/yt. 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 t> &0u 3^0-^
 
 HEn> XT H2THD.
 
 EPDALE END: 
 
 ITS 
 
 JOYS AND SORT 
 
 R 
 
 r\ 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 "THE COTTAGE OX THE SHORE," Etc. 
 
 E onto on : 
 
 THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY: 
 j6, Paternoster Row; O5, Si. I'-.' i'--. Churchyard; 
 
 And .' 1. i CADILLY,
 
 311/ 
 
 A7C24 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 T HE OLD LADY. 
 
 the 
 
 N one of 
 northern 
 counties of 
 England there 
 lies the long 
 and fertile 
 valley of 
 Deepdale, en- 
 closed to the 
 north and 
 south by low- 
 ranges of 
 rounded hills. 
 The valley is 
 at least three 
 miles long, 
 and is divided through its whole kngth by 
 a broad and sluggish river. At its eastern 
 tnd the hills open to a smooth plain, and 
 there, along the banks of the river, are many 
 
 61391 5
 
 O JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 mills and factories, surrounded by cottages in 
 long straight rows, the homes of the workers 
 in the mills. There are shops, too, of all 
 kinds ; and a church, a school-house, and two 
 small chapels have arisen among the crowded, 
 clustering houses of the busy town. 
 
 For New Melton is quite large enough to be 
 called a town ; but it is a town of small houses, 
 possessing as yet scarcely any public buildings 
 save a glaring red-and-white " Workman's In- 
 stitute " and a hastily-built wooden railway- 
 station, and having no inhabitants richer or 
 more important than the foremen and over- 
 lookers at the various mills, the owners of 
 which have their homes many long miles away 
 from New Melton. 
 
 The town increases most quickly towards its 
 eastern end. There the houses and fields seem 
 to be constantly at war ; one week you may 
 see a piece of ground newly reaped, and yellow 
 with stubble, and in a few days heaps of lime 
 and of roughly-hewn stone have taken the 
 place of ploughs and reaping-machines, the 
 sods are cut in small squares, and soon the 
 walls of a new row of houses are fast rising, 
 and a fresh street is marked out and named. 
 
 The valley itself, save where New Melton 
 has encroached on its quiet meadow-lands, is 
 all green and fertile. In autumn and spring 
 the slowly-flowing river generally overspreads 
 its banks, and in summer the cows feed ankle- 
 deep in the close rich grass which springs up
 
 THE OLD LADY. 7 
 
 when the water has gone back once more to its 
 own channel. Higher up, on the hill-sides, 
 groups of trees make pleasant shadows for the 
 sheep which graze on those more scanty pas- 
 tures ; and dark pine woods fringe the ridge 
 along the whole length of the valley. There 
 are no villages to be seen, but everywhere you 
 may notice scattered farms and cottages, some- 
 times gathered in groups of four or five, some- 
 times standing alone amongst their own fields 
 and stacks. 
 
 The dwellers in the cottages and in the 
 smaller farms are beginning to send their boys 
 and girls to the mills of New Melton, for the 
 wages which can be earned at factory work are 
 higher than any which may be gained at farm- 
 ing or service. The young people like the 
 freedom and the companionship of the mill 
 work, but some among the old inhabitants of 
 Decpdale Valley cling fast to their former 
 habits of thought and life, and say among 
 themselves that no lad or lass of theirs shall 
 see the inside of those noisy mills, full of wheels 
 and whirl. 
 
 One of those who, about ten years ago — when 
 our story begins — held most strongly to these 
 opinions was Naomi Thursfield, a widow 
 woman, the owner and tenant of a tiny 
 two-roomed cottage quite at the western end 
 of the valley. 
 
 She was known to every one round as " the 
 old lady," and you could not sec her trim,
 
 8 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 upright form, her snowy cap, with its cherry 
 ribbon framing the soft, deep-lined face and 
 pleasant brown eyes, without feeling that she 
 deserved her name. She had once been much 
 better off, and either a remembrance of former 
 days, or her own quiet reserved nature, made 
 her live somewhat apart from her neighbours, 
 holding herself above them, as they said at 
 first. 
 
 But when they found that Mrs. Thursfield 
 was always ready to show kindness to any in 
 trouble, or to nurse in sickness, they began to 
 esteem the quiet, self-respecting woman, and 
 better still, they began to respect the Christian 
 faith which showed itself even in her retired 
 life. For the spring of all Naomi's actions, 
 her guide, her motive, and her hope, was the 
 love of God, shown to her in the cross of her 
 Lord Jesus Christ. 
 
 It was not often that Naomi spoke of that 
 which she so deeply felt ; but now and then, by 
 a sick-bed, or when helping back into the right 
 way some one who had wandered and fallen into 
 sin and unhappiness, she would say a word 
 about the great love of Jesus ; and little by 
 little all around her understood that this love 
 was the root of her beautiful life, and thus all 
 her actions spoke, even in silence, of the Lord 
 whom she loved. 
 
 Naomi Thursfield had lived for many years 
 in her little cottage. Her husband, a wild 
 spendthrift, had lost all that she brought him
 
 THE OLD LADY. 9 
 
 sa\e tliis tiny lionie, and here she came to live 
 when his death left her a widow, still young, 
 with three children dependent on her for daily 
 bread. The two eldest children died of fever 
 about a year after IS r aonii came to the cottage, 
 and she was left with one boy, for whom she 
 lived and worked, and to whom all her love 
 seemed to be given. But Tom had inherited 
 his father's wild and changeable nature, and 
 though always tender and affectionate to the 
 mother who loved him so fondly, yet he showed 
 no care for those things which were her deepest 
 jov, and as he grew into manhood began to tire 
 of the life of the valley, of the silent fields, the 
 scattered neighbours, the old familiar work and 
 ways. He wanted, he said, to be a soldier, and 
 see a little life, and his mother, though it 
 almost broke her heart to think of parting 
 with him, had decided to let him go. 
 
 Before the step was taken, however, Tom 
 changed his mind ; he fell in love with and mar- 
 ried one of his old playfellows, Lydia Bowers, 
 who, after living in service in Liverpool, had 
 come home to pay a visit to her old father. 
 For a few years Tom seemed happy and more 
 settled, content to work on his father-in-law's 
 farm, which was one day to be his own ; but 
 when his wife died, which happened when 
 their only child was five years old, Tom's dis- 
 taste for a country life returned more strongly 
 than ever. He neglected the farm, until at 
 last Mr. Bowers was obliged to put it into tho
 
 10 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 hands of his other son-in-law, Samuel Chap 
 man, and then Tom declared that he had no 
 reason nor right to stay any longer in the 
 place. Neither love for his old mother nor for 
 his little child were strong enough to keep him 
 from leaving them, and thus, giving Ruth into 
 the care of her grandmother, Tom Thursfield 
 enlisted in a regiment then on the point of 
 being sent to India. 
 
 He had been absent now for more than six 
 years. He wrote often to his mother, and 
 regularly sent home a small sum from his pay 
 to maintain his little Ruth ; and as Mrs. Thurs- 
 field's cottage was her own, and as she lived 
 yerj simply, she was easily able, by knitting 
 and spinning and the care of her bees, to pro- 
 vide for herself and her grandchild. One or 
 two kind neighbours grew potatoes for her use 
 in the little slip of land round her home. And 
 indeed it was but a slip, for the cottage stood 
 in a narrow gorge, the only outlet from the 
 valley at its western end. Here the river and 
 the road ran side by side for some hundred 
 yards, passing between high walls of rock, 
 which rose at once from their edge, save where 
 in one place, about halfway through, the rocks 
 retreating left a small bay of land by the road- 
 side. 
 
 This was Deepdale End, and in this recess 
 stood Naomi Thursfield's cottage, completely 
 overgrown with ivy and Virginia creeper, 
 clusters of which almost weighed down the
 
 THE OLD LADY. 11 
 
 rustic porch, which Naomi's father had built 
 loug years ago with his own hand. 
 
 By the side of the cottage stood rows of 
 straw beehives, and there was alwaj^s a pleasant 
 hum of bees among the clusters of berried ivy 
 and the nodding sunflowers. A passer-by 
 would see the old woman within, sitting very- 
 upright as she turned her wheel, or read from 
 the old Bible which had belonged to her 
 grandfather, and which Naomi dearly loved. 
 
 She had a busy life, but she always found 
 time to read her Bible, and doubtless the calm 
 and peace which came from prayer, rind from 
 dwelling on God's word, were reasons why she 
 was able to do all her work so quietly and 
 happily, without ever being in a bustle or con- 
 fusion. Both her son Tom and Tom's little 
 Ruth had learned to read from the old Bible, 
 and Tom's letters lay now safely folded be- 
 tween the leaves, to be read over and over 
 again till almost learned by heart. 
 
 Lately they had given her even more pleasure 
 than at first, for there was now and then a line 
 or a word which seemed to speak of new 
 thoughts, as if now that he was away from 
 home, and from his mother's gentle teachings, 
 his heart was waking- up to understand the 
 
 •-> 
 
 up 
 
 truths which he had known from a child, and 
 to feel them his own. Naomi always read to 
 Ruth, now nearly eleven years old, whatever 
 parts of her father's letters she could under 
 stand, but the child did not seem to take much
 
 12 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 interest in them, nor in hearing the stories 
 which her grandmother was always ready to 
 tell about her absent father. 
 
 She could not remember his face or voice, 
 nor could, she picture his soldier's life in a 
 foreign land ; her own days had been passed 
 between her grandmother's cottage and the 
 village school, which lay just by the stone 
 quarry beyond the valley. Her grandmother, 
 her lessons, her work, and her companions, 
 were enough to fill and occupy her life ; her 
 thoughts seldom strayed beyond these, for the 
 sense of duty, which her grandmother had 
 helped to form in her, drew her whole heart 
 into these, and she had little interest to give to 
 the picture of her unknown father. 
 
 Mrs. Thursfield grieved over Ruth's want of 
 love for her father, but believed that as she 
 grew older, and knew more what was due to 
 him, she would begin to care more to know 
 about him and to think of him ; and mean- 
 while Ruth was a dear, good, conscientious 
 child, and the two lived together a very peace- 
 ful contented life in the cottage at Deepdale 
 End.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 father's letter. 
 
 t was an autumn morning : the sky- 
 was clear as if after a slight frost, and 
 bright sunshine rested on the heather 
 which fringed every ledge of the rocks behind 
 Naomi Thursfield's cottage. Ruth stood in the 
 porch in a clean print dress and pinafore, her 
 sun bonnet SAvinging in her hand, and her 
 school-books in a little bag lying on the seat 
 of the porch. It was about half-past eight, 
 and Ruth had full twelve minutes before she 
 need set out for school, so said the old maho- 
 gany clock ticking away in the corner, a clock 
 which had been given Naomi from her parish 
 school, when she married, as a reward for long 
 good conduct. It was Ruth's favourite dream 
 to have just such another given her when she 
 grew up. The little girl stood now looking 
 down the gorge towards Deepdale Valley, and 
 presently she cried out, " Oh, granny, there is 
 Mrs. "Watson, I saw her red cloak as she turned 
 the corner; I thought she wasn't going to
 
 14 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 carry tho letters any more because of her 
 rheumatism ; but there she is, and coming here 
 too. Shall I run to meet her, granny ?" 
 
 " Do, dear, and bid her come in and rest, she 
 must be sore put about, having to come on as 
 far as this. Run, there's a dear lass ; perhaps 
 she brings a letter from father." 
 
 Left alone, Naomi tried in vain to go on 
 with her spinning; her hands shook so that at 
 last, with a smile at herself, she pushed her 
 wheel aside, and folding them in her lap, waited 
 in patience till Ruth's light step was heard re- 
 turning, followed more slowly by the halting 
 tread of the postwoman. 
 
 The old lady's quick eyes saw the soldier's 
 letter in Ruth's hand, and, eagerly taking it, 
 she held it fast. She did not open it till she 
 should be alone, but turned at once with a 
 pleasant welcome to Mrs. Watson. 
 
 " Well, neighbour," she said, when the tired 
 woman was seated by the fire, " I suppose, by 
 what I have heard, that this is the last of my 
 son's letters that you will bring to Deepdale 
 End." 
 
 " "lis a deal easier to talk of giving up than 
 to do it, I find, Mrs. Thursfield; postmaster up 
 town yonder can't find any one to take the work, 
 and I must keep on with it, it seems, whether I 
 can crawl over the ground or no. 'Tis not 
 worth any one's while to take it, and that's the 
 truth, the pay don't keep me in shoe-leather, 
 let alone doctor's stuff. Eh, neighbour, but
 
 father's letter. 15 
 
 'tis a weary world; I often wonder how you 
 can keep the face on it that you do ; but, to be 
 sure, you have an easier life than some of us." 
 
 " Granny has things to trouble her as well 
 as other folks," said Ruth, who was standing 
 by with an attentive face ; " but she always 
 says, ' Patience, bide awhile, give the troubles 
 time to work round, and you'll see another 
 side to them.' " 
 
 "'Tis all very well to talk of patience," 
 said Mrs. Watson, looking not at the child but 
 at Naomi, " but I should like to know how you 
 are to get hold of it when things work so con- 
 trary. Here am I fast, as you may say, between 
 two troubles, here the rheumatics and there 
 the postmaster, who might do my husband a 
 bad turn if I disobliged him and gave up 
 sudden ; between them both my life is pretty 
 well fretted out. Now where's the other side 
 there?" 
 
 " Ah, neighbour," answered Naomi, gently, 
 "Ruth, she's but a child, and she doesn't know 
 as we do how hard it is to let patience get 
 a hold in our hearts. 'Tis mainly like that 
 patch of lemon-thyme ; you may set it, and 
 water it, and tend it, but it is long work and 
 watching before it begins to strike a root; 
 there's but one soil that I ever heard of that 
 would suit patience, it grows out of tribulation 
 watered by the grace of God." 
 
 " Granny," said Ruth, before Mrs. Watson 
 could speak, " good-by, I must run all the wav
 
 16 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 to school ; you must read me father's letter 
 when I come home, it would never do for me 
 to be late, for you know I haven't had a late 
 mark all the quarter." 
 
 " Good-by, child," answered granny ; "you 
 had better go;" but she gave a little sigh, and 
 when Mrs. Watson was gone, and with tremb- 
 ling hand she opened the precious letter, she 
 said to herself, a little sadly, " I wish the dear 
 child could care more about her father ; she is 
 a good girl, but she doesn't seem to me to have 
 her father's loving heart." 
 
 Meanwhile Euth had reached the schoolroom 
 door just half a minute before the time for 
 closing it ; she ran panting up the steps, and, 
 hanging up her bonnet and cape, took her 
 usual place at the head of her class. 
 
 Ruth was head girl, though she was by no 
 means the oldest among the scholars ; but she 
 was so diligent and conscientious that she had 
 worked her way to the first place. Her chief 
 rival had been her friend and cousin, Martha 
 Chapman ; she was both older and cleverer than 
 Euth, but she was not . nearly as steady and 
 regular at her work. Some months before, 
 however, Martha had left school to begin work 
 at the mill, and Euth had now no difficulty 
 in keeping her place before all the other girls. 
 
 To-day Euth went smoothly through her 
 well-prepared lessons, and answered more ques- 
 tions than any other girl in the Bible-class 
 taken by Miss Eyland, the rector's daughter.
 
 father's letter. 17 
 
 After school Miss Ryland called Ruth, to her. 
 ' You have answered very nicely, Ruth," she 
 said. " I see 3-011 read your Bible and remem- 
 ber it." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," answered Ruth, with a 
 curtsey, "granny says we ought all of us to read 
 our Bibles. I read a chapter out to granny 
 every evening." 
 
 "And do you like to read it?" asked Miss 
 Ryland. 
 
 Ruth was a very truthful child, and she 
 thought a little before answering. " Granny 
 says I ought to read it, and so, of course, I like 
 it," she said at last. 
 
 " But when you have a letter from your 
 father, you don't read it because granny savs 
 you ought, do you, Ruth ?" said Miss Ryland. 
 
 Ruth only half- understood the question ; she 
 supposed Miss Ryland must know that a letter 
 had come from her father that morning, so she 
 answered, " Please, ma'am, I haven't read the 
 letter yet, it came just as I was setting off to 
 school." 
 
 " Indeed," said Miss Ryland, smiling, "then 
 I won't keep you any longer ; run home to 
 father's letter at once." 
 
 But Ruth did not run, she walked slowly 
 awa } r > tying her sun-bonnet, and wondering 
 what the lady meant by saying she ought to 
 love to read the Bible; surely it was quite 
 enough if she did read it, without caring why. 
 
 "When she was about half-way home, she 
 
 1:
 
 18 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 heard the patter of quick little feet following 
 her, and presently her sleeve was pulled by a 
 girl, who stood panting, too much out of breath 
 to speak. 
 
 " Why, Ellen, you could have spoken to me 
 at school, if you wanted me, I stayed ever so 
 long," said Ruth to the child, who was her 
 little cousin, Martha's younger sister. 
 
 " Yes, but 1 was kept in ; I was late, you 
 know." 
 
 " You shouldn't be late ; I haven't had a 
 late mark this quarter," said Ruth. 
 
 " Oh, it's easy enough for you ; I shouldn't 
 be late if I lived along with your granny ; 
 but you know how it is up at our place. My 
 pinafore was in the wash, and the other had no 
 strings, and the porridge didn't boil till near 
 school-time, and Ned had hidden my boots up 
 the apple-tree. You see, Martha being ill, 
 mother is overdone with work." 
 
 "Martha ill!" said Ruth. 
 
 " Yes, and that's why I ran after you. She 
 says won't you come and see her after school 
 to-night ; she's lonesome up-stairs, and she can't 
 bear the noise below because of her head." 
 
 "I'll come, if granny can spare me," an- 
 swered Ruth ; " and then, you know, I can tell 
 Martha where father is. We had a letter this 
 morning ; but I haven't read it yet, so good-by, 
 Ellen ; for there is granny at the door, looking 
 out for me." 
 
 " See here, child," said granny, with a bright
 
 / father's letter. 19 
 
 smile on her face, " here's something for you 
 to read for yourself," and she held to Ruth a 
 piece of folded blue paper, on which was 
 written, in large round text, " For little Ruth." 
 
 "Oh, granny, is it for me ? a letter all to 
 myself!" cried Ruth, in delight. " How nice ! I 
 never had a letter in my life before ; but how 
 large father writes, he must think I am a very 
 little girl. I must tell him about my copy- 
 book prize — mustn't I, granny?" 
 
 While Ruth was speaking she had opened 
 the paper, and now she read aloud the few 
 lines, which were the first her father had ever 
 written to her. 
 
 " My dear little Girl, 
 
 "You have never had a letter from 
 father yet, though you must be old enough to 
 road one now ;" ["I could read writing three 
 years back, couldn't I, granny?" put in 
 Ruth ;] " but somehow I always think of you 
 as just the height of granny's knee, as you 
 were when I saw you last." [" I'm up to 
 your shoulder now, ain't I, granny?"] I 
 wonder if you are like your mother ! I hope 
 you are a good girl, and love dear granny very 
 much. Be sure always to remember to pray 
 for father, he does not forget his little Ruth. 
 
 " Your affectionate Father." 
 
 " That's a very nice letter," said Ruth, nod- 
 ding her head with an air of satisfaction ; "I
 
 20 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 didn't know father could write such nice 
 letters ; shouldn't I keep it in my box with 
 mother's prayer-book, and my prizes, and 
 grandfather's silver box ? " 
 
 " Perhaps you had better, dear, when you 
 have read it a little more," said granny. 
 
 " Oh yes, of course I must, and I'll take it 
 to Martha too. She's ill, and, if I may, I want 
 to go and see her after school." 
 
 " You can go, sure enough, child ; but the 
 evenings are drawing in, don't stay too late ; 
 and you shall take your aunt a taste of the new 
 honey ; she was always partial to my honey. 
 I suppose it is the heather makes it good." 
 
 When Ruth was at school that afternoon, 
 Mrs. Thursfield took out once more the letter 
 that had come to her from her absent son, to 
 read again words which had gladdened her 
 heart ; for the letter told of a growing desire to 
 live not for himself, but for God — told of strug- 
 gles with temptation which were not all in 
 vain, and of hopes which reached beyond this 
 life to the unseen eternal world to come.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Martha's home. 
 
 hex afternoon school was over, Ruth set 
 out on her way to her cousin's home, a 
 small farmhouse about a mile up the 
 valley, the very farmhouse in which Ruth her- 
 self had been born, and in which her mother 
 had died. 
 
 The autumn wind was hurrying down the 
 gold and brown chestnut and maple leaves in 
 whirling showers as she passed, and the hedges 
 were decked with long trails of ruddy brambles. 
 A few ripe blackberries were left here and 
 there, but Ruth was too busy with her own 
 thoughts to notice them. 
 
 At first her fancies were of her father. She 
 was trying to remember how he looked and 
 spoke when she saw him last, and to picture 
 what he was perhaps doing at that very mo- 
 ment ; but, soon tired of these unusual dreams, 
 she turned to more familiar thoughts, to the 
 new swarm of bees which granny had given her 
 for her very own, to the stocking which she was 
 'earning to knit, to her lessons for the next day,
 
 22 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 and her chances of getting the good-conduct 
 prize at Christmas. 
 
 She was close to the farmyard, among the 
 trees which shaded its somewhat untidy en- 
 trance, when the sudden fall of an apple on her 
 shoulder, followed by a loud laugh, made her 
 look up to where, above her head, her cousin 
 Ned was seated, gathering apples at his leisure, 
 and just now shaking the tree as violently as 
 he could, that some might fall on Ruth's head 
 as she passed. 
 
 Ruth laughed, and ran on as quickly as she 
 could, Ned shouting after her that she had 
 better stay with him and pick up the apples, 
 for Martha was so cross that it wasn't safe to 
 go near her. 
 
 As she entered the disorderly kitchen, she 
 saw her aunt, her arms covered with flour, 
 busy kneading the dough, though it seemed 
 late in the day to be preparing to bake. Little 
 Ellen, who had been kept from school that 
 afternoon, was bringing in armfuls of sticks 
 and brambles with which to heat the clay oven. 
 
 Her aunt looked up as Ruth's shadow fell 
 across the threshold. " Martha will be finely 
 pleased to see you, Ruth," she said ; " she has 
 been fretting for company. You know your 
 way up-stairs, but don't you go without my 
 seeing you ; I want you to carry a basket of 
 apples to your grannj', they are fine this year." 
 
 Leaving her honey with her aunt, Ruth 
 climbed the winding stairs and entered a little
 
 martha's home. 23 
 
 narrow room at their head. There Martha lay- 
 on an unmade and disorderly bed. The air was 
 hot and stifling, and the girl was tossing, with 
 a flushed face, from side to side, uttering little 
 moans, more of restlessness and weariness than 
 of pain. 
 
 " So you are come at last, Ruth," she said, 
 discontentedly; "I can tell you it isn't nice 
 lying here alone all day," 
 
 "Now I am come," answered Ruth, cheer- 
 fully, " let me try if I can't make you a little 
 more comfortable ; " and unclasping the case- 
 ment window, she let the sweet fresh air find its 
 way into the room ; then going to the bed, she 
 smoothed the tumbled clothes, took off the heavy 
 patchwork quilt, shook and turned the pillow, 
 and cooled Martha's aching head with a wet 
 towel. 
 
 "Now, if I might only brush your hair," 
 said Ruth. 
 
 "Don't touch my head, whatever you do. 
 No, I couldn't bear that ; sit down and talk to 
 me. Tell me about uncle ; Nelly said you had 
 heard." 
 
 "When the letter had been produced and 
 admired, Martha began once more to toss and 
 turn. " I wish you had brought a story-book," 
 she said ; " I want something to think of. I'm 
 tired of counting the fly- spots on the ceiling, 
 and the patterns of the paper." 
 
 " I couldn't see to read it, if I had one/ 
 answered Ruth ; " shall I sing to you ?"
 
 24 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 " You can sing if you like," answered Martha, 
 ungraciously ; " but it will make my head ache, 
 I know, and then you'll have to leave off." ■ 
 
 Ruth sat down on the window seat, and in a 
 clear low voice began to sing : 
 
 "Then; is a land of pure delight, 
 Where saints immortal reign, 
 Infinite day excludes the night, 
 And pleasures banish pain." 
 
 She sang the hymn to the end, and then for 
 a few minutes both children w r ere silent. 
 
 "Do you like that?" asked Ruth, presently. 
 
 "Yes," said Martha, "I didn't mind it; 
 your voice is cool somehow, it makes me feel 
 quiet." 
 
 Ruth laughed, and coming to the side of the 
 bed put her little hand on Martha's hot forehead. 
 " Your voice is like that," said Martha, eagerly, 
 holding the cool hand fast ; " oh, my head is so 
 hot : now don't go away to the window again, 
 but sit here close by me on the bed and talk ; 
 tell me, do you really like hvmns, Ruth ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think I do," said'Ruth. 
 
 " I don't mean like them to sing, you know, 
 they are all very well for that, I sing them 
 myself sometimes at work when I can't re- 
 member any more songs ; but do you care for 
 them in a book ? " 
 
 " I never thought about it," answered Ruth ; 
 " I learn them for Sunday school, you know." 
 
 " There's that hymn you've been singing," 
 went on Martha ; " it's all about heaven ; now
 
 martha's home. 25 
 
 I don't know anything about heaven. Of course 
 I'm sure there is such a place, and some day or 
 other, if I don't do anything very bad, I suppose 
 I shall go there ; but I don't want to think 
 about it now, do you ? " 
 
 Ruth's candid little face looked very thought- 
 ful for a while, and then she answered, slowly: 
 
 " Yes, I think I do sometimes ; I know when 
 granny talks about heaven I like to hear her." 
 
 " Well, I don't care to know about it now ; I 
 like to think about my work and my next 
 holiday, and when I shall buy a new gown. 
 Sometimes, you know, I make fancies about 
 being very rich, and giving father lots of 
 money, so that he need not work so hard, that's 
 quite far enough for me to look on. I shall 
 have to die before I can get to heaven, and I 
 don't like to think of dying," said Martha, with 
 a little shudder. 
 
 " I don't see why we need be afraid of dying, 
 Martha, because, you know, our Lord Jesus has 
 promised to take care of us if we trust to him." 
 
 Martha gave a little impatient jerk of her 
 head on the pillow, but she said nothing, and 
 Ruth went on : 
 
 " Then, you know, granny saj^s we ought to 
 think about heaven because it is the place 
 where God is, and because it will be our home 
 some day if we do what God bids us ; so I do 
 think about it sometimes, just because granny 
 says I ought." 
 
 " Oh, 'I ought' indeed," cried Martha, with
 
 26 JOYS AND SOIUIOWS. 
 
 another jerk, "I don't do things because I ought, 
 I do them because I like them. I don't make 
 father his tea, and help mother with the wash, 
 because I ought, but because they are good to 
 me, and I love them. You talk so much about 
 ought, Ruth." 
 
 " Well, of course, so does granny. I love 
 God because I ought, don't you, Martha?" 
 
 "No, I don't, and I don't believe any one 
 can," answered Martha, shortly. 
 
 " I'm sure I love father just because I ought," 
 said Ruth. " I can't remember him at all, you 
 know ; but I love him because he is father." 
 
 "Well, Ruth, I'm sure you have talked 
 enough about that. My head is getting bad 
 again, and your hand is so hot now it makes 
 me worse." 
 
 " I haven't time to get it cool again, Martha 
 dear, for granny said I mustn't be late, and see 
 how dark it is getting. I'll try and come again 
 to-morrow if you ain't better, and bring a story- 
 book, if you like." 
 
 "Yes, mind 3^011 do ; but you had better be 
 going now if granny said 'you ought,'" said 
 Martha, with a little laugh ; and Ruth was 
 soon on her way home with a well-filled basket 
 of apples on her arm.
 
 A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 t was nearly dark as Ruth, left the 
 shadow of the trees, and gained the 
 road for her walk home. The 
 whistling 1 shrilly through hedge 
 
 high 
 
 wind came 
 
 and brake, and the rustling leaves made strange 
 sounds as she passed. But Ruth never thought 
 of feeling afraid ; she knew every turn of the 
 road, every tree and rock that she could see in 
 rough outline around her, and she tripped 
 soberly along, singing in her sweet clear voice 
 some of her school hymns : 
 
 "Oh my sweet home, Jerusalem ! 
 Thy joys when shall I see ? 
 The King that sitteth on the throne, 
 And thy felicity?" 
 
 And as the beautiful words passed her lips, 
 she decided that certainly she did like to sing 
 about heaven. Just as Ruth entered the nar- 
 row gorge of Deepdale End, the moon, which 
 had been hidden behind the hills, showed its 
 bright round in the sky, and threw dark gro- 
 tesque shadows on the path before her. Rulh
 
 28 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 insensibly raised her voice as she passed into 
 the gloom, singing louder for company : 
 
 " Thy gardens ami thy godly walks 
 Continually are green, 
 "Where grow such sweet and lovely flowers 
 As nowhere else are seen." 
 
 ""Who's there?" cried a voice, above her 
 head as it seemed ; " stop, come here." 
 
 Ruth did stop, feet and voice at once, and 
 her heart began to beat fast. She looked all 
 round her, but could not see any one, and the 
 voice had a strange shrill sound, which did not 
 seem natural, she thought. She stood quite 
 silent for a little while, but did not hear the 
 voice again. 
 
 "Please did any one speak?" she said, 
 timidly. 
 
 "Yes, it's me," answered the same sharp 
 voice, clearly above her head ; "I fell down 
 here, and I'm broken." 
 
 " Oh dear me," said Ruth, looking up to- 
 wards the rocks, " and who are you?" 
 
 " I'm the Sergeant, and I'm broken right in 
 pieces ; can't you come and get me down ?" 
 
 " Oh, dear," said Ruth again, " I don't 
 know you at all, and I don't know what I can 
 do, but I'll come up if I can;" and setting 
 down her basket, she began to tiy to climb the 
 rock towards the ledge from which the voice 
 seemed to come. After some unsuccessful 
 attempts, and some slips, which were dangerous 
 in the uncertain light, Ruth found herself at
 
 A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 29 
 
 last standing on a ledge of rock about four 
 feet wide. It was covered thickly with heather, 
 on which, at her feet, lay a dark heap of some- 
 thing that seemed to move a little as she stood 
 beside it, and presently she saw a pair of very 
 bright eyes peering at her from under a crop 
 of matted hair. 
 
 " 3Iy legs and arms is snapped like matches," 
 said the voice, " and I want to be took to 
 the workhus, that's about what I want ; the 
 doctor will know how to set me to rights." 
 
 " The workhouse is six miles off," said Ruth, 
 feeling a little less frightened now that she 
 could see that the strange voice belonged to a 
 boy. 
 
 " Then I should be dead afore I got there, 
 and I shall be dead all the same if I'm left 
 here, so there ain't no great odds," said the 
 boy, as if determined to give himself no more 
 trouble about the matter. 
 
 " If I only knew who you were, I would try 
 to think what to do," said Ruth. 
 
 " I told you once I was the Sergeant. It 
 don't matter who I am that I see ; and are 
 you sure there is no workhus nigher than six 
 miles ? ain't there no refuge, nor no casual 
 ward, nor nothing ? Why, what a queer lot 
 you must be down here." 
 
 " I think perhaps I had better go and tell 
 granny," said Ruth, doubtfully, "she lives 
 just down here, you know." 
 
 " You know ! " echoed the boy ; " that's good,
 
 30 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 that is ; why I never set foot here till to-night, 
 or I should have known better than to go 
 breaking my bones like this, worse luck ; but 
 go you and tell granny, only I don't like being 
 left alone here ; haven't you a drop of some- 
 thing about you? I'm nigh perished with 
 cold." 
 
 " I've nothing but apples," answered Ruth. 
 
 " They're not much, but they are better than 
 nothing to a half-starved chap ; bring them 
 here, and then you be off." 
 
 Ruth climbed down and brought the apples, 
 and then stooping, held one to the boy's 
 mouth ; but, to her surprise, he put out his 
 left arm, seized the fruit, and began to eat it 
 eagerly. 
 
 " I don't think that arm can be broken," 
 said Ruth, standing by and watching him. 
 
 " That's all you know ; it is, I tell you, only 
 the other is broken worse. But never you 
 stop to talk, girls are always talking ; you be 
 off to granny." 
 
 Ruth rushed home at a very unusual pace, 
 and burst into the cottage. " Oh, granny," 
 she cried, eagerly, " a boy has fallen down the 
 rock ; he is on the big ledge, and he says his 
 arms and legs are broken, and he'll die if he isn't 
 taken to to the workhouse. Oh, what shall we 
 do?" 
 
 Ruth was in such haste and excitement that 
 she did not notice her Uncle Chapman, Martha's 
 father, who was sitting by the fire, and 3he
 
 A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 31 
 
 o a start and a little jump as his gruff voico 
 answered her : 
 
 " So you want granny to come and lift him 
 down off the big ledge, and carry him to the 
 Union ; don't you think there'd be room for 
 me to help a bit?" 
 
 " Oh, uncle, is it you ? I'm so glad, now 
 you can tell us just what to do." 
 
 " Ay, ay, child, you and the old lady would 
 get finely taken in, like enough. I must go 
 and see the lad." 
 
 " Do make haste, uncle, I'm afraid he'll die 
 if you don't. He is starving, only I left him 
 aunt's apples ; I thought I might, granny, as 
 he was so hungry ; and he is eating them up so 
 fast," 
 
 " Eating apples, is he ?" said Mr. Chapman, 
 as he twisted his red comforter round and 
 round his throat ; " that doesn't sound much 
 like dying ; but we'll see. "Who is it, any one 
 from the village?" 
 
 "No, uncle, I don't know him at all; but 
 he says his name is Sergeant," and Ruth hesi- 
 tated a little over the unusual title. 
 
 " Well, we'll see," said Mr. Chapman ; " here, 
 old lady, have you a lantern handy ? Sit you 
 still, and Ptuth and me will look after the Ser- 
 geant and the apples." 
 
 " He'll have "to be brought here," said Mrs. 
 Thursfield, as she lighted the lantern. 
 
 " Ay, what's that ? " cried the farmer ; " why, 
 old lady, you are never going to bring a com-
 
 32 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 mon tramping lad into this place, as clean 
 everywhere as new bleached linen, all laid up 
 in lavender, as one might say." 
 
 " Well, I don't say I like it, Mr. Chapman, 
 but where else is he to go ? I can't turn from 
 my door those the good Lord sends to me." 
 
 " But where's the money to come from ? you 
 must think of that. The boy may lie ill for 
 weeks if he's as bad as Ruth says." 
 
 " I can't make it all out plain yet, Mr. 
 Chapman," answered Naomi, " but I see clear 
 enough that the poor boy mustn't be left to 
 die." 
 
 " And he will die, uncle, if you ain't quick," 
 said Huth, giving an impatient pull to her 
 uncle's coat tails, and when Ruth was care- 
 fully wrapped in her grandmother's warm 
 shawl, the two set out on their errand.
 
 THE SERGEANT. 
 
 fEFORE long, Ruth and her uncle were 
 standing at the foot of the ledge ; then 
 the farmer, bidding Ruth to stay 
 below, climbed to the spot where the boy was 
 lying, and holding his lantern low, looked at 
 him as he lay, still busily eating apples. " Ay, 
 so," he said to himself, " a regular tramp ; poor 
 old lady ! " 
 
 The boy's quick ear heard the words. " No 
 more a tramp than you are, master ; I'm taking 
 a holiday, walking to see the country like 
 gentlefolks do. Take care how you call honest 
 folks names." 
 
 " Well," said the farmer, laughing good- 
 naturedly, " be that how it may, your walking 
 is spoiled for the present, I fancy. Where are 
 you hurt ? Come, let's know just what's the 
 matter with you ? " 
 
 " "What are you come for ? " said the boy, 
 instead of answering ; " she said she was a-going 
 for granny." 
 
 " Sure enough, I'm not granny, but I'm 
 
 c
 
 34 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 come to see what I can do for you, only first I 
 must know the damage. Speak up, boy, what's 
 amiss ? " 
 
 " Everything is amiss. I'm pretty bad, I 
 can tell you ; I ache all over, and my legs is 
 broke — and my back." 
 
 " Can you stand ? " 
 
 "No, I can't," he answered, half sullenly, 
 " and I ain't a-going to try, neither." 
 
 " Give me your hand," said Mr. Chapman ; 
 and the boy, dropping the core of an apple, 
 held out his left hand. 
 
 " Now give me the other," said the farmer. 
 
 " I can't move the other, it's broke." v ^ 
 
 " Ruth," shouted Mr. Chapman, " take off 
 your shawl, and try to throw it up here tome." 
 
 This was soon done, and then the farmer, 
 gently raising the boy, placed it under him, 
 so that with Ruth's help he could be safely 
 lowered ; for though the ledge was many feet 
 above the road, there was a lower one beneath 
 on which Ruth could stand, and on which the 
 boy could be laid in his descent. Presently they 
 were all on the road, and then Mr. Chapman, 
 giving the lantern to Ruth, lifted the boy in 
 his arms as he would have carried an infant, 
 and began to carry him towards the cottage. 
 
 " Where are you taking me ? " moaned the 
 boy ; " is it far ? " and Ruth could see, as the 
 gleam from the lantern fell on his face, that his 
 lips were drawn with pain, and the heavy drops 
 were standing on his forehead, He was biting
 
 •'•"i: BEROEA.HT CARRIED TO BEErDALE ENP.
 
 THE SERGEANT. 37 
 
 his lower lip hard, as if to keep himself from 
 littering any cry of pain. As Ruth watched, 
 she saw him growing even more deadly pale, 
 until his head fell back on her uncle's shoulder. 
 The boy had. fainted. 
 
 " Poor fellow, he'll come to when once the 
 old. lady sees to him," said Mr. Chapman, 
 carrying him towards the gleam of ruddy light 
 which shone from the open cottage door. He 
 was soon safely and carefully laid on a bed 
 which granny had prepared for him in a corner 
 of her one sitting-room, and when he came to 
 himself he saw an old and kindly face bending 
 over him, placing between his lips a spoonful 
 of warm tea. The boy smiled at granny as 
 she fed him, and the two — the calm, refined old 
 woman, and the wild, neglected London boy 
 — were fast friends from that minute. 
 
 " JNow, when is the doctor a-coming ? ; ' he 
 said, presently. " There's plenty wants doing 
 to me, I can tell you." 
 
 " That's a good thought," said Mr. Chapman, 
 rising hastily ; " doctor 's bound to be at my 
 place to-night ; my wife wouldn't be easy 
 without he had a look at Martha ; if I'm 
 off at once I shall catch him, and I'll send him 
 down here straight. Don't you trouble your- 
 self about paying him, there's a good soul," 
 he whispered, as he parted with granny at the 
 door, " I'll see that squared, any way. I've 
 had a share in bringing him here, and 'tis the 
 least I can do. 
 
 >j 
 
 -%
 
 38 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 When he was gone, and Ruth had taken 
 the tea which had been kept warm for her, 
 granny bade her read a chapter of the 
 Bible aloud, as usual. " Doctor won't be here 
 yet," she said, " and we can't do any more for 
 the poor fellow till he comes. I'm afraid of 
 touching him to wash or tend him till the 
 doctor has seen him." 
 
 Ruth brought the old Bible, and opened it 
 at the place where they were reading. " It's 
 about ' the Good Shepherd ' to-night," she said ; 
 " shall I begin now, granny ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear, do," answered the old lady, and 
 Ruth began to read. 
 
 The boy lay on his bed, his eyes wandering 
 over the cottage room, noticing every bright 
 saucepan and gaily-coloured dish, the spinning- 
 wheel and the hanks of blue yarn, the old lady's 
 snowy cap and the hearth-rug worked of pieces 
 of cloth. It seemed that he paid no attention 
 to the words that Ruth was reading, but cer- 
 tainly he moaned less, and lay, save for those 
 restless brown eyes, quite quiet. 
 
 By-and-by the doctor came, and examined 
 his new patient ; the right arm was pronounced 
 to be broken, and was at once set ; one ankle 
 was badly twisted and sprained, and the poor 
 boy's head and shoulders were terribly bruised. 
 There might be internal injuries, the doctor 
 said, time would show ; in the meanwhile he 
 must be kept quiet, and on no account be moved 
 from his bed.
 
 THE SERGEANT. 39 
 
 " Well," said the boy, as granny came back 
 from the door, where she had been talking with 
 the doctor — "well, and am I to go to the 
 workhus to-night ? " 
 
 " ISo, my boy," answered granny, " you are 
 to stay here ; you'll be taken care of. I'm but 
 a poor woman, but Ruth and I will do the best 
 we can for you, and you have nothing to do but 
 to lie still and get well. Now, if you are easy 
 we'll bid you good-night ; you lie close to the 
 door of the sleeping-room, and if you_ want 
 anything can make shift with this stick to 
 knock against it. I'm but a light sleeper, and 
 1 shall be sure to hear you." 
 
 For the first time, tears came into the boy's 
 bright eyes. " Well," he said, " if you ain't a 
 good woman ! " and with a half sob he turned 
 his head away. 
 
 " Good-night, my dear," said granny, "and 
 be sure you don't forget your prayers."
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 granny's teaching. 
 
 jut, my dear," said granny, 'the Ser- 
 geant' is such a strange name, nut 
 like any I ever heard down in these 
 parts. I'll never believe that any one went and 
 had you christened ' the Sergeant.' " 
 
 " Did I tell you they did ? Such as us don't 
 have christened names. Folks call me ' the 
 Sergeant ' because, you see, I'm going to be a 
 soldier when I'm big enough to 'list," answered 
 the boy, "and they see me a drilling myself 
 and a marching ; but 'tis nothing to the names 
 some of the other fellows had: there's 'Matches,' 
 and there's ' Larks,' and there's ' Penny Whis- 
 tle,' and oh, lots more like them." 
 
 " I never heard of such things before," said 
 granny, looking very concerned, " calling poor 
 boys out of their right names. Well, if Ser- 
 geant isn't your christened name, sure you must 
 have one. What is it ? because I shall call you 
 by it, whatever they do up in London." 
 
 " I've no other that I ever heard tell of," the
 
 granny's teaching. 41 
 
 boy answered, rather sullenly ; " you can call 
 rne what you please, it ain't no odds to me." 
 
 " I must find you a name out of the Bible, 
 then. I, and my children, and my children's 
 children, all had their names out of the Bible." 
 And, drawing the book towards her, she opened 
 it with a pin, in the old and rather superstitious 
 fashion still lingering in some country places. 
 
 The boy was lying at his ease on his bed, his 
 bandaged arm resting on a pillow, and he him- 
 self so much better as to be quite disposed to 
 take interest in all that went on in the little 
 cottage room. His face was clean now, _ and 
 his tangled locks had been combed and straight- 
 ened, not without many outcries and much 
 grumbling on the part of the boy, who had 
 borne so patiently the pain of his injured arm 
 and ankle. 
 
 A week had gone by since he had been 
 carried to Mrs. Thursfield's cottage, and he was 
 now mending steadily, though slowly, carefully 
 tended by the gentle hands of the good old 
 lady. The boy watched her now as she opened 
 the" Bible and passed her finger down the page, 
 until she came to a name. " I shall call you 
 Hezekiah, my dear," she said; "it's a good 
 name. Hezekiah was a good king in the 
 
 Bible." 
 
 And Hezekiah he was called by granny. 
 He was almost entirely her charge, for Ruth 
 was not only away at school, and with Martha, 
 who was not yet able to return to her work, but
 
 42 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 was also rather afraid of the strange boy, so 
 different from any in the village. On his part, 
 he did not care to conceal his scorn of her as 
 " only a girl ; " he disliked to hear her talk of 
 her lessons, or to see her show her copy-book. 
 
 "With granny, however, he was not only 
 sociable, but docile and affectionate. From the 
 first she seemed to have gained his heart. His 
 eyes would follow her everywhere as she moved 
 about, and he would thank her at times for her 
 kindness with a burst of gratitude that sur- 
 prised while it pleased the quiet, reserved old 
 lady. 
 
 As he grew better, and was allowed to leave 
 his bed and crawl about a little, he would follow 
 her to the hives, or lean on her arm in her walks 
 round the little garden, where the old lady was 
 still able to pull up stray weeds, or to train the 
 shoots of the young trees which grew against 
 the rocks behind. 
 
 Of all the fowls he soon made great friends, 
 and the only matter in which he was not willing 
 to obey " granny," as he now called Mrs. 
 Thursfield, was in his earnest desire that his 
 favourite, a young white hen, might be allowed 
 to keep him company within the cottage. In 
 a fortnight's time he was able to walk far 
 enough to hunt for the eggs, which he always 
 carried to granny with great pride and delight, 
 making her feel them to see that they were 
 then warm from the nest. 
 
 Naomi — notwithstanding all the trouble
 
 granny's teaching. 43 
 
 which he gave her, nay, perhaps partly be- 
 cause of the trouble — liked the boy's company ; 
 but Ruth was often impatient of his long stay 
 in their cottage. " When will he go, granny?" 
 she would say to Mrs. Thursfield at night. 
 
 " He must stay till he is strong enough to 
 fend for himself, Ruth, my dear," the old lady 
 would answer gently ; " I could never turn 
 from my doors one who was sent to me by the 
 good Lord." 
 
 " But, granny dear," Ruth would say, put 
 ting her arms round Mrs. Thursfield's neck, 
 "you work hard enough without having to 
 keep a big boy like that ; only look at the 
 potatoes he eats ; why we shall not have half 
 enough to last us through the winter." 
 
 " It won't be for long, Ruth. Of course he 
 must go as soon as his arm gets a little 
 stronger ; and, my child, it doesn't become us 
 to grudge him the little we can do for him 
 when we think Who it was that said, ' Inas- 
 much as ye have done it unto one of the least 
 of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.' 
 Why, child, we should be thankful to work 
 hard, so that we may do some small thing for 
 the dear Lord Jesus." 
 
 " I suppose it is right, granny," Ruth 
 would answer, only half convinced ; " but I 
 can't help hoping it won't be for so very long." 
 
 One morning when Ruth had gone to school, 
 the boy was sitting in a large chintz-covered 
 arm-chair which was once Ruth's great-grand
 
 44 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 father's. He was watching all granny's move- 
 ments with his quick brown eyes. He saw her 
 peel 'the potatoes, and place them on the fire to 
 boil, sweep up and brighten the clean shining 
 grate, dust the coloured pictures from the Bible 
 which hung against the walls, and presently 
 draw her spectacles from their case and sit 
 down to read her morning chapter. But the 
 dear old lady's eyes were becoming dim ; it was 
 difficult for her now, even with her glasses, to 
 read the crabbed brown letters, which showed 
 but faintly against the yellow paper, and this 
 morning she coidd hardly read at all, the lines 
 seemed to be running up and down the paper, 
 and the familiar words formed themselves into 
 strange sentences. 
 
 " It must be the glasses," said granny, aloud ; 
 and taking them off, she polished them'carefully 
 till they shone, and then placed them again on 
 her nose, but she tried in vain to read. " I'm 
 getting an old woman, sure enough," she said ; 
 "the type can't be changed, but certainly it 
 seems smaller than it once did. I must wait 
 for Faith's young eyes to- help mine ; ft is 
 the _ Lord's will, and I must not complain." 
 Patiently, though sadly, she closed the Bible in 
 which she had read every morning of her life 
 since she was a little child. 
 
 " Granny," said the boy, suddenly, " you are 
 crying ; what's that for ? Here, hand me over 
 ;he book ; I don't like reading over and above, 
 but I can't stand seeing you cry."
 
 granny's teaching. 45 
 
 "You read?" cried granny, astonished. 
 
 "Read! Yes, I should think so, indeed. I 
 didn't go to night-school for nothing, I can 
 tell you." 
 
 " Then you haYe read the Bible sometimes ? " 
 
 " Yes, I suppose I have ; I reckon that was 
 the book we was taught out of; but I never 
 give no heed to what it was about, you know. 
 I was bound to learn to read, and that was all I 
 cared about. A fellow gets on better when he 
 can read ; it makes him worth a precious deal 
 more, I can tell you." 
 
 " And can you read right out, or onty spell ?" 
 
 " You give me the book, and I'll soon show 
 you ; any sort of print or writing either, it's all 
 one to me, I can make them out easy. I was 
 getting on finely, being such a scholar, and had 
 got a place in a shop ; but master, he see me 
 reading a letter of his one day for practice, and 
 he up and turned me off, so I thought I'd have 
 a look at the country before I fixed myself 
 again, and that was how I came here." 
 
 The Bible was by this time in the boy's 
 hands, and he was soon reading very fast and 
 in a loud voice the chapter which granny had 
 pointed out. He was evidently very proud of 
 his reading, and of the case with which he 
 disposed of the long names, but he seemed to 
 take very little notice of the sense of what he 
 read. From this time granny's morning chapter 
 was regularly read to her by the boy, who began 
 little by little to pay more attention to the
 
 46 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 meaning of the words, and at last to ask sharp 
 questions of granny, which the old lady did not 
 always know how to answer. 
 
 The boy's mind was waking up, but it did 
 not seem that as yet anything that he had read 
 or heard had spoken to his heart. 
 
 The third week of the boy's stay at the 
 cottage found him drawing near the story of 
 the last days of our Saviour's life on earth. 
 Granny noticed a change in the boy's manner 
 of reading. He seemed to think less about the 
 display of his own powers, and took more in- 
 terest in the wonderful events of the holy and 
 perfect life of which he was reading. At length 
 he came to the chapters which tell of our Lord's 
 agony and shameful death for us, and as he 
 read his voice changed, and at last granny saw 
 the big tears stealing down the boy's cheeks. 
 
 " How could the villains hurt Him, and him 
 so good ? couldn't he stop them, or why did he 
 let them do it ?" cried the boy, clenching his 
 hands. 
 
 " He let them do it because he loved us and 
 loved them, and wished to die to save us all " 
 answered granny. 
 
 "Was it because he loved me too?" asked 
 the boy, in an awe-struck tone. 
 
 " Yes, dear ; it was for you and for me, and 
 for every one. He loves us so that he died that 
 we might be happy and good always," answered 
 the old lady. 
 
 " And can't we do anvthing for him ? If he
 
 granny's teaching. 47 
 
 loves me like that, I love him, I do," said the 
 boy, eagerly, rubbing his eyes to keep back the 
 starting tears; "I'd like to do something for 
 him." 
 
 "I will tell you what he says in his book. 
 He says (see here, you can read it for yourself), 
 ' If you love me, keep my commandments/" 
 
 "But what does that mean, granny? I don't 
 know." 
 
 " That is doing what he tells us ; we must 
 be always good and gentle, and be honest, and 
 speak the truth." 
 
 " Does he really say we mustn't tell lies if 
 we love him?" interrupted the boy, eagerly; 
 "are you quite sure?" 
 
 " Indeed he does. He says that all who love 
 and make lies will be shut out for ever from the 
 holy place where he dwells." 
 
 " You are sure of that ? Well, then, I'll tell 
 you ; I've told you a lie, granny, but I didn't 
 know then that he didn't like it. I told you 
 I had no christened name, but I have, and it's 
 David — there now ;" and the boy looked up in 
 Naomi's face more defiant than penitent. 
 
 " Whatever could make you tell me a lie 
 about such a thing?" asked granny, sorrow- 
 fully. 
 
 " David was mother's name for me," he 
 answered, his bright eyes softening as he looked 
 down. " Xo one else ever called me David, and 
 I didn't think I should like to hear you say it. 
 'Davie,' she used to say, 'Davie, my child,
 
 48 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 come here/ and she used to smooth my hair 
 and kiss me, and sing me songs at night. I 
 remember it all, though it is so long ago. I 
 haven't had many people to be kind to me since 
 she died, till I came here." 
 
 "Poor boy," said granny, going up to him, 
 and bending over the softened face ; " poor boy, 
 I'm glad you have told me, but none of us shall 
 call you ' Davie ; ' you won't mind hearing us 
 say ' David,' will you ? I had rather not call 
 you out of your right name now I know it." 
 
 " No, I shan't mind now," said the boy, con- 
 sidering; "and I shouldn't mind 'Davie' much 
 if it was only you, but I didn't want Ruth and 
 the others to say it."
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE NEW POSTMAN. 
 
 avid was nearly strong again. He could 
 run and walk almost as well as ever, 
 and no traces of his accident remained, 
 weakness in the right arm, which he 
 He had now been for more than 
 inmate of Mrs. Thursfield's cot- 
 
 except 
 had broken, 
 a month an 
 tage, and granny herself began to think that 
 the time was near when he must go. Day 
 after day, however, she said to herself that she 
 would wait just a little longer ; for her loving 
 heart warmed to the poor friendless boy, who 
 seemed to cling to her almost as if she were 
 the mother whom he had loved so much. She 
 liked to hear his merry laugh, and his quick 
 step, and to see his bright eyes soften when he 
 came to her side ; she liked to see the boy busy 
 in the garden, though he weeded and planted 
 after a fashion which certainly had never been 
 seen before at Deepdale End. She depended 
 too on his eyes now for her morning chapter ; 
 and beyond everything else, she rejoiced in the 
 hope that the untaught lad who had been sent 
 
 D
 
 50 JOTS AND SORROWS. 
 
 to her was being led, by the blessing of God, 
 into that knowledge "which maketh wise the 
 single. 
 
 At night, when the old lad}- lay awake, she 
 would think of the wild life to which the boy 
 might be driven back if she sent him away, 
 and would resolve that, at least for the present, 
 he should make his home with her. But in 
 the day time, when she looked at her lessening 
 store ol potatoes and meal, and thought of the 
 long winter now only just begun, she would 
 feel that it was impossible for her to maintain 
 much longer the stout and hungry lad. Be- 
 sides, it was not good, she knew, for a strong 
 boy to live idle at home ; and what work could 
 be found for him here that he could do ? He was 
 quite unused to country work ; and as for the 
 mills, the old lady's dislike to them was so 
 strong, that the thought of finding him work 
 there never came into her mind. 
 
 But he might stay a little longer, at any rate, 
 she thought, if she could only sell at a good 
 price her store of knitted stockings. Once she 
 had some good customers for them in the large 
 city, ten miles distant, which had been the 
 market town and the centre of the district, 
 when New Melton, was but a cluster of farm 
 cottages. Lately, however, she had not felt 
 strong enough for the long walk thither ; and 
 as for going by train, it never occurred to Mrs. 
 Thursheld as possible. " There were no trains 
 when she was young," she said ; " she did not
 
 THE NEW POSTMAN 51 
 
 doubt they were good things ; but for her part, 
 she was too old to learn new fashions." 
 
 So a lift in a neighbour's cart as far as New 
 Melton was all the help Naomi was likely to 
 have in her journey to the city; for thither 
 she was determined to go, and see what she 
 could do, before she told David that he must 
 leave his new home. No word was said before 
 him of the reason for her journey — so long as 
 he stayed with them, he must feel himself 
 welcome. 
 
 Ruth was not to go to school that day; and 
 the two children felt very important, as they 
 swept and arranged the house, fed the fowls, 
 and stood to watch the bees, who, however, had 
 na thought of venturing out of their hives into 
 the keen frosty wind. When all these things 
 were done, Ruth took her sewing, and David, 
 sitting down on the rug before the fire, began 
 to talk to Ruth more confidentially than he 
 had ever done before. 
 
 " I know why granny is gone," he said ; "I 
 cost money to keep, and so she wants to sell 
 her stockings and things. I heard you talk- 
 ing about it last night. I'll tell you what, 
 Ruth, I must be finding something to do." 
 
 " In London you mean ? Yes, I suppose you 
 must soon ; your foot is quite well, isn't it?" 
 
 "As well as ever it was — 'tis my arm that's 
 bad; but I'm not going back to London, I 
 know better than that. Granny won't turn 
 me oil', it' I up and earn my keep, I know."
 
 52 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 Ruth's honest little face did not look at all 
 bright at the announcement, but she did not 
 speak. 
 
 " Oh, I know well enough you don't like it," 
 said David ; " but granny don't mind, and that's 
 enough. You see, the thing is, I want to learn ; 
 I thought I was a clever fellow, but there's a 
 deal more I want to know now. Send me back 
 to the old life, and in six weeks I shall have 
 clean forgot it all." 
 
 " I'm sure I don't want you to forget," said 
 Ruth. 
 
 "You see, I never cared about anything, 
 not whether it were right or wrong, till I read 
 to granny about Jesus, and how he loved me ; 
 and now I do want to be good and please him, 
 and I can't if I go away. They were bad 
 people I lived with before ; you don't know the 
 half of it," said David, with a little shudder. 
 
 ".•Well, but David, what work can you do 
 here ? "What did you do up in London?" 
 
 " Oh, never you mind what I did — crossings, 
 and errands, and horses, and head- over-heels, 
 and lots of dodges ; but I was a trying to be 
 respectable, I was, till master turned me off for 
 reading a letter, like I was telling granny." 
 
 " A letter ! Why, David, I wonder if you 
 could — But no ; it's no use ; they would never 
 give it you !" exclaimed Ruth. 
 
 " What is it, Ruth ? ' If I could,' what ? Do 
 tell me." 
 
 " It wouldn't be any use your trying ; but I
 
 THE NEW POSTMAN. 53 
 
 was thinking of the letters — carrying them 
 like Mrs. Watson does, you know. She wants 
 to give it up ; but they would never let a boy 
 like you take them." 
 
 " Wouldn't they ! we'll" see. Why, Ruth, 
 it's the very thing ; for I can walk as well as 
 any one, and I shouldn't have to use my arm 
 for heavy work. Who is it that gives it ? I'll 
 be off and ask before granny comes home. 
 What fun ! " and David turned a summersault 
 on the cottage floor, to Ruth's great dismay. 
 Ruth gave him the best direction she could for 
 finding Mr. Thompson, who was the postmaster 
 at New Melton, and David set out at once on 
 his errand, only staying to polish his face and 
 hands, to smooth his hair, and to brush his 
 boots, that he might appear before Mr. 
 Thompson a respectable member of society, 
 fit to be trusted with any number of letters. 
 As it happened, the postmaster had that morn- 
 ing been greatly disturbed about this very 
 question of a letter-carrier for the Deepdale 
 district, Mrs. Watson persisting that she could 
 not carry the bag a single week longer, and no 
 other man or woman who was willing to take 
 her place presenting themselves. 
 
 All this was in David's favour, and when he 
 entered Mr. Thompson's counting-room with 
 his eager request, he was at least listened to 
 with patience. The fact that he lived at Deep- 
 dale End was a help to him in Mr. Thompson's 
 opinion, for he knew Mrs Thursfield well, and
 
 54 JOYS AND SORROW'S*. 
 
 respected her thoroughly. As the boy wa* 
 evidently quick and ready, and could read 
 writing easily, no harm could be done, Mr. 
 Thompson thought, by tr} r ing him, at least for 
 a few weeks, and meantime some one older and 
 more responsible might be found. 
 
 Thus it was that David, to his delight and 
 surprise, left the counting-room as the appointed 
 letter-carrier for Deepdale. Meanwhile, Ruth, 
 alone in the cottage, was counting the hours of 
 the long day. It would soon be dark now, and 
 she began to wish heartily that granny, or 
 even David, would come home to keep her 
 company. 
 
 Five o'clock had struck, and it was almost 
 too dark even for knitting, though Ruth had 
 not yet lighted her candle, when she was 
 startled by a sudden loud double knock on the 
 cottage door. She was too much frightened to 
 answer, and sat trembling, until she heard 
 David's voice outside, shouting, " Post ! " and, 
 opening the door, he came in laughing, pre- 
 tending to deliver a letter. 
 
 " Well, Ruth, I've got it. Only just think, 
 I am really postman. Isn't it jolly ? Only I 
 do so wish they wore a red coat here ; then I 
 should look like ' the Sergeant,' shouldn't I ? 
 almost as fine as your father ; but never mind 
 that now. How I do wish granny would come 
 home ; I want to tell her." 
 
 "We will get everything ready for her, 
 David, now you are come ; " and the two
 
 THE NEW POSTMAN. 55 
 
 children made up the fire, and set the little 
 
 table before it, covered with a white cloth. 
 
 " Granny must have an egg," said Ruth ; 
 and David rushed out to the nests to see if any 
 had been laid since morning ; and came back 
 shouting- with delight, with just one warm egg 
 in his hand. Ruth wondered how he managed 
 to keep it unbroken while he danced and 
 jumped, and at last, greatly to her alarm, 
 walked across the kitchen on his head and 
 hands, the egg being still somewhere about 
 him, For the moment ho had evidently for- 
 gotten the great dignity of his new position. 
 
 Granny was late that evening, for below 
 New Melton the river had overflowed its 
 banks, and she had been obliged to go some 
 distance out of her way. She was tired and 
 wet and faint, though her heart and her basket 
 were both light, for she had met with good 
 success among her old friends, — had sold all 
 her store, and returned with orders for as many 
 more pairs of warm socks and stockings as she 
 could knit all through that winter. As she 
 walked along, footsore and weary, she w T as 
 cheering herself by the thought that now, 
 without running too great a risk, she might 
 keep David, at least for some time longer, for 
 her loving heart was very warm towards the 
 motherless boy who seemed to cling so closely 
 to her. She was soon seated in the warm cot- 
 luge, by the cheerful fire, drinking the fragrant 
 tea which Ruth had prepared, made a little
 
 56 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 stronger than usual to-night ; but she set it 
 down to listen, with surprise and delight, to 
 David's eager story, which he began almost 
 before Ruth could take Mrs. Thursfield's boots, 
 or hang up her bright red cloak. 
 
 It might be, perhaps, that by-and-by she 
 would begin to wonder whether, after all, she 
 had done wisely to keep the lad ; but at present 
 her heart was full of thanksgiving for the 
 earnest desire to learn of the love of Jesus 
 which had made the wild, wayward boy so 
 determined not to leave her. 
 
 What, she thought, was a little trouble or 
 disturbance to her, or even to Ruth, if only 
 this one soul might be brought through them 
 to know and love his Saviour.
 
 THE FLOOD. 
 
 avid had carried the letters to the scat- 
 £ Syi tered homesteads of Deepdale Yallej' 
 UM2M f or nearly five months. He was fast 
 earning a good character with his employer, 
 for he was quick, diligent, and willing, and 
 many a little piece of extra work was found 
 for him, that he might carry home another 
 shilling to Mrs. Thursfield. For to her he 
 carried every penny that he could earn, de- 
 lighting to think that now, instead of being a 
 burden to her old age, he was almost a help. 
 
 "I'll tell you what, Ruth," he would say, 
 "you are only a girl, and know nothing, shut 
 up in this cottage all your life ; but when I am 
 a man I mean to earn a deal of money. I know 
 it's to be done ; lots of boys that began as poor 
 as me have come to ride in their carriages, and 
 some day I mean to give granny a fine car- 
 riage, with four horses, Iluth, and she shall 
 drive about like a grand lady."
 
 58 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 David's many employments kept him away 
 from the cottage during the greater part of the 
 day, and Ruth, having now man}^ an hour alone, 
 as of old, with granny, became more reconciled 
 to the new inmate, and even able to enjoy the 
 change made by his return home in the even- 
 ing, and his merry chat over all he had done 
 or heard during the day. 
 
 His lessons, as he called them, were never 
 omitted ; he would not go to Sunday school with 
 Ruth, thinking it quite below the dignity of the 
 boy who carried the letters ; but each evening he 
 would draw the little wooden stool to granny's 
 knee, and sitting there, would read over and 
 over again the marvellous story of the life and 
 death of the Saviour, whom the poor neglected 
 bojr was now learning to know and love. He 
 could not be induced to read any other part of 
 the Bible, but to the Gospels he always turned 
 with ever fresh delight and interest, until the 
 story of our Lord's life seemed to grow for him 
 into a sweet and entire reality, until it seemed 
 to the boy that it was but yesterday that his 
 dear Lord trod the fields — such fields as those 
 among which he lived; but 3 T esterday that he 
 spoke those tender loving words which seemed 
 ever sounding in his ears ; but yesterday that 
 he died, and died for him. 
 
 Yet, though while his heart was full at the 
 thought of the love of Jesus, he would try hard 
 to be good, and gentle, and patient, like his 
 Lord, he would too often forget, old habits
 
 THE FLOOD. 59 
 
 would come back on him, and a hasty word or 
 blow, or some wild freak, would show how 
 much there remained to be overcome. 
 
 It was a March evening-, and granny and 
 Ruth were sitting together in the cottage, 
 granny busily knitting a stocking which was 
 to complete an order for one of her customers 
 in the town, while Ruth was reading aloud a new 
 book which had been lent to her at school. 
 The wind was howling fiercely without, not 
 only wailing and sobbing round the cottage, as 
 it often did, but rushing up the gully with 
 fierce sudden gusts, making Ruth often pause in 
 her reading and draw nearer to the tire, as if 
 enjoying the comfort within all the more for 
 its contrast with the storm outside. 
 
 From time to time granny looked up at the 
 clock, but Ruth was more content, and did not 
 seem anxious to be interrupted. 
 
 " How nice this is," she said, as she stirred 
 the fire. "Just like it used to be, isn't it, 
 granny dear?" 
 
 " Yes, my dear, very pleasant indeed. That's 
 right, make a cheerful blaze, so that the poor 
 boy may see his way home." 
 
 "You are always thinking of David." 
 
 " Why, child," said granny, looking up sud- 
 denly into the flushed face, "my own boy's 
 little girl is so dear to me that I'm sure she can 
 never be jealous of this poor motherless boy ; 
 he has no one to love him but you and mo, 
 Ruth, remember."
 
 60 JOYS AND SOEROWS. 
 
 "I ain't jealous, granny," said Ruth, a little 
 ashamed ; "at least, I won't be any more." 
 
 " I'll tell you why I am anxious about David 
 to-night, my dear ; the water is out so far, and 
 the wind is driving it on so strongly, that I 
 keep fearing lest the poor boy should come to 
 harm in the dark." 
 
 Just as granny spoke, the door opened noisily, 
 and David came in. " Why, David, what is 
 the matter ?" exclaimed Naomi. 
 
 Ruth could see nothing unusual about the 
 boy, for the table was between her and David, 
 and she wondered at granny's evident alarm ; 
 but when he came into the light, she, too, cried 
 out in dismay, for he was dripping with wet up 
 to his jacket, and mud hung in great patches 
 about his boots and legs. " What is it, David?" 
 they cried, both together. 
 
 "The floods are out, granny, and I had to 
 wade ever so far before I could get home to- 
 night ; why even here the road is covered over 
 my boots." 
 
 " Oh, granny, do you think the water will 
 come in here?" cried Ruth, turning white. 
 
 "No, my dear, I don't; not to do us any 
 hurt, that is," answered granny. " I've lived 
 here thirty years, and I never saw the water 
 above a few inches deep on the floor here, so 
 don't be frightened, children." 
 
 " I'm not very likely to be frightened," said 
 David, drawing himself to his full height. 
 
 " Oh, but, granny, I am, I can't help it ;
 
 THE FLOOD. 61 
 
 look there, it is coming in ;" and Ruth, pale and 
 trembling, pointed to the closed door, under 
 which a little stream of water was slowly 
 making its way. David seized a broom, and, 
 rushing gallantly to the rescue, began to attempt 
 to drive back the water, but in vain, for despite 
 cloth, and broom, and pail, it flowed in faster 
 and faster, till soon all the floor was covered. 
 
 Ruth, though very much terrified, was quite 
 quiet ; she sat down close to her grandmother, 
 whoso feet she lifted on her lap, lest they 
 should be wetted by the deepening water. 
 
 " That's not a bit of use, Ruth," said David, 
 turning round; "you and granny had better 
 get on the table ; if you go into the other room 
 the water will be there directly." 
 
 " My dear," said granny, presently, in her 
 quiet voice, " I wish you could manage to look 
 out ; I can't remember that I ever saw the 
 water so high before, and I want to know 
 whether it seems to be still rising, for if so, I 
 am afraid there really is danger." 
 
 It was hard work to force open the door 
 against the water, and, as soon as it was done, 
 the water quickly flowed in, so that it was 
 at least twenty inches deep on the floor. 
 
 David came back from the door with a deter- 
 mined face- " Granny," he said, " we shall all 
 be drowned if we stay here ; we must go." 
 
 "But where can we go, David? There is 
 no getting through the gorge to either end. 
 the water is deeper here than in the valley.'
 
 62 JOYS AND SOTIROWS 
 
 " Let me think a bit," said David. " Granny . 
 I'll tell you what ; we must, somehow or other, 
 get to the ledge where I was when I broke my 
 arm ; we shall be safe there, for the water will 
 never rise up to there. Come along, granny." 
 
 " You and Ruth go," answered granny, " I 
 should only hinder you, for I could never get 
 up there ; I'm not afraid to stay by myself, for 
 if it is the Lord's will the old cottage should go, 
 it would seem but fit that the old woman should 
 go with it ; but we must take thought for your 
 young lives." 
 
 " Oh, granny, granny dear, how can you 
 talk so?" sobbed Ruth. "Do let us all stay 
 together. David, you won't go, will you ?" 
 
 " We will all go together," answered the 
 boy, to whom this sudden danger seemed to 
 have given a manliness and self-reliance quite 
 new to him. " Granny, if you stay here, Ruth 
 and I won't leave you, and we shall all be 
 drowned, most likely ; but if you will come, I 
 am sure we can get you safely on the ledge, 
 and no harm will come to us. Do let us try." 
 
 " You shall have it your own way, David," 
 said granny, rising ; " and if we do go, let it 
 be at once. May the good Lord protect us !" 
 
 "Now, granny," cried David, throwing 
 open the door, when again the water flowed in 
 higher than ever, " you put your arm round my 
 neck, and Ruth shall walk on the other side, 
 and we'll keep you steady, never fear." 
 
 The water outside was now above their knees,
 
 THE FLOOD. 63 
 
 and seemed to be rising every sninute. There 
 was not a second to lose. The three pushed 
 on against the tide, sometimes nearly losing 
 their foothold, sometimes pressed by the water 
 close to the sharp rocks. A faint crescent 
 moon was shining between the hurrying clouds, 
 otherwise they could hardly have guided their 
 steps to the road below the ledge. They stood 
 there at last, however, and David, climbing to 
 the lower ledge, seized both granny's arms, 
 while Ruth did all she could to help her from 
 below. The danger was now so real and 
 urgent, that it gave them the strength of fear, 
 and somehow, they scarcely could tell how, 
 either then or afterwards, they at last found 
 themselves all three crouched together on the 
 upper ledge, safe froni the flood, but shivering 
 with cold and wet and terror. 
 
 They had not been there a minute, however, 
 when David, springing to his feet, as if with a 
 sudden thought, began to climb down the rock 
 once more towards the water. " Oh, David, 
 don't try it," cried granny, "it's no use going 
 for help, you could never get round the curve 
 to the valley." 
 
 " I know that," shouted the boy, who by 
 this time had reached the flooded road once 
 more, and seemed to be moving back towards 
 the cottage they had left. 
 
 " Oh, why did he go ! He'll be drowned ! " 
 cried Ruth, " whatever good can he do ?" and 
 the two, left alone, clung close together, watch
 
 64 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 ing by the faint light for some sign of the 
 truant's return. It was not long, however, 
 before they heard a shout, and presently 
 David, having climbed the rock, was once 
 more beside them, wetter, if possible, than 
 ever, but bearing in triumph two dry blankets 
 oil' granny's bed ; " I held them up over my 
 head, and they haven't got a drop of water on 
 them," he said ; "feel them, granny, they are 
 as dry as a bone." 
 
 The two children wrapped granny at once in 
 the larger of the blankets, and with the other, 
 by granny's special request, they covered them- 
 selves, though David grumbled at being obliged 
 to use it. " I meant them both for you, granny," 
 he said. Happily, the night was not very cold, 
 and the rock gave them shelter from the fierce 
 wind, stormy rather than bitter, which was 
 driving the waters so fiercely down the narrow 
 gorge. Higher and higher rose the tide, 
 almost reaching to the lower ledge, when sud- 
 denly they all heard a loud and not distant 
 report, as if some strong props or wall had 
 given way. 
 
 No one spoke ; the same thought, the same 
 fear was in each mind — a fear which was 
 almost a certainty. At last granny took her 
 hands from before her face, and said, in a voice 
 which she in vain endeavoured to make calm, 
 " My dears, it was the cottage. God's will be 
 done."
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE OLD COTTAGE. 
 
 "hat is that ? Only look, granny ; I'm 
 sure I see a light ! " exclaimed David, 
 wl shaking the old lady by the arm. 
 
 She seemed sunk in a stupor ; for nearly an 
 hour, ever since they had heard the sounds 
 •which told the fate of their dear home, she had 
 never moved ; had scarcely spoken, or made any 
 sign when the children chafed her hands or 
 wrapped the blanket more closely around her. 
 
 "Granny, it is a light, and it's coming 
 nearer ! " cried Ruth. " There, now it is out of 
 sight behind the rock ; there it is again ; and 
 oh ! I am sure I hear voices. Only listen, 
 granny." 
 
 The sounds came nearer and nearer, and the 
 lights showed double, reflected in the water, as 
 the boat — for it must be a boat — came towards 
 them. Then a shout was heard above the roar 
 of the wind and the wash of the waters, till at 
 last they could clearly see the boat coming 
 swiftly down the rapid current. A man was
 
 66 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 standing upright in it as though, looking round 
 for something. It soon came just below them. 
 
 " Shout, Ruth ! " cried David, springing to 
 his feet. " Shout loud ! they don't see us." 
 
 Their cries were heard at last, for the men in 
 the boat seemed trying to keep her from being 
 carried farther down by the force of the cur- 
 rent. It was evidently very hard work, but 
 they succeeded at last in making her fast to 
 a projecting piece of rock ; and then Ruth's 
 uncle, for he it was who had come to their 
 rescue, climbed the rock from which he had 
 once before lifted David, and found there the 
 three whose lives he had come to save. 
 
 Granny had to be carried down to the boat, 
 she was too stiffened by exposure and cold to 
 move; but the two children needed only the 
 help of a friendly hand. When all were safe 
 in the boat, the men at the oars began the hard 
 task of rowing back against the current. It 
 was but a short distance to the quieter stream 
 in the broad valley, but it was just the part at 
 which the gorge was narrowest and the current 
 most deep and strong, and it was nearly an 
 hour before the boat could be carried past the 
 point of the rocks, and four in the morning 
 before the three rescued ones were borne into 
 Mr. Chapman's farm. 
 
 Every one in the house was up, waiting with 
 anxious heart for tidings ; fires blazed, blankets 
 were warmed, and Mrs. Chapman and Martha 
 attended to their guests with loving and anxious
 
 THE OLD COTTAGE. 67 
 
 care. David seemed to feel no bad effects at all 
 from the night's exposure ; and Ruth, after a 
 day or two spent in bed, was herself again. 
 But with the old lady the case was far different. 
 For many days she lay in bed, tended by Ruth 
 and Martha. She was always gentle and 
 patient, and grateful for all that was done for 
 her ; but she was very silent, and seemed occu- 
 pied with sad thoughts. They knew that the 
 loss of the cottage which she loved so much 
 lay very heavy on her heart ; but she never 
 spoke of it except to ask a question or two of 
 Mr. Chapman, who, when the flood had gone 
 down, had been to see the ruins of the old 
 home. Ruth had not yet gone, she dreaded 
 the sight, and yet felt as if she longed to know 
 the worst ; and when they had been at the farm 
 about a fortnight, she determined that she 
 would go alone and see for herself. Holding 
 her bonnet in her hand, she passed through the 
 farm kitchen, where Mrs. Thursfield, a little 
 recovered, was sitting before the fire. 
 
 " Where are you going, child?" she asked. 
 
 " Onlv for a walk, granny dear ; I shan't be 
 long." 
 
 " You need not fear to tell me, Ruth ; I can 
 read in } r our face that you are going to Deep- 
 dale End. Sit you down while I get ready ; 
 I'm minded to come Avith you, 'tAvill maybo 
 ease my mind." 
 
 "Rut, granny, you know you can't walk," 
 exclaimed Ruth, in dismay.
 
 68 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 " Oh yes, my dear, I can ; you shall lend me 
 your arm, and you won't mind if I lean a bit 
 heavily." 
 
 But when Mrs. Chapman discovered the old 
 lady in the act of tying on her black bonnet, 
 she raised such an outcry that at last granny 
 was persuaded to accept the farmer's offer to 
 drive her and Ruth in his spring cart to the 
 end of the gorge ; beyond that the road was still 
 too heavy for the horse. 
 
 Set down at the foot of the rocks, they 
 walked on in silence past the ledge which had 
 been their place of refuge, past each familiar 
 shape of rock and tree ; the two, holding each 
 other's hands, took with trembling steps the 
 last turn which brought them close beside 
 the hollow in which the cottage had stood. 
 The sight before them was sadder and more 
 desolate than even their worst fears. In place 
 of the pretty cottage, with its vine and Virginia 
 creeper, there were now to be seen only a few 
 bare stakes, some pieces of broken wall, a little 
 framework left here and there, no roof, no 
 porch, and only the blackened, broken frag- 
 ments of the dear familiar hearth. The door, 
 torn from its hinges, lay at some distance, and 
 nearly all the framework of the windows was 
 gone. It looked like a ruined dwelling deserted 
 for years, and it was scarcely possible to believe 
 that but ten days ago it had been a bright and 
 happy home, full of pleasant memories and gay 
 hopes.
 
 THE OLD COTTAGE. G9 
 
 The garden was now a field of thick black 
 mud ; every plant was buried deep below the 
 soil washed up by the tide ; not a sprig, or stalk, 
 or green leaf was to be seen. The hives were 
 overturned, and most of them were either 
 washed away or completely emptied by the 
 water ; and the vine, which had been the pride 
 of the cottage, lay broken and torn and dis- 
 mantled on the ground. 
 
 Ruth gave a cry of dismay, and then, cover- 
 ing her face with her hands to shut out the 
 sight, sat down on a stone and cried bitterly. 
 But the old lady's grief found no such expres- 
 sion ; she stood with wide blank eyes and set 
 face gazing on the scene before her, and then, 
 opening her white lips, began to speak to her- 
 self in slow inarticulate words which Huth 
 could not understand. 
 
 Ruth forgot her own sorrow in fear for her 
 grandmother, and taking her hand in both her 
 own, tried to make her sit down on the rock. 
 " Oh, granny dear," she cried, " do talk out 
 loud to me, it frightens me to hear you speak- 
 ing like that." For the first time Naomi 
 seemed to remember the presence of the child ; 
 she turned round, and looked down on the 
 tearful, pale face. " You are sorry for the poor 
 cottage, too, child," she said, gently; " don't cry, 
 my darling, there will be other places that will 
 be home to you." 
 
 " Never any like this," sobbed Ruth ; " how 
 can we live anywhere else? And the poor bees,
 
 70 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 and the vine — look, granny, all pulled up and 
 broken." 
 
 ■' Ah, child," answered Naomi, still with the 
 same quiet, " you have lost a home, but it seems 
 to me that I have lost all my past life. I'm 
 like the vine, the wall I clung to has given 
 way, and I feel all broken and torn. My mother 
 sat in that porch with her wheel ; I can see her 
 now, with the sunshine on her face ; your grand- 
 father came here to court me, and here the 
 children were born, and some God took to 
 heaven straight from our cottage. The old 
 place was full of voices and sounds of feet to 
 me, Ruth, full of my own young days, and 
 my children's laughter. I think I shall never 
 hear those sounds again." 
 
 " Oh, granny, don't say so," said Huth, 
 "God will surely let there be a home some- 
 where for you." 
 
 " Yes," answered Naomi, with a strange 
 sweet smile on her face, " there is a home for 
 me, thank God, there is a home ; did not our 
 Saviour say, ' Where I am, there ye shall be 
 also ' ? 'Tis a blessed home, child, to which I am 
 going, and there I shall hear the very voices I 
 have kept in my heart so long, and seethe faces 
 I have never forgotten ; and best of all, I shall 
 see and know Him who has gone to prepare the 
 place for me. Ah, if I could but see it rightly, 
 the breaking up of the cottage would be like 
 the taking down of a tent, to remind me how 
 sure stands ' the building of God, the house
 
 THE OLD COTTAGE. 71 
 
 not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.' 
 My earthly house is being taken down too, 
 child, day by day ; I always thought the old 
 cottasre would outlast the old woman, but 'tis 
 best as God wills, if he do but give me the 
 heart to believe it. It is not for long, and then 
 I shall see it all clear." 
 
 " Oh, granny, you are not going to die," 
 cried Ruth ; " the dear old cottage wasn't every- 
 thing ; isn't there me and David left, and 
 father too ? "We might have been all drowned, 
 you know." 
 
 " Yes, dear, I hope I am not unthankful ; I 
 have all my best blessings left," and granny 
 put her arm round the little girl, and drew her 
 close to her side. 
 
 " Do you know, granny, I'm glad now that 
 
 i did take David in : I think if he hadn't 
 1 ii ■ n there we should never have got away, and 
 we should never have thought of the ledge if 
 he hadn't fallen there." 
 
 " Xo, dear," answered the old lady, "it's 
 wonderful how tho good God overpays every 
 little thing wo try to do for him, as if it 
 were not enough honour to be allowed to serve 
 him." 
 
 " And you won't be so unhappy any more, 
 will you, granny ? " asked Ruth, anxiously. 
 
 "Ah, child, I can't promise that. I don't 
 think the good Lord will be angry with me 
 because I loved my little cottage, though he 
 has seen fit to take it away."
 
 72 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 Ruth put her arms round her grandmother's 
 neck. " Granny, you mustn't be so sorry ; you 
 have David and me, and we will love you and 
 do everything for you, and you mustn't be 
 unhappy ; say you won't any more." 
 
 " You are two good children," said granny, 
 returning Ruth's caress, " and you do a great 
 deal to make me happy, dear, so cheer up, my 
 child." 
 
 And Mrs. Thursfield thought that this first 
 Trouble seemed to be already waking in Ruth 
 the loving tenderness which was the one 
 thing she needed.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE CHILDREN S PLANS. 
 
 jJT was true that tins trouble was soften- 
 
 iug Ruth ; her love even for granny 
 
 fj had hitherto been rather a duty than a 
 
 warm feeling and strong motive, but now the 
 child began to find how dearly she loved the 
 old lady who had been a mother to her, and 
 she tried hard to think of every way in which 
 she could best help and comfort her in her 
 trouble. She knew that with the cottage they 
 had lost almost all their means of living. 
 Wherever they went they must pay rent now ; 
 they must buy fresh hives, or there would be 
 no honey to sell, a new spinning wheel, or the 
 wool for granny's knitting must be bought 
 ready twisted at the shops ; they must have 
 the garden freshly dug and planted with new 
 sets, or there would be no potatoes in the 
 coming autumn, or for a winter store. And to 
 do all this, and supply themselves with food 
 and clothing, they had no means, except the 
 amall sum sent home by Ruth's father, and 
 David's weekly earnings.
 
 74 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 At first Ruth had thought that of course in 
 some way or another they should manage to 
 rebuild the cottage ; now, however, she saw 
 that it was impossible, and that granny herself 
 never dreamed of a return to the old dear life, 
 and her little head became full of thoughts and 
 plans for the unknown future. It was very 
 difficult to see in what way she could best help, 
 for she knew that she could not leave her 
 grandmother to go to service, for she was now 
 much more feeble and helpless than before the 
 shock. Euth took her trouble and all her 
 thoughts to her Father in heaven ; each day 
 she told to God all her fears, her hopes and 
 plans, and asked of him to be guided into the 
 right way — the way that his love had chosen 
 for her little feet. And thus prayer was be- 
 coming to her a real thing ; it was no longer 
 saying over from duty the form of holy words 
 which she had been taught ; those words had 
 now a new life and power and meaning, they 
 were her own. God, by his Holy Spirit, was 
 teaching her to pray. 
 
 One evening, when Martha was on her way 
 home from the mill, she was surprised to find 
 Ruth waiting for her, some way from the farm 
 gate. " Stop a minute here with me, Martha, 
 please," she said, " I wanted to ask you ; do 
 you mind telling me how much you earn at 
 the mill?" 
 
 "Not the least in the world, child," an- 
 swered Martha ; "I'm a quick hand ; the
 
 THE CHILDREN'S PLANS. "?5 
 
 overseer says ho would rather give me eight 
 shillings than some others six shillings." 
 
 " Dear me ! eight shillings, that's a great 
 deal of money." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know about that, it soon goes ; 
 mother has most of it, of course, but she always 
 gives me some to spend, and I know I never 
 find I have half enough. All the other girls 
 have fine hats and feathers on Sunday, and I 
 can't buy myself one, not without I save up for 
 I don't know how long ; but what for do you 
 want to know about my earnings ? Are you 
 thinking about running away from granny 
 and setting up for yourself?" 
 
 "No," said Ruth, shaking her head, and 
 evidently taking the question seriously ; " no, 
 I shall never leave granny, but I want to work 
 for her and earn some money." 
 
 "That's all very fine, but granny would 
 never let you go to the mill." 
 
 " But I must do something, Martha. Granny 
 is getting so feeble, and we've nothing scarcely 
 to look to now but the little David earns ; I 
 do so want to help," and the tears came into 
 Ruth's eyes. 
 
 " There, there, cheer up ; sit you down on 
 the bank, and we'll have a good talk and 
 make plans ; nothing Hike better than making 
 plans. Now that's comfortable," said Martha, 
 settling herself with a good deal of bustle and 
 importance. " So, I suppose, if granny would 
 let you, you would come and work with me ;
 
 7G JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 that would be fun, only the girls would laugh 
 at you so." 
 
 "Oh, I hope not," said Ruth, colouring 
 " why should they?" 
 
 " You are such a little old-fashioned thing, 
 with your sun-bonnet and pinafore," said 
 Martha ; " I like them very much for you, but 
 the girls would laugh ; you mustn't mind it, 
 that's all." 
 
 " Never mind that now," said Ruth ; " I want 
 you to tell me how much I could earn." 
 
 " Why, you are such a mite ; stand up, Ruth, 
 and let me get a good look at you. No, I don't 
 think you are as big as Letitia Symonds ; she 
 has five shillings, but then she's slow. Now, 
 you would soon learn, you have nice little 
 clever fingers, I know ; do you remember how 
 you tidied my room?" 
 
 " Five shillings," repeated Ruth ; " that 
 would help nicely." 
 
 " Do you know," went on Martha, not at- 
 tending to her cousin's words, " I've often 
 thought of what we talked about that night, 
 and I've been trying above a bit to be good, 
 and to think about what I ought to do, but I 
 don't get on much, somehow." 
 
 "There's David," cried Ruth, suddenly, as a 
 merry whistle sounded from behind the hedge, 
 and the boy sprang through a gap into the 
 road, and then stood still to finish peeling and 
 adorning a switch which he had just cut. 
 
 "Hallo," cried he, looking round, and seeing
 
 THE CHILDREN'S PLANS. ?'7 
 
 }he two girls, " what are you after here ? you 
 are up to something or other, I know." 
 
 " I'ni telling Martha I must go to the mill 
 and help earn some money for granny, David," 
 said Ruth. 
 
 " Yes," added Martha, "and I'm telling her 
 it's not over and above likely the old lady will 
 let her go." 
 
 " But you know I must, don't you, David ? 
 granny mustn't starve while we can work." 
 
 " Starve ! no indeed," said David, with great 
 disdain, " not while I'm here ; but if you go 
 to the mill, Ruth, I must see if I can't get 
 more work to do. Perhaps your father will 
 find me something?" he said, looking inquir- 
 ingly at Martha ; " anyways we'll keep the old 
 lady between us, never fear." 
 
 " You are a good boy, David," said Martha. 
 
 " Nonsense about calling me ' good ;' hasn't 
 granny been good to me, and took me in, and 
 worked for me, and tended me, and learnt me 
 all about the dear Lord Jesus ? 'Tis likely I 
 should be running off just when she wants me, 
 isn't it?" said the boy. 
 
 " For all that, I think it's very good of you, 
 for she isn't your own grandmother, like she is 
 to Ruth." 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is," answered David, 
 energetically, " I love her, and that's just all 
 about it ; and," he added, thoughtfully, " I am 
 wire the dear Lord Jesus loves granny, and lie 
 wouldn't like her to have no one to help her."
 
 78 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 " I wonder why, if He loves her, he doesn't 
 make somebody give her a lot of money, so that 
 she could be quite comfortable," said Martha, 
 doubtfully. 
 
 "Perhaps," said Ruth, "lie wishes that we 
 should earn it for her." 
 
 " Why, Ruth," said David, " I should just 
 like to think that ; it would seem as if we really 
 were servants to the Lord Jesus. Wouldn't it 
 be wonderful to think of his really giving us 
 something to do, like my master says, ' You 
 run here, David ; you go and bring me that' ?" 
 
 "I should like being good David's way," said 
 Martha, who was listening thoughtfully ; " it 
 would be much easier to be good because you 
 love Jesus, I think, than just because you 
 ought, as Ruth is always saying." 
 
 It was not till after much talk and many 
 arguments that Mrs. Thursfield was at length 
 induced to allow her little Ruth even to think 
 of working at a mill. "She would never have 
 given way had any other means of supporting 
 themselves appeared, and even now she told 
 herself it would be but for a short time, till by 
 spare living and hard work they could get the 
 means of earning money in some better fashion ; 
 till a wheel could be bought, and perhaps 
 another cottage found among the fields, where 
 they could keep chickens and bees as of old. 
 For at this time there was not a single cottage 
 to be let through all the long valley of Deep- 
 dale, and no choice was left to Naomi but to
 
 THE CHILDREN'S PLANS. 79 
 
 seek a home among the rows and lanes of New 
 Melton. There was but one comfort, this home 
 would be near the mill where Ruth must work. 
 
 Mrs. Chapman and Ruth made many an 
 excursion to New Melton seeking for a cottage 
 in which the little family might establish them- 
 selves ; but Ruth, remembering their dear old 
 home, was so hard to please, that they returned 
 home time after time without any success. 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Chapman, coming in from 
 one of these unsuccessful expeditions, and sitting 
 down heavily, panting and tired, " I'm sure, 
 Mrs. Thursfield, I'm not one to complain of 
 trouble. I have brought up seven children, and 
 nursed them all through the measles and the 
 hooping-cough, which Ned had so bad that I 
 got no rest at night for nigh a month, but 
 looking for houses with this child is the worst 
 of all." 
 
 " I am very sorry indeed, Mrs. Chapman, 
 that Ruth should make trouble ; we have given 
 you enough already, I'm sure," said the old 
 lady, looking concerned. 
 
 " "Well, I don't say as it is her fault; Ruth is 
 a good child, but she is but a child, and she don't 
 understand that she must conform herself — not 
 yet, she don't. ' There's no water here, aunt,' 
 says she. ' Ain't there the river close at your 
 back ?' says I ; ' and as for the drains, if they do 
 smell a little when the water is low, why New 
 Melton isn't Deepdale End,' as you well know 
 Mrs. Thursfield."
 
 80 JOYS AND SORROWS, 
 
 "No, Mrs. Chapman, you are quite right 
 there," said the old lady, with a heavy sigh. 
 
 " And kitchen floors," went on Ruth's aunt, 
 in a tone of wise remonstrance ; " say they are 
 a bit uneven here and there, and the stove is 
 broken, and not kept OA r er and above clean, 
 ' why, you ain't a-going to put down carpets on 
 your kitchen floors,' says I to Ruth, ' you must 
 rub them and scour them till they are smooth.' 
 Similarly as to complaints of small rooms and 
 no back yard : ' you must accommodate your- 
 self, my dear,' I tell her, but she won't." 
 
 " Well, granny," said Ruth, coming in the 
 next day from feeding the fowls, with Nelly, 
 "David has heard of another cottage, and he 
 and I are going to see it when he comes from 
 the post-office." 
 
 Before long the two children were on their 
 way. The new cottage was certainly not quite 
 so bad as those Ruth had seen before. It stood 
 alone, being intended as the first of a row, 
 which the builder had not yet found money to 
 complete, and Ruth did not know that the 
 house would almost certainly be damp, unpro- 
 tected as it was from the driving rains. There 
 was a yard behind, and around this, as yet, open 
 ground, which was on sale for building purposes, 
 and bore, meanwhile, a plentiful crop of cab- 
 bages. Ruth rejoiced to think that their clothes 
 could be dried here, instead of hanging across 
 the street amid the smoke and dust, as she had 
 seen to be the usual custom in New Melton.
 
 THE CHILDREN'S PLANS. 81 
 
 Thcro were four rooms to the cottage, but so 
 small were they, that Ruth fancied that alto- 
 gether they would hardly be the size of the 
 dear old kitchen at Deepdale End. They had 
 so little furniture, however, that perhaps small 
 rooms were best. There were a few things saved 
 from the flood, and one or two necessary articles 
 bought with Mrs. Thursfield's small savings ; 
 the rest they must hope to supply as time 
 went on. 
 
 Mrs. Thursneld, after Ruth's report, made a 
 visit to the cottage in the farmer's cart, and 
 thinking they were not likely to find one that 
 they should like better, the new home was 
 taken, and the early April days found granny 
 and Ruth and David settled in its tiny rooms, 
 while Ruth was beginning her strange new life 
 at a neighbouring mill.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 SUNSHINE IN THE CLOUDS. 
 
 hat summer in New Melton was a very- 
 trying one for at least two of the 
 dwellers in the new cottage. 
 
 To Mrs. Thursfield it was, as she had said, as 
 if in losing her old home she had lost all her 
 past life. "When she looked round the bare 
 narrow room she missed almost all those 
 familiar objects which used to speak to her of 
 those whom she had loved and lost. 
 
 There was no oak bureau, bright with the 
 rubbing of many hands; the clock was still to 
 be seen in the corner, but so injured that its 
 cheerful tick was now never heard. The spin- 
 ning-wheel was gone, whose low murmur used 
 to sing to the old lady stories and songs of 
 her childhood, when her mother's hand turned 
 the wheel. The dresser shelves bore now only 
 a few blue-and-white plates and cups for daily 
 use, instead of the quaint bright-patterned delf 
 which was the ornament of the kitchen at 
 Deepdalo End. The few books, in their worn 
 brown covers, were gone ; and saddest of all,, on
 
 Si-.VSTIIXE IN THE CLOUDS. S3 
 
 the little tabic there now lay no old Bible. 
 For the precious book — granny's clearest trea- 
 sure — had been lost on the night of the flood. 
 The old lady was not without a Bible, for Miss 
 RyJand had come to see them, and had brought 
 with her a new Bible, with large clear type, as 
 a present to granny; but its new unsoiled 
 pages could never be so dear to Mrs. Thursfield 
 as the crabbed print on the yellow paper which, 
 she had loved so long. 
 
 The few things in their new life which were 
 at first pleasures to Ruth. — the sound of voices 
 around her — the sight of the shops and the 
 carts, and the numerous passers-by — the don- 
 keys with their tins of milk in the early morn- 
 ing, and the cries of fish, and vegetables, and 
 muffins — were to Mrs. Thursfield only so many 
 painful reminders that the happy life in the 
 loneh r cottage was at an end for ever. 
 
 But it was not often that the old lady spoke 
 a word of complaint. When Ruth came home 
 from her work at the mill, she would find her 
 iulmother waiting for her with a pleasant 
 smile, as tender, if more grave than of old, and 
 the little kitchen looked at least always clean 
 with the work of her feeble hands. 
 
 " Come, my love, take off your apron, and 
 vash your hands," she said, as Ruth entered 
 the cottage one August evening ; " you must 
 find it close work such a hot day as this has 
 been ; your tea is all ready for you ; it Avill bff 
 sure to freshen you up a bit."
 
 84 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 " Never mind taking so much care for mc, 
 granny," said Ruth, going up to the old lady ; 
 " tell me how your head is now ; it was pretty 
 bad at dinner, I could see." 
 
 "It is much better now, dear," said granny, 
 smiling at her ; " I have been taking the best 
 medicine in the world, and it has done me 
 good. I have been thinking of my mercies as 
 I sat here ; how good the dear Lord is to mc 
 every day, as well here as in the blessed hopes 
 he gives me for the days to come. Ah, child, 
 thoughts like these make me feel ashamed of 
 my many murmurs." 
 
 " I am sure you never complain, granny," 
 said Ruth, quickly. 
 
 " Ah, dear, you can't see into my heart. It 
 was but this very morning, when I found 
 (don't you fret for it, dear) that I couldn't 
 even read this good print without the old 
 glasses that I shall never have again, that I 
 was complaining sadly in my thoughts." 
 
 " Oh, granny, I'm so sorry," said Ruth, with 
 tears in her eyes, stooping down to kiss her 
 grandmother. 
 
 " I was complaining that the days would be 
 so weary and so long without my book or my 
 wheel, and I thought why were they taken 
 away when I seemed to need them so much ; 
 but since then, God has put it into my heart 
 that maybe these things are taken from me, 
 and all my past gone, that I may look more on 
 him and on the future. That would be a
 
 SUNSHINE IN THE CLOUDS. 85 
 
 blessed gain, if Christ would speak to me in my 
 lonely hours, and if he would give me heaven 
 for earth, himself for his creatures." 
 
 To think of granny as lonely and sad, was 
 far worse to Ruth than the weary hours of 
 work which were such a contrast to her free, 
 happy country life at Deepdale End. The hot, 
 close mill, the constant work, the noisy com- 
 panions, were all trials to the quiet, shrinking 
 girl ; but she, too, had comfort in her trouble. 
 l)ay by day, through the help and teaching of 
 God's Holy Spirit, the sense of an ever-present 
 Friend was growing and deepening in the 
 child's heart. It was to Jesus that she told all 
 her small daily trials, to whom she confessed 
 her failures and faults, to whom she brought 
 every hope and every joy. It was the thought 
 of his love and compassion which comforted 
 her when she was sad, and which made it some- 
 times seem a beautiful thing to be allowed to 
 work for, and to comfort one whom he loved. 
 
 The summer evening grew cool and pleasant, 
 as the faint starlit twilight took the place of 
 bright sunshine, and Huth opened the door, 
 that the air from the fields beyond might enter 
 the close kitchen ; then, with her knitting in 
 hor hand, she sat down on the doorstep, watch- 
 ing for David. He was helping in the harvest- 
 ing at Mr. Chapman's farm, and would be sure 
 to be very late ; but when half-past nine came, 
 and still David had not appeared, lluth per- 
 guaded her grandmother to go to bed, and let
 
 86 JOYS AM) SORROWS. 
 
 her sit up a while longer. It was not long be- 
 fore she heard his heavy boots on the stones, as 
 he came running at full speed up the street. 
 " Oh, David, sit down here by me," said she, 
 as he stood panting before her ; " I want so 
 much to talk to you ; but we must whisper, be- 
 cause I don't want granny to hear." 
 
 "All right," said David, throwing himself 
 down on the step ; " what's up now ?" 
 
 " It's her ej^es," whispered Ruth ; " dp you 
 know, David, she cannot see any longer in the 
 new Bible. She misses her glasses so; you 
 know they were shut up in the old Bible that 
 was lost ; oh, dear, it's such a pity, they be- 
 longed to granny's mother." 
 
 " I know," said David, with an emphatic nod. 
 
 " And then there's the wheel, all broken and 
 spoiled," went on Ruth. " Granny misses her 
 work. Do you know, David, I am sure she had 
 been crying when I came home to-night." 
 
 "Granny crying," said David, "I can't 
 stand that ; but what can we do, Ruth?" 
 
 " I'm sure I don't know, David ; but I do so 
 wish I knew how to get some money ; I would 
 have the wheel mended, it wouldn't cost quite 
 so much as a new one, and then I would buy 
 the glasses ; but I don't see any way." 
 
 " I'm sure I don't," answered David, thought- 
 fully. "But we must manage it somehow, 
 right or wrong," he muttered to himself ; but 
 Ruth did not hear lite last words.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 DAVID S TEMPTATION. 
 
 jou come out here, Ruth," whispered 
 David the next evening, when Ruth 
 ilJJ had just cleared away the tea-things, 
 and was going to read aloud to her grand- 
 mother. David was standing half outside the 
 door, leaning forward so that Ruth could just 
 see his face. There was something strange in 
 his manner, she thought, and the voice in 
 which he asked her to come was hoarse and 
 low. Her own little head had been full all 
 day of wonderful plans by which she and David 
 might earn money for granny's needs, and she 
 thought at once that no doubt David was want- 
 to say something to her about the very 
 and that would account for his 
 
 mg 
 
 same 
 
 calling her out of the house. 
 
 '& » 
 
 " Don't stop there,'-' cried David, jerking 
 her arm impatiently, as Ruth paused a few 
 yards from the door; "come on into the field, 
 under the stack, I tell you." 
 
 lie spoke almost roughly, and Ruth looked 
 at him in surprise. " Why, granny can't hear 
 us, David," she said.
 
 88 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 " If I'm to tell you my secrets, you must 
 come with me, Ruth ; now make haste, I can't 
 be talking here all night ; " and he led the 
 way, half running, to the stack of which he 
 had spoken. 
 
 " Come to the other side, come close. Look 
 you here, Ruth ; " and with a furtive air, look- 
 ing round him all the time, he drew a sovereign 
 from his pocket and showed it to Ruth. 
 
 The coin glittered as it lay in the boy's half- 
 closed hand, and he looked down on it for a 
 moment with eager, sparkling e) T es ; then he 
 slipped it back once more into his pocket. 
 
 " There," said he, in a tone of triumph, 
 though still speaking very low ; " now we will 
 buy the glasses and the wheel. I said I should 
 get it somehow, Ruth/' 
 
 " Oh, David, how nice. How did you ma- 
 nage it ? " 
 
 " Be quiet, I tell you, Ruth ; do you want 
 to get me into trouble ? " 
 
 "Do you mean you got it some way that 
 wasn't right ? " asked Ruth, looking timidly 
 at David's angry face. 
 
 " There you go again, with your rights and 
 wrongs," cried David, impatiently ; " isn't it 
 all for granny, every penny of it ? and as for 
 how I came by it, I suppose you think it 
 jumped into my pocket of itself. That's just 
 the sort of thing a girl does think." 
 
 " David, did you steal the money ? " said 
 Ruth, taking hold of the sleeve of his jacket
 
 david's temptation. 89 
 
 with trembling fingers, but looking him full in 
 tlie face. 
 
 " How 3 T ou do bother a fellow. I wish now 
 I had never shown you the shiner," he cried, 
 shaking her off. " I took it because granny 
 wanted it. "Why did you tell me about her 
 crying if you were going on in this fashion ? " 
 
 "I wish I hadn't, that I do," cried Ruth, 
 despairingly ; " but I never, never thought you 
 would steal ; I thought you were a good boy, 
 David ; granny says so." 
 
 " It is good to take care of gramry, I tell 
 you." 
 
 " But, David," said Ruth, resolutely staying 
 him as he tried to go, "I thought you cared 
 about pleasing Jesus." 
 
 " And wasn't it your own self that said you 
 thought he meant us to take care of granny, 
 come now ? " said David, defiantly. 
 
 " But not to do wrong, I'm sure. Why, do 
 you think granny would ever use the glasses, 
 if she knew you didn't come rightly by the 
 money ? She would be so unhappy, David, 
 that she would cry much worse than she did 
 about her glasses," said Ruth, perplexed how 
 to prove what to her own mind was so very clear. 
 
 " "Who is to tell her ? You are not going to 
 turn t ell-tale, are you ? You had better not, 
 unless you wish me to see the inside of a jail," 
 said David. 
 
 "There now, David; it can never be right 
 to do what would get you put in jail."
 
 90 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 "It isn't always the worst fellows as gels 
 took up," answered the boy. " I never was in 
 trouble myself yet, and I didn't mean to be ; 
 but I don't care so it's for granny." 
 
 " Granny wouldn't do wrong, not for anj r one 
 — not even for father ; I know she wouldn't," 
 said Ruth ; " because she loves Jesus best." 
 
 "I love him too," said David, "he knows 
 I do ; but I thought he wouldn't be angry, so 
 long as I did it for granny." 
 
 " But it says so plain in the commandments, 
 you hear it every Sunday at church, ' Thou 
 shalt not steal.' " 
 
 " That's ever so far back in the book ; that 
 isn't where I read," said David, uneasily. 
 
 " But don't you remember where Jesus says, 
 ' If ye love me, keep my commandments ' ?" 
 
 " Granny showed me that," said David. 
 " Oh dear me, I don't know what to do ; I 
 thought it was all right, I did, indeed, Ruth ; 
 but see, now I have it we must use it, I can't 
 put it back again. " 
 
 "Oh, do, David; please do," pleaded Ruth, 
 " you would be so much happier." 
 
 " What a silly you are," said David. " I've 
 managed to take it so cleverly that it's ten to 
 one the master never misses it ; but if I go 
 putting it back he's almost sure to think there's 
 something wrong, and then I shall lose the 
 work and all." 
 
 " Oh, dear, what a pity you ever took it," 
 said Ruth ; " but if I were you I would tell
 
 david's temptation. 91 
 
 him. It would be more honest, wouldn't it, 
 David?" 
 
 " There's something in that," said David ; 
 " it seems like a sneak to put it back and say 
 nothing. "Well, I had best do it at once, as it 
 is to be done, so I'm off, Ruth. Don't tell 
 granny, that's all." 
 
 David's sudden change of mind seemed in- 
 comprehensible to the quiet, unimpulsive girl, 
 and she stood with wondering eves watching 
 him running fast in the direction of Mr. 
 Thompson's shop ; but David himself felt that 
 if lie did not at once make his confession and 
 return the stolen money, the temptation to 
 keep it would bo too great to be overcome. 
 
 Perplexed, disappointed, and dispirited, Ruth 
 returned slowty home. She would have found 
 it difficult to explain her absence to granny, 
 but Martha joined her at the door and came in 
 for a talk, and thus no room was left for ques- 
 tions. Before her cousin left, Ruth, standing 
 outside the door, had confided to her her trouble 
 about granny's failing sight and lost glasses, 
 and Martha, listening with interest, quite forgot 
 her errand, which was to consult Ruth as to 
 the colour of a new merino dress to be bought 
 for the autumn. 
 
 It was late when David returned, and as soon 
 as his step was heard without, Ruth ran to meet 
 him. 
 
 lie walked slowly, his head hanging down, 
 and Ruth, as she saw him, at once put aside
 
 92 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 the hope in which she had indulged, that Mr. 
 Thompson might perhaps forgive him, and try 
 him once more. But she went forward, though 
 she felt very sad. " Oh, David, I am so sorry," 
 she said ; " but it was right to tell. Come in 
 now, and have some supper." 
 
 "Ruth," said David, and, looking up, 
 Ruth saw the tears glisten in his eyes, "I'm 
 not turned away ; I'm to go on carrying the 
 letters," and the boy turned aside to hide 
 a sob. 
 
 "Oh, how good of Mr. Thompson," cried 
 Ruth, clasping her hands. "Now granny need 
 not know." 
 
 "I shall tell her myself," said David, "but 
 not just now, while she has so much to trouble 
 her ; but I didn't think folks were so good and 
 kind, except granny, of course. I never cared 
 much for master till now, but see if I don't 
 serve him after this." 
 
 "Then you told him everything?" 
 
 " Of course I did," said David, " that was 
 what I went for, wasn't it ? and just when I 
 was expecting to be turned off, he got up and 
 put his hand on my shoulder, just like this, 
 Ruth ; and, says he, with a choke in his voice 
 as if he was sorry like for me, says he, ( David, 
 my boy, I'll try you again.' " 
 
 "And I suppose you thanked him ?" 
 
 " No, I didn't, I hadn't a word to say ; there 
 seemed something big in my throat, so that I 
 couldn't speak; but, says master, again speaking
 
 david's temptation. 93 
 
 soft and kind, ' The Lord Jesus Christ has for- 
 given me many sins, and I will forgive you 
 this ; but you must ask his pardon, David, for 
 you wronged him when you took what wasn't 
 your own.' I did feel sorry then, I can tell 
 you, Paith ; if he had been angry, perhaps I 
 should have been for making out that it wasn't 
 so bad after all ; but when he spoke so gentle, 
 then I felt that I had been doing just what he 
 said — doing wrong to the good Lord that loves 
 me so; it seemed as if I had been trying to go 
 back to the old bad life he saved me from." 
 
 " Come in now, David, or granny will wonder 
 whatever we are talking about." 
 
 David went hastily through the kitchen, with 
 a gruff "good-night" to granny, who was sitting 
 by the fire, and climbing the steep stairs to the 
 little closet where he slept, shut the door, and 
 was alone with his own thoughts, regrets, and 
 resolutions — no, not alone, for the boy was 
 kneeling by the side of his bed, and in his 
 heart and with his lips asking pardon of the 
 Saviour, and praying that he might henceforth 
 be kept from the sin which would divide him 
 from the Lord who loved and died for him.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LAVENDER FLOWERS. 
 
 wo or three weeks had passed, and 
 September had nearly arrived. It 
 was Saturday afternoon, and Huth 
 was using her one half-holiday in a rigorous 
 cleaning of the little front room. Granny sat 
 by the fire looking on approvingly, as Ruth 
 scoured and rubbed and whitened, trying hard 
 to make the cottage look as clean as the dear 
 old room at Deepdale End. " I am glad the 
 sun is so hot to day, granny," said Ruth, " be- 
 cause my floor will be dry so quick that it won't 
 give you cold, I'm sure." 
 
 " 'Twill bring out the scent of the flowers 
 finely," answered granny ; rather a strange 
 answer, as it seemed to Ruth, who was thinking 
 altogether of her newly- whitened floor. " 'Tis 
 strange," went on granny, " how my thoughts 
 keep running on the lavender bushes in the old 
 garden. This morning, when I woke, I could 
 nigh fancy some one had laid a bunch down on 
 my pillow, I seemed to smell it so sweet." 
 
 Ruth did not answer, but the next day, when
 
 LAVENDER FLOWERS. 95 
 
 she was walking Lome from church with. David, 
 she told him of what granny had said. "I 
 don't think all the hushes are gone, David; 
 some of them grew close under the rock, and I 
 shouldn't wonder if there are some flowers ; I 
 think you might go and look," said Ruth. 
 
 " 111 go to-morrow, see if I don't," said 
 David, quickening his pace ; " there's never 
 many letters on a Monday, and 111 take 
 them all as I go ; it will only he going a 
 bit out of the way here and there, and then 
 I may stop at the old cottage and gather every 
 hit of lavender there is, because, you see, Ruth, 
 it will be my own time, once the letters are 
 gone." 
 
 The garden at Deepdale End had been left 
 untouched since the night of the flood. It was 
 covered in parts so deeply with mud and clay, 
 and would take so much labour before anything 
 could be grown on the once fertile soil, that no 
 one had been found willing to take it from 
 Naomi. David was therefore very much sur- 
 prised, when he reached the spot, to see a man 
 standing among the ruins of the old cottage, 
 and looking about him, with jealous indignation, 
 J >uvid thought, just as if the place were his 
 own. David went sturdily on, determined to 
 take no notice of the intruder, who, on his part, 
 did not seem to be aware that he was no longer 
 alone. But before the boy had gathered many 
 of the spikes which, to his delight, he found 
 blooming and fragrant on more than one bush,
 
 96 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 he heard a voice close behind him — "Hallo, 
 my boy, come here, will you P" 
 
 David went on gathering his flowers ; he 
 was determined not to look round, or to show 
 that he heard. 
 
 "Come, my boy, can't you speak?" said the 
 stranger, coming up to him, and touching him. 
 David was compelled to turn. " What do you 
 want ?" he asked, roughly. Something in the 
 tone with which the stranger began to speak 
 made David look up in his face — a face so white, 
 so strangely moved, as if by some new and great 
 trouble, that David was sorry he had not 
 answered him before. 
 
 The man was speaking while David looked 
 at him, but his words seemed compressed and 
 his voice hoarse and painful, and at first David 
 could hardly understand him. " I remember," 
 said the stranger — " I mean, I have heard — 
 surely there was a cottage here ; this is Deep- 
 dale End, is it not ?" 
 
 " It's Deepdale End, sure enough, and there 
 was a cottage here," answered David, "though 
 I don't know who you may be that's asking." 
 
 "But what has happened ; where is my — 
 where is Mrs. Thursfield and the little child P" 
 said the stranger, seizing David by the collar, 
 as if to shake the words from his unready lips. 
 
 '•' None of that, I tell you," said David, 
 struggling in vain to free himself; " granny is 
 safe enough, and the little girl, if you mean 
 lluth ; and as for what's happened, the cottage
 
 LAVENDER FLOWERS. 97 
 
 were all washed away with, a flood, as any one 
 could see that had eyes in his head." 
 
 The stranger took his hand from David's 
 collar, and gave a great sigh of relief. " Thank 
 God," he said, in a low tone of deep feeling; 
 " and where is the old lady now, my boy?" 
 
 " I don't know that I'm going to tell you," 
 said David, looking at him curiously ; " is she 
 a friend of yourn ?" 
 
 " Yes, she is a friend of mine," said the man, 
 smiling ; " and you are going to tell me, so let 
 me hear at once." 
 
 There was a tone of quiet command about 
 the man which made David angry even while 
 it forced him to speak ; and it was quite un- 
 willingly that he told him of the home at New 
 Melton. 
 
 " And how do you come to be living with 
 Mrs. Thursfield?" asked the stranger. 
 
 " I don't know who you may be, asking so 
 many questions," said David, looking him in 
 the face ; " you may mean no good, for aught 
 I can tell." 
 
 The stranger smiled again, and David 
 thought surely he must have seen him before ; 
 but when he looked more closely he was sure that 
 the tall, bearded man was an entire stranger. 
 
 " You are a good boy to be careful of granny," 
 said the man ; " but maybe she is as much to 
 me as she is to you : anyway I'm not meaning 
 her harm. Come and see for yourself, you shall 
 show me the way to the cottage." 
 
 Q
 
 98 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 " Well, if you are bound to go I may as well 
 come with you," said David, feeling that 
 granny would be quite safe if he were by, and 
 forgetting in his new character of protector 
 his ungathered lavender flowers. 
 
 The two set out on the road homewards 
 David's companion soon settling down to a 
 steady quick march, his tall figure very up- 
 right, as he hummed an air under his breath. 
 
 "I say, master," said David, after the two 
 had walked some time in silence, " you've been 
 a soldier, I take it ? " 
 
 The stranger nodded. 
 
 " It's fine to be a soldier ! " said David, with 
 admiration. " I was a-going to be one so soon 
 as I was tall enough to 'list ; but you see there's 
 granny to think of now, where would she be if 
 I was to go off soldiering in foreign parts ? 
 You ve been in foreign parts, master ? ' ; 
 
 "Ay, my man, that I have, for many a long 
 year. And so you are staying at home to take 
 care of granny; why you are better to her 
 than her own son has been, I fancy." 
 
 " She's been as good to me as if she was my 
 mother," said David. " Did you know granny's 
 son ? That would be Ruth's father, wouldn't 
 it?" 
 
 " Yes," said the man, " Ruth's my own little 
 girl ; " then, checking himself, " there, I've 
 let it, all out now ; but you must have known 
 sooner or later, so no matter." 
 
 "You granny's son !" cried David, stopping
 
 LAVENDER FLOWERS. 99 
 
 short in his great surprise. " Oh dear me ! 
 whatever will granny say? Do you think she'll 
 know you ? Her eyes is bad now, and she'll 
 thiuk when she sees your fine clothes you are 
 a gentleman come to see her." 
 
 There was a little contempt in David's last 
 words, and in his look at the strong, well- 
 dressed man by his side. He must have plenty 
 of money, thought the boy, and could earn 
 plenty more if he chose to work, and he lets 
 his old mother be cared for by us two children. 
 Perhaps Tom Thursfield understood both look 
 and tone, but he said nothing; only when 
 David pointed out the cottage standing alone 
 at the end of a dirty lane, a flush of shame 
 crossed his pale face. 
 
 " I'll run on and tell granny you are 
 coming," said David ; but his companion 
 caught his arm. 
 
 " No, my boy, I must go in alone ; my 
 mother and I have much to say to each other. 
 I leave you here. Thank you for guiding me ; 
 we shall meet again soon ; " and leaving David 
 standing angry and dismayed in the middle of 
 the road, the new-comer passed on, and, bend- 
 ing his tall head, entered Mrs. Thursfield's 
 door.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A DAY IN THE WOOD. 
 
 vvid heard the sound of the cottage 
 door, as the soldier closed it after him, 
 and his heart sank as he listened ; he 
 seemed to stand outside, shut out by a stranger's 
 hand from the home that had been his own. 
 Hitherto his thoughts had been all of granny's 
 delight as she would welcome back her son ; 
 now he thought of himself, and felt bitterly 
 that he was no longer needed. His work for 
 that day was done, and he had been delighting 
 in the thought of an afternoon alone with 
 granny ; but now he had nowhere to go, 
 and as he told himself bitterly, there wasn't 
 any one in the world that wanted him. He 
 could not bear to linger near the cottage, and 
 fancy the scene within in which he might have 
 no share, but turning hastily away, he left the 
 town, and, climbing the side of the valley, 
 entered a little wood, a favoxirite place for nut- 
 ting with the children of New Melton, but at 
 this time in the day almost sure to be quite 
 solitarv.
 
 A DAY IN THE WOOD. 101 
 
 Here David threw himself on the ground, 
 and gave himself up to the thought of his new 
 trouble ; he repeated to himself again and 
 again that he had lost his home, and that 
 granny would not care for him any more, and 
 that he was the most unhappy boy in the 
 world. " I'll 'list now," he said half aloud, 
 " there's nothing to keep me here ; I'll go right 
 away now, and 'list, and get sent to India, and 
 I'll not come back again till I'm as big and 
 tall as he is, and then we'll see if he'll shut the 
 door agin me. I wonder if granny will be sorry 
 when she finds I don't come home," he went 
 on ; " but I can't help it, I can't go and say 
 good- by, for I don't ever want to see that man 
 again. When I come back a great man, with 
 medals on my coat, then I'll out and tell her 
 all about it." 
 
 " I'll go at once," said David at last, spring- 
 ing to his feet; "there is no sense in wasting 
 time lying here ; when a man makes up his 
 mind to anything he should do it at once, so 
 here goes," and he stooped to pick up his cap, 
 which had rolled from his head as he lay on 
 the grass. As he stooped he was aware of a 
 sweet faint scent, and looking at his hand, saw 
 in it the few spikes of lavender which he had 
 gathered, bruised now, and faded in his hot, 
 close grasp. He thought how gladly he had 
 eet out to gather them that morning, how he 
 had enjoyed the thought of granny's delighted 
 surprise when he should take them to her, and
 
 102 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 now all such joys were ended, not only for to- 
 day, but for ever. 
 
 The bitter jealousy at the boy's heart gave 
 way for a few moments to a softer grief, and 
 sitting down he sobbed bitterly, resting his 
 head in his arms in hopeless and lonely sorrow ; 
 he felt as if he had been deserted and forgotten 
 by every one. He had opened his hand to 
 throw the lavender away, but now he gathered 
 it up carefully, and wrapping it in a large leaf 
 from a nut-tree, he put it in his pocket. "I'll 
 keep it to think of granny and the old cottage," 
 he said ; " I'll never part with it not till I come 
 home a great man, and then it will be my turn 
 to shut the door while I go in and see granny, 
 and I'll show her the lavender, and tell her 
 how I was a-going to gather it for her, when this 
 fellow he came between us, and I went off." 
 
 Suddenly, while he was still busied in put- 
 ting the lavender away in safety, a thought 
 crossed his mind which made him burst into a 
 fit of passionate tears. Granny might be dead 
 before he could come home ; she was an old 
 woman, and sometimes seemed very weak and 
 failing ; it would take years before he could 
 hope to come home tall and strong and in fine 
 clothes, like the man whom he had met at 
 Deepdale End. If he should return to find an 
 empty arm-chair, that would be far, far worse 
 than to return, as Tom Thursfield had done, to 
 a ruined house only. 
 
 Hours had passed while such thoughts were
 
 A DAY IN THE WOOD. 103 
 
 passing through the boy's mind, and the damp 
 of the evening was beginning to fall as he still 
 lay under the nut-trees. He had eaten nothing 
 since breakfast, save a dry crust which he had 
 found in his pocket, and when at last he rose 
 to his feet and began to move down the hill, he 
 felt faint and exhausted. The fear which had 
 entered his mind that he should never see 
 granny again, had not changed his purpose to 
 leave New Melton at once. But it had made 
 him determine that he would see the old lady 
 once more before he went ; see her, himself 
 unseen — for he feared, if she knew his purpose, 
 she would be grieved, and try to stay him ; and 
 he knew, so he told himself over and over 
 again, that he could never bear to live in the 
 cottage now that Tom ThursfLeld had come 
 home. 
 
 It was already dusk, and he knew that within 
 the cottage the little fire would be burning 
 brightly ; he could steal to the window, and so 
 look for the last time on the dear old face that 
 he loved so much. 
 
 There was no reason why he should fear to 
 be seen by the neighbours, and by chance 
 passers in the streets ; and yet as he entered 
 the town, and made his way towards " The 
 Three Cups Lane," in which granny's cottage 
 stood, he crept silently from shadow to shadow, 
 drawing his feet after him with a stealthy air. 
 Even with the thought of parting from granny, 
 old habits had begun to return, and his face
 
 104 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 Lad already caught in a measure something of 
 the vagrant look of the lad who had been 
 carried into the cottage at Deepdale End. 
 
 As he drew near the cottage he saw that, 
 as he had imagined, the fire was burning 
 merrily, throwing flickering shadows on the 
 blind ; but he had not expected to see an open 
 door, and now as he crept to the window and 
 looked through a corner unshaded by the blind 
 he could hear as well as see all that passed in 
 the little room. 
 
 The first sight brought back all his most 
 bitter feelings. Granny was seated in her 
 usual chair, and now, if this intruder had not 
 come, David would have been on the little 
 stool at her feet, reading aloud to her the 
 evening chapter. But now in a chair by her 
 side leant back, quite at his ease, the returned 
 wanderer, one hand clasped in granny's, and 
 the other arm passed round his daughter, who 
 was leaning lovingly against his shoulder. 
 
 David did not care what Huth did ; girls, of 
 course, always did take up with everything and 
 everybody new ; but to see granny leaning for- 
 ward, gazing with eyes of such anxious love on 
 her brown bearded son, to see her with her 
 wrinkled fingers softly patting the hard hand 
 which she held, and once raising it to her 
 lips for a long fond kiss — all this was very 
 bitter indeed to poor David, as he stood alone 
 and forlorn outside. He could hardly see now, 
 for the tears which blinded him, and he was
 
 A DAY IN THE WOOF*. 105 
 
 turning sadly and slowly away, when lie heard 
 granny's voice, and stayed to listen. 
 
 "Ruth, dear child," she said, and her voice 
 had a sound of full content which David had 
 never yet heard, "I wish that dear boy was 
 come ; did you hear him say anything about 
 work that would keep him late ? 
 
 " I don't think he had any work to-day, 
 granny," answered Ruth. 
 
 " I wish you'd go the door and look up the 
 street, Ruth?" 
 
 " I do believe I saw him," said Ruth, return- 
 ing ; " some one just his height ran round the 
 corner of the cottage when I went out, and he's 
 hiding in the shadow now," and Ruth looked 
 half frightened as she spoke. 
 
 "That couldn't be David," said Ruth's 
 father. 
 
 " But I feel sure it was," she answered. 
 " Oh dear, granny, I do hope he hasn't been 
 doing anything wrong." 
 
 " I know my boy better than to be afraid of 
 that," said the old lady, rising, a new thought 
 crossing her mind ; and going to the door, she 
 called aloud, in her feeble voice, " Davie, 
 Davie, my child, come here." 
 
 David heard, as, indeed, he had heard every 
 word spoken within the cottage ; and now he 
 trembled as he leant against the wall in the 
 shadow, for the name was his mother's name, 
 the words were those which he had often 
 neard her say, which he had heard her
 
 106 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 whisper in many a dream, when he had been, 
 lonely and forsaken and sad — no one but his 
 mother had ever called him "Davie." But he 
 did not move ; but when the old lady came far- 
 ther out, as if in search of him, he could not help 
 coming forward to meet her. She must have 
 seen him had he run away, and he could not 
 bear so to grieve her, and the boy's resolu- 
 tion had already melted away, as he watched 
 granny's face, and heard her kind words. 
 
 " I'm here, granny," he said, trying hard for 
 his usual tone, and putting his arm under hers 
 to support her feeble steps. 
 
 Granny looked at him kindly, but she said 
 nothing to show surprise ; you might have 
 imagined that she thought hiding under a wall 
 the most natural and sensible way of coming 
 home in the evening. 
 
 " Come in and see your uncle, David," she 
 said, leaning on him as they crossed the thres- 
 hold. " I'm granny, you know, so my boy must 
 be uncle ; he has been telling me how he met 
 you at the old cottage." 
 
 "'Uncle,' indeed," thought David, "catch 
 me calling him uncle ;" but he said nothing. 
 His companion of the morning rose as they 
 entered, and came up to David with extended 
 hand. " We have been waiting for you ever 
 so long, David," he said. " Granny won't let 
 any one else read her chaper. But you look 
 hungry ; give him some supper first, mother, 
 and then he can read to you."
 
 TOM THUESFIELD'S CONFESSION.
 
 A DAY IN THE WOOD. 109 
 
 David hoped his red eyes and confused man- 
 ner were not noticed ; no one looked at him, or 
 asked any questions ; and in a little time he 
 found himself eating supper almost as comfort- 
 ably as if Tom Thursfield had not come home, 
 and obliged him to enlist and go to India. 
 
 " Now, David," said Tom Thursfield, when 
 the boy's supper was ended, " take the book and 
 read to granny ; it is fitting you should do it, 
 for you have been more of a son to granny than 
 her own has been, more shame for me." 
 
 " Hush, Tom," whispered granny, distressed ; 
 "' not before the children." 
 
 "Yes, mother," said Tom, "it is best said; 
 David and Euth both must know that no good 
 son would have left you as I did, and stayed 
 away as I have done. I have come home to do 
 better, I hope ; God grant I may ; and my first 
 step must be to own my wrong-doing, though 
 it be before my own child. Ruth, I have been 
 a bad father to you ; forgive me, all of you, as I 
 trust God has forgiven." 
 
 The tears were in granny's e3'es as she kissed 
 her son, and Ruth, kneeling by his side, put 
 her head on his shoulder, as she called him by 
 every loving name she could think of. The 
 heart which had hardly warmed to the absent, 
 unknown father, was given at once to him as 
 she saw him there, as she heard his voice, and 
 felt the touch of his hand, recalling dim 
 childish memories. 
 
 David looked on at the three, but the jealous
 
 110 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 pain seemed no longer at his heart. Other and 
 better thoughts -were there ; he saw granny's 
 joy and content in her son's return, he saw how 
 bright were her dim eyes, how flushed the 
 faded cheek, and he loved her so that he forgot 
 himself in unselfish gladness in her joy. 
 
 ' Shall I read just where we are reading, 
 granny?" asked David, presently. 
 
 " Oh, mother, I know what words you are 
 saying in your heart," said Tom. " You are 
 thinking of how the father said, ' This my son 
 was dead, and is alive again ; he was lost, and is 
 found.' It is that chapter that David ought to 
 read." 
 
 " You were never like that, Tom," said 
 granny, distressed. 
 
 "I have wandered as far, and fared as 
 scantily as he," said Tom, gravely ; " and, 
 mother, it is true, I am found again, for He 
 has found me who came ' to seek and to save 
 that which was lost.'"
 
 A GREAT SECRET 
 
 bout a week had passed, when one morn- 
 ing, as David was returning from his 
 rounds, his empty wallet by his side, 
 he saw Tom Thursfield, evidently looking out 
 for him. 
 
 " David, I want a word with you, my boy," 
 said he, putting his hand pleasantly on the 
 boy's shoulder as they walked ; " can you keep 
 a secret?" 
 
 " You try me," answered David. 
 
 " I mean to do that very thing," said the 
 soldier, smiling; " I believe you can be trusted, 
 and I am going to tell you something that no 
 one else will know as yet, not even my mother 
 or little Ruth, and I tell you, David, because 
 you love granny so much." 
 
 The boy looked up, pleased and curious, in 
 his companion's face. " What can it be ?" he 
 said. 
 
 " I dare say you wonder, David, whether 
 I've come home as poor as I went, when I had • 
 scarce anything in my pocket beyond the ser
 
 112 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 geant's shilling," said Tom Thnrsfield ; " now 
 the first part of my secret is, that I have 
 brought with me what you would think a 
 goodish bit of money ; how I came by it, you 
 shall hear first, and then what I mean to do 
 with it." David nodded, in sign of full atten- 
 tion, but said nothing. 
 
 " About a year ago, I had the good fortune 
 to save my colonel's life, when we were in 
 action. It was only my duty, and I didn't 
 think much of it ; but he took a different view 
 of the matter, and from that time he was very 
 kind to me, and made me his servant. I liked 
 him much, and liked attending on him ; but 
 for some time I had been far from easy about 
 my conduct in leaving my mother and my 
 child, and when the colonel wanted me to re- 
 enlist, at the end of my first seven years, I told 
 him all about my feelings, and said I must go 
 home. He seemed quite cut up to think of 
 my leaving him, for he had got used to me, 
 you see ; but after a while, when he saw plainly 
 that I couldn't settle myself to stay, he sent 
 for me, and said he, ' You are right, my man ; 
 in your place, I hope, I should do the same ; 
 you would have been promoted had you stayed 
 with us, but duty is the first thing, so I look 
 on you as homeward bound, Tom. But you 
 must not leave me without something to begin 
 the world with, and if you won't take this 
 money (and he put a £100 note into my hand) 
 for yourself, take it as a present from me to
 
 A GREAT SECRET. 113 
 
 your old mother.' Well, we had a deal of 
 talk ; first, I wouldn't touch tho money, but at 
 last he over-persuaded me ; and now, David, 
 for what I am going to do with it, I see by 
 your eyes you guess already ; yes, my boy, we 
 will rebuild the cottage at Deepdalo End." 
 
 David gave a loud shout of delight, and run- 
 ning from his companion, vaulted over the 
 gate of a field close by, and presently returned, 
 out of breath, but triumphant. 
 
 But after the two had walked a few steps, 
 his face fell, and the smile left his lips. "I 
 meant to build the cottage when I grow a 
 man," said he. 
 
 "It's better to do it now, isn't it, David? 
 Granny will have it all the longer, she is get- 
 ting old now," answered the other, gently. 
 
 " Yes, it's better now, no doubt ; but I 
 wanted to do it myself." 
 
 " Well, David, and that is jnst why I am 
 telling you the secret; you are to be my 
 helper ; why, I couldn't think cf managing it 
 all alone ; if I'm captain, you'll be lieutenant, 
 and you and I will talk everything over. I shall 
 want you to tell me just how everything stood; 
 for I want the new cottage to be just like the 
 old, and you know it is full seven years since I 
 saw it." 
 
 David's face grew bright again. " I shall like 
 that," he said, "and when will yon begin?" 
 
 "Now directly; there's not a day to be lost, 
 to my thinking, for I've set my heart on see 
 
 n
 
 114 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 ing the old lady keep her Christmas in the old 
 cottage, and here is September on us already ; 
 but many hands make light work, and we'll get 
 plenty to help. Now, my boy, the first thing is 
 to look at the ground, and see what we have to 
 begin upon. Come along with me at once — 
 now quick march ; capital, David, one would 
 think you had been setup, you march so well." 
 
 Before long the two stood together in the 
 garden of the old cottage, the scene of their 
 first meeting ; but all painful memories and 
 thoughts seemed forgotten while they discussed 
 their eager plans. 
 
 "The old door is safe, I am right glad of 
 that," said Tom Thursfield; "we'll have it 
 hung once more, and a new porch built ; but 
 we must wait awhile for the vine to cover it. 
 Then the frames for the windows are right, so 
 we shall be sure to have the glass in the old 
 place. We'll have plenty of grey stone from 
 the quarry, David, and build up the walls in 
 double quick time. It's not much of a piece 
 of work, for there are no foundations to dig, 
 you see." 
 
 "How jolly it is!" said David, rubbing his 
 hands. He had quite forgotten his disappoint- 
 ment, and was entering gleefully into all his 
 new friend's plans. 
 
 " I hope to hire some land hereabouts to 
 farm when once wo arc in the cottage," said 
 Tom Thursfield. " My mother's father, and 
 his father before him, had land here, many an
 
 A GREAT SECRET. 115 
 
 acre, though they lived in this mite of a cottage 
 all the time." 
 
 " Oh ! and you'll find me work on the farm, 
 I know you will," cried David. 
 
 " We shall see, my boy ; I must be man be- 
 fore I'm master. I'm in the ranks as yet, and 
 mean to get a bit of drilling from my brother 
 Chapman. He's what I call a farmer. I used 
 to have that land once, but I never did much 
 good with it, because I wouldn't bend my mind 
 to learn ; but now I mean to do different, and 
 I'll work hard for Chapman till I can set up 
 for myself. I ain't too old to learn yet." 
 
 " Shall we have the bee-hives back again ? " 
 asked David. " They used to stand in a row 
 just here." 
 
 " I remember them as well as if it were yes- 
 terday," said Tom ; " I had one of them for my 
 own when I was your age, David. And, dear 
 me, how I used to watch that hive; I was 
 always reckoning how many pounds of honey 
 there would be, and how much it would sell 
 for, and I had sj)ent the money ten times over 
 in my thoughts before ever the time came to 
 take the honey. And then what fun it was 
 when the bees swarmed ; mother used to come 
 running out with an old kettle, and I would 
 get a frying-pan and a poker. I can see it all 
 now. My hive used to stand just in this corner — 
 hero, under the rock," and Tom went to the 
 farthest end of the little garden to point out 
 the very place. Suddenly he gave a cry of
 
 116 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 surprise, and David saw hini stoop as if to take 
 something from the rock before him. " David, 
 do you know this ? " he cried presently, and 
 the boy, running up to him, saw that lie was 
 holding in his hands an old brown book, swollen 
 with wet and blistered with sunshine, but still 
 not entirely sjioiled. David knew it well — the 
 old Bible, granny's Bible, from which he had 
 learnt his first lessons in the cottage. 
 
 " Oh ! and are the glasses there ? " said 
 David, putting out his eager hand for the book, 
 which, however, Tom Thursfield held fast. They 
 turned the leaves, and there, dimmed and 
 rusted, but unbroken, were the glasses which 
 granny had missed so long. The soldier stood 
 looking down on the book gravely, almost 
 sadly, for its sight woke in him many half- 
 forgotten r/ttfia cries. 
 
 "I learnt to read from this book, my boy," 
 he said at last ; " and better things than that I 
 should have learnt had I been willing." He 
 held the book tenderly, lovingly, and would 
 not part from it for a moment. "I'll keep it safe 
 in my chest till such time as the cottage is ready, 
 and then let the old lady find it waiting for 
 her here. 'Twill be her best welcome." 
 
 " I'm glad about the glasses, and yet I'm 
 sorry," said the boy ; " do you know I've been 
 working extra for three weeks now, and saving 
 all my pence in a little bag, on purpose to get 
 granny a new pair of glasses ; but she'll certain 
 like the old ones best."
 
 A GREAT SECRET. ] 1 7 
 
 " Work away, my boy, and you shall do 
 something else for granny yet ready for Christ- 
 mas. Now I'll tell you two things : you shall 
 work with me, if you will. Then what do 
 you say to getting the spinning-wheel mended 
 ready for granny's fingers Avhen she gets 
 back to the old chair once more ? You do 
 that with your money, and Ruth, when she's 
 let into our secret, she shall hem the blinds 
 and the curtains ; we'll all do something, lad." 
 
 "And there's Martha," said David, "she's 
 given up having a new gown on purpose for 
 granny to have the mone3 r ; what'll she do?" 
 
 " She shall have the clock put to rights, so 
 that it may tick here in the corner when 
 grann3 r comes home," answered Tom Thuisfield. 
 
 " Oh ! how glorious it is," cried David ; and 
 springing into an apple-tree which stood near, 
 he was soon mounted on an overhanging bough, 
 cheering and waving his cap. 
 
 " Come down ! come down ! you wild mad- 
 cap," laughed Tom ; " we shall have all the 
 neighbours here presently, if you go on like 
 that. I'm going straight to the quarry to 
 order the stone, and set the men to work, so 
 good-by, and mind, not a word to any one." 
 
 Before many days were over, Tom Thursfield 
 had begun his work as a labourer on the farm 
 which might once have been his own ; but no 
 thought of this kept him from giving his whole 
 heart to his new task, and before long he was 
 steadily rising in the good opinion of his sober
 
 118 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 brother-in-law, and was learning much that 
 would be of value in the new life which he 
 was planning. 
 
 His mother rejoiced to see in his changed 
 life a true change of heart -and purpose, and 
 she felt that her son was indeed given back to 
 her, doubly dear that they had now one hope, 
 one aim, one deepest and strongest love. 
 
 The old lady was glad, too, that her son 
 seemed now on such kind and friendly terms 
 with her little David ; the two were often 
 together, and seemed to have much of which 
 they liked to talk. 
 
 But she never guessed what was the great 
 interest which bound the two together, and 
 what the theme of their many confidential 
 conversations. Singularly unsuspicious, Mrs. 
 Thursfield was one from whom it was very easy 
 to keep a secret ; and though all the dwellers in 
 Deepdale soon knew of the rebuilding of the 
 cottage, not a breath, not a word, reached the 
 old lady's ears as she sat placidly knitting by 
 her little tire. 
 
 And thus the da} r s passed on ; the walls grew 
 higher, and the thatch was ready for the roof, 
 and the glass for the windows, before the 
 December frosts had whitened the grass on 
 Deepdale Valley. 
 
 •i
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 CHRISTMAS IN THE OLD HOME. 
 
 nd so to-morrow is Christmas Day," 
 said Naomi Thiirsfield, with half a 
 smile and half a sigh, but the sigh 
 passed and the smile remained. 
 
 " You are thinking of Christmas Days in the 
 old home, mother," said Tom. He was sitting 
 on one side of the small fireplace, in which a coal 
 fire was burning — the days of blazing sweet- 
 smelling logs had gone by with the old cottage. 
 
 " Yes, my boy, yes ; 'tis the first Christmas 
 I have spent away from the old hearth, but 
 there's something that makes this place sweeter 
 to me than even the dear old kitchen, when I 
 missed my boy there," and she stretched out 
 her hand fondly, and laid it on Tom's arm. 
 
 " Bless you, mother," said he, " I can truly 
 pay I look to spend to-morrow the blithest 
 Christmas I ever knew, here or there." 
 
 He spoke gravely, but his face was turned a 
 little aside, and David, who, in defiance of all 
 rules, was perched on the dresser winding a 
 pegtop, could see a little curl about the cornex*
 
 120 JOYS AND SORROWS 
 
 of Tom's mouth, which made his own laugh 
 too in sympathy ; he was obliged to descend 
 from the dresser and go out to spin his top. 
 
 " "Well, mother," said Tom again, presently, 
 " I thought likely you would feel a bit dull, 
 hankering after the place that's gone, so I have 
 been planning a bit of a treat for you and Ruth 
 here." 
 
 Ruth looked up frightened ; surely he was 
 not going to let granny thus quietly into their 
 great and. wonderful secret ! But one glance at 
 her father's face reassured her. 
 
 ""What is the treat, lad?" said Naomi, 
 doubtfully ; " my time is gone by for treats, I 
 fancy. I hoped to get as far as church on 
 Christmas morning, and then spend the rest of 
 the day quietly at home with you all. And 
 there's a goose, Tom, all read}' plucked, and a 
 pudding made just as you used to like them 
 when you were no taller than David — your 
 old mother remembered your tastes, my boy." 
 
 " Sure enough you shall go to church," 
 answered Tom ; " my plan is, that Ave will all 
 go together, not to this church, but to the old 
 one beyond the quarry, where you used to lead 
 me when I was a little chap, mother, and where 
 you always went till you came here. I thought 
 you would like a sight of the old walls again, 
 and to hear the praj^ers in Mr. Ry land's voice. 
 So I've hired Sam Chapman's cart, and we'll 
 all go, and as for the goose and pudding, we'll 
 take them with us."
 
 CHRISTMAS IN THE OLD HOME. 121 
 
 " Why, my dear, what are you thinking 
 about?" said Naomi, "we shan't want the 
 goose and pudding- there." 
 
 " I nearly let the cat out of the bag," mut- 
 tered Tom under his breath. "No, indeed, 
 mother," he said aloud, " I was forgetting my- 
 self, it seems ; but to go on with my plan, I 
 see you don't half like it, and I can guess why, 
 you are dreading to pass the old place." 
 
 " I am foolish, I know," answered Naomi, 
 " but certainly I would rather not have gone 
 that way on Christmas Day ; I want to think 
 only of my mercies and joys then." 
 
 " And you don't give me credit for thinking 
 of this," said Tom, smiling ; " why, mother, I 
 knew just how it would be, and I've planned it 
 all — we don't go that way at all, we go round 
 by the new road, two miles farther, so that you 
 don't set eyes on Deepdale End. It don't 
 matter for the distance, Sam's mare steps along 
 pretty briskly when she has a mind, and we'll 
 set off in good time." 
 
 All was done as Tom Thursfield had planned, 
 and the cottage at New Melton was left in the 
 care of a neighbour, who promised Naomi to 
 give all due attention to the goose and pudding. 
 It was not long past nine when they set out, 
 so said the merry-pealing bells of New Melton 
 church, fur Naomi's clock had been sent by 
 Tom some days before to be repaired, and had 
 not yet been brought back. 
 
 Martha had decked the horse with bright
 
 122 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 sprays of holly in honour of the occasion ; the 
 mare, however, did not fully appreciate the 
 honour, and gave so many sideway jerks of the 
 head, with a view of getting rid of the com 
 tinual pricks at her ears, that Naomi trembled 
 for the safety of the cart and those within. But 
 they rode soberly and quietly along, the old 
 lady in front by her son's side, looking quiet 
 and thoughtful, but content, while the girl 
 and boy, who were behind, found it hard work 
 to keep their merry faces and quick tongues 
 from telling too soon the great secret of which 
 their hearts were full. They solaced them- 
 selves by many a whisper, or by furtive pinches 
 of each other's arms, by way of reminding 
 themselves of the delights before them ; and 
 when they laughed more loudly than usual, 
 granny only remarked, with a pleased look, 
 that it did her good to see the children so 
 merry ; it was a rare treat for them to ride in 
 a cart. But granny's sober face was brightened, 
 and the children's mirth softened into a more 
 peaceful gladness, as they all knelt together in 
 the old church, so familiar and so well loved. 
 And as the Christmas anthem pealed out, and 
 the Christmas hymn was sung by glad voices, 
 all the four felt that in their different measures 
 they too were joining their weak tones in the 
 one long chorus of endless praise begun when 
 the angels sang the first carol, and which shall 
 never close till all God's redeemed have learnt 
 the song of Moses and of the Lamb, the song of
 
 CHRISTMAS IN THE OLD HOME. 123 
 
 redemption through the Child bom to us on 
 Christmas Day. Granny's heart was so full of 
 these glad thoughts that* she let Tom lift her in 
 silence to her place in the cart, and did not 
 notice that the horse's head was turned, not 
 now towards the road by which they had come, 
 but to the site of the old cottage. 
 
 They had gone some distance before she 
 looked round ; then she gave a start of surprise, 
 almost of distress. " Why, Tom, we are going 
 this way after all. "\Vell, maybe it's all 
 right," she said, patiently, as Tom did not 
 answer nor turn his head. " After all we've 
 heard this morning, I ought to be able to bear 
 a greater thing than that ; besides, I had best 
 get used to it, likely I may have to see it many 
 a time yet." 
 
 David gave Ruth a sudden push with his 
 elbow, which sent her into fits of laughter, 
 rather to granny's surprise ; but the old lady 
 had no time to ask questions, for the bend 
 of the road brought them full in vieAV of the 
 place where the old cottage had stood. 
 
 "Oh, Tom, my dear boy, what is that?" 
 cried Naomi, and then sat silent ; but Tom felt 
 her trembling from head to foot, and he passed 
 Lis strong arm closely round her. 
 
 The cart stopped at the old gate, and Tom, 
 
 jumping down, lifted his mother out ; she did 
 
 not speak, but looked around her with wide 
 
 eyes, almost too much stunned to feel surprise. 
 
 Come in and see it all, mother," said Tom,
 
 124 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 cheerily ; "I think it's real. Welcome to Deep- 
 dale End. Come, children, the old mare will 
 stand; she's good at that, any way." 
 
 All four walked up the neat straight gar- 
 den path, between neatly-raked beds of dark 
 soil, to the open cottage door, at which, her 
 broad face dressed in brightest smiles, Mrs. 
 Chapman stood to welcome the new-comers. 
 
 Martha stood behind, and the waft of warm 
 air which greeted the visitors had about it an 
 unmistakable odour of roast goose, convincing 
 Naomi that there must be some reality in the 
 wonderful vision before her. 
 
 For there was the very old room which she 
 left on the night of the flood ; there was an 
 arm-chair by the fire covered with blue chintz 
 of the very same pattern as the old ; there was 
 the familiar hearth, bright as formerly with 
 blazing logs ; there, close to her hand, stood 
 her own old wheel with a skein of blue wool 
 already hanging from it. But the old lady 
 could hardly look at all these wonderful visions, 
 it seemed too much, and she covered her eyes 
 as she sank into the chair which waited her. 
 All were silent, for they knew that she was 
 giving thanks to God in her heart. 
 
 " There, Mrs. Thursfield," said Mrs. Chap- 
 man, at last ; " now you see what it is to have 
 a son. Not that I'm saying a word against Ned, 
 which surely ain't called for at a mother's 
 hands, but it isn't every lad as can come home 
 from foreign parts, and build his mother a
 
 CHRISTMAS IN THE OLD HOME. 126 
 
 house like this ; not that I would see my boy 
 a soldier, far from it, Mrs. Thursfield." 
 
 "Ah, my boy," said Naomi, half rising-, and 
 holding out her arms, "I knew it was j'our 
 doing, God bless you." 
 
 " And little enough, too, for such a mother," 
 said Tom ; " and after all, if there is any gift 
 in the matter, it is from my colonel, not from 
 me — but you shall hear all about that another 
 time. Look round you now, mother ; see how 
 many things there are that you know." 
 
 " I know them all, I believe," said Naomi, 
 " but my eyes are dim ; now if I dare frame a 
 wish it would be for m} r old glasses, but 'tis 
 ungrateful in me even to turn my thoughts to 
 them, I fear." 
 
 " There, then, mother," said Tom, stepping 
 behind her chair and leaning over her, so as to 
 place the bright gold frame in its place, " there 
 now, can you see better ? " 
 
 " They can't be my old glasses," cried Naomi, 
 " and yet I could never see so plain in any 
 others. I can't understand it. How have you 
 managed it ? " 
 
 " Never mind that now, mother, they are 
 your own old glasses and no others ; and now 
 let us see you use them to good purpose. Look 
 at Ruth ; see where her eyes are." 
 
 Ruth was standing by the little ound table, 
 gazing on the old brown Bible which lay there. 
 " See, granny," she cried, holding it up, " this 
 is best of all, here is our Bible come back."
 
 126 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 Granny had tears, not words, for her recovered 
 treasure, and it was some time before she was 
 able to turn her eyes in any other direction ; 
 but David and Ruth and Martha were all so 
 eager to show her the wonders around, that she 
 was not left long to indulge her silent delight. 
 
 "Do you hear the clock, granny?" cried 
 David ; " it has come home from being mended, 
 you see. Doesn't it tick away merrily, as if it 
 kept saying, ' You're home again, you're home 
 again ! Merry Christmas, merry Christmas ! ' 
 over and over again ?" 
 
 " That was Martha's doing," said Ruth. 
 " Granny, she saved up all her money to get 
 the clock mended, and so she couldn't buy her 
 merino dress." 
 
 " And Ruth hemmed all the blinds and cur- 
 tains, granny," cried Martha, " and David had 
 the wheel mended. See, here it is all ready 
 for you to begin to spin." 
 
 " You're good bairns," said the old lady, 
 looking fondly from one to another as they 
 clustered round her ; " and to think of your 
 spending your earnings on me like that, my 
 heart is too full for many words ; but I feel it, 
 my dears, I feel it." 
 
 " Fm sure, granny," cried Martha, " I would 
 rather hear that clock ticking there in its old 
 corner than ' I would have six new merino 
 dresses, with panniers and fringe and every- 
 thing, that I would." 
 
 "And I'm sure," said Mrs. Chapman, testily,
 
 CHRISTMAS IN THE OLD HOME. 12 7 
 
 " that you are talking nonsense, Martha. Six 
 new dresses, indeed ; I wonder where the 
 money is to come from. And your poor father 
 never has the rent ready a day too soon, work 
 as hard as lie may. But the young folks never 
 think. Ruth, my dear, I hope you'll remember 
 now what I said to you about kitchen floors, 
 for you'll never see such another as this is for 
 smoothness and whiteness. But it's time we 
 should be going now, Mrs. Thursfield ; the 
 goose is done to a turn ; and there's your own 
 pudding boiling there on the fire, and we all 
 wish you a merry Christmas at Deepdale End." 
 
 " Then are we really to spend our Christmas 
 here ? — don't we go back to New Melton at 
 all ? " asked the old lady, bewildered. 
 
 " You wouldn't find much welcome there," 
 answered Tom, laughing ; " why, the cottage 
 is nearly empty now, the things were brought 
 here while you were at church, mother ; and 
 besides, whatever you may do, David and I 
 shall stick by the goose and pudding, I can tell 
 you. You'd better go into the inner room and 
 see how it looks there, mother. You are at 
 home now, not to go away any more." 
 
 "Not any more, my dear boj^," answered 
 Naomi, " until I leave it for a home that can 
 never be broken up ;" and rising slowly, she 
 went into the inner room, and hung her black 
 bonnet once more on the accustomed peg. She 
 was some time away, and returned calm and 
 happy to the bright fireside, which David had
 
 128 JOYS AND SORROWS. 
 
 piled with fresh logs. The cloth was spread, 
 and before long the four were gathered round 
 the table, on which Ruth triumphantly placed 
 the roast goose. Then the whole history of the 
 rebuilding of the cottage was told, Tom, David, 
 and Ruth all taking their share in the story, 
 which lasted long, as granny put question after 
 question, and interrupted with many expres- 
 sions of delight and surprise. 
 
 The evening found the happy party gathered 
 round the Christmas fire, which added its wel- 
 come to that given by every familiar chair and 
 picture and plate in the old room — nay, by the 
 very walls and windows themselves. They were 
 almost silent now, silent with deep happiness, 
 as they sat hand in hand beside the old hearth- 
 stone, until Tom said, "Now, mother, David 
 shall read you the chapter from the dear old 
 Bible once more." 
 
 "Read the twenty-third Psalm, my dear, 
 to-night," said granny, turning to David ; " it 
 will help to find words for what is in all our 
 thoughts ;" and the boy lifted the book reve- 
 rently on his knee, and bending over it, read 
 slowly and lovingly the sweet song of him who 
 kept his father's sheep on the hills of Bethlehem. 
 
 Then the four knelt together at their evening 
 prayer, and thus in praise and thanksgiving 
 ended the Christmas Day at the old cottage at 
 Deepdale End. 
 
 LONDON : R. K. BURT AND CO., PRINTERS.
 
 JU 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 p 
 
 3 1158 00599 9569 
 
 PR 
 
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