand he would answer to." "Ah!" he
replied, " I am a soldier, not less than a shepherd,
and now ays afraid but he will answer to me I " And
they came down the rocky street together, with slack
rein ; the rider seated at ease with unconcerned eye,
and Bavieca attentively choosing out the way, with
arched neck and gentle step, seeming glad of such a
service of love. His rider just laid his hand on his
neck when he stopped to speak to any one ; but he
was soon through the village, and on the high road
at pleasant speed. The grooms had run to view
amid the trees, and returned in surprise. The people
said, " Did you ever hear tell such a thing ? " and
Mother Dumbleton remarkevd, "Did not I say it was
a miracle of mystery ? "

From that day Be. vieca served his new master,
and served him well. There are those still to be
seen whom creation owns, as if some trace of the
sceptre given in Kderi remained with them yet ; a
few links of the broken chain yet to be re-united
when " the wolf shall dwell with the larr.b, and the
leopard shall lie down with the kid, and the calf and
the young lion and the fading together, and a little
child shall lead them."

There was much discourse in the village, and
many wished to hear him speak in the pulpit; but as
yet he was only a worshipper. One of his first calls
was an evening visit to Susan Butterly and her

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

347

ore
was

he
erd,

nd
ack

'ith
1 a
his
he
)ad
iew
pie
md
/as

husband. They were seated in their tarm-kitchen,
and received him coldly. " Lost I" was the one word
that was always wringing anguish from the heart of
the mother, and finding low echoes of trouble in the
soul of her husband. The Pastor took their hardly-
offered hands kindly in his, and then sat down beside
them. " I know your trouble," he said, " too well I
too well ! It is a trouble which may shut the lips
and close the heart."

The parents looked silently into, the fire and
shook the head, but made no reply. There they all
sat silent awhile, for their grief was very great. At
length the Pastor gently said, " There is One with
whom is power, comfort, and hope. I never yit
found the sorrow He could not reach the bottom of,
nor a wound too cruel for His hand to heal. God
says of Him, 'I have laid help upon One that is
mighty.' "

Still all was silence. Several of the family were
there, and the servant-girl sewing on the other side
of the farm-kitchen. Then the Pastor rose and
said, in the calm, tender tones of authority, " Let
us seek comfort and help from Him who alone is
able to give it. Have you in your house any other
beside those in attendance here ? " " Call in the
woman," said Susan Butterly, and Mother Dumble-
ton drew down her sleeves and came in. The
minister reached down the Bible from the high shelf
where it lay, lightly blowing off" the dust, and laying
it on the table opened and read, " What man of you
having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them.

348

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

doth not leave the ninety-and-nine in the wilderness
and go after that which is lost until he find it. And
when he hath found it he laycth it on his shoulders,
rejoicing. And when he conieth home he callcth
together his fr' ids and neighbours, saying, Rejoice
with me, for » have found my sheep which was
lost."

He paused, and then repeated again in tones of
deep feeling, "' Rejoice with mc, for 1 liave found my
sheep which was lost.' He, the Good Shepherd,
goeth after it until He finds it ! Have you considered
that His tender eyes rest at this moment on your
lost child ? He sees her more clearly than you and
I see each other. He tccls for the lost one far more
than even you can. He is able to save to the utter-
most all that come unto God by Him. And when
he saves He rejoices over the lost; which, perhaps,
even you could hardly do if at this moment brought
before you. Raise your eyes and your heart to this
tender, this merciful One, mighty to save. Your
poor eyes have been straining on into the darkness
where you could not see her, nor trace a step she
had taken. Look on Him who is shown to us here,
Jesus the Saviour I When you look on Him, you
look on One who looks on her — see how near this
brings you I You look upon Jesus, and He looks
upon her. It is wea'^y, heart-breaking work to look
on into the distance, vainly longing that you could
see and could know. Your poor wandei ing hearts
find no rest. Look unto Jesus, and the Holy Spirit
will give you light to bch(>!d Him. His eye follows

|rness
And

fdcrs,

illcth

f-joice

was

349
His heart ia

OLIVER OF THE MILL,

her. His arm can save and restore,
waiting to receive."

" Come home ! come home !
You are weary at heart,
For the way has been dark,
And so lonely and wild :

O prodi<,^al cluld I
Come home, oh, come home!

" Come home ! come home !
For we watch and we wait,
And we stand at tli ■ gate,
While the shadows are piled ;

O prodigal child !
Ct mc home, oh, come home ! **

Then inviting them to pray, he kneeled in their
midst.

''O Saviour, Son of Man, Son of God! VViio
came to seek and to save that which is lost! Thou
seest the lost one for whom we come to Thee.
Within the liome hefore Tliee here are father,
mother, hrothers, sisters, and servants, but where is
the lost one? Thou knowest where, Lord; Thou
knowest her downsltting and uj^rising. Thou
understandeth her thou(ihts afar off. Thou knowest
her desires j it may be tears, rcpentings, and jirayers.
We look on Thee, and Thou loo';est on her. Thou
art able to save and deliver. Thou art able to
cleanse from all sin. Thou canst yet make her holy
in heart and life. We commit her to Thee. Thou
wilt rejoice over the lost one found, more than over
the ninety-and-nine that went not astray. Save her I

350

OLIVKR OF THE MILL.

Lay her on Thy shoulder, that, gathered to Thy fold,
she may be Thine for ever. And, seeing we may he
lost to'l'hee when we are not lost to one another, look
down on this home, on the dear father and motiicr,
on each son, daughter, and servant. If they l)e lost
to Thcc, draw ti»eni home into the arms of Thy love
and merey, that we may eaeh one, absent and pre-
sent, be found eternally with Thee, O Father,
through Thee, O Lord Jesus, our Saviour. Amen/'
He left them with words of eomfort.

Mistress Tibby was now in her ninetieth year.
Oliver always went over to sec her when harvest was
crowniuii; the year. On these occasions all the old
scenes were renewrd in his memory ; — the forest, the
little gl ide where he laid down and slept, the man
with the evil eves and the urun, the rai>ued children,
and the dog who stole his dove; with poor Aleppo's
death, all these scenes rose in vivid remembrance.
The corn had grown in the same field and bet'n
reaped every vear, and the very sheaves had stood in
the same place where he sank that day in exhaustion.
The farm in the Dell looked the same, but Mistress
Tibby never visited her harvest-fields now, she sat
in her arm-chair by the fire both winter and summer.
This year Oliver found her by the fire-side, the
wood batlings glowed red and fell in white ash on the
hot stones, which kept warmth in her limbs. Oliver
stabled his horse, gave him his corn, as if it were
hon»e, and then went in.

" J thought, may be, it was you,'' said Mistress

r-— — — —

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

fold,
be

look
1 1 or,
post
love
)re-

Tibby, "when you glanced by the door. T can't

Ibcr,

)ak(

lit any distance now.
ye should be ? '*

"All well, thank you." And the tall, stalwart
man sat down on the low form by Mistress 'i'ibbv as
when a child saved by her care. He took her hand
tenderly in his, and said, " How be you keeping,
(h-anny.?"

"Well, well, I am just holding on; the Lord
"knows for why ; but it can't be for long, and some-
times I be just a-wearying to be gone, for it is a deal
better there than it can ever be here; but 1 must just
wait with patience His time."

Mistress Tibby had a beautiful hand, it might
iiave graced the chords of a harp in its day. Her
features were refined, and her mind had a tone of
elevation that might have been trained to adorn
any sphere. But she liad been born, lived, and was
now waiting to depart in an obscuie little farm, with
iio social influences to draw forth her powers. How
many such souls will expand in brightness and
glorious beauty, when this mortal shall put on im-
mortality 1

Oliver raised the dear hand, now stiffened
and a little swollen, to his lips, and reverently
kissed it, with a silent blessing, remenibering how
that hand had fed him and soothed him to rest.

"This hand has done its day's work now,
Granny," he said.

" No ! no I Not yet ! " she replied, her old
spirit waking up ; " it's no laid to rest vet ! He

35^

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

Hi!-'

I!;!

knows why I wait, and I shall know hereafter. We
brought nothing but sin with us into this world, and
we must leave that behind us afore we be ready
to go."

" But, Granny, you left that behind you long
ago. You know it is written, 'The Lord hath laid
on Him the iniquity of us all.' You believe that, I
know. When you think of your sins you must look
upon Jesus j the Lord laid them on Him, and they
can never be found any more^ for His precious blood
has washed them away."

" That is good — I believe it ! I believe it ! It lies
clear as you say it; only sitting on here 1 sometimes
have a fear."

" Do you remember what the Bible says upon
that. Granny ? "

''N(i, I cannot say I do; my memory seems
short, and my eyes are but dim, I cannot read for
mvself; and my poor Matty is just messing and
muddling about the' best way she can ; and then
when she sits down a bit, and I want her to read,
she just drops oft' to sleep at any word as it happens;
and it scares me to know why she stops on a sudden.
So thinks I to myself, I'll just not ask her again; but
I do when the time comes — I am sore lonirinii to
hear"

Oliver got the old Bible and turned to the 56th
Psalm, and read, ''What time 1 am afraid I will
trust in Thee ! " He read it two or three times, and
Mistress Tibby repeated, "What time I am afraid I.
will trust" — "in Thee," said Oliver.

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

353

" Aye, ' m Thee ! ' Where else could we trust ?
Then it does not seem a sin to be sometimes
afeared ?

Not a sin if it does not break our trust, Granny.
Sure there is nothing the blessed Lord who died for
us cares for, like the trust of our poor hearts ! I seem
to have been learning that, Granny. He can get our
best service done some other way ; but no one else
can give Him the trust of my heart and yours.
It is written over and over again that we should trust
in the Lord. Our best doings are just sinful and
poor ; but we can trust Him with all our heart, and
that I know pleases Him best."

"Does it?'* said Mistress Tibby ; "then I will.
Yes, I will ! Why, I have just been afraid wholly
to trust; it seemed taking it too easy for a poor
sinner like me.*'

" But, Granny, does not He say, ' Come, buy
without money and witliout price' ? The price has
been paid — it cost the life-blood of the Lord Jesus —
it is all paid, and we have only to take it in trust
that all is paid by His death ! "

"Now all that you say was just what I wanted
to hear. I just wanted somebody to come and say,
' Mistress Tibby, trust Him ! ' And to think the
poor weakling I saved should have been preserved
to say that ! I, strong and able, was feeding you,
as weak as a babe; and now I am come to my
farthest, you in your strength sit here feeding and
nourishing*; me to life cverlastinir. I sometimes
get a glimmer of a light that shineth brighter than

354

OLIVER OF THE MILL,

',*•

any light here ; but I have a deep, swelling river
to pass through, I know/'

"No, Granny — no river. What makes you
think so ? "

" Aye, yes — a river," she still said, " and may
be, I shan't feel the bottom."

"That's not written in the Bible, Granny."

" Yes, I think so," she said. " Does it not say,
* When thou passest through the rivers ' ? "

" Yes, you have passed through them many
a time when trouble came in like a flood ;
that's over and gone, and the good God brought
you through, and they did not overflow you.
Now you have only to be carried home in the arms of
Jesus."

" But not through a river ? " asked the aged saint
again, earnestly.

" No, no river. The blessed Saviour says, ' Even
to old age I am He, and even to hoar hairs will I
carry you ; I have made and 1 will bear ; even I will
carry and will deliver you 1 ' He bore the sheep
right home on His shoulder, and never laid it down
again. O, Granny, He says, ' My sheep hear Mv
voice, and I know them, and they follow Me, and I
give unto them everlasting life ; and they shall never
perish, neither shall any pluck them out of My
hand.' Won't you trust Him, Granny ? "

" I do, I do ! There is no cold, dark river,
nothing but the arms of Jesus."

"Yes, Granny, Himself hath said it, 'Under-
neath thee are the everlasting arms ! ' You can

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

355

river

you

may

■only be where He carries you, and you wun-'t fear
any evil in the arms of Jesus ? "

" Good words ! good worc's ! " she replic! ;
" will they stay by me ? I crave that they may.'^

" Yes, Granny, they are the words of the Lord
Jesus, and He has promised that the Holy Spirit
shall bring His words to your remembrance. He
knows your hunger and thirst for them, and He
says, * you shall be filled.' **

"Does He? 'Tis just like Him ! He knew it
when He sent you to-day. I am thinking I shall
not hear your tongue again.'*

" Oh, but I am vexed I have been so long away.
I will just come once a month and see you ; and if
you want me sooner you send John on the old grey.
Never mind harvest, that will be gathered in right
enough, and the old grey will do the distance every
bit as well as my young one."

" I am thinkinsi: I shall be the first sheaf gathered
in, but I don't rightly know," said Mistress Tibby,

"Why, Master Oliver," said Matty Trundel,
hurrying in as if she felt that all responsibilities of
business now lay with her, " I saw you come off the
road ever so long ago, and you have not had a bit
of anything to take ! This comes of being o'er busy ;
there is no doing of one thing but you are slighting
another."

"No," said Oliver, in his pleasant tone, "when
we do one thing as to the Lord, He takes care of the
other things. We have been better off here than any
feeding could be."

35^

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

f f

" Aye, that's a sure thing/^ said Mistress Tibb3\.
"The Bread of Life!"

Three weeks had not passed away when the old
grey came to the Mill door. Mistress Tibby thought
herself departing, and craved to see Master Oliver.
Oliver hastened ; his good horse soon distanced
the grey, and he reached the farm-house in the Dell
before he was expected.

His heart beat as he saw the open door' — should
he see her again ? A labourer ran and took his
horse, and he entered in ; he waited a few moments
alone. How much passed through his mind in those
moments ! Her hand and her tending had been
more maternal than anything he had known. The
ready roughness of K. in her earlier years (she was a
softened woman now), and the half-distant stiffness
of his own grandmother, were not in Mistress Tibby.
As a child he had felt the depth and power of her
nature, even as he felt the depth and strength of
Benoni's. In the better world to come how many a
nature amongst the lowliest in place here will expand
in a greatness and dignity for which it has had to
wait, until the surroundings that shut it in here should
enlarge for it there. And we have reason to fear
that many to whom resources weie rpen, but who
shut themselves within self'b ii?.\ii)winr. bn>?ts, will
find that the expansive powoi:, ^'itru^Cia lo them
but not improved, are now lost taLnts. that cannot
be recovered again.

The wood-embers burned low on the stones;
little cups were keeping hot as if the food were no

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

357

longer required. He heard a step, and the chamber-
door opened ; it was a neighbo ir. OHver made no
inquiry, but wen;'; in. Matty T -undel stood by the
bed with a cup and spoon in her hands, and her
tears dropping on the white sheet that covered her
misLi'css. Oliver was used to sickness, he had been
his own Granny's best nurse. " She does not need
that," he said, gently, to Matty Trundel, as he took
her place by the bed. He kneeled down on one
knee, and laid his hand on the hand that had
done its work now. " Let the child sleep/' said

Mistress Tibby, " only give a wee drop when he
wakes." Her thoughts had gone back to the event
of her life that had most stirred her heart. Oliver
took the cold hand and pressed it to his lips. She
knew him then, for none had ever done that with the
half-stern and reserved Mistress Tibby but Oliver.
" No river ! no river ! " she said, " but the arms of
my Saviour ! I trust Him, [ do ! " And she opened
her eyes and looked on the face of the strong man
as he knelt by her side; he was nearer and dearer to
her heart than anything here. He moistened her
lips, made Matty Trundel lay her cold limbs in hot
flannel, and there he watched until this dim light of
earth was lost in the light everlasting.

The reapers gathered in the sheaves. Then they
bore to the grave a nobler seed than any earthly
harvest can gather — a shock of corn fully ripe, whose
fruit should yet be green on the earth, and stand in
the glory of Lebanon.

I ;

CIiAPTER XXVn.

liL.i

The stone-masons were busy preparing to build a
small house on the rising ground overlooking the
church. " I cannot dwell," the good man had said,
" except in a pilgrim-tent of my own, — a dwelling
hallowed to His presence, who is my sun and my
shield 1 " He thus hoped to escape all the evil asso-
ciations which hung round the old rectory, — that so
the new ministerial life might begin, from the very
first, quite ..part from the shadow which had
darkened so much of the past. At length the
church was left to his care ; the people won
by his tenderness and grace filled the building in
their wish to hear him there. The deep tones
of his voice, mellowed by age, breathed forth the
hallowed Liturgy. He needed no printed page, for a
life-time had engraven it on his heart ; it was offered
as fervently to Heaven as if then first breathed forth
from his soul. When the Holy Scriptures were read,
his utterance cleared up the meaning to many an
uninstructed mind ;. shedding fresh light, and show-
ing up depths in the heavenly truth to those to
w^hom they were familiar.

The singing in the service had been led by some
men of no Christian character, and some thoughtless-

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

359

the

young women. They thought they were singing
before the congregation, and did not know in their
darkened hearts, nor consider, that they were singing
before God, and that in His awful presence, who is
the searcher of hearts, their vain show was profane.
On taking their seats on this Sunday, they were
greatly surprised at being told that they would not be
required to take any part in the service. "Will there
be no singing ? " they asked, as if they supposed that
the heavenly melody of praise was dependent on their
aid ! The question was answered when the pastor,
having read out the h\ nni, raised his voice in a
simple melody all could follow, and a feeling of awe
stole over their untaught minds as they looked on the
rapture on that saintly face.

It had long been the custom of this holy man to
keep some one subject of Scripture before his mind.
On this he pondered over his open Bible, in his daily
reading ; on this he thought when walking. In this
way, one portion of the Holy Word after another
filled his soul. When preaching the Word, he took
the subject to which at the time he felt most led, and
poured forth the meditation of his heart and the
words of his lips in a way that none could who had
not made the truth they were speaking the nourish-
ment of their own spiritual life.

On that Sunday, when first speaking to the
assembled, people, he took for his subject the 23rd
Psalm. Having read it, he went over the office of a
shepherd, familiar to the people in that pastoral land.
They liked it all the better for that ; they listened as

S6o

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

■rf:i'l

i^i

if all he told them were new ; thev took notice tiiat he
understood the things of which he Wtis speaking.

He described the

grass^

pes

of their hills, the

streams flowing in the valleys below, the shepherd

/alk

iiiff

gathering his flocks to change their pasture, w
on before them, and the sheep following him. He
made them remark how the dog walked obediently
by the shepherd's side, and never meddled with the
sheep, except by the shepherd's order; if they wan-
dered, or were taking the wrong way, or if the shep-
herd wanted to bring a particular sheep to his hand ;
then it might seem to be fetched up in a rough
manner, but it was because the shepherd wanted it
near.

He showed how the shepherd might lead the
sheep by some rocky precipice, where to fall would
be death; but they were safe, because they followed
him closely, keeping the narrow path of his footsteps.
Or the shepherd might lead them through some
rocky defile; but following him, they went in and
came out in safety. He told of one sheep that wan-
dered alone, and got into a fissure with a rock on
both sides ; there was plenty of room for the sheep
to get out — the way out was quite as wide as the way
in — but because the sheep felt itself alone, and had
no guide, it beat its head from side to side of the
rocky fissure, and the shepherd found it dead. He
told how in the wilderness of distant lands, the shep-
herd knew where the best grass could be found, some-
times through rough pathways, where the rocks were
dark above them, or under thorns and briarj* : if the

OUVRH OF THE MILL.

361

lat he
king,
the
)herd

Llkinsr

the

hep-

best pastureH tor them were there, there they had to
seek it. In tl\is way he showed h<>w the (^roodness
and care wi the sliepherd was ever over his sfKrep.

It ihd not SI ike tlu' people tliat this was nr)t like
a sermon, and yet it was a clear sermon to them ; for
as the description went on all the way through, they
caught a hidden meaning, a light here and there, or
a dark shadow that made them teel they knew wliat
it meant — they saw it for themselves, which made it
more their own.

When they came to the last words, "I will dwell
in the house of the Lord for ever," the minister
paused and looked round on the people ; every eve
seemed to meet the tender enquiry of his eye. He
repeated the words again, "'I will dwell in the house
of the Lord for ever.' This is not the earthly shep-
herd and the earthly sheep," he said ; ^' the picture
fails us here. It is not that the sheep may live, that
all the watchful care is given here ; it is that the
sheep may die, and the shepherd live; that is the
end with them. But there is a shepherd, and there
is a flock with whom the Shepherd dies, that the
sheep may live I It is because the Lord is my shep-
herd, the Good Shepherd who giveth His life for the
slieep, that I can say, ' I will dwell in the house of
the Lord for ever.^

"The Shepherd dies that the sheep may live. 'AH
we like sheep have gone astray j we have turned
every one to his own way, and the Lord hath laid on
Him the iniquity of us all.* ' God commendeth His
love toward us in that while we were vet sinners

H 1 1

362

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

li it

i I

Christ died for tho ungodly/ The sheep had wan-
dered ; the Shepherd treads the path of death and
brings it home upon Elis shoulder. The sheep was
dyed with sin; the Shepherd's life-blood makes it
clean — whiter than snow ! whiter than snow ! The
sheep was torn and bleeding ; with the Shepherd's
stripes it is healed ! The Shepherd dies that the
sheep may be fed ; * hungry and thirsty, their soul
fainted in them/ The Shepherd says, 'The bread
of God is He which cometh down from Heaven,
and giveth life unto the world. My flesh is meat
indeed, and my blood is drink indeed.'

" You have Ixen saying, 'We are His people and
the sheep of His pasture.' Did you mean what you
said ? Can you say, ' The Lord is my Shepherd, I
shall not want ' ? The Good Shepherd says, ' My
sheep hear My voice, and I know them, and they
follow Me.' Is it so with you ?

" Perhaps you know that you have turned to your
own way, like one who said, ' I have gone astray like
a lost sheep ; seek thy servant I ' The Good Shep-
herd answers, ' The Son of Man is come to seek and
to save that which is lost.' Then He is seeking you
to save you. Receive Him as your Saviour 1 ' As
many as received Him, to them gave He power to
become the sons of God, even to them that believe
on His name.' Have you been frightened, hurried,
and driven by the dog ? trial and trouble are under
His command; it is only to bring you to His feet.
It may be you have to be dragged there ; but any-
way, it is love that will not lose you. Let Him not

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

3^3

wan-
h and
was
:es it
The
fierd's
It the
soul
[bread
■aven,
meat

say of you, * Ye will not come to Me, that y( might
have life I ' Walking on the mountains, I met a
shepherd leading home his flock, with a lamb on his
shoulder. 'Is it hurt?' I enquired. 'No,' said he,
* not that; it is just weary and done; so I took it to
rest.' Is not that like some of you, weary and done f
Hear Him say, ' Come unto Me, and I will give
you rest.'

"The next Lord's-day, the bread and wine,
memorials of His death until He come again, will be
spread for all whose desire it is to come to Him. Do
you remember that l)efore He suffered He took bread,
andblessedandbrake,andgave to II is disciples, saying,
'Take, eat; this is my Body.' And He took the cup
and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, 'Drink
ye all of it ; for this is my Blood of the New Testa-
ment, which is shed for many for the remission of
sins.' Will you come, who hear His voice of tender
invitation? Come in faith to feed in your heart upon
His Body, and to drink His Blood ? With thank-
fulness, and by His grace, to live for Him who died
for you ?

" ' I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.*
That is home, a settled dwelling-place. There no
more tired feet, aching hearts, and weary heads. It
is home that the Good Shepherd bears every sheep,
every lamb, of His flock. Do you say, ' Not for me ',
I am not worthy.' None are worthy. You will not
be there because you are worthy, but because He is
worthy who, when He had overcome the sharpness
of death, opened the kingdom of Heaven to all be-

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Sciences

Corporation

1.4 il.6

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WIBSTIR,N.Y. USM

(7I6)«72-4S03

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3^4

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

!«■■;

lievers. Do you say ' I am serving another master,
and cannot get away ' ? Let me tell you He has
redeemed you from every other master, from all the
slavery of the world, of self, and of the devil. He
has paid the full price, you are His, and His precious
blood seen by faith, can melt every chain of sin with
which you are tied and b jund, and set you free for
ever. Come all who can on Saturday evening, and
meet me here, that we may seek the out-pouring of
the Holy Spirit, to enable us to draw near in full
assurance of faith, that the things of Jesus may be
made manifest to us."

And so they met together there upon the eve of
the first day of the week for prayer and praise. And
then they gathered round the table where that feast
was spread, — looking to Him that loved us and
washed us from our sins in His own blood. There
was the aged Benoni, exultant in faith. Oliver Crisp
in his deep reverence. Dame Truman in her ad-
vancing meekness. Farmer and Mistress Caxton;
and there Oliver and Meg Caxton ; there the broken-
hearted Susan Butterly. How blessed a group is
gathered around many a village communion-table,,
where pastor and people are one in the faith,
hope, and love of the gospel of the grace of God !
Who can estimate the change when the true pastor
comes where the "hireling" has been? It is a
blessing that the God of all grace alone can give,
and that faith in God alone can duly use. It is to a
rural parish like the passing from death to life. Each
heart turns in a measure to the holy heart of the

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

3<5S

laster,
has
II the
He
:cious
with
ee for
and
I of
1 full
ay be

pastor for instruction, counsel, sympathy, and spiritual
aid, and turns not in vain. Even the ungodly know
that there is a prophet among them. "The evil
bow before the good, and the wicked at the gates of
the righteous." The holy example and influence of
such an one is in measure as " the precious ointment
upon the head, that ran down upon the beard — even
Aaron's beard — that went down to the skirts of his
garment." Now the village lived in peace, and the
God of love and peace was with them.

Dame Truman had taken her place in the Valley
of Humiliation; which pilgrims find to be the best
and most fruitful piece of ground in all their pil-
grimage. Here, also, those who walk this way are
too low for the fiery darts of the enemy to reach
them. The air of this valley is wholesome and heal-
ing, amidst all words of anger, wrath, and bitterness.
Over Dame Truman^s spirit the mantle of a perfect
meekness had fallen. It did not signify now what
" rudiments " were taught in the village ; she only
said, " You must come and teach your old teacher,
my children ; but if they be only the scrapings of
this world's learning, don't bring them to me, I
have had enough of that sort of thing in my time;
and I am trying now to spell out a heavenly lesson,
' the form of sound words in faith and love which
is in Jesus Christ.' I sit and muse how I thought
of nothing but teaching of others, when all the
time I had need that one should teach me, that
' except I became as a little child, I could not ei;tir
the kingdom of God.' '*

3<56

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

One of Dame Truman's most frequent visitors
was Meggie Caxton. Meggie had been too wilful in
her spoilt childhood and early youth for any affection
to lay strong hold of her heart, but it was far other-
wise now ; she had learned to know her own weak-
ness and sin, she had learned to know her great
Deliverer's love and power. He had given her rest,
and one of her chief enjoyments was to slip over
awhile to Dame Truman, and sitting at her side, they
learned those blessed lessons from the sacred page,
that the Holy Spirit waits to teach eac'i willing soul.
The wonder of those lessons is that they are never
outgrown. We rest on the lowest step of the ladder
while climbing to the highest.

Meg, whose light-hearted glee had kept her
younger than her years, was older now than age
would have shown her to be. It was not only her
own past experience — though that alone was enough
to add the weight of years to a young life ; it was the
thought of poor Margaret Butterly. As the seasons
passed, and no tidings came, the thought grieved her
soul continually, and the cry rose that she might be
delivered.

The past of Meg Caxton's young life often drew
her backward glance. Her childhood and early
youth lay in the growing distance, in a confusion
of sunny light. Nothing was strongly marked
to her except the loss of Oliver. Nothing else
had told with any power upon her heart, and even
that had passed into the softening mist of distance.
Then came darker shadows crossing her path. Oliver

■^
v

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

3^7

ilesired the first place in human relationship, and she
had had slowly to learn that he could never even for her
fill any other j and then followed the deeper darkness,
the living death of her young heart. All the time
one form, her "brother Oliver's," grew upon her
aching vision until it seemed to fill the world for her,
yet could not be her own. Then Margaret, lost in
darkness, lost with one who had drawn her own
listening ear — how awfully those shadows deepened,
.until the past grew terrible in retrospect. Then all
was gone — feeling, memory, consciousness. Her
first knowledge of returning life was Oliver's voice
of inquiry. Oliver's letter, and the Bible, had led
her to the " Come unto Me, all ye that are weary
and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest." Then
the breaking of the dense, dark cloud, a Form
Divine, a voice of life, a heart of tenderness, a hand
held out to save I From this Divine Presence flowed
the light of life, like the clear shining after rain ; and
every friend and every object in her daily life was
touched with beauty, tinged with the glory of His
love. The surface light of childhood, the fearful
shadows of her youth, these were behind her still ;
but she lived in another atmosphere now, even the
Light that doth make manifest; it was her joy, her
hope, her life, to do the will of her Father in heaven.
While still, as she looked upon the darkness of the
past from the depth of the present light, she drew
in humble, earnest prayer the poor lost Margaret ;
bearing her in the arms of faith and love before the
mercy-seat,

liV.

CHAPTER XXVIIL

It is beautiful to see the aged, when the joy of the
Lord is their strength j — how the spirit is upborne
as on eagles' wings, sustaining the mortal body.
Benoni's age appeared to show more strikingly the
light of life within ; and not in wasting sickness, but
almost suddenly at last, it flickered and went out-
went out in this dim atmosphere to glow in dazzling
splendour where no hindering medium intervenes.
He only complained of weariness and said, " Why
should I not rest these tired limbs ? There is
nothing to hinder rest."

Oliver had carried him his evening meal, but
Benoni said, " I think I have done with earthly need ;.
set it down and come, my son, and let me think,
again how I kneeled as you are kneeling now, while
you were laid in that chamber in the road-side inn.
It was then I learned to pray. It was then I knew
our Father." On Oliver's dear head he laid his
hands in blessing ; then said, " Oh, Oliver, my son,
my son ! Take the testimony of a lone stranger,
motherless from birth, fatherless from childhood,
friendless in youth, wife-less, child-less. Jesus, the
Christ, Emmanuel, God with us, meeteth the need
of all that is natural in us, no less than the need of

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

3^9

all that is spiritual. He knoweth the heart of the
stranger. He knows and He cares ! That word is true
from everlasting — ' My God shall supply all your need,
through His riches in glory by Christ Jesus.' "

Then slowly, yet without a failing voice, Benoni
said —

" Our Father ; O Lord Jesus Christ, who hast
deigned to say, ' My Father and your Father, My
God and your God I ' Doubtless Thou art our
Father, though Abraham be ignorant of us, and
Israel acknowledge us not. Thou, O Lord, art our
Father, our Redeemer. Thy Name is from ever-
lasting.

"Which art in Heaven. Glory to God in
the highest, on earth peace, good-will to men.

" Hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Name is as
ointment poured forth. Thou hast called Thy ser-
vant by a new name, having put Thy Name, O
Christ, upon us I May wc walk worthy of God as
dear children.

" Thy Kingdom Come. Thy kingdom, O God,
which is righteousness, peace, and joy in the Holy
Ghost.

"Thy Will be done, as in Heaven so on
Earth. 'This is the will of the Father which sent
Me, that of all which He hath given Me I should
lose nothing, but should raise it up again at the last
day.'

" Give us this Day our Daily Bread. ' Save

Thy people, and bless Thine inheritance. Feed them

also, and lift them up for ever.'

370

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

"Forgive us. Forgive — forgive Benoni, Lord
Jesus, — "

While Oliver looked with swimming eyes

upon the saintly upraised face^ Benoni passed
away.

" Praise to the Lord, for they are past,
They are gone safe before ;
They have borne the wildest tempest-blast,

Have heard the last storm roar.
Praise to the Captain of our great salvation j
He brings His own Redeemed
From every nation !

Mourners they were— they weep not now,

Sic'- — now they know not pain ;
But glory shines on every brow

Of that once feeble train.

There are Judea's martyr-band.

There Cappadocia's sons ;
And bright and beautiful there stand

Our own belovM ones !

Tes ! blest, and beautiful and bright
How fair their white robes gleam—

Oh, to behold the glorious sight
With not a veil between !

Yet once, like ours, each achur' brow

Throbbed in the sultry noon ;
Their spirits sank, as ours do now,

'NeaUi midnight's chilling moon.

And once, like us, with trembling fear,
Their unknown path they viewed ;

Now God hath wiped away each tear
From all that multitude !

Lord

eyes
assed

OLIVER OP THE MILL. 37^

Rejoice ! they've gained their rest at last,

The Home where tbcy would be;
Mid adverse gales and tempest blast

Their followers still are we—
Hasten, thou Captain of the saint's salvation,
Bring home Thine own redeemed
From every nation I

And now, again, the procession passed down the
green hill-side, and a waiting people gathered and
followed, with many a feeling and many a *ear for
the pedlar Jew they had known from their chddhood.
They had seen him changed from a " man of the earth''
to a saint of God; and, forgetting this world's traffic,
they thought of the light that broke on him here,
which now he had entered for ever. He had stood
by the porch, and none had asked him to enter, when
the motherless babe of the Mill was carried in for
baptism; now that babe in his manhood, -supporting
his father, followed Benoni with the grief of a son. As
they entered the church-yard there stood in the porch
the white-robed form, emblem of resurrection;—
the Pastor, true son of consolation, waiting to
receive the honoured dust, and the company of the
mourners, with the joyful greeting of immortality.
" I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord,
He that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet
shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth in
Me shall never die." Who can tell the blessed comfort
that is felt when the Pastor stands as a father re-
ceiving his children ; the sleeping form of one, and
the living forms of the others, dear to his soul !

S7^

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

They laid him, Benoni, to rest, where slept Naomi
and her mother, and the mother and grandmother of
the Olivers. The younger Oliver lingered until the
last sod was re-laid, and the children around him wept
for their old friend, whose kindnesses had been so
many, and whom they remembered from infancy.
Then in the distance, where the witch-elm lent its
foliage to the stems of the tall ash-trees, Oliver saw
a form that he knew ; Meggie Caxton was lingering
there ; he joined her, and as they walked slowly on
she leaned on his arm. She knew that the one to
whom he had been life's blessing was left sleeping
in the quiet church-yard ; and the silent token that
another found the need of his support, even if only
as a brother, she felt might be a comfort then.
Oliver felt the token with a trembling joy. No
other earthly form could lean with such welcome
weight on him.

The summer had past and the golden harvest
had waved, as it had waved each year through ail the
changes of human hearts and homes. Oliver's
birth-day returned; all that was linked with it lay fresh
as ever in his father's soul ; the son all unconscious
of what that month had been, and what it was to his
father. The Mill-house had been grave and sad ;
the trumpet and the flute were silent there. Oliver
had not made the air melodious since Benoni ceased
to hear. For two years he had not cared to heed
his birth-day ; on this he came of age, and to the
faithful K.'s contentment he said, " Make ready, I

OLIVER OP TIIK MILL.

373

will have a party." " He thinks much of his coming
to age," said K. " I rememher I felt twice the
woman that ever I felt before j and I am right glad
of it, for 'twas a thousand pities he should go on
like a man as had not a birth-day, when he was
master's only son, and Master Benoni's too ! I do
believe he will be taking a turn, and forgetting the
hard heart he looked after in vain. 1 will show up
my best and surprise the folks, whoever they be. I
will see if I can't outdo myself! The feast shall lie
equal, as my mistress used to say, and nothing too
domineering be set on the table."

Oliver pleaded with Mistress Caxton and Farmer
that coming of age was but once in a life-time; that
he ought to be a gainer, not a loser, because he was
born in the busy harvest-time; that he had quite
made up his mind not to notice the day unless
Mistress Caxton, and Farmer, and Meggie all came.
So consent was given, and Meggie was glad, though
but last of the three. But as Oliver went out he
gave Meggie his old look, the fiisttime she had met it,
and said, " Won't it be like a bit of the old time, hey,
Meggie ? " but she could not answer, for bits of the
old time could not fill Meggie's heart; she wanted it
whole and entire. Can the past come back again ?
No, never ! Yet from its wintry grave a brighter
bloom, a sweeter fruit, may spring and ripen than if
that past had flowed on unchecked.

Dame Truman had a special invitation from
Oliver, who would take no denial. Richard Dolman
would drive her the short distance home, or see her

tit

374

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

safely there ; so she made herself ready several times
over, so far as arrangements went in intention ; for
she seldom went out, except to the church, which
was filled with every one now who could enter,
Jonathan of course would be of the party, and a few
other friends of whom we have not found time to
speak in former pages. How often Oliver looked
on Benoni's forsaken chair, and missed the halo
that seemed to hover round that venerated head 1
Oliver's father rejoiced in preparations to celebrate
the day, and felt that at length the long-lost bright-
ness of life was returning to his son.

When they met on that morning, Oliver Crisp
gave his blessing to his son with deep emotion,
" God give thee one of Mis jewels, my son, that
thou mavcst in His time be well married ; for he
that is not married doth bft halve both himself and his
home ! " Never until then had Oliver Crisp breathed
the word "jewel," his word of deepest love for his
bride, his wife, the mother of his child ! It was
graven on the head-stone where she slept, and there
he read it each Sunday. " ' They shall be mine,*
saith the Lord, ' in that day when I make up my
jewels.' "

Oliver was down at the Farm long before Mistress
Caxton had thought of preparing for the evening
visit; Meggie was busy with provisions for the
reapers; and Farmer Caxton was out in the fields;
but his Sunday coat lay ready, and his high-topped
boots ; for these portions of his dress were generally
put on in the kitchen.

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

375

|mcs
for
ich
ter.
few
to
ked
alo
■ad I
rate
jht-

" Meggie, I declare you are nothing but business,
and here I am come of age all the day ! Let Kezia
see to the outside for once, and you and I have a
walk to keep holiday I "

" I am not ready," said Meg, her rosy arms un-
covered, and her broad white apron tied round her
gown of blue print.

" I have seen you pull down your sleeves and
hold yourself ready without any more fuss, times
enough I "

" Oh, but you know it is a party ! though you
have not told me who? And, Oliver," she said,
with an effort, but as one determined to say it, " I
have made up a gown on purpose for to-day, and if
I don't wear it for you, I never shall for another, so
let me put it on/'

And her " brother Oliver*' knew well what gown,
but he made no reply ; and a few minutes brought
her back to his side, and the tiny white doves on the
light tracery met his eyes again. They did not turn
towards the river and the forest ; Meg was glad, she
could not have taken that way ; but they wandered on
to a little lone copse- wood on the side of a hill, where
they had often played together in the mirth of their
childhood, and with which no bitter memory was
linked. He spread his handkerchief over a fallen
tree for her seat, and kneeled on the grass at her
side in silence for a few moments. Then he gave
her a blue corn-flower he had plucked in the wheat-
field, and said,

" Meggie, blue is hope, isn't it ? "

37<5

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

" I don'i know/' said Meggie ; " but it is the
colour of the heaven above, which looks as if it might

stand for hope.

" Can you give it me back as hope's colour,
Meggie ? "

And she answered, " What hope ? "

And he said, *' That it may not be always,
' Oliver, my brother / but that ' Never ' blotted out,
to leave it ' Oliver, my lover 1 ' "

" That ' Never,' " she answered, " has been
blotted out a thousand times with tears and prayers."
She turned to him as she spoke, and her golden head
lay on his shoulder in the clasp of his close embrace,
and heart met heart in depths of loving, trustful
rest.

It was but few moments. Oh, sin and evil, what
are ye, that ye should have power to break in on such
moments as these ! But Meggie's soul had learned
lessons of unflinching truth, while learning lessons
of humble trust, and lifting her head, she hid her face
in her hands, and said,

" O, Oliver, instead of being here in this blessed-
ness, I might have been lost where poor Margaret
Butterly is lost 1 "

" No," answered Oliver, calmly, and not as one
surprised. "Not so utterly lost to us, Meggie,
though there was danger, I know ! "

" How did you know ? " she enquired.

' O, Meggie ! my wounded dove is not stolen
away ! " he said, as his look of tenderest love rested
on her; "there was One who could guard it, and

OLIVER OF THE MILL.

377

did, when I was unable. That is long past, and
deeply repented, and what God forgives and forgets
we havp no right to recal. Come, and let us go to

my father."

" But, Oliver, tell me ; can you ever feel the same
as you would have done if those terrible days had not

come } " , • .

"Look there,'' answered Oliver. "That bright
gleam breakin,^ from the dark cloud over the hills-
is it not brighter for the darkness ? "
" By contrast ! " she said.
• Oliver smiled a smile of such ; '-^.s; he/s
answered it again. " O, Meggie, haro u, persuade !
Tell me, are we not loved with a deeper love and
more tender, for ever, because we were sinners ; and
saved by Him who has waited for the fall surrender
of our hearts, which His precious blood alone could
deliver ? and is not our love like His in its mea-

sure ? "

"They are words of life to me, Oliver,*' she said;
"but can I ever be quite happy while poor Margaret
is lost? I think of her day and night; next to you
she has filled my heart."

"It is our sorrow, not our sin, that she is
gone," replied Oliver; "or if in any way our sin,
it is forgiven, and our souls will be stronger m
prayer now they are bound together. Sorrow must
be comforted by prayer, or our prayer cannot
be in faith. I learned that lesson, Meggie, long
affo— that no prayer, however deep its anguish,
can go up from our hearts into the heart of our

378

OLIVER OP THE MILL,

Father but it comes back with some balm of bless-

For all the delay, they were first at the Mill.
Oliver Crisp, in his arm-chair, rose up as they entered
—their gladness of countenance told more than
words. " My daughter I my child ! " said Oliver
Crisp ; for a moment he could say no more, then
added, "'Tis our Father in Heaven unites His
children on earth 1 "

Mistress Caxton and Farmer came in. She
never said a word at the tidings, but just sat down
and wept.

K. said, " I was then coming in with a whole
tray of my best ; but it made both my eyes water to
see Mistress Caxton sit there and cry, and I had just
to turn back and set my tray down again and have a
good cry myself; which I should not have thought
of on the day Master Oliver came to age, if it had
not been for Mistress Caxton ! "

Farmer said, " 'Tis the best dav I have seen I
and now I am no hearty at wishing many more."

Dame Truman, when she arrived, and saw the two
blessed in each other, had to wait a short time to
consider what was the right thing for the school-mis-
tress who had brought them both up from nothing, to
say on such an occasion ; but her memory was short,
and though she felt lierself in public in her old dig-
nity, she could only say, "My children I I never did
think of ye apart; and now, why, Heaven has brought
ye together !" In the course of the evening she re-
membered one or two things that were suitable on

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

379

such occasions ; but she thought as the introduction
was over they might be left unsaid, though good at
the right time.

To the small assembly's surprise, as the evening
advanced with converse and minstrelsy, a knock was
heard at the door, and the Pastor entered amongst
them. There was pleasure in the general look of
surprise, but the Pastor seemed to consider it a
matter of course ; he congratulated Oliver and Meg
Caxton and the older generation, and sat down
among them with that pleasant ease that made all
things the brighter. He took the evening worship,
and sang their hymns with them like one of them
altogether. Oliver always maintained that only the
trumpet could give the rich tones of that voice 1
Then giving his benediction, he left them, insisting
on returning alone through the late autumn evening
to his small parsonage, and the collie dog followed
his steps.

This well-timed visit was talked of in the village,
and Mother Dumbleton said it was all of a piece — it
was a miracle of mystery from the f iSt to the last.
But Oliver told Meg that his hope had been so
strong, he had written his request for the visit,
and had it in his pocket all day, and sent it over
on their return home.

And the village which had had m'lch darkness
and many sorrows had now a crowning call for re-
joicing; and the Castle was glad, and Mr. Howe
even began to think what arrangements he could
make when the marriage-day should come. The

380

OLIVER OP THE MILL.

Strength of two hearts welded in one is Heaven's
gift and earth's glory ; " for a man is the image and
glory of God ; but the woman is the glory of the

man '» O /

man.

** My bark is wafted to the strand
By breath divine ;
And on the helm there rests a Hand
Other than mine.**

THE ENOb

London :
Simmons & Botten, Printers, Shoe Lane, E.C.