^S 
 
 AViili 
 
 
 ^"^ : 
 
 mmmmm 
 
J' ■ 
 
 
/ ^ r ^, 
 
 /i^ 
 
 /■ 
 
 t-/ 
 
 ^ /^r\ . 
 
 ¥ 
 
 /^/''■ 
 
 ^ y 
 
 / / / ^ 
 
 ^ ^/-/^^ 
 
 /^^. /■ 
 
 / 
 
/n . 
 
//^e/^ A^^ /^^^^/5c 
 
 THE STORY 
 
 OF 
 
 WANDERING WILLIE 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 'EFFIE'S FRIENDS' and 'JOHN HATHERTON' 
 
 Jrontisphtc bg ^ir ^ocl ^atoii, S.^.gi. 
 
 'Here awa', there awa', wandering Willie' — Scotch song 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 3^ouboit 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 1870 
 
 All riscltfs irscnrd 
 
LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO.. NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 AND PARLIAMENT STREET 
 
"iff 
 
 rfo 
 1^70 
 
 TO 
 
 MY MOTHER 
 
 619 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Introduction i 
 
 Part 1 13 
 
 Part II. 136 
 
 Conclusion 290 
 
THE STORY 
 
 OF 
 
 WANDERING WILLIE. 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Be the day short or never so long, 
 At le7igth it ri7igeth to eveti-sofig. 
 
 All day he had come across the moors through 
 the falHng snow. 
 
 Long ago, from some village far beneath him, 
 the church clock had struck four, and the distant 
 strokes had come faintly up to him, muffled by the 
 storm. So he knew that sunset was over. 
 
 But it made little difference to him on that 
 moorland track, except that the grey mist caught 
 a darker tint, — that the snow-flakes looked dim- 
 mer as they fell. The great silence around could 
 not grow deeper, or the road become more desolate 
 and wild. 
 
 It was not desolate to him, or strange. His feet 
 
 B 
 
2 THE STORY OF 
 
 had trodden it when the purple heather was in 
 bloom for oh ! so many, many years, also the 
 snowy mantle it nov/ wore was not strange to him, 
 but familiar and dear as were the silence and the 
 twilight. 
 
 All the country-side knew Wandering Willie. 
 / Men who were growing old remembered that 
 when they were rosy children, he used to go and 
 come among them even as he did now. Mothers, 
 standing at their cottage doors watching their 
 little ones at play, often saw Wandering Willie lay 
 his withered hand upon the golden heads and, 
 smiling, bless them as he passed. Then they 
 thought of the kind smile and the touch that used 
 to be laid upon their own heads years ago, and 
 they recalled the same simple words of blessing. 
 
 They had been waiting then for life, with its 
 duties and its hopes — sleeping as it were, and 
 dreaming in the golden morning-flush, until the 
 hour struck for work. And to one after another it 
 had come, and they arose. Busy life began for 
 them, but to Wandering Willie no changes seemed 
 to come. 
 
 He was looking on at life, not sharing it. He 
 had no home he used to say, smiling gravely, as 
 they asked him the question in the warm corner of 
 
WANDERING WILLIE, 3 
 
 many a happy fire-side. No, he was alone in the 
 world. But when they said * Poor Willie,' and 
 some kind soft touch was laid pityingly on his 
 hand, from which the pilgrim-stafif had just been 
 laid aside, he smiled again and said he was well 
 content. 
 
 He must be very old they thought. Each winter's 
 snow left its reflection on his silvering hair, each 
 autumn storm traced deeper furrows on his face. 
 As every summer came, he bent a little lower 
 beneath the heat and burden of the day. And in 
 the spring there was one day — his birthday — which 
 was ever to Willie as a milestone passed on the 
 homeward road, as a voice of welcome from the 
 , Land that was no longer ' very far away.' 
 
 So though it seemed a restless life that he led, it 
 was yet not a sad one. The wide sky was as his 
 roof — the rough moorland path familiar to him as 
 household ways. The evening brought its homely 
 welcome — the morning its friendly words to cheer 
 him on his way. 
 
 Not a farmhouse, not a cottage in all the country 
 round, but kept the warm corner of the ingle nook 
 for Wandering Willie. 
 
 The children shouted for joy when they saw him 
 coming towards their house in the gloaming. The 
 
 B 2 
 
4 THE STORY OF 
 
 house-mother left her spinning-wheel to welcome 
 him on the threshold. More logs of wood were 
 piled upon the fire. Eager hands laid his staff 
 aside, and helped to lift the pedlar's pack from 
 Willie's shoulder. And while he sat down to rest, 
 the little ones danced out of doors again to watch 
 for Father from the top of the stile, that he might 
 come home quick to hear what Willie said, and see 
 what Willie brought. 
 
 And then they gathered round, while the pack 
 was opened and all its treasures spread out. 
 
 There was always something wonderful and new 
 that Willie had brought from the far-distant town. 
 The brightly coloured shawls — surely mother must 
 have one — they looked so beautiful as Willie held 
 them up ; the knots of cherry ribands for the 
 maiden's hair ; the shining scissors and great horn 
 knives, the little store of books, the tapes and 
 cottons, and the brown duffle for the children's 
 frocks that had been waited for so long and so 
 impatiently. 
 
 * The mother thought thou wert never coming 
 again, Willie,' the farmer would say smiling, as 
 the busy housewife shook her head, and held the 
 stuff up in the waning light and made her easy 
 bargain with Willie. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 5 
 
 Soon supper was ready, smoking hot upon the 
 oaken board, and they called their guest to the 
 most honoured place. But the pack was left open 
 on the floor that the children might have another 
 look at Willie's treasures. 
 
 He carried greater treasures still — treasures that 
 money could not buy, but which were requited 
 by the precious gifts of love and good-will. 
 
 He brought letters from the absent — kind mes- 
 sages from some that had been thought forgetful 
 — greetings that were as music to loving hearts — 
 little tokens of old friendships over which time and 
 distance had no power. And as they gathered 
 round him to ask questions, and listened breath- 
 lessly to his tidings, the old man sometimes spoke 
 of joy, sometimes of sorrow, but always of com- 
 fort. 
 
 So they all loved him. But with the little ones 
 did he chiefly seem at home. Perhaps he thought 
 that life's journey lay in a circle, and that as the 
 end to him grew ever nearer and nearer, he was 
 drawing close to the spot whence the children had 
 so lately started, and he could breathe more easily 
 in their air, and their language came the most 
 readily to his lips. 
 
6 THE STORY OF 
 
 He would tell them stories by the hour — stories 
 that, coming straight from his own heart, found their 
 way at once to the child-hearts of his listeners. 
 They loved the simple verses that he often strung 
 together as he journeyed on alone from place to 
 place, and they called Willie their own poet. The 
 wise people smiled at the high-sounding name, for 
 they thought that Willie's verses were all alike — 
 harping only on one string. The old man said he 
 did not know — it seemed to him as if the wind 
 brought them to him, and it ever told one story. 
 It may be that the children were right, and that 
 the rhymes had a rude melody caught from the 
 great voice of Nature — some faint echo of those 
 solemn chords that night and day the wind sends 
 up to Heaven, as it sweeps across the woodland 
 and the moor towards the distant hills. 
 
 Therefore, with this music ever sounding in his 
 ears, like distant church bells, it was not strange 
 that solitude should be to him as a friend, not as 
 an enemy to be shunned and dreaded. For if 
 there be a voice in Nature that can speak to its 
 Great Maker, surely God sends many answers 
 back ; and hourly some word of His went home 
 with a new thrill of gladness to Willie's listening 
 heart. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 7 
 
 So do not pity him, though he has fought on all 
 day alone against the storm. 
 
 Look at him now, toiling steadily onwards, a dim 
 figure scarcely seen through the thickening snow- 
 wreaths. At each step he sinks deeper in the 
 snow, and all around the moor stretches wild and 
 white under the grey heaven. Here a great broken 
 tree rises against the sky, weird and gloomy ; there 
 a few firs are bending beneath the snowy burden 
 that grows heavier each minute. And the falling 
 snow swiftly fills up those solitary footprints that 
 alone have ruffled its surface. 
 
 It is so silent, so very still. Who would guess 
 that a resting place is near at hand t Yet so it is. 
 But one more steep bit of road, and it will be lying 
 almost at his feet. 
 
 It is hidden still by yonder rising ground, but 
 that once gained, the moor sinks suddenly down- 
 wards, and nestled in the hollow lies the grey 
 farm-house, where they are watching for him even 
 now. 
 
 It is pleasant to be watched for, especially when 
 the way has been long and hard. 
 
 Already Willie could picture to himself the ruddy 
 gleam of light from the windows down below. 
 
 The snow-storm might blot out the outline of 
 
8 THE STORY OF 
 
 the house, and bury the familiar path out of sight, 
 but it could not quench that cheery token of 
 welcome. 
 
 A little nearer, and he should see the figures 
 moving about in the red warmth within, and the 
 great shadows that the firelight threw upon the 
 ceiling. 
 
 And then close to the window-pane the waving 
 outline of many little heads clustered together. 
 All the children would be on the look-out to-day, 
 straining their eyes along the darkening path, for 
 the first sign of his coming. For it was New 
 Year's Eve. The sun would never rise again on 
 the Old Year. Amid the snow-flakes it was fall- 
 ing quietly asleep. 
 
 All day, as its last sands ran out, Willie had 
 'been thinking of the dying year and silently 
 bidding it farewell. Rather wistfully he saw the 
 daylight float away from it for ever. To-night it 
 laid down the burden of its completed hours, and 
 was fading back into the shadowy past. 
 
 But for those children in the farm-house down 
 yonder things were different. The glad New Year's 
 morning that would rise to-morrow from beneath 
 the snow-white pall of the Old Year was everything 
 to them. The pack he carried was heavy with 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 9 
 
 their New Year's gifts. Willie strove to mend his 
 flagging pace, for he was tired. He had come far, 
 very far, to-day, that the little ones might not be 
 disappointed. 
 
 Childlike, he rejoiced in the feathery snow-flakes 
 that would prevent their seeing him until he was 
 close at hand, and at the soft white carpet muffling 
 his approaching footsteps, so that he might take 
 them by surprise. 
 
 It all fell out as Willie had imagined ; only 
 the. children were too quick for him after all. The 
 door in the deep porch flew open as he drew near, 
 the red light streamed out brilliantly, and little 
 feet danced into the snow. 
 
 How many rosy laughing faces there were — how 
 many merry voices ! The children drew him in 
 amongst them, the young ones were close to him, 
 and the elders, just as happy, stood behind. 
 
 All claimed to have seen Willie soonest. Roger 
 was the first to grasp his hand, and bid him wel- 
 come — Lois said so — but then Lois gave every dis- 
 puted point in Cousin Roger's favour now. Besides, 
 Roger was so old and his legs were so long. 
 
 * We were all watching, Willie. We thought 
 you would never come. We are so glad you have 
 got safe over the moors in the snow.' 
 
10 THE STORY OF 
 
 ' And we all welcome you, old friend/ said Lois, 
 the tall, graceful maiden, holding both his hands. 
 *We have so much to tell you, and Roger and 
 I ' 
 
 She did not finish, but Roger put his hand 
 proudly on her shoulder, and their two faces told 
 the rest. So it was a very joyous meeting. 
 
 And on that evening Wandering Willie told 
 them the story of his life. 
 
 He had never told that story before, and no 
 one will hear it from Willie's lips again. 
 
 It came about in this way. 
 
 There were none but the young ones left with 
 him. Most of them were gathered round the fire 
 at Willie's feet. The youngest, little Cecily, had 
 climbed upon his knee. Long ago — at least what 
 seemed long ago to her — she had climbed up into 
 his heart. She put her arm round his neck, and 
 had been telling him ' secrets ' in soft half-whispers. 
 A little way off Roger and Lois sat in the window, 
 and talked together in low voices — most likely they 
 had ' secrets ' too. The old man often looked 
 towards them. It may be that something in 
 Roger's attitude, or in the downcast face of Lois, 
 brought back a dim picture to him through the far 
 off years. He smiled, but he sighed too, as he 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. ii 
 
 smoothed little Cecily's fair hair. She had got 
 his big silver watch in both her hands, and was 
 listening to its ticking and to what Willie said 
 about it. 
 
 The children on the hearth were forming wishes 
 for the coming year. 
 
 ' And I wish/ said one, gravely and clearly, ' that 
 I was big, and very useful.* 
 
 The others were quiet for a moment, and then 
 they laughed, and their laughter rang musically 
 through the old kitchen. 
 
 Willie smiled at the little speaker, and went on 
 with what he was saying to Cecily. 
 
 ' And you see, Cecily, how the busy hands keep 
 on and on, always doing their work. Look how 
 quickly the long one gets on. It goes round ever 
 so many times faster than the short one, and yet 
 that is doing its work too all the time — doing its 
 very best. But you could not expect the short 
 hand to do as much, or in the world the little 
 short legs to be quite as useful as the long ones.' 
 
 * The long ones like yours ; ' and Cecily held out 
 a short bare leg of her own and looked at it. 
 
 ' Yes, the long ones like mine ; ' said Willie. 
 *They have made many journeys, little Cecily.' 
 
 * Willie,' she asked, opening her eyes, ' how many 
 
I J? THE STORY OF 
 
 times has the long hand gone round since you was 
 a little boy ? ' 
 
 He shook his head gravely. The days of his 
 years were past Willie's counting. 
 
 'Will you tell us all about it?' said the little 
 maiden who had wished to be very useful. 
 
 Then all the others jumped up and echoed the 
 petition. * Tell us your story. Because it is New 
 Year's Eve, Willie. Because it is the last day of 
 the Old Year.' 
 
 Lois came and sat down beside him and begged 
 too, and Roger leant over her chair. 
 
 * Do tell us about your life, dear old friend. We 
 have so often wished to know.' 
 
 Willie still shook his head, but somehow the chord 
 of memory had been touched to-night, and it was 
 vibrating still. Perhaps because, as the children 
 said, it was the last day of the Old Year. 
 
 He looked out of the window at the coming 
 darkness, and then back upon the young listening 
 faces in the firelight. 
 
 And he told them his story. It was a very 
 simple one. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 13 
 
 PART I. 
 
 We spend our years as a tale that is told 
 
 Look, it is evening, quite evening at last. See how 
 the light has faded, and the shadows have fallen 
 over the hills. The day is over, the twilight is 
 gathering. 
 
 Just so it is with me. My day has long been 
 over ; the hours of work are spent, the twilight 
 seems long, very long, but the night is at hand. 
 
 I am glad that it should be so. To the old 
 weary ^y^?, this dim light is welcome ; to the tired 
 frame, 'the night in which no man can work,' looks 
 full of rest as it draws near. 
 
 You ask me how it was with me in the morning. 
 
 It is so long ago I can scarcely remember now. 
 
 In the morning, when I was young } 
 
 Let me look back through the shadowy years. 
 
 Ah yes ! It comes slowly to me — the wild morn- 
 ing freshness, the flower-scented air. The dawn 
 has broken ; it is all wonderfully bright ; there seem 
 
14 THE STORY OF 
 
 to be no clouds ; the sun rises in golden radiance, 
 and the earth is flooded with glory. 
 
 And as my eyes — dazzled at first — grow more 
 used to the splendour of the young day, robed 
 and crowned with light, I see an old gateway 
 grim and grey, facing the west. It lies in shadow 
 still, but a child pushes open the heavy wooden 
 door, and suddenly a stream of sunlight pours 
 through, and he stands there with the morning 
 light behind him. 
 
 How often there may be two meanings in our 
 simplest words. I was standing truly, on the 
 threshold of life, even as my childish feet rested 
 on the grey worn stone, and far before me lay the 
 mists and the shadows, the hopes and the sorrows of 
 my future. Only from behind — my home lay in 
 there behind — from there the sunshine had never 
 failed me yet. 
 
 My hand, a small soft round one, rested against 
 the arched gateway, among the stonecrop and 
 the yellow lichen. I remember that I tried to 
 loosen one of the old stones, but I could not. It 
 was still as strong and immovable as when, ages 
 ago, it had been fitted into its place. I daresay it 
 is just as firm now, though the little busy hand is 
 so withered and feeble. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 15 
 
 It was the gateway of a ruined castle, grand and 
 very beautiful in its ruin. I have heard people say 
 that they wished they could put all things back, 
 and see it as it once was ; but I always won- 
 dered at them. I would not have changed one 
 stone. 
 
 I suppose that all places may look sad at times — 
 beneath the grey sky of winter, or when autumn 
 winds are blowing ; but on a summer's day no place 
 has ever seemed to me so bright with sunshine as 
 our ruins. 
 
 It was as if old age had come upon them lightly, 
 bringing with it no burden of sadness, and that 
 their days of work long over, they were content to 
 lie idle in the kind warm sun, and to tell stories of 
 the past. 
 
 The birds built their nests in the traceried win- 
 dows, and sang and loved each other, and skimmed 
 about at their own wild will above the flowery turf. 
 
 Ivy, the child of old age, had wound itself round 
 the broken towers, half clinging to them, half sup- 
 porting them. 
 
 It was one of my mother's quaint sayings that 
 the soft mossy grass, which grew luxuriantly every- 
 where, reminded her of charity, for that though 
 Time had stolen much away, all its thefts were 
 
i6 THE STORY OF 
 
 covered and hidden beneath that widely-spread 
 mantle of turf. 
 
 I used to listen to my mother telling the stories 
 of the place in her sweet grave voice. She and my 
 father had charge of the Castle, and we lived in the 
 rooms over the grand old gateway. 
 
 My mother often went round with visitors, for 
 people came from afar to see the ruins. I liked 
 to follow her, holding her gown bashfully, and 
 wondering how mother knew that Queen Elizabeth 
 had come there once, or that Simon De Montford, 
 with a great army, marched up the valley one 
 dark night and took the Castle by storm. 
 
 ^ Were you here, mother, when Queen Elizabeth 
 came t ' I asked her once. 
 
 ' Oh no, Willie.' 
 
 'Then how do you know she ever came and 
 stayed in the Queen's Tower .'' ' 
 
 ' They say she did,' mother said, smoothing my 
 curly head. 
 
 * But do you believe it, mother } How can you 
 tell if it is true } ' 
 
 *■ Little Willie,' I remember that she answered, 
 'we must believe many things without seeing 
 them,' and I thought that she looked up to some- 
 where higher than even the great Queen's Tower. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 17 
 
 I thought a little, and then said — 
 
 *What a great person she must have been. 
 Would you like to have been her, mother ? * 
 
 * Oh, no, no,' and mother smiled, and then knelt 
 down and kissed me. ' My own little son.' 
 
 I did not know what that had to do with Queen 
 Elizabeth, and I don't know now, but I felt very 
 sure that no queen, however grand, could ever have 
 been like my mother. She, I thought, was more 
 like an angel, and I believed I knew quite well 
 how the angels look. For under the ruined roof 
 of the Castle chapel was a sculptured angel's head 
 with folded wings. It had just such a face as my 
 mother's, with the same peaceful brow and loving 
 downward look. 
 
 Sometimes I see her still. She comes to me 
 through the long years at night, and we are to- 
 gether again — not as now, I so old and withered, 
 she so young and fair — but as it used to be when I 
 fell asleep, a tired child, on her shoulder. And I 
 think that when the night — I mean death — really 
 comes for me, and I lie down to sleep, that God 
 will send her for me, and that she will take me, 
 her weary son, in her dear arms once more. 
 
 I was an only child, but not a lonely one. On 
 
 C 
 
i8 THE STORY OF 
 
 the other side of the ruins, only much lower down, 
 close to the stream that ran under the Castle cliff, 
 was the forester's cottage, where lived Hildred, my 
 friend and playfellow. 
 
 It was a pretty cottage with a thatched roof, 
 half buried in climbing roses. The pleasant rip- 
 pling of the stream sounded there close at hand. 
 
 We heard the water, too, up at the gatehouse, 
 but more faintly. There it was the distant rush 
 of the stream tumbling noisily over some rocks 
 before it took up its quiet song again at a lower 
 level. 
 
 The cottage garden was a sunny corner full of 
 flowers and bees and butterflies. But we liked 
 our grey gateway best, with its broad fair view. 
 For we could see across to blue hills in the dis- 
 tance, miles and miles away. Between them and 
 us were broad woods and broken ground, farm- 
 houses with rich pasture-land round them, and broad 
 fields stately wuth yellow corn. It was beautiful to 
 watch the wind sweep over them with a rough 
 kindly hand, breaking the field into waves of 
 rippled gold beneath its touch. 
 
 I was looking at all this from the gateway on the 
 summer morning I have been telling you of, and 
 feeling veiy happy, though I scarcely knew why. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 19 
 
 For a child accepts God's gifts with a glad un- 
 consciousness, as the earth welcomes the sun and 
 rain. 
 
 Perhaps you wonder why I tell you so much 
 about a day on which nothing particular happened, 
 and why I remember it so well. But if you live to 
 grow old, you will find out that it is not always 
 the great events in your life that you remember 
 the best and care the most to look back upon. It 
 is some sunny little bit of every-day life — some 
 homely scene that passed over and seemed to leave 
 no trace behind, that lingers the longest in your 
 memory. Just as looking down from a high hill 
 at sunset over the country below, it is not the 
 biggest things that you see the most clearly, but 
 the bright spots here and there : a glittering pool of 
 water, perhaps, or a bush of blooming gorse which 
 has caught and kept the sunbeams. 
 
 You children should not have got an old man 
 talking to-night about what happened when he was 
 a little boy. Old men are like a great many other 
 things, easier set a-going than stopped when they 
 have once begun. And so I am afraid you will 
 find me. I seem to remember so many things now 
 that I once look back. Sad things, children, as 
 well as merry things, for there are grey threads 
 
20 THE STORY OF 
 
 woven into the web of every life. I hope you will 
 not say that mine is too * grey ' a story for New 
 Year's Eve. 
 
 Don't be afraid though. There is nothing sad 
 coming yet. I was as happy a little boy just then, 
 as the sun shone on. 
 
 Little Boy Blue 
 Come blow your horn, 
 The sheep are in the meadow, 
 The cows are in the com — 
 
 sang a little clear voice coming through the ruins. 
 That was Hildred. She always sang unless she 
 was running so fast as to be out of breath. 
 
 One day when her sister-in-law was scolding her, 
 she said she believed Hildred began singing before 
 her eyes were open in the morning, and that it was 
 very tiresome. Hildred lived with her brother and 
 his wife, for her own parents were dead. 
 
 Her sister-in-law scolded her a great deal, but 
 she could not quite sadden the brightest little 
 heart that ever beat. Hildred seemed to get over 
 the scoldings as quickly as a little bird shakes off 
 the rain-drops that have fallen on its wings. 
 
 She was sorry for a few minutes, but then she 
 ran away to us and forgot it all. Often there 
 were two big tears on her cheeks when she left 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 21 
 
 home, but by the time she had got past the keep 
 the wind had dried the tears, and she was singing 
 again. She left her troubles behind and forgot 
 them : forgot the sturdy uproarious Robin, the 
 stolidly domineering Walter — her brother's little 
 twin boys — forgot even that passionate blue-eyed 
 baby Phillis, the greatest tyrant of them all. 
 
 You may be sure that my mother was all the 
 kinder to Hildred because she had no parents of 
 her own. 
 
 The little maiden brought all her small troubles 
 to be cured by my mother, as grown up people 
 brought her their big troubles. Everyone that 
 knew my mother came to her. She had remedies 
 for all ills, I think, from a scratched arm to a 
 broken heart. No one went away from her v/ithout 
 taking some comfort with them. Many people 
 have told me this. I scarcely know it by my own 
 experience, for as long as she lived I never needed 
 comfort. 
 
 My father was a man of very few words. He 
 seldom came home until the evening, and then 
 he liked to sit perfectly silent, with his pipe 
 in his mouth, in the chimney corner if it was 
 winter, or in summer on a stone bench outside the 
 door. 
 
22 THE STORY OF 
 
 I was not a bit afraid of him, and chattered on 
 to my mother just the same, whether he was there 
 or not. I do not know If he ever listened to what 
 she and I said to one another. At all events he 
 never joined in our long talks. My mother taught 
 me to look up to him and honour him, and so I 
 did, but in a far-off sort of a fashion, much as I 
 honoured our sovereign lord King George. 
 
 But she seemed to belong to me so completely 
 that it would have surprised me very much If father 
 or anyone else had set up a claim on her that 
 came in the way of my rights. 
 
 He was welcome to talk with her, as I some- 
 times heard him doing. In slow deep sentences, 
 after my mother had bidden me good night in the 
 long light summer evening. But she was mine till 
 bed-time. 
 
 Bed-time ! how I hated the word then ! How it 
 brings back now the dear vision of a little white 
 nest, of a few last thoughts in the waning light, 
 of hours of dreamless sleep. Then of a glad 
 awakening in the morning with sunshine on my 
 face, and mother by my bed. 
 
 There was an old well under the wall that used 
 to frighten and yet attract me, it was so very 
 deep and dark. I always fancied that some un- 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 23 
 
 known danger lurked in its depths, yet I could 
 not resist the temptation of peering down into it, 
 to see through all the fern and broad-leaved mul- 
 leins, the black water far below marked by one 
 round spot of light, where the reflection from the 
 sky touched the surface. 
 
 It was a daily pleasure to me to see the bucket 
 lowered into the well. I took a friendly interest 
 in that bucket, almost as if it had been a thing 
 alive, and used to wonder whether it did not dread 
 the rapid steady going down into darkness, and 
 the sudden dip into the chill water at the bottom. 
 I was quite glad when the rusty chain began to be 
 wound up again, and the brimming bucket loomed 
 slowly into sight. 
 
 On a stone in the wall above the well there were 
 some words engraved in queer old-fashioned cha- 
 racters. When first I knew how to read, I used to 
 try to spell them out letter by letter, but I could 
 not manage it. 
 
 * Why can't I read that,* I asked my mother 
 rather indignantly, ^ when I can read so well .'' ' 
 
 * The books we read now-a-days are not printed 
 with those sort of letters,' she said, pausing for a 
 moment in turning the creaking old windlass. 
 
 I looked down to see how my friend the bucket 
 
24 THE STORY OF 
 
 was getting on, and seeing him rising up safely 
 towards me, turned back to the inscription. 
 
 * How stupid to put it so that we cannot read it,' 
 I said. 
 
 * But wise people — people who know a great 
 deal — read it quite easily,' said my mother. 
 
 She had landed the bucket safely on the well- 
 side, and she stood thoughtfully, and pulled a little 
 moss off one of the old carved letters. ' It is not 
 that they were stupid, Willie, but that we are not 
 wise enough to understand. Very often when we 
 think that things are not right or wise, it is only 
 because we cannot make them out for ourselves; 
 but if we saw clearer and knew more, we should 
 find out that they were only too wise for us and 
 too good.' 
 
 She was talking to herself, I think, not to me, 
 and I only answered the last words. 
 
 * Good ; then are those old words very good ? ' 
 
 * Very good indeed, Willie.' 
 
 * What are they } ' 
 She read slowly — 
 
 * jpor fcojosocbcr stall gibe pou a cup of foatcr to 
 bn'nii xx^ i^g i^nmc; Fevily \ snii unto you ije 
 sfiall tn no toisc lose Ijt's retuarti.^ 
 
 * Why, that is in the Bible,' I said wonderingly. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 25 
 
 My mother smiled. * I told you they were good 
 words.' 
 
 ' But how did they get there .? * 
 
 ' I don't know. I think some good man must 
 have carved them long, long ago, that the water we 
 draw up out of the well might remind us of Christ's 
 words, and that we might remember to try and 
 help one another.' 
 
 And then she told me how all service done for 
 our Master's sake — even the very smallest — should 
 be remembered by Him, and should in no wise 
 lose its reward. 
 
 I have forgotten the words she used, but I re- 
 member that I said, ' I should like to give some 
 one a cup of water, mother.' 
 
 She was going back to the house, with the 
 pitcher she had filled, but she stopped to put her 
 hand upon my head, and answered — 
 
 ' I hope you will often. Do not forget, Willie.' 
 
 I never did. That little talk, with its few and 
 simple words, was to bring a great change over my 
 life. 
 
 One day — it was a hot afternoon in harvest- 
 time — I heard the bell that hung near the great 
 gateway ring suddenly. A faint ring, as if the 
 hand that pulled the bell was weak or afraid, but 
 
26 THE STORY OF 
 
 as I stood still for a minute, listening, it sounded 
 again. 
 
 I ran to the door and opened it : a man dressed 
 like a soldier in a faded red coat was half-sitting, 
 half-lying on the ground leaning against the arch- 
 way. Beside him, trying to support him, knelt a 
 boy of about my own age, who looked up eagerly 
 as I pulled open the gate. 
 
 I drew back, startled at the man's haggard face 
 and dark hair, meaning to go and call my mother, 
 but the boy stretched out his hand to me and said 
 eagerly — 
 
 ^ Give him a little water, for the love of God ! * 
 
 A little water — how strange it sounded to me — 
 a cup of water. Mother had said she hoped I 
 should. I rushed back to the house, seized a horn 
 mug, and there at the well the bucket stood half 
 full. 
 
 The boy put the water to his father's lips, and 
 the poor man swallowed a few drops with diffi- 
 culty. 
 
 ' How tired he is,' I said. 
 
 The boy shook back the dark hair from his eyes 
 and looked up at me. 
 
 ' He can't get on any farther. I don't know what 
 to do.' 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 27 
 
 *0h, you must come in here/ I said eagerly. 
 ' Can't he walk ? It isn't far.' 
 
 The boy bent down and spoke. I scarcely think 
 the poor soldier understood what was said to him, 
 but at his son's voice and touch he strove wearily 
 to get up from the ground. Between us we 
 managed to lead him into the kitchen. He fell 
 heavily on the oak-settle near the window. 
 
 *■ Is he very ill t ' I asked. 
 
 ' Three days ago he was struck down with fever. 
 Last night we had to sleep under a hedge, they 
 would not take us in at the place we stopped at, and 
 to-day he ' 
 
 The boy stopped and turned round. Another 
 voice — I scarcely knew it for my mother's, it was 
 so changed and hoarse — repeated his words, * Struck 
 down with fever.' 
 
 She drew me hastily away from the sick man, 
 whose hand still rested on my shoulder. 
 
 ' Oh, Willie ! what have you done — what have 
 you done } ' 
 
 * Mother, the poor man wanted some water,' I 
 began, but she called to me to go away, and when 
 I wanted to stay and tell her about it, she pushed 
 me towards the door with a sort of cry — 
 
 * Go, go, I will come to you.' 
 
28 THE STORY OF 
 
 I went out frightened and puzzled, and waited for 
 her at the well. 
 
 When she came to me, I sprang into her arms 
 and sobbed out, * Mother, what have I done ? You 
 said a cup of water ' — 
 
 I could not go on, but pointed to the stone. It 
 was strange to see how the troubled look passed 
 away from her face and the peacefulness I knew 
 so well came back. 
 
 * My boy, you have done nothing — nothing 
 wrong. I hope you will always try to follow God's 
 commands, though it may lead you into troubles.' 
 
 ' What is it, mother } Is the man very ill } ' 
 
 'Very ill, Willie,* she said gently; 'so ill that I 
 don't know yet what we ought to do. I wish father 
 was at home. I must go back now.' 
 
 I sat down by the well and waited, watching the 
 door. It seemed a long time that it remained 
 closed, and no one came near me. 
 
 At last in the stillness I was glad to hear the 
 well-known heavy knock that Farmer Foster always 
 f gave upon the gate with his stick. I went and 
 pulled it back. 
 
 I have not said anything yet about Farmer Fos- 
 ter. But Foster of Furzy Nook was a name so 
 well known in those days all round the country 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 29 
 
 that it seems to mc as if no one needed to be told 
 about him. 
 
 From our windows we could see the twisted 
 chimneys of Furzy Nook farm peeping through the 
 trees. A quaint old-fashioned farmhouse, built of 
 red brick, standing in a hollow at the end of a long 
 green lane arched over all the way with trees, that 
 was the pride of the neighbourhood. To go to 
 Furzy Nook for the afternoon had always seemed 
 to me and Hildred the greatest happiness that the 
 world had to offer. 
 
 Mother used to live there before she married my 
 father, and the kind old people were almost as fond 
 of her as if she had been a daughter of their own. 
 Farmer Foster was always coming up to the Castle 
 to see her. 
 
 I was very glad this afternoon to see the kind 
 face and the gaiters and the shaggy pony looking 
 just the same as usual. 
 
 * Well, Willie,' called out the loud cheery tones 
 that sounded very comforting to-day, ' and how's 
 mother t ' 
 
 Holding on to his stirrup, as he rode slowly in 
 under the archway, I told him all that had happened 
 in the last half hour. 
 
 He gave a sort of whistle of dismay * Struck 
 
30 THE STORY OF 
 
 down with fever, eh, Willie ? ' — that's bad. And 
 father won't be home till night ? ' he said, biting 
 the end of his whip and staring at the door. * Well, 
 you'll have to hold the nag for me, lad, that's what 
 you'll have to do.' 
 
 And he got off and went into the house. By 
 and by he came out again with my mother, and 
 they stood together talking earnestly. I was 
 leading the pony up and down on the grass, but 
 now and then I overheard a few of their words. 
 
 ' You intLstl Farmer Foster said once or twice. 
 
 My mother shook her head : ' I cannot turn the 
 poor creature out to die.' 
 
 Something I heard about ' very catching,* and 
 mother said ^ hush,' and looked towards me. 
 
 Suddenly I saw the old farmer take her in his 
 arms and kiss her. He came and took the pony 
 away from me, telling me to go to my mother. 
 
 * Is the poor soldier better, mother } ' 
 
 ' No. He is very ill, Willie,' she said, putting 
 both her hands in her old fond way on to my head ; 
 ' so ill that I must send my boy away. No, Willie, 
 you cannot stay. Farmer Foster is going to take 
 you home with him.' 
 
 I could not cry when I looked at her face. She 
 was so sorry for me. I knew she would not have 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 31 
 
 sent me away if she could have helped it. I 
 pressed my two hands on to my breast and looked 
 at the inscription over the well. My mother's 
 eyes followed mine and she smiled. Perhaps to 
 go away quietly from her would be more than ' a 
 cup of cold water.' 
 
 She took my hand and we went silently to 
 where Farmer Foster stood by the pony waiting for 
 us. 
 
 ' He is ready,' said my mother trying to speak 
 cheerfully. ^ See, Willie, the farmer is going to let 
 you ride on his pony.' 
 
 Farmer Foster lifted me up. ' I'm afraid he 
 will fret after you, Annie.' 
 
 * No,' she said, softly. She came close beside the 
 pony and put her arms round me, and, as I bent 
 down to her, gave me a long trembling kiss. ' You 
 will be a good boy without me always.' 
 
 The shaggy pony walked steadily away with me 
 under the gateway. I thought my mother had put 
 her hands over her eyes, but when I turned back 
 again, before we went down the hill, she was 
 looking after us, and there were tears and smiles 
 both upon her face. 
 
 That was a very sad ride. But I think it w^ould 
 scarcely have been in human nature — at least in 
 
32 THE STORY OF 
 
 a boy's nature — not to be cheered by all the 
 joyous sights and sounds that greeted us at 
 Furzy Nook. We got to the end of the sandy 
 lane just at sunset, the pleasantest and noisiest 
 time of day in a farmyard. 
 
 I tried to count the noises, but it was no good. 
 There were too many, and all going on at the same 
 time. 
 
 There were the cows coming home from the up- 
 land pasture to be milked, and lowing as they 
 wound down the narrow path. The cow-boy had 
 a stick in his hand, which he flung carelessly among 
 a flock of geese, and made them run cackling 
 loudly towards their pond, where they launched 
 themselves into the water with a satisfied splash 
 and glide. Because the geese cackled of course 
 the ducks began to quack. The supper-bell was 
 ringing loudly from the farmhouse, and the bell 
 excited the big watch-dog to rush out of his kennel 
 and bark furiously. 
 
 We heard the distant cry of the harvesters 
 coming from the field, where the wheat was being 
 carried, and the creak and rattle of an empty 
 waggon coming up the lane. 
 
 Besides that, the pigs were having a family 
 quarrel over their supper in the straw-yard. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 33 
 
 Raised high above the noise, the pigeons cooed 
 peacefully from their house. The rooks were 
 floating in from the fields to the tree-tops. Then 
 the donkey, honest fellow, made up his patient 
 mind to have a share in what was going on, 
 so he lifted up his voice and brayed. Louder 
 than the pigs — harsher than the geese — more dis- 
 cordant than the peahen, he stood with his head 
 thrust over a gate and made his moan to the 
 world. 
 
 I suppose the animals all knew that the sun was 
 setting, and were making the most of the waning 
 day. So were the harvesters, for their cry sounded 
 oftener — clearer, too, as Farmer Foster crossed 
 the lane again and opened the gate into one of 
 his big fields. 
 
 Most likely you young men now-a-days would 
 say that he was not half a farmer. I notice that 
 you farm very differently and I dare say you 
 are right. Only it was not so when I was young. 
 We did not look so carefully to every inch of land 
 in my time. 
 
 The hedgerow trees were allowed to spread out 
 their wide branches where they would. The ditches 
 were often grassy and full of wild flowers, and the 
 hedges left untrimmed. So garlands of dog-roses 
 
34 THE STORY OF 
 
 peeped from their sweetbriar setting. Traveller's- 
 joy and bindweed wreathed themselves round the 
 trailing bramble shoots. Just now the blackberries 
 were turning from red to purple, and the furze 
 bushes shone with starry gold. 
 
 Yet there seemed to be a pretty heavy crop of 
 corn in the field we went into. The rakes were 
 going over it for the last time, and the field was 
 full of gleaners. 
 
 The gleaners had a good time on Farmer Fos- 
 ter's land. His people always expected, if they 
 raked too carefully, to hear his quiet-spoken 
 * Gently, my lads, gently ; remember the gleaners,' 
 behind them. They said he used slyly to pull 
 handfulls from the finished sheaves and scatter 
 them near some gleaner, generally a child, whose 
 bundle looked smaller than the rest, scolding it all 
 the time for not being half a gleaner. 
 
 They were working with a will now, the level 
 sunbeams lighting up their ruddy faces and bright- 
 coloured aprons, and gilding the yellow wheat-ears 
 that overflowed the bundles. 
 
 So the sun set. The lingering brightness faded 
 from field and hedgerow. The waggons came 
 back loaded for the last time. The heavily-laden 
 gleaners went home singing, and the cocks and 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 35 
 
 hens put their heads under their wings and settled 
 themselves to sleep, standing on one leg. 
 
 Dame Foster and the farmer would not let me 
 miss my mother. If I gave a great sigh they piled 
 my plate higher with brown bread and golden 
 butter; and once when a sob rose up unex- 
 pectedly in my throat it was stopped by such a big 
 strawberry that I could not eat it and cry too. 
 
 And though, when I was put to bed under a 
 patch-work quilt, in a little white-washed room 
 that was all lighted up by the harvest moon, I 
 am sure that my last thought was of my mother, 
 it may be that the last but one was of straw- 
 berries and young chickens. 
 
 Every day there came to Furzy Nook a message 
 from my mother. She was well, and sent her 
 grateful respects to the farmer and Dame Foster, 
 and her dear love to me. What more news the 
 messenger brought was never told to me. I saw 
 them whisper together and sometimes shake their 
 heads, but as long as mother was quite well there 
 could be nothing really wrong. 
 
 By and by there were grave faces — they still 
 said mother sent her love but nothing more. One 
 
 day, when everybody looked more serious than 
 
 D 2 
 
36 THE STORY OF 
 
 usual, they told me that the poor man, the sick 
 soldier at our house, was dead. 
 
 It was very sad. Dame Forster said, very sad 
 indeed. The farmer stroked my head and took 
 me up on to his knee. I was very sorry for the 
 poor soldier, but why did they look as if they 
 pitied me ? 
 
 I had begun to long to go home to my mother. 
 For a time I tried hard to keep it to myself, 
 because she had told me to be good without her. 
 But I could not help asking very often if it was 
 not time to go home. They always said ^ not yet.' 
 I got very tired of waiting. 
 
 At last Peggy told me the reason why. Peggy 
 was a rosy, kind-hearted maid at the farm — a likely 
 lass Dame Foster said she was, but not as dis- 
 creet with her tongue as could be wished. 
 
 Peggy let out one day that I could not be taken 
 home because my mother was ill. * It's the fever 
 she's got, you know, same as what the poor soldier 
 died of But I don't think mother's very bad, 
 Willie dear, not like he was,' said Peggy, frightened 
 at having made me cry. 'You must bide a bit 
 longer here, that's all. You don't want to go away, 
 not from the ducklings and all, do you } See, there 
 they go ' Come out and feed them, dear.' 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 37 
 
 Dame Foster could only tell mc the same thing. 
 
 * She'll be better soon, please God ! ' That was 
 what they said every day now. 
 
 They were very good to me, the kind old couple, 
 who had never had anything to do with a child 
 before. 
 
 I might have ridden the farmer's shaggy pony all 
 day long if I had liked. He would have picked 
 me every cherry off the tree. Dame Foster and 
 I used to go gravely from one place to another, 
 hand in hand — to look at the great bars of yellow 
 butter and thick cream in the dairy — to feed the 
 poultry, to find eggs, or to make posies of the 
 sweet-smelling cherry pie and clove pinks out of 
 the front garden. 
 
 One evening — Farmer Foster was out, gone I 
 did not know where — I wandered rather discon- 
 solately into the kitchen. It had been a long day, 
 and it was a dull evening. The summer rain was 
 falling softly over the garden. Dame Foster sat 
 by the window looking out, and now and then 
 putting her apron up to her eyes. I asked her 
 what made her cry, and she said hurriedly first 
 that she wasn't crying, and then that she sup|5osed 
 she felt dull with the rain and all. 
 
 I was dull too, and had nothing to do. I asked 
 
33 THE STORY OF 
 
 presently to go to bed, so she bade me kneel down 
 and say my evening prayers. 
 
 Once when a little schoolfellow of mine lay sick 
 mother taught me to pray for him and to say, ' God 
 make Charley well, or else take him to dwell with 
 Thee and with the angels.' 
 
 Since I had heard that my mother was ill I had 
 added these words, after much thought, to her name 
 in my prayers. I said them now. 
 
 There was the sound of a stifled sob behind me. 
 Farmer Foster had come in without my hearing 
 him. ' Bless his dear heart ! ' the old man said. 
 * The good Lord has heard his prayer.' 
 
 I jumped up from my knees. 
 
 ' Has mother got quite well .'' ' I asked eagerly. 
 
 Oh no ! Farmer Foster's averted face — his 
 wife's slow-dropping tears — Peggy's uplifted hands 
 and pitiful, shocked look, told quite another 
 story. 
 
 They frightened me with their silence and their 
 tears. 
 
 ' Mother ! ' I called loudly ; ' mother ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, little Willie ! ' Dame Foster said, holding 
 out her arms, ' she cannot hear you.' 
 
 There was no need for them to tell me any more. 
 
 My mother was dead. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 39 
 
 Who can fathom the quicksands of a child's 
 grief? — its depth and its shallows, both so real : the 
 passionate sorrow one hour that utterly refuses 
 comfort, the seeming forgetfulness the next ; the 
 bitter, bitter tears, and by and by a weary peace- 
 fulness that comes like balm you do not know from 
 where, smoothing with soft, cool touches the 
 aching eyes and brow. 
 
 God knows the little ones are weak : He lifts 
 away the load of sorrow now and then, lest the 
 overburdened little heart should break, the rough 
 stones pierce the tender feet too sharply. 
 
 I did not want anyone to pity me or try to 
 comfort me. She who alone would have known 
 how was gone away. They talked of my going to 
 her some day in heaven, but that seemed too far 
 off to do me any good. 
 
 As much as I could I kept my tears to myself, 
 for everybody came round me if they saw me cry, 
 and said kind things in cheerful voices, and patted 
 me, and stroked my hair. They did not under- 
 stand. If I stopped crying, as I always did as 
 soon as ever I could, they were satisfied. 
 
 Sometimes at night it was hard to keep my sobs 
 quite silent when I wanted mother's kiss. But 
 directly I heard Dame Foster open the door 
 
40 THE STORY OF 
 
 quietly, I used to bury my face upon my arm to 
 hide eyes that the tears made so burning. I 
 felt the kind old lady straighten the bedclothes 
 with a gentle hand, and heard her whisper to the 
 farmer outside the door, ' He's sleeping nicely, 
 bless him ! ' It only made me wish for mother 
 more, who would have known all about it, and 
 never have thought I was asleep. 
 
 Those were heavy days. Each one was long and 
 strange like Sunday. Everybody seemed to watch 
 me, and I felt that something, I did not quite 
 know what, was expected from me. I walked slow 
 instead of running, and read to Dame Foster of my 
 own accord out of her large-print Bible. 
 
 Our few neighbours came to pay visits at the farm. 
 I was always sent for to come and see them. They 
 looked at me and sighed, shaking their heads 
 gently over Dame Foster's currant wine and harvest 
 cakes, while they talked in lowered voices about 
 * the orphan.' 
 
 I believe Dame Foster took a kind of pleasure 
 in those tearful gossipings, and in going over a 
 set of sentences that I, listening listlessly, grew to 
 know by heart, even down to the sighs and little 
 groans that always went with the words. 
 
 * Ah dear ! ' said Mistress Janet Morton, our 
 
WANDERING WILLIE, 41 
 
 schoolmaster's maiden sister. ' Ah dear ! Here 
 to-day and gone to-morrow, dame.' 
 
 * You may well say that, Mistress Janet.' 
 
 * The best seem to go the soonest,' Mistress Janet 
 went on. * There's a many will grieve for her that's 
 been taken.' 
 
 * That's true. Everybody loved her, poor dear. 
 "My master takes on wonderful, just as though 
 it ha' been a daughter of his own. He'll have 
 every respect paid same as if she'd been really 
 ours. And such a stone, Mistress Janet, as my 
 master is going to raise to her ! ' 
 
 * Is he indeed } well, sure ! ' 
 
 * He thinks it'll be a comfort like to the dear 
 child some day.' 
 
 * Ah ! he little knows what he has lost,' said 
 Mistress Janet, looking at me as I sat wearily on 
 the floor with my arm round the big dog's neck. 
 
 ' Poor little dear ! ' and Dame Foster gave her 
 deepest sigh. 
 
 * What is the poor widower to do, ma'am, left 
 with that young child t ' 
 
 ' Ah ! what indeed t ' 
 
 ' They say he's a hard man, strange and close. I 
 hope he'll use the boy well.' 
 
 Then they lowered their voices, and their two 
 
42 THE STORY OF 
 
 heads almost met across the table. So I heard no 
 more. 
 
 Farmer Foster came home one evening with a 
 long black band round his hat. No one told me 
 then ; I have only guessed since that my mother 
 was buried that day. 
 
 With him was Master Caleb Morton, our school- 
 master. He had been a great friend of my mother's, 
 and used to come often to the Castle. 
 
 Peggy was sent to bring me indoors from my 
 usual place on a high bank among the furze bushes, 
 from where I could look across the farmyard and 
 the cornfields — nearly all stubble now — towards 
 the old keep at home. 
 
 Master Caleb wanted to see me, Peggy said. I 
 found him with the farmer and Dame Foster in 
 the best parlour, not in the great kitchen where we 
 generally lived. All three looked very grave. 
 
 ^ Willie,' Farmer Foster said, holding out his hand 
 to me as I came near, ' Master Caleb saw your 
 dear mother before she died, and she left a sort of 
 message for you with him. He is come to give it 
 to you now.' 
 
 I looked up at Master Caleb. It seemed a hard, 
 formal way of getting a message from my mother. 
 I had far rather — and so I think would he — have 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 43 
 
 gone with him to some quiet corner out of doors, 
 and there have hstened to her last words. But the 
 farmer and his wife treated it as if it were a sort of 
 solemn ceremony. They sat in two high-backed 
 chairs opposite to each other, stiff and upright as 
 if they had been in church, and signed to me to 
 stand before Master Caleb. 
 
 He hesitated, looking from me to them. At 
 first he spoke just as he did in school, but pre- 
 sently he put his hand on my shoulder and drew 
 me near to him. After all, the words he had to 
 say were but very short and simple. Only just 
 these : 
 
 ' I saw your mother, Willie Lisle, the day before 
 she died. Your father told me that she wished to 
 speak with me. Her weakness was too great for 
 many words, but her last thoughts and her last 
 cares were all for you. Her death, like her life, 
 w^as most peaceful and beautiful. She bade you 
 remember the promise you made her when Farmer 
 Foster brought you here, that you would be a good 
 boy without her always. She had prayed God 
 much that He would help you, and she sent you 
 her blessing. Something she said of the day that 
 you left her. " Tell him," the words were, " that I am 
 glad he gave the cup of water to that dying man, and 
 
44 THE STORY OF 
 
 that I have rejoiced as I lay here to think how he 
 began then to try and follow our Lord's command. 
 All that has come of it has been for the best. Tell 
 him how sure I am of this," and her smile, Willie, 
 when she said that, was most bright to look 
 upon.' 
 
 Master Caleb paused. 
 
 ' I have little more to say,' he added presently, 
 * except this, that she left a solemn charge to you. 
 You remember the sick soldier's son } ' 
 
 I looked up with sudden remembrance. Until 
 now I had well-nigh forgotten him. 
 
 * Before his father died, your mother had pro- 
 r mised him that the boy, Cuthbert Franklyn, 
 should be to her as her own child. To you she 
 leaves the fulfilment of her promise, and she bids 
 you be his brother. She was very earnest about 
 this. I think she would fain have said more, but 
 her voice failed her. Then she clasped her hands, 
 and though I waited for her to speak again, 
 only once or twice she whispered your name. A 
 few hours after I left her she entered into her 
 rest.' 
 
 That was all. 
 
 Farmer Foster and the dame pushed back their 
 chairs and unfolded their hands. Master Caleb 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 45 
 
 bent forward, and, looking as if he were half 
 ashamed to do it, gravely kissed my forehead. 
 
 All that evening they were busy over the in- 
 scription that was to be put on my mother's 
 tombstone. Farmer Foster had planned it all 
 out himself, and wanted the schoolmaster's ap- 
 proval, for he was rather proud of his work. It 
 was very long, as th efashion was in those days. 
 I think now that if she herself could have 
 known about it, fewer, plainer words would have 
 pleased her more. I still hear the farmer's voice 
 repeating with grave relish the last words : * She 
 departed this life leaving a broken-hearted hus- 
 band and an only child to mourn her irreparable 
 loss.' 
 
 Broken-hearted ! Was my father really that } 
 I wondered what broken-hearted people did, and 
 how they went on living. I was sure I was quite 
 as sorry as my father, and yet my heart beat just 
 the same as usual. 
 
 Whether he were broken-hearted or not, he 
 looked to me quite unchanged, when he came the 
 next day, with White Billy in the cart, to take me 
 home. 
 
 As usual he said no more than he could help, only 
 thanking the good old people who had been so 
 
46 THE STORY OF 
 
 kind to me in a few gruff words, when each holding 
 one of my hands they brought me out of the house 
 and gave me back to him. 
 
 ' He's been a very good boy/ said Dame Foster, 
 looking at my father in a wistful kind of way, as 
 he stood settling something that had got wrong 
 in Billy's harness. 
 
 ' I'm glad he's not been troublesome,' he an- 
 swered slowly. 
 
 * He never was. Stephen Lisle ' — she laid her 
 hand anxiously on his arm — 'he's but a little boy 
 to be left without his mother. You'll take good 
 care of him.' 
 
 ' I must do the best I can, ma'am,' my father 
 said after a minute, without looking at her. 
 
 How much afraid they all seemed to be that my 
 father would be unkind to me. I wondered over 
 it as White Billy trotted with us up the sandy 
 lane. It was nothing new to me that he should 
 drive on without saying a word. I had never been 
 afraid of him, and I fell to questioning again 
 whether he was heart-broken, and looking up into 
 his face to see if I could find any signs of it. No ; 
 it did not seem as if he were thinking of anything 
 in particular, unless it might be the pony, who had 
 found it hard work to drag the cart through the 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 47 
 
 heavy sand-track at a trot, and so had fallen back 
 into a sober walk. 
 
 Since then I have often heard people say that 
 Stephen Lisle was never just the same man after 
 his wife died. Very likely they were right, and 
 that it was because I was not old enough to read 
 the marks trouble had left upon him that I could 
 see no change. 
 
 I did not think about him long. The Castle 
 came in sight. We crossed the bridge and went 
 slowly up the hill. I knew quite well that my 
 mother was not there, and yet my heart would beat 
 faster and faster. Home at last, and how un- 
 changed ! The same flowerpots in the window, the 
 roses blooming still. The door stood half open and 
 inside the black cat sat purring in the sun. 
 
 I went in alone, looked all round, opened the 
 door leading into the inner kitchen where I used to 
 be sure of finding her. The flies buzzed in the 
 window, and through the stillness the clock ticked 
 slow and loud. 
 
 I knew she was not there, yet I called ' Mother,' 
 under my breath, and when no one answered a 
 terror of loneliness came over me. I rushed out of 
 the house and round the corner, blinded by quick- 
 coming tears. There was the well, and the bucket 
 
48 THE STORY OF 
 
 by the side standing half full of water just as it had 
 stood that day. 
 
 Oh, if only I had never given the cup of water to 
 the dying soldier ! If he had never come — and yet 
 mother's message said that she was glad. 
 
 Some one was standing at the well, leaning over 
 it and looking, as I used to do, into the far-down 
 water. It was the soldier's son, Cuthbert Franklyn. 
 
 I could not bear that the strange boy should see 
 me cry. I put up both my hands to hide my face, 
 but I suppose he saw the tears trickling through 
 my fingers, for I felt his hand touch mine, and 
 heard him say * Poor boy ! ' 
 
 In a minute — I don't quite know how — my arms 
 were round his neck. We were very little fellows 
 then, but we have loved one another ever since. 
 
 Cuthbert's eyes were full of tears. 
 
 * Somehow it seems as if it was all my fault.' 
 
 ' How could it be your fault .'' ' I said sadly ; ' you 
 could not help it.* 
 
 ' Oh ! I am glad you think that. I wanted you 
 to come back, that I might see you again, and 
 thank you for being kind to us that day. And I 
 wanted to say good-bye before I go away.' 
 
 He held out his hand. 
 Going away ? ' I said, taking it, and looking up 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 49 
 
 at him, for he was rather older and taller than I was, 
 ' are you going away ? Where to ? ' 
 
 ^ I don't quite know ; father's friends were all dead 
 and gone when we got home to England.' His lip 
 trembled, and there was a shadow of trouble 
 on his brave bright face. 
 
 *Why do you go away, Cuthbert ? ' 
 
 *■ I suppose I must not stay here always,' he said 
 simply. 
 
 * But you may : haven't you heard .'' My mother 
 said you were to be my brother.' 
 
 Cuthbert looked up eagerly, and the colour came 
 into his face, * But your father.' 
 
 *Wait for me here a minute.' 
 
 I found my father chopping up logs of wood in 
 the wood-shed. 
 
 * Father, Cuthbert Franklyn says he must go 
 away,* 
 
 I had to repeat this twice before I could make 
 him hear ; when he did, he only said, ' Well.' 
 
 * But father, he needn't go.' 
 
 ' Where is it he wants to go to 1 ' 
 'He doesn't know; he thinks he isn't to stay here 
 always ; you won't let him go, father 1 ' 
 My father took the hatchet up again. 
 
 E 
 
50 THE STORY OF 
 
 * It's no business of mine ; I've no call to stop 
 him if he wants to go.' 
 
 * He doesn't want to go ; he has got no home, and 
 mother said he was to be my brother.' 
 
 '■ I don't know how that may be,* my father said 
 slowly. 
 
 I was thunderstruck. * But mother said so, and 
 you promised, father.' 
 
 He looked at me. 
 
 * I made some sort of a promise may be, as I 
 would have promised anything then, to keep her 
 quiet.* 
 
 He sighed, and drew the back of his hand 
 across his eyes — the only outward sign of sorrow I 
 ever saw him give. 
 
 * Then Cuthbert may stay.' 
 
 My father made a few strokes at the wood with- 
 out answering. At last he said, * Look you, Willie ; 
 it's a great deal to ask of a poor man.' 
 
 * Are you very poor, father ? ' 
 He stopped a minute. 
 
 * They call me close, but I reckon there's not 
 many of them would do a thing like this ; it's too 
 much to expect' 
 
 ' For mother's sake,' — I felt, rather than knew, 
 that this was my best chance. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 51 
 
 ' You let me alone ! ' he said roughly. 
 
 I waited with my eyes fixed upon him, for two or 
 three minutes. He went on with his work ; then 
 came a sort of short laugh. 
 
 * They preach so much to me about being good 
 to you : why am I to take in another mouth to 
 feed ? — a great growing lad too, that'll take the 
 bread out of your mouth, most likely.' 
 
 ' Oh, father ! ' 
 
 * Be still ; can't you ? I hate to see the boy about 
 the place. He's brought nought but bad luck to me 
 and mine.' 
 
 I thought of Cuthbert waiting for me ; I thought 
 of mother's charge to me, so solemnly given and 
 received. I was almost in despair. If I had under- 
 stood my father better, I might have guessed that 
 he would say less had he been entirely decided 
 and at ease in his own mind. 
 
 * A promise such as that binds no one,' he mut- 
 tered presently. 
 
 Another long five minutes passed — log after log 
 of wood was cut and thrown aside. My hope was 
 almost gone, when suddenly my father laid down 
 the hatchet and turned round. 
 
 * See you here, boy ; it'll be the worse for you if 
 I do this ; you'll have to fare rougher, and there'll be 
 
 £2 
 
52 THE STORY OF 
 
 less for you to get. You'll have to be content 
 without so much schooling, and you must work 
 harder.' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't care, I don't care ! ' 
 
 * Humph; 
 
 * Then Cuthbert needn't go ? * 
 
 * Have it your own way.' 
 
 ' But he may stop with us } ' 
 
 ' I suppose he'll have to, leastways as long as he 
 behaves himself.' 
 
 I hardly waited to hear him to the end, or to 
 thank him. I dashed out of the wood-shed. 
 
 Cuthbert had not moved from where I left him. 
 He was watching for me eagerly. 
 
 * It's all right,' I shouted, rushing up to him; 
 you're to stay and be my brother.' 
 
 He drew a quick breath, with a half-uttered ' oh/ 
 and then, seeing my gladness, he began to smile. 
 And so my coming home was not all sad. 
 
 The good my mother meant to do to the 
 orphan boy was returned in tenfold blessing to her 
 own child. Truly as brothers — more than as 
 brothers, if it might be — Cuthbert Franklyn and 
 I came to love each other. 
 
 He who had never had a home before, got to be 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 53 
 
 at home with us. It was very pleasant to him, 
 though to me it seemed all changed and dreary. 
 Hitherto his life had been a wandering one, 
 following his father's regiment wherever it went. 
 He was not born in England, but in the Island of 
 Malta, and sometimes, when the sky was very blue, 
 he said it recalled to him a brighter sky still, which 
 he remembered dimly, and tall white buildings, 
 and stairs that he thought went right down into the 
 sea. There were sounds of bells and guns, he said, 
 and a vision of some great ships. That was all he 
 recollected of his birth-place. His mother had 
 died there, and another soldier's wife had taken 
 care of him. They went from place to place, some- 
 times taking long voyages across the sea, until his 
 father became ill and got his discharge. When he 
 came back to England he tried to find his relations, 
 but his parents and his only sister were dead. He 
 was forgotten, and could find no one to befriend his 
 son. Cuthbert scarcely knew where his father had 
 meant to go, when the fever came upon him. That 
 was all he could tell us about himself; only there 
 was no life like a soldier's, Cuthbert said, with 
 sparkling eyes. He was always whistling the gay 
 tunes that their band used to play, and imitating 
 the bugle-calls that he had known all his life long. 
 
54 
 
 THE STORY OF 
 
 My father scarcely ever noticed Cuthbert To 
 the end I do not think he grew really to like him ; 
 but his word once given, he would not go back 
 upon it. 
 
 In time I almost forgot, and so I think did 
 Cuthbert himself, that he did not belong to the 
 place as much as I did. 
 
 The neighbours wondered very much at my 
 father's having taken in Cuthbert. It was not a 
 bit like Stephen Lisle, everybody said, to do such 
 an out-of-the-way thing. Perhaps it was not ; but 
 I believe most people do something that is not a 
 bit like themselves once or twice in their lives. 
 My father heeded them very little. 
 
 He could never make shift to get on, the neigh- 
 bours further said, all by himself, with two boys 
 to look after. 
 
 That was true enough. He pondered over it in 
 his silent way for many a day, and at last he made 
 up his mind. 
 
 Late one evening White Billy came slowly under 
 the archway, and in the cart beside my father, who 
 had been away for a day and a half, sat a Httle old 
 woman, with a very big black bonnet and a red 
 cloak. My father called me. 
 
 * Willie, here's your grandmother.* 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 55 
 
 And the little old woman got down slowly from 
 the cart, and said, 
 
 * Dear, dear ! Is this your boy, Stephen ? ' 
 
 * Yes, mother.' 
 
 The name sounded strange from my father's lips, 
 strange and sad too, for he used to call my mother, 
 * mother.' It was odd and perplexing to me alto- 
 gether, that my father should begin to have a 
 mother just when I had lost mine. I stared hard 
 at my grandmother. She had come to stay, I 
 soon found out, — come to take care, my father 
 said, of me and of the house. 
 
 * And of Cuthbert,' I said, jealously. 
 
 My father only nodded, but that was consent 
 enough to satisfy me. 
 
 My old grandmother took possession quietly 
 and humbly enough. The morning after she 
 came I found her looking out over the ruins 
 with rather a forlorn expression on her gentle old 
 face. 
 
 ' Do you like the Castle } ' I asked her. 
 
 * I don't know, my dear, I don't know. It looks 
 an outlandish tumble-down kind of place. I never 
 saw any like it* 
 
 ' This was the great gateway,' I said, with a 
 child's eagerness to teach anybody a great deal 
 
56 THE STORY OF 
 
 older than himself. * There used to be a draw- 
 bridge here once.' 
 
 * Dear, dear ! ' said my grandmother not under- 
 standing the least, ' was there indeed .'' ' 
 
 'And yonder's the keep. They kept all their 
 stores in there, you know, grandmother.' 
 ' Well, to be sure ! ' 
 
 * And the dungeons are underneath, where the 
 prisoners used to be.' 
 
 * Lawk a' mercy, poor things ! * 
 
 ' And grandmother, you've heard of the Queen's 
 Tov/er ? ' 
 
 ' No, my dear, I know nothing at all about it.' 
 
 * But you'll have to tell the people when they 
 come to see it,' I said anxiously. * Mother always 
 did.' 
 
 * I can't, my dear. I know nothing of the place.' 
 
 * But you'll learn, won't you t I will teach you.' 
 ' My dear, I am a great deal too old to learn.' 
 She looked quite frightened and confused. I 
 
 shook my head and said no more. I did not see 
 how she was to get on at all, and I thought how 
 very different people's mothers could be from one 
 another. 
 
 Years afterwards I understood good old Granny 
 better. When she was very old and feeble she 
 
WANDERING WILLIE, 57 
 
 used to tell me — Granny was always fond of 
 talkingr — about the little home she had left to come 
 and keep house for her son in his time of trouble. 
 
 * It was a nice clean little place, Willie/ she 
 would say, twirling her thumbs and looking round 
 her with eyes that had grown very dim, ' clean and 
 very cheerful — ^just half way down the street, my 
 dear, where you could see everything that was 
 going on. It was a tidy street ; we all kept our 
 doorsteps so clean, you could have eaten your 
 dinner off them. We took a pride in it, you see, 
 Willie. We were very sociable and friendly 
 among ourselves. I could always pop on my 
 pattens and run in next door, or next door but one, 
 may be, for a word of chat and a dish of tea. I had 
 lived there a long time, and we were very comfort- 
 able, you see, Willie. It seemed a bit lonesome 
 just at first, when Stephen brought me here. But 
 it's all for the best, my dear, all for the best, for 
 sure.' 
 
 I could understand then, what I used to wonder 
 at as a child. It must have been a change from 
 the busy county town, with its orderly trimness 
 and sociable ways, to the wild silent ruins on 
 the hill-side. But she had come away willingly 
 from her cosy home, at her son's bidding, and 
 
58 THE STORY OF 
 
 I am sure she died without ever thinking that 
 the sacrifice so simply made was anything good 
 in her. 
 
 By degrees I got used to seeing the bent figure 
 trotting about, where my mother used to move ; 
 doing her work — not fiUing her place — keeping the 
 house beautifully clean and tidy, but for the rest — 
 ah, it would always seem empty and blank. There 
 would always be the sense of something wanting. 
 
 Granny won my heart, though, by one thing. 
 She was always kind to Cuthbert, just as kind as 
 she was to me. I believe she took him as a matter 
 of course. We were both strangers to her, he not 
 much more than her own grandson. Besides, 
 Cuthbert's bright face and ways won her heart. 
 * The boy has such a pretty tongue,' she used to 
 say. He welcomed her more readily than I did, 
 for he could not compare her, as I was for ever 
 doing, with my mother. 
 
 I told Hildred one day how good Granny was to 
 Cuthbert. 
 
 ' Perhaps she likes him best,' Hildred said, 
 throwing an apple up into the air and catching it. 
 
 ' Oh, do you think so .'* ' 
 
 It was a new thought to me. I pondered over 
 it a great deal when I was alone. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 59 
 
 Very likely most people would like Cuthbert 
 best. My mother of course, would always have 
 cared for me the most, but now it was different 
 and I should not be hrst any longer. 
 
 Cuthbert wondered why I went up to him that 
 evening and put my arm over his shoulder. He 
 was hard at work mending a net for our cherry- 
 tree, so he only just looked up and nodded. 
 
 No wonder everybody liked that happy face of 
 his. In truth, I think there could not have been 
 happier children than we were. 
 
 As the quick months and years passed over our 
 heads, the trouble that never could be cured kept 
 gliding away, further and further back into some 
 very far-off past, until at last it seemed to me that 
 it was not I who had lived here with my mother, 
 but another boy, a much smaller, graver boy — a 
 better boy, too, perhaps — but very different from 
 what I was now. I looked back at him half wonder- 
 ingly half regretfully, through a sort of mist of bright- 
 ness and light. It must have been so easy for him to 
 be good alone with his mother, and hearing nothing 
 day by day but her good words. What would she 
 have done with the big rough fellow that had 
 grown by degrees into her little boy's place } 
 Would he have been quiet and gentle enough for 
 
6o THE STORY OF 
 
 her, if she had lived ? Yes, all the time I felt a 
 sort of certainty that she would have loved me, 
 nay, that she did love me still. And I should 
 like to have let her know, that though of course I 
 had got into a harder life — a life in most things far 
 unlike what it used to be when she was with me — 
 yet that I still often remembered and wished to 
 obey her words, that I should try to be good 
 without her always. But these thoughts I never 
 spoke, even to Cuthbert. 
 
 I was a child when Cuthbert came, I was a boy 
 now, and he had helped to make me one. From 
 the first time I saw him climb the outside of the 
 Queen's Tower, swinging himself upwards from 
 branch to branch of the old ivy, he became my 
 pattern : I resolved to follow him, and if it made 
 Granny scream to see us, why, so much the 
 better. 
 
 The Castle ruins were the best play-ground that 
 children ever had. On half-holidays the whole 
 school used to troop up there directly they were 
 let out, and the old walls rang with shouts and 
 laughter. Cuthbert and Hildred were always glad 
 to see them, but I liked it best when we had it all 
 to ourselves. 
 
 There was a hole in the wall, through which we 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 6i 
 
 used to creep, a steep bit of cliff to climb down, and 
 then the stream. Across it such woods, green, 
 tangled, thick with brambles and underwood, full 
 of wild strawberries, blackberry bushes, rabbits, 
 and birds'-nests built up in the huge trees that stood 
 knee-deep in king-fern. 
 
 Wherever Cuthbert and I went, and w^e went 
 everywhere, little Hildred tried to follow us. It 
 was clearly understood that she was never to be in 
 the w^ay. * Girls always were,' Cuthbert said loftily ; 
 
 * but still ' It would have been hard to leave her at 
 
 home because she was a girl, for she would so fain 
 have been a boy. She might come, if she w^ould 
 scramble through the brambles, without caring how 
 much she scratched her arms and legs, and tore 
 her frock. She must be ready to cross the stream, 
 even if the rains had swollen it, and it was sparkling 
 away ankle-deep over the stepping-stones. 
 
 She must not scream, however high a branch 
 one of us fell off when we were birds'-nesting. She 
 must share in all our scrapes, and never tell. She 
 must stifle her terror of robbers in the wood, or 
 adders in the long grass, and her pinafore must be 
 always ready to hold birds' nests, eggs, young 
 squirrels, or any prizes that we could not stuff into 
 our own pockets. 
 
62 THE STORY OF 
 
 Hildred was well content to come on any terms, 
 and ready for the roughest expedition — readier 
 often than I was, for in hot weather, when the ruins 
 were sunny and silent, I liked better to lie on the 
 grass reading, than even to go ratting with Cuth- 
 bert and our dog Trusty. 
 
 I was half ashamed of being fond of reading. 
 No other boy was, and Cuthbert could not under- 
 stand it at all. 
 
 ' He's wonderful fond of his book is Willie,* 
 Granny used to say. * He'll get to reading to him- 
 self by the hour together.' 
 
 Cuthbert shook his head with a kind of wonder- 
 ing sorrow. He never cared much to go any- 
 where by himself. So there was nothing for it but 
 to throw the book into the window of the keep, and 
 go off wherever Cuthbert had made up his mind to 
 take me. And there was Trusty too, with tail 
 upright and eager eyes, waiting for a start. It 
 would have been hard to disappoint Trusty. 
 
 He was a dog indeed, was our Trusty, commonly 
 called Rusty, because the Avear and tear of life 
 had made his black coat very shabby and 
 brown in these latter days. He was not a model 
 dog, not brave, and calm, and wise, like the dogs 
 one reads about in books. Rusty had his foibles. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 63 
 
 He was vain, touchy, and changeable. His temper, 
 too, was apt to be short at times, yet how true- 
 hearted and faithful he was to those he really loved ! 
 Oh, dear old Rusty, laid to rest now, for nearly 
 fifty years, under the green grass, I have never seen 
 anything like you since ! 
 
 Who so quick to guess your mood as Rusty ? 
 Who so ready as he for a bit of fun ? Who so 
 willing to deceive himself and you, and to growl 
 savagely or bark shrilly at the mere mention of a 
 rat, that he knew quite well did not exist ? Who 
 so sober and wiselike as Trust}', if you were in 
 trouble ; but who so quick to mark the first lifting 
 of the cloud, and to know the minute when it 
 would do to break in with a wag of the tail and a 
 short sharp bark inclining to cheerfulness ? 
 
 * Come, old fellow, things are not so bad after all,' 
 he has often said to me ; ' don't worry, but come and 
 see after that rabbit under the Castle wall' 
 
 To say that everybody was fond of Rusty would 
 not be true, for the worst parts of his character 
 came out with strangers. He was uncertain to them, 
 uncertain and ungrateful. I have known him form 
 friendships one day and be ashamed of them the 
 next. He sometimes went so far as to receive 
 kindnesses from strangers, and then to fly at their 
 
64 THE STORY OF 
 
 legs if he saw one of his own people coming. But 
 to those who lived with him he was just perfectly 
 loveable. I don't think I can say more than that. 
 He and we loved one another. 
 
 So Rusty shared all our fun, and all our troubles 
 too — such as they were — for we had our troubles 
 of course ; who hasn't ? For instance, we hated 
 school, at least Cuthbert and Hildred did, and I, 
 wishing to be like them, said, and I believe thought, 
 that I hated it too. 
 
 But I don't think I did ; no, I am sure I did not, 
 except when the sun streamed hotly in at the half- 
 open door, and leaves tapped against the diamond- 
 paned windows, and bees hummed past out in the 
 warm air, and the boys were rebellious, and the 
 girls sleepy and cross. Of course no one could 
 like it then. Nor on a grey day just made for 
 fishing, with cool shadows lying on the water. 
 Cuthbert began grumbling, on such mornings, 
 before his eyes were well open, at the hardships of 
 having to be shut up in school all day. It was 
 rather hard certainly to think of the river swirling 
 along through the green rushes, eddying round the 
 stepping-stones under the Castle cliff, or dreaming 
 lazily over the shallows where the trout lay. I never 
 looked up from my slate on a day like that, with- 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 65 
 
 out expecting to see Cuthbert's place empty, and 
 his cap gone from its peg near the door. 
 
 It was no good giving him advice — no good 
 begging him to be industrious : he ahvays promised, 
 and ahvays meant to keep his word. 
 
 All the seasons were alike. Long before I had 
 had time to rejoice at birds'-nesting being over, the 
 fishing had begun. Then came summer, with its 
 long hot days — the hay-making and the bathing in 
 the cool stream. Every bright hour was a tempta- 
 tion. After that the harvest seemed to come 
 upon us quickly. The holidays began, and I had 
 peace. 
 
 But winter was almost the worst of all. How 
 Cuthbert loved the frosty weather, and the snow 
 and ice ! The Castle looked marvellously solemn 
 and grey, rising out of the snow ; and we had to 
 dig paths for ourselves across the ruins. When we 
 were building a snow man in the Castle court, and 
 there was sliding and skating going on at the mere, 
 half a mile away, and the red sun set over the 
 hills at four o'clock in the afternoon, how was any 
 one, said Cuthbert, to find time for school t ' When 
 the thaw comes. Will, I'll never miss again,' he 
 promised. But the snow melted, and there came 
 a cloudy day with a southerly wind, and Cuth- 
 
 F 
 
66 THE STORY OF 
 
 bert was off half-a-dozen miles away to see the 
 hounds meet, and to follow them from covert to 
 heath, and from field to common, all across the 
 country. 
 
 Those lawless doings of Cuthbert's disturbed 
 me very much. I always felt as if he were in my 
 charge and I had to answer for him. 
 
 Our schoolmaster used to frown, and tell Cuth- 
 bert he must take the consequences ; and the con- 
 sequences Cuthbert took, with a great show of not 
 caring, laughing at Hildred because she could not 
 help crying, and comforting me as if I had been 
 the one in trouble. 
 
 Now and then my father spoke a few rough 
 words, but they did not weigh much, for Cuth- 
 bert said : ' It's not as if he heeded whether I 
 got any learning or not. It's all one to him. I 
 can see that plain enough.' And when my father 
 had done speaking he would go off whistling care- 
 lessly. I have seen the tears in his eyes, though, 
 for all his whistling. 
 
 If mother had only lived it would have been 
 different. Some of her kind grave words would 
 have set everything straight. What could poor 
 old Granny do beyond holding up her hands at 
 him, with her favourite ' Dear, dear ! ' and then 
 
 J 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 67 
 
 giving him a double share of dumpling at supper to 
 cheer him up ? 
 
 * Boys ought to like school, Cuthbert,' she told 
 him. 
 
 ' But you see I don't, Granny. I hate it.* 
 ' But good boys are fond of their book. Look 
 at Willie.' 
 
 * As if I should ever be like Will,' he answered, 
 with a look as if he were proud of me. 
 
 ' Master Caleb thinks all the world of our Willie,' 
 Granny went on. * Why, you might go a-walking 
 out with him if you were good, like Willie does.' 
 
 Cuthbert made a wry face. * I'd much sooner 
 not, Granny, thank you.' 
 
 From the time I was a little child I had known 
 Master Caleb Morton well — he came so often to 
 the Castle. It was he who had told my mother all 
 the stories she knew about the place. He loved it 
 almost better than we did, and — we were very proud 
 of that — he had written a book about it, a real 
 printed book. He gave it to mother, and it stood 
 on our book-shelf, between ' Pilgrim's Progress ' and 
 the * History of Jack the Giant-killer' — a thin red 
 book, with a woodcut of Wyncliffe Castle on the 
 title page. 
 
 Cuthbert and I believed that a stone could 
 
 F 2 
 
68 THE STORY OF 
 
 scarcely fall from the crumbling walls without his 
 finding it out. He used to stand for hours with his 
 hands behind his back, gazing up at the grey 
 towers. 
 
 Poor dear Master Caleb ! He was much too 
 good for us at Wyncliffe ; for he was very clever, 
 very learned, very hard-working, and understood 
 everything under the sun, except village boys and 
 girls. 
 
 They baffled him, for he expected them to like 
 learning, and never could make out why one and 
 all treated him as an enemy when he wanted to 
 teach them their lessons. 
 
 Years ago he had come a very young man, to be 
 schoolmaster at Wyncliffe, full of grand plans, and 
 thinking to make good scholars of at least some 
 among his pupils. He might well have found out, 
 long since, what a hopeless task it was ; but when I 
 went to school, he was working away, still eager, 
 still hopeful, forever being disappointed, but never 
 quite losing heart. 
 
 However, if he did not know how to keep order 
 ill the school — and some people said he did not 
 • — I verily believe he knew everything else in the 
 VrOrld. 
 
 He was an Antiquar}', I have often heard Mrs. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 69 
 
 Janet say, and a Botanist, and a Geologist, and an 
 Astronomer. The words sounded so very grand as 
 Mrs. Janet rolled them slowly out, that I recol- 
 lected them all, though I had not the least idea 
 what any of them meant. 
 
 * He's too book-learned for us, that's where It is,' 
 the great men of the parish sometimes said, shaking 
 their heads wisely. Yet they were fond of him 
 and proud of him all the same. 
 
 Mrs. Janet shook her head too. She would fain 
 have ruled Master Caleb's scholars for him, as 
 when he was a little boy she used to rule himself. 
 It was pain and grief to her to sit idle in the par- 
 lour, and know that ' the boy ' was letting things 
 go their own way too much in the school. 
 
 Not that he always did so by any means. The 
 boys said they never knew what he would be 
 at, for they found themselves brought to justice 
 now and then when they were least looking for it. 
 There was a boyish corner in his own heart, staid, 
 quaint, and learned as he was, that gave him a 
 secret fellow-feeling for Cuthbert's love of roaming, 
 and I guessed that he was oftentimes the hardest 
 upon him when he was most tempted to let him 
 off altogether. 
 
 With the youngest class of all — a helpless cluster 
 
70 THE STORY OF 
 
 of tiny boys and girls, who were only sent to school 
 because they were in the way at home, he was at 
 all events tireless and gentle. Very tenderly he 
 guided the fat forefingers to point along the lines, 
 helped the lisping baby tongues over the hard 
 words, and never lost patience with the blue, won- 
 dering, foolish eyes that could see no difference 
 between A and Z. 
 
 It was when he turned back to the first class, 
 great boys who could learn and wouldn't learn, 
 that the puzzled, worried look we all knew well 
 came across his face. I think the reason he was 
 so good to me was that I really liked to learn. 
 
 So he lent me books, and took me for long 
 walks across the hills. Wonderful walks they 
 were — very different from the headlong way Cuth- 
 bert went across the country. Master Caleb car- 
 ried a hammer with him to chip off bits of rock, 
 and a trowel to dig up out-of-the-way plants, and 
 a big basket to carry what he called his specimens. 
 He loved the beautiful earth with a great reverent 
 love. 
 
 I think Master Caleb must have been very lonely, 
 or he would never have made a friend of such a 
 boy as I was; but for all his learning he was just 
 as simple-hearted as a child. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 71 
 
 Even I knew more of the world than he did, at 
 least of the world as it was at Wyncliffe. He 
 came at last to treat me as if I was nearly his own 
 age, and to talk to me of the things that he was 
 thinking most about. 
 
 For Mrs. Janet, proud of him as she was, rather 
 disapproved of his learning. She could not well 
 say what harm she expected it to do him, but she 
 was clear in her own mind that Caleb went too far. 
 He knew so much and saw so many sides to every- 
 thing that he got mazed, she said. 
 
 * But there is more than one side to most ques- 
 tions, isn't there V he sometimes asked. 
 
 *■ Yes, Caleb. There's a right side and a wrong, 
 and that's enough for me.' 
 
 * Well, my dear,' I remember her saying eagerly 
 to him one day, when it Avas so hot that everything 
 and everybody had gone wrong in school, and the 
 sound of a scuffle had reached her from afar; 
 'Well, brother, I trust you haven't spared the rod 
 to-day.' 
 
 ' Why, Janet,' — he pushed back the hair from his 
 forehead, — * it's very hot, and everybody feels cross. 
 I'm sure I do.' 
 
 * Caleb ! ' in an awful voice. 
 
 * Don't you believe in atmospheric influences } ' 
 
72 THE STORY OF 
 
 asked Master Caleb, who was rather fond of bring- 
 ing out a hard word now and then. 
 
 * Atmospheric nonsense,' said Mrs. Janet, knitting 
 furiously. 
 
 He stood at the open door watching the great 
 thunder-clouds that came marching across the sky 
 to the battle. Cuthbert and I had not gone home 
 to dinner because of the coming storm, the first 
 heavy rain-drops of which were beginning to fall 
 sullenly. 
 
 * To talk of such-like heathenish things,' burst 
 out Mrs. Janet presently, ' before your scholars 
 too.' 
 
 * Heathenish things — electricity. I will prove to 
 you ' 
 
 ' Boys,' she went on unheeding, * the weather is 
 always good weather, and no one ought to feel 
 different in hot weather or in cold, or whether it 
 rains or the sun shines. No, Caleb, I don't care 
 what your books say.' 
 
 For Master Caleb had brought a big heavy book 
 from the shelf, and after rubbing the dust off the 
 leaves with loving care, was laying it open on the 
 table before her. 
 
 The mere sight of it scattered his enemies quicker 
 than any of his arguments could have done; Cuth- 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 73 
 
 bert seized his cap, and was through the door out 
 into the rain in the twinkling of an eye. 
 
 Mrs. Janet suddenly remembered that the pud- 
 ding needed her instant presence in the kitchen. 
 Master Caleb and I were left alone. 
 
 ' It's all in here,' he said, looking up at me with 
 a baffled face. 
 
 ' What is, sir 1 ' 
 
 ' The Laws of Electricity. It's no good talking 
 to women — to most women, that is to say. See 
 how clearly he puts it.' 
 
 I don't know whether it was the thunder-storm ; 
 it may have been the atmospheric influences (what 
 hard words) that made me feel so stupid. I 
 looked at the big book with a sigh. * Did one man 
 write all that, sir t ' 
 
 ' Ay, that, and a vast deal more. It was written, 
 Willie, by Professor Bruce.' 
 
 No wonder he spoke the name in an impressive 
 under-tone. It was one very familiar to all Master 
 Caleb's friends. Professor Bruce was his hero. 
 Professor Bruce was seldom out of his mouth. Ac- 
 cording to him. Professor Bruce had written some- 
 thing to prove everything that could be proved. 
 Master Caleb's one boast and source of pride was 
 that he knew the great man well. Several years 
 
74 THE STORY OF 
 
 ago Professor Bruce — now growing old — had left 
 London, where he had passed most of his life, 
 writing books and lecturing, and to the everlasting 
 glory of our quiet old town, Morechester, he had 
 lived there ever since. 
 
 It was the greatest honour Master Caleb could 
 bestow on me, the only one of his many kindnesses 
 that he ever thought deserved my gratitude, that 
 a time came when he deemed me worthy to see 
 Professor Bruce. It was on the day of the thunder- 
 storm that I knew my good fortune first. 
 
 * You're a hard-working boy, Willie, and the 
 sight of a great man like that will do you good. 
 I'll take you into Morechester.' 
 
 ' To Morechester, Master Caleb ! will you really t 
 I've never seen a town before.' 
 
 ' You will see Professor Bruce,' he answered 
 sternly. 
 
 ' Oh yes,' I said hurriedly. ' Professor Bruce of 
 course. I meant that. Thank you, sir.' 
 
 So it was settled. 7 
 
 Master Caleb, good man, need not have been so 
 sharp on me for wishing to see Morechester. It 
 was not only to visit Professor Bruce, as I found 
 out afterwards, that he cared so much for going there 
 himself. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 75 
 
 ' Cuthbert, I wish you were going too,' I said 
 just before we started. 
 
 * I should Hke well enough to go to Morechester/ 
 he answered, stretching himself, * but I'd rather not 
 see any more schoolmasters.' 
 
 Market day at Morechester! The busiest and 
 most stirring scene I had ever beheld. 
 
 A long sunny street stretching up a hill, built of 
 irregular houses, — old and new, tall and short, brown 
 and grey and red, — high houses with square windows 
 and green shutters, — short houses, having high- 
 pitched roofs, carved wooden balconies, and queer- 
 shaped windows overhanging the roof; here and there 
 a gilt weathercock flashing in the sun ; oaken pillars 
 supporting the jutting-out upper storey of some 
 quaint old house ; shop windows full of gorgeous 
 coloured stuffs ; the grey town hall, rich with ancient 
 sculpture, standing back within its own railings ; 
 bright light, and black shadows lying across the 
 uneven pavement. This, then, was a town. 
 
 Further on, the street widened into a sunlit 
 market-place, and there an ever-shifting crowd 
 came and went, bought and sold and bargained, 
 round the old market cross. 
 
 What a noise there was ! Farmers were riding up 
 the street in twos and threes ; their scarlet-cloaked 
 
76 THE STORY OF 
 
 wives jogged along laden with baskets of eggs and 
 fresh butter ; clattering carts, horses for sale were 
 being trotted up and down, loud voices talking 
 all at once. 
 
 Above all this there floated suddenly the music 
 of airy chimes, followed by three slow deep strokes. 
 
 * Three by the Minster clock,' said Master 
 Caleb. 
 
 The house we stopped at was close to the great 
 towered church, which seemed to overshadow it 
 and push it into the corner. It was a little low 
 house, with dormer windows in a thatched roof, 
 standing further back than its neighbours, and 
 quite out of the reach of any stray sunbeams that 
 found their way over the Minster roof. 
 
 Master Caleb rang a jangling bell, and as we 
 stood waiting, whispered hurriedly, ' Make your 
 bow, Willie, and don't speak unless you are spoken 
 to.' 
 
 We were inside in a narrow passage ; then a door 
 opened. 
 
 * Hush,' said Master Caleb. 
 
 I never saw any room at all like the Professor's 
 study. Coming into it out of the sunshine it was 
 at first too dark to see anything distinctly. The 
 only window looked out upon a blank wall. Inside, 
 
WANDERING WILLIE, 77 
 
 the walls of the room seemed to be made of books, 
 and there were piles of them besides, heaped up on 
 the chairs and on the floor. 
 
 What wonderful things there were crowded on 
 to the tables and mantel-shelf, and filling the half- 
 open cupboards. Wonderful things t frightening 
 things rather. I am not going to describe them, 
 seeing that I know not what any of them were. 
 * Chemical apparatus' is the name Master Caleb 
 gave them afterwards, whatever that may be. But 
 such a number of queer-shaped jars and glasses, 
 and saucers and tubes, such odd glass spoons 
 and ladles, such strange liquids and powders, and 
 bits of metal as were lying about, I should think 
 no one else ever gathered round them before or 
 since. 
 
 My first thought was, whatever Granny would 
 say if Cuthbert and I made her clean kitchen at 
 home half so untidy-looking as this. 
 
 Then I saw the great man himself sitting at the 
 table holding an open letter in one hand and an 
 oddly-shaped bottle in the other, an old man with 
 a keen wrinkled face, who seemed to me at first 
 sight to be all black and white ; for white eye- 
 brows shaded his piercing black eyes, and he wore 
 a black velvet cap over his white hair, and a black 
 
78 THE STORY OF 
 
 dressing-gown, against which his long thin hands 
 looked wonderfully white. 
 
 He seemed too eager over his letter and his bottle 
 to have much time to spare for greeting Master 
 Caleb. He began directly, speaking fast and loud. 
 To my surprise Master Caleb immediately got 
 excited too, and stood listening with a rapt face 
 while the Professor poured out a torrent of hard 
 words. I don't think it was English that he talked, 
 or I should have understood it. After that I did 
 not need to be told what a great man he was. I 
 had heard it for myself. 
 
 My best bow was not needed. No one noticed 
 me. I sat down, as Master Caleb had bidden me, 
 in a corner, on the edge of a chair that was piled 
 up with big books, and listened with respectful 
 wonder. But the hard words I did not understand 
 went on for a long time, and the room was hot, and 
 full of odd sleepy smells. I much fear that I fell 
 asleep in Professor Bruce's study. Once I woke up 
 for a minute with a great start, and saw Master 
 Caleb on his knees, pouring something into a 
 saucer, while the Professor shouted directions at 
 the top of his voice, and there was a fizzing noise 
 and an odder smell than ever. 
 
 Then I dosed again, but was roused by Master 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 79 
 
 Caleb's jumping up suddenly, and turning back the 
 sleeves of his coat in a great hurry. The Professor 
 looked up impatiently. ^ What's the matter ? ' 
 
 * I think somebody is coming,' said my master. 
 The Professor listened for a minute. ' Why, it's 
 only Dolly,' and went on with the reading of his 
 letter. 
 
 A door behind his chair opened quietly, and 
 there came in a small, lame girl in a grey gown. 
 
 This was ' Dolly,' then, and that was what I 
 thought her at first, just a small lame girl in a grey 
 gown. ^ Dolly ' came in slowly, and Master Caleb 
 turned round and made her a beautiful low bow. 
 He tried to go and meet her, but the Professor had 
 got his hand upon his arm, and was pointing to him 
 with the glass tube, and evidently had just come 
 to the very pith of his discourse. 
 
 Dolly — Mistress Dorothy, as I called her later — 
 leant over the back of her father's chair, and smiled 
 at Master Caleb. Watching her from my dark 
 corner, I presently saw how good she looked and 
 how her eyes lighted up her pale face when she 
 smiled — nice soft eyes they were; just as grey as 
 her gown. 
 
 Professor Bruce never found out that his listener 
 was not as attentive as before ; but I saw more 
 
8o THE STORY OF 
 
 — his thoughts had wandered away from the 
 wonderful saucer since the young lady came into 
 the room. 
 
 I was getting tired of sitting so very still on 
 the edge of the big books. I wanted to hear 
 Mistress Dorothy speak. She saw me too, for she 
 looked full into my corner, and then glanced 
 at Master Caleb with another of her pleasant little 
 smiles. 
 
 We waited until the Professor folded up the 
 letter, and turning round in his chair so as to look 
 up in his daughter's face, said, * So we have got it 
 all right at last, Dolly.' 
 
 She said heartily, ' I am so glad, father,' and then 
 everybody moved. 
 
 The Professor pushed back his chair and stood 
 up. 
 
 ' Caleb Morton was in luck,' he said with a 
 pleased look, * to come in just as I was reading 
 that letter. It makes it clear, Caleb, doesn't it.' 
 
 * Indeed it does, Professor. Mistress Dorothy,' 
 and he went a step or two near to her and spoke 
 low. I just caught the words, 'ventured,' 'my 
 best boy,' and ' Wyncliffe Castle.' 
 
 She came to mc with her hand stretched out. 
 I made the bow that had been waiting for so long 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. Sr 
 
 and at the first word from her clear voice I felt as 
 if we were friends. 
 
 We had tea before we went away, in Mistress 
 Dorothy's parlour, which looked out upon the 
 Minster, and was so near to it that when the bells 
 chimed the quarters it sounded as if they were' 
 ringing in the room itself It was because this 
 was a town, I supposed, that there was no sunshine, 
 and everything in the room looked brown or 
 drab or dark grey. 
 
 Mistress Dorothy looked very happy, notwith- 
 standing, and not at all as if she thought the room 
 dull. She took me to the window, where her chair 
 and the table with her work-basket stood, and 
 showed me how she could see through one of the 
 side windows of the Minster, to where another 
 great painted window facing the west was blazing 
 in the sunset. 
 
 * Is it not beautiful } ' she said. 
 
 There was a shimmer of gold, and red and blue, 
 but so far off. 
 
 I wished she could have seen Farmer Foster's 
 field of sainfoin as it was just now, a glittering 
 rose-coloured sea, that looked in the evening light 
 as if some of the sunset clouds had floated down 
 to earth. 
 
 & 
 
82 THE STORY OF 
 
 Mrs. Dorothy could not even see the sunset ; the 
 Minster towered between her and the red-gold 
 west. Poor little Mistress Dorothy ! and yet she 
 looked so happy, so cordial and contented. 
 
 By-and-by she began to ask me questions 
 about home. The Professor had gone back to his 
 study, and Master Caleb stood in the window 
 opposite her chair. 
 
 ' Have you got a father and mother ? ' 
 
 ' No ; he has lost his mother,' Master Caleb an- 
 swered for me ; and then rather abruptly he began 
 to tell her about my mother's life and death. He 
 told it in beautiful words, that made me listen 
 as if it were a story about some one I had never 
 known. 
 
 Mistress Dorothy clasped my hand closer in her 
 own as he went on, and looked down to hide, I 
 think, the tears that were in her eyes. 
 
 * And so she died,' ended Master Caleb, ' and 
 the boy was left to grow up as best he could.' 
 
 There was something in his voice that made me 
 look up at him — something I could not under- 
 stand. 
 
 Mistress Dorothy must have known better what 
 he meant, for she answered softly— 
 
 ' And yet it was best so.' 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 83 
 
 Master Caleb bowed his head gravely. * No 
 doubt you are right, Mistress Dorothy. Only it 
 has often struck me as a strange answer to the 
 promise that whoever gives a cup of water shall in 
 no wise lose his reward. The boy did his best, and 
 where is his reward } ' 
 
 ' We do not know yet,' she said, * but it will 
 surely come. Master Caleb, you are a schoolmas- 
 ter; do you always give your best rewards in 
 school-time } Don't you often keep them to the 
 end, when your scholars are leaving school to go 
 home } Perhaps Willie will wait for his reward 
 even until then.' 
 
 * You are speaking of the next world, Mistress 
 Dorothy,' he said. 
 
 * Yes,' and she turned to me. ' You will be con- 
 tent to wait, Willie } ' 
 
 I answered * Yes ' then, because I thought she 
 expected it of me. 
 
 With my whole heart I say it now. 
 
 * Well, Willie,' said Master Caleb, when he had 
 walked a long way on the road home without say- 
 ing a word, ' so you have seen him.' 
 
 *Yes, sir; it was very surprising to hear him 
 talk.* 
 
 G 2 
 
84 THE STORY OF 
 
 * Ah ! he's a wonderful man.' He spoke as if he 
 scarcely knew what he was saying; and then, 
 waking up again, ' a very wonderful man.' 
 
 ' And oh ! sir ! don't you like Mistress Dorothy i*' 
 
 * Like Mistress Dorothy — I should never think 
 of such a thing — don't talk of it — like her, no.' 
 
 *■ Oh, I thought you did.' 
 
 * I am surprised at you, Willie,' he said, and 
 would not talk any more ; so we went home silently, 
 through sunset and twilight and moonshine. 
 
 I went a long way across the hills next day, in 
 search of a certain fern that only grew in one 
 place. It was a very rare one. Master Caleb had 
 told me, a soft feathery thing, that I fancied might 
 please Mistress Dorothy. I carried it home and 
 waited anxiously, hoping that Master Caleb would 
 take me with him again to Morechester. But 
 he went alone, and Mrs. Janet said she could not 
 think what ailed him that he was always on the 
 tramp. 
 
 My turn came again at last, and I carried my 
 fern to offer to Mistress Dorothy. She looked quite 
 bright and pleased as she took it from my hands. 
 
 * I should never have thought of bringing it to 
 you,' said Master Caleb. 
 
 He did not add what he had told me on the 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 85 
 
 road, when It was too late to turn back, that it 
 was not near good enough to give to her. 
 
 But I think she liked it. She took me into the 
 parlour to see her water it, and made me tell her 
 about the steep bank where it had grown, under 
 waving trees and among primrose tufts. 
 
 * Pretty place,' she said smiling. 
 
 *■ Won't you come and see it some day. Mistress 
 Dorothy .? ' 
 
 * Father cannot get away, and I never leave 
 him.' 
 
 * Couldn't he spare you "i ' 
 
 She shook her head. ' Oh no, never.' 
 
 * But supposing you married and went away .-*' I 
 asked. 
 
 I do not know what set me on thinking of 
 marrying just then. 
 
 She coloured and smiled. 
 
 *■ That will never be. I could not leave him ; and 
 besides, no one will ever want to marry a little lame 
 thing like me.' 
 
 * Won't they } ' 
 
 She shook her head again and laughed. 
 
 That evening, as we walked down the street. 
 Master Caleb said suddenly, ' She likes you, Willie ; 
 she says you are to come again.' 
 
86 THE STORY OF 
 
 *Does she? Oh, Master Caleb, shouldn't you 
 like to have her there at home, and let her see 
 the Castle and all ? ' 
 
 He put his hand on my shoulder, and said in a 
 low, changed voice, * If it could be, Willie, if it 
 could. But it never can be — never/ 
 
 * She says she cannot leave her father/ 
 
 * It isn*t only for that ; I could never ask her. 
 Look you, Willie ; she is just as high above me as 
 the stars/ 
 
 That was how I came to know Master Caleb's 
 secret. 
 
 It was a heavy secret to him, poor fellow, though 
 he tried hard to put it away, and to live as if he 
 had not got it on his mind. He told no one, not 
 even Mrs. Janet, and only sometimes, when we 
 were out on the hills, he talked a little of it to me. 
 Certainly I was a very odd person for him to have 
 chosen to hear the story of his love. But he had 
 lived a solitary life, and perhaps his telling me had 
 been an accident at first. Once told, no one in the 
 world could have felt more honoured than I did, or 
 have listened and looked on with more reverential 
 awe. 
 
 * You're not quite like a boy in some things, you 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 87 
 
 know, Willie/ he once said to me. * Besides, she 
 likes you.* 
 
 And he never did things just as other people did. 
 I suppose that was another reason. 
 
 Mistress Dorothy and I became firm friends. I 
 did not wonder the least at Master Caleb, for there 
 was no one at all like her in the world. To go to 
 Morechester and see her, I gave up willingly the 
 best cricket match of that summer ; and what boy 
 can do more than that ? 
 
 The game, played on a certain sunny half holi- 
 day, was just beginning, when Master Caleb and I 
 set off for Morechester. I remember looking back 
 wistfully at the ground, and seeing how smooth and 
 inviting it looked in the sunshine. The players 
 were just crossing the field for an ^ over,' and Cuth- 
 bert was walking by himself rather sulkily, for he 
 and I had quarrelled that morning about my going 
 so often with Master Caleb. 
 
 He said that I did not care for cricket any 
 more, or for him, or for anything but poking about 
 after the schoolmaster. His injustice stung me 
 deeply ; for, to tell the truth, long walks with Master 
 Caleb were not the same things now-a-days that they 
 had once been. He had taken to stalking along in 
 a brown study, with his hands behind his back, and 
 
88 THE STORY OF 
 
 T, carrying the basket, had to follow silently 
 behind. I would fain have been somewhere at 
 home with Cuthbert, only I could not tell Master 
 Caleb so. 
 
 * If you only knew all/ I said rather grandly to 
 Cuthbert, and then stopped short, afraid of letting 
 out the secret. Cuthbert laughed scornfully, and 
 I walked another way. So we had quarrelled. 
 
 The little house in Minster-yard became quite 
 familiar to me. I almost wondered why Master 
 Caleb cared to go there so often. His visits must 
 have given him more pain than pleasure, for he gene- 
 rally left me to talk to Mistress Dorothy in the 
 parlour, while he shut himself up in the study with 
 the Professor. Anxious as he was about the safe- 
 keeping of his secret, from no one did he guard it 
 more carefully than from Dorothy herself He was 
 always fancying — most needlessly — that she was 
 on the point of finding it out. And then of course 
 she would never speak to him again. So he rarely 
 said much to her, but listened with strained atten- 
 tion to her father's discourse, when he would have 
 given the world only just to sit still and look at 
 her. 
 
 Then, when he had scarcely allowed himself a 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 89 
 
 look or a smile, he went home with a heavy heart 
 to his hard work, and tried to throw himself with 
 all his might into spelling-books and the multipli- 
 cation table. 
 
 It was an odd life that Professor Bruce's little 
 daughter lived, in the dark rooms among the books. 
 She rarely saw anybody except now and then 
 some old friend of her father's — some one just as 
 learned as himself, who came to Morechester for 
 the day, to talk over a scientific question with him, 
 and who paid Mistress Dorothy grandly-worded, 
 old-world compliments about her ' sweet eyes,' and 
 her ' dishes of good tea.' 
 
 But in general she and her father were alone. 
 He adored her, and left her to herself. If ' Dolly ' 
 was not within call to give her ready help and at- 
 tention the moment he needed it, the Professor 
 was impatient and disconcerted. Yet even she 
 was not suffered to interrupt him in his work. She 
 read his books, talked to him on his favourite 
 subjects, guarded him jealously from being dis- 
 turbed, and kept her own thoughts to herself. The 
 world of dreams she lived in, full of noble thoughts, 
 and lofty hopes, and brave self-conquest, he did not 
 know much about. 
 
90 THE STORY OF 
 
 He was contented if she were near him, always 
 bright, quiet, and helpful, with the quick eyes and 
 the ready wit that never knew weariness in his 
 service. Her father did not know, and she herself 
 scarcely guessed, how entirely he had grown to 
 lean on her. 
 
 This was something of what Master Caleb told 
 me about her, when, very rarely, he broke the 
 silence of reverence with which he held her in his 
 heart. 
 
 Why it was that I never saw her without wishing 
 to be braver and better, I did not understand my- 
 self But so it was. How the stories she some- 
 times told me, with the light in her eyes and a 
 thrill in her quiet voice, made my heart beat with 
 a great longing to do some great thing ; how some 
 of her words, simple and quiet as they were, have 
 been with me to strengthen me in all the battles of 
 my life — nay, how they are with me still, it would 
 not be easy to explain. 
 
 * I can't think what you talk to her about,' said 
 poor Master Caleb, almost angrily, sometimes. * I 
 can never find anything that seems good enough to 
 say to her.' 
 
 It was but too true that he did not shine in her 
 presence. Even I, used to his odd ways, and 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 91 
 
 satisfied that all he did must be right, often won- 
 dered at his long silences and awkward speeches. 
 
 It seemed so easy to talk to her, nay, so im- 
 possible not to be drawn on by some magic in her 
 way of listening. Voice, laugh, her changing face, 
 the quick answering smile, her very attitude, all 
 showed her ready interest. 
 
 All this time the Professor worked on happily 
 at his chemistry and experiments, took up more of 
 Master Caleb's attention each time that he went to 
 visit him, good-naturedly called him his promising 
 disciple and fellow-worker, and never found out 
 how the disciple's interest flagged sometimes, and 
 how difficult he found it to give his full attention. 
 
 Nevertheless, his admiration and devotion were 
 just as great as ever, and Master Caleb would have 
 been covered with remorse and shame at the mere 
 notion of finding any hour long that was spent in 
 the Professor's study. 
 
 By-and-by also, there came a certain happy 
 time when he began to feel that he was really 
 making himself useful. A new book of Professor 
 Bruce's was going through the press. 
 
 There were few prouder men than Master Caleb, 
 as he helped to gather together the scattered 
 sheets, to go over calculations, and to get the pages 
 
92 THE STORY OF 
 
 ready for the printers. Dorothy, too, to make the 
 work doubly pleasant, was always in her father's 
 study, writing from his words, finding, as nobody 
 else could, the papers he was for ever losing, 
 and helping heart and hand at the finishing of the 
 work. 
 
 ' My last book, Dolly,' said the old man, putting 
 his hand fondly on the head that was bending so 
 intently over some of his crabbed writing. * I shall 
 never write another.' 
 
 Dorothy looked up at him quickly, and tried to 
 make a cheerful answer, that did not seem to come 
 readily. 
 
 ' No/ he went on, rather as if he was thinking 
 aloud ; ' no, I shall never write another. Perhaps 
 already I have writ too much. But I am glad of 
 this one, because it is well sold, and will help to 
 make Dolly comfortable when I am gone. I've 
 never done enough for her heretofore.' 
 
 Dorothy looked up again, and laid her hand 
 softly on his arm, glancing from him to Master 
 Caleb, who was frowning over what looked like a 
 long sum, and then at me, as I stood near the 
 door waiting for some papers I was to carry to the 
 post. 
 
 By-and-by she brought them to me, and 
 
 I 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 93 
 
 followed me out into the passage, shutting the 
 door behind her. 
 
 'Is this all, Mistress Dorothy ?' I asked, as she 
 looked thoughtful. 
 
 She turned round quickly. ' Thank you, Willie ; 
 yes, that's all. I don't see you often now,' she 
 went on with a smile, * but he likes me to be 
 always with him ; and do you know, I can't bear 
 to be ever away from him. I cannot quite tell 
 why.' 
 
 * Dolly,' called her father's voice, with the soft- 
 ness all gone out of it, sharp, short, and impatient. 
 * Dolly, who has touched the index t I can't 
 find it.' 
 
 She ran back into the study, with a nod and 
 smile to me. 
 
 So as no one wanted me at Morechester, I did 
 not go there for a while, but stayed at home with 
 Cuthbert, and mended up the old quarrel of a year 
 ago, that he had never quite forgotten. We played 
 at cricket in the glowing June evenings, until the 
 long shadows faded quite away, and the blue of 
 the sky darkened into purple. 
 
 People are rather apt to lose count of time in the 
 days of hay-making. Everybody is so busy. 
 We did not go to school then. Early and late 
 
94 THE STORY OF 
 
 Cuthbert and I were in the fields at Furzy Nook. 
 Farmer Foster wanted to have all his hay carried 
 by the last days of June. * And after that there'll 
 be school beginning again/ said Cuthbert, with his 
 old disconsolate look. 
 
 We were leaning over the stile on Sunday 
 evening, looking at the half-cut hay-fields, with 
 their cocks of sweet-smelling hay. * By-the-by, 
 Will,' went on Cuthbert, ' what made Master Caleb 
 look so solemn to-day .-* He went hobbling away 
 through the churchyard as if he had been a hun- 
 dred.' 
 
 * Did he } * My heart rather smote me. It 
 was so long since I had seen him or thought of 
 him, and to-day I had followed Farmer Foster 
 out of church by the door that led across the 
 meadows to Furzy Nook. ^ He's been away at 
 Morechester but I'll run over now, and ask after 
 him.' 
 
 Master Caleb was not under his cherry-tree 
 watching the sunset as usual. He was indoors, 
 sitting with his back to the window, holding a 
 book open in his hands. Mrs Janet, with a thorough 
 look of Sunday leisure all about her, sat very 
 upright at the table, reading also. 
 
 * I thought you were at Morechester, Master 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 95 
 
 Caleb,' I said, as he looked up and held out his 
 hand. 
 
 * Oh no. I came home a week since. Well, 
 Willie, how's the hay-making getting on } ' 
 
 * Pretty fair, sir, if the rain keeps off; * and I 
 looked anxiously out of the window. I knew that 
 there was not the shadow of a cloud to be found 
 anywhere, and no chance of rain ; but Farmer Foster 
 always scanned the clouds when he was asked 
 after the hay ; so it was probably the right thing 
 to do. Master Caleb nodded absently. 
 
 * Is the Professor's book done yet. Master 
 Caleb 1 ' 
 
 * Here it is.' He held the book he had been 
 reading towards me. 
 
 * Printed and all ! ' I turned admiringly over the 
 pages, some of which I must have carried to the 
 post myself when they went to be printed. * Did 
 he give it to you ? ' 
 
 ' She did.' 
 
 His hand trembled as he took it back. Cuthbert 
 had been right in saying that he looked worn and 
 ill. It seemed a trouble to him to answer ques- 
 tions, and I, having the fear of Mrs. Janet some- 
 what before my eyes, could not think of anything 
 to talk about. 
 
96. THE STORY OF 
 
 * Master Caleb/ I said, after standing near him 
 for a few minutes, hoping he would speak, ^ when 
 you see Mrs. Dorothy again, will you tell her, with 
 my respects * 
 
 He interrupted me. * You can tell her yourself, 
 Willie, when you go to bid her good-bye. Ah, 
 you haven't heard. They are leaving More- 
 chester.' 
 
 * Mistress Dorothy .? But not for long ? * 
 
 * I mean that they are going away altogether.' 
 
 * Going away ! where to .'* ' 
 
 *.To live in Scotland.' His voice sank a little. 
 
 ' Oh, Master Caleb ! ' 
 
 He looked across at his sister, and half smiled. 
 
 Great rough boy as I was, I nearly burst out 
 crying. I stammered, began to say I was sorry, 
 and had to stop short. 
 
 He put his hand kindly on my shoulder, and 
 presently he said, * There is just a chance of their 
 not going, Willie. It was not finally settled — ^just a 
 chance.' 
 
 * It's quite as good as settled,' observed Mrs. 
 Janet, without looking up. 
 
 * I know it is.' 
 
 * Why, why do they t ' I asked, finding my voice 
 at last, but with a sort of crack in it. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 97 
 
 'Because they want hlin to be Professor of 
 Chemistry at some place in Scotland, if you must 
 know everything,' said Mrs. Janet, answering again, 
 to my surprise. * That book you have there is very 
 much thought of, and he is Scotch, and so he wants 
 to go — There ! ' 
 
 ' But Mistress Dorothy ? ' 
 
 * She is sorry,' said my master, in a low voice. 
 And then the silence came down upon us again. 
 
 Mrs. Janet cleared her throat, and held up her 
 book so as to catch the remaining light, and Master 
 Caleb leant his head upon his hand. I durst ask 
 no more questions. But when I went away, he 
 came out with me into the garden, over which the 
 twilight was beginning to gather. 
 
 * I am very sorry. Master Caleb,' I took courage 
 to say then. 
 
 * I know that you are, Willie.' 
 
 Quiet as he was, he spoke with a sort of effort, 
 as if each word gave him pain. 
 ' Scotland seems so far off.' 
 
 * Yes, — we shall see her face no more.* 
 
 * Is she very sorry-.? I am sure she does not want 
 to go.' 
 
 * She said she had been happy here, God bless 
 her. But I hope — I think — that such an one as she 
 
 H 
 
9S THE STORY OF 
 
 is must always be peaceful and happy. May Pie 
 keep her so.' 
 
 ' But Master Caleb, what will you do ? * 
 
 He did not answer for a minute. 
 
 * I am thankful to have known her. My star of 
 light. She has been to me ' 
 
 That sentence he never finished. 
 
 The following day ended the week that Pro- 
 fessor Bruce had taken to consider whether he 
 should accept the appointment offered to him or 
 not. Master Caleb could not rest without going 
 to Morechester to learn his determination, and in 
 obedience to a message from Mistress Dorothy 
 that she would like to see me again, he took me 
 with him. 
 
 On the way to Morechester we talked ourselves 
 into a hope that the Professor would have decided 
 not to go away. The cool bright touches of 
 morning air, full of the song of birds and of the smell 
 of dewy flowers and freshly cut hay, made us 
 feel hopeful. We remembered how Professor 
 Bruce had said that he should write no more books, 
 because he was growing an old man, and this new 
 work would be harder still than book-writine. 
 Master Caleb felt sure that Dorothy was afraid of 
 it for her father. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 99 
 
 * Depend upon it,' he said, * we shall find that 
 he has listened to his daughter, and will rest con- 
 tent with having had this great honour offered to 
 him.' 
 
 After that I was astonished at the silence that 
 came over him as we walked up the High Street 
 of Morechester. The freshness of early morning 
 still rested on the town, the shadows from the east 
 reached right across the street, and few passengers 
 were stirring except people coming in from the 
 country, carrying fragrant baskets of vegetables and 
 fruit. 
 
 * We shall soon know now/ I said. * See, there 
 is Mistress Dorothy.' 
 
 She was coming out into the sunshine through 
 the great door of the Minster, among a little knot 
 of people that scattered in different directions. We 
 came up with her as she stood on her own door- 
 step. 
 
 * Willie/ Master Caleb whispered hurriedly, as 
 we crossed the market-place, ' do not say a word 
 about our being sorry. We must not trouble her. 
 It would grieve her good heart to think it gave us 
 pain.' 
 
 * But she will stay — you said so } * 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 H 2 
 
100 THE STORY OF 
 
 Dorot]]y turned and came to meet us. * It is 
 kind of you to come over/ she said, trying for her 
 usual cheerful tone, as she went before us into the 
 little parlour. ' You wished to hear our fate. Yes, 
 it is settled, the letter will be sent to-day.* 
 
 * And it says ' 
 
 * That he will go.' 
 
 Master Caleb bowed his head. ' Of course,' he 
 said in a low voice. 
 
 He went to the window, and stood looking out 
 for a moment or two, while Mistress Dorothy spoke 
 to me; but how he managed the smile with which 
 he turned back directly, I cannot think. 
 
 ^ Then I wish you and the Professor all happiness 
 and success, and — you will not quite forget old 
 Morechester.' 
 
 * Never,' she said earnestly. ' Master Caleb, 
 indeed this is not my doing. It frightens me for 
 my father. I don't think he is looking well. But 
 he has so set his heart on going, and if I say a 
 word against it, he only says, " Let me go home, 
 Dolly, let me go home." I thought he had forgotten 
 Scotland, but the old love for it seems to have come 
 back. I cannot keep him from what he calls his 
 home, or try to make him stay here.' 
 
 * No, no. To be sure not. Why should you } ' 
 
WANDERING WILLIE, loi 
 
 ' I should have been so glad. But that does not 
 matter, if only it is good for him. He is tiring 
 himself already, making preparations.' 
 
 * Then it will be soon ' 
 
 * I suppose so. And since it has to come, the 
 saying good-bye, the leaving here, and all the 
 rest of it, it had better be soon over.' 
 
 * Yes,' answered Master Caleb, breaking out into 
 one of those unlucky speeches that said one thing 
 and meant another, * it'll be a blessing when you are 
 gone.' 
 
 She smiled a little. * I think it will. And for 
 you too. I know you will be sorry.' 
 
 * Oh, never mind that. It doesn't matter much 
 for me, — I mean, don't think — It doesn't matter, I 
 mean ' 
 
 ' I am afraid you will miss my father very much.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, your father. Of course I shall miss 
 him. Everything will be gone that I care for in the 
 world, — the chemistry, you know, and all.' 
 
 ' And my father will miss you. Won't you come 
 and see him 1 ' 
 
 She went across and opened the study door. The 
 room was all in disorder, drawers open, book-cases 
 half empty, and their contents scattered about all 
 over the tables and floor. 
 
102 THE STORY OF 
 
 The Professor, with more colour than usual in his 
 face, was moving about, adding something every 
 minute to the confusion. He stopped with a whole 
 shelf-full of books in his arms, as Dorothy said 
 cheerily, ' Father, here is Master Caleb Morton, 
 oome to wish us joy. Why, dear father,' she added, 
 half laughing, * what are you doing to the room 1 ' 
 
 * There's no time to lose, my dear, and a great 
 deal to be done. You are welcome, Caleb Morton, 
 I am obleeged to you,' as Master Caleb offered his 
 help. * Yes. I shall be very grateful for any help 
 that will enable us to get away more quickly to my 
 future post.' 
 
 ' Dorothy cannot comprehend,' he went on, as 
 Dorothy was called away, and he gave up the 
 books he held to Master Caleb, and sat down 
 in his arm-chair. * She does not see any occasion 
 for haste. But there is no time to spare ; I am 
 called upon to fill an important chair.' 
 
 * I was not surprised, though very proud to hear 
 of the honour tendered to your acceptance, Pro- 
 fessor,' said Master Caleb. 
 
 * Ah, well, it is gratifying ; yes, doubtless. You 
 were a true prophet about the book, it appears, 
 Master Caleb, eh } But I do not dwell so nmch 
 on that. It is poor Dolly's good that is actuating 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 103 
 
 me now. I think of Dolly's future and of the time 
 when I must leave her. I should like her to be 
 comfortable then. I have laid by but little for her 
 at present, and I shall be glad to be getting more.' 
 
 * If the exertion be not too much/ said Master 
 Caleb, doubtfully. 
 
 *I do not fear it; my mind is made up.' He was 
 looking tired already, and passed his hand once or 
 twice across his forehead. * It is only the hurry 
 and trouble of this move that worries me, and the 
 having to think myself of every single thing. 
 Dorothy has no experience. But you must not 
 keep me talking,' and he got up restlessly ; ' I have 
 no leisure for that. Where is Dolly } ' 
 
 She was coming back. 
 
 * Just look about for the list of the books, child. 
 I had it but a moment ago ; things get mislaid, and 
 I have got to go over it.' 
 
 * Here it is ; but father, you need not tire yourself 
 with that, dear.' 
 
 ^ Dolly, leave me to manage my own concerns. 
 You have no experience. You had better pack up 
 your clothes, my dear. That is your business. 
 Well here, if you want something to do, just go 
 over the books on the lower shelves. I cannot 
 stoop any longer.' 
 
104 THE STORY OF 
 
 There was no chance of farewell words from 
 Mistress Dorothy that morning. 
 
 It was but a few days after this, Master Caleb 
 sat at his high desk in school, the evening sun 
 was creeping slowly across the benches towards 
 him. Already it shone in two gold square patches 
 on the white-washed wall. The hum of voices was 
 growing a little louder as the moment of release 
 drew near, when a man in a smock frock, with a 
 long whip over his shoulder, looked in at the open 
 door. Every head was raised to look at him and 
 everybody knew him — the carrier from Morechester. 
 
 * It's just a message as I promised I'd give Mas- 
 ter Caleb,* he began ; ' old Mr. Bruce's young lady, 
 in Minster yard, you know ' 
 
 ' Yes, I know.' 
 
 ' Ah ! She sent her kind respects, and thought 
 you'd like to know as how her father's dying. Yes, 
 its some kind of a stroke or a fit,' the man 
 went on, untying a knot in the lash of his whip, and 
 answering the questions Mrs. Janet put to him 
 from the window. Master Caleb had got to the 
 door and stood leaning against it saying nothing. 
 ' He was took last night, they told me, close upon 
 nine o'clock.' 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 105 
 
 The rows of faces along the room were some of 
 them indifferent, some looking on carelessly, others 
 were bent down again over their books, but each one 
 lighted up with unmixed pleasure when Master 
 Caleb said in a hoarse voice, * The school is dis- 
 missed, children.' 
 
 And the schoolmaster was gone. For many 
 days afterwards, Mrs. Janet sat in her brother's 
 place. The school was quieter than usual. The 
 boldest hearts quailed a little before the upright 
 figure at Master Caleb's desk. No one looked up 
 or whispered, without feeling the quick eyes upon 
 them, or saw with entire composure the hand that 
 often strayed towards the tawse, that lay at her 
 right hand. Many were the low-spoken lamenta- 
 tions over Master Caleb's absence ; hearty the wishes 
 for his speedy return among us. 
 
 But I believe he had forgotten all about the 
 school, forgotten everything outside the quiet 
 house in which his old friend lay dying. Very 
 quiet it was, and silent. The rooms had fallen 
 back into their old order. All token of prepara- 
 tion for a journey had vanished ; none such was 
 needed for the solemn journey on which the master 
 of the house was bound. 
 
 He had been busy and earnest about the 
 
io6 THE STORY OF 
 
 arrangements to the last. Dorothy told how con- 
 stantly his thoughts dwelt on the future, and how 
 he would spare himself no exertion in his restless 
 longing to be gone, and at work in the new sphere. 
 He was always hopeful and eager, and could not 
 bear her to notice how tired and over-taxed he 
 looked at times. 
 
 On the last evening, as he sat alone in his easy 
 chair, he seemed to be trying to put words and 
 sentences together, and repeating them half aloud. 
 Dorothy did not dare to vex him by interrupting 
 him. As she stood out of sight behind him, she 
 heard, with a vague feeling of fear and sadness, that 
 he was preparing the first lecture he meant to give 
 when he got to Scotland. 
 
 The words did not come easily. He sighed and 
 appeared perplexed, pressing his hand wearily upon 
 his forehead, and once after a pause she heard him 
 say, ' for Dolly's sake,' and patiently begin the 
 broken sentence over again. 
 
 Then she could not keep silence any longer, but 
 came round and leant over his chair to speak to 
 him. He looked up at her wistfully for a moment 
 or two, and held her hand. ' Dolly,' he said at last, 
 in a whisper, ' What is it .'' am I too old } ' 
 
 She only said ' Father.' She gathered him in 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 107 
 
 her arms, and held him nearer and nearer to her ; 
 she drew his head down upon her shoulder. What 
 they thought of, those two, as they rested there 
 heart to heart, while the twilight sank down over 
 them, will never be known to any but themselves 
 and God. 
 
 Later in the evening, when it was quite dark, 
 she left him to get lights and to make him a cup 
 of tea. She was away but very few minutes. 
 When she came into the room again he had sunk 
 back in his chair, and his head had fallen on one 
 side. 
 
 There was never any hope, though after a day 
 or two he seemed to be getting better. His mind 
 was quite clear, he knew everybody, but was too 
 weak for many words. 
 
 Only one thing, they said, was strange. He had 
 entirely forgotten all that happened just before his 
 illness. The hopes that were so keen, the cares 
 that weighed so heavily, he never referred to again. 
 Not a single fear for Dorothy ruffled the serenity 
 of his thoughts. 
 
 He smiled at her, smoothed her hair feebly as she 
 knelt beside his bed, and sometimes kissed the 
 little hand that ministered to his wants. But the 
 untroubled look was very strange to those who had 
 
io8 THE STORY OF 
 
 watched of late the gallant struggle with his failing 
 powers that he had fought through for her sake. 
 Now he was leaving her alone, and he did not even 
 remember it. 
 
 * It is such a blessing, such a mercy,' Dorothy 
 said, twisting her hands tightly together, her only 
 sign of emotion. She looked calm, but there was 
 no room for any thought beyond the moment 
 itself — her father's hourly need of her, his sleep, his 
 waking, the words of peace with which she tried to 
 drive away the cloud that sometimes darkened 
 over him, like a shadow thrown back from the 
 days of his long life. * So many years/ he used to 
 say sadly, ' so many, many years.' 
 
 Once only I was allowed to go into his room. 
 Dorothy had been called away, and she bade me 
 stand by the door ready to go for her the instant she 
 was wanted. 
 
 Like a picture I can recall the scene now. The 
 darkened room — orderly and quiet — the narrow 
 bed against the wall, on which the Professor lay 
 — beside it the figure of Master Caleb bending for- 
 wards with a heavy book open upon his knees, the 
 only book that was near at hand now — all the 
 others had been taken away. 
 
 He said the world's Icarninc: was over for him. 
 
UANDERING WILLIE. 109 
 
 its learning and its wisdom, and so by degrees 
 Dorothy had moved all the books quietly away, 
 and left the Bible. 
 
 Master Caleb was reading to him now. The 
 Professor had asked for some words that, half- 
 remembered, kept sounding in his ears, and Master 
 Caleb finding them, read them aloud. Sad words 
 they seemed to be, whose burden was vanity and 
 vexation of spirit — weary words, that told how all 
 things are full of labour, and he who increaseth 
 knowledge increaseth sorrow — strange words to 
 read beside one who had learned so much, but who 
 was going now to his long home, for the silver cord 
 was loosened, and the pitcher was broken at the 
 fountain. 
 
 * And further, my son, by these be admonished,' 
 read Master Caleb slowly ; ' of making many books 
 there is no end, and much study is a weariness to 
 the flesh.' 
 
 The reader's voice sank lower and lower ; the 
 mournful words sounded like autumn winds sighing 
 through leafless trees. He ceased, and the book 
 sank upon his knees ; still the sad echo, ' Vanity of 
 vanities, all is vanity,' went floating through the 
 room. 
 
 The dying man sighed heavily. ' All true,' he 
 
I 
 
 no THE STORY OF 
 
 murmured ; * the dust shall return to the earth as it 
 was, * 
 
 Then his look changed. Some one had come 
 into the room softly as Master Caleb read, and was 
 standing behind his chair. It was Dorothy, and 
 there was a smile on her face that made her beau- 
 tiful. 
 
 She took the Book out of the hands that had 
 dropped it, turned over the pages quickly, and 
 began to read. If you have ever heard music 
 change from long chords of wailing sadness into a 
 burst of triumphant harmony, if you have seen 
 the sun break from behind a cloud, you have 
 known what we felt then. 
 
 * Behold, I show you a mystery,' she began. 
 
 Yes, a greater mystery than any that their 
 earthly labour could bring to light, even the 
 mystery of immortality. 
 
 She did not raise her voice as she went on, but 
 all through it there thrilled the glorious faith and 
 triumph of the thought that ' death is swallowed 
 up in victory.' 
 
 And as she uttered the solemn thanksgiving to 
 Him who givcth us the victory her father spoke 
 again. 
 
 ' Thanks be to God,' he repeated after her. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. iii 
 
 raising his hand feebly, and in the silence it 
 seemed as if the Conqueror Himself drew nigh, 
 and stood by the dying bed. 
 
 The great bell of Morechester Minster was 
 tolling heavily, each slow stroke falling upon the 
 ear like a blow, and the blinds were all drawn 
 down in the little house under the shadow of the 
 Minster tower when Caleb IMorton came home. 
 
 He left Dorothy, as she wished to be left, alone. 
 The faithful old woman, who had been for years 
 their only servant, was taking care of her. For 
 the rest she was better by herself, now that the 
 watching was ended, and the life-long blank and 
 sorrow begun. 
 
 After he knew that it was her wish to be undis- 
 turbed during those first bitter days. Master 
 Caleb was hardly willing even to enter More- 
 chester, lest she should hear of it by some means 
 and think that he had been unmindful of a wish of 
 hers. But his heart yearned over her, and either 
 late at night or in the very early morning he ven- 
 tured secretly now and then to the back door of 
 the house to ask for tidings of her. 
 
 The great question that was for ever in his 
 thoughts was this : What would Dorothy do in 
 
112 THE STORY OF 
 
 the life that lay before her ? Her father had said 
 truly that it was but very little he had to leave her. 
 His one brother, the hard-worked doctor of a poor 
 / Highland parish, was scarcely likely to be better 
 off than he had been. 
 
 To him, however, her only near relation, Dorothy 
 had written, and till the answer to this letter came, 
 .she would fain let the future rest. 
 
 That answer was very slow In coming. The 
 posts to the north of Scotland were tardy and 
 uncertain at that time. Days had grown into 
 weeks since the Professor's funeral, and still we 
 waited. One evening, however, old Susan answered 
 Master Caleb's low knock at the kitchen door with 
 unwonted quickness, scarcely waiting for him to 
 speak before she thrust a letter Into his hand. 
 'Just you read it for yourself. Master Morton; I 
 brought it away without Mistress Dolly's knowing 
 of it, on purpose for you to see it. Some one ought 
 to know how they treat the poor lamb.' 
 
 Master Caleb tore it open, without stopping, In his 
 eagerness, to consider whether he had a right to read 
 it or not. The letter was not long. A formal condo- 
 lence on the severe bereavement she had sustained ; 
 a regret that he and his only brother had never been 
 enabled to meet again after their long separation, 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 113 
 
 — a hope that she found herself as well as could be 
 anticipated under the melancholy circumstances, 
 and at the end, a half-expressed chilling invitation 
 to make his house her home until, as no doubt 
 would be the case, she could enter into some per- 
 manent arrangement better suited to her. 
 
 * What did she do ? ' asked Master Caleb, looking 
 up with blazing eyes. 
 
 * She just fetched a long sigh,' said the old 
 woman, ' a long, long sigh ! ' and she put the letter 
 into my hands, and said, ' See, Susan ; he does not 
 want us.' 
 
 Master Caleb had meant to stay in Morechester 
 that night, and had left me, as he sometimes did 
 when he was away, to sleep at the schoolhouse. 
 
 Mrs. Janet and I sat up rather late that evening. 
 She was sewing, and I, on my best behaviour, was 
 reading * Baxter's Saint's Rest ' aloud. We were 
 both thunderstruck when the door opened suddenly, 
 and Master Caleb appeared, dripping wet, for it 
 was raining heavily, and looking as pale as death. 
 
 ' Caleb ! you here ! ' exclaimed his sister, getting 
 up in astonishment to meet him. * What brings 
 you home on such a night as this ">. why, how wet 
 you are ! ' 
 
 * I am come,' Master Caleb said, disregarding the 
 
 I 
 
114 THE STORY OF 
 
 hand she laid on his drenched coat-sleeve, '■ because 
 I cannot bear it any longer — because I want your 
 counsel — because she is left all alone, and has no 
 friend — no friend in all the world but us ! ' 
 
 'You speak of Dorothy Bruce,' said Mrs. Janet, 
 slowly. 
 
 ' She is so lonely,' he went on unheeding, ' and I 
 want to comfort her, but I do not know how, and I 
 cannot tell how to help her. Janet, you must tell 
 me what I can do for her — not because she is 
 alone, and that I pity her, but, Janet, because I 
 love her.' 
 
 There was an instant's pause, and then his 
 sister threw her arms round his neck. * I know it, 
 Caleb,' she said, with a great sob, * I know it ; oh, my 
 boy, did you think I did not know it all the time } ' 
 
 And as she held him in her arms, and kissed his 
 forehead as if he were indeed still ' her boy,' I stole 
 away and closed the door upon them. 
 
 Master Caleb came to me early the next morn- 
 ing, and bade me get ready to go back with him 
 to Morechester. * I am going there again,' he said, 
 ' and if anything occurs, which is far from likely, to 
 detain me, I shall be glad to send you back with a 
 message to my sister.' 
 
 He was very quiet. All the hurry and ex- 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 115 
 
 citement of last night were gone, and in their stead 
 there had come over him a look and manner of 
 grave calmness and resolution. 
 
 ' Last night, Willie, I told my sister Janet what 
 my feelings have long been ; Janet said she knew 
 already,' and Master Caleb paused for a moment in 
 renewed wonder. ' I really am at a loss to con- 
 ceive how, but so it was. And she has counselled 
 me to go to Mistress Dorothy, and just to tell her 
 all my story.' 
 
 ' Oh, I am so glad ! ' I said, jumping up, ' so very 
 glad.' 
 
 * Hush, hush, Willie ; do not fancy that I have 
 any hope. I know quite well how it must be. But 
 perhaps Janet is right, and that the time has come 
 when it is better that she should hear it. It may 
 be, too, that in her loneliness the knowledge of a 
 love as true, as strong, and faithful as I know mine 
 is for her, will be a comfort to her.' 
 
 We went to Morechester, my master saying, 
 when we started, * Willie, we will not talk, if you 
 please.' 
 
 Perhaps all that long silent journey he was 
 getting ready the speech he meant to make to 
 Mistress Dorothy. My thoughts, I know, had time 
 to wander very far afield. 
 
 I 2 
 
ii6 THE STORY OF 
 
 They say that distance makes things look more 
 beautiful. Alas ! it also makes them seem far easier. 
 Before we got near Morechester Master Caleb's 
 composure was all gone. His resolution, doggedly 
 held to, he had kept safe, but the morning's calm- 
 ness, eloquence and steadiness were all lost by the 
 way. 
 
 We had settled that I was to wait in the poor 
 Professor's study while he spoke to Mistress 
 Dorothy in the parlour. 
 
 I had scarcely been in the room since that day, 
 that seemed so long ago, when Professor Bruce was 
 beginning to pack up his books, and Mistress 
 Dorothy laughed at him for making the room un- 
 tidy. It was not untidy now. All was in dreary 
 order, speaking sadly in its cold lifelessness of the 
 master that would never return to it. 
 
 No one was in the parlour, and Master Caleb 
 came back to the study, walking on tiptoe and 
 speaking almost in a whisper. 
 
 ' I have sent to ask if she will see me,' he 
 said ; ' I expect that she will send for me imme- 
 diately. You wait here, Willy : that's all you 
 have to do. Just stay quietly where you are.' 
 
 He was pushing me backwards all the time, with- 
 out very well knowing what he was about. At last 
 
WANDERING WILLIE, 117 
 
 he got me into the window, and told mc again to 
 wai-t there for him. 
 
 * It won't take long/ he said, turning a shade 
 greyer than before, ' and then' 
 
 The door opened, and Mistress Dorothy herself 
 came into the room. She moved so quietly that 
 Master Caleb, staring out of window at the blank 
 wall, clasping and unclasping his hands nervously, 
 did not hear or see her until she spoke his name. 
 
 He turned round with a great start and went to 
 meet her. 
 
 ' Mistress Dorothy, I hope you will forgive me 
 for coming so soon. I just happened to be passing, 
 and so* 
 
 Happened to be passing ! In my corner I could 
 not help wondering at Master Caleb. But it was 
 very uncomfortable not to be able to get out — I 
 was hidden by the window-curtain, Mistress 
 Dorothy had not seen me, and my master, I 
 was quite sure, had forgotten all about me. They 
 stood just in the way of the door, and I knew that 
 if I disturbed Master Caleb now, he would never be 
 able to begin speaking to Mistress Dorothy again. 
 There was nothing for it but to read a book, and 
 try not to listen, but my heart was beating fast. I 
 could not help hearing. 
 
ii8 THE STORY OF 
 
 Dorothy held out her hand with her frank smile. 
 ' I have been wishing to see you, to thank you 
 for your great goodness to my father and to me/ 
 she said. ^ It was kind of you to come.' 
 
 ' It was Janet — my sister — sent me. She said I 
 ought to come now, I should never have thought 
 of such a thing if it had not been for her.' 
 
 * I am glad you came,' she answered. She 
 looked very white and small in her black gown, 
 and her face was grave and sad. The steady 
 straightforward look and smile, however, were not 
 the least changed. 
 
 She pushed a chair towards Master Caleb, but 
 he did not seem to see it, and she remained stand- 
 ing too. 
 
 * Mistress Dorothy,' he began again, clearing his 
 throat vehemently, ' dear Mistress Dorothy, for- 
 give me for asking you — what are you going to do .'*' 
 
 She hesitated a little, and then said quietly, * I 
 do not quite know yet. I have been thinking 
 about it, but as yet I have not made up my mind.* 
 
 * I thought perhaps I might ask,' went on Master 
 Caleb, ' because — he made a short stop here, and I 
 heard my own heart beating — ' because you know 
 you are your father's daughter.' 
 
 She smiled then — smiled and sighed too 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 119 
 
 'You are always very kind to me,' she said. 
 * When I have thought of what I had better do, I 
 shall like to tell you, and I know that you will 
 help me.' 
 
 ' There's but little I can do,' he said bluntly, and 
 then came another silence. He was gathering 
 together all his strength, and she stood waiting for 
 him to speak. 
 
 I scarcely think she caught his meaning directly 
 when he did. 
 
 * I could never have said this, if things had been 
 different,' were his words. ' I should never have 
 thought of it. You must forgive me now. It is only 
 because you have no better home. Oh, Mistress 
 Dorothy, I know it is not good enough to ask 
 you to ; but would you — could you come to my 
 home ? ' 
 
 The colour rushed into her face. I saw her put 
 out her hand quickly, as if she wanted something 
 to hold by. She made some exclamation, too 
 low for me to hear. 
 
 ' If I could serve you,' he w^ent on, ' without ask- 
 ing such a great thing as this, believe me I would not 
 trouble you, but I could see no other way. I could 
 not help naming it to you. If there were some 
 brighter life before you, and I could be sure that 
 
I20 THE STORY OF 
 
 you were happy, I think I should be satisfied; 
 but now you are alone, and I cannot bear to think 
 of it' 
 
 The tears were in her eyes. Once more she held 
 out her hand towards him, and, grasping his, she 
 spoke very softly. ' Dear friend, it is so good of 
 you — so very good, but ' 
 
 * Hush,' he answered quickly, drawing back. 
 * Yes, I know, I understand. I always knew it 
 must be so, forgive me.' 
 
 * Forgive you ! the truest, the only friend I 
 have.' 
 
 * It was just that. If some one, with a better 
 right than mine, had claimed the great happiness 
 of taking care of you, I would have said no word ; 
 but I thought — that is, Janet thought — we might 
 venture just to say how welcome — how proud — 
 how glad ' 
 
 ' I know how faithful you are. I know you are 
 sorry for me, but you must not ' 
 
 * I will not. I never will again. Let me be 
 your friend, Dorothy, still. Another day I will 
 come back,' he said, trying to smile; ^ and you 
 will tell your father's old friend your plans. Let 
 me go now.* 
 
 He was gone. She called his name. Surely if 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. lii 
 
 he had heard her voice then, he would have come 
 back. I think too, that those last half-choking 
 words of his, first made her understand that he did 
 not come to her because he had been her father's 
 friend, but because he loved her. 
 
 I heard the door slammed after Master Caleb. 
 As soon as I could get out without being seen, I 
 ran after him. It was difficult to catch him up, at 
 the pace he walked. 
 
 When I reached him, out of breath, he put his 
 hand heavily on my shoulder. 
 
 * Master Caleb,' I said, looking up into his face, 
 * may I speak to you 1 ' 
 
 ' Not now,' he answered, very gently. ' Not now, 
 my boy. It has all ended, Willie, as I knew it 
 must' 
 
 ' I am sorry,* I said boldly ; * but I heard 
 all you and Mistress Dorothy said. I was in the 
 study window, where you put me, sir, and I could 
 not help it' 
 
 He did not heed me much. 
 
 * We will not speak of it again, Willie. She was 
 quite right to say no.' 
 
 ' But, Master Caleb, I thought she was going to 
 say " yes." ' 
 
 He stopped in the road and stared at me. 
 
122 THE STORY OF 
 
 ' Going to say yes ! ' he repeated slowly. 
 
 * Only you would not let her, sir. You gave her 
 no time, and then you went away.' 
 
 He still looked hard at me, and shook his 
 head slowly. 'You know very little about it, 
 Willie.' 
 
 We walked on a long way in silence. At last 
 he said again, ' You thought she would have said 
 yes .'* ' 
 
 ' I thought so, sir.' 
 
 'You know nothing at all about it.' 
 
 When we reached home there was Mrs. Janet 
 watching eagerly for us. I guessed how much 
 Master Caleb dreaded having to meet and tell her 
 all. 
 
 But she only just looked once at him. She 
 asked no questions, she did not even pity him. 
 Only her sudden change of face — the look of 
 concern — the quick sigh of disappointment that 
 she checked instantly — the grave silence that so 
 respected his great sorrow, went to Master Caleb's 
 heart. 
 
 I saw him go up to her, kneel down beside her, 
 look up at her, and then — no, I must have been 
 mistaken — grown-up men like Master Caleb never 
 cry. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 
 
 123 
 
 School had scarcely begun the next morning 
 when I was mysteriously called out by Mrs. Janet, 
 and found her arrayed in the best bonnet and 
 gown, that usually never saw the light except on 
 Sundays. 
 
 * William Lisle,' she began sternly, ' I have been 
 thinking over things. They cannot go on as they 
 are now. They must not be suffered to go on.' 
 
 I said, ' No, ma'am/ and waited wondering. 
 
 ' Something must be done,' pursued Mrs. Janet, 
 in the same severe tone. * It must be seen to, and 
 that immediately. It passes my understanding 
 how the girl can have behaved to Caleb Morton as 
 she did.' 
 
 I was so confounded at hearing Mistress Doro- 
 thy — our Mistress Dorothy — Master Caleb's star, 
 spoken of as ' the girl,' that I stared at Mrs. Janet 
 and could say nothing. 
 
 * She must have been out of her senses, I verilv 
 believe ; I can make no other excuse for her. She 
 must have been out of her senses when she said no 
 to such a one as Caleb.' 
 
 * I don't think she meant to say it,' I said, in a 
 low voice, feeling as if I myself had been found 
 guilty of refusing to marry Master Caleb. 
 
 ' You don't think that she meant it } Very well. 
 
124 THE STORY OF 
 
 Then why did she say it ? Answer me that, WiUiam 
 Lisle. Why did she say what she did not mean ? 
 It's that question I mean to have an answer to, 
 though I go to Morechester myself to get it.' 
 
 ' To Morechester ! you .'* ' I said. * Does Master 
 Caleb know ? ' 
 
 ' Do as you are bid, Willie, and don't put foolish 
 questions. I don't ask you to give me your advice, 
 but to run across to Furzy Nook and borrow 
 Farmer Foster's gig directly. Bring it up to where 
 the four roads meet, and I will get in there. One 
 would say you were Lord Mayor of London, Willie, 
 you are so ready to put in your word.' 
 
 An hour afterwards I received her parting in- 
 structions not to leave Master Caleb till she came 
 home again, and only to tell him that she had gone 
 out on some business of her own. 
 
 * And I am sure that's the truth. It is my 
 business to reason with the girl,' murmured Mrs. 
 Janet to herself, as she clambered up to her high 
 seat with a struggle ; ' she's got neither father nor 
 mother, and a good bit of plain speaking does 
 nobody any harm.* 
 
 * Gee up, Dobbin,' said Farmer Foster, shaking 
 the horse's reins, and the next moment I stood 
 at the cross roads, looking with wondering eyes 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 125 
 
 after Mrs. Janet, who, driven by Farmer Foster him- 
 self, was disappearing in the high-backed gig 
 round the well-known corner of the road to More- 
 chester. 
 
 All the day I felt guilty whenever I met Master 
 Caleb's eye, thinking that he would insist on know- 
 ing whither his sister had betaken herself in so 
 unwonted a way. But he was quite satisfied with 
 my first confused sentence about business, and 
 Farmer Foster, and in truth seemed to have little 
 heart for inquiring after anybody. 
 
 Afternoon came, but without bringing Mrs. Janet. 
 Evening drew on, school broke up, and Master 
 Caleb, who had kept hard at work all day, sat 
 down with his head leaning on his hands, and 
 gave himself up unresistingly to his sad thoughts. 
 
 At last, after I had stood for full an hour leaning 
 over the garden gate, listening eagerly, but in vain, 
 for the sound of wheels, one of the farm boys from 
 Farmer Foster's came sauntering — taking his time 
 about it too — over the stile and along the lane from 
 Furzy Nook. 
 
 Mrs. Janet was there, and had sent for me. Con- 
 scious of being mixed up in a plot, and standing in 
 wholesome awe of Mrs. Janet, I was dismayed when 
 Master Caleb got up wearily, saying that if Janet 
 
126 THE STORY OF 
 
 was at the Farm he supposed he might as well go 
 and fetch her home. Would not the secret of Mrs. 
 Janet's journey come out somehow, if Master 
 Caleb went with me ? and then whatever was to 
 become of me ? Much troubled in mind, but quite 
 unable to stop him, I followed his footsteps across 
 the fields. 
 
 The sun was setting over Furzy Nook, reddening 
 the old house and making its many lattice windows 
 shine like gold. 
 
 Dame Foster met us at her garden gate, her 
 apron, as of old, quite full of flowers. * You are 
 kindly welcome. Master Caleb,' she said ; ' yes, 
 your good sister is here ; will you go in and speak to 
 her } ' 
 
 I ran on in front. ' Mrs. Janet,' I began, pushing 
 open the parlour door in a great hurry, Master 
 Caleb is come too, and ' 
 
 I stopped short, for there stood Dorothy. 
 
 Master Caleb was close behind me, and at this 
 moment, just when it was most needed, Mrs. Janet 
 completely lost all presence of mind. 
 
 She tried to put herself before Dorothy, to hide 
 her, but Master Caleb had already seen her, and 
 stood at the door as if he were turned into stone. 
 
 There was a dreadful long minute, and then 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 127 
 
 Dorothy came slowly forward. She had a colour 
 in her cheeks that I had never seen before, but she 
 spoke almost as quietly as ever — 
 
 * Master Caleb, Mrs. Janet brought me here.* 
 
 * Janet ! and you let her — you came ? ' 
 
 * I came,' she said, the red flush deepening in 
 her cheeks, ' because you asked me yesterday.' 
 
 * Did Janet say I was unhappy ? ' 
 
 * She said,' — he bent down, for he could scarcely 
 catch the words — * she said you really wanted me.' 
 
 Master Caleb grasped both her hands. 
 
 * Dorothy, did you come to me because you pitied 
 me?' 
 
 ' No, Master Caleb,' she said simply, ' because 
 I was glad to come.' 
 
 It was not the words only, but something in her 
 voice, that made him say suddenly, ' Oh Dorothy ! 
 oh Dorothy ! ' 
 
 Until that moment we had quite forgotten, Mrs. 
 Janet and I, that we ought not to be there. But 
 now, as he bent his head down lower and lower over 
 the clasped hands he held, Mrs. Janet with a sudden 
 pull drew me out into the passage, and shut the 
 door upon them. 
 
 * Bless their foolish hearts, poor dears,' she ejacu- 
 lated drying her eyes vehemently in the passage. 
 
128 THE STORY OF 
 
 * Oh Mrs. Janet,' I could not help saying, in the 
 fulness of my heart, ' how glad I am that it has 
 come right.' 
 
 ' Come right ! ' she echoed, turning round on 
 me. 
 
 * Come right ! of course it has, Willie Lisle. Who 
 ever thought it wouldn't ? There were no two ways 
 about it' 
 
 Master Caleb and Dorothy were married from 
 Furzy Nook. 
 
 A wedding was of all things in the world the 
 most delightful to Farmer Foster and his wife. A 
 few hours only were needed to make them take 
 Mistress Dorothy home to their hearts as if she had 
 been a grandchild of their own. The sweet quiet 
 face, the black gown, and the little touch of ro- 
 mance in the story of her presence there, won their 
 own welcome. 
 
 Every one was soon persuaded, very willingly, 
 that it would be simple madness for Dorothy to 
 go back alone to the sad house at Morechester. 
 
 * We couldn't think for an instant of suffering 
 such a thing, Mrs. Janet, neither I, nor yet my 
 master ; and then, Furzy Nook will be so handy, 
 " somebody " can get to see her every day ! ' and 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 129 
 
 the old dame nodded slyly to Master Caleb, who 
 did not see her, and then looked across kindly at 
 the farmer, remembering how he used to come 
 a-courting in the summer evenings, so many, many 
 years ago. 
 
 The troth plight had scarcely been given and 
 received — the engaged pair had but half begun to 
 realise that they were to belong to each other some 
 day, before Dame Foster had mentally frosted 
 over the huge wedding-cake, and doomed to death 
 the fat capons that were to grace the marriage 
 feast. 
 
 It was a proud day on which Master Caleb 
 brought his betrothed to see the Castle. He 
 whispered to me that he had waited for a fine day. 
 Truly he had chosen happily. The ruins were 
 all a-glow with burning sunlight. Our grey towers 
 looked set in warmth and colour. Orange wall- 
 flower,tufts of scarlet poppies, feathery silver grasses, 
 golden dandelions, had forced their way through 
 crevices in the old walls ; downy thistles shone with 
 their purple blossoms, crimson woodbine, went 
 climbing where it would. Covering all grew the 
 many-hued mosses and lichens, russet and grey, 
 golden, red and brown. 
 
 Glittering light here and there ; violet shadows ; 
 
 K 
 
130 THE STORY OF 
 
 brilliant butterflies hovering over the clover tufts ; 
 the warm fragrance of wild thyme ; a few sheep 
 cropping the short grass, one of them carrying a 
 bell that tinkled lazily and pleasantly as he moved. 
 Yes, it was a good day for Mistress Dorothy, to 
 see it all. Master Caleb took her round very 
 slowly, stopping often. We saw him pointing and 
 explaining, drawing lines in the air with a stick, to 
 show where broken fragments of stone told of 
 fallen buildings and grass-grown banquetting halls. 
 
 * Poor thing ! * said Cuthbert, as we stood watch- 
 ing them from the mound. 
 
 *■ Why poor thing } ' I asked indignantly. 
 
 * He's teaching her,' Cuthbert said, in a melan- 
 choly voice ; * I suppose he's always at it' 
 
 ' I tell you she likes it' 
 
 Cuthbert looked at me, and began to whistle — • 
 that clear birdlike whistle of his, that no one could 
 help listening to. I saw Mistress Dorothy turn 
 round and look up towards him with a smile. 
 
 ' Over the hills and far away,' he whistled gaily, 
 and the birds sang the chorus, and the sun shone. 
 Master Caleb and Dorothy went rambling in and 
 out through shade and sunshine. I could not help 
 thinking what a pleasant thing life was. 
 
 And next came the wedding day. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 131 
 
 It was to be a very quiet one, because the little 
 bride was still grieving for the kind old father 
 who was not there to give her his blessing. So 
 everybody kept on repeating that it must be 
 quite quiet. That is to say, no one was to go to 
 the church who could by any possibility be per- 
 suaded to stay away. But unluckily nobody 
 could be so persuaded. Master Caleb belonged to 
 all of us. No one — certainly not Dorothy — would 
 have wished that the scholars, who had suddenly 
 found out how fond they were of him, should 
 not go to his wedding. They forgave him on that 
 day all his strange love for three-syllabled words, 
 and sums in Long Division. They forgot how 
 hardly he had often used them in respect to 
 learning things by heart, and only strove who could 
 shout himself the most hoarse in his honour. 
 
 All the village was waiting round the porch long 
 before the wedding party came out of church. How 
 the sun shone that morning ! What merry peals 
 the bells sent out upon the golden air ! How cheer 
 after cheer rang forth, as Master Caleb, in such a 
 coat, such black silk stockings, such shoe-buckles 
 as Wyncliffe had never before dreamt of, came out 
 bareheaded into the sunshine, from the deep shade 
 of the porch, and led his bride by the hand all 
 
 K 2 
 
132 THE STORY OF 
 
 through the shouting crowd ! The village girls, 
 with Hildred at their head, showered baskets-full of 
 red roses before Mistress Dorothy as she walked ! 
 
 Master Caleb could get out nothing but ' I thank 
 you, friends, I thank you;' and Dorothy held out 
 both hands, right and left, to meet the eager ones 
 stretched out to greet her. 
 
 Then we young ones climbed up trees and stood 
 on the top of walls to give them one cheer more, 
 as they drove off to Furzy Nook, and the old folk 
 called down blessings on the sweet face that was 
 bright with smiles and tears. 
 
 Another cheer when the bride, God bless her, 
 waved her handkerchief to us just before they 
 turned the corner. Another, when Farmer Foster 
 bade all there come down to Furzy Nook to drink 
 her health. Yet one more, a hearty one, for Mrs. 
 Janet, arm-in-arm with the farmer ; and then, again 
 and again, for the old schoolhouse and its master. 
 Thus we welcomed Mistress Morton home to Wyn- 
 cliffe. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 133 
 
 O little feet ! that such long years 
 Must wander on through hopes and fears — 
 Must ache and bleed beneath your load ; 
 /, nearer to the wayside inn. 
 
 Where toil shall cease and rest begin, 
 A7n weary thitiking of your road! 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 Wandering Willie paused. The clock struck. 
 The outer door of the farmhouse kitchen opened. 
 A gust of snowy wind rushed in, and the farmer 
 followed, after stopping to shake the snow from his 
 hat, and to stamp it off his long boots in the 
 porch. 
 
 Another door opened too. In came 'mother/ 
 proclaiming bed-time. 
 
 There was a general petition to be allowed to 
 stay up a little longer. 
 
 ' Only till the end of the story/ the children 
 begged. 
 
 * For it's just done, mother/ said little Cecily, who 
 had been fast asleep on the old man's shoulder for 
 nearly an hour past. ' It's just done / and her blue 
 eyes tried in vain to keep wide open. 
 
134 THE STORY OF 
 
 * Oh Cecily,' called the rest of the children indig- 
 nantly, ' it isn't nearly done. And you've been 
 asleep all the time. We big ones may stay, 
 mother ? ' 
 
 But mother shook her head. 
 
 Then one of the little sisters said she did not so 
 much mind going to bed, because nearly everybody 
 in the story was grown up now, and stories about 
 grown-up people were very dull. So she took 
 Cecily's hand, and the two little maidens ran off to- 
 gether, laughing. 
 
 ^It's as wild a night as ever I saw,* said the 
 farmer, standing before the blazing fire. * There'll 
 be no getting across the moor to-morrow, Willie. 
 You'll just have to be content and bide here.' 
 
 'And we shall hear the end of the story to- 
 morrow evening,' said Lois. 
 
 When to-morrow evening came, the same group 
 had gathered round the hearth. Again bed-time 
 came round, and the little ones dropped off one by 
 one, until only Lois and Roger were left to listen. 
 But whenever the old man paused they said * Go on, 
 go on.' And he went on, drawn by their listening 
 faces. By-and-by the mother came and joined 
 them when she had seen that the children were 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 135 
 
 warm and safe in bed, — all the merry eyes closed 
 and the restless limbs at rest 
 
 She came and listened too, to hear what it was 
 that had so moved her pretty Lois, that the tears 
 were in her eyes ; both she and Roger were holding 
 Willie's hands and looking with kindly pity into 
 the old man's face. 
 
 But the busy wife and mother, full of life's joys 
 and cares, could see nothing to cry about in a story 
 of what had come and gone so many years ago. 
 
 Only she listened patiently to the end, because 
 she too loved Wandering Willie. 
 
136 THE STORY OF 
 
 PART 11. 
 
 Who is trie honest man f 
 He that does still and strongly good puisne^ 
 To God, his neighboiir, and himself most trnej 
 Whom neither force nor fawning can 
 Unpinne, or wrench from giving all their due. 
 
 George Herbert, 
 
 A GREAT oak in Wynclifife Chase was doomed to 
 be cut down. 
 
 It was a goodly, wide-spreading tree, too wide- 
 spreading indeed, for some of its branches came in 
 the way of a certain forest-king, a huge-limbed 
 mighty giant among trees, within whose stately 
 area of space no neighbour was allowed to trespass. 
 So the younger tree was to come down. 
 
 It met its fate on a sparkling autumn day. There 
 was just a touch of sharpness in the air. The woods 
 were mostly green still, though already plenty of 
 red and brown and yellow patches told that 
 autumn was upon us. The horse-chestnuts shining 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 137 
 
 oil the ground near their empty white shells, and 
 the crimson and purple leaves of the bramble-bushes 
 belonged to autumn too. 
 
 Now it is the old story. I have forgotten the 
 great things and remembered the small. Nine 
 years or more had passed since Caleb Morton's 
 marriage. We had been growing up all this time, 
 and changing by little and little, outwardly and in- 
 wardly. We left school and set about our business 
 in life — Cuthbert became second forester under 
 Clifford, Hildred's brother, and I had lately begun 
 to be old Farmer Foster's bailiff at Furzy Nook. 
 
 How all these changes came about by degrees 
 I have well-nigh forgotten. But I remember quite 
 well the pheasants crowing in the wood that day, 
 and the dead gold fern, and the voices that talked 
 and laughed round the falling tree. 
 
 And out of the mists of failing memory, where 
 they have been hidden for so long, Cuthbert and 
 Hildred, and I myself, seem to come forth again 
 distinctly on that autumn morning ; Cuthbert and 
 I no longer boys, Hildred a girl, not any more a 
 child. 
 
 Cuthbert raised his axe, and struck and struck, 
 until he was fain, for want of breath, to draw back, 
 
T33 THE STORY OF 
 
 and turn towards us and laugh. Hildred sat on 
 the trunk of a fallen tree, with a great bundle of 
 sticks she had been gathering, tied up in a red 
 handkerchief at her feet, and I stood near her — 
 sometimes speaking to her, oftener full of thoughts 
 that were an idle many-coloured medley, brightly- 
 tinted as the autumn woods themselves. 
 
 First of all it was sweet, passing sweet, to stand 
 there beside Hildred. That was an old thought. 
 It remained the same, while the rest shifted, and 
 flitted to and fro, first one way, then another, like 
 leaves that the wind plays with and blows about as 
 it will. The tree — it would not be standing half an 
 hour hence. Where would the rooks that had 
 built in it for three summers past have their nest 
 next spring } Cuthbert's strokes bit deeper into 
 the tough heart-of-oak than any of the others. He 
 was stronger even than Matt Clifford. Poor tree, 
 it was hard for it, Hildred said just now, to 
 leave its fair woodland world. Yes, and it would 
 be hard to leave a great many things if one had to 
 do so, first and foremost — I broke off there, for they 
 had got a rope round the trunk, and Clifford called 
 out to the men to stand clear. The great tree 
 tottered. Hildred shouted with the rest, and clapped 
 her hands. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 139 
 
 Well, I must see it down now, though I really 
 ought to be where the ploughs are going over the 
 sunny ' Seven Acres/ on the hill, a mile away from 
 here. Then I looked again at Hildred, perched 
 laughing on her mossy seat, with the golden fern at 
 her feet and the dark woods behind her, and I tried 
 to find a rhyme to the word * winsome ' to end some 
 verses I had been making in my head. 
 
 Master Caleb Morton had not given up lending 
 me books, in the years since I had ceased to be a 
 scholar of his, and ploughmen and shepherds, he 
 told me, had been poets before now ; so I tried to 
 make verses too. I kept them very secret, never 
 telling anyone about them, not even -Hildred — 
 whom indeed they chiefly concerned — or Cuthbert. 
 Many an hour's hard work I beguiled by stringing 
 my rhymes together, always hoping I was making 
 something that would be beautiful. 
 
 But I was a poor scholar, for all Cuthbert and 
 Hildred said, I was fonder of hard words than 
 Master Caleb himself. My lines would not often 
 come right. I was not good at putting my thoughts 
 in harness. They were like a team that will not go 
 together. Some got on too fast and covered too much 
 ground, and others stood still, or else wanted to go 
 off at quite a different pace. So I got disheartened. 
 
140 THE STORY OF 
 
 Besides, what was the use of such poor words as I 
 could find ? If I called the sunshine * golden/ was 
 that half bright enough for the life-giving light ? 
 And if I said the wind whispered, or the river 
 sang, it was not what I meant. 
 
 Sometimes at night I thought I had made some- 
 thing very good, and went to sleep contented, but 
 in the morning, when I said over my verses, all the 
 meaning seemed to have gone out of them. I said 
 to myself at last, ' You are very weak, and Nature is 
 very strong. She can speak to your heart and tell 
 you all things ; but it is not given you to repeat 
 what she says to others. From henceforth listen, 
 but in silence.' And so I gave up making verses. 
 I have listened all my life long, and now that I am 
 old, I try once more to say a little of what I have 
 been hearing all these years. And perhaps be- 
 cause I am more humble and expect less, perhaps 
 because my eye and ear are growing duller, I am 
 not so discontented as I once was. I know my 
 words are poor, but I am waiting. Soon I shall 
 learn the new song that they sing up there, beyond 
 the sunlight, and then I shall be satisfied. 
 
 However, I had not got to that yet. I went on 
 trying to find my rhyme, and failed, as better 
 people may have done before me. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 141 
 
 It was a pity. The word winsome might have 
 been made for Hildred. Mistress Dorothy Mor- 
 ton, years ago, had called her the picture of a 
 child. I am sure she was the picture of a maiden 
 now. It was a very fair flower that had bloomed 
 in our grey old ruin. 
 
 Those bygone times, when we used to let Hild- 
 red go about with us now and then, as a great 
 treat for her, were very wonderful to look back 
 to. Now I prized every minute that she lighted 
 up with her sunbeam pleasure. 
 
 The knowledge of what she was to me, had 
 come so gradually that I cannot remember when I 
 first felt that my life-choice was made, and that 
 the world held for me but one thing worth living 
 for. I had been sure of it for many a long 
 day, before I dreamed of putting the love I bore 
 her into words. Nearly all my life it must have 
 lain deep down in my heart, like a seed that, buried 
 in the ground, waits for the coming of the spring ; 
 and now, in the spring and sunshine of my young 
 manhood, it had risen up in blossom and in fruit. 
 
 'Willie, here comes your father,' said Hildred 
 presently, jumping up and running off to meet 
 him. They liked each other, those two. My 
 father — it was no wonder certainly — had smiles and 
 
142 THE STOR V OF 
 
 even words for her, such as he was never known 
 to bestow on anyone else. Hildred was not a bit 
 afraid of him, though other people said he became 
 more ' dour ' and hard as he got on in life. She 
 came along by his side now, suiting her light foot- 
 steps to his heavy tread ; he nodded now and then 
 in answer to her merry chatter, and a look of slow 
 contentment stole over his face. She made him 
 stop for a moment to watch the wood-cutters, and 
 as they stood looking on, the tree came crashing 
 down at last. 
 
 Our idling time was over as soon as my father 
 came. I turned away, and Hildred raised the 
 bundle of sticks on to her head, and moved to- 
 wards home. 
 
 'I haven't been losing much time,' she said, 
 looking up at him merrily from under its shadow. 
 ^ Look, all these for Granny.' 
 
 ' Good girl,' he answered, and he even stood still 
 to watch her carrying it lightly in and out among 
 the trees, and singing as she went. 
 
 Hildred never let the grass grow under her feet. 
 She was always up and about. The bundle of 
 sticks that pleased my father was only of a piece 
 with all her sunny, helpful ways. She had gathered 
 sticks for Granny hundreds of times before, only 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 143 
 
 it was fated that this bundle should first put 
 a thought into my father's head that he pondered 
 over in his slow way all through the winter. 
 
 He told it to me one evening in the early spring, 
 as we were going home from work together. I 
 saw him looking round at me once or twice, as if 
 there was something he had a mind to say, if he 
 had known how to set about it. 
 
 * Grandmother's got to be an old woman,' he 
 began at last, but after I had said ' yes,' he did 
 not appear for some time to have anything to add. 
 
 * We need some one younger to keep the house,' 
 he went on presently. ' I say. Will, do you ever 
 think anything about getting married .'*' 
 
 I certainly did think of it very often indeed — a 
 good deal oftener than I cared to tell my father. 
 The question took me so by surprise that I 
 scarcely knew how to answer it. At last I said 
 bashfully, that ' perhaps I might, odd times.' 
 
 ^ Ha ! 'cause if so be she's a stirring, thrifty lass, 
 I don't care how soon you do.' 
 
 *If I could, I don't know if Hildred would,' I 
 stammered, more astonished than ever, for I had 
 always thought that I should have to make a 
 home of my own, before I could ask Hildred to 
 marry me. 
 
144 'I HE STORY OF 
 
 My father nodded gravely once or twice when 
 he heard her name. * I thought as much/ he mut- 
 tered, more to himself than to me, * She'll do.' 
 And as we reached home he stopped to say, * Then 
 you can bring your wife home here whensoever 
 it suits yourself. I'm agreeable, lad, without any 
 more waste of words.' 
 
 Without any more words with him, but a great 
 many with myself. My wife — Hildred ! That soft, 
 sparkling little creature, that no trouble ought to 
 come near — such was my thought then — or sorrow- 
 touch. Would she let me try to take care of her .'' 
 Would she come to the grey old gate-house some 
 day in her butterfly brightness and beauty, and 
 fold her wings there, and be my own } Little 
 Hildred, whom my mother used to love and pet in 
 the old days. It seemed strange that we were 
 longing for her now to fill my mother's place. But 
 would she come } 
 
 That was the one question. I wearied myself 
 with finding answers to it. Hildred herself, I was 
 sure, little knew all that she was to me. No one had 
 found it out, I believed, except my father, with 
 that odd silent watchfulness of his. Not even 
 Cuthbert — I almost wished he had, that I might 
 have talked to him about it ; but he never guessed 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 145 
 
 my one secret, and somehow I could not make 
 up my mind to tell him. 
 
 No, I must ask Hildred herself first ; and now 
 there would be many long days to live through 
 before I even saw her again. For on the morrow I 
 had to go away to see my dear old master, Caleb 
 Morton, and it might be a fortnight before I could 
 get back to Wynclifife. Granny and Cuthbert and 
 Matt Clifford were all standing round when I said 
 good-bye to Hildred. It was a great pity that my 
 father had waited to speak, until my last day at 
 home. I had been reckoning on my journey 
 beforehand, but now I should only count the days 
 until I could come back. 
 
 It was two years since I had seen Master Caleb. 
 A very dark day it had been for Wyncliffe when 
 he gave up the school, and went to be master to a 
 much larger one a long way off. But it was such 
 a piece of good fortune as he had long deserved, 
 and his friends could only rejoice for him even 
 while they mourned over losing him. 
 
 His new home was in a busy sea-port town, as 
 different as possible from quiet Wyncliffe. Instead 
 of trees, they had the crowded masts of the shipping 
 in the harbour to look at. Huge bales of mer- 
 chandise piled up along the quays ; sailors of all 
 
 L 
 
146 THE STORY OF 
 
 countries and tongues thronging the streets and 
 waterside ; vessels continually gliding into port or 
 gliding out again on their paths over the sea. This, 
 in exchange for the harvest fields and the blue 
 hills at home. The smell of salt and tar on the sea- 
 breeze, instead of the breath of flowering lime trees. 
 And the queer-sounding languages shouted by 
 foreign voices, were very different from the distant 
 cries of field labourers, and the cawing of the rooks, 
 round Wyncliffe school-house. Only, to make 
 up for all, there was the solemn beauty and wonder 
 of the sea. Words cannot utter it, or, once seen, 
 memory lose hold of its vastness. 
 
 It mattered little to Master Caleb and his wife 
 where their lot was cast. They carried their own 
 sunshine with them, and would have been happy 
 anywhere ; still, they were faithful in heart to their 
 first home, and had been longing, Mistress Morton 
 told me, for the sight of a Wyncliffe face. 
 
 I was to have stayed with them for ten days. I 
 was three months away from home. On what was 
 to have been the last day of my stay, Master Caleb 
 and I were overtaken in a thunder-storm, as we 
 were driving home from a distance along the coast. 
 I never quite knew how it happened. The horse 
 took fright at the lightning. It was a dark evening, 
 
WANDERING WILLIE, 147 
 
 and Master Caleb, not much skilled in driving, 
 had the reins. We went over the rocks together, 
 horse and gig and all. Master Caleb escaped, 
 fortunately, with a few bruises, and I broke my leg. 
 It might have been much worse. I was taken 
 home to Master Caleb's house, and Mrs. Janet 
 nursed me. Those weary weeks that I lay unable 
 to move, would not have seemed so endless if it had 
 not been for my longing to get home to Hildred. 
 But for that, I should have been well content. 
 After the first days of racking pain were over, and 
 I came back to the knowledge of outward things, I 
 used to lie and watch the little scenes of household 
 life that passed like pictures before my eyes, and 
 think how pleasantly true to my remembrance of 
 them my old friends were. Master Caleb, creeping 
 up to my bedside laden with books, in the full 
 security that even at the worst they must be the 
 best cure for pain or fever — Mrs. Janet, ordering 
 him and them scornfully away, coming in with her 
 business step and skilful hand, the very model of a 
 sick-nurse ; prompt of action, short, positive, and 
 encouraging of speech. How like their old selves 
 they were ! And Mistress Dorothy, just to have 
 her there to look at, did me more good than any- 
 thing else. None of the power of comfort or 
 
 L 2 
 
I4S THE STORY OF 
 
 liealing had gone from her voice and smile. To 
 her only I could talk of Hildred. Of course I had 
 told her all about that. She only could quiet the 
 restlessness that grew on me as the slow days 
 dragged on. 
 
 It seemed so hard to be away just then from 
 Hildred. How was I to keep still, thinking of what 
 might have been by this time, if I had been able 
 to go home. Never before had I been without 
 seeing her for so long. I dreamt of her whenever I 
 fell asleep, always the same dream, that she was 
 in trouble, and I could not move to help her. 
 
 Cuthbert, too, that was another trouble ; how was 
 he getting on with my father all this time .'' When 
 I was at home I could generally keep things pretty 
 straight between them, but they did not understand 
 each other. My father never cared for him ; the 
 little he said to him was sharp and harsh. And 
 Cuthbert — what wonder.? — could not always bear it 
 v/ell. He had a high spirit, and for all his sweet 
 temper, he liked to take his own way, and, once 
 taken, chose to keep it. If I could only hope that 
 he would be patient now, or that my father would 
 not try him with some of those sharp bitter words 
 that stung so deeply ! 
 
 It was no use Mrs. Janet's telling me that an 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 149 
 
 easy mind helped to mend broken bones. It 
 might be so, but an easy mind was quite beyond 
 my reach. 
 
 Dorothy did better than preach patience, she 
 shared my impatience. As often as I pleased she 
 was ready to count over with me the weary days 
 that they said must pass before I was fit for a 
 journey. Also she charmed long hours away by 
 letting me talk of Hildred. 
 
 My release came at last. I could walk pretty 
 stoutly with a stick, by the time that the coach 
 dropped me, just after dusk on an evening in June, 
 at the crossing of the four roads, close to Wynclifife 
 village. 
 
 Before I got into the straggling little street, I 
 heard music in front of me — fifes and drums sound- 
 ing noisily through the quiet of the summer's 
 evening. It was a recruiting party — no unusual 
 sight in those war days. As I overtook them I 
 was told that I was a fine fellow, and asked if 
 I would not join them and fight for the King. 
 
 They were just going into the Castle — the public- 
 house — when I passed, and as I turned my head to 
 look at the light that was streaming from it, I 
 heard my own name called suddenly. The next 
 moment Cuthbert came out and joined me. 
 
I50 THE STORY OF 
 
 ' Willie ! thank Heaven you are come. Are 
 you better ? ' he said, seizing my hand and wringing 
 it. 
 
 ' Yes. What's the matter, Cuthbert "i what are 
 you doing here } ' 
 
 He did not answer, but moved so as to stand in 
 the circle of light from the open door. I looked at 
 him again, and saw the gay ribands that the re- 
 cruits wear, fluttering from his hat. 
 
 ' Cuthbert ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, you see I have enlisted. Why, Will, I did 
 not think you would mind it so much ; ' for, 
 thunderstruck I leant against the wall to gather 
 breath. He put his hand on my shoulder. 
 
 * It's not worth troubling about' 
 
 * You can be bought off/ I said, recovering my- 
 self. 
 
 ' Not for the world. Why should I .? I did it 
 of my own free will, for I can't stay here, and I 
 won't' 
 
 ' Why, what has come to you } ' 
 
 He was very pale, I saw, and his hands shook. 
 He looked as if some great storm of trouble or 
 anger had passed over him. After a minute's 
 pause he said suddenly, ' Did you know that 
 your father kept a store of money, gold guineas, 
 
WANDERING WILLIE, 151 
 
 and shillings, and a five-pound note, in an old teapot 
 in the cupboard behind his bed ? ' 
 ^ What are you talking about ? No.' 
 
 * No more did I,' said Cuthbert. ' Well, he lost it.* 
 ' But what has that to do with you V 
 Cuthbert gave an odd short laugh. ' Only that 
 
 he says I took it.' 
 ' I don't understand.' 
 
 * Perhaps you think so too,* he said bitterly. 
 ' No, Will, you know I did not mean that, but 
 they've driven me half out of my senses with all 
 this.' 
 
 * Cuthbert, my father never said you had taken 
 his money.' 
 
 * Said it, or thought it, it pretty nearly comes to 
 the same thing. I understood well enough what 
 he was after, so I'm off. Never mind that now. 
 We can't talk here, and I've got something to say 
 to you. We don't go until to-morrow morning, so 
 I can walk back with you/ 
 
 * You're coming home for to-night, at all events ? * 
 ' I can't go there,' said Cuthbert his lip trembling, 
 
 * not to your father's house. Clifford will take me in.' 
 
 He turned and spoke to some one inside the 
 
 house. There was a confused noise of singing and 
 
 loud laughter, and the jingling of glasses from the 
 
152 THE STORY OF 
 
 bar. In a minute Cuthbert came out again, and 
 said it was all right. He need not be there until 
 sunrise the next day. 
 
 ' Come on,' he said impatiently, and he began to 
 walk up the street with long, quick strides. 
 
 ' Now tell me,' I said. 
 
 Cuthbert's mood had changed. ' There's little 
 enough to tell,' he answered quietly, * only that I've 
 enlisted. After all, I'm a soldier's son, and I know 
 the life. I've always had a hankering after it, as 
 you know.' 
 
 ' But my father, what has he done .'' Try and tell 
 me.' 
 
 ' It's all along of this money. He's been scrap- 
 ing it and hoarding it together for ever so long. 
 He thought no one knew about it. No more they 
 did. But two days ago he missed it' 
 
 Cuthbert had begun quietly, but now his eyes 
 were lighting again, and his voice quickened. * And 
 he thinks I took it. /,to take his money! and 
 your father, too.' 
 
 * He couldn't think so. You must have made 
 some great mistake.' 
 
 * Not I. I saw what he was at well enough. 
 Don't you think I know he's always hated me } 
 You know it too, Will, though you've tried so hard 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 153 
 
 to keep me from finding it out He was mad 
 when he found his money gone, and he spoke out 
 then pretty plain — as he never did before.' 
 
 ' He didn't say you took it.' 
 
 ' Not at first — not straight out, till I asked him 
 what he meant — he did then. I wouldn't stay 
 another day after that. You wouldn't have had 
 me stay. Will .'' ' 
 
 ' There were others there,' he went on again, 
 * when he accused me of knowing more of tlie 
 money than I cared to say. Hildred was there.' 
 
 * She didn't believe it of you.' 
 
 * God bless her, no.' 
 
 I put my hand on his arm. * Cuthbert, you 
 ought to stay here, don't you see .'' ' 
 He looked at me. 
 
 * You mean they'll say I've gone off with the 
 money. No, they won't say that. I thought I'd 
 told you the money was found again.' 
 
 * Found ! ' 
 
 * Yes, but that made no odds. I can't stay 
 where I've been served as your father served me.' 
 
 ' But who found it ? ' 
 
 ' The money } Oh, it was all Granny's doing.' 
 Cuthbert smiled. * Poor Granny, she had taken 
 the teapot away, not knowing.' 
 
154 THE STORY OF 
 
 ' What did father say ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know. I didn't stay to hear. I tell 
 you it was all one, after what he had thought of 
 me. Will, I, that he took in — though that was 
 your doing and your mother's, not his. I, that had 
 grown up in his house and thought I was like 
 his son. I wish he had turned me out of doors 
 when your mother died. Maybe some day I may 
 feel as grateful to him for his charity as I ought to 
 be. I can't now. 
 
 * I did not mean to say aught of this to you, old 
 chap,' he went on sadly. ' I ought not, only I can't 
 help it. It wouldn't any of it have happened if 
 you had been at home.' 
 
 ' Then let me get you off,' I said eagerly. ' Let 
 me do something for you.* 
 
 'Yes, that you shall, but not that. What a 
 mercy it is that you have got home in time ! It 
 wasn't all this I wanted to tell you about. I was 
 going to write you a letter, but talking is much 
 handier.' 
 
 ' x^nd you must go .<* ' 
 
 ' Yes.' He took a shilling out of his pocket and 
 held it up in the dim light with a half-laugh. 
 *■ Never mind that ; it's done. Will, what I wanted 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 155 
 
 to say to you besides good-bye was this.' His 
 voice had grown grave enough now. * I have some- 
 thing to leave in your charge.* 
 
 I don't know why my heart stopped beating for 
 a second, and then went on again quicker than 
 before. 
 
 ' Do you know what it is } ' Cuthbert continued. 
 ' The greatest treasure I have — the only thing in 
 all the world that really belongs to me.' 
 
 ' What ? ' I asked. 
 
 And he answered, ' Hildred.' 
 
 We had left the village behind by this time. 
 We were on the bit of road before you reach the 
 bridge, and the Castle was in front of us. Often 
 in the evening, when the twilight has gathered, and 
 the air is heavy with dew, and with a faint sweet 
 smell of newly cut hay, I live that moment over 
 again. I see Cuthbert's face turned towards me, 
 pale and eager, in the half-darkness. I see the 
 white road, and the moon just rising solemn and 
 fiery red over the Castle. I feel the silence, except 
 that the familiar rush of falling water, unheard 
 for months, was beginning to sound in my ears 
 again. 
 
 I never crossed the bridge afterwards, by night 
 
156 THE STORY OF 
 
 or day, and came within ear-shot of the waterfall, 
 without hearing Cuthbert's voice say ' Kildred.' 
 
 For the next few minutes I don't know what he 
 said. The dusty road — I noticed even then how 
 dusty it was — seemed to rise up before my face. 
 I put out my hand to hold by Cuthbert's arm. 
 He thought that, being still lame, I was tired, and 
 meant to lean on him, and he drew my arm over 
 his shoulder, supporting me as we climbed up the 
 grassy hill that was the short cut to the ruins. 
 Presently I knew that he was saying — * It is hard 
 for her.' 
 
 ' Does Hildred know you have enlisted '^. ' 
 
 * Yes, yes, poor child. I told her, and then, 
 when it was too late, I found out how much I 
 loved her.' 
 
 * Does she care for you } ' 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered very softly. ' Yes indeed, 
 thank God.' 
 
 * But oh, Willie, you will take care of her for me. 
 Don't let her forget me. I trust her to you en- 
 tirely. Promise me you will be good to her. Watch 
 over her for me.' 
 
 The tears were in his eyes. He was going away. 
 It might be that I should never see him again. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 157 
 
 This was no time to think of my shattered hopes, 
 my ruined Hfe. 
 
 * If I could do any good,' I began to say. He 
 interrupted me. 'You can — you can. It is every- 
 thing to me. Let me think she has somebody 
 near her who will be kind to her — who will com- 
 fort her if she is unhappy — who will never let them 
 make her give me up.' 
 
 ' She will not do that if she cares,* 
 
 * No, but I can't help fearing. Tell her how I 
 love her. Talk to her about me. Promise me.' 
 And he held out his hand. 
 
 I took it. I felt what a hard promise it was 
 that he called on me to make — how little he 
 guessed what he was asking of me. I knew how 
 much it would cost me to keep it. A dread came 
 over me like a shadow of the trouble that was to 
 come through this. 
 
 But I would not listen. Cuthbert loved her, 
 and she — yes, she loved him. He was going away, 
 and he trusted me. 
 
 I only said two words, and then I had pledged 
 myself, and shut the door on the long hope of 
 years. 
 
 We were within the walls now. Cuthbert, with 
 
158 THE STORY OF 
 
 a few fervent words of thanks, turned towards 
 Clifford's house, and I went home. 
 
 Granny gave a little cry of joy when I opened 
 the kitchen door. 
 
 * My dear,' she said, hardly waiting to greet me, 
 * the very thing I have been wishing for, is for you 
 to come home. We're in sad trouble, Willie. Do 
 you know where Cuthbert is .'' ' 
 
 * He came back with me just now.' 
 
 * I'm thankful for that. One couldn't tell what 
 the poor boy might do. Willie, my dear, he and 
 father had words,' said Granny, coming close and 
 whispering mysteriously. * It's about the money 
 in the teapot, and it's all my fault.' 
 
 * Where's father t ' I asked. 
 
 * Hush, he's upstairs now, counting It. He's 
 always counting it, I think. That was where it was, 
 you see. He was called away of a sudden when 
 he was just putting something into the teapot, and 
 he left the cupboard door open ; and I came in and 
 saw it. It was my old teapot, Willie, and I was 
 glad to see it again, and so ' 
 
 ' Granny, I want to go and speak to father.' 
 
 * So you shall, my dear; but just you wait and 
 hear me first. And so, my dear — what was I going 
 to say } It was my old teapot, and I used to keep 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 159 
 
 odd halfpence in it, and stand it on the mantel- 
 shelf. He took it away. I thought I'd lost it 
 d'ye see, Willie ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Granny, I see. Will you * 
 
 Granny held my arm tighter, and still whispering 
 went on. * My dear, I'm right vexed. I shouldn't 
 ha' done it, but I meant no harm. When I saw 
 my teapot, I took it thinking it was nobbut my 
 coppers as made it heavy. Stephen missed it, and 
 Cuthbert was there.' 
 
 ' What did he say to Cuthbert t ' 
 
 ' My dear, they had words. Clifford, he came in, 
 and Hildred. When I got into the room father 
 sat there mazed-like about his money, and Cuth- 
 bert was standing as it might be here. I told 
 them, and I brought back the teapot directly, my 
 dear, but it was too late. Cuthbert flung out of 
 
 the house and . Hush, Willie, here's father 
 
 coming downstairs.' 
 
 He came in. He looked surprised, and as it 
 seemed to me only half pleased to see me. 
 
 * Father/ said my grandmother, ' Cuthbert's got 
 back,' 
 
 My father looked up. * I thought he'd come. 
 What's he been about } ' 
 
 ' He's enlisted,' I said sadly. 
 
i6o THE STORY OF 
 
 I could not tell whether my father was surprised, 
 or glad, or sorry. He said nothing, but I noticed 
 that he gave me one or two quick looks from under 
 his shaggy eyebrows. 
 
 ' Father/ I said, * you will see poor Cuthbert 
 before he goes .'* ' 
 
 * Humph ! I suppose you know he's been before- 
 hand with you with Hildred. Did he tell you that.'*' 
 
 * Yes, he told me. He meant no harm by me. 
 He doesn't know.' 
 
 * I wish the lad had never come nigh the place.' 
 Just as he said this, the door was opened 
 
 quickly, and Cuthbert came in. He went straight 
 up to my father, the colour coming all over his 
 face, and held out his hand. 
 
 * I'm going away to-morrow,' he said, speaking 
 quickly, ' and as like as not I shall never come 
 back again. I am come just to shake hands and 
 thank you before I go, for all you've done for me ; 
 I know how much it's been.' 
 
 My father was taken by surprise. He put out 
 his hand slowly to meet Cuthbert's. 
 
 ' About that money,' he began, ' I made a mis- 
 take.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' Cuthbert answered, colouring again. 
 { I'd sooner you wouldn't say anything of that.' 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. i6i 
 
 Still grasping my father's hand, he went on — 
 
 ' I know I've often vexed you, but you won't be 
 troubled with me any longer, and we part good 
 friends — don't we ? ' he ended with his frank, sweet 
 smile. 
 
 ' I'm sure I wish you good luck, lad.' 
 
 Cuthbert turned round to me. 
 
 It was the one gleam of comfort on that dark 
 night, that those two were at peace together before 
 Cuthbert went away. 
 
 The two troubles coming so quick one upon 
 another seemed to have confused me. I wanted 
 time to understand them. Every thought brought 
 a fresh sting, and they kept thronging into my 
 mind, shifting and changing strangely. 
 
 Only one thing was clear: I had lost Cuthbert 
 and Hildred both at once. He had gone back to 
 her now, for more last words. I was used to 
 thinking of them as belonging to me. But they 
 belonged to each other now, and I was nothing to 
 them, — not much at least. 
 
 Cuthbert was going away to-morrow. A while 
 ago that w^ould have seemed hard enough, but 
 harder still, the Hildred I loved, and who I had 
 thought loved me, was gone already. 
 
 Why do I talk about myself.^ They two who 
 
 M 
 
1 62 THE STORY OF 
 
 loved each other were the ones to be pitied. To- 
 morrow, when Cuthbert was away, there would be 
 time enough to think. 
 
 My father sat by the fire, with his hands and 
 chin resting on his stick, but his eyes followed me 
 whenever I moved. I was not used to being 
 watched like that, and presently I went to the door. 
 
 ' I say, boy,' he called after me. 
 
 I looked round. 
 
 ' Don't you go and vex yourself. He's going 
 away, and girls soon forget, you know.' 
 
 ' Girls will be girls, Willie/ said Granny, meaning 
 to be comforting. 
 
 I went outside and leaned against the wall. 
 The moon was covered with clouds, and in the 
 hushed darkness you could hear if a leaf stirred or 
 a grasshopper chirped in the long grass. 
 
 'Girls soon forget* Ay, but I had just pro- 
 mised not to let Hildred forget. Besides, she 
 wasn't likely to forget Cuthbert. And did I even 
 wish her to forget him t I did not know. What 
 was the use of thinking } 
 
 How long Cuthbert stayed ! Granny's flitting 
 light went out upstairs. She, and my father too, 
 were most likely quietly asleep, before I heard his 
 step coming quickly through the darkness. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 163 
 
 'You waited for me,' he said, coming up. ' Clif- 
 ford kept me talking. Come in, will you } I must 
 get my things together. I told you how it would be. 
 Clifford wanted her to take her promise back, 
 because I was going away.' 
 
 • She did not } ' 
 
 He shook his head. ' But I have onl}^ you to 
 count on that will help her,' he said sighing. 
 
 The packing-up was not a long business, but we 
 went through it very slowly, though we talked 
 little. Who ever said the parting words they 
 had meant to speak at the last ? Ours were very 
 few. 
 
 Once Cuthbert looked up as he was kneeling on 
 the floor beside the old chest that had held all our 
 goods for so long. ' Will, I can't make speeches, 
 but I am thinking very much to-night of the time 
 you brought me home, and took me for your brother. 
 There never was such a brother. I should like just 
 for once to say, thank you.' 
 
 I put my hand on his shoulder and pressed it 
 hard. It was lucky he did not w^ant words, for I 
 had none. We lay down near each other for the 
 last time. I don't know whether Cuthbert cried 
 before he went to sleep. I know I did. 
 
 M 2 
 
1 64 THE STORY OF 
 
 It was soon over the next morning. As we 
 went downstairs in the doubtful Hght, we could 
 hear my father's heavy breathing. But poor 
 Granny was down before us, with some breakfast 
 ready that no one could eat, and a candle flaring 
 with a sickly ray in the broadening daylight. 
 
 * I shall never see thee again, my dear,' Granny 
 said, two slow tears rolling down her face ; * but be a 
 good lad, and don't forget to say thy prayers.' 
 
 '■ I won't, Granny ; ' and as he kissed her she put 
 her trembling old hand on his brown head and 
 blessed him. 
 
 Then Cuthbert went out quickly, and I followed. 
 He stood still for a minute and looked round. 
 He could not have seen the old place look more 
 beautiful than in its morning stillness ; the birds 
 \yere waking up here and there, and a glitter of 
 dew and sunshine lay on the grass. 
 
 ' Come,' he said, ' it is late.* 
 
 Hildred met us under the great yew tree. It 
 had always been a trysting-place of ours, and we 
 used to part there when we were children, coming 
 back from school. Their great parting was to be 
 there now. 
 
 He went up to her, and took her in his arms as 
 if he could never leave her. Hildred was crying. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 165 
 
 She did not say much, but she clung to him and 
 held him fast. 
 
 * Dear heart ! ' he said, kissing her hair softly. 
 * You must not cry so. Hush, Hildred ! ' 
 
 I did not know how much tenderness there 
 could be in his voice till I heard those broken 
 words — ' See, here is our brother Willie. He is 
 going to take care of you for me. He will watch 
 over my dear love when I am gone.' 
 
 A few minutes more, and Cuthbert said, * I must 
 
 go-' 
 
 I did not see their parting. He came to me, 
 
 grasped both my hands. ' God bless you. Take 
 care of her. Don't let her forget me.' 
 
 ' I am going with you.' 
 
 ' No, go back to her. Stay and comfort her. 
 Oh, be good to her, Willie ! ' 
 
 The distant sound of the fifes and drums came 
 from the village down below. 
 
 * I shall be late.' 
 
 Cuthbert was gone. The cliff hid him directly. 
 Those few hours had changed the world for me. 
 
 My brother was gone, and I had lost my love. 
 
 I went back, as he bade me, to Hildred. 
 She had flung herself down on the ground where 
 he left her, and was crying bitterly. I tried 
 
1 66 THE STORY OF 
 
 to take her hand and lift her up, but she pushed 
 me away, turning from me and burying her face 
 deeper in her hands. 
 
 * Hildred, don't cry Hke that.' 
 
 She shook her head impatiently, and rocked 
 herself backwards and forwards like a child. I did 
 not at all know what to do for her. 
 
 'I wish I could comfort you, Hildred.* 
 
 ' You can't,' she said with a gasping sob. 
 
 ' No I'm afraid nobody could * 
 
 * Cuthbert could,' she interrupted. 
 
 It was the first time I had heard from herself that 
 Cuthbert was more to her than I was, although, cf 
 course, \ knew it before. The words stung me so 
 much that I felt almost inclined to go away and 
 leave her. But presently she took away her 
 hands and looked up, pushing back the ruffled 
 hair from her forehead. It was such a pitiful 
 little face, her eyes wet and her cheeks crimsoned 
 with tears. 
 
 ' Oh dear, I am so unhappy,' she said. 
 
 I took her hand again. 
 
 * Poor little Hildred, I'm very sorry for you.' 
 
 ' It's all your father's fault,' said Hildred, with a 
 little impatient stamp of her foot upon the ground. 
 * How could he be so wicked ? ' 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 167 
 
 ' It was a mistake,' I said, after a moment's 
 pause. 
 
 ' It was cruel of him. Oh, poor Cuthbert ! Why- 
 did you let him go ? ' 
 
 ' I, Hildred } ' 
 
 ^ Yes, how could you ) He will just go and be 
 killed in the wars, and then you will be sorry.' 
 
 It w^as weak, almost unmanly, to mind her 
 childish words, but I could not help it. I turned 
 and walked away. The next moment she ran after 
 me. 
 
 ' Willie, I don't quite mean it ; you know I don't.' 
 She looked up with one of her own coaxing smiles. 
 ' Don't be angry ; I think being unhappy makes me 
 cross, and I've got such a pain in my throat that I 
 don't know what to do.' 
 
 And then she burst out crying again. Poor 
 little Hildred, poor child ! 
 
 That was a long, strange day. It seemed as if it 
 ought by rights to be mid-day, when the sun had 
 only been up for an hour or two, and it was difficult 
 to understand how other people could be quietly 
 waking up to their every-day business. 
 
 My father was having his breakfast. A few 
 labourers were going across the bridge to their 
 work. A flock of sheep with a cloud of dust round 
 
1 68 THE STORY OF 
 
 them, moved slowly along the road on the way to 
 their pasture. Even Granny, with the tears all gone 
 and her face as placid as if it had never been 
 ruffled, was stirring about her morning's work. 
 
 * I wonder where poor Cuthbert'ill be now,' she 
 said at dinner time ; * miles away by this time, I 
 reckon. You'll be feeling a bit down-hearted, Willie, 
 sure, without him.' 
 
 I felt rather more than a bit down-hearted, but it 
 was no good telling Granny so. 
 
 * Well, it does seem strange to think that the lad's 
 really gone,' she said again ; ' don't it novv^, Stephen V 
 My father gave a sort of grunt that might mean 
 anything. After dinner, as he stood by the chimney- 
 piece, his eyes fell upon a many-clasped knife that 
 belonged to Cuthbert. He looked round to see if 
 any one was watching him ; presently his fingers 
 closed quietly over it, and it was dropped into his 
 pocket. I took no heed, it was growing upon him, 
 that habit of secretly hoarding any stray thing that 
 came in his way. 
 
 Then began a time about which there is little to 
 tell. Our life, except that Cuthbert was gone, 
 moved on, seemingly unaltered. And yet the old 
 time and the new were as different really, as a 
 place that you have known in the sunshine looks 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 1C9 
 
 when you see it again by moonlight. The place 
 itself is unchanged, the outlines, the shape, the 
 substance are still there, only the colouring is gone. 
 All that gave warmth and brightness has been 
 taken away. Grey and black and white tints alone 
 remain. 
 
 Was it really only yesterday that I had come 
 home, I thought— only yesterday that I was watching 
 a sunset of clear gold and red in a blue sky, as I 
 came along the road from IMorechester, thinking 
 my sunlit thoughts t In an hour or two I was to 
 see Hildrcd. Hom.e where she was, lay somewhere 
 in the heart of that bright west. 
 
 When I reached the village the sun set for me 
 indeed. The light faded in a minute from my 
 cloudland of dreams. 
 
 The time hung all the more heavily on my 
 hands, that I was too lame, for a while after my 
 coming home, to be able to do much. It was a 
 great comfort w^hen I got strong again. Hard 
 work, work that lasted from morning until night, 
 was the best thing then. I did not care to think 
 more than I could help. It only made things 
 worse. 
 
 At first I could not make out rightly, how much 
 or how little it was my duty to be with Hildred, 
 
170 THE STORY OF 
 
 remembering that now she was only a charge left to 
 me by Cuthbert. It would have been easier to keep 
 away altogether, but the poor child was unhappy. 
 In the newness and strangeness of her first sorrow, 
 she needed a great deal of comforting. No one 
 had much time or thought to give to the remem- 
 brance of Cuthbert, so she came to me, reminding 
 me that I had promised to be good to her. 
 
 It has always seemed to me that any trouble is 
 the most easily borne in silence. Many words only 
 make the pain worse, and take away from the 
 patience and strength with which one has to bear 
 it. But it was different fcr little Hildred. Child- 
 like, or woman-like, it was a comfort to her to say 
 how very sad she was. She came to tell how she 
 missed Cuthbert ; how long and dull the days 
 seemed without the hope of seeing him ; of how she 
 often thought she heard his voice calling to her, 
 and forgot that it was gone far beyond her 
 hearing. 
 
 Anyone that has loved and lost a friend knows 
 well all that she felt. But to her it was just 
 as strange and dreadful as if the world, since it 
 began, had not been full of partings. It was 
 so new to her to wake up in the morning, wonder- 
 ing what the weight upon her heart could be — so 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 171 
 
 sorrowful, when everything was quiet, to cry herself 
 to sleep. 
 
 We were not the only people in that part of the 
 country who had cause to rue the visits of re- 
 cruiting parties. There were the Moores, cousins 
 of her own, whom Martha Clifford was never tired 
 of holding up as an example. How often have I 
 heard her exhort Hildred to patience, by telling her 
 how much less to be pitied she was than the poor 
 old Moores ! Hildred did not think so, inasmuch 
 as a new sorrow always seems worse than an old 
 one, and the trouble that had come upon the 
 Moores was of old standing now. 
 
 Three or four years ago their only son did, what 
 Cuthbert had just done — enlisted, leaving his father 
 and mother to get on as best they could without 
 him. 
 
 It was hard on them certainly, for they were 
 growing old, and had looked to David as the bread- 
 winner for the future. ' If you knew what it was 
 to want bread, Hildred,' said Martha, ' you would 
 not have so much time for fretting about Cuthbert.' 
 
 I don't think it had come to the Moores wanting 
 bread, but I remember well the talk of the country 
 side, and how it was said the ferry-house over the 
 Wynn would soon have other tenants, for an old 
 
172 
 
 THE STORY OF 
 
 man like Moore could never manage the ferry-boat 
 by himself. 
 
 Certainly the river at the ferry ran very swift 
 and strong, and the old boat was a heavy one. 
 Moore's house, a tumble-down stone building, com- 
 fortable enough inside, but a bleak sort of place to 
 look at, stood hanging over the river, at the corner 
 where the road comes out of a winding pass through 
 the hills and ends at the ferry. It was the only 
 way the farmers and people living up in the hills 
 had of getting to Morechester. The boat carried 
 across many a load of cattle for Morechester Market, 
 many a man and horse bound for the Market Cross. 
 Still the place was so wild and unfrequented that 
 passengers were rare things, and the ferryman often 
 worked in his strip of garden, and tended his goats, 
 for days together, without the boat being once called 
 for. There it lay, chained just beneath the house, 
 with its ponderous oars, as big, clumsy, and flat- 
 bottomed a thing as you would wish to see. 
 
 Cuthbert and I knew it well in the days of our 
 rambles over the country. We knew old Moore 
 and Moore's wife, and Elfrida their servant-maid, 
 and David the son, who got so tired of the fcrr}-- 
 boat, and the lonely house, and the noise of the 
 river sweeping by, that he went for a soldier, and 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 173 
 
 left the place more silent and deserted than be- 
 fore. 
 
 In time old Moore fell sick. It was then that 
 they began really to miss David ; for what was to 
 become of them, now his father could row the ferry- 
 boat no longer? Then Elfrida, their faithful maid, 
 went down and unloosed the boat, and rowed it 
 across herself, with her strong arms. And she told 
 her old master and mistress not to fret, for she would 
 do her best — they should not leave the old ferry as 
 long as she had hands to serve them. 
 
 Elfrida — I remember her well — was a tall strong 
 lass, with a grave, faithful-looking, kindly face, and 
 a pair of steady brown eyes. Hers was a true 
 heart and a stout arm. The old people had been 
 good to her, and she was not going to leave them 
 at their need. But it was a rough life for a woman, 
 especially as winter drew on, and the wind blew 
 wildly from the hills, and the river rose. 
 
 Farmers coming home late at night from More- 
 chester IMarket, wanted to be ferried across, and it 
 was bitter work unchaining the boat and pushing 
 out into mid-stream in the darkness. Elfrida grew 
 to dread the shout and whistle from the other side, 
 that summoned the ferry-boat to go across, but 
 she never said anything. It had to be done, and 
 
174 THE STORY OF 
 
 she was glad to think of the old couple, comfortable 
 under their own roof, often in bed and asleep, not 
 knowing that she was pushing the boat along across 
 the black river, with the rain dashing in her face, 
 and the current striving against the whole strength 
 of her arms, to sweep the boat down-stream. 
 
 One night, a very stormy night in November, 
 Elfrida heard the unwelcome call come across the 
 water. The wind and the rush of the stream almost 
 drowned it ; still there it was, and often repeated, 
 as if the owner of the voice was getting impatient. 
 So she lighted her lantern and pushed off, guiding 
 the boat as w^ell as she could by the rope that 
 was stretched across the river. Her passenger 
 was a farmer going home from Morechester, and as 
 he led his horse into the boat Elfrida saw that he 
 walked unsteadily. She was used to that sort of 
 thing on market days, but to-night, as they started 
 to cross back again, the man was pulling at his 
 horse, making it move restlessly. Elfrida spoke 
 sharply, bidding him be still and keep the horse 
 quiet. The farmer answered angrily, and moved 
 suddenly from his place — the boat rocked — there 
 was a sudden splash in the water, a loud cry, and 
 he was gone. 
 
 Elfrida knew that the current was running swiftly. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 175 
 
 and that a moment would carry him beyond help. 
 She did not stay to think, but plunged in after him. 
 She was a brave swimmer, and a brave woman, but 
 the stream was hurling along, and the night was 
 dark. What came after the shock of the chill water 
 she could never quite tell. She knew that she 
 clutched the man's hair as he rose, and then all the 
 rest was confusion, until she felt someone dragging 
 them both up the bank, and saw lights flashing in her 
 eyes. Another party of homeward-bound farmers 
 had come up, and pulled them in, but not until she 
 had struggled with her burden close to the shore. 
 
 That night's deed made Elfrida famous in the 
 country round. People went all the way from 
 Morechester to look at her ; but she remained just 
 as simple as ever, rowing her boat quietly, and 
 speaking little to any one. 
 
 It fell out strangely enough, that David Moore 
 belonged to the regiment which our Cuthbert 
 entered. They met in the barracks when Cuthbert 
 first joined, and sailed in the same ship for India. 
 We heard of their being together from David's 
 wife. One evening Elfrida, going across to fetch 
 a passenger who had called for her, found a little 
 woman waiting at the river's edge, with a bundle in 
 her arms, who said that she was David's wife. He 
 
 I 
 
176 THE STORY OF 
 
 was gone to India and had sent her home to his 
 father, and here was Baby. 
 
 Elfrida thought in her heart that they had hard 
 work enough to keep themselves, and now here 
 was David, instead of coming back to help, sending 
 his wife and child home to be a burden. She 
 rowed the stranger across silently, and when they 
 landed took the bundle in her arms — and it was 
 Baby. Ah, well, perhaps twice in a life-time 
 one may see as beautiful a child as baby was. 
 Loose tumbled curls that looked like gold, shone 
 on Elfrida's eyes out of the bundle — eyes like 
 periwinkles, bright blue stars, she said, looked 
 straight up and smiled at her. A pouting rosebud 
 of a mouth laughed outright, and baby put out a 
 firm round dimpled hand to clap her on the 
 cheek. 
 
 All in a moment Elfrida's heart bowed do\vn 
 before its lord and master. ' Here is something to 
 work for, early and late, night and day,' she thought 
 to herself; but she did not say so, only she clasped 
 the bundle that had suddenly grown so precious, 
 tightly in her arms, and carried it into the house. 
 
 Henceforward baby reigned like a king at the 
 ferry, by right, I suppose, of his crown of golden 
 locks. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 177 
 
 So Elfrida worked on with a will ; David's 
 little London-bred wife sat indoors with the old 
 people, and both they and we thought of the soldier 
 laddies who were away at the wars. 
 
 Day by day I talked to Hildred about Cuthbert, 
 and told her how proud she would be of him when 
 he came home safe from the wars. And Hildred 
 believed all I said. It was easy to comfort her 
 for the moment, only the next day it was all to do 
 over again. I used to build gorgeous castles in the 
 air for her, feeling all the time that it would half 
 break my heart to see any of them come true. Yet 
 there was a pleasure too in watching Hildred, lis- 
 tening with her eyes bent down, and the long dark 
 lashes that made her face look like a cloudy day 
 sweeping her cheeks despondently. And when at 
 last she raised them it was just as if the sun came 
 out suddenly. She was like a child to talk to. 
 I sometimes thought, what a slight thing she was 
 for two strong men to have set their hearts upon. 
 
 And thus a long time slipped away. Cuthbert 
 left us in the summer, and winter was well on before 
 Hildred got her first letter from him. That letter, 
 written at sea and sent home by a vessel which 
 met theirs, how much we all thought of it ! 
 
 \Vc stood round Hildred, waiting for news, as she 
 
 N 
 
178 THE STORY OF 
 
 held the big brown letter in both hands, eager, 
 flushed, and laughing, yet half unwilling to break 
 its great red seal. She unfolded it slowly and read 
 it out, her finger pointing along the lines. It was a 
 beautiful letter — everybody said so — and yet how 
 little it told us about him ! It left him well, he wrote, 
 and he liked a soldier's life, but he often remem- 
 bered home, and thought of his own true love by 
 night and day. And he sent his kind respects to all 
 inquiring friends. That was all. 
 
 In time, the letter too became a thing that had 
 come long ago, and the winter dragged on into 
 spring. Hildred grew slowly more accustomed to 
 Cuthbert's absence, and I knew better what a hard 
 task it was that he had left me. 
 
 I missed my brother Cuthbert sorely. I had 
 never loved him more than since he took from me 
 unwittingly that which I cared for most in life. 
 With him all the life and cheeriness of our house 
 had gone away — we who remained were so grave 
 and old. 
 
 Indeed Granny, the oldest of the three, was the 
 most talkative, perhaps the happiest. The twilight 
 of her life was closing round her, and, looking back 
 over the long way she had come, she could talk 
 cheerfully over what had once troubled her the 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 179 
 
 most, but which now lay dimly remembered in tlie 
 distance behind her. 
 
 Sometimes she reminded me of my mother, by 
 the expressions which she used. And I thought 
 Mistress Dorothy was right w^hen she said that 
 there is a language which the great Master teaches 
 to all his scholars, different as they may be to one 
 another, and that it grows the more easy to them 
 the nearer they are to leaving school and being 
 taken home to their Father's house. 
 
 * Stephen will be vexed,' Granny said, ' to think 
 that I should go ; but it's quite time, Willie, and I 
 shall be glad ;' and she went on, laying her hand on 
 mine, * To think of me, my dear, poor me, with a 
 golden crown upon my head ! ' 
 
 Dear old Granny, with the white hair under her 
 mob-cap, and her withered, aged face. Ah, well ! 
 would not all the lines be smoothed away before 
 the crown of life was laid upon her brow t 
 
 It may be that my father saw her failing, and 
 was * vexed ' by it, but he said nothing. Besides, 
 Granny toiled that he should still find a bright 
 fire and tidy room to greet him, and Hildred was 
 always coming in to help her. Granny said the 
 sight of her sweet face made her feel young again. 
 ' Her cheeks are like the red roses that grew over 
 
 N 2 
 
i8o THE STORY OF 
 
 our porch when I was a girl. They used to say I 
 was Hke one of those roses once, for I was a pretty 
 girl, my dears, though you would not believe it 
 now. I don't think girls are so pretty now-a-days 
 as they used to be when sister Nancy and I were 
 young/ 
 
 * I am sure they are not, Granny,' Hildred would 
 say laughing, and putting her red-rose cheek 
 fondly against Granny's wrinkled face. * Do you 
 want me to do anything more this evening ? ' 
 
 ' Bless you, pretty child, no. Run away with Wil- 
 lie. Young folks will ever be courting, and it's right 
 they should — quite right.' And Granny nodded 
 wisely. I felt the blood coming up into my cheeks. 
 
 * I think Granny sometimes mixes me up with 
 Cuthbert,' I said. 
 
 * Perhaps she does,' Hildred answered. 'Yes, 
 she is growing very old.' 
 
 One day my father chanced to be by when 
 Granny was putting away the tea things, a task 
 she never let any one take from her for fear of 
 accidents. ' Young folks are careless at times, poor 
 dears.' But Granny's steadiness of hand was not 
 so great as her good will, or else her eyes failed 
 her, for presently a cup fell down and was smashed 
 to pieces. She looked startled, sorry, and half- 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. iSi 
 
 frightened, as she found my father close behind 
 her, and she gave up the rest of the cups to him 
 quite meekly. 
 
 ' Yes, Stephen, I see. You needn't talk about it. 
 I'm not fit to do it any more. The children'li 
 have to do the best they can, and I'll just sit still 
 and wait. Don't you be afraid.' 
 
 She went and sat down in the chimney-corner, 
 and twirled her thumbs rapidly one over the 
 other. By-and-by the vexed look went out of her 
 face, and the patience that made it quite beautiful 
 came back. 
 
 * Where's Hildred 1 ' my father asked me, after 
 vainly trying to join the pieces of the broken cup 
 together with his big fingers. 
 
 I said she had gone home. 
 
 ' You should ha' married the girl, Will,' he said 
 roughly, 'and have saved all this breaking and 
 wasting. And then there would have been some- 
 body to see to her,' motioning towards his mother. 
 
 * You know I couldn't.' 
 
 ' I don't say as how you could then, but that's 
 not now. Yon lad has forgotten her long since, 
 I'll lay. They soldiers never hold to one thing 
 long together.' 
 
 * Cuthbert forgotten Hildred ! ' I said. ' Not he.' 
 
i82 THE STORY OF 
 
 * Have it your own way,' he answered ; ' only we 
 want to get hold of some woman that'll keep 
 things straight, that's clear.' 
 
 It was the first time for very long that he had 
 touched on that old string. It was not by very 
 many the last. The notion that I must bring home 
 a wife, to ' keep things straight,' and to take care 
 of Granny, had taken a strong hold upon him. If 
 I was a fool, and would not marry Hildred, I 
 must find just some one else ; but he had far rather 
 have her about the place than a stranger : he was 
 used to the lass. 
 
 In vain I told him that she cared for Cuthbert, 
 and would not marry me. 
 
 * Just you ask her. A bird in hand's worth 
 two in the bush any day. Tell her I'll be a father 
 to her.* 
 
 Once it might have been, not now. 
 
 I could only try my best to prevent him from 
 missing any of his comforts, and turn my hand 
 to everything. But I was clumsy: the woman's 
 work did not come easily. 
 
 And now Cuthbert had been gone for more than 
 two years. A second letter came from him some 
 six months after the first. Since then we had 
 heard nothing. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 183 
 
 Of course no one could expect to hear often 
 from those out-of-the-way parts of the world. 
 
 There were always plenty of good reasons to 
 give Hildred, when she wondered, as she often did, 
 why she never got a letter. But after months and 
 months had passed away in silence, a thought of 
 fear we did not like to face, which we tried to 
 stifle and forget, began slowly to creep into our 
 minds. 
 
 It seemed as if the clouds grew thicker as the 
 third winter of Cuthbert's absence darkened over 
 us. 
 
 My words of hope and reassurance lost the ring 
 of truth : they did not comfort Hildred as they 
 used to do. 
 
 * It's no good, Willie,' she would say. ' You can't 
 make yourself believe it all.' 
 
 No more I could. Even to my own ears my 
 reasoning sounded hollow and unsatisfying. 
 
 We knew that David Moore's wife had got a 
 letter more than once since we had heard, but — it 
 seemed strange, her husband never so much as 
 mentioned Cuthbert's name. Whenever I could 
 spare the time, which was not often, for it was a 
 long and rough journey, I went over to the ferry, 
 in the faint hope that they might have tidings for 
 
1 84 THE STORY OF 
 
 ns. There was a sort of tie between us and this 
 household, where also there was watching and 
 waiting. 
 
 They did not watch as we did. They had less 
 uncertainty, and perhaps more patience. Moore's 
 quiet little wife never lost her placid look for long 
 together, even though one of the letters she received 
 was written by a comrade of David's, to tell her 
 that he was wounded and could not write himself. 
 He bade his wife not take on, for he was getting 
 better, and she believed, and obeyed him im- 
 plicitly. As for the old father and mother, their 
 daily comforts were their first thought. The 
 draught that came from the kitchen window, and 
 the fine crop of potatoes in the garden, occupied 
 them full as much as any fears for David. The 
 pity that Martha Clifford still bestowed on the 
 poor Moores was wasted. As long as they had 
 Elfrida to work for them, they wanted nothing 
 else. 
 
 What they would have done without her, no one 
 could guess. Elfrida never told them that she might 
 have left them at any moment, had she so willed 
 it, for a comfortable home of her own. But so it 
 
 was. 
 
 I used to watch her with great interest. The 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 185 
 
 man whom she had saved from drowning did not 
 forget what a debt of gratitude he owed her. He 
 was for ever coming down to the ferry, only, it 
 seemed, for the pleasure of being rowed over the 
 river by Elfrida, and of staring at her all the way 
 across. 
 
 Each time he tried to get through a set speech 
 of thanks, that with much trouble he had put 
 together, and each time he forgot it in the middle. 
 It did not signify, for Elfrida took little heed of 
 him. She told him once, that she had done but 
 her duty, and that he had no call to thank her, 
 and after that she wondered why he came so often, 
 and ferried him quietly backwards and forwards 
 all in the way of business. 
 
 He was a widower, the tenant of a small but 
 thriving sheep-farm up yonder in the hills, where 
 abode peace and plenty, much live stock, and 
 many children. 
 
 Nothing was wanting but a mistress ; and after a 
 while he grew to think that Elfrida was one of the 
 right sort, that she would make a kind mother to 
 the children and a comfortable partner for himself. 
 
 The good man began to paint glowing pictures of 
 the place he could take her home to, if she had but 
 a mind to come. I don't think Elfrida turned quite 
 
1 86 THE STORY OF 
 
 a deaf ear. It did sound very pleasant — that well- 
 to-do homestead, with the cows in the shed, and 
 the poultry in the yard, the flocks on the hill-side, 
 the dairy and the pigs. Elfrida felt kindly to the 
 honest farmer in his best red waistcoat, who wanted 
 to make her ^ missus * of all these good things. 
 And then how comfortable it would be never to 
 have to cross the ferry on the winter nights that 
 were coming round again, and to be able to put 
 away for ever a certain passing feeling of uneasy 
 wonder that had troubled her once or twice, as to 
 what would become of her when she grew old. 
 
 Yes, that was all very well. Still there was 
 Baby. She could never really think of leaving 
 him. What would he do — poor little Davy — if 
 she were gone .'' What would any of them do 
 indeed t but that first question went nearest to 
 Elfrida's heart. 
 
 After she had been listening silently all the way 
 across, to the farmer's description of that place 
 that must surely be very like Paradise, Elfrida 
 lifted up her eyes, and there stood baby on the 
 bank, clapping his hands and shouting at the boat. 
 Baby, with a torn frock and a scratched face, and 
 little bare muddy legs, yet beautiful exceedingly. 
 Elfrida's heart gave a great tluunp, as it always 
 
WANDERING WILLIE, 187 
 
 did when she saw him. * No, I never could leave 
 Baby.' 
 
 * But I've got a baby too, up there at home,* the 
 farmer pleaded. 
 
 She looked at him. *Ah, but he's never like 
 our Baby.' 
 
 The farmer scratched his head, and thought of 
 his poor little chap at home, the thin, white-cheeked 
 boy that never would thrive after his mother died 
 and left him. Then he turned to Davy, and saw 
 how his blue eyes shone, and how proudly he tossed 
 back his yellow curls, and laughed his ringing 
 lau2:h. And how Elfrida looked at him ! 
 
 No, little Joe was not like that. 
 
 * Still, it seems a pity,' he said, ' don't it now, 
 when things are so comfortable, as I've been telling 
 you } ' 
 
 Elfrida did not even hear him, for Davy, with 
 the air of a king, was allowing her to carry him up 
 the steep bank home to supper. 
 
 One day when I was there, the farmer brought 
 down Joe to the ferry, with a kind of hope that the 
 sight of Davy's little motherless rival might touch 
 Elfrida's heart. 
 
 The visit did not turn out well. Davy made a 
 bad beginning by knocking his guest down, with- 
 
i88 THE STORY OF 
 
 out the smallest provocation except that he did not 
 like him. Thereafter Joe's shrill cries of fear and 
 anger could by no manner of means be hushed. 
 He stood clasping his big daddy's leg with gasping 
 sobs, a weak, pale-faced, poor-spirited little mortal. 
 * So-ho, Joe, quiet,' his father kept on saying, 
 patting and smoothing him down, rather as if he 
 had been a cart-horse. 
 
 Elfrida, on her side, was holding back Davy, trying 
 to scold him, and make him beg Joe's pardon ; but 
 there he stood, nothing daunted, like a prince, 
 Elfrida said, his he^d thrown back, his eyes 
 sparkling, and one small fist doubled, ready as 
 soon as he was released for another hit at poor 
 terror-stricken Joe. 
 
 It did not do. Joe was taken home to the hills, 
 without having greatly aided his father's cause, and 
 the farmer was fain to fall back again upon pa- 
 tience as his best helper after all. 
 
 And indeed so were we. I had to go back to 
 Wyncliffe that evening with the old answer, * No, 
 Hildred, no news yet.' 
 
 ' I am so tired, so tired of waiting,' she said 
 wearily. 
 
 She was standing on the hearth-stone, in the red 
 lif^-ht of the fire. The rest of the room was dark, 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 189 
 
 for the early dusk of winter had gathered outside. 
 Only the glow from the burning embers fell on her 
 bent face and clasped hands. 
 
 Her words sounded all the more dreary that they 
 were spoken in a lowered tone, for Granny, who of 
 late had ceased to take much notice of anything, 
 3at as usual, half asleep, in the chimney-corner. 
 
 But she must have heard in part, for she roused 
 up suddenly, and asked, ' Who is tired } What 
 is she talking of .'' ' 
 
 We did not answer for a minute, and then I 
 said, ' Only of Cuthbert, Granny.* 
 
 * Ay, Cuthbert. Is the lad here } ' 
 
 * Oh Granny, no,' said Hildred, ' we wish — we 
 wish he were.' 
 
 ' He will come,' said Granny, raising herself up 
 and speaking in a strange, clear tone. You will 
 see him, never fear. It may be a long time first — ' 
 She looked through the firelight into the darkness 
 beyond, as if her eyes were fixed on something 
 that we could not see ; * a long time, but wait 
 patiently, pretty child ; wait, Willie. You will see 
 him again,' 
 
 Hildred came close to me, and, half-frightened, 
 laid her hand on my arm. We both stood looking 
 wonderingly at Granny, from whose e\'es the un- 
 
19© THE STORY OF 
 
 accustomed light was already fading away. The 
 voice and look had given me an odd sort of thrill, 
 and Hildred whispered, 'Willie, do you think 
 she saw anything ? * 
 
 * No — no — I don't think so. Granny.' 
 
 I spoke to her, and Hildred bent down and 
 touched her, but she had sunk back again into 
 the half slumber from which she had roused her- 
 self for those few minutes. 
 
 ' Don't let us disturb her now,' Hildred said. 
 *We must do as she told us — wait. We will ask 
 her again to-morrow.' 
 
 But when to-morrow came, our question remained 
 unasked and unremembered. We only thought 
 how her own long waiting was over, her hope- 
 ful patience changed into perfect joy. For Granny 
 had gone from us. In the morning we found her 
 lying with the winter light streaming across her 
 face. We thought she was asleep. So she was. 
 She had fallen into the quiet sleep of death. 
 
 One could scarcely call this a sudden sorrow, or 
 a bitter sorrow. We had long known that it must 
 come, and to her it was very welcome. Only we 
 missed her. The chimney-corner looked empty, 
 and we went in and out without the kindly, cheer- 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 191 
 
 ful word that for so many years had been used to 
 greet us. Granny had been very good to us. 
 
 Neither Hildred nor I could forget the words 
 that she had spoken about Cuthbert on the last 
 evening of her life. We looked upon them as a 
 kind of prophecy. Without saying anything to 
 one another, I believe we both began at that time 
 to have a vague feeling that he was near to us — that 
 he was coming home. 
 
 I know I never heard the bell ring at the Castle 
 gate, without a quick thought that it might per- 
 haps be him. I have seen Hildred stand by the 
 half-hour together gazing at the bit of road by the 
 bridge, where people coming from the village up 
 to the Castle could first be seen. She got into a 
 way of looking over her shoulder, and from side to 
 side as she walked, as if she half expected that 
 some one would appear from behind an angle of 
 the broken walls, or from under the shadow of a 
 tower. For the first time in her life she did not 
 like to cross the ruins alone after nightfall. 
 
 ' The girl seems as though she was living in a 
 maze/ Martha Clifford said one day. * I don't 
 know what she would be at.* And she went be- 
 hind Hildred unawares, and put her hand on her 
 
192 THE STORY OF 
 
 shoulder. Hildred gave a great start and turned 
 round with the colour rushing into her cheeks. 
 
 * Why, child, what ails you t ' her sister-in-law 
 asked, not unkindly, * that you stand there staring 
 at nothing, and shake like a leaf if one does but 
 touch you .'' ' 
 
 * I don't know,' said Hildred, looking down 
 again at the bridge, across which two people were 
 moving slowly, and sighing as she saw them turn 
 away along the river side. 
 
 The sun was setting in a frosty sky over the 
 trees, and its red light shone through the bare 
 branches and was reflected in the stream. It was 
 Christmas Eve. 
 
 ' Watching will bring no one back the quicker,' 
 said Martha, * and it's Christmas time. You'd 
 better be merry with the rest, child.' 
 
 Hildred looked after her as she walked awav 
 with wistful eye-s. * Oh Willie,' she said, turning 
 round to me, * I should so like a merry Christmas. 
 Everybody seems to be having one, all but us. And 
 I thought maybe he would be let come home 
 because it is Christmas, and then we should be 
 merry too.* 
 
 ' You must wait a little longer, Hildred.' 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 193 
 
 ' That's what you ahvays say ; but I'm tired 
 of waiting, and I want so much to be happy.' 
 
 It had seemed as if people were very merry 
 in the village down yonder, to-day. The one 
 .shop-window was turned into a bower of holly 
 and evergreens, stuck all about with oranges and 
 rosy apples. To almost every house some one 
 had come home to spend Christmas among their 
 own folk. The village-green was full of pleased 
 faces, and shouting children, and laughter, and 
 glad greetings. Couple after couple of happy 
 lovers had met Hildred, and wished her a merry 
 Christmas as they passed ; and though she gave 
 the wish back heartily, yet each time the great 
 longing to be happy like the rest swelled higher in 
 her heart. 
 
 All day she had been working with the other 
 boys and girls at dressing the little old grey church 
 for Christmas Day. They had twined green wreaths 
 round the thick short pillars and over the low 
 arches, and a bunch of holly was stuck in each 
 corner of the square pews. Under the east win- 
 dow, woven in shining holly leaves and scarlet 
 berries, the words gleamed out, * Behold we bring 
 you glad tidings of great joy.' 
 
 They were the last thing that met Hildred's eyes 
 
 o 
 
194 THE STORY OF 
 
 as she turned under the porch, and looked back into 
 the church. And her heart went out to meet 
 them. Will it not be forgiven her, that in her sore 
 longing for ' glad tidings,' she passed over their 
 grand meaning, the mighty message of joy unto 
 all people, and took them to herself as an omen 
 that some good news was coming to her at last .-* 
 
 Christmas certainly is not always a merry time. 
 Nay, often it is sadder than all the rest of the 
 year ; and yet I believe that people must be be- 
 ginning to grow old before they quite give up an 
 unreasonable half-formed idea that they have in 
 some sort a right to be happier than usual at 
 Christmas. Old custom has linked the words 
 * merry ' and ^ Christmas ' together, and it is hard 
 to put them asunder in our thoughts, though in 
 action it is easily done. 
 
 There is a great deal that makes Christmas 
 look and sound cheerful ; — roaring fires in farm- 
 house kitchens ; holidays from school and work ; 
 larders well stocked with Christmas cheer; the 
 church bells, that ring their merriest peals, chiming 
 and pealing, and clashing out every change that 
 the ringers can put together. 
 
 And the dear old carols ; their quaint rhymes 
 set to music full of odd flourishes, familiar since 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 195 
 
 the childish days when we lay wide awake on 
 Christmas night, listening breathlessly to the voices 
 in the distance, and doubting whether the ' angelick 
 host ' of which they sang could have made more 
 melodious music. 
 
 We were great at Christmas carols in Wyncliffe. 
 Everybody that could sing — and some that only 
 thought they could — went down to the school- 
 house, for the few weeks before Christmas, on 
 the nights that the singers practised. 
 
 Cuthbert and I had been ' waits ' ever since we 
 were little school-boys, with small shrill voices 
 that were always being left behind when the tune 
 swept up suddenly to a high note far above our 
 reach, or rolled down into a manly grumble some- 
 where in the very heart of the bass. Standing 
 close together and singing with might and main, 
 we could not hear our own voices, but could only 
 see each other's mouths wide open. Our childish 
 piping was buried out of hearing beneath the rude 
 deep men's voices, and the clear notes of the women, 
 the scraping flourishes of the fiddles, and the tones 
 of the flute that whistled and stopped, and lost its 
 way, and found it again, when nobody was expecting 
 it, like a gust of wandering wind. 
 
 Things improved for us as time passed on. 
 
 o 2 
 
196 THE STORY OF 
 
 I played the violin myself in these latter days, and 
 for several years Cuthbert's voice made the fortune, 
 and was the great boast, of the waits. It was a 
 story often told, how a stranger, hearing us sing 
 one Christmas night, turned out to be the organist 
 of Morechester Minster, and wanted Cuthbert after- 
 wards to join the choir of the great church. We 
 did not wonder. It was but natural. What musician 
 would not have wished for that sweet rich voice of 
 his, that seemed to blend all the others together 
 and bring them into harmony '^. 
 
 Ah, well, that was the Christmas before Cuthbert 
 went away. We had learnt to do without him now. 
 Nevertheless, the carols, like many other things, 
 were no longer quite what they used to be. 
 
 Hildred and Matt Clifford and I had been round 
 with the waits this year for several nights. 
 
 It chanced that I was late in joining them on 
 the evening of Christmas Day, and as I crossed the 
 village green my father met and stopped me. 
 
 ' I say, lad, you haven't heard the news.' 
 
 There was light enough for me to see the strange, 
 awed look on his face, and to feel that whatever the 
 news was, it had shocked him, and made him half- 
 unwilling, and yet eager, to tell it. Besides, he had 
 just a shade of that triumph which people's faces 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 197 
 
 wear when they have foretold that something has 
 come to pass. 
 
 * That boy Cuthbert has got killed in the wars.' 
 
 I stood still and stared at him. 
 
 ' Yes, he has got killed, poor lad,' my father re- 
 peated. ' Esther Reynolds brought the news. Young 
 Moore, over at the ferry, has come home, and she 
 had it from him.' 
 
 Had Hildred heard it.'* That must be thought 
 of first of all. Would there be time to stop them 
 from telling her suddenly } — Hildred, who some- 
 times fancied that he was coming home, that he 
 was near to her. 
 
 Old Esther Reynolds knew it — the greatest gossip 
 in the village, to whom the telling of a bit of news 
 was as the breath of life. No thought for Hildred 
 would keep her silent, if she had the chance of 
 spreading such a story as this. There was not a 
 moment to be lost. 
 
 It was a clear frosty night, and the stars were 
 shining. Every distant noise sounded distinct and 
 close at hand. My own footsteps rang on the frozen 
 road. 
 
 Very soon I heard them singing, the well-known 
 carol waxing louder every minute as I got near 
 to them, sounding so strangely discordant to 
 
198 THE STORY OF 
 
 my ears, which were still tingHng with the death 
 news. 
 
 Voices were singing, and church-bells chimed, the 
 stars gleamed and sparkled like silver fire over the 
 living, busy, holiday-keeping world, and Cuthbert 
 was dead. 
 
 For a minute I stood still and gathered breath. 
 How was it possible to tell Hildred, whose voice I 
 fancied I could hear already rising clear above the 
 rest — how would it be possible to go on and tell her 
 that her lover lay dead, killed, buried in a far 
 distant grave ? What would she say "i How could 
 she bear it, when the mere thought of the words 
 that must be spoken were making my heart beat 
 too heavily for speech t Need I say anything yet } 
 Surely nobody would tell her to-night. I would 
 keep near her, and when this singing, that was such 
 a mockeiy, was over, perhaps some words would be 
 given me, some words, if such there were, that 
 would make the blow fall less cruelly. 
 
 But the next moment I started forward again. 
 There was a confused murmur, a movement in the 
 group ; some of the people stopped singing, and 
 then came a sudden, sharp, half-choked cry, and the 
 music ceased altogether. 
 
 They had got a lantern ; some one held it up, and 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 199 
 
 the light fell on the face of Esther Reynolds stand- 
 ing there among them. I was too late. 
 
 Some one called out my name, and then Hildred, 
 ghastly white in the cold star-light, turned and met 
 me, with her hands stretched out before her. 
 
 ' It isn't true ! Willie, tell me it isn't true.' 
 
 ' My poor Hildred ! ' 
 
 I took the hands so pitifully held out, but she 
 snatched them away, throwing them wildly up into 
 the air, and then with a long sobbing moan she fell 
 down upon her knees. 
 
 The women gathered round her compassionately, 
 and raised her up from the hard road, weeping with 
 her, and trying to quiet her by kindly pitying words, 
 of which she took no heed. 
 
 Esther Reynolds was wringing her hands, and 
 saying over and over again, ' Oh poor lamb ! I would 
 not have told if I'd known she'd have taken on 
 like this. What can I do for her, poor lamb .'' ' 
 
 What could she do } What could any one do, 
 but stand by helplessly, watching the poor child 
 struggle through the first bitterness of her sorrow .'' 
 No one could bear the blow instead of her, or ease 
 her pain. 
 
 I daresay her brother Matt did what was the 
 best for her. He laid his hand on her shoulder and 
 
200 THE STORY OF 
 
 bade her quietly come home. He had looked on 
 in perplexed silence for the last few minutes, while 
 he unscrewed his flute slowly, and put it away in 
 his pocket. He did not try now to say anything 
 comforting, but held his sister up in his strong grasp, 
 for she was trembling too much to stand alone, 
 and he led her away, her face hidden in her 
 cloak. 
 
 There were no more carols sung that year at 
 Wyncliffe. A blank silence fell upon those who 
 were left. Presently some one said, ' Poor Hil- 
 dred ! ' 
 
 They asked who brought the news, and Esther 
 dried her eyes and began eagerly to tell all she 
 knew. I stood listening with the rest. It was not 
 much to hear, though told in many words. David 
 Moore had come back wounded from India, to his 
 home at the ferry-house. He was in Cuthbert's 
 regiment, and he brought word that Cuthbert had 
 been killed. 
 
 * Poor Cuthbert ! ' said many sorrowful voices. 
 They all loved him. Not one here but thought 
 of him kindly, and had been friends with him in 
 the days that were gone. And I. Oh Cuthbert, 
 God knows I loved you, God knows I mourned for 
 you, bitterly, bitterly. 
 
V/ANDERING WILLIE. 201 
 
 It was ended then, the long hope, the fear we 
 would not name, the watching for him who was 
 never to come back. It was all over, and he was 
 dead. 
 
 Dead ! that was a hard thing to believe. For 
 there was no farewell to remember, no day to look 
 back upon as the last day of his life ; no single 
 parting word ; only a great blank and silence in 
 our thoughts. He had been, and he was not. 
 That was all. We should never know for certain 
 the day nor the hour when we lost him. Only on 
 some day, long ago now, when thinking nothing, we 
 were busy about our common work, he had been 
 dying a soldier's painful death, with perhaps a fare- 
 well word for us in his brave heart, that would 
 never reach us. 
 
 It had always seemed as if we feared so much, 
 but we knew now how far stronger than our fears 
 our hope had been. The blow could scarcely have 
 fallen more heavily months ago, before we began 
 to have the vague dread of evil that had darkened 
 into utter night. 
 
 I thought it all over as I went slowly homewards, 
 with a dull quietness that it was very strange to 
 feel. I remembered him as a boy, and could 
 recall his great love to me, without more than a 
 
202 THE STORY OF 
 
 numb heartache, and a feehng of wonder that I 
 was not more unhappy. 
 
 I thought of a future in which I should be 
 always lonely, and Hildred for ever broken-hearted, 
 with a sort of pity for us both, as if I were but a 
 looker-on at our lives. 
 
 And yet I envied Hildred ; for when I went late 
 at night to ask after her, they told me that she 
 had sobbed herself to sleep. For the moment she 
 had escaped from trouble, and her stormy sorrow 
 all left behind, she had gone away into the land of 
 dreams, where tears are not. 
 
 Eor me there were neither dreams nor sleep. 
 All night I sat in my father's elbow-chair beside 
 the fire, not caring to go to bed. At first the 
 flames kept me company as they rose and fell and 
 flickered, lighting the room fitfully. The stars 
 shone in, glittering through the window. Then 
 the fire died down to a dull glow. It grew black, 
 with only a red spark here and there. It went 
 quite out, and the room grew very cold. The night 
 waned. A mist rose up and covered the stars. It 
 became darker and darker. Then I suppose I fell 
 asleep, for when I looked again, the grey chill of a 
 winter's dawn was in the room. It was no longer 
 to-day, but yesterday, that we heard of Cuthbert's 
 death. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 203 
 
 T dreaded seeing Hildred in her sorrow. It 
 made me feel strange to her, as if I should not 
 know how to greet her, and that instead of her 
 familiar self, she would be to me as a mourner upon 
 whom a great grief had newly fallen ! Poor little 
 Hildred. The strangeness all went away, and was 
 forgotten directly we met, and she ran to me and 
 held my hands, crying, ' Oh Willie, I wanted 
 you. He belonged to you and me.' 
 
 ^ But I can't feel as if it could be true,' she said 
 presently. ' I keep thinking all the time — of course 
 it's foolish — that perhaps old Esther Reynolds made 
 a mistake after all, and that David Moore meant 
 some one else. Eh, Willie .'' ' 
 
 I shook my head. ^ But I can go to see him, 
 and ask him about it,' I said, after thinking a 
 little. 
 
 * Oh, will you 1 And ask him to tell us,' — her 
 voice failed, and she shuddered, — ' ask him whether 
 it was great pain, and if it was soon over. I 
 cannot bear to think he suffered long.' 
 
 Ah, Hildred ! so you too had thought of those 
 dreary questions that had been haunting me all 
 night. 
 
 ' I will go to-day,' I said. And that evening I 
 was at the Ferry House. 
 
204 THE STORY OF 
 
 It was generally a bleak place enough ; but this 
 
 afternoon winter sunshine was giving it a cheerful 
 look, and a holly tree, brilliant with berries, made 
 a bright spot of colour near the door. 
 
 They say trouble makes people selfish. I 
 scarcely remembered until now that what brought 
 us sorrow had filled this house with rejoicing. 
 
 The picture of home gladness that met my eyes 
 as I went in, came upon me in sharp contrast with 
 Hildred's tear-stained cheeks and heavy eyes. 
 
 Some one had stuck holly-branches all over the 
 room, usually so bare. The fire blazed cheerily. 
 On one side sat David Moore's little wife, quiet still, 
 but with a smile of great contentment on her face, 
 looking down at her husband, who sat on a wooden 
 stool at her feet, with his arms resting on her lap 
 and his eyes fixed on her. 
 
 There was a handkerchief bound round his head, 
 and when he turned round I saw that he would 
 have looked very ill if it had not been for the 
 radiant happiness that shone from his pale face. 
 His mother, sitting close by, put out her hand 
 every now and then, and touched his red coat to 
 make sure it was really him. Even old Moore 
 had roused up. And in the back-ground little 
 Davy stood on the dresser with one arm round 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 205 
 
 Elfrida's neck, a bunch of holly in his hand, and a 
 scarlet handkerchief, in imitation of his father, 
 twisted in his curly hair. 
 
 David Moore did not look like the bearer of evil 
 tidings. The question I came to ask seemed sadly 
 out of place among these happy people. 
 
 But there was a pause after they had greeted 
 me, and then I had to ask it. 
 
 ^ You were with Cuthbert Franklyn in India. ^ ' 
 
 ' Yes, I was.' He stopped a moment and then 
 said more slowly, ' I suppose you know he's 
 dead.' 
 
 It was true, then — quite true. I stood silent. 
 Little Davy laughed merrily, and Elfrida stopped 
 him with a grave 'hush.' 
 
 Presently Moore said — 
 
 * We lost ever so many fellows in our regiment, 
 and I never looked to come home myself.' 
 
 His wife put her hand softly on to his head as 
 he sat at her feet, and he looked up smiling, and 
 forgot everything else. 
 
 * Where was it Cuthbert Franklyn died 1 ' I 
 asked at last. 
 
 * Killed at the battle of Conjeveram, fighting 
 against Tippoo Saib, same day as I got this wound 
 in the head.' 
 
2o6 THE STORY OF 
 
 ' You are sure ? Did you see him after he was 
 killed ? ' 
 
 ' No, I got my wound early in the day. I was 
 left for dead. They never thought I should have 
 lived. I was a long time in hospital. When I 
 saw some of our fellows again, after I was invalided 
 home, they told me that Franklyn was among the 
 missing.' 
 
 He could tell me no more than this. And I 
 stood there, thinking sorrowfully over it. I felt that 
 I brought a dreary silence over that happy party. 
 David Moore and his wife spoke to each other 
 in low voices. The old father fell asleep, and 
 Elfrida carried little Davy out of the room. 
 
 I turned to go away ; Moore followed me to 
 the door, wished he had brought me better news, 
 and said he would have come over to see his 
 cousin Martha Clifford, but that his furlough was 
 so short. Only three days to be with wife and 
 child after this long time ! So we shook hands, 
 and he went back to his bright fireside. 
 
 It was too late to go home that night. The 
 short winter's day was over before I left the ferry, 
 and it was afternoon again, a dark, cold, Sunday 
 afternoon, before I got to Wyncliffe next day. 
 
 The church-bells were still ringing for evening 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 207 
 
 service when I came into the village. Hildred 
 was to meet me at church, for the Vicar never liked 
 the musicians to be away if they could help it, 
 and I played the fiddle up in the gallery every 
 Sunday. 
 
 Nearly everybody had gone in when I reached 
 the steps leading up to the churchyard. Only 
 Hildred was standing under the lych gate, and 
 watching for me in the failing light. 
 
 If it had been good news I was bringing her, I 
 should have quickened my steps when I saw her. 
 
 Now I did not look up, but walked slower, wish- 
 ing that something would come to prevent my 
 having to destroy the last hope she had. 
 
 I think she understood. She came two steps 
 down towards me. The church-bells stopped 
 ringing. 
 
 * Willie,' she said in a whisper. 
 I shook my head. 
 
 * Was it true, then } ' 
 
 * All true.' 
 
 She drew back, covering her face with her hands, 
 but she was very quiet. A blow in all its heavi- 
 ness cannot fall twice. 
 
 We stood together for some minutes. She was 
 shivering so, that I told her to go home, but she 
 
2o8 THE STORY OF 
 
 shook her head, and passed slowly, without speak- 
 ing, under the church porch. 
 
 I went up into the gallery. It was the Sunday 
 after Christmas, and the day had been so short 
 that the light w^as already waning before the 
 service began. This afternoon, too, a snow-storm 
 was coming, and the heavy clouds made it duskier 
 than usual. There were two faint lights glimmer- 
 ing over the reading-desk. When the last heavy 
 footstep had sounded along the aisle, and there 
 was silence through the church, it was almost 
 out of darkness that the vicar's voice came, read- 
 ing in a quiet even tone the opening words of the 
 service : ' The sacrifices of God are a broken 
 spirit ; a broken and a contrite heart, O God, Thou 
 wilt not despise.' 
 
 Broken hearts ! It was good that God did not 
 despise them, since there must be so many in the 
 world. 
 
 My father was anxious to be told all that 
 David Moore had said. He asked me many ques- 
 tions, and listened to every word I could remember 
 with an interest that would have puzzled me, but 
 that my thoughts were so full of Cuthbert, that it 
 seemed natural every one should be as much taken 
 up about him as we were. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 209 
 
 ' Then Moore didn't say whether he was killed 
 directly, or how long he lived after he got his 
 wound V 
 
 *■ No, Moore was hurt himself ; he did not hear 
 until long after/ 
 
 * How long ? ' 
 
 ' Two or three months, I think, he said, when 
 he got back to his regiment.' 
 ' Well.' 
 
 * They told him that poor Cuthbert was among 
 the missing.' 
 
 ' Only missing,' said my father, leaning forward ; 
 ' not killed.' 
 
 I paused a moment. It had not struck me 
 before. 
 
 * But then it's the same thing, for sure,' my father 
 went on eagerly, ' quite the same thing. It's just the 
 way they put it. I didn't mean to throw a doubt 
 on his being killed, mind, Willie.' 
 
 ' Moore did say missing.' 
 
 * Ay, missing or killed. 'Tis the same thing. 
 Now don't you go and fash yourself for a word. 
 The poor lad's killed, sure enough. There's no 
 manner of doubt about that' 
 
 He bent over and touched my arm, to enforce 
 his words. I could see he was vexed with himself 
 
 P 
 
 k 
 
2IO THE STORY OF 
 
 for having asked the question, and wanted to 
 make me forget it. 
 
 ' I suppose they would have known/ I said, 
 after thinking over it, and the hope that had gHm- 
 mered for an instant went out again — not quite, 
 though. The certainty was shaken since it had 
 been questioned ; and yet David Moore had seemed 
 to have no doubt. ' He's dead, you know ; ' I re- 
 membered his words well. 
 
 ' To be sure they knew,' said my father, watching 
 me, as I saw, ' I've thought myself how it would be 
 this long time past. I never looked to see him 
 come home again.* 
 
 My father seldom troubled himself to speak 
 so much. It was almost too much for the object 
 he wanted to gain, of lulling my doubts to rest. 
 By-and-by, he said rather hesitatingly, ^ I say, lad, 
 you wouldn't go and tell Hildred what we've been 
 talking of It'll just unsettle her again for nothing.' 
 
 The more he tried to undo the impression he 
 had made on me, the less I was able to forget it. 
 It was a small seed of doubt that, sown unawares, 
 was to live and come up after many days. Try as 
 I would in after times I could not root it out. 
 There it was, too shadowy to be met and fought 
 with outright, too real to be disregarded. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 211 
 
 I can scarcely tell what feeling prompted me to 
 tell Hildred. It seemed right to do so. But she 
 scarcely took it in. 
 
 * Killed or missing, it's about the same,' my father 
 told her, and Hildred's eyes, raised with a look of 
 eagerness, sank again listlessly. ' I suppose it is,' 
 she said sighing. 
 
 I said no more then. It was better for her 
 that the wearing suspense should be at an end. And 
 after all, was there any real ground of hope } I 
 believed, though I could not feel, that Cuthbert was 
 dead. 
 
 ' If only I had seen him, to say good-bye,' 
 Hildred said, ' I think I could bear it better. I 
 wish he were buried in the churchyard, where we 
 could go and see his grave.' 
 
 Ah ! I wished so too. That silent darkening down 
 of fear had been very dreadful, but the fitful glim- 
 mer that was most likely false, but that would gleam 
 out now and again, from among the ashes of our 
 dead hopes, was to my mind more dreadful still. 
 
 These were the thoughts of many months. 
 
 I find that it is not easy to tell one's story. 
 You may mean to tell it all, yet you find that the 
 greater part you have left out altogether. 
 
 p 2 
 
212 THE STORY OF 
 
 For so many things go to the making up of a 
 man's hfe. It is not all sweet nor all bitter. There 
 is in it much brightness, and more shadow, and 
 a great deal besides that is neither cloud nor sun- 
 shine, neither bitterness nor sweetness, which fills 
 up the measure of each passing day. One wave 
 does not make a river — rather many ; some dance 
 and sparkle, touched by the sunlight from above, 
 while all the time the under-current is flowing 
 sorrowfully on. 
 
 And we were busy about many things apart from 
 Cuthbert, were glad and sorry, anxious and hope- 
 ful, had plans and thoughts, cares and pleasures, 
 that had nothing to do with him. Still the thought 
 of him lay beneath It all. 
 
 It was a busy year for me at Furzy Nook ; for as 
 Farmer Foster grew older I had of course more and 
 more on my hands. Time passed wonderfully 
 quick — Sunday after Sunday marking off a week 
 that ended before I had thought of It as much 
 more than begun. We could let the weeks go as 
 they would now, without counting every one as a 
 fresh link in a chain of waiting. There was nothing 
 to wait for, or to hope for any longer. So they all 
 said. 
 
 It was better for Hildred that It should be so. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 213 
 
 After that dark winter was past, she began to 
 brighten with the spring. She was no longer the 
 merry careless child she used to be. All that 
 was over. But the flower that the rain had beaten 
 down, lifted its head again slowly. 
 
 It was not that she had any thought of seeing 
 Cuthbert again. Her last hope died on that Sunday 
 after Christmas Day. No one was of the same mind 
 as I was. Everybody called him ' poor Cuthbert,' 
 and spoke of him as dead — everybody, odd to 
 say, excepting good old Farmer Foster. Directly 
 he heard my doubts he went far beyond me, into a 
 perfect certainty of hopefulness. ' We shall have 
 him home upon us, never fear, before we know 
 where we are,' he used to say; and as I walked 
 beside his pony over the Furzy Nook fields, he told 
 me again and again the same half-forgotten story, 
 the end of which he never could remember, about 
 some prisoners who escaped out of a French prison 
 when he was a lad. I repeated the story, such as 
 it was, to Hildred, but it did not cheer her. I 
 thought she looked rather more grave than usual 
 afterwards. * Catching at straws still, Willie,' she 
 said, shaking her head. 
 
 I suppose it was another straw I caught at later 
 in the summer. One market-day at Morechester^ 
 
214 THE STORY OF 
 
 as I stood near the Cross, I heard the ill-omened 
 
 sounds of fifes and drums, and presently a recruiting 
 
 party marched down on us from the High Street. 
 
 It carried me back in a moment to that evening 
 
 three years ago. I almost seemed to see the purple 
 
 sky above the village street, and the lights shining 
 
 through the inn-windows, and then the ribands in 
 Cuthbert's hat, as the loud voice of the recruiting 
 
 sergeant sounded in my ears. 
 
 No wonder that I recalled it so vividly, for as 
 they drew near, I saw that this was the same man 
 who had enlisted Cuthbert. I knew his upright 
 figure and broad good-humoured face directly. 
 The people round were laughing at the very same 
 jokes that I remembered hearing in the street of 
 Wynclifife. 
 
 I made my way up to him In the crowd. He 
 had seen Cuthbert after we had, and might some- 
 how know what had become of him. There were 
 two lads near him staring up in open-mouthed 
 admiration of his scarlet coat and soldierly stride. 
 
 He turned away from them to me. * No, I don't 
 want to enlist,' I said, in answer to the accustomed 
 speech. * I am come to ask you a question. Do 
 you mind one Cuthbert Franklyn, that you enlisted 
 here three years ago t ' 
 
 I 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 215 
 
 He shook his head with a loud laugh. ' If I'd 
 got to remember half their names, my fine fellow, 
 I'd need to have a good memory. Move on, will 
 you } ' 
 
 Walking on beside him I managed to tell him 
 hurriedly, what we had heard of Cuthbert. * Was 
 there a chance of his ever coming back } ' 
 
 'Why not.'*' he answered, in his careless, jolly 
 voice. ' I don't know why he shouldn't. We're 
 not all killed, you see, that go for soldiers. Ah ! it's 
 a fine life, my lads,' — this to the two boys who were 
 still following him. * No life like it,' and so on. 
 
 Those lightly-spoken words of his, the only ones 
 of encouragement I had ever heard, fell upon me 
 like a blow, and struck me speechless. 
 
 * Then you think that he may be living yet,' I 
 asked again, presently. 
 
 * You there still ! ' He looked back good-humour- 
 edly. * Well, there's no knowing. I can't say.' 
 
 * He was reported missing.' 
 
 * Ah ! reported missing, that sounds bad. Still, 
 I've known stranger things come round. Where 
 Avas he killed, say you .'' ' 
 
 '■ At the battle of Conjeveram, I think they called 
 the place.' 
 
 ' Conjeveram — seems to me I've heard a talk of 
 
2i6 THE STORY OF 
 
 prisoners taken there, but the outlandish Indian 
 names are all alike. It's a chance, I tell you. Now, 
 then.' 
 
 He had no more time for me. I went home 
 with a beating heart, to tell Hildred. She was 
 sitting in the honeysuckle-shaded porch of Clif- 
 ford's house, spinning. The bees hummed in the 
 sunshine, the waterfall splashed, Clifford's children 
 were shouting at the river's edge, and Hildred was 
 singing a low murmur of song that blended with 
 the whirr of her wheel and the buzzing of the bees. 
 
 ^ Hildred,' I said, going up to her, ' I have seen 
 Cuthbert's recruiting sergeant, and he thinks he 
 may be alive.' 
 
 Hildred started, her hand fell, and the thread 
 broke. 
 
 ^ He does not see why he should not come home 
 some day,' I went on. 
 
 She got up, very pale. 
 
 ' Cuthbert alive ! ' she said, dreamily. * Where is 
 he.?' 
 
 ' Oh Hildred, I don't know; I only said he might 
 be living still.' 
 
 ' Didn't you say he was coming } ' 
 
 * No, no, It might be just possible.' 
 
 Hildred burst out crying. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 217 
 
 * What's all this ? ' said Martha Clifford, cominGf 
 up with a pail of water on her head. * What's 
 Hildred crying for ? ' 
 
 * I gave her a fright/ I answered repentantly, 
 and I told Martha what I had heard and said. 
 
 * Dear me, Willie, leave the girl alone, do,' said 
 Martha roughly. ' Don't begin all that over again. 
 We had enough of it before we knew he was 
 killed ; watching and worrying, worrying and 
 watching, from morning till night. Let bygones 
 be bygones.' 
 
 ' But I can't forget ' 
 
 * Well, others can if you can't. Let the dead rest, 
 Willie Lisle.' 
 
 ' If we could be quite sure ' 
 
 * And so you ought to be. It's all a whimsey 
 you've got into your head. Cuthbert's dead 
 enough, poor lad, but it's my belief you wouldn't 
 be satisfied if you had seen him buried down 
 yonder with your ow^n eyes.' 
 
 * Don't, Martha,' said Hildred, brushing away her 
 tears and coming to my side. 
 
 'It's enough to vex a saint,' Martha went on, 
 ' let alone me, just when the girl was beginning 
 to leave off fretting, and to take hold a little. I 
 won't have it done, and so I tell you, Willie.' 
 
2i8 THE STORY OF 
 
 'I wouldn't harm Hildred/ I said sorrowfully, 
 'but she and I can't forget; after what grand- 
 mother said before she died, and all. You mind 
 that, Martha.' 
 
 Martha gave a sort of moan. 
 ' It's only that he's more faithful than any of us,' 
 said Hildred. 
 
 'Well, let him be faithful by himself I won't 
 have him coming upsetting everything, and you 
 breaking your thread, Hildred, and going on like 
 that. I'm ashamed of you.' 
 
 Hildred did look so pale for a time after this, 
 that I saw Martha was right in part, and that I 
 ought not to have spoken when there was nothing 
 real to tell. She was rough-spoken, was poor 
 Martha, but she was a just woman. No one ever 
 could have a better neighbour, as we proved that 
 next winter. 
 
 It was a hard winter. The snow came early, 
 and lay long ; the river, for the first time in many 
 years, was frozen over. I suppose I noticed the 
 cold more for my father's sake. All the autumn 
 he had been ailing, but he would not give in as 
 long as he could keep about. When Christmas 
 came he was lying between life and death in a 
 rheumatic fever. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 219 
 
 We never thought he would see another spring, 
 but somehow he struggled through It, and by March 
 he was downstairs again, changed, and aged, and 
 bent, but still a wonder, even to the doctor him- 
 self. 
 
 Martha Clifford and Hildred nursed him as if 
 they had been daughters of his own, and he was 
 ' ill to nurse,' as the old women say. Martha never 
 got a word of thanks from him for all her goodness, 
 but sometimes he laid his hand kindly on Hildred's 
 head, and smiled at her. 
 
 It was pretty to see her trying to cheer him as 
 he sat, hour after hour, with his eyes fixed gloomily 
 on the fire, beating his stick slowly on the floor 
 and saying nothing. It was a hard thing for him 
 to believe, what his stiff aching limbs yet told him 
 too plainly, that he would never be fit for any 
 work again. Hildred did not lose patience, even 
 with his darkest moods. Perhaps she guessed that 
 they were darker still whenever she was away from 
 him. 
 
 One wet blowy evening in that same month of 
 March, I chanced to be kept much later than usual 
 at Furzy Nook. Long before I got home it had 
 grown dark, though I made as much haste as I 
 could, thinking that my father's fire would have 
 
220 THE STORY OF 
 
 gone out, and that he would be tired of being by 
 himself. 
 
 But when I lifted the latch, the fire-light was 
 shining cheerfully through the room, and Hildred 
 sat on the wooden stool at my father's feet. I re- 
 member standing still for a moment to watch them. 
 My father's head was bent down, and he was talk- 
 ing to her. Hildred sat looking up at him, her 
 chin on her hand, and the fire lighted both their 
 faces. 
 
 It looked so comfortable to see her there — so 
 comfortable and homelike, sitting beside our fire, 
 and keeping my father company. If I had known 
 that I should find her when I came in from the 
 stormy darkness, she, whom once I used to fancy 
 would be always there with us ! 
 
 My father looked round as I came in, but Hil- 
 dred's face was turned away from me, and she did 
 not see me. She gave a great start and stood up 
 hurriedly when I touched her shoulder. 
 
 * Did I frighten you } ' I said ; ' you ought to have 
 gone home, Hildred, before it came on to rain like 
 this.' 
 
 ' Does it rain } ' she asked, without looking up. 
 
 The wind answered her, as it dashed the rain in 
 a noisy gust against the window. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 221 
 
 *You will get wet,' I said, watching her putting 
 on her cloak and hood. 
 
 ' I don't mind. I only waited because your 
 father was alone, and I didn't like to leave him. I 
 must go home now.' 
 
 ' Thank you, my dear,' my father said. ' I wish 
 you had not got to go home, but that you could 
 stay here with us always.' 
 
 It was my father's way to say things like that to 
 Hildred. They were hard to bear — hard to be re- 
 minded of what might have been — hard to listen 
 to, and to say nothing. 
 
 I must let her go out now into the rainy dark- 
 ness. I could never keep her — never — safe sheltered 
 in the warmest corner of our fireside. 
 
 As my father spoke, Hildred bent down, still 
 hurriedly, to bid him good night. He kept her 
 hand, and said, ' Hildred, lass, will you come home 
 here, and stay for always ? Will you be my 
 daughter ? ' 
 
 I took a step forward and laid my hand on 
 Hildred's arm to draw her back. What was my 
 father saying } He looked up at me and did not 
 let go her hand. * No one has been so faithful to 
 you as he has. Won't you let him bring you home 
 at last .? ' 
 
222 THE STORY OF 
 
 Hildred could scarcely have heard the last words. 
 The door closed behind her almost before they 
 were spoken. I did not try to follow her, though 
 she had gone out alone into the storm. I saw her 
 put her hands over her face as she went out, to 
 hide her tears. 
 
 ' Father, what have you done 1 * 
 
 He had taken up his pipe and was lighting it 
 slowly. It seemed strange that he should look at 
 me so quietly in my great doubt and pain. 
 
 * No harm, lad, no harm. I should be glad to see 
 you comfortable with her before I die.' 
 
 ' Comfortable ! With Hildred ! ' 
 
 * Ay, with my little Hildred. She's a good 
 girl, and she'd make a good wife. Besides, I've 
 always said as how it's lonesome without a woman 
 about the house.' 
 
 I tried to speak quietly. * Were you talking 
 about me when I came home 1 ' 
 
 The pipe was alight now. He never could be 
 got to talk when he was smoking. He just answered 
 *Yes,' and no more. 
 
 * You didn't tell her all I once told you } ' 
 
 * Why not } I've a mind to bring you and her 
 together.* 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 223 
 
 * Father/ I said, ' you have forgotten Cuthbcrt 
 and my promise.' 
 
 He made no reply for a few minutes, and then, 
 as, he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, he said, 
 
 * Cuthbert's dead.' 
 
 I leant my head down upon my arm, without 
 the heart to-night to go over the old ground. 
 
 * Well ! ' said my father at last, when the pipe 
 was out and the fire had almost smouldered away. 
 
 I shook my head. * Cuthbert trusted me, and 
 after all he may be living yet.' 
 
 ' Not he.' He took his stick, and as he got 
 up slowly from his arm-chair to go to bed, he 
 added, * You should think a bit of Hildred, too, 
 Willie.' 
 
 'Of Hildred!' 
 
 * She gave Cuthbert up for dead long ago, and 
 she sees you mostly every day.' 
 
 With that he went upstairs, leaning on my 
 shoulder, and would not say another word except 
 
 * Good night.' 
 
 Good night ! as if I could sleep with all this in 
 my mind. Then Hildred knew now how I loved 
 her, not as Cuthbert's brother, not as her old play- 
 fellow, but with a love as strong, as deep, longer 
 far than his had been. 
 
224 THE STORY OF 
 
 And she ? Until now, whenever I believed, as 
 sometimes I did, that Cuthbert was dead, my 
 only thought had been that at some time in 
 the years to come, when we knew all for certain, 
 I might comfort her — that she might get to care 
 for me, not as she had cared for her first love, 
 but gradually a little, because I loved her so 
 much, and so that she might grow at last to be 
 content. 
 
 And now to be told, as my father had told me to- 
 night, that I ought to think of Hildred's happiness. 
 Was it possible that her happiness could depend the 
 least on me t Could it be that her hope of seeing 
 Cuthbert again was gone, and that her love had 
 faded with her hope 1 She was so young — 
 scarcely eighteen — when he left her. Her gentle 
 nature was not made to stand alone. It might be 
 that in its loneliness her heart had turned, without 
 her knowing it, to the guardian who strove so hard 
 to hide his love for her. 
 
 The rain was still pattering against the window, 
 and the wind blew in gusts through the ruins, but I 
 took no heed of the storm. I was happy. I 
 think that hour, sitting alone In the chimney-corner, 
 while the last sparks were dying out of the peat 
 fire, was the happiest of all my life. For I only 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 225 
 
 thought of Hildred, of how perhaps some day she- 
 would come and turn all my life into brightness. 
 I had never dreamed, since Cuthbert went away, 
 that she could ever care for me, and now what a 
 dream it was ! I remember it because it never 
 came to me again, because I woke suddenly and the 
 dream was gone. I do not know where it took mc, 
 or how long it lasted, but in it Hildred was my own. 
 We were together. Then suddenly it seemed as if 
 Cuthbert stood before me, and I could not meet his 
 eyes, full of a grave reproach as he looked from me 
 to Hildred. 
 
 My promise ! I got up and paced the room with 
 rapid steps — that cruel promise. Was I never to be 
 free from it } All my life was it to drag me back 
 from happiness and bind me fast in misery } If it 
 was broken, what worse could come of it than this ? 
 It would not haunt me any longer then. No one 
 would reproach me — no one would suffer by it. At 
 all events I must take my chance of that. A 
 broken promise ! Why, it was not fit to weigh for a 
 moment against the happiness of two whole lives. 
 I should forget it, I must, surely in a little while ; if 
 not, who cared } 
 
 A whole storm of dark thoughts came sweeping 
 over me ; thoughts that I cannot recall even nov/ 
 
 Q 
 
226 THE STORY OF 
 
 without a shudder — anger against Cuthbert — bitter 
 rebellion against my fate — a mocking contempt for 
 myself that I had kept the promise sacred hitherto. 
 What promise ever held true ? I thought. Master 
 Caleb's old puzzle came back to me, — how the cup 
 of water that was given in Christ's name was in no 
 wise to lose its reward ; yet it had caused my 
 mother's death, and following step by step, from that 
 one act came all my troubles. That had proved 
 false then, like all the rest, false as I was myself 
 Did it prove false t The very saying of the holy 
 Name — the sacred words — the remembrance of 
 my mother's trustful face — of Dorothy's quietly- 
 spoken confidence — all this calmed me, and in the 
 black darkness I fell suddenly on my knees, and 
 said — 
 
 ^ Oh, Mother's God, who wert to her a sure refuge, 
 come now and help me ! ' 
 
 As I prayed, a strange feeling came upon me 
 that my prayer rose up even into the presence of a 
 merciful listening God. The storm did not cease, 
 the trouble was not rolled away, but there came a 
 little rift into the dark clouds over me, a little 
 speck of light shone through the blackness, as if a 
 voice said, ' Oh, thou poor soul, be comforted ; I will 
 help thee ! * 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 227 
 
 I think that was my first real prayer. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. The storm had quite 
 passed over before the sun rose, and the grass 
 sparkled with silver rain-drops. The river swept 
 past beneath, with a fuller flow; the robins made 
 the air bright with their merriment, rejoicing that, 
 as they hopped from twig to twig, they shook 
 down showers of lazy brilliant drops from off the 
 boughs. 
 
 It seemed strange that such a storm could pass, 
 and leave no deeper traces behind. 
 
 Over my life, too, a storm had come last night, 
 but it was followed by no sunny morning. I was 
 quieter, however, for my mind was made up. Weary 
 with much thinking I put off until the afternoon 
 that which I felt I ought to say to Hildred. 
 
 She, and Clifford's two boys, Robin and Walter, 
 walked home together after church, and little Jock 
 and Phillis were with me. As we passed under 
 the yew tree, I asked Hildred to stay with me for 
 a few minutes. The children went on, and Hildred 
 and I were both silent, listening to their merry voices 
 as they died away. I did not know what to say 
 first. — At last I asked her abruptly, if she remem- 
 bered how Cuthbert bade her good-bye here. 
 
 She said yes, she remembered it quite well. 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 THE STORY OF 
 
 I took her hand and said — I know my voice was 
 trembling — ' You have not forgotten him ! ' 
 
 * Oh no,' she answered ; ' poor Cuthbert ! ' 
 
 * Sister ! ' — I had never called her by that name 
 before — ' when he went away he left you to me to 
 take care of, and he asked me to talk about him to 
 you, that you never might forget him. We have 
 not spoken of him lately as often as we used, but it 
 has not made any difference. If he were to come 
 back he would find us just the same/ 
 
 She was silent. 
 'Eh, Hildred.?' 
 
 ' I shall always remember him,' she said in a low 
 voice. 
 
 ' And watch for his coming back ?' 
 
 * Oh Willie, poor Cuthbert is dead.' 
 
 ' Don't say that, Hildred — don't think it. I know 
 that every one here believes it, but I don't. Some 
 day we shall see him again.' 
 
 She sat down on the bank, with her hands, which 
 she had clasped together, lying listlessly in her 
 lap. I saw she did not share in my belief, and 
 when I repeated * He will come back to you,' she 
 only shook her head. 
 
 * But at least' — I asked the question almost in a 
 whisper — ' at least you love him the same as ever } ' 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 229 
 
 ' It all seems so long ago/ she said, simply. 
 
 I turned away, angry with myself that the words 
 gave me such a thrill of pleasure — almost angry 
 wuth her for making me unfaithful. We were both 
 false to him, for I had let her forget him. 
 
 * Oh Hildred,' I said, not speaking as I felt, ' and 
 he loved you so dearly.' 
 
 My voice must have been very reproachful, 
 though in truth the reproach was against myself, 
 not against her, poor child. The tears came into 
 her eyes, but she only repeated what she had said 
 before : ' It does seem so very long ago.' 
 
 I did not know how to go on. For a time 
 neither of us spoke. At last she said, * Is it very 
 wrong of me t ' 
 
 ^ Wrong, Hildred ! no,' I answered sadly. * You 
 were so young when he left you, that I suppose it 
 was too hard for you to remember. Only, how 
 could we meet him if he came back .''' 
 
 She looked frightened. ' You don't really think 
 he will.' 
 
 * God only can tell that — we must do everything 
 as if we expected him. I know that if he were 
 here it would be all right ; you w^ould only need to 
 see him again. But Hildred * — I had come now to 
 the most difficult thing I had to say, — ' Hildred, 
 
i3o THE STORY OF 
 
 my father told you, last night, something about me, 
 that I never meant you to hear. It must be, for 
 both of us, as if it had never been told.' 
 
 * Is it true ? ' she asked, without looking up. 
 
 * Yes.' 
 
 After a little while I said, ' Don't let it come 
 between us. Let me be your brother still, and 
 Cuthbert's.' 
 
 Hildred tried to say, * Thank you,' Her tears 
 were falling down slowly upon the clasped hands 
 in her lap. 
 
 * Don't cry, dear, don't be sorry.' 
 
 * You have been so good to me,' she whispered. 
 They were very simple words. I don't quite 
 
 know how it was, that I knew from them that she 
 had grown to love me. I bent down, pressing my 
 hands tightly together to force back the rising 
 words. 
 
 Hildred that saw it was hard for me. She touched 
 my arm with her hand, saying softly, * Never 
 mind me, Willie ; I will try to be very good.' But 
 her voice failed again, and she drew a long sobbing 
 sigh. * Oh, I am so tired — so tired of being un- 
 happy.' 
 
 Harder still then — too hard. She was not made 
 to bear trouble, but to be loved and taken care of. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 231 
 
 She scarcely seemed to understand now, why I 
 could not comfort her as I always had hitherto. 
 
 The longing to take her home and try to make 
 her happy, was stronger than I could bear. I 
 could not be faithful to Cuthbert any longer. He 
 was dead — again and again some voice whispered it 
 in my ear. I believed it at last. He was dead, 
 and he would never know. My first duty was to 
 Hildred, for surely time and death had released 
 me from my promise, and I knew now that she 
 cared for me more than she had ever cared for 
 him. 
 
 I knelt down beside her. I began to speak. 
 What saved me } I scarcely know. Suddenly, 
 far off in the evening stillness, some one began to 
 whistle. My thoughts flew back to Cuthbert. 
 
 I went away from Hildred and leant over the 
 wall, with my head resting on my arms. It was 
 last night's battle over again, but harder, inasmuch 
 as I knew Hildred's feeling now. I felt that upon 
 my doing right depended more than the happiness 
 of her life and of my own. I have heard that men 
 have two angels, an evil and a good, who follow 
 them through life. It seemed to me that they were 
 both beside me then. But the good angel's shining 
 eyes were growing sorrowful and dim, and the 
 
232 THE STORY OF 
 
 other (oh, why did it take a shape Hke Hildred's to 
 tempt me) put out a hand to draw me nearer. 
 Almost in despair I tried to pray. Those words — 
 earliest learnt, and most familiar in all the world — 
 the blessed words of Our Lord's Prayer, with its 
 petition to be delivered from evil and temptation, 
 came to my lips, and I repeated them. 
 
 Just then — it seems but a small thing — thewhistle 
 sounded again nearer at hand. Loud and clear 
 came to my ears, Cuthbert's favourite old tune 
 ' Over the hills and far away.' In a second it 
 brought him before me, not as the distant soldier 
 we had thought of as dead — not as Hildred's lover — 
 but as my own boy-brother, the dear old Cuthbert of 
 our happy days. All my love for him rushed back. 
 I thought how unfaithful I had been to him, and 
 my tears fell like rain down on the old wall. 
 
 So help had come. A second time God's mercy 
 won the battle for me, even against myself. 
 
 After a time I went back to Hildred and took 
 her hand. I cannot tell you what I said to her, 
 but I wondered at myself for being able to speak 
 so quietly. I told her how I had loved her all her 
 life — not many words about that, for I had found 
 that I could not trust myself, but I reminded her 
 of the trust we held together, and that Cuthbert 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 233 
 
 had left his heart fearlessly in her hands and mine. 
 And I said, ' We must not fail him. To be true 
 and faithful will be better for you, and happier too, 
 dear, in the end.' 
 
 Hildred took her hand from mine, but she did 
 not speak. Only, when I had said all I could, 
 she whispered, ' Good-bye, Willie,' and turned to 
 go away. 
 
 ' Hildred, you understand me,' I could not help 
 saying. She looked back, trying hard to smile, but 
 her lips quivered sadly. She said, ' I am sure you 
 know best, Willie.' 
 
 And then she left me. 
 
 In the years that I have led a wandering life, it 
 has been my fate to hear many stories told. From 
 wayfaring men, whose path has led them for a time 
 to journey with me — from travelled folk — from old 
 people, to whom (as after this you will know well) 
 the memory of their youth and the sound of their 
 own voices is ever dear — from young ones full of 
 themselves and of the world, that is still new 
 to them — from all these I have heard many a tale. 
 
 In the summer twilight, when the stars are 
 brightening — on lonesome roads where there is 
 little to speak of or to look for, except the mile- 
 
234 THE STORY OF 
 
 stones — In crowded towns, I have listened to story 
 after story. Oftenest of all, beside some friendly 
 fire-side, on a winter's night such as this is. The 
 best stories come out then, the longest and the 
 strangest, sometimes the saddest. I have been 
 reckoned a good listener In my day. It Is not easy 
 to be weary, hearing of human hopes and fears, 
 of human hearts and troubles. 
 
 But what I wanted to say just now is this : I 
 have seen that the best story-tellers, those that get 
 the most rapt listeners, put a great deal of change 
 into what they tell. They are fond of passing 
 suddenly from one thing to another, a sad bit, 
 then a bright bit — a sunny day and then a stormy 
 night. They make you cry one minute, and the 
 next you are laughing with them. And so they 
 go on, black and white, light and shade, for ever. 
 I hope you will forgive me that I do not know how 
 to do this. It must be the right thing in a story, 
 since It succeeds so well, but I cannot see that It is 
 thus in nature. The sunshine and the shadow do not 
 fall by rule, one following the other. They come 
 and go at will. Sometimes a whole day's journey 
 lies under an overcast sky, at others scarcely a 
 cloud comes across the sun from its rising to its 
 setting. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 235 
 
 I would weave my story willingly after this 
 chequered pattern if I could, but it is told in sober 
 earnest, and I must just go on in my own fashion 
 to the end, which is not so far off now. 
 
 My father did not know what to make of it when 
 nothing came of what he had said to Hildred, and 
 all went on seemingly much as usual. 
 
 According to his custom he asked no questions, 
 only gave sundry vexed impatient looks at the 
 door, and at Martha Clifford, when for several days 
 she came in alone to wait on him. On her part 
 she went about with pursed-up lips and a heavy 
 step, setting things to rights with a sort of fling, 
 meant to show that in some way she felt herself to 
 be ill-used. 
 
 * Ah,' she began at last, seeing as she came in, 
 that my father's eyes, as usual, looked beyond her 
 in the hope of seeing Hildred following, * I see well 
 enough what you are after, neighbour Lisle. But 
 I don't mean to put up with it any longer, that I 
 don't.' 
 
 * What'll she be at now V asked my father, look- 
 ing up at me. 
 
 * Willie knows right well. I told him how It would 
 be if he went on- about Cuthbert Franklyn any 
 longer, talking to Hildred and scaring her. There's 
 
2Z^ THE STORY OF 
 
 the girl been crying all night : Phillis heard her. 
 But there'll be an end to it all, for I am going to 
 send her away to her aunt in Morechester. She'll 
 be left in peace there, at all events.' 
 
 Martha kept her word. Prayers and promises 
 availed nothing. She sent Hildred to More- 
 chester, to be shut up all through the bright 
 summer in a hot town, in rooms above a shop. 
 Her aunt, a good woman enough I believe, lived in 
 cne of those quaint old houses in the market-place, 
 that had a carved wooden gallery running round it, 
 and a high-pitched roof with a gilt weathercock at 
 the top. 
 
 They told me Hildred was content to be there. 
 On market days I used to see her standing in 
 the old-fashioned bow-window, watching the busy 
 scene round the Cross — watching perhaps, I 
 thought, for me. It was the moment in each 
 week I lived for. They would not let me go and 
 see her. 
 
 She always had a bright colour, and a smile 
 when I caught sight of her, but even from that 
 distance I could see that she was growing thin. 
 
 They left her there for many months, poor child, 
 till long after the summer days were gone. Late in 
 autumn Matt Clifford's heart smote him at her 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 237 
 
 wistful face, as he was bidding her good-bye (Mie 
 day, and he brought her home. 
 
 Martha talked and scolded, blamed Hildrcd for 
 looking ill, Matt for giving in to her when it was 
 not for her real good, and me, for meaning, as of 
 course I did, to begin again doing all I could to- 
 wards wearing Hildred into her grave. 
 
 Clifford — I had never liked him so well — came 
 and spoke to me himself, in a manly, straightforward 
 way, and Avith a fairness that gave double weight 
 to all his words. Hildred had no one but him and 
 his wife, belonging to her, he said. He stood in 
 her father's place, and wished to do his duty by her 
 the same as if she was one of his own children. If 
 he spoke now it was because he thought that it was 
 right he should, not because he cared to meddle 
 and make ; * as you know well enough, Will,' he 
 added with a half smile, ' seeing how many years I 
 have let things be and have said nothing either 
 way.' * He was sure,' he went on, * that I had 
 meant to do rightly by Hildred and Cuthbert both. 
 As far as he could see, I could have done nothing 
 but wait to see if Cuthbert w^ould come home. 
 When a man gave his word, why, he must stick to 
 it. But there was an end to everything : the living 
 ought not to suffer for the dead. To his mind it 
 
238 THE STORY OF 
 
 was time now to think a little more of Hildred. 
 * For betwixt you both,' said Clifford, looking up 
 again with his grave smile, ' she is getting wasted to 
 a shadow. What with Cuthbert's going away, 
 and never sending a word home, and with your 
 not letting her believe — as they tell me — that 
 Cuthbert is dead and gone, what with all this, 
 there'll be naught left of her soon. I tell you where 
 it is. Will : I want to have her forget ; if he's dead, 
 fretting won't bring him back ; if so be as he's alive, 
 you'll never make me think he couldn't have sent 
 so much as a line home to his sweetheart in these 
 many years. I don't want to think so badly of him/ 
 said Clifford ' as that he's living still.* 
 
 ' Did you never think he might have been made 
 prisoner .'' ' I asked. 
 
 ' I never think anything, but that he was killed, 
 as David Moore told us. Hearing that, you are 
 set free concerning any word you passed to him. 
 That being so, I ask you now what you are going 
 to do.' 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 *■ I should have no call to speak,' Clifford went on 
 frankly, * no call whatsoever, if Hildred had not 
 been told by your father that you had been partial 
 to her yourself, as long ago as before Cuthbert went. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 239 
 
 Maybe It was no business of his to tell — that I 
 must leave — but as she knows it, for my wife had 
 it from your father himself (Hildred never spoke a 
 word), how can we look for her to settle down, 
 seeing you every day ? ' 
 
 ' What is it you would have me do ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' I don't want you to marry the girl, mind,' said 
 her brother, with a sort of pride for her in his voice. 
 * I don't want her to marry anybody, God bless her, 
 unless she likes. As long as I am spared she has 
 a home with me, and welcome. But I should wish 
 to say to her — if so it is to be — that she needn't 
 think any more of either you or him. She's but 
 young yet, and my hope is that she'll turn her mind 
 to some one else, after a bit. Still, I seem to feel 
 vexed for you, Will. You are very fond of her, and 
 I think, though she doesn't say a word, that she's 
 very fond of you. It seems as though it were a 
 pity to waste your two lives just for what I call 
 an idea.' 
 
 * Will you give me a little time to think it over ? ' 
 I asked, more perplexed than I had ever been 
 before. 
 
 ' To be sure,' he said heartily. ' I don't require 
 you to do aught in haste. But consider that here's 
 Christmas a-coming round again, and it'll be two 
 
240 THE STORY OF 
 
 years come Christmas Day since we heard for certain 
 that Cuthbert was dead. It don't seem hkely,' and 
 Matt grew quite warm, * it don't seem natural that 
 he'd never have sent home a hne — being in Hfe — 
 just to say " Don't mourn along o' me, dear friends, 
 for I'm above ground yet." That's how I look at 
 it' 
 
 It is no good telling you all I thought. There 
 has been too much about my thoughts already. I 
 had striven so long to keep the balance even ; it 
 needed but a feather-weight to make it tremble now. 
 Clifford's reasoning — Hildred's forced smiles — 
 the thought that it was possible, after all that 
 had come and gone, that she could ever turn her 
 mind to some one else, some happy man who would 
 be free to woo her, and would win her heart at last 
 — these were not feather-weights. The length of 
 time did make some difference too. Cuthbert himself 
 would surely say that I had waited long enough 
 honestly to fulfil his trust. I pondered over my 
 answer to Matt's question for a whole month. At 
 the end the balance was not even any longer. 
 
 There was one chance left of my getting good 
 advice, for Master Caleb Morton was coming to 
 spend the Christmas holidays at Furzy Nook. All 
 my hopes were fixed on asking his counsel. We 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 24 r 
 
 had not met since the beginning of all my troubles, 
 more than four years ago. 
 
 Well, he came, and what was more, his wife and 
 Mrs. Janet came with him. Such a welcome as they 
 got from all Wyncliffe ! It was a long while before 
 I could get a quiet time to tell my story. 
 
 * There are no two ways about it,' said Mrs. 
 Janet. She was the first to break a long silence, 
 after all was told. She stood, knitting-needles in 
 hand, working vigorously while she talked. ' There 
 are no two ways about it. It is Willie's duty to 
 marry Hildred Clifford. The thing is beyond a 
 doubt. Young Franklyn, we are positively told, is 
 long since dead. Therefore Willie is at liberty, 
 and I say, bound, to marry the girl he loves, and 
 who loves him. That's clear enough.' 
 
 ' You think so, Janet t ' said her brother thought- 
 fully. 
 
 ' To be sure I do. The thing is as plain as a 
 pike-staff.' 
 
 * I wish I could be as sure of it as you are.' 
 'Why, it's common sense. Willie will see it 
 
 himself, and make up his mind, now that it is put 
 before him properly — that is, if he is as sensible 
 as he ought to be after the learning he got from 
 you.* 
 
 R 
 
242 THE STORY OF 
 
 ' But I haven't made up my own mind/ said my 
 dear old master. 
 
 • Brother, I am surprised at you. What would 
 you have .'' You can't keep faith with a dead man, 
 and I'm sure he wouldn't wish it himself. Cuth- 
 bert Franklyn was an open-hearted generous lad, 
 when I remember him, and would have been the 
 last to stand in the way of Willie's welfare. No, 
 Willie's present duty is to make little Hildred 
 Clifford happy, not to keep a fanciful promise that 
 had much better never have been made at all.' 
 
 * I protest I think Janet is right,' said Master 
 Caleb. * I do indeed. The more I think of it the 
 more sensible it seems.' 
 
 They went on strengthening each other in the 
 opinion they had formed, while I listened with a 
 beating heart, hearing Mrs. Janet assert, and my 
 master agree with her, that it was my bounden 
 duty to set aside the past. The turning of the 
 tide had come at length. 
 
 I looked towards Dorothy, sitting somewhat 
 apart beside the fire. She had not spoken, but 
 once or twice had raised her eyes quickly from 
 her work. Latterly she had laid it down on 
 her lap, as if to listen more carefully, and was 
 looking thoughtfully from one to the other as they 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 243 
 
 spoke. Master Caleb followed the direction of my 
 eyes. 
 
 * Do you want to know what she thinks ? ' he 
 said, brightening up. 
 
 * If she would be so kind.' 
 
 * Dorothy,' he called. She came nearer and laid 
 her hand on his shoulder. 'Willie wants your 
 advice, and your help Dorothy.' 
 
 She hesitated a little, and looked at Mrs. Janet, 
 who nodded to her, and said — 
 
 * Well, speak up child ! ' 
 
 * But Janet must know so much better than I 
 do,' Dorothy began. 
 
 * Bless me ! ' Mrs. Janet broke in. * Why, you 
 are not going to say Dorothy, child, that you don't 
 think of it as I do.' 
 
 * I thought,' Dorothy began again, and then 
 stopped. 
 
 * There can be no two ways about it,' said Mrs. 
 Janet, knitting faster. 
 
 ' Go on, Dorothy,' said her husband watching 
 her. 
 
 * I don't like seeming to set myself up against 
 Janet,' she said, with her frank smile. 
 
 ' Is that all } ' Mrs. Janet patted her shoulder. 
 * Always know your mind, my dear, and speak it. 
 
 R2 
 
244 THE STORY OF 
 
 I am going into the window to turn the heel of my 
 stocking, and I shan't hear you. So say your say, 
 child, and don't think of me — not that there can be 
 two ways about it, all the same, you know.' 
 
 Dorothy turned round to me quickly. 'You 
 want to know what I think } ' 
 
 I said if she pleased I did indeed. 
 
 ' Then, Willie, remember Cuthbert's trust in you, 
 remember your promise, and help Hildred to keep 
 hers.' 
 
 There was a short silence. 
 
 ' You know there is every reason to believe 
 Cuthbert Franklyn to be dead,' said Master Caleb, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 * I know it ; we cannot tell. It may be so — God 
 alone knows. That question is in His hands not 
 ours. But is Willie set free from the solemn word 
 he gave .-* Can he marry Hildred now, and yet feel 
 that he is faithful to the trust he took upon him, 
 and true to the friend who left all he cared for, 
 without a fear, in his keeping "i Willie,* she went 
 on, * it is very hard for you, a long hard trial and 
 a rough path may lie before you. It may be 
 also that in this world you will never see that you 
 were right. Perhaps at the close of your life you 
 will say, " Well, all these years I might have 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 245 
 
 been happy, and only for a doubt I have been 
 lonely all my life." But I think even then you v/ill 
 not grudge the long struggle or the lonely years, 
 and that you will draw near to your end more 
 peacefully, for having tried to do your duty to the 
 uttermost and to be ** faithful unto death." ' 
 
 I bent my head down lower and lower as she 
 spoke. I was ashamed to raise it up. Her words 
 had swept away the mists that had seemed to be 
 rising round me and confusing me. The right was 
 growing clear once more. The bright haze that had 
 dazzled my weak eyes was passing away, and my 
 duty stood stern and plain again before me. 
 
 I could not speak, but stood before her with my 
 eyes bent on the ground. 
 
 * It was for Hildred's sake he doubted,' said my 
 kind master, almost pleadingly. 
 
 * I know it,' she answered very softly. ' I know 
 it was ; but Hildred will be glad too, some day, 
 that Willie has guarded her even against herself 
 He must find strength for her also. It seems 
 to me that there could be for them no true content 
 or rest, for the shadow of a trust betrayed and of 
 a broken word would stand between them, and 
 day by day the cloud of a fear they would not dare 
 to speak of would darken over their lives.' 
 
246 THE STORY OF 
 
 There was silence all through the room. No 
 one answered. My master still sat half-turned 
 and looking up at her. Mrs. Janet had left the 
 window and was facing us. Her hands were held 
 in the attitude of knitting, but the needles did not 
 move, nor did she try to speak. I saw them all 
 without knowing that I looked. At last Mistress 
 Dorothy spoke again. 
 
 * Willie,' she said — the colour had flushed into her 
 face, and its earnestness made her beautiful to 
 look at — ' Willie, not to every one is granted the 
 opportunity of a great self-sacrifice. If God has 
 willed that your path should be very difficult, do 
 not be afraid to walk in it, for He will surely help you. 
 Do not think so much of what you may do, as of 
 what you can do — of what you can give up at His 
 call. Choose the highest, for it will lead you nearer 
 to Him. I am a weak woman. I know I should 
 not be strong enough to walk in your hard path ; 
 but Willie ' — she came near to me and took my 
 hand, — ' hitherto you have been so noble and so 
 true. Brave heart, be faithful to the end.' 
 
 The kind words, so unlooked for, so undeserved, 
 came too suddenly upon me. I had so nearly 
 failed, and she said this. I kissed her hand — 
 
 When I looked up again, the tears were raining 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 247 
 
 down her face, Master Caleb's eyes were shaded 
 by his hand, and Mrs. Janet was in the window, 
 standing with her back to us. 
 
 They say that to every cloud there is a silver 
 lining. I was very sure that there were clouds 
 on my horizon, but not quite so certain about 
 the silver lining. If there was one at all, it must 
 have been Jock Clifford. 
 
 For when you are in trouble there is a great 
 deal of comfort to be got out of a child's affection. 
 
 In those days, after Matt Clifford had received 
 my answer to his question in cold silence — when 
 Martha would not let Hildred go near our house, 
 and had forbidden her, as nearly as she could, to 
 speak to me — when my father never opened his 
 lips but to complain of me, I fell back with a 
 singular feeling of refreshment and consolation, on 
 my one staunch friend Jock. 
 
 He had been my shadow ever since, some nine 
 or ten years ago, he began to stand alone on his 
 sturdy little legs. Robin and Walter, his twin 
 elder brothers, had no time to notice him. They 
 were absorbed in a never-ending struggle, which of 
 them should have the upper hand — a struggle that 
 had begun as long ago as when, two red-faced 
 babies, they lay heads and tails in the same cradle. 
 
248 THE STORY OF 
 
 It never seemed likely to be settled in their lifetime, 
 and it made them very quarrelsome, and quite 
 inseparable. 
 
 So Jock, left to himself, bestowed all his com- 
 pany upon me. When one is in disgrace with well 
 nigh all the world — and very few people made up 
 ^ all the world ' to me, — it is at all events something 
 to have a friend left, in whose eyes the idea of 
 your doing anything wrong is a matter of simple 
 impossibility — it is something, even though the 
 friend be only eleven years old. 
 
 Jock was no half-hearted champion. He had 
 found that he could make his mother pinch up her 
 lips and raise her eyebrows, merely by praising me. 
 So he talked of me incessantly, partly for love of 
 me, and partly to use this his newly-gotten power. 
 He was somewhat pleased too, only half offended, 
 at Aunt Hildred frequently giving him kisses and 
 lumps of barley sugar, behind the door. 
 
 Knowing that I was not very welcome to any 
 one else, I fell, in my down-heartedness, rather an 
 easy prey to Jock's overflowing life and glee, and 
 he led me hither and thither, that spring, pretty 
 nearly as he would. Neither work nor play came 
 amiss to him. Ratting, rook-shooting and rabbit- 
 snaring Jock's soul delighted in — most of all, per- 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 249 
 
 haps, helping me to fish the trout stream that ran 
 under the Castle walls. 
 
 No wonder he liked it. My own troubles seemed 
 to fade away, as I laid the line lightly across the 
 stream. Ah, those spring days, when the * March 
 brown ' was on the water, how fair they were ! A 
 bluff wind came singing up the valley, crisping the 
 clear brown water and crowning each little wave 
 with silver ripples; a soft pearly sky, with now 
 and then a dash of pale spring sunshine that lighted 
 up woods and stream, and showed how the red 
 buds were bursting into leaf, and a tender shining 
 green, was beginning to clothe the alder trees. 
 
 My eyes, and Jock's, were fastened on to the 
 water. I felt, rather than saw, that spring's soft 
 fingers were at work along the banks ; that a tuft 
 of starry primroses had been nestled into the 
 mossy root of an old willow, and a yellow butter- 
 fly, the first of the year, hung fluttering over them. 
 Farther on a whole bed of violets, purple and white, 
 glittered, fragrance-breathing, on the bank. The 
 wind swept through the boughs merrily, trying in 
 play to tear off the new leaves ; but the stout little 
 things held fast and laughed back, as they were 
 swayed up and down. The whole bright summer 
 was theirs to flutter through, before the wind could 
 
250 THE STORY OF 
 
 claim them as his own ; and the birds and the wind 
 and the sunshine spoke with their hundred tongues, 
 and said, ' Ah, poor mortals ! you may fret, and 
 dispute, and sorrow as you will ; you cannot keep 
 back the summer. It is coming. It is coming.' 
 
 One day that spring I was bidden to a wedding 
 at the Ferry-house; and I went, rejoicing heartily for 
 both bride and bridegroom's sake. If ever I saw a 
 face that beamed with contentment it was the 
 bridegroom's. 
 
 Patience — his best helper — had won the day for 
 him, and Elfrida wedded her faithful suitor at last. 
 For David Moore had come home for good, cured 
 of his love of wandering and fighting, and well 
 pleased to settle down for the rest of his days at 
 the ferry. 
 
 The old people Elfrida had worked for so long 
 wanted her no more. Davy — well, if it be true 
 that clouds have silver linings it is not less so 
 that each rose has its thorn. I thought of that on 
 the wedding day, when the moment came for Elfrida 
 to part with Davy. She was as quiet as usual 
 until then, waiting upon everybody, and looking 
 as if nothing had happened. But when the horse 
 with the pillion on it, stood ready to carry her 
 • home,' Elfrida's heart gave way. She knelt on 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 251 
 
 the ground, hugging Davy to her, kissing his curls, 
 his frock, his little restless hands. Her husband 
 stood waiting for her, compassionate and a little im- 
 patient. Davy himself had one arm round her neck, 
 but his eyes were wandering to the horse, and he 
 was eager to see Elfrida ride away. ' Oh Baby,' 
 she sobbed, going back in her distress to the first 
 name she had loved him by ; ' Won't Baby kiss 
 poor Frida } ' 
 
 Davy looked at her, wondering. He had never 
 seen her cry before. He put the other arm round 
 her neck and kissed her gravely on each cheek. 
 Immediately afterwards he gave her up as a bad 
 job, being quite unable to fathom such a depth of 
 grief as two kisses from him were not sufficient to 
 cure. 
 
 That would be the way with him all his days. 
 He was made, in his careless beauty, to win hearts 
 without trying, to be loved and worshipped and 
 wept over. There would always be plenty of 
 Elfridas thankful to work for him in the shadow, 
 while he walked through life in the sunshine. 
 
 But now her willing slavery was ending. The 
 last words were spoken. The old shoe was thrown 
 after her for luck. The setting sun was turning the 
 river — her old comrade — into a sheet of gold. 
 
252 THE STORY OF 
 
 Elfrida rode away up into the hills behind her 
 goodman, and the ferry-boat knew her no more. 
 
 * Life/ said Martha Clifford musingly, ' is a 
 muddle. Births and deaths — comings and goings — 
 weddings and funerals — the young marry and the 
 old die ; that's the way of the world.' 
 
 She was standing by my father's bedside as 
 she reflected thus. Elfrida's was the wedding that 
 was just past ; my father's the death that it seemed 
 would follow hard upon it. 
 
 He had been failing all the winter ; but now we 
 counted his remaining life by days, nay, it might 
 be, by hours. Martha had softened towards me 
 since he was ' taken,' as she called it, ^ for death.' 
 Both she and Hildred helped to tend him. 
 
 And it came about that, before my father died, 
 even the cause of difference that had been between 
 us was taken away. 
 
 It was but natural that they should blame me 
 for still clinging to such a mere shadow as the 
 hope that Cuthbcrt might be alive. But I thought 
 that it must be God Himself who kept alight in 
 my heart the little spark of faith that no one 
 shared, and that would not be extinguished. Now 
 I know that it was so. 
 
 For I was right after all. At last— at last, he 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 253 
 
 came. One evening, after Martha and Hildred 
 had gone home and I was alone downstairs, I 
 heard the latch move as if some one was trying 
 to lift it with an unsteady hand. Then the door 
 opened, and the sunshine and the shadow fell across 
 the floor — a man's shadow. I looked round care- 
 lessly, for I was not thinking of him then. Other 
 cares — my father's illness and Hildred's presence, 
 had driven him lately out of my mind. He had 
 not been so far from my thoughts for years as lately, 
 when day by day he was coming nearer to me. 
 
 Now, as I was telling you, I saw a shadow cast 
 from the doorway. I turned round. There, on the 
 threshold stood a soldier in a worn greatcoat — a 
 dark man, with the empty sleeve of his right arm 
 fastened across his breast. As I got up, he took off 
 his hat and spoke my name. 
 
 How did we meet .'' I cannot tell. What words 
 does one use after such a parting .'* How can you 
 greet one, come back, as it were, through the grave 
 and gate of death } I only remember hearing my- 
 self say over and over again, ' Cuthbert, Cuthbert.' 
 
 ' You thought that I was dead.' His voice 
 deep and grave, was as the voice of a stranger. 
 
 ^ Never ; I could not believe it; others might, I 
 never did.' 
 
254 THE STORY OF 
 
 ' Faithful old Willie.' He smiled, and then it 
 was Cuthbert again. 
 
 I wanted to push him down into the arm-chair 
 in the chimney-corner, and tried to welcome him 
 in such broken words as I could find. 
 
 Was it very strange that, in the quick rush of joy 
 at seeing his face once more, I forgot Hildred for 
 a moment — forgot all but that my brother had 
 come home } His next words brought all back. 
 He put his hand on my shoulder and said * Hil- 
 dred .'' ' and I felt his grasp tighten as if he tried to 
 steady himself. 
 
 * She is at home, and well.' 
 
 He drew a long breath without speaking, and my 
 words too were checked. 
 
 * I am going to her,' he said next. 
 
 ' Oh Cuthbert, stop — remember. She knows 
 nothing, she has long given you up. It will kill 
 her if you come upon her suddenly.' 
 
 Cuthbert pushed away my hand with a smile. 
 * Joy does not kill,' he said. 
 
 Joy ! I do not know which I thought of at that 
 moment, joy or sorrow, Cuthbert or Hildred, the 
 sudden shock of their meeting to her, or the blow 
 it might bring to him. 
 
 * Let me go to her first,' I said eagerly : * let me 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 255 
 
 tell her.' I do not know what I meant to do. I 
 think I had some wild idea of imploring her to love 
 him. 
 
 Cuthbert looked surprised. ' No, no,' he said, 
 * I want to see her first glad look. Don't keep me.' 
 
 I suppose in my perturbation I was going to 
 follow him, for he stopped and said, * Let me go 
 alone, Will. Dear old fellow, I don't want even 
 you when I first see my Hildred.' 
 
 I let him go — let him go to her whom he called 
 his own. He was right — his, not mine. And I 
 had been so madly glad to see him ! 
 
 Cuthbert wa^ not gone for very long. He came 
 in slowly, came up to me, and — he had not done it 
 since we were little boys together — bent down 
 and kissed me. My heart was beating hard and 
 fast. 
 
 ^ You have seen her t ' 
 
 * Yes' — he sank down wearily into a chair — * I 
 have seen her.' 
 
 ' Well } ' 
 
 ' Well ' — he looked up and smiled rather sadly — 
 ' Well, the joy did not kill her, you see.' 
 ' She was glad ? ' 
 ^ I hope so. I hope so indeed.' 
 
 * What then, Cuthbert } Did she know you } ' 
 
256 THE STORY OF 
 
 He leant down his head on the table, and sud- 
 denly burst into tears. My whole heart went back 
 to him. 
 
 ' Cuthbert — what is it ? ' 
 
 He spoke almost directly. ' I am a worn-out 
 old soldier. I have lost my arm. I am good for 
 nothing now, and I think she was disappointed in 
 me.' 
 
 Oh Cuthbert, whom in my heart I had almost 
 hated just now — true soldier, faithful heart — to see 
 his brave head bent low. He should be happy 
 whatever became of me. 
 
 I told him to be comforted, that all would be 
 well, and by-and-by he began to believe what he 
 so much wished. ' I have looked forward to this 
 for so long,' he said. ' I have had so much hardship 
 and suffering. For two years we were in an Indian 
 prison, and I should not have cared to live, only for 
 the thought that Hildred would grieve for me. And 
 now to see her so changed, so white and strange.' 
 
 ' You frightened her, poor child. Remember that 
 she had long given up the hope of seeing you 
 again.' 
 
 ^ You had not.' 
 
 * Ah, Cuthbert, that was so different.' 
 
 He gave a long sigh. ' Perhaps I had better not 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 2 si 
 
 have come back at all. I had better not have 
 lived.' 
 
 ' But you must live now, for your little Hildred's 
 sake.' I could say it with no sharp pang at my 
 heart. A great peacefulness came over me, like 
 the evening air after a storm. That night, as I 
 sat up alone beside my father's bed, I prayed for 
 Cuthbert and Hildred. For myself I only needed 
 to thank God for His mercy to me. 
 
 It was scarcely light the next morning when 
 Jock's low whistle under the window called me out 
 to him. Hildred had sent him, he said, to tell me 
 to go and speak to her. She was in the chapel, 
 waiting for me. 
 
 Day had not long broken outside. Inside the 
 ruined aisle of the chapel was full of shadows still, 
 but through the great window facing the east we 
 could see the dawn brighten and grow strong. 
 Hildred had chosen a strange place of meeting. 
 Here all told how earthly joy and earthly sorrow 
 vanish and pass away. Beneath our feet, as 
 we trod the broken pavement, were the graves of 
 men whose hopes and fears had long been over; 
 their very names were worn away by the footsteps 
 of later generations. Deep and unbroken seemed 
 the repose of the happy dead. What matter now 
 
 S 
 
258 THE STORY OF 
 
 to them how heavy the cross had been, so that they 
 had won the crown ? What matter how hard and 
 long the battle had been once, so that they had 
 been faithful unto death ? A thrill of awe crossed 
 me as I looked up the solemn aisle in the grey 
 morning light. There too the sculptured angel 
 that in my childhood I used to call my mother, 
 looked down gravely with outstretched wings, as if 
 she were watching over her son in this the crisis of 
 his life. • 
 
 Hildred was there, leaning against an old carved 
 tomb. She was quite white, and her eyes had a 
 scared and weary look as she raised them to me. 
 
 I am afraid that I spoke the more sternly, for the 
 love I felt for her, the great longing I had to take 
 her to my heart and comfort her. 
 
 * Well, Hildred,' I said, gravely, ^you sent for 
 me.' 
 
 ' I was so frightened,' she whispered. ' Oh Willie, 
 tell me what I ought to do.' 
 
 ' Your duty.' 
 
 Just as she used to do when she was a child, she 
 covered her face and shrank down on to the ground. 
 
 ' But it is so hard to do one's duty — so hard.' 
 
 * Oh child,' I answered, from my heart, * it is 
 hard, but God is good.' 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 259 
 
 Then I tried to plead Cuthbert's cause, and to 
 tell her how the remembrance of her had been the 
 one thing he clung to through his dark days of im- 
 prisonment and pain — the one thing, failing which 
 he would have been glad, for very weariness, to lie 
 down and die. 
 
 * If we have failed him — you and I — in these 
 years that he has trusted us — and in my heart I 
 know that I have failed in deed, if not in will — oh 
 Hildred, it is not too late yet. We have time, and 
 Cuthbert trusts us still.' 
 
 ' You never think of anyone but Cuthbert,' said 
 Hildred, impatiently, unknowing how cruel her 
 words sounded. 
 
 * I think of you too, Hildred,' I answered, very 
 sadly. ' I am very sorry for you both.' 
 
 ' Would Cuthbert mind so very much,' asked 
 Hildred, * if he knew how long it was before we 
 gave him up .'' ' 
 
 ' You will never tell him you forgot him,' I said, 
 in terror. 
 
 She was silent. 
 
 * God help him, then. God help us all.' 
 
 Neither of us spoke for many minutes — slow 
 
 minutes that were laden with heavy thoughts. 
 
 s 2 
 
26o THE STORY OF 
 
 At last Hildred looked up to me with a smile 
 that was wonderfully sweet and sad. 
 
 * Willie,' she said, ' I wish I could be as strong as 
 you are.' 
 
 * You can, Hildred. Oh dear Hildred, you will 
 be if you try.' 
 
 * Oh, I am going to try, of course,' she answered, 
 wearily. 
 
 Cuthbert was standing before the door when I 
 went home. We shook hands and went into the 
 house together, but I had a strange feeling all the 
 time, that I did not know what to say to him. 
 Last night I fancied that my battle was all over, 
 and the victory mine once and for ever. This 
 morning it all began over again, and every word 
 that Cuthbert spoke ruffled me. I felt angry with 
 him for speaking cheerily, and gave all my at- 
 tention to lighting the fire. He stood leaning his 
 arm on the chimney-piece, and watching me. 
 
 ' It seems odd to see you doing all the woman's 
 work,' he said. 
 
 I answered shortly that there was no one else to 
 do it. 
 
 * So dear old Granny is gone ? * 
 *Yes, long ago.' 
 
 ' How long } ' 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 261 
 
 ' Oh, two years and more.' 
 
 ' Dear, kind old Granny. She was very good to 
 me.* 
 
 I said nothing. 
 
 ' Do you think your father is getting better.'' he 
 asked presently. 
 
 * No, I don't. He never will be better.' 
 Cuthbert looked down at me in his old kind 
 
 way. 
 
 * Poor old Will, you have had troubles even here 
 at home.' 
 
 * Yes, one doesn't need to go to the wars for 
 that,' I answered. 
 
 'And yet I fancied you all so happy here, 
 except that I thought Hildred must fret about 
 me at times. Did she. Will } ' 
 
 ' Of course. Everybody was uneasy about you.' 
 
 And then I was glad to get away to my father's 
 room. But when I came down Cuthbert would 
 talk of Hildred, and ask questions about her. He 
 seemed to have forgotten the fears he had last 
 night. She had been startled, he said, but it would 
 be all right to-day. And by-and-by he went 
 away to seek her. 
 
 The day passed slowly and heavily. My father 
 lay with his eyes half closed, scarcely noticing any- 
 
262 THE STORY OF 
 
 thing. I did not let Cuthbert see him, for fear of 
 disturbing him, but later in the day, when Hildred 
 and Martha were with him, he heard the strange 
 footstep on the stairs. Cuthbert's step now, sol- 
 dierly and measured, was very unlike the light 
 quick tread my father used to know. It was no 
 remembrance that made him turn his head on 
 the pillow to listen, and then say to Hildred, 
 'Who?' 
 
 I tried to turn his attention away, but the foot- 
 step crossed the room below, and my father re- 
 peated, ' Who is it 1 ' 
 
 ' Cuthbert Franklyn,' Hildred said, quietly. 
 
 'Cuthbert!' There was very little surprise in 
 his voice as he repeated the name. ' Cuthbert ! 
 Bring him here.' 
 
 I went outside the room and called him. I was 
 sorry my father should find out that Cuthbert 
 was there, but I saw in a few minutes that it 
 mattered very little. The small interests of Time, 
 its lights and shadows, were growing faint and dim 
 for the eyes on which Eternity was just about to 
 dawn. 
 
 My father held out his hand feebly when Cuth- 
 bert stood beside his bed. After a minute he 
 looked up at him again, and murmured a few 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 263 
 
 words, too low for any of us to catch distinctly. 
 I believe they were something about fishing, 
 and that his thoughts were wandering back to 
 when Cuthbert was a boy. He did not need an 
 answer. In a few minutes he was lying quietly as 
 before. 
 
 Cuthbert stood for a while at the foot of the bed 
 and then went away. 
 
 It made me feel more than ever that I was alone. 
 ]\Iy father had cared so much about my marrying 
 Hildred ; and now Cuthbert's return, which put 
 an end to that thought for ever, awoke no interest 
 in him. He was neither surprised nor sorry that 
 Cuthbert and Hildred should have been standing 
 together beside his bed. 
 
 Hildred was very quiet. She waited on my 
 father with careful tenderness, and avoided as 
 much as she could speaking to me. When she 
 had done everything for my father, she stood still 
 for a long while looking down at him. Perhaps, 
 like me, she half-envied him his peaceful rest. 
 
 Nearly everybody in the village came up in the 
 course of the day to see Cuthbert. The news of 
 his return had spread far and wide, and his old 
 friends thronged to welcome him, hardly able to 
 believe that he was really the Cuthbert Franklyn 
 
264 THE STORY OF 
 
 they had so long talked of as dead. Everybody 
 wished me joy. 
 
 ^ I'm sure I'm as glad as though it had been a 
 son of my own,' said good old Esther Reynolds. 
 ' I knew how you'd feel, Willie, let alone Hildred. 
 Just at this time too, it seems sent to cheer you up 
 a bit, now your father lies so ill. I said so when I 
 heard the news, and that I must make shift to get 
 up to the Castle and tell Willie Lisle how I thought 
 about him ; for, as I said to my master, the two 
 boys were wonderful fond of each other — more than 
 most real brothers. Now there are my two lads, 
 quarrelled at the fair last Michaelmas, and haven't 
 so much as spoken one to the t'other since.' 
 
 Cuthbert looked at me and I at him, and we 
 held out our hands to each other. Everybody was 
 shaking hands and we were not noticed. As I felt 
 his strong left-handed grasp, something that was 
 like a cloud seemed to roll away from between us. 
 
 * It's all right now, old chap,' he said, low enough 
 for no one but me to hear. 
 
 So it was ' all right ' from that time forth between 
 him and me. But he began by degrees to see 
 that Hildred was changed, and that his fancy the 
 nicrht he had come home was no mistake. 
 
 He was very patient and gentle to her, even 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 265 
 
 wlicn she was the most changeable or cold. He 
 never complained ; only he often sat still without 
 speaking, with a sad look on his face. 
 
 * I must give her time,' he said to me once or 
 twice. * It will come right by-and-by. I have 
 grown strange to her. Will, I sometimes think 
 this is a judgment on me for the selfish way I 
 went and left her when I first enlisted.' 
 
 * You must wait,' I used to say. 
 
 * Oh yes, I will ; I am trying to be very patient, 
 and I believe that she will come back to me in 
 time.' 
 
 I don't think he ever really doubted that. His 
 trust in her, like his love for her, was perfect. 
 
 My father's state was reason enough for settling 
 nothing. We all felt it to be a time of waiting. 
 For myself, I looked forward very little. A 
 merciful kind of lull and calmness had come 
 across my life, as I watched over my father's last 
 days. 
 
 He died as silently as he had lived. I had wished 
 for some spoken word to tell me he was happy, and 
 that the hand of the Good Shepherd was guiding 
 him through the valley of the shadow of death. 
 But it was not so to be. An upward look ; a clasping 
 of the hands ; a deep ' Amen,' uttered at the end of 
 
266 THE STORY OF 
 
 the prayers the vicar offered by his bed ; a smile 
 when the most comforting of all names was spoken 
 to him. Those were the outward signs he gave. 
 
 For the rest, who can tell what was passing in 
 his mind during those silent nights and days ? 
 
 The end came towards morning, after a night of 
 storm and rain. The wind was shaking the lattice 
 windows and moaning round the ruins. We were 
 all gathered about his bed — Cuthbert and I, Matt 
 Clifford and his wife, and Hildred. When, towards 
 midnight, the strange change that even those who 
 have seen little of death know instinctively, began 
 to come across his face Cuthbert went to fetch 
 them. Everyone was quite quiet except poor Hil- 
 dred. She could not keep back her sobs, as she knelt 
 with her face hidden on the side of the bed. 
 
 I saw Cuthbert move round, and without speaking 
 put his hand on her bowed head. 
 
 All seemed unreal and far away to me, except my 
 father's overshadowed face and deep-drawn breath. 
 * He does not know anything,' said Martha Clifford, 
 watching him. 
 
 But as if he somehow felt the coming of the 
 morning, he stirred and opened his eyes, and in 
 a thick indistinct voice he asked the hour. 
 
 I bent over and told him. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 267 
 
 The next moment he said, ' Is it day-break ? * 
 
 No, it was still quite dark ; but a new, bright 
 unearthly smile came over his face. With a 
 thrill of awe and wonder we looked to see it 
 fade 
 
 * It is over,* Martha Clifford said. 
 
 And the smile remained. 
 
 A few days more, and the slow tolling of the 
 church bell called us to go down and lay our 
 dead under the shadow of the grey belfry. 
 
 My father's burial was over, and we had come 
 back to the empty house. All that afternoon I sat 
 by the fire-place in his vacant chair, and tried to 
 think of what I ought to do. 
 
 The house was quite silent, and the door, as usual 
 in summer, stood half open. 
 
 Somehow I fell to thinking of my mother more 
 than of my father. It was just on such a quiet 
 afternoon as this that I came home years ago, after 
 she was dead, and found Cuthbert near the well. I 
 thought of the message Master Caleb brought me 
 from her, bidding me be as a brother to Cuth- 
 bert, and I wondered whether she would still have 
 sent it, if she could have known all that was to 
 follow. What would she have had me do now } 
 
268 THE STORY OF 
 
 The way did not seem clear before me. All my 
 kith and kin were gone. I had seen them carried 
 one by one across the threshold, and had stood by 
 while they were laid to rest in the churchyard down 
 yonder. Mother first ; then the kind old grand- 
 mother, and now my father. I was as much alone 
 as Cuthbert was when he first came to us. The 
 wheel of life had turned round since then, and left 
 me poor. 
 
 Cuthbert stayed with me for some time, sitting 
 in the chair opposite to mine, and trying every 
 now and then, poor fellow, to find something cheer- 
 ing to say to me. But I did not care to talk, so 
 at last he went to the door and let in more sun- 
 shine as he pushed it open ; then he came back to 
 me, and after putting his hand on my shoulder and 
 saying something about going to look for Hildred 
 he went away. 
 
 I was glad to be left alone, though Cuthbert was 
 grave and sad enough, and almost as ready to sit 
 silently thinking as I was. He and my father 
 had never been much to each other. Yet it was 
 the breaking of a long tie, and the losing of the 
 last bit of the old life. Besides, he was unhappy 
 about Hildred. 
 
 I suppose a long time passed while I still 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 269 
 
 sat thinking, for the sun came round to the 
 other window, and cast long level rays into the 
 room. 
 
 Suddenly a great noise roused me — a loud crash 
 and then a rumbling sound, as if loose stones were 
 falling over one another. Once before I had heard 
 something like it when a part of the Castle wall had 
 fallen. I went out quickly now, towards the part of 
 the ruin that the sound came from. 
 
 Hildred met me as I passed under the arch near 
 the keep. She was as pale as death. She clutched 
 my arm and tried to speak. I could barely hear 
 what she said, for some horror seemed to be 
 choking her, and she gasped for breath. She 
 pulled me back in the direction from which she 
 came. 
 
 ' I have killed him. Come !' 
 
 * Hildred what is it "i Where is Cuthbert 1 ' 
 
 She pointed across the ruins. Still in the same 
 hoarse whisper she said, ' The tower fell in ; I took 
 him there.' 
 
 It was true ; part of the tower had fallen. It was 
 the oldest bit of the ruin, and the walls were 
 mouldering away. I had often warned Hildred that 
 it was unsafe. Now I saw a great heap of massive 
 fallen stones and masonr)-, and a huge gap in the 
 
2 70 THE STORY OF 
 
 wall. A bit of the winding stone stair was down. 
 Far above our heads the broken steps began again. 
 Merciful Heaven ! was Cuthbert buried under all 
 that > 
 
 * Can he be alive ? ' Hildred gasped, and ended 
 with a long wild scream, as she saw the horror in 
 my face. 
 
 * Hush, Hildred, I must get the tools ; call Matt ; 
 send the boys for help.' 
 
 When I came back Matt Clifford was there. 
 Hildred had flung herself down upon the fallen 
 stones and was tearing at the rough masses with 
 her bare hands. 
 
 Poor child ! I must tell you now, what I heard 
 afterwards, why she said that she had done It. I 
 did not ask then, only worked for dear life, and spoke 
 no words, except a few which I will tell you later. 
 
 Cuthbert. had found her when he left me. She 
 was thinking of my father, and her heart, she said, 
 was full of longing to come and comfort me in my 
 trouble. ' It seemed hardest of all not to be able 
 to tell you how sorry I was. Your father was 
 always so good to me.' 
 
 So when Cuthbert joined her she was cross with 
 him, and reproached him for having left me alone at 
 such a time. He was very gentle and patient, but she 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 271 
 
 would not listen. They wandered on as they 
 talked, and came to this tower. Hildred wanted 
 to get away from him, and began to climb the 
 winding stair, bidding him not follow her. Half 
 way up there was a broken window, out of which we 
 often used to jump as children, on to the wall 
 beneath. She reached this in safety, but Cuthbert 
 had come after her; turning round she saw the 
 stair waver beneath his greater weight. The wall 
 rocked to and fro — bent inwards — and then came 
 the awful crash which I had heard, and Cuthbert 
 was gone. 
 
 I knew it was useless, yet I could not help 
 bending down and calling out his name. No 
 answer. A dead silence there, but behind, the 
 welcome sound of hurrying steps, as man after 
 man came up to us, breathless, horror-stricken, 
 eager to help. 
 
 We fell to work, working as men only can 
 when life or death seems hanging on their 
 hands. Scarcely a word was uttered. There 
 was only the sound of the pickaxes driven deep 
 down into the heaps of rubbish, — the grating noise 
 of stones raised up and thrown aside — by-and-by 
 the quickened breathing of those who would not 
 stop to rest. On and on, with a grim energy, and 
 
2-2 THE STORY OF 
 
 agony of suspense, that seemed to double the 
 power in those strong arms and quivering muscles. 
 On and on, with wild words of voiceless prayer 
 ringing in my ears, with thoughts that wandered 
 strangely to my father's funeral, to the tolling of 
 the church bell, to Hildred standing sobbing by 
 the open grave. 
 
 She was close beside me. Her hands were torn 
 and bleeding, cut by the sharp stones which she 
 was trying madly to lift up and roll away. The 
 gravel that the spades threw aside, fell all over her, 
 but she did not know it. I lifted her up, for there 
 was not room enough for all the workers, who could 
 give stronger help than hers. She struggled to get 
 away from me, telling me to let her go back and 
 help. 
 
 ' You cannot help us so,' I said. ' Hildred ! poor 
 child, kneel down and pray for us.' 
 
 ' Oh, I cannot. I do not know how. I am too 
 wicked. Tell me what to say.' 
 
 Somehow, the solemn words that we had heard 
 that day, standing by my father's grave, came to 
 my lips, and I repeated them. 
 
 ' In the midst of life we are in death. Of whom 
 may we seek for succour but of Thee, O Lord, who 
 for our sins art justly displeased V 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 273 
 
 Hildred had fallen on her knees, repeating ' Oh, 
 justly displeased, most justly.' 
 
 I was back at work. I heard Hildred say, 
 * Won't some one pray again ? ' and presently an 
 old man, the parish clerk, standing near her, said 
 in a broken voice, with many pauses, ' In all time 
 of our tribulation, in the hour of death, and in the 
 day of judgment ' 
 
 From us all — from poor Hildred — from the eager 
 workers, and the watchers standing by, came as 
 with one voice, the deep response, * Good Lord, 
 deliver us.' 
 
 The time was drawing near when we should 
 know the worst. The great heap of fallen masonry 
 was getting smaller every minute. Could Cuthbert 
 have been saved alive .'' We came upon great stems 
 of ivy crushed and broken in the ruin. The fresh 
 leaves, unwithered yet, shone out strangely here 
 and there. 
 
 Hildred had not moved. She was kneeling, 
 almost lying on the ground. The setting sun was 
 shining in our eyes, dazzling us as we worked, with 
 what seemed to me — calm, pitiless curiosity. 
 
 A great stone, almost the last, was lifted on one 
 side. From those in front there suddenly rose 
 a sort of cheer, checked instantly, a smothered 
 
 T 
 
2 74 THE STORY OF 
 
 exclamation, and then an eager silence, as they bent 
 over something on the ground. 
 
 I gave one look, went back to Hildred, and knelt 
 down by her. I burst out crying like a child when 
 I began to speak. I could not help it. Then I 
 took her hand and told her, ' Hildred, dear heart, 
 be comforted. There is hope.' 
 
 He was not crushed. God had guarded him. He 
 had fallen in some manner sheltered from the great 
 stones, by the wall and the remains of the stair- 
 case. He was half buried under the bits of broken 
 wall, and he lay quite still and unconscious at our 
 feet. But he might be living yet. We carried 
 him out, and laid him down in the sunshine. 
 
 Was it life or death — that rigid figure that did 
 not move, that ashen-grey face, with the thin 
 stream of blood trickling from the temple } 
 
 Hildred was on the ground beside him, gazing 
 into his face with straining eyes, that seemed as if 
 they must call him back from death itself She 
 lifted up his arm and tried to put it round her. 
 She called to him, first in a choked whisper, then 
 louder, yet louder, as his silence struck the chill of 
 terror more into her heart. 
 
 ' Cuthbcrt, Cuthbert ! Oh come back ! Forgive 
 me ! Dear Cuthbert, speak to me ! ' 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 275 
 
 The men stood round watching her. I heard 
 'some of them crying, great rough fellows as they 
 were. Hildred looked up at me with bright, widely- 
 opened eyes — no tears in them. Then she spoke 
 to him again, called on him to come back, and she 
 would love him. He heard her. Some tone of 
 hers must have reached him even then. He moved, 
 drew a faint sigh. Oh the low cry she gave ! It 
 was not a word or a sob, but just the half-stifled 
 first cry of a new-born hope. 
 
 And then Cuthbert opened his eyes, saw her 
 leaning over him, and smiled. She did not speak, 
 only bent down lower, until her face lay hidden by 
 her hands upon his breast. 
 
 In a few minutes, very slowly and feebly he 
 raised his hand and put it on her head. 
 
 Cuthbert was taken to Clifford's house, which 
 was much nearer at hand than ouns. For a few 
 hours more we watched him anxiously. Life came 
 back slowly, but at length the doctor turned away 
 from the bed with a sigh of relief ^ He will do 
 now,' he said cheerily. ' Only keep him quiet. 
 Why, it would never have done to let him slip 
 through our fingers in this sort of way, after his 
 getting over his wounds and escaping out of that 
 
 Indian prison, as they tell me he did.' 
 
 T 2 
 
276 THE STORY OF 
 
 By the next day he could speak to us in a weak 
 voice, and had revived enough to smile a little when 
 Martha told him he had got no more than he de- 
 served, for mooning about in places where Jock 
 himself knew better than to venture. 
 
 Towards evening I left him comfortably asleep. 
 Hildred followed me out of the porch, and closed 
 the house door behind her. For a few minutes we 
 did .not speak, but stood looking at the setting sun, 
 and thinking — at least I thought — with what dif- 
 ferent eyes we had seen it going down yesterday, 
 not less peacefully than to-day. 
 
 Hildred spoke first, lifting her eyes to mine with 
 a grave rested look that it was new to me to see 
 upon her face. 
 
 * God has been merciful,' she said. 
 
 ' Most merciful* 
 
 ' And now ' 
 
 My heart was beating fast and heavily. In her 
 grief, in her great terror and her self-reproach, she 
 had seemed to grow dearer to me than ever before ; 
 and now that the moment had come — I knew it 
 l^ad — when I must really give her up, I felt as if I 
 could not part with her. 
 
 And now, Willie, I must try to be good at last.' 
 She stopped for a moment, and clasped her hands. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 277 
 
 * In that most dreadful time last night, when you 
 told me to pray — when you and the men were 
 working, and I did not know whether or not I had 
 killed him, I made a promise, a solemn promise 
 before God. You know what it was.' 
 
 I nodded. 
 
 * God gave me back Cuthbert's life. I must try 
 to make it a happy life. I must redeem my pro- 
 mise. Willie, you will help me } ' 
 
 And so the battle — the hard struggle — was over 
 for her. Well, it was far better so. She was 
 not strong, my darling ; she could not have borne a 
 long battle such as a man must fight, so God led 
 her by a short sharp road back to peace. 
 
 For a short time we stood together still. Then 
 Hildred turned slowly. 'And now, Willie, just 
 once before I go, I want you to say God bless 
 you.' 
 
 As she stood before me looking up at me, I put 
 my hand upon her head, and said, as steadily as I 
 could, * God bless my dear love for ever, and make 
 her happy.* 
 
 The tears were streaming down her face, not 
 bitter tears, but quietly sorrowful. And as I ended 
 she clasped her dear arms for a moment lightly 
 round my neck, and kissed me. That was our 
 
278 THE STORY OF 
 
 farewell. We said no more, and Hildred went 
 away. I watched her until the door closed behind 
 her. When she shut it, the Hildred I loved and 
 who loved me, had passed away from my sight and 
 from my life. 
 
 I do not mean that I did not see her, for she 
 was often there when I went to Cuthbert, and 
 after a few days she came with him to the Gate- 
 house. 
 
 Those days, the first of a good many that I had 
 spent quite alone, gave me time to think over 
 many things. My duty began to grow plain to 
 me. Hildred had asked me to help her. I was 
 growing to see more clearly how I could best 
 do so. 
 
 Cuthbert got better very quickly. He too, I 
 believe, was thinking a great deal just then of 
 what his future life should be. Hitherto he had 
 been too sad and anxious to make plans, but now 
 that Hildred seemed to have come back to him, 
 he began to wonder how they were to live. He 
 told me so once, when I was sitting by his bed, 
 saying that he would not let it trouble him just 
 yet, he was too happy. Still, he could not help re- 
 membering that his pension was very small, and 
 that he had not got two arms like other people. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 279 
 
 ' I wonder if I can earn enough for Hildred with 
 one arm,' he said. * Do advise me, Will' 
 
 I asked him to let the future rest for a little 
 longer, and he was content to do so, being weak 
 still, as well as very happy. 
 
 In a few days he could walk about again, 
 and one evening he and Hildred came across the 
 ruins and sat down to rest on the old stone bench 
 outside our house. I remember every little thing 
 that happened on that evening, so like, and yet 
 so unlike, any other that I have ever spent. I 
 could almost repeat each word that was said, 
 every-day and purposeless as some of them would 
 have appeared to any one but me. 
 
 I felt as if they must guess my secret, when I 
 asked Cuthbert to come home to-morrow and to 
 look after the house and the Castle gate, while 
 I was away. 
 
 ' Going away ! ' said Hildred, looking up. 
 
 I was obliged to go to Morechester, I told them, 
 to see the man of business who managed every- 
 thing about the Castle. He must be told of my 
 father's death, and would settle who was to come 
 after him. Long ago it had been promised that I 
 should do so. 
 
 ' So it's sure to be all right,' said Cuthbert. 
 
28o THE STORY OF 
 
 ' Oh yes, all right.' 
 
 Cuthbert was the one of us who talked the most. 
 He went on to say how like old times it was, for 
 us three to be there together. Neither Hildred nor 
 I made much answer, and presently, following the 
 train of his own thoughts, he began to tell us about 
 his soldier life, his last battle, the dreary years of 
 his imprisonment, and then his escape. 
 
 I was glad, and so I think was Hildred, to sit 
 silent and hear him talk. I can see her now, 
 hstening quietly and gravely, with her hands folded 
 on her lap. I like to remember her in my 
 mother's place. Often since, I have fancied her 
 sitting there. 
 
 The twilight drew on. Now and then a bee, 
 heavily laden, went droning past. The sound of 
 the river rippling over the stones below came to us 
 more clearly. One star shone out. We had been 
 sitting without talking for some time, and Hildred 
 said they must go home. 
 
 * I shall be gone before you are awake in the 
 morning,' I said. ' I will leave the key for you.' 
 
 They bade me good-night, and went away to- 
 gether. 
 
 Cuthbert turned, I have often wondered why, 
 after he had gone a few steps, and came back to 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 281 
 
 wring my hand again. ' Good-night, Will,' he re- 
 peated. ' I'll take good care of the old place 
 while you're away. Good speed to you on your 
 journey.' 
 
 The words sounded to me like a farewell. * Will 
 you promise to stay until I come back t ' I said, 
 still holding his hand. And he answered, laugh- 
 ing, ' Of course.' 
 
 I watched them crossing the Castle Court. 
 Cuthbert was leaning on Hildred. She walked 
 slowly and carefully. Once or twice he bent his 
 head down to talk to her, and I saw her look up to 
 answer him. As they went on she put her hand 
 up to his, which was on her shoulder, as if she 
 told him to lean on her more heavily. 
 
 So I lost sight of them in the twilight. God 
 bless them both ! It was many years before I saw 
 either of them again. 
 
 Later at night, when the moon was up, I went all 
 over the ruins. The grey towers were whitened 
 by the moon-beams, and draped in black ivy, with 
 here and there a silver leaf that the light had fallen 
 upon. From the deep shadow cast by the walls 
 and towers, I passed into the full stream of colour- 
 less radiance, then back again into darkness. 
 
 For many minutes I stood under Hildred's 
 
282 THE STORY OF 
 
 window, against the diamond-shaped panes of 
 which the moon was ghttering. ' Sleep peacefully 
 dear love,' I said to her in my heart. * Wake 
 happily. God give you bright dreams and glad- 
 some days for ever.' 
 
 Lastly, I came to the well, and leaning over the 
 edge looked down wearily. There was the reflec- 
 tion of one sparkling star down there, that lay 
 quivering on the black water. I cannot tell how 
 long I stayed thus ; for then I began to lose my- 
 self. 
 
 The rest of that night, the morrow, and many of 
 the days that followed, are almost a blank in my 
 memory — a blank from which some few pictures 
 stand out more or less distinctly. 
 
 I see myself standing before sunrise on the 
 bridge, and turning to take a long last look at the 
 old home. A dewy misty morning had come after 
 the moonlight night. By-and-by it would brighten 
 into a cloudless summer's day ; but now the mist 
 hung in heavy folds over the Castle. For an in- 
 stant the morning breeze might blow it aside and 
 show a glimpse of ruined wall and towered gate- 
 way, but the next the white curtain floated back 
 again, and all was hidden. 
 
 In the strange confusion that was coming over 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 283 
 
 my thoughts it seemed to me as if those fleecy 
 wreaths of mist were rolHng over my whole Hfe, 
 and covering up the past fromi me for ever. 
 
 Next I see Morechester, with burning sunhght 
 blazing on the market-place, and church bells 
 sending abroad their golden waves of sound. 
 Suddenly the glare is quenched as I pass under 
 the arched doorway into the Minster. The air 
 strikes chill, there is a great dimness and silence. 
 From the other end of the nave come echoes as of 
 closing gates and distant footsteps, and presently 
 voices are singing. There is an iron gate which 
 I try to open, but it is locked, and red light 
 shines through a curtain. I am shut out. Within 
 there is peace, and prayer, and sweet music rising 
 up to heaven. Outside I kneel alone by the 
 closed gate. Everything is unreal. I feel as 
 though it were the gate of Paradise that is shut 
 against me. But I can catch that in there they 
 are asking the good Lord to comfort and help the 
 weak-hearted, and the sweet pitying voices that 
 sound as if angels were singing, echo the prayer. 
 They, too, are pleading for me, and I am com- 
 forted. And the prayers and the music go their 
 way, and seem to carry me up with them towards 
 heaven. 
 
284 THE STORY OF 
 
 Again I am in a- small dark room, and a grave 
 man is listening while I tell a story. He answers 
 me, and I know that I have won my suit. Cuth- 
 bert is to have the Gate-house instead of me. It 
 is promised to him, and a great load is taken oft* 
 my mind. Now Cuthbert need fear no future for 
 Hildred or himself. There was but that one way 
 to help them both. 
 
 It only remained to send the letter I had already 
 written back to Cuthbert. 
 
 It was a good thing that it had been written 
 slowly and carefully beforehand, for now I could 
 not hold my thoughts together, or keep them on 
 one thing for many minutes. In the letter I had 
 told Cuthbert the truth, though not the whole 
 truth. I said that I had grown restless of late, 
 and Wyncliffe had become wearisome to me, so 
 I had gone forth into the world to seek my for- 
 tune ; and that, if I left them all without say- 
 ing good-bye they must forgive me — leave-takings 
 were but dreary things ; and I knew well how 
 in their kindness they would try to keep me 
 back if they heard that I was going. The rest 
 was easy to say. Cuthbert must know how much 
 rather I would think of him in the old place than 
 of a stranger. He would believe that he was 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 285 
 
 doing me a kindness in filling the post I had given 
 up, so that the life-long tie that bound me to 
 Wyncliffe would be still unbroken, and some one 
 would live in the Gate-house who loved it as 
 much as I always should, though I was leaving it. 
 I hoped that he and Hildred would be happy there, 
 as we had been long ago. 
 
 Then I remember, but very dimly and confusedly, 
 long days of travel, one after the other, during 
 which the only thing I cared for was to get on 
 quickly, farther yet farther, so as to put the great- 
 est distance between myself and all the places I 
 had ever seen. 
 
 After that an unknown room ; strange, but 
 kindly faces bending over a bed on which I lay, my 
 own voice repeating always, ' Hildred — Cuthbert — 
 little Jock, good-bye,' until my brain seemed to 
 turn round with the weary words. 
 
 The thread of memory breaks there. 
 
 I find myself again, crossing a moor on an 
 autumn evening. The heather is in bloom still, and 
 looks purple-red in the low rays of the sun. The 
 wide heath, rising and falling like the waves of the 
 sea, stretches on to join the sky. Poised high aloft, 
 on quivering wings, a sky-lark sings its cloud-song. 
 And far away, backed by the golden sunset, there 
 
286 THE STORY OF 
 
 rises the spire of a little church, with a village 
 clustering round it. I am bound there. There is 
 a pack on my shoulders, for I am a pedlar, and am 
 beginning to get the name you have all called me 
 by for so many years. I am Wandering Willie. 
 In those days I had little heart to care what I be- 
 came. My life seemed to be over. I little thought 
 how long it would yet last. 
 
 But it has not been a sad one, though its story, 
 such as it is, ended on the day when I looked my 
 last on the mist-covered towers of Wyncliffe. 
 
 The sharp edge of sorrow wears down with time. 
 Peace, the evergreen, grows where joy once blos- 
 somed. The road-side flowers bloom fresh and 
 fair, though the garden has been left behind. I 
 would not have things otherwise than as they are. 
 I would not have my youth back, though all I once 
 longed for so passionately were granted with it. 
 
 Youth can rarely say I am content, as I can. 
 Young limbs must breast the mountain side, and I 
 have gained the top. 
 
 Hildred and Cuthbert lived long and happily. 
 It was some years before I let Cuthbert know 
 where I was. Then immediately he came to me. 
 After that we saw each other every now and then ; 
 and though meeting seldom, we were yet friends 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 2S7 
 
 and brothers, as we had always been. There never 
 was another secret between us. Hildred long 
 before had told her husband all the story of his 
 four years of absence. 
 
 But I never went back to Wyncliffe until I was 
 an old man. 
 
 It was after an illness that I had, during which 
 my thoughts turned constantly to Hildred. A 
 longing for her presence, that had been stilled for 
 many years, woke up once more and drew me 
 towards her. 
 
 When next Cuthbert came to see me I went back 
 with him to Wyncliffe. As in a dream, nay rather, 
 as one returning from the dead, I saw again the 
 once familiar places — the grey church, the lime- 
 trees, the village-green, where they were playing 
 cricket just as they used in my day. No one knew 
 the old man. All the faces that I met were 
 strange to me ; some only bore a dim ghostly 
 likeness to people I had known. 
 
 Once or twice Cuthbert told me the name of a 
 passer-by, as we went along slowly under the lime- 
 trees. 
 
 That was Jock Clifford's son, with the bat over 
 his shoulder, a young man, fair and ruddy, but 
 twice as old as his father was when I last saw him. 
 
288 THE STORY OF 
 
 From one of the cottages a child ran out, a brown- 
 eyed toddhng little girl, who came towards Cuth- 
 bert with a scream of pleasure, and called him 
 grandfather. ' Our boy Will's little lass/ said 
 Cuthbert, raising her on to his shoulder. He called 
 to a woman passing by and bade her come and see 
 an old friend. She came with the hesitating look 
 of one who is told to speak to a stranger. ' You 
 do not know him, Phillis,' Cuthbert said. 
 
 Was that PhilHs, Mildred's little niece, the 
 laughing rosy child that I remembered t Could 
 this be her .'' 
 
 My heart failed me. The day that I belonged 
 to had indeed passed away. I could not bear to 
 see Hildred grown strange to me like the rest. 
 
 It was not that I should love the altered face 
 less, far from it. But I had carried the young 
 bright image of my one love for so long in my 
 heart, I could not bear to lose it. 
 
 For those who lived with her, each line, each 
 change, must have grown dear. To me they would 
 be strange, and I feared lest afterwards I might 
 never be able to call back again the gracious pre- 
 sence that had cheered my lonely life. 
 
 So, as twilight was over before we reached the 
 Castle, I begged Cuthbert to leave me by the old 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 2^9 
 
 well, and to bring Hildred to me there, that, In the 
 darkness, I might hold her hand and hear her voice 
 once more, then go my way, and still think of her 
 without one shadow on her face that time or care 
 had thrown. 
 
 Cuthbert, willing to do my pleasure though he 
 but half understood me, obeyed my wish. 
 
 It was not for long that he left me alone, yet in 
 those few minutes my whole life seemed to pass 
 before me. Near me, above the well, were the old 
 carved words of the promise I had once doubted. 
 It had been too hard for me to make out when I 
 was a child — it was too dark to read it now; yet 
 even in this world it had been fulfilled. That cup 
 of cold water given a life-time ago, had in no wise 
 lost its reward. Cuthbert and Hildred had been 
 happy. And for me, when I was left alone, God 
 Himself drew nigh and was my Friend ; though 
 there had been some darkness on my way, the 
 Light of lights, ever brightening, was shining on it. 
 
 Thinking thus, I saw that a figure came towards 
 me swiftly through the darkness. 
 
 I took the hands she held out to me in my own, 
 and heard her say, ' Willie, welcome home.' 
 
 Just for a few moments the weight of years was 
 
 U 
 
290 THE STORY OF 
 
 lifted off our heads, and Hildred and I were boy 
 and girl once more. 
 
 We did not say much, nor did I stay long with 
 her. I was content to have been near her, and to 
 have listened to her voice. We parted presently, 
 with a blessing spoken quietly, as befitted those 
 who had once loved each other well, but whom 
 God in His good providence had parted, and who 
 never looked to meeting in this world again. And 
 I went away. 
 
 So the two faces I have loved the most, Hildred's 
 and my mother's, never grew old for me, but shine 
 on me still, and are for ever young, for ever fair. 
 
 And I think that when I see them next they 
 will be fairer yet, for they will have ^ put on immor- 
 tality.' 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 291 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Lead ktftdly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 
 
 Lead Thou jue on. 
 The night is dark, and I am far from home, 
 
 Lead Thou me on. 
 
 O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 
 
 The night is gone, 
 A?td with the morn those angel faces smile, 
 Which I have loved lo?ig since, a7id lost aiuJiilc. 
 
 On the following morning Wandering Willie was 
 astir betimes. He was bound for the farm-house 
 where dwelt Roger's father — a good step, as he said 
 to Lois, across the hills. 
 
 It was not snowing when he started. The morn- 
 ine clouds w^ere even touched with red, but there 
 were others hanging low down, grey clouds with 
 wind-frayed edges, that looked heavy still with 
 
 snow. 
 
 Lois went with the old man as far as the gate, 
 over the path, where already, people coming and 
 going, had beaten a track across the snow. There 
 she parted from him. 
 
292 THE STORY OF 
 
 ' It makes me sad to see you going away alone,' 
 she said, leaning over the gate, which he had 
 already passed through, and holding his hand 
 across it. 
 
 * It is good to be alone,' said Willie, quietly. 
 
 ' But the journey will be so long — so toilsome.' 
 ' Then, Lois, I shall sleep the sounder at the 
 end,' answered the old man with a smile. 
 
 * Ah,' said Lois, ' you are tired already.' 
 
 * Already,' he repeated musingly. ' Am I already 
 tired } Is it not nearly time for rest } Lois,' he 
 went on,' ' there was an old man who made a prayer 
 once, and I think since then it has ever been the 
 best-loved prayer of all the old and the weary. You 
 know it V 
 
 ' I think I do,' said Lois. 
 
 * Yes, you know it well.' But still, as if he could 
 not resist repeating the dear words, Willie un- 
 covered his head, saying in an earnest voice, ' Lord, 
 now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, 
 according to Thy word.' Then he turned to Lois 
 with his child-like smile, and continued : ' I have 
 prayed it so very often, Lois, that I sometimes think 
 the answer must come soon.' 
 
 For a moment or two he still stood looking up- 
 ward ; afterwards, he bade farewell again to Lois. 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 293 
 
 And Lois, answering in the words she knew would 
 please him best, said to him, ' Go in peace.' 
 
 She was glad that he left her with a smile — glad 
 of the blessing he called down upon her head. 
 
 Watching him as he went away steadily, with his 
 face turned towards the sun-rising, it seemed to 
 Lois as if a rose-tinted morning cloud went with 
 him and overshadowed him. 
 
 On the evening of the following day Roger's 
 father rode up to the farm-house. 
 
 He brought tidings of wild weather out upon the 
 moors, and told how he and his good horse had 
 been more than once all but buried in a snow-drift. 
 
 * I should not have cared to come across on such 
 a tempestuous day,' he added, * only I want an 
 answer, Roger, to my question.' 
 
 * But you got my answer, surely,' said Roger, 
 quickly ; ' Wandering Willie carried it to you 
 yesterday.' 
 
 His father shook his head. * Wandering Willie 
 
 has not been nigh our place,' he said, in a marked, 
 
 grave tone. 
 
 All looked at each other, but no one spoke, only 
 
 Lois gave a low cry, * Oh Willie, poor Willie ! ' 
 
 * Lois,' said Roger, coming to her side, ' trust us ; 
 we will do all we can — all that there is to do.' 
 
294 THE STORY OF 
 
 Half-an-hour later every man about the farm 
 went out into the darkness. 
 
 Lois, watching with her mother, saw her father 
 go ; Roger's father too — his long ride and his 
 weariness quite forgotten. They walked with 
 deliberate determined steps, and few words. 
 
 Far ahead already, Lois could just distinguish 
 Roger — all the young men of the place following 
 him — as he stood for a moment a dim figure against 
 a dark sky. He disappeared, and Lois said in her 
 heart, * May God go with him.' 
 
 Three hours — four hours passed — they must 
 be searching still ! None of them returned that 
 night. 
 
 About midnight the scattered groups of searchers 
 met together. It was a striking scene. 
 
 The setting moon, hung round with inky clouds, 
 cast a pale glimmering of light down on to the snow. 
 All round, the moors lay wild and tumbled, with 
 black shadows here and there, cast by the waning 
 moon. 
 
 It was cold, but intensely still, with a hush that 
 gave an impression of breathless expectation. 
 
 P'or a little while the men stood together con- 
 sulting. Then they separate 1 again, Lois's father 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 295 
 
 heading one party of searchers, while Roger went 
 with the other. 
 
 All carried lanterns, and when they had gone a 
 little way in their different directions, each, look- 
 ing back towards the others, could only see a few 
 shadowy figures gliding on into the darkness. 
 
 The night passed on. The moon set, and the 
 hours of great darkness that came before the dawn 
 had stolen upon therii. 
 
 At last there came a shout from those a little 
 way In front. The others hurried up. They had 
 found footmarks in the snow. For a little time 
 they followed them clearly; then they failed, for 
 the wind had blown the snow wildly about, and 
 had effaced them.. 
 
 They dispersed once more, and searched eagerly 
 and silently. By and by one of them called again. 
 The footmark was found, and they never quite 
 lost it afterwards. Sometimes it went straight 
 forward for a little way, then it turned back over 
 almost the same ground. Once or twice the steps 
 crossed and recrossed each other. Often, from the 
 marks in the snow, it seemed as if some one had 
 stood still and waited, and turned this way and 
 that, searching for the road. 
 
 Then they stood still too and shouted, calling the 
 
296 THE STORY OF 
 
 lost man's name. Again, and yet again. Strong 
 men as they were, they shivered at the dead blank 
 silence that was their only answer. No echo even, 
 sent them back their voices. 
 
 The dawn was coming now, grey and chill, and 
 there was a dull light on the snow. They began 
 to see each other's anxious faces. Still they car- 
 ried the lanterns low before them, and their great 
 shadows followed weird behind. 
 
 The red lantern-light fell on the frozen foot- 
 prints, one by one. They were easy to follow by 
 this time. It must have ceased snowing before 
 they were made, and the wind, too, must have 
 gone down. They were deep and wavering now, 
 as of one who walked heavily, dragging his steps 
 wearily through the snow. 
 
 A little way off there was a hollow in the moor, 
 a broken ridge of crags, and a huge stone, round 
 one side of which the snow had drifted thickly. 
 The footsteps ended there. 
 
 When the men reached the stone they stood still, 
 but they raised no shout, though their search_was 
 over. Why was it that the voices which had been 
 strained so often to reach the lost man's cars, were 
 sunk to a low whisper now, that would not have 
 roused a sleeping child ? 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 297 
 
 Wandering Willie lay at their feet, his head 
 resting on the snow-covered stone. One hand was 
 underneath his head, the other had fallen by his 
 side, and the staff lay close to it, just as the tired 
 hand had laid it down. 
 
 They tried gently to raise that arm, but it was 
 quite stiff, frozen into the snow. They laid their 
 hands softly upon his heart, and it was perfectly 
 still. Then they let the full light from the lanterns 
 fall upon his face, and they saw that the old man 
 looked utterly peaceful, nay, almost smiling, and 
 that his eyes were closed. 
 
 His pack was unstrapped, and lay beside him on 
 the snow. He had said to Lois that the toilsome 
 journey would make him sleep all the sounder. 
 Yes, so soundly that nothing earthly would awake 
 him, ever any more. 
 
 As they stood round him silently, with bowed 
 heads, the clouds parted in the east and the great 
 sun rose up. The snow changed from dull grey to 
 sparkling white, the clouds floated in rosy bright- 
 ness, and the sun still rose until its clear red light 
 streamed across Willie's face. 
 
 It was not hard to guess how it had been. The 
 old man had found his way easily, as long as he 
 kept upon the beaten path, but when he struck 
 
298 THE STORY OF 
 
 into the wild cross-track over the moor, the blind- 
 ing mist and driving sleet bewildered him. The 
 wind-driven snow drifted across the path and hid 
 it, shrouding the familiar landmarks from his sight. 
 It must have been as though a white mask lay 
 over all the country. 
 
 Willie had never got very far. They thought he 
 must have tried to turn back, but not until he had 
 quite lost his way, and then the darkness came on. 
 At last, perplexed and probably very weary, he had 
 lain down to rest where the big stone sheltered him 
 from the wind. After that he did not suffer any 
 more. Sleep and death came to him quietly, hand 
 in hand. 
 
 This was what Roger tried to tell Lois, when, 
 going home before the others, he met her com- 
 ing towards him along the road that led to the 
 moor. 
 
 * Roger — well ? * 
 
 * Dear Lois,' he said gravely and very tenderly, 
 ' they are bringing him. I came on to tell you. 
 He could not have suffered much.' 
 
 ' Oh Roger, then he is dead ! * 
 *Yes, Lois, yes. We found him lying on the 
 snow, looking as if he had just fallen asleep.' 
 
 * Frozen to death. Oh, Roger — poor Willie! ' 
 
WANDERING WILLIE. 299 
 
 * Dearest,' he said, putting his arm round her, 
 ' you would not cry if you had seen his face.' 
 
 * But such a lonely death ! ' 
 
 * He is glad now,' said Roger, with something 
 like a sob. 
 
 Was it a lonely death } Who knows } It may 
 be that, bearing the summons home, God had sent 
 some messenger from the unseen world, who had 
 been suffered to become a visible presence to the 
 closing eyes. It may be that some voice — perhaps 
 his mother's — had sounded once again in the ears, 
 where its echo had lingered so long. We cannot 
 tell. 
 
 Only no child's head was ever pillowed more 
 peacefully in its dreamless sleep, than was Wan- 
 dering Willie's, resting on the stone round which 
 the snow had drifted. 
 
 And who, that looked into his restful face, could 
 doubt that the old man's prayer was heard .'' 
 
 Down to the white moorland the Master sent at 
 last, the message of recall, and hearing it even 
 through the deep snow-sleep of that winter's night, 
 His servant arose gladly, and from earth's storms 
 and weariness he departed in peace. 
 
LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 SrOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 AND PARLIAMENT STREET 
 
BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG. 
 
 ALICE'S ADVENTURES in WONDERLAND. By 
 Lewis Carroll. Twenty-second Thousand. Crown 8vo. with 
 42 Ilkistrations by Tenniel, cloth gilt, 6s. The same in French 
 and German, each 6s. 
 
 ' One of the cleverest and most charming books ever composed for a child's reading.' 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 STORIES for MY CHILDREN. By E. H. Knatchbull- 
 HUGESSEN, M.P. Second Edition. Extra fcp. 8vo. with Illus- 
 trations, price 6s. 6d. 
 
 ' The stories are charming, full of life, of fun, and of that undercurrent of tender- 
 ness which distinguishes the best of old fairy tales.' — Standard. 
 
 The FIVE DAYS' ENTERTAINMENTS at WENT- 
 WORTH GRANGE : a Child's Christmas Book. By Francis 
 Turner Palgrave. Small 4to. Illustrated by Arthur Hughes, 9s. 
 
 ' If you want a really good book for youngsters of both sexes and all ages, buy this.' 
 
 Athen^um. 
 
 TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS. With 60 Illustrations 
 by Arthur Hughes and Sydney Hall, and Portrait of the Author. 
 Square cloth, extra gilt, 1 2s. Cheap Edition, 2s. Golden Treasury 
 Edition, 4s. 6d. 
 
 ' Where is the schoolboy who would not welcome this handsome volume as one of 
 the most acceptable presents he could receive?' — Nonconformist. 
 
 CAST UP by the SEA. By Sir Samuel W. Baker. 
 Ninth Thousand. Third Edition. Crown 8vo. Illustrated by 
 Huard, cloth gilt, price 7s. 6d. 
 
 ' A charming Christmas book for such of our boys as have a taste for adventure. It 
 is full of incident, and the storj' is admirably sustained.' — Tiimes. 
 
 TALES of OLD TRAVEL. Re-narrated by Henrv 
 
 Kingsley, F.R.G.S. Third Edition, with Vignette Title and 
 Eight Full-page Illustrations by Huard. Crown 8vo. cloth, extra 
 gilt, 6s. 
 
 ' Exactly the book to interest and to do good to intelligent and high-spirited boys. 
 For mere instruction it is valuable, so much of fact and history is incidentally in- 
 cluded in it ; for its high, generous tone it is still more valuable.' 
 
 Literary Chlrchman. 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., LONDON. 
 
BOOKS FOR THE YOUNG. 
 
 OLD ENGLISH HISTORY for JUNIOR STUDENTS. 
 By E. A. Freeman, D.C.L. With Coloured Maps. Extra fcp. 
 8vo. 6s. 
 
 * There is nothing in it which a child cannot understand, and the harder narrative 
 is constantly broken by the tales in which children delight.' — Saturday Review. 
 
 RIDICULA REDIVIVA; being Old Nursery Rhymes. 
 Illusti"ated in Colours by J. E. Rogers. Imperial 4to. with 
 Illuminated Covers, 9s. 
 
 'The most splendid, and at the same time the most really meritorious, of the books 
 specially intended for children that we have seen.' — Spectator, 
 
 The WATER-BABIES : a Fairy Tale for a Land-Baby. By 
 Canon Kingsley. With Illustrations by Sir Noel Paton and 
 P. Skelton. New Edition, crown 8vo. with additional Illustrations, 
 6s. 
 
 The HEROES. Greek Fairy Tales for my Children. By 
 Canon Kingsley. New Edition, with Coloured Illustrations, 
 extra fcp. 8vo. 4s. 6d. 
 
 ' It has taught and delighted tens of thousands of young people, and will continue 
 to do so for many years to come.' — Art Journal. 
 
 The LANCES of LYNWOOD. By the Author of 'The 
 Heir of Redclyffe.' New Edition, with Coloured Illustrations, 
 extra fcp. 8vo. 4s. 6d. 
 
 The PRINCE and the PAGE. A Tale of the last Crusade. 
 By the Author of 'The Heir of Redclyffe.' With Illustrations. 
 i8mo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 The LITTLE DUKE: Richard the Fearless. By the 
 Author of 'The Heir of Redclyffe.' Illustrated, i8mo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 RUTH and her FRIENDS: a Story for Girls. With 
 Frontispiece. Fourth Edition, i8mo. 3s. 6d. 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., LONDON. 
 
THE SUNDAY LIBRARY 
 
 FOR 
 
 HOUSEHOLD READING. 
 
 A Series of Original Works by eminent Writers. In crown 8vo. with 
 Illustrations, Price 4s. 6d. each. 
 
 THE FOLLOWING ARE NOW READY. 
 
 The PUPILS of ST. JOHN the DIVINE. By the Author of 
 ' The Heir of Redclyffe.' 4s. 6d. 
 
 The HERMITS. By Canon Kingsley. 4s. 6d. 
 
 SEEKERS AFTER GOD. By the Rev. F. W. Farrar. 
 4s. 6d. 
 
 ENGLAND'S ANTIPHON. By George Macdonald. 
 4s. 6d. 
 
 GREAT CHRISTIANS of FRANCE— ST. LOUIS and 
 CALVIN. By M. GuizoT. 4s. 6d. 
 
 CHRISTIAN SINGERS of GERMANY. By Catharine 
 
 WiNKWORTH. 4s. 6d. 
 
 APOSTLES of MEDIEVAL EUROPE. By the Rev. G. F. 
 Maclear, B.D. 4s. 6d. 
 
 ALFRED the GREAT. By THOMAS HUGHES, M.P. Author 
 of 'Tom Brown's School Days.' 4s. 6d. 
 
 NATIONS AROUND. By Miss A. Keary. 4s. 6d. 
 
 The LIFE of ST. ANSELM. By the Rev. R. W. Church, 
 M.A. : 
 
 Other volumes are in preparation. 
 
 *^* The volumes of the Sunday Library are also kept bound in morocco 
 and calf at moderate prices. 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO. LONDON. 
 
Uniformly printed in i8mo. price 4s. 6d. each in cloth; also kept in morocco, " 
 
 The Golden Treasury Series. 
 
 The GOLDEN TREASURY of the BEST SONGS and LYRICAL 
 POEMS in the ENGLISH LANGUAGE. Selected and arranged, with Notes, 
 by Francis Turner Palgrave. 
 
 The BOOK of PRAISE, from the best English Hymn Writers. 
 Selected and arranged by Sir Roundell Palmer. 
 
 The ADVENTURES of ROBINSON CRUSOE. Edited from 
 
 the Original Editions by J. W. Clark, M.A. 
 
 The REPUBLIC of PLATO. Translated into English, wdth Analysis 
 and Notes, by J. Ll. Davies, M.A. and D. J. Vaughan, M.A. 
 
 The SONG BOOK. Words and Tunes, from the best Poets and 
 Musicians. Selected and arranged by John Hullah. 
 
 The POETICAL WORKS of ROBERT BURNS. Edited, with 
 Biographical Memoir, by Alexander Smith. 2 vols. 
 
 LA LYRE FRANCAISE. Selected and arranged, with Notes, by 
 Gustave Masson. 
 
 BACON'S ESSAYS and COLOURS of GOOD and EVIL. With 
 Notes and Classical Index, by W. Alois Wright, M.A. 
 
 A BOOK of WORTHIES. Gathered from the Old Histories and 
 written anew by the Author of 'The Heir of Redclyffe.' (New Volume.) 
 
 TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS. By an Old Boy. With a 
 
 Vignette by Arthur Hughes. 
 
 A BOOK of GOLDEN DEEDS of ALL COUNTRIES and ALL 
 
 TIMES. Gathered and narrated by the Author of 'The Heir of Redclyffe.' 
 
 The SUNDAY BOOK of POETRY. Selected and arranged by 
 C- F. Alexander. 
 
 The BALLAD BOOK : a Selection of the Choicest British Ballads. 
 Edited by William Allingham. 
 
 The CHILDREN'S GARLAND, from the best Poets. Selected and 
 arranged by Coventry Patmore. 
 
 The FAIRY BOOK : Classic Fairy Stories. Selected and rendered 
 anew by the Author of 'John Halifax.' 
 
 The JEST BOOK : the Choicest Anecdotes and Sayings. Selected 
 and arranged by Mark Lemon. 
 
 The PILGRIM'S PROGRESS from this WORLD to that which is to 
 COME. By John Bunyan. 
 
 'THE GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES disputes if it does not 
 carry away the palm of excellence among works in which tlie taste of 
 the publisher, printer, stationer, engraver, and binder is jointly exercised 
 to give additional grace to the productions of writers.' 
 
 Illustrated London News. 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., LONDON. 
 
i6, Bedford Street, Covent Garden, Londom. 
 
 Alay^ 1870. 
 
 Macmillan &■ Co:s General Catalogue 
 of Works ill the Departjnents of History, 
 Biography^ Travels, Poetiy, aiici Belles 
 Lettres. With some short Account or 
 Critical Notice co7icerning each Book. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, and TRAVELS. 
 Baker (Sir Samuel W.).— THE NILE TRIBUTARIES OF 
 
 ABYSSINIA, and the Sword Hunters of the Hamran Arabs. 
 By Sir Samuel W. Baker, M.A., F.R.G.S. With Portraits, 
 Maps, and Illustrations. Third Edition, 8vo. 2ix. 
 
 Sir Samuel Baker here describes tivelve months'' exploration^ during 
 which he exajuined the rivers that are tributary to the Nile from Abyssinia, 
 including the Atbara, Settite, Roy an, Salaatn, Angrab, Rahad, Dinder, 
 and the Blue Nile. The interest attached to these portions of Africa differs 
 entirely from that of the White Nile regions, as the whole of Upper Egypt 
 and Abyssinia is capable of dez'elopment, and is inhabited by races having 
 some degree of civilization; while Central Africa is peopled by a race of 
 savages, whose future is more problematical. 
 
 THE ALBERT N'YANZA Great Basin of the Nile, and Explo- 
 ration of the Nile Sources. New and Chea])er Edition, Avith 
 Portraits, Maps, and Illustrations. Two vols, crown 8vo. i6j-. 
 
 *^ Bruce won the source of the Blue Nile ; Speke and Grant won the 
 Victoria source of the great White Nile ; and I have been pcrtnitted to 
 
 A. I. A 
 
 10.000.5.70 
 
GENERAL CATALOGUE. 
 
 Baker (Sir Samuel W.) {continued)—- 
 
 succeed ill completing the Nile Sotn'ces by the discovery of the great 
 reserz'oir of the equatorial waters, the Alba-t Nyanza, from which the 
 river issues as the etitire White Nile.''' — Preface. 
 
 NEW AND CHEAP EDITION OF THE ALBERT N'YANZA. 
 
 I vol. crown Svo. With Maps and Illustrations. 'Js. 6d. 
 
 Barker (Lady).— STATION LIFE IN NEW ZEALAND. 
 
 By Lady Barker. Crown Svo. 7^. 6d. 
 
 " These letters are the exact account of a ladys experience of the brighter 
 and less practical side of colonization. They record the expeditions, ad- 
 ventures, and emergencies diversifying the daily life of the wife of a Nrci< 
 Zealand sheepfarmer ; and, as each was written while the novelty and 
 excitement of the scenes it describes ivei'e fresh upo}i her, they may succeed 
 in giving here in England an adequate impression of the delight aiul free- 
 dom of an existence so far removed fvm our ow7i highly-ivrougJit civiliza- 
 tion.^'- — Preface. 
 
 " We have Jiever read a 7nore truthful or a pleasantcr little book.'' 
 
 Athen.-eum. 
 
 Baxter (R. Dudley, M.A.).— THE TAXATION OF THE 
 UNITED KINGDOM. By R. Dudley Baxteb, M.A. Svo. 
 cloth, AfS. 6d. 
 
 The First Part of this zuork, originally read before the Statistical 
 Society of London, deals 7mth the Amount oj Taxation; the Second Fart, 
 -cuhich 710W constitutes the main portion of the zuork, is almost entirely new, 
 and embraces the important questions of Rating, of the relative Taxation 
 of Land, Fersonalty, and Lndustry, and of the direct efect of Taxes upon 
 Frices. The author trusts that the body of facts here collected may be of 
 permanent value as a record of the past progress and presejit condition of 
 the poptdatioji of the United Kingdom, independently of the transitory 
 circumstances of its present Taxation. 
 
 NATIONAL INCOME. W^ith Coloured Diagrams. Svo. 3^. 6d. 
 
 Part I. — Classif cation of the Population, Upper, Middle, and Labour 
 Classes. II. — Lncome of the United Jvingdom. 
 
 " A painstaking and certainly most interesting inquiry. " — Pall Mall 
 Gazette. 
 
HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, &- TRAVELS. 3 
 
 Bernard.— FOUR LECTURES ON SUBJECTS CONNECTED 
 WITH DIPLOMACY. By Mountague Bernard, M.A., 
 Chichele Professor of International Law and Diplomacy, Oxford. 
 8vo. 9^. 
 
 Fo7ir Lectures, dealing with (i) The CoJigt'ess of Westphalia ; (2) Systems 
 of Policy ; (3) Diplomacy, Past and Present; (4) The Obligations of 
 Treaties. 
 
 Blake.— THE LIFE OF WILLIAM BLAKE, THE ARTIST. 
 By Alexander Gilchrist, With numerous Illustrations from 
 Blake's designs, and Fac-similes of his studies of the " Book of 
 Job." Two vols, medium 8vo. 32J. 
 
 These vohunes contain a Life of Blake ; Selections fvvi his Writings, 
 including Poems ; Letters ; Annotated Catalogue of Pictures and Drawings, 
 List, with occasional notes, of Blake's Engraznngs and Writings. There 
 are appended Engraved Designs by Blake ; (i) The Book of Job, iiventy- 
 one photo -lithographs from the originals ; (2) So/2gs of Innocence and 
 Experience, sixteen of the original Plates. 
 
 Blanford (W. T.).— GEOLOGY AND ZOOLOGY OF 
 ABYSSINIA. By W. T. Blanford. 8vo. 2\s. 
 
 This work contains an account of the Geological and Zoological 
 Observations made by the Author in Abyssinia, when accompanying the 
 British A^-my on its march to Magdala and back in 1868, and duri?tg a 
 short journey in Norther^i Abyssinia, after the departure of the troops. 
 Parti. Personal Narrative; Part 11. Geology; Part III. Zoology. 
 With Coloured Illustrations and Geological Map. 
 
 Bright (John, M. P.).— SPEECHES ON QUESTIONS OF 
 
 PUBLIC POLICY. By the Right Hon. John Bright, M. P. 
 
 Edited by Professor Thorold Rogers. Two vols. 8vo. 25 j. 
 
 Second Edition, with Portrait. 
 
 " / have divided the Speeches contained in these volumes into groups. 
 
 The matei'ials for selection are so abundant, that I have been constrained 
 
 to omit many a speech which is zvoi-thy of careful perusal. I have 
 
 naturally given prominence to those sjibjects with which Mr. Bright has 
 
 been especially identified, as, for exaviple, India, America, Ireland, and 
 
 Parliamentary Reform. But Jiearly roery topic of great public interest on 
 
 7uhich Mr. Bright has spoken is represented in these volu^^^'s.^^ 
 
 Editor's Preface. 
 
 a 2 
 
GENERAL CATALOGUE. 
 
 Bright, (John, M.P.) {rontimied)— 
 
 AUTHOR'S POPULAR EDITION. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth. Second 
 Edition, y. 6d. 
 
 Bryce. — THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE. By James Bryce, 
 B.C.L., Fellow of Oriel College, Oxford. {Reprinting. 
 
 CAMBRIDGE CHARACTERISTICS. See Mullinger. 
 
 CHATTERTON : A Biographical Study. By Daniel Wilson, 
 LL.D., Professor of History and English Literature in University 
 College, Toronto. Crown 8vo. 6s. 6d. 
 
 The Author here regards Chatterton as a Poet, not as a mere " resetter 
 and defacer of stolen literary treasures?'' Reviezved in this light, he has 
 found much in the old i?iatei'ials capable oj being turned to tieiu account ; 
 and to these materials research in various directiojis has enabled him to 
 make some additions. 
 
 Clay.— THE PRISON CHAPLAIN. A Memoir of the Rev. John 
 Clay, B.D., late Chaplain of the Preston Gaol. With Selections 
 from his Reports and Correspondence, and a Sketch of Prison 
 Discipline in England. By his Son, the Rev. W. L. Clay, M.A, 
 8vo. \^s. 
 
 " Few books have appeared of late years better ejititled to aft attentive 
 perusal. . . . It presents a complete narrative of all that has been done attd 
 attempted by various philanthropists for the amelioratioti of the condition aftd 
 the improvement of the morals of the criminal classes in the British 
 dominions. " — LONDON Revifav. 
 
 Cobden. — SPEECHES ON QUESTIONS OF PUBLIC 
 POLICY. By Richard Cobden. Edited by the Right Hon. 
 John Bright, M.P., and Professor Rogers. Two vols. 8vo. With 
 Portrait. (Uniform with Bright's Speeches.) 
 
 Cooper. — ATHENE CANTABRIGIENSES. By Charles 
 Henry Cooper, F.S.A., and Thompson Cooper, F.S.A. 
 Vol. I. 8vo., 1500—85, i8j-. Vol. XL, 1586— 1609, i8j. 
 
 This elaborate work, which is dedicated by permission to Lord Macaulay, 
 contains lives of the eminent men sent forth by Cambridge, after the 
 fashion of Anthony ^ Wood, in his famous "Athena Oxonienses." 
 
HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, &- TRAVELS. 
 
 Cox (G. v., M. A.). —RECOLLECTIONS OF OXFORD. 
 By G. V. Cox, M.A., New College, I>ate Esquire Bedel and 
 Coroner in the University of Oxford. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 
 loj-. 6d. 
 
 "An a wnsino^ farrago of anecdote, and will pleasantly recall in many 
 a country parsonage the memory of yoicthful days^ — Times. 
 
 Dicey (Edward). — THE MORNING LAND. By Edward 
 Dicey. Two vols, crown 8vo. ids. 
 ^^An invitation to be present at the opejiing of the Suez Canal zuas the 
 immediate cause of ?ny jozirney. But I made it my object also to see as 
 much of the Morniiig Land, of -whose marvels the canal across the 
 Isthtnns is only the least and latest, as time and opportunity zooiild pentiit. 
 The result of my observations was communicated to the journal I then 
 represented, in a series of letters, which I now give to the public in a 
 collected fonn.'' — Extract from Author's Preface. 
 
 Dilke. — GREATER BRITAIN. A Record of Travel in English- 
 speaking Countries during 1866-7. (America, Australia, India.) 
 By Sir Charles Wentworth Dilke, M. P. Fifth and Cheap 
 Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
 " I\Ir. Dilke has writtoi a book which is probably as well zvorth reading 
 as ajiy book of the same aims and character that ever 7vas written. Its 
 merits are that it is zvritten in a lively and agreeable style, that it implies 
 a great deal of physical pluck, that no page of it fails to show an acute and 
 highly intelligent observer, that it stimulates the imagination as well as the 
 jiidgjnent of the reader, and that it is on perhaps the most interesting 
 subject that can attract an Englishman who cares about his country.'''' 
 
 Saturday Review. 
 
 Diirer (Albrecht).— history OF THE LIFE OF AL- 
 
 BRECHT DiJRER, of Niirnberg. With a Translation of his 
 Letters and Journal, and some account of his works. By Mrs 
 Charles Heaton. Royal 8vo. bevelled boards, extra gilt, -^^is.dd. 
 
 This work contains about Thirty Illustrations, ten ofzvhich a j-e produc- 
 tions by the Autotype {carbon) process, a)id are printed in permanent tints 
 by Messrs. Cundall and Fleming, under license from the Autotype Com- 
 pany, Limited; the rest are Photographs and Woodcuts. 
 
 EARLY EGYPTIAN HISTORY FOR THE YOUNG. See 
 "Juvenile Section." 
 
GENERAL CATALOGUE. 
 
 Elliott. — LIFE OF HENRY VENN ELLIOTT, ot Brighton. 
 By JosiAH Bateman, M.A., Author of "Life of Daniel Wilson, 
 Bishop of Calcutta," &c. With Portrait, engraved by Jeens ; 
 and an Appendix containing a short sketch of the life of the Rev. 
 Julius Elliott (who met with accidental death while ascending the 
 Schreckhorn in July, 1869. ) Crown 8vo, %s.^d. Second Edition, 
 with Appendix. 
 
 "y/ very cha7-tni}ig piece of religious biography; no one can read it 
 without both pleasure and profit.'" — British Quarterly Review. 
 
 Fairfax. — a life of the great lord Fairfax, 
 
 Commander-in-Chief of the Army of the Parliament of England. 
 By Clements R. Markham, F. S.A. With Portraits, Maps, 
 Plans, and Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 16^-. 
 
 No full Life of the great Parlia)iicntary Commander has appeared: 
 and it is here sought to produce one — based upon earful research in con- 
 temporary records aiid tipon family and other documents. 
 
 Forbes. — life of professor edward forbes, 
 
 F.R.S, By George Wilson, M.D., F.R.S.E., and Archibald 
 Geikie, F.R.S. Bvo. with Portrait, 14^-. 
 
 ''''From the first page to the last the book claims careful reading, as bdng 
 a full but not overcroivded 7'ehearsal of a most instructive life, and the true 
 picture of a ?nind that was rare i)i strength and beauty.^'' — Examiner. 
 
 Freeman. — history OF FEDERAL GOVERNMENT, 
 
 from the Foundation of the Achaian League to the Disruption of 
 the United States. By Edward A. Freeman, M.A. Vok I. 
 General Introduction. Flistory of the Greek Federations. 8vo. 
 i\s. 
 
 " The task Mr. Freeman has undertaken is one of great magnitude aiui 
 importance. It is also a task of an almost entirely novel character. N'o 
 other work professing to give the history of a political principle occurs A ' 
 us, except the slight contributions to the histo?y of representative goz'ern- 
 ment that is contai/icd in a course of M. Guizot''s lectures .... The 
 history of the dezielopment of a principle is at least as important as the 
 history of a dynasty, or of a ?-ace.'" — Saturday Review. 
 
HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, &- TRAVELS. 7 
 
 Freeman [coutiimcd)— 
 
 OLD ENGLISH HISTORY FOR CHILDREN. By Edward A. 
 
 Freeman, M.A., late Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford. With 
 
 Five Coloured Maps. Extra fcap. 8vo., half-bound, ds. 
 
 *' Its object is to shozo that clear, accurate, and scientific vic7i<s of history, 
 
 or indeed of any subject, may be easily given, to children f-oin the very 
 
 first. . . I have, I hope, shorvn that it is perfectly easy to teach children, from 
 
 the very first, to distinguish true history alike fi 0771 legend and from ivilful 
 
 invention, and also to understaitd the nature of historical authorities, and 
 
 to weigh one statement against anotJier. .... I have throtighout striven to 
 
 connect the history of England ivith the general history of civilized Europe, 
 
 and I have especially tried to make the book so'Z'e as an incentive to a more 
 
 accurate study of historical geography." — Preface. 
 
 French (George Russell). — SHAKSPEAREANA 
 
 GENEALOGICA. Svo. cloth extra, 15^. Uniform with the 
 " Cambridge Shakespeare." 
 
 Part I. — Identificatioji of the dramatis personce in the historical plays, 
 from King John to King Henry VIII. ; Notes on Characters in Macbeth 
 and Hamlet ; Persons and Places belonging to Warzvickshire alluded to. 
 Part II. — The Shakspeare and Arden families and their connexions, ivith 
 Tables of descent. The present is the first attempt to give a detailed de- 
 scription, in consecutive order, of each of the dramatis personee in Shak- 
 speare' s immortal chronicle-histories, and some of the characters have been, 
 it is belin'cd, Jierein identified for the first time A chie is furnished which, 
 follozved up with ordinary diligence, may enable any one, tvith a taste for 
 the pursuit, to trace a distinguished Shakspearean tvorthy to his lineal 
 representative in the p7-esent day. 
 
 Galileo. — THE private life of GALILEO. Compiled 
 
 principally from his Correspondence and that of his eldest 
 
 daughter, Sister jMaria Celeste, Nun in the Franciscan Convent of 
 
 S. Matthew in Arcetri. \Yith Portrait. Crown Svo. 7^. 6^/. 
 
 It has been the endeavour of the compiler to place befo7-e the reader a 
 
 plain, nngai-bled state7ne7it of facts ; and as a 77teans to this e7id, to allozo 
 
 Galileo, his f7-ie7ids, a/idhis judges to speak for the/nselves as Jar as possible. 
 
 Gladstone (Right. Hon. W. E., M.P.).— JUVENTUS 
 
 MUNDI. The Gods and Men of the Heroic Age. Crown Svo. 
 cloth extra. With Map. los. 6d. Second Edition. 
 
GENERAL CATALOGUE. 
 
 Gladstone (Right. Hon. W. E., yi.V.) {continued)— 
 
 This nno work of Mr. Gladstone deals especially with the historic 
 element in Homer, expounding that element and furnishing by its aid a 
 full account of the Hojneric men and the Homeric religion. It starts, after 
 the introductory chapter, with a discussion of the several races then existing 
 in Hellas, including the influence of the Fhoeniciaiis and Egyptians. It 
 contains chapters on the Olympian system, with its srueral deities ; on the 
 Ethics and the Polity of the Heroic age ; on the geography of Homer ; on 
 the characters of the Poems ; presejiting, in fine, a view of primitive life 
 and primitive society as found i}i the poems of Homer. To this Nezu 
 Edition various additions have been made. 
 
 "GLOBE" ATLAS OF EUROPE. Uniform in si2e with Mac- 
 millan's Globe Series, containing 45 Coloured Maps, on a uniform 
 scale and projection ; with Plans of London and Paris, and a 
 copious Index. Strongly bound in half-morocco, with flexible 
 back, 9J-. 
 
 This Atlas inchides all the cojtntries of Europe in a series ^48 Map>s, 
 drawn on the same scale, zuith an Alphabetical Index to the situation of 
 more than ten thousand places, and the relation of the various maps and 
 countries to each other is defined in a general Key-map. All the maps 
 bein.g on a uniform scale facilitates the comparison of extent and distance, 
 and conveys a Just impression of the relative magnitude of different countries. 
 The size sufiices to shozu the provincial divisions, the raihvays and main 
 roads, the principal rivers and mountain ranges. '"''This atlas,''^ writes the 
 British Quarterly, " will be ati invaluable boon for the school, the desk, or 
 the traveller'' s portmanteau.'''' 
 
 Godkin (James).— THE LAND WAR IN IRELAND. A 
 
 History for the Times. By James Godkin, Author of "Ireland 
 and her Churches," late Irish Correspondent of the Times. 8vo. \2s. 
 A History of the Irish Land Question. 
 
 Guizot. — (Author of "John Halifax, Gentleman.")— M. DE 
 BARANTE, A Memoir, Biographical and Autobiographical. By 
 M. Guizot. Translated by the Author of *'Joiin Halifax, 
 Gentleman." Crown 8vo. 6j-. dd. 
 
 " The highest purposes of both history a>ui biography are ansxvered by a 
 memoir so lifelike, so faithful, and so philosophical.'^ 
 
 British Quarterly Review. 
 
HIS TOR Y, in OCR A PII \ \ &- TRA VELS. 
 
 HISTORICAL SELECTIONS. Readings from the best Authorities 
 on English and European History. Selected and arranged by 
 E, M. Sew ELL and C. M. Yonge. Crown 8vo. 6j. 
 
 When young children have acquired the outlines of history f 7-0 m abridge- 
 ments and catechisms., and it becomes desirable to give a more enlarged 
 view of the subject., in order to render it really nsejitl and interesti^ig, a 
 difficulty often arises as to the choice of books. Tzoo courses are open, either 
 to take a general and consequoitly dry history 0/ facts, such as RusselV s 
 AIodcTn Europe, or to choose some ivork treating of a particular period or- 
 subject, such as the works of Macaulay and Fronde. The former course 
 usually rendei's history unintei'esting ; the lattei' is unsatisfactory, because 
 it is not sjfficiently comprehensive. To remedy this difficidty, selections, 
 continuous and chronological, haz'e in the present volume been taken from 
 the larger works of Freeman, Milman, Palgraze, and otha's, xuhich may 
 serve as distinct landmarks of historical reading. " IVe knozv of scarcely 
 anything," says the Guardian, of this volume, ''''which is so likely to raise 
 to a higher level the average standard of English education.'''' 
 
 Hole. — A GENEALOGICAL STEMMA OF THE KINGS OF 
 ENGLAND AND FRANCE. By the Rev. C. Hole, M.A., 
 Trinity College, Cambridge. On Sheet, \s. 
 
 The different families are printed in distinguishing colours, thus facili- 
 tating reference. 
 
 A BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL DICTIONARY. Compiled and 
 Arranged by the Rev. Charles Hole, M.A. Second Edition. 
 iSmo. neatly and strongly bound in cloth, 4?. 6d. 
 
 One of the most comprehensive and accurate Biographical Dicuonaries 
 in the world, containing more than \%,ooo persons of all countries, with 
 dates of birth and death, and what they xvere distinguished for. Extreme 
 care has been bestowed on the verif cation of the dates ; and thus numa'ous 
 errors, current in irrevious works, have been corrected. Its size adapts it 
 for the desk, portmanteau, or pocket. 
 
 "An invaluable addition to our manuals of reference, and, from its 
 moderate price, cannot fail to become as popular as it is useful.^' — TIMES. 
 
lo GENERAL CATALOGUE. 
 
 Hozier. — the seven weeks' war ; its Antecedents and 
 its Incidents. By H, M. Hozier. With Maps and Plans. Tw(> 
 vols, 8vo. 28j-, 
 
 This zuork is based upon letters rcp7'intcd by permission from " Tlie 
 Times. " For the most part it is a product of a personal eye-witness of some 
 of the most interesting incidents of a war which, for rapidity and decisizx 
 results, may claim an almost -unrivalled position in history. 
 
 THE BRITISH EXPEDITION TO ABYSSINIA. Compiled from 
 Authentic Documents. By Captain Henry M. Hozier, late 
 Assistant Military Secretary to Lord Napier of Magdala. 8vo. <^s. 
 
 '''• Several accounts of the British Expedition have been published. .... 
 They have, however, been written by those zvho have not had access to those 
 atithentic dociuneiits, which cannot be collected directly after the termination 
 
 of a campaign The endeavozir of the author of this sketch has been t? 
 
 present to readers a succinct and impartial account oj an enterprise 7uhich 
 has rarely been equalled in the annals ofrvarP — Preface. 
 
 Irving.— THE ANNALS OF OUR TIME. A Diurnal of Events, 
 Social and Political, which have happened in or had relation to 
 the Kingdom of Great Britain, from the Accession ot Queen 
 Victoria to the Opening of the present Parliament. By Joseph 
 Irving. 8vo. half-bound. \%s. 
 
 " We have before ns a trusty and ready guide to the events of the past 
 thirty years, available equally for the statesman, the politician, the public 
 writer, and the general reader. If Mr. Piling's object has been to bring 
 before the reader all the most note^oorthy occurrences which have happened 
 since the beginning of Her Majestfs reign, he may justly claim the credit 
 of having done so most briefly, succinctly, and simply, and in such a 
 manner, too, as to ficrnish him with the details necessary in each case to 
 cornprehend the event of which he is in search in an intelligent manner. 
 Reflection will serve to show the great value oj such a work as this to the 
 journalist and statesman, and indeed to every one who feels an interest in 
 the progress of the age ; and 7ue may add that its value is considerably in- 
 creased by the addition of that most important of all appendices, an 
 accurate and instructive index." — Times. 
 
HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, &- TRAVEIS. n 
 
 Kingsley (Canon). — ON THE ANCIEN REGIME as it 
 Existed on the Continent betore the Frexcii Revolution. 
 Three Lectures delivered at the Royal Institution. By the Rev. 
 C. Kingsley, M.A., formerly Professor of Modern History 
 in the University of Cambridge. Crown 8vo. 6.f. 
 
 These three lectures discuss severally (i) Caste, (2) Centralization, (3) 
 The Explosive Forces by which the Revolution was stiper induced. The 
 Preface deals at some length with certain political questions of the present 
 
 day. 
 
 THE ROMAN AND THE TEUTON. A Series of Lectures 
 delivered before the University of Cambridge. By Rev. C. 
 Kingsley, jNI.A. 8vo. \2.s. 
 
 Contents: — Inaugural Lecture ; The Forest Children; The Dying 
 Empire; The Human Deluge ; The Gothic Civilizer; DietricJUs End; The 
 N'emesis of the Goths ; Paulus Diaconus ; The Clergy and the Heathen : 
 The Monk a Civilizer ; The Lombard Laws ; The Popes and the Lombards ; 
 The Strategy of Providence. 
 
 Kingsley (Henry, F.R.G.S.).— TALES OF OLD 
 TRAVEL. Re-narrated by Henry Kingsley, F.R.G.S. With 
 » Eight Illustrations by HuARD. Crown 8vo. ds. 
 
 Qo^TY.-^T'S,'.— Marco Polo; The Ship7vreck of Pelsart ; The Wondeyful 
 Adventures of Andreia Battel; The Wanderings of a Capuchin; Peter 
 Carder; The Preservation of the '' Terra N'ova ;^' Spitzbergen; D'Erme- 
 nonvilli s Accli}natization Adventure ; The Old Slave Trade; Miles Philips ; 
 The Sufferings of Robert Everard ; John Fox ; Alvaro Nutiez ; The Foun- 
 dation of an Empire. 
 
 Latham. — BLACK AND WHITE : A Journal of a Three Months' 
 Tonr in the United States. By Henry Latham, M. A., Barrister- 
 at-Law. Svo. \Qs. 6d. 
 
 " The spirit in which Mr. Latham has written about our brethren in 
 America is commejidable in high degree." — Athen^isum. 
 
12 GENERAL CATALOGUE. 
 
 Law. — THE ALPS OF HANNIBAL. By William John Law, 
 M.A., formerly Student of Christ Church, Oxford. Two vols. 
 8vo. 2IJ-. 
 
 *' No one can read the work and not acquire a conviction that, in 
 addition to a tho7'ough grasp of a particular topic, its iV7-iter has at 
 command a large store of reading a7id thought upon many cognate points 
 of aitcient history and geography ^ — Quarterly Review. 
 
 Liverpool. — THE LIFE AND ADMINISTRATION OF 
 ROBERT BANKS, SECOND EARL OF LIVERPOOL, K.G. 
 Compiled from Original Family Documents by Charles Duke 
 YONGE, Regius Professor of History and English Literature in 
 Queen's College, Belfast ; and Author of " The History of the 
 British Navy," " The History of France under the Bourbons," etc. 
 Three vols. 8vo, 42^-. 
 
 Since the time of Lord Burleigh no 07ie, except the seco7id Pitt, ever 
 enjoyed so lo7ig a tc7iure of poiver ; zvith the same exceptio7i, 710 07ie ever 
 held office at so critical a time .... Loj-d Liverpool is the ve7y last 
 mi7iister zvho has bee7t able fidly to car7y out his owti political vieivs ; who 
 has bee7i so st7'07ig that i7i matters of ge/ieral policy the Oppositio7t could 
 extort 710 co7icessio7is from hir>i tvhich %ve7-e 7iot sa7ictio7ied by his ow7i 
 deliberate judg7Jie7it. The p)-ese7it %vo)-k is fotmded ah/iost e7itirely 07i the 
 corresp07ide7ice left behind hii/i by Lord Live7pool, a7id 7iow i7i the possession 
 of Colo7iel a7id Lady Catheri7ie Harcourt. • 
 
 ''^ Full of infor7natio7i a7id instructio7i!!'' — Fortnightly Review. 
 
 Maclear. — See Section "Ecclesiastical History." 
 Macmillan (Rev. Hugh). — HOLIDAYS ON HIGH 
 
 LANDS ; or, Rambles and Incidents in search of Alpine Plants. 
 By the Rev. Hugh Macmillan, Author of "Bible Teachings in 
 Nature," etc. Crown 8vo. cloth, (ys. 
 
 *''' Bota7iical k7i07vlt'dge is blended 7oith a love of 7iature, a piojis e7t- 
 thusiasiiiy a7id a rich felicity of diction not to be 7iiet with in a7iy 7C'orhs 
 of kindr-ed character, if we except those of Hugh Miller.^'' — Daily 
 Telegraph. 
 
HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, &- TRAVELS. 13 
 
 Macmillan (Rev. Hugh), {continued)— 
 
 FOOT-NOTES FROM THE PAGE OF NATURE. With 
 numerous Illustrations. Fcap. 8vo. 5-^- 
 
 " Those who have derived pleasure and profit frotn the study 0/ /lowers 
 and ferns — subjects, it is pleasing to find, nozu everyivhere popular — by 
 descending lower into the arcana of the vegetable kingdom, will find a still 
 more interesting and delightful field of research in the objects brought u?ider 
 revie^v iji the following pages^ — Preface. 
 
 BIBLE TEACHINGS IN NATURE. Fourth Edition. Fcap 8vo. 
 6s.— See also "Scientific Section." 
 
 Martin (Frederick) — the STATESMAN'S YEAR-BOOK : 
 
 A Statistical and Historical Account of the States of the Civilized 
 World. Manual for Politicians and Merchants for the year 1870. 
 By Frederick Martin. Seventh Annual Publication. Crown 
 8vo. \os. 6d. 
 
 The 7teiv issue has been entirely re-written, revised, and corrected, on the 
 basis of official reports received direct from the heads of the leading Govern- 
 ments of the IVorld, in reply to letters sent to them by the Editor. 
 
 ''^ Everybody who k?zows this work is aware that it is a book that is indis- 
 pensable to writers, financiers, politicians, statesmen, and all who are 
 directly or indirectly interested in the political, social, industrial, com- 
 mercial, and finaficial condition of their fellow-creatures at home and 
 abroad. Mr. Martin deserves warm comtnendation for the care he takes 
 in making ' The Statesman's Year Book' complete and correct.'' 
 
 Standard. 
 
 HANDBOOK OF CONTEMPORARY BIOGRAPHY. By 
 Frederick Martin, Author of "The Statesman's Year-Book." 
 Extra fcap. 8vo. 6s. 
 
 This volume is a?i attempt to produce a book of refere?tce, furnishing in 
 a condensed form some biographical particulars of notable living men. 
 The leading idea has been to give only facts, and those in the briefest form, 
 and to exclude opinions. 
 
14 GENERAL CATALOGUE. 
 
 Martineau. — BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES, 1852— 1868. 
 By Harriet Martineau. Third Edition, with New Preface. 
 Crown 8vo. Sj. (yd. 
 
 A Collection of Memoirs under these sez'eral sections: — (i) Royal, (2) 
 Politicians, (3) Professional, (4) Scientific, (5) Social, (6) Literary. These 
 Memoirs appeared originally in the columns of the " Daily News." 
 
 Masson (Professor). — ESSAYS, BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 CRITICAL. See Section headed "Poetry AND Belles Lettres.' 
 
 LIFE OF JOHN MILTON. Narrated in connexion with the 
 Political, Ecclesiastical, and Literary History of his Time. By 
 David Masson, M.A., LL.D., Professor of Rhetoric at Edin- 
 burgh. Vol. I. with Portraits. 8vo. iSj. Vol. II. in the Press. 
 
 It is ijitended to exhibit Milton's life in its connexions tvith all the ?nore 
 notable phenomena of the period of British history in which it was cast — 
 its state politics, its ecclesiastical variations, its literature and speculative 
 thought. Comviencing in 1608, the Life of Milton proceeds through the 
 last sixteen years of the reign of James I. , includes the whole of the reign 
 of Charles I. and the subsequent years of the Co/?i?no}iwealpi and the 
 Protectorate, and then, passing the Restoration, extends itself to 1674, or 
 through fourteen years of the new state of things under Charles II. The 
 first volume deals with the life of Milton as extending frojii 1608 to 1640, 
 which was the period of his education and of his minor poems. 
 
 Morison.— THE LIFE AND TIMES OF SAINT BERNARD, 
 Abbot of Clairvaux. By James Cotter Morison, M.A. New 
 Edition, revised. Crown 8vo. 7^-. 6d. 
 
 " One of the best contributions in our literature towards a vivid, intel- 
 ligent, and worthy knowledge of European interests and thoughts and 
 feelings during the twelfth century. A delightful ajid instructive volume^ 
 and one of the best products of tJie ?nodern historic spirit.''^ 
 
 Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 Morley (John). — EDMUND BURKE, a Historical Study. By 
 John Morley, B. A. Oxon. Crown 8vo. ']s. dd. 
 
HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, &- TRAVELS. 
 
 " The style is terse and incisive, and brilliant zvith epigi'am and point. 
 It contains pithy aphoristic sentences which Burke himself would not have 
 disozuned. But these are not its best features : its sustained power oj 
 reasoning, its wide yioeep of observation and reflection, its elevated ethical 
 and social tone, stamp it as a zoork of high excellence, and as such we 
 cordially recommend it to our readers." — Saturday Review, 
 
 Mullinger.— CAMBRIDGE CHARACTERISTICS IN THE 
 SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. By J. B. Mullinger, B.A. 
 Ci'own 8vo. 4?. 6a!'. 
 
 // is a very entertaining and readable book." — Saturday Review. 
 
 *' The chapters on the Cartesian Philosophy and the Cambridge Platonists 
 are admirable^ — Athen.eum. 
 
 Palgrave. — I-IISTORY OF NORMANDY AND OF ENG- 
 LAND. By Sir Francis Palgrave, Deputy Keeper of Her 
 Majesty's Public Records. Completing the History to the Death 
 of William Rufus. Four vols. 8vo. £<\ \s. 
 
 Volume I. General Relations of Alediueval Europe — The Carlovingian 
 Empire — The Danish Expeditions in the Gauls — And the Establishment 
 of Rollo. Volume II. The Three Eirst Dukes of Normandy ; Rollo, 
 Guillaume Longue-Epee, and Richard Sans-Peur — The Carlovingian 
 line supplanted by the Capets. Volume III Richard Sans-Peur — 
 Richard Le-Bon — Richard III. — Robert le Diable — William the Con- 
 queror. Volume IV. William Rufus — Accession of Henry Beauclerc. 
 
 Palgrave (W. G.)- — A narrative of a year's 
 
 JOURNEY THROUGH CENTRAL AND EASTERN 
 ARABIA, 1862-3. By William Gifford Palgrave, late of 
 the Eighth Regiment Bombay N. I. Fifth and cheaper Edition. 
 With Maps, Plans, and Portrait of Author, engraved on steel by 
 Jeens. Crown Svo. ()s. 
 
 " Considering the extent of our previous ignorance, the amount of his 
 achievements, and the importance of his contributions to our kno7vledge, we 
 cannot say less of him than was once said of a far greater discoverer. Mr. 
 Palgrave has indeed given a neiu -world to Europe."— Vw.i. >LvLL Gazette, 
 
i6 GENERAL CATALOGUE. 
 
 Parkes (Henry). — AUSTRALIAN VIEWS OF ENGLAND. 
 By Henry Parkes. Crown 8vo. cloth. 3^-. dd. 
 
 " The follouiiiig letters were ivritten during a residence in England, in 
 the years 1 86 1 and 1862, and wei-e published in the "Sydney Mornin<; 
 Herald " on the arrival of the monthly mails .... On re-perusal, these 
 letters appear to contain virajs of English life and impressions of English 
 notabilities zvhich, as the views and i7npressions of an Englishman on his 
 return to his native country after an absence of twenty years, fjiay not be 
 without interest to the English reader. The writer had opportunities of 
 mixing with different classes of the British people, and of hearing opinions 
 on passing events from opposite standpoints of observation. '" — Author's 
 Preface. 
 
 Prichard.— THE administration of INDIA. From 
 1859 to 1868. The First Ten Years of Administration under the 
 Crown. By Iltudus Thomas Prichard, Barrister-at-Law. 
 Two vols. Demy 8vo. With Map. 2\s. 
 
 In these volumes the atdhor has aifned to supply a full, impartial, ana 
 independent account of British India between 1859 and 1868 — zuhich is 
 in many respects the ?jiost important epoch in the history of that country 
 which the present century has seen. 
 
 Ralegh. — the life of sir Walter ralegh, based 
 
 upon Contemporary Documents. By Edward Edwards. To- 
 gether with Ralegh's Letters, now hrst collected. With Portrait. 
 Two vols. 8vo. 32^. 
 
 " Mr. Edivards has certainly written the Life of Ralegh from fuller 
 infortnation than atiy previous biographer. He is intelligent, industrious, 
 sympathetic : and the world has in his two volumes larger means afforded 
 it of knoiving Ralegh than it ever possessed before. The nezv letters and 
 the ne^vly-edited old letters are in themselves a boon.^'' — Pall Malt. 
 Gazette. 
 
 Robinson (Crabb). — diary, REMINISCENCES, AND 
 CORRESPONDENCE OF HENRY CRABB ROBINSON. 
 
 Selected and Edited by Dr. Sadler. With Portrait. Second 
 Edition. Three vols. 8vo. cloth. 36^-. 
 
HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, &- TRAVELS. 17 
 
 Mr. Crabb Robinsons Diary extends over the greater part 0/ three- 
 quarters of a century. It contains persotuil i-emiiiiscences of some of the 
 most distino^uished characters of that period, including Goethe, Wieland, De 
 Quincey, WordsT.uorth (ivith -whom Mr. Crabb Robinson -was on ta-ms oj 
 great intimacy), Madame de Stael, Lafayette, Coleridge, Lamb, Milman, 
 i^c. d-^c: and includes avast vaj-icty of subjects, political, literary, ecclesi- 
 astical, and fiiiscellaneous. 
 
 Rogers (James E. Thorold).— historical GLEAN- 
 INGS : A Series of Sketches, Montague, Wiilpole, Adam Smith, 
 Cobbett. By Rev. J. E. T. Rogers. Crown 8vo, 4?. 6d. 
 Professor Rogers'' s object in the follozaing sketches is to present a set oJ 
 
 historical facts, grouped round a principal fgure. The essays are in the 
 
 forvi of lectures. 
 
 HISTORICAL GLEANINGS. A Series of Sketches. By Rev. 
 J. E. T. Rogers. Second Scries. Crown Svo. 6^. 
 
 A companion -t'olume to the First Series recently published. It contains 
 papers on WiJdif Laud, Wilkes, Home Tooke. In these lectures the 
 author has aimed to state the social facts of the time in -which the individual 
 -whose history is handled took part in public business. 
 
 Smith (Professor Goldvvin). — THREE ENGLISH 
 STATESMEN : PVM, CROMWELL, PITT. A Course of 
 Lectures on the Political History of Englajid. By Goldwin 
 Smith, M. A. Extra fcap. Svo. New and Clieaper Edition. 5^. 
 
 " A -work -which neither historian nor politician can safely afford to 
 neglect. " — Saturday Review. 
 
 SYSTEMS OF LAND TENURE IN VARIOUS COUNTRIES. 
 
 A Series of Essays published under the sanction of the Cobden 
 Club. Demy Svo. Second Edition. I2s. 
 The subjects treated are: — I. I enure of Land in Ireland: 2. Land 
 La-ws of England ; 3. Tenure of Land in India; 4. Land System of 
 Belgium ajui Holland ; 5. Agrarian Legislation of Prussia during the 
 Present Century ; 6. Land System of Prance ; 7. Russian Agrarian 
 Lenslation of 1S61 ; S. Farm Land and Lajid La-ws of the United 
 States. 
 
 B 
 
GEXERA L CA TALOG UE. 
 
 Tacitus. — THE HISTORY OF TACITUS, translated into 
 English. By A. J. Church, M.A. and W. J. Brodribb, ]\I,A. 
 With a Map and Notes. 8vo. \os. 6d. 
 
 The translators have e7ideavoured to adhere as closely to the original as 
 was thought consistent 7i'ith a proper obsejt'ance of English idiom. At 
 the same time it has been their aim to reproduce the precise expressions oj 
 the author. This xvork is characterised by the Spectator as " a scholarly 
 and faithful translation. " 
 
 THE AGRICOLA AND GERMANIA. Translated into English by 
 A. J. Church, M.A. and W. J. Brodribb, M.A. With Maps 
 and Notes. Extra fcap. 8vo. is. 6d. 
 
 The translators have sought to prodiice such a version as may satisfy 
 scholars who demand a faithful rendering of the original, and English 
 readers who are of ended by the baldness a7id frigidity which commonly 
 disfigure translations. The treatises are accompanied by introductions, 
 notes, maps, and a chronological summary. The Athenseum says of 
 this work that it is " a version at once readable and exact, which niay be 
 perused with pleasure by all, and consulted %vith advantage by the classical 
 student.'''' 
 
 Taylor (Rev. Isaac). — WORDS AND PLACES; or 
 
 Etymological Illustrations of History, Etymology, and Geograph}-. 
 By the Rev. Isaac Taylor. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 
 I2J-. 6^. 
 
 ''^ Mr. Taylor has produced a really useful book, and one 7i'hich sta/.\i's 
 alone in our language." — Saturday Review. 
 
 Trench (Archbishop).— gustavus ADOLPHUS : Soci:,l 
 
 Aspects of the Thirty Years' War. By R. CiiENEVix Trench. 
 D.D., Archbishop of Dublin. Fcap. Svo. 2s. 6d. 
 
 " Clear and lucid in style, these lectures w'lll be a treasure to many /<' 
 whom the subiect is unfamiliar.'''' — DUBLIN EVENING Mail. 
 
 Trench (Mrs. R.). — Edited by Archbishop Trench. Remains 
 of the late Mrs. RICHARD TRENCH. Being Selections from 
 her Journals, Letters, and other Papers. New and Cheaper Is^ur, 
 with Portrait, Svo. 6j-. 
 
HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, &^ TRAVELS. 19 
 
 Contains notices and anecdotes illustrating the social life of the period 
 — extending over a quarter- of a century {1799 — 1827). It includes also 
 poems and other miscellaneous pieces by Mrs. TreiicJi. 
 
 Trench (Capt. F., F.R.G.S.). — the RUSSO-INDIAN 
 
 QUESTION, Historically, Strategically, and Politically con- 
 sidered. By Capt. Trench, F.R.G.S. With a Sketch of Central 
 Asiatic Politics and Map of Central Asia. Crown 8vo. Is. 6d. 
 
 " The Russo-Indian, or Central Asian question has for several obvious 
 reasons been attracting much public attention in England, i/i Russia, and 
 also on the Continent, zvithin the last year or ttoo. . . . I have thought 
 that the present volume, giving a short sketch of the history of this questioji 
 from its earliest origi?i, and condensing much of the most recent and inte- 
 resting info7'mation on the sid^ject, and on its collateral phases, might 
 perhaps be acceptable to those who take an interest in it.^^ — Author's 
 Preface. 
 
 Trevelyan (G.O., M.P.). — CAWNPORE. Illustrated with 
 Plan. By G. O. Trevelyan, M.P., Author of "The Com- 
 petition Wallah." Second Edition. Crown Svo. 6s. 
 " In this book we are not spared one fact of the sad story ; but our 
 
 feelings are not harrowed by the recital of imaginary outrages. It is 
 
 good for us at home that we have one who tells his tale so well as does 
 
 Mr. Trevelyan.'" — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 THE COMPETITION WALLAH. New Edition. Crown Svo. 6j. 
 " The earlier letters are especially interesting for their racy descriptions 
 
 of European lije in India Those that follozv are of more serious 
 
 import, seeking to tell the truth about the Hindoo character and English 
 influences, good and bad, upon it, as well as to suggest some better course of 
 treatment than that hitherto adopted.'^' — Examiner. 
 
 Vaughan (late Rev. Dr. Robert, of the British 
 Quarterly). — MEMOIR OF ROBERT A. VAUGHAN. 
 Author of "Hours with the Mystics." By Robert Vaughan, 
 D.D. Second Edition, revised and enlarged. Extra fcap. Svo. 5j-. 
 
 " It desoves a place on the same shelf tuith Stanleys ' Life of Arnold,^ 
 and Carlyle's ' Stirling? Dr. Vaughan has performed his painful but 
 not all unpleasing task with exquisite good taste and feeling.'' — NONCON- 
 FORMIST, 
 
 B 2 
 
20 GENERAL CATALOGUE. 
 
 Wagner. — memoir of the rev. GEORGE ^YAGNER, 
 M.A., late Incumbent of St. Stephen's Church, Brighton. By the 
 Rev. J. N. SiMPKiNsox, M.A. Third and Cheaper PIdition, cor- 
 rected and abridged. 5^-. 
 
 '■'A more edifying biography ive have rarely met loithy — L1TEKA.RY 
 Churchman. 
 
 Wallace.— THE MALAY ARCHIPELAGO: the Land of the 
 Orang Utan and the Bird of Paradise. A Narrative of Travel 
 with Studies of Man and IS'ature. By Alfred Russel Wallace. 
 "With Maps and Illustrations. Second Edition. Two vols, crown 
 8vo. 24J. 
 
 'M carefully and deliberalely composed narrative. . . . We advise 
 our readers to do as 7i<e have done, read his book through^ — TniES. 
 
 Ward (Professor). — THE HOUSE OF AUSTRIA IN THE 
 THIRTY Y^EARS' WAR. Two Lectures, vdth Notes and Illus- 
 trations. By Adolphus W. Ward, M.A., Professor of History 
 in Owens College, Manchester. Extra fcap. 8vo. T-s. 6d. 
 
 " Veiy compact and instructive.''— VoKTSlGWTlX Re\-iew. 
 
 Warren.— AN ESSAY ON GREEK FEDERAL COINAGE. 
 
 By the Hon. J. Leicester Warren, M.A. 8vo. 2s. 6d. 
 
 " The present essay is an attejnpt to illustrate Air. Freeman'' s Fedei'al 
 Government by evidence deduced from the coinage 0/ the times and counti-ies 
 therein treated of.'' — Preface. 
 
 Wilson. — A MEMOIR OF GEORGE WILSON, M. D., 
 F. R. S.E., Regius Professor of Technology in the University of 
 Edinburgh. By his SisTER. New Edition. Crown 8vo. 6x. 
 *^ An exquisite and touching portrait if a rare and beautiful spi7-it.'" — 
 Guardian. 
 
 Wilson (Daniel, LL.D.). — PREHISTORIC ANNALS 
 OF SCOTLAND. By Daniel Wilson, LL.D., Professor of 
 History and English Literature in University College, Toronto. 
 New J'Idition, \\\i\\ numerous Illustrations. Two vols, demy 
 8vo. 36^. 
 
IJISTORV, BIOGRAPHY, ^S- TRAVELS. 21 
 
 This elaborate and learned "work is divided inlo four Parts. Part I. 
 deals with The Primeval or Stone Period : Aboriginal Traces, Sepulchral 
 Memorials, D^i'cllijigs, and Catacombs, Temples, Weapons, &-c. &^c. ; 
 Part IL, The Bronze I'eriod : The Metallurgic Traiisition, Primitive 
 Bronze, Personal Ornaments, Religion, Arts, and Domestic Habits, with 
 other topics ; Part III., The Iron Period : The Introduction of Iron, The 
 Roman Invasio/i, Strongholds, <^c. 6-v.; Part IV., The Christian Period : 
 Historical Data, the iVorrie's Lata Relics, Primitive and Mcdiamal 
 Ecclcsiology, Ecclesiastical and Miscellaneous Antiquities. The work is 
 furnished with an elaborate Index. 
 
 PREHISTORIC MAN. New Edition, revised and partly re- written, 
 with numerous Illustrations. One vol. 8vo. 2is. 
 
 This work, -which carries out the principle of the preceding one, but with 
 a xvider scope, aims to " viexv Man, as far as possible, 7inaffected by those 
 modifying infuences lohich accompany the droelopinent of nations and the 
 matui'ity of a true historic period, in order thereby to ascertain the sources 
 from whence such development and maturity proceed." It contains, for 
 example, chapters on the Primeval Transition ; Speech ; Metals ; the 
 Mound-Builders; Primitive Architecture ; the American Type; the Red 
 Blood of the I Vest, &=c. d^f. 
 
 CHATTERTON: A Biographical Study. By Daniel Wilson, 
 
 LL.D., Professor of History and English Literature in University 
 College, Toronto. Crown 8vo. 6s. 6d. 
 
 The Author here regards Chatterton as a Poet, not as a ''mere resetter 
 and defacer of stolen literary treasures. " Reviezued in this light, he has 
 found much in the old materials capable of being turned to ncio account : 
 and to these materials j-esearch in various directions has enabled him to 
 make some additions. 
 
SECTION II. 
 
 POETRY AND BELLES LETTRES. 
 
 Allingham. — LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND; 
 
 or, the New Landlord. By William Allingham. New and 
 Cheaper Issue, with a Preface. Fcap. 8vo. cloth, 4J-. 6d. 
 
 In the neiv Preface, the state of Ireland, with special reference to the 
 Church jneastcre, is discussed. 
 
 '"'■ It is vital voith the natio7ial character. . . . It has something of Pole's 
 point and Goldsmith'' s simplicity, touched to a more modern issue." — 
 Athen^um. 
 
 Arnold (Matthew). — POEMS. By Matthew Arnold. 
 
 Two vols. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, 12s. Also sold separately at 6^. 
 each. 
 
 Volume I. contains Narrative and Elegiac Poems ; Volume II. Dra- 
 inatid and lyric Poems. The tzvo volumes comprehend the First and 
 Second Series of the Poems, and the N'ezo Poems. 
 
 NEW POEMS. Extra fcap. 8vo. 6j-. (id. 
 
 In this volume will he found ^^ pjnpedocles on Etiui ; " " Thyrsis " (written 
 in co)n))iemoration of the late Professor Clough) ; " Epilogue to Lessings 
 Laocoon;" ''^ Heine s Grave;'''' '•'' Oherniann once more.^' All these 
 poems are also included in the Edition {two vols. ) above-me7itioned. 
 
 ESSAYS IN CRITICISM. New Edition, with Additions. Extra 
 fcap. 8vo. 6^-. 
 Contents : — Preface ; The Functioji of Criticism at the present time ; 
 The Literary Influence of Academies ; Maurice de Guerin ; Eugenie 
 de Guerin ; Ileinrich Heine ; Pagan and Mcdiaval Peligious Sentiment : 
 Joubert ; Spinoza and the Bible ; JMaicus Aurclius.] 
 
POETRY <S- BELLES LETTRES. 
 
 Arnold (Matthew) {continued)— 
 
 ASPROMONTE, AND OTHER POEMS. Ecap. 8vo. cloth 
 extra. 4^. dd. 
 Contents : — Poems for Italy ; Dramatic Lyrics ; Miscellaneous. 
 
 " Uncommon lyrical foiccr and deep poetic feeling." — Literary 
 Churchman. 
 
 Barnes (Rev. W.). — POEMS OF RURAL LIFE IN COM- 
 MON ENGLISH. By the Rlv. W. Barnes, Author of 
 " Poems of Rural Life in the Lorset Dialect." Fcap. 8vo. 6s. 
 " /;/ a high degree pleasant and novel. The hook is by no means one 
 i^hich the lovers of descriptive poetry can afford to lose." — ATliEN.rtUM. 
 
 Bell. — ROMANCES AND MINOR POEMS. By Henry 
 Glassford Bell. Fcap. 8vo. 6j-. 
 
 " Pull of life and genius.'" — CorRT Circular. 
 
 Besant.— STUDIES IN early FRENCH POETRY. By 
 AValter Besant, M.A. Cro-\vn, 8vo. 8j. 6d. 
 
 A sort of impression rests en most minds that Freiich literature begins 
 :oith the ^^ siecle de Louis Quatorze -f any previous literature beijig for 
 the most part tinknsuni or ignored. Feiv knoiu anything of the enormous 
 'iterary activity that^began in the thirteenth century, ivas carried on by 
 Kulebetf, Marie de Prance, Gaston de I'oix, Thibault de Champagjie, 
 and Lorris ; tvus fostered by Charles of Orleans, by Margaret of Valois, 
 'y Prancis the lirst ; that gave a crowd of versifiers to prance, enriched, 
 strengthened, developed, and fixed the Prench language, and prepared the 
 way for Corneille and for Racine. TJie present xuork aims to afford 
 information and direction touching the early efforts of Prance in poetical 
 literature. 
 
 " /// one 77ioderately sized volume he has contrived to introduce us to the 
 very best, if not to all of the early Prench poets.'" — AtheN/EUAI, 
 
 Bradshaw.— AN attempt to ascertain the state 
 
 OF CHAUCER'S WORKS, AS THEY WERE LEFT AT 
 his death. With some Notes of their Subsequent History. 
 13y Henry Bradshaw, of King's College, and the Universiiy 
 Library, Cambridge. /« tf^e Press. 
 
24 GENERAL CATALOGUE. 
 
 Brimley.— ESSAYS BY THE LATE GEORGE BRIMLEY, 
 M.A. Edited by the Rev. ^Y. G. Clark, M.A. ^Vith Portrait. 
 Cheaper Edition. Fcap. 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 Essays on literary topics, such as Tennyson s ^^ Toems,'^ Carlyle's 
 ''^ Life of Stirling,"" '''■Bleak House,''' &^c., reprinted from Eraser, t/w 
 Spectatoi", and like pet'iodicals. 
 
 Broome. — TPIE STRANGER OF SERIPHOS. A Dramatic 
 Poem. By Frederick Napier Broome. Fcap. 8vo. 5^-. 
 
 Founded on the Greek legend of Danae and Ferscjis. 
 
 " Grace and beauty of expression are Mr. Broome's characteristics ; 
 and these qualities are displayed in many passages.'" — Athen^EUM. 
 
 Church (A. J.).— HOR.E TENNYSONIAN/E, Sive Eclogx 
 e Temiysono Latine redditce. Cura A. J. Church, A.M. 
 Extra fcap. 8vo. 6-r. 
 
 Latin versions of Selections from. Tennyson. Among the authors are 
 the Editor, the late Professor Conington, Professor Seeley, Dr. ILessey, 
 Mr. LCehbel, and other gentlemen. 
 
 Clough (Arthur Hugh).— THE POEMS AND PROSE 
 REMAINS OF ARTHUR HUGH Cl^OUGH. With a 
 Selection from his Letters and a Memoir. Edited by his Wife. 
 With Portrait. Two vols, crown Svo. lis. Or Poems sepa- 
 rately, as below. 
 
 The late Professor Clough is 7vell kno7vn as a graceful, tender poet, 
 and as the scholarly translator of Plutarch. 7 he letters possess high 
 inte7'est, not biographical only, but literary — discussing, as they do, the 
 most important questions of the time, always in a genial spirit. The 
 ^'^ Liema'ins'" include papers on " Retrenclnnent at Oxford f on Professor 
 F. W. Neruman^s book " The Soul f^ on Words^vorth ; on the Formation 
 of Classical English ; on some Modern Poems {Matthnv Arnold and the 
 late Alexander Smith), ^'c. ^'c. 
 
 THE POEMS OF ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH, sometime Fellow 
 of Oriel College, Oxford. With a Memoir by F. T. Palgrave. 
 Second Edition. Fcap. Svo. 6.r. 
 
POETRY &^ BELLES LETT RES. 
 
 " From the higher mind of cultivated^ all-questioning, but still conser- 
 vative England, in this our puzzled generation, zve do not knmv of any 
 utterance in literature so characteristic as the poems of Arthur Hugh 
 Clough." — Fraser's Magazine. 
 
 Dante. — DANTE'S COMEDY, THE HELL. Translated by 
 W, M. RossETTi. Fcap. 8vo. cloth. 5j-. 
 
 " The aim of this translation of Dante may be sutnined up in one word 
 — Literality. . . , To folhnu Dante sentence for sentence, line for line, 
 word for 7vord — neither more nor less — Jias been my strenuous oideavour.'^ 
 — Author's Preface. 
 
 De Vere. — THE infant bridal, and other Poems. By 
 Aubrey De Vere. Fcap. 8vo. 7j-. 6d. 
 " Afr. De Vere has taken his place among the poets of the day. Pure 
 and tender feeling, and that polished restraitit of style which is called 
 classical, are the charms of the volume.''' — Spectator. 
 
 Doyle (Sir F. H.). — Works by Sir Francis Hastings Doyle, 
 Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford : — 
 
 THE RETURN OF THE GUARDS, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 Fcap. 8vo. yj". 
 " Good wine needs no bush, nor good verse a preface ; and Sir Francis 
 Doyle's verses run bright and clear, and smack op a classic vintage. . . . 
 His chief characteristic, as it is his greatest charm, is the simple 7nanliness 
 which gives force to all he 2vrites. It is a characteristic in these days rare 
 enough. " — Exam i ne r. 
 
 LECTURES ON POETRY, delivered before the University of 
 Oxford in 1868. Crown 8vo. y. 6d. 
 
 Three Lectures : — (i) Inaugural ; (2) Proznncial Poetry ; (3) Dr 
 Nerdoman's '''' Dream of Gerontius." 
 
 "Full of thoughtful discrimination and fine insight : the lecture on 
 ^Provincial Poetry'' seems to us singularly true, eloquoit, and instructive." 
 — Spectator. 
 
 Evans. — BROTHER FABIAN'S MANUSCRIPT, AND 
 OTHER POEMS. By Sebastian Evans. Fcap. 8vo. cloth. 
 6j-. 
 
26 GENERAL CATALOGUE. 
 
 " /// this volume lue have full assurance thai he has ' the vision and the 
 faculty divine.'' . . . Clever and full of kindly humour^ — Globe. 
 
 Fur ni vail. — LE MORTE D'ARTHUR. Edited from the Harleian 
 M.S. 2252, in the British Museum. By F. J. Furniyall, M.A. 
 With Essay by the late Herbert Coleridge. Fcap. 8vo. 'js.^d. 
 
 Looking to the interest shown by so many thousands in ]\Ir. Tennyson'' s 
 Arthurian poems, the editor and publishers have thought that the old 
 version ivould possess coiisiderable interest. It is a reprint of the celebrated 
 Ilarleian copy ; and is accompanied by index and glossary. 
 
 Garnett. — idylls and EPIGRAMS. Chiefly from the Greek 
 Anthology. By Richard Garnett. Fcap. 8vo. 2.s. 6d. 
 
 ".4 charming little book. For English readers, Ulr. Gametes transla- 
 lations will open a nnv luorld of thought^ — Westminster Review. 
 
 GUESSES AT TRUTH. By Two Brothers. With Vignette, 
 Title, and Frontispiece. New Edition, with Memoir. Fcap. 8vo. 6j-. 
 
 " The follozuing year was memorable for the comtnencement of the 
 '■Guesses at Trieih.'' He and his Oxford brother, living as they did in 
 constant and free interchange of thought on questions of philosophy and 
 literature and art ; delighting, each of them, in the epigrammatic terseness 
 which is the charm of the '■ Pensces'' of Pascal, and the ' Caracteres'' of La 
 Bruyere — agreed to utter themselves in this form, and the book appeared, 
 anonymously, in two volumes, in 1827." — Memoir. 
 
 Hamerton. — a PAINTER'S CAMP. By Philip Gilbert 
 Hamerton. Second Edition, revised. Extra fcap. 8vo. ds. 
 
 Book I. In Endand; Book II. In Scotland: Book III. I >i France. 
 This is the story of an Artist'' s encampments and adventures. The 
 headings of a few chapters may serve to convey a notion of the character 
 of the book: A Walk on the Lancashire Moors; the Author his o-wn 
 Housekeeper and Cook ; Tents and Boats for the Highlands ; The Author 
 encamps on an uninhabited Island ; A Lake Voyage ; A Gipsy Journey 
 to Glen Coe ; Concerning Moonlight and Old Castles ; A little French 
 Citv : A Farm in the Autunois, &^r. <^c. 
 
FOETRY (S- BELLES LETTRES. 27 
 
 *' His pages sparkle with happy turns of expression^ not a few well-told 
 anecdotes^ and many observations zvhich are the fruit of attentive study and 
 zuise reflection on the complicated phenomena of human life, as well as oj 
 unconscious nature^ — WesTxMIiNSTER Review. 
 
 ETCHING AND ETCHERS. A Treatise Critical and Practical. 
 By P. G. Hamerton. With Original Plates by Rembrandt, 
 Callot, Dujardin, Paul Potter, &c. Royal 8vo. Half 
 morocco. 31^. 6c/. 
 
 ^^ It is a work of which author, printer, and publisher may alike feel 
 proud. It is a zuork, too, of which none but a genuine aj'tist could by pos- 
 sibility have been the author.''' — Saturday Review. 
 
 Herschel. — the ILIAD OF HOMER. Translated into English 
 Hexameters. By Sir John Herschel, Bart. 8vo. i8j-. 
 
 A version of the Iliad in English Hexameters. The question of Horn eric 
 translation is fully discussed in the Preface. 
 
 ^^ It is admirable, not only for jnany intrinsic merits, but as a grea 
 man^ s tribute to Genius.'''' — Illustrated London News. 
 
 HIATUS : the Void in Modern Education. Its Cause and Antidote. 
 By OuTis. Svo. Sj-. dd. 
 
 The main object of this Essay is to point out hoT.v the emotional element 
 luhich 'underlies the Fine Arts is disregarded and undeveloped at this time 
 so far as {despite a pretence at filing it up) to constitute an Educational 
 Hiatus. 
 
 HYMNI ECCLESLE. See "Theological Section." 
 
 Kennedy. — LEGENDARY FICTIONS OF THE IRISH 
 CELTS. Collected and Narrated by Patrick Kennedy. Crown 
 Svo. With Two Illustrations. 'Js. 6d. 
 
 ^'A very admirable popular selection of the Irish fairy stories and legends, 
 in which those who are familiar with Mr. Crokers, and other selections 
 of the same kind, zuill find much that is fresh, and full of the peculiar 
 vivacity and humour, and sometimes ez^en of the ideal beauty, of the trite 
 Celtic Legendr — Spectator. 
 
28 GENERAL CATALOGUE. 
 
 Kingsley (Canon). — See also "Historic Skction," "Works 
 OF Fiction," and " PuiLOsoriiY ;" also "Juvenile Books," 
 i?«^" Theology," 
 
 THE SAINTS' TRAGEDY : or, The True Story of Elizabeth of 
 Hungary. By the Rev. Charles Kingsley, With a Preface by 
 the Rev. F, D, Maurice, Third Edition. Fcap. 8vo, 5^, 
 
 ANDROMEDA, AND OTHER POEMS. Third Edition. Fcap. 
 8vo. 5J-. 
 
 PPIAETHON ; or, Loose Thoughts for Loose Thinkers. Third 
 Edition. Crown Svo. 2s. 
 
 Kingsley (Henry). — See "Works of Fiction." 
 
 Lowell (Professor). — AMONG MY BOOKS. Six Essays. 
 
 By Tames Russell Lowell, M.A., Professor of Belles Lettres 
 
 in Harvard College. Crown Svo. 7^, (id. 
 Six Essays : Drydeii ; Witchcraft; Shakespeare Once Alore ; Nezv 
 England Two Centuries ago; Lessing; Kousseau and the Senti- 
 metitalists. 
 
 UNDER TPIE WILLOWS, AND OTHER POEMS, By James 
 Russell Lowell, Fcap. Svo, 6j-. 
 " Under the Willows is one oj the most admirable bits of idyllic work, 
 short as it is, or perhaps becmise it is short, that have been done in our gene- 
 ration.^^ — Saturday Review. 
 
 Masson (Professor). — ESSAYS, BIOGRAPHICAL AND 
 
 CRITICAL, Chiefly on the British Poets, By David Masson, 
 
 LL.D,, Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Edinburgh. 
 
 Svo, I2s. 6d. 
 
 ^'Distinguished by a remarkable power of analysis, a clear statement 
 
 of the actual facts on which speculation is based, ami an appropnaic 
 
 beauty of Language. These essays should be popular with serious men.'" — 
 
 Athen^um. 
 
 BRITISH NOVELISTS AND THEIR STYLES. Being a Critical 
 Sketch of the History of British Prose Fiction. Crown Svo, ^s. 6d. 
 " Valuable for its lucid analysis of fundamental principles, its breadth 
 of vieiv, arid sustained animation of style.^' — Spectator. 
 
POETRY &^ BELLES LETTRES. 
 
 29 
 
 Masson (Professor) {coiuiiincd)— 
 
 MRS. JERNING HAM'S JOURNAL. Second Kdiiion. Extra fcap. 
 8vo. 3J-. 6t/. A Poem of the boudoir or domestic class, purporting 
 to be the journal of a newly-married lady. 
 
 " Ojic quality in the piixe, sufficient of itself to claim a ino7nent''s atten- 
 lion, is that it is unique — original, indeed, is not too strong a luord — in 
 the manner of its conception and execution.^'' — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 Mistral (F.). — MIRELLE: a Pastoral Epic of Provence. Trans- 
 lated by PI. Crichton". Extra fcap. 8vo. 6j-. 
 
 '' This is a capital translation 0/ the elegant and richly -coloui-ed pastoral 
 epic poem of M. Mistral zuhich, in 1 859, he dedicated in enthusiastic 
 
 terms to Latnartine. It luoutd be hard to oz'erpj-aise the 
 
 scveetness and pleasing freshticss of this charming epicy — ATHEN.^iUM. 
 
 Myers (Ernest). — the PURITANS. By Ernest Myers. 
 Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, is. 6d. 
 
 ^^ It is not too much to call it a really grand poem, stately and dignified., 
 a?id shoiving not only a high poetic mind, but also great pozuer oz'er poetic 
 expression.''^ — Literary Church.man. ^ 
 
 Myers (F. W. H.). — Poems. P>y F. W. H. Myers. Extra 
 fcap. Svo. 4J. 6d. Containing "ST. PAUL,"' "St. JOHN," and 
 other Poems. 
 
 Nettleship. — essays on Robert browning's 
 
 POETRY. By John T. Nettleship. Extra fcap. Svo. Gs. dd. 
 
 Noel. — BEATRICE, AND OTHER POEMS. By the Hun. 
 RoDEN Noel. Fcap. Svo. 6s. 
 
 " Beatrice is in many respects a noble poem; it displays a splendour 
 (f landscape painting, a strong definite precision of highly-coloured descrip- 
 tion, ivhich has not often been surpassed.''' — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
30 GENERAL CATALOGUE. 
 
 Norton. — the lady of la gar aye. By the Hox. Mrs. 
 Norton. With Vignette and Frontispiece. Sixth Edition. 
 Fcap, 8vo. 4^. 6d. 
 
 " There is no lack of vigour, no faltering of fio7ver, plenty of passion, 
 much bright description, much musical verse. . . . Full of thoughts taell- 
 expressed, and may be classed amoitg her best works' — Times. 
 
 Orwell.— THE BISHOP'S WALK AND THE BISHOP'S 
 TIMES. Poems on the days of Archbishop Leighton and the 
 Scottish Covenant. By Orwell. Fcap. 8vo. ^s. 
 
 ^^ Pure taste and faultless precision of language, the fruits of deep thought, 
 insight ijito human nature, and lively sympathy.'" — NONCONFORMIST. 
 
 Palgrave (Francis T.). — ESSAYS ON ART. By Francis 
 Turner Palgrave, M.A., late Fellow of Exeter College, 
 Oxford. Extra fcap. 8vo. 6s. 
 Mulready — Dyce — Holman Hunt — Herhey-t — Poetry, Prose, and Sen- 
 sationalism in Art — Sculpture in England— The Albert Cross, <^c. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S SONNETS AND SONGS. Edited by F. T. 
 Palgrave. Gem Edition. With Vignette Title by Jeens. 3^-. 6^'. 
 
 *' For minute elegance no volume coidd possibly excel the ' Gem 
 Edition.' " — Scotsman. 
 
 Patmore. — Works by COVENTRY Patmore : — 
 THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 Book I. The Betrothal ; Book II. The Espousals ; Book HI. 
 Faithful for Ever. With Tamerton Church Tower. Two vols. Fcap. 
 Svo. 1 2s. 
 
 *^* A Neiv and Cheap Edition in one vol. iSmo., beautifully printed 
 on toned paper, price 2s. 6d. 
 
 THE VICTORIES OF LOVE. Fcap. Svo. 4^-. 6d 
 
 The intrinsic merit of his poem will secure it a permanent place in 
 literature. . . . Mr. Patmore has fidly earned a place in the catalogue 
 of poets by the finished idealization of domestic life." — Saturday 
 Review. 
 
POETRY &= BELLES LETTRES. 31 
 
 Pember (E. H.). — the tragedy of LESBOS. A 
 
 Dramatic Poem. By E. H Pember. Fcap. 8vo. 4.?. 6r/. 
 Founded upon the story of Sappho. 
 
 Rossetti. — Works by Christina Rossetti :— 
 
 GOBLIN MARKET, AND OTHER POEMS. With two Designs 
 by D. G. Rossetti. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 5.^-. 
 
 '''She handles her little marvel zvith that rare poetic discrimination 7vhich 
 neither exhausts it of its simple -li'onders by pushing symbolism too fir , nor 
 keeps those wonders in the merely fabulous and capricious stage. In fact 
 she has produced a true children's poem, which is far more delightful to 
 the mature than to children, though it would be delightful to all.'"— 
 Spectator. 
 
 THE PRINCE'S PROGRESS, AND OTHER POEMS. With 
 two Designs by D. G. Rossetti. Fcap. Svo. 6s. 
 
 " Miss Rossetti'' s poems are of the kind which recalls Shelley s definition 
 of Poetry as the record of the best and happiest moments of the best and 
 happiest minds. . . . They are like the piping of a bird on the spray in 
 the sujishine, or the quaint singing zvith tvhich a child amuses itself tvhen 
 it forgets that anybody is listening.'" — Saturday Review. 
 
 Rossetti (VV. M.).— DANTE'S HELL. ^-^-^ " Dante." 
 
 FINE ART, chiefly Contemporary. By William M. Rossetti. 
 Crow'n Svo. los. 6d. 
 
 This volu?ne consists of Criticism on. Contemporary Art, reprinted from 
 Fraser, The Saturday Review, Tlie Pall Mall Gazette, and other pub- 
 lications. 
 
 Roby.— STORY OF A HOUSEHOLD, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 By Mary K. Roby. Fcap. Svo. $s. 
 
 Shairp (Principal).— KIL^IAHOE, a Highland Pastoral, with 
 other Poems. By John Campbell Shairp. Fcap. Svo. 5j-. 
 "■ Kilmahoe is a Highland Pastoral, redolent of the warm soft air of 
 the Western Lochs and Moors, sketched out with remarkable grace and pic- 
 turesqueness.^SxTV RDAY Review. 
 
:)- 
 
 GENERAL CATALOGUE. 
 
 Smith. — Works by Alexander Smith : — 
 
 A LIFE DRAMA, AND OTHER POEMS. Fcap. 8vo. 2j. dd. 
 
 CITY POEMS. Fcap. 8vo. 5^. 
 
 EDWIN OF DEIRA, Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 5^. 
 
 ""^ A poem lijJiich is marked by the strength, sustained yiueetness, and 
 compact texture of real ///^."— Noraii British Review. 
 
 Smith. — POEMS. By Catherine Barnard Smith. Fcap. 
 8vo. 5J-. 
 
 " Wealthv in feeling, meaning, finish, and grace ; not without passion, 
 zvhich is suppressed, but the keener for ///<?/."— Athenaeum. 
 
 Smith (Rev. Walter).— hymns OF CHRIST AND THE 
 CHRISTIAN LIFE. By the Rev. Walter C. Smith, M.A. 
 Fcap. 8\'0. Gs. 
 
 " These are among the sweetest sacred poems we have read for a long 
 time. With no profoise imagery, expressing a range of feeling and 
 expression by Jio means uncommon, they are true and elez'ated, and their 
 pathos is profound and j-//;//^/^."— Nonconformist. 
 
 Stratford de Redcliffe (Viscount).— shadows OF 
 THE PAST, in Yerse. By Yiscount Strateord de Red- 
 cliffe. Crown 8vo. io,r. 6d. 
 
 " The vi'^orous luords of one xvho has acted vigorously. They combine 
 the fervour of politician and poet.'' — GUARDIAN. 
 
 Trench. — Works by R. Chenevix Trench, D.D., Archbishop 
 ot Dublin. See also Sections ' ' PiiiLOSOi'iiY," ' ' Theology," &c. 
 
 poems. Collected and arranged anew. P'cap. 8vo. ^s. 6d. 
 ELEGIAC POEMS. Third Edition, Fcap. 8vo. 2s. ()d. 
 
 CALDERON'S LIFE'S A DREAM : The Great Theatre of the 
 World. With an Essay on his I>ife and Genius. Fcap. Svo. 
 4J. ()d. 
 
POETRY &- BELLES LETTRES. 33 
 
 Trench (Archbishop) {cofiHnued)— 
 
 HOUSEHOLD BOOK OF ENGLISH POETRY. Selected and 
 arranged, with Notes, by R. C. Trench, D.D., Archbishop of 
 Dublin. Extra fcap. 8vo. 5^'. 6d. 
 
 This volume is called a " Household Book,'''' by this name imply itt<r that 
 it is a book for all — that there is nothing in it to prevent it from being 
 cojifidently placed in the hands of every member of the household. Speci- 
 mens of all classes of poetry are given, including selections from livin<^ 
 authors. The Editor has aitned to produce a book ' ' which the emigrant, 
 finding room for little not absolutely necessary, might yet find ■> 9o?n for 
 in his trunk, and the traveller in his knapsack, and that on some narrtKo 
 shelves where there are few books this might be ojie.'' 
 
 " The Archbishop has conferred in this delightful volume an important 
 gift on the whole English-speaking population of the world." — Pall 
 Mall Gazette. 
 
 SACRED LATIN POETRY, Chiefly Lyrical. Selected and arranged 
 for Use. Second Edition, Corrected and Improved. Fcap. 8vo. 
 
 " The aim of the present volume is to o_ffer to members of our English 
 Church a collection of the best sacred Latin poetry, such as they shall be 
 able entirely and heartily to accept and approve — a collection, that is, in which 
 they shall not be evermore liable to be offended, and to have the current oj 
 their sy7npathies checked, by coming upon that which, however beautiful as 
 poetry, out of higher respects they must reject and condemn — in which, too, 
 they shall not fear that snares are being laid for them, to entangle them 
 unazuares in admiration for ought which is inconsistent with t/ieir faith 
 and fealty to their 07vn spiritual mother.'" — Preface. 
 
 Turner. — SONNETS. By the Rev. Charles Tennyson 
 Turner. Dedicated to his brother, the Poet Laureate. Fcap. 
 8vo. 4-5-, 6d. 
 
 " The Sonnets are dedicated to Mr. Toinyson by his brother, and have, 
 indepcjideiitly of their merits, an interest of association. They both love to 
 write in simple expressive Saxon ; both love to touch their imagery in 
 epithets rather than in formal similes ; both have a delicate perception 
 of rhyth}7iical tnovement, and thus Mr. Turner h-as occasional lines zchich, 
 for phrase and music, might be ascribed to his brothei: . . He knows the 
 
 Q 
 
34 GENERAL CATALOGUE, 
 
 haunts of the wild rose, the shady nooks where light quivers through the 
 leaves, the ruralities, in short, of the land of imagination." — ATHENyEUM. 
 
 SMALL TABLEAUX. Fcap. 8vo. a^. 6d, 
 
 " These brief poems have not only a peculiar kind of interest for the 
 student of English poetry, but are intrinsically delightful, and will reward 
 a careful and frequent perusal. Full of naivete, piety, love, and k7iowledge 
 of natural objects, and each expressing a single and generally a simple 
 subject by means of minute and original pictorial touches, these sonnets 
 have a place of their own.'' — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 Vittoria Colonna. — life and POEMS. By Mrs. Henry 
 RoscoE. Crown 8vo. ^s. 
 
 The life of Vittoria Colonna, the celebrated Marchesa di Pescara, has 
 received but cursory notice fro^n any English writer, though in every 
 history of Italy her name is mentioned with great honour among the poets 
 of the sixteenth century. "In three hundred and fifty years,'' says her 
 biographer, Visconti, ''''there has been no other Italian lady who can be 
 compared to her. ' ' 
 
 *^ It is writtejt luith good taste, with quick and intelligent sympathy, 
 occasionally with a real freshness and charm oj style'' — Pall Mall 
 Gazette. 
 
 Webster. — Works by Augusta Webster : — 
 
 ' ' If Airs. Webster only remains true to herself she will assuredly 
 take a higher rank as a poet than any woman has yet done." — 
 Westminster Review. 
 
 DRAMATIC STUDIES. Extra fcap. 8vo. S^- 
 
 "A volume as strongly marked by perfect taste as by poetic power.''"' — 
 Nonconformist. 
 
 PROMETHEUS BOUND OF ^SCHYLUS. Literally translated 
 into English Verse. Extra fcap. 8vo. 3^. 6^. 
 
 " Closeness and simplicity combined with literary skill." — Athen^UM. 
 
 '^ Mrs. Webster's 'Dramatic Studies' and 'Translation of Prome- 
 theus ' have won for her an honourable place among our female poets. 
 She writes with remarkable vigour and dratnaiic realization, and bids fair 
 to be the most i-ucccssful claimant of Mrs. Browning's nuijitle." — British 
 Quarterly Review. 
 
 MEDEA OF EURIPIDES. Literally translated into English Verse. 
 Extra fcap, Svo. 3^-. 6d. 
 
POETRY &- BELLES LETT RES. 35 
 
 " Mrs. Webster s translation surpasses otcr utmost expectations. It is a 
 photog}-aph of the original ivithout any of that harshness which so often 
 accompanies a photograph^ — Westminster Review. 
 
 A WOMAN SOLD, AND OTHER POEMS. Crown 8vo. ^s. dd. 
 "yl/;^. Webster has shown us that she is able to draw admirably from 
 the life ; that she can obsei've with subtlety, and render her observations 
 with delicacy ; that she can impersonate complex conceptions, and venture 
 into which few living writers cafi follow her." — Guardian. 
 
 PORTRAITS. Fcap. 8vo. 3^-. 6d. 
 
 " There is not one of the '■Portraits^ on which we zaould not willingly 
 dwell." — Spectator. 
 
 "Woodward (B. B., F.S.A.). — SPECIMENS OF THE 
 
 DRAWINGS OF TEN MASTERS, from the Royal Collection 
 at Windsor Castle. With Descriptive Text by the late B. B. Wood- 
 ward, B.A., F. S.A., Librarian to the Queen, and Keeper of 
 Prints and Drawings. Illustrated by Twenty Autotypes by 
 Edwards and Kidd. In 4to. handsomely bound, price 25 j. 
 This volume contains facsimiles of the works of Michael Angela, Pcriigino, 
 Raphael, jiilio Romano, Leonardo da Vinci, Giorgione, Paid Veronese^ 
 Poussin, Albert DUrer, Holbein, executed by the Autotype {Carbon) process, 
 which may be accepted as, so far, perfect representations of the originals. In 
 most cases some reduction in size %vas necessary, and then the dimensions 
 of the drawing itself have been given. Brief biographical viemoraiida of 
 the life of each master are insei-ted, solely to prez'enf the need of reference 
 to other works. 
 
 Woolner. — my beautiful lady. By Thomas Woolner. 
 
 With a Vignette by Arthur Hughes. Third Edition. Fcap. 
 
 8vo. 5^-. 
 " It is clearly the product of no idle hour, but a highly-conceived and 
 faithfully-executed task, self-imposed, and prompted by that inwai'd yearn- 
 ing to utter great thoughts, and a wealth of passionate feeling which is 
 poetic genius. No man can read this poem without being struck by the 
 fitness and finish of the workmanship, so to speak, as well as by the chas- 
 tened and unpretending loftiness of thought which pej-vades the -whole." — 
 Globe. 
 WORDS FROM THE POETS. Selected by the Editor of " Rays of 
 
 Sunlight." With a Vignette and Frontispiece. iSmo. P^xtra 
 
 cloth gilt. 2s. 6d. Cheaper Edition, iSmo. liinp., \s. 
 
GLOBE EDITIONS. 
 
 Under the title GLOBE EDITIONS, the Publishers are 
 issuing a uniform Series of Standard English Authors, 
 carefully edited, clearly and elegantly printed on toned 
 paper, strongly bound, and at a small cost. The names of 
 the Editors whom they have been fortunate enough to 
 secure constitute an indisputable guarantee as to the 
 character of the Series. The greatest care has been taken 
 to ensure accuracy of text ; adequate notes, elucidating 
 historical, literary, and philological points, have been sup- 
 pHed ; and, to the older Authors, glossaries are appended. 
 The series is especially adapted to Students of our national 
 Literature ; while the small price places good editions of 
 certain books, hitherto popularly inaccessible, within the 
 reach of all. 
 
 Shakespeare. — THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM 
 SHAKESPEARE. Edited by W. G. Clark and W. Aldis 
 Wright. Ninety-first Thousand. Globe Svo. 3J-. 6d. 
 
 ''A marvel of beauty^ cheapness, and compactness. The whole wo7-ks — 
 plays, poems, and sonnets — are contained in one small volume : yet the 
 page is perfectly clear and readable. . . . For the busy man, above all 
 for the 7vorkhtg Student, the Globe Edition is the best of all existing 
 Shakespeare books.''^ — Athen.t.UM. 
 
 Morte D'Arthur.— SIR THOMAS MALORY'S BOOK OF 
 
 KING ARTHUR AND OF HIS NOBLE KNIGHTS OF 
 
 THE ROUND TABLE. The Edition of Caxton, revised for 
 
 Modern Use. With an Introduction by SiR Edward StracHEY 
 
 Lart. Globe Svo, y. 6d. New Edion. 
 
GLOBE EDITIONS. 37 
 
 " // is ivith the most perfect confidence that -we recoinme?id this edition 0/ 
 the old romance to rvery class of readers^ — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 Scott.— THE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER 
 SCOTT. With Biographical Essay by F. T. Palgrave. 
 Globe 8vo. 3J-. dd. New Edition. 
 
 ^^ As a popular edition it leaves nothing to be desired. The want of 
 such an one has long been felt, combining real excellence with cheapness" 
 — Spectator. 
 
 Burns. — THE POETICAL WORKS AND LETTERS OF 
 ROBERT BURNS. Edited, with Life, by Alexander Smith. 
 Globe 8vo. 3^. (>d. New Edition. 
 
 *' The works of the bard have nruer been offered in such a complete form 
 in a single voluvieP — Glasgow Daily Herald. 
 '■'■ Admirable in all respects.'" — Spectator, 
 
 Robinson Crusoe.— the ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON 
 
 CRUSOE. By Defoe. Edited, from the Original Edition, by 
 J. W. Clark, M.A., Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge. 
 With Introduction by Henry Kingsley. Globe Svo. 3^. dd. 
 
 " The Globe Edition of Robinson Crusoe is a book to have and to keep. 
 It is pri filed after the original editions, with the quaint old spelling, and 
 is published in admirable style as regards type, paper, and binding. A 
 well-written and genial biographical ijifroduction, by Mr. Henry Kingsley, 
 is likewise an attractive feature of this edition.'' — Morning Star. 
 
 Goldsmith.— GOLDSMITH'S MISCELLANEOUS W^ORKS. 
 With Biographical Essay by Professor Masson. Globe Svo. 
 3J. dd. 
 
 This edition includes the whole of Goldsmith's Miscellaneous Works— 
 the Vicar of Wakefield, Plays, Poems, &^c. Of the memoir the Scotsman 
 newspaper writes: ''Such an admirable compendium of the facts of 
 Goldsniith's life, and so careful and minute a delifieation of the mixed 
 traits of his peculiar character, as to be a very model of a literary 
 biography.^' 
 
38 GENERAL CATALOGUE. 
 
 Pope. — THE POETICAL WORKS OF ALEXANDER POPE. 
 Edited, with Memoir and Notes, by Professor Ward. Globe 
 8vo. y. ()d. 
 
 " The book is handsome and handy. . . . The notes are many, and 
 the matter of them is rich in intei'est." — Athen^um. 
 
 Spenser. — the COMPLETE WORKS OF EDMUND 
 SPENSER. Edited from the Original Editions and Manuscripts, 
 by R. Morris, Member of the Council of the Philological Society. 
 With a Memoir by J. W. Hales, M.A., late Fellow of Christ's 
 College, Cambridge, Member of the Council of the Philological 
 Society. Globe 8vo. 3J-. (id. 
 
 "A complete and clearly printed edition of the whole 7vorks of Spenser, 
 carefully collated with the originals, with copious glossary, worthy— and 
 higher praise it needs not — of the bcaiitifil Globe Series. The work is 
 edited with all the care so noble a poet deser-ves.^'' — Daily News. 
 
 Dryden.- THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN DRYDEN. j 
 
 Edited, with a Revised Text, Memoir, and Notes, by W. D. 
 Christie. Globe 8vo. 3^-. dd. 
 
 * ^ Other Standard Works are in the Press. 
 
 *v* The Volumes of this Series may also be had in a variety of morocco I 
 
 and calf bindings at very moderate Prices. 
 
GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES. 
 
 Uniformly printed in i8mo., with Vignette Titles by Sir 
 Noel Paton, T. Woolner, W. Holman Hunt, J. E. 
 MiLLAis, Arthur Hughes, &c. Engraved on Steel by 
 Jeens. Bound in extra cloth, 45. dd. each volume. Also 
 kept in morocco. 
 
 ' ' Messrs. Mac7nillan have, in their Golden Treasury Series especially^ 
 provided editions of standard works, volumes of selected poet7y, and 
 original coinpositions, which entitle this series to be called classical. 
 Nothing can be better than the literary execution, nothing more elegant 
 than the material workmanship." — British Quarterly Review. 
 
 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF THE BEST SONGS AND 
 LYRICAL POEMS IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 
 
 Selected and arranged, with Notes, by Francis Turner 
 Palgrave. 
 
 " This delightful little volume, the Goldeti Treasury, which contains 
 many of the best original lyrical pieces and songs tn our language, grouped 
 with care and skill, so as to illustrate each other like the pictures in a 
 well-arraftged gallery.^' — Quarterly Review. 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S GARLAND FROM THE BEST POETS. 
 Selected and arranged by Coventry Patmore. 
 
 " It includes specimens of all the great masters in the art of poetry^ 
 selected with the matured judgment of a man concejitrated on obtaining 
 insight into the feelings and tastes of childhood, ajid desirous to awaken its 
 Hnest impulses, to cultivate its keenest sensibilities.''* — MoRNiNG Post. 
 
40 GENERAL CATALOGLE. 
 
 THE BOOK OF PRAISE. From the Best English Hymn Writers. 
 Selected and arranged by SiR RouNDELL Palmer. A New and 
 Enla7'ged Editwji. 
 
 *' All previoics compilations of this kind must undeniably for the present 
 
 give place to the Book of Praise. . . . The selection has been made 
 throiLghoiit with soiuid judgment and critical taste. The pains iiivolvcd 
 in this co7Hpilation must have been immense, embracing, as it does, every 
 writer of note in this special province of English literature, and ranging 
 over the 7nost widely divergent tracks op religious thought.'''' — SATURDAY 
 Review. 
 
 THE FAIRY BOOK ; the Best Popular Fairy Stories. Selected and 
 rendered anew by the Author of "John Halifax, Gentleman." 
 
 " A delightful selection, in a delightful external form ; full of the 
 physical splendour and vast opulence of proper Jaity tales.''^ — SPECTATOR. 
 
 THE BAELAD BOOK. A Selection of the Choicest British Ballads. 
 Edited by William Allingham. 
 
 '■'■His taste as a judge of old poetry will be found, by all acquainted with 
 the various readings of old Eiiglish ballads, true enough to justify his 
 undertaking so critical a task.'''' — SATURDAY REVIEW. 
 
 THE JEST BOOK. The Choicest Anecdotes and Sayings. Selected 
 and arranged by Mark Lemon. 
 
 " The fullest and best jest book that has yet appeared^ — SATURDAY 
 Review. 
 
 BACON'S ESSAYS AND COLOURS OF GOOD AND EVIL. 
 With Notes and Glossarial Index. By W. Aldis Wright, M. A. 
 
 " The beaut'ifiil little edition of Bacon'' s Essays, now before us, does 
 credit to the taste and scholarship of Mr. Aldis Wright. . . . It puts the 
 reader in possession of all the essential literaiy facts a?id chronology 
 necessary for reading the Essays in comiexion with Bacon^s life and 
 times.'" — S PECTATOR. 
 
 ** By far the most complete as well as the most elegant edit'ion ive 
 possess." — Westminster Review. 
 
GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES. 41 
 
 THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS from this World to thai which is to 
 come. By John BuNYAN. 
 ".4 beautiful and scholarly rcprintP — SPECTATOR. 
 
 THE SUNDAY BOOK OF POETRY FOR THE YOUNG. 
 Selected and arranged by C. F. Alexander. 
 " A wdl-sclcctcd volume of Sacred Poetry." — Spectator. 
 
 A BOOK OF GOLDEN DEEDS of all Times and all Countries. 
 
 Gathered and narrated anew. By the Author of " The Heir of 
 
 Redclyffe." 
 "... To the yotifig, for ivJiotn it is especially intended, as a jHost i}tterestvig 
 collection of thrilling tales loell told ; and to their elders, as a useful hand- 
 hook of re/trettce, and a pleasant one to take icp zuhen their wish is to while 
 away a weaiy half hour. We have seen no ij'ettier gift-book for a long 
 time'' — Athen^um. 
 
 THE POETICAL WORKS OF ROBERT BURNS. Edited, with 
 Biographical Memoir, Notes, and Glossary, by Alexander 
 Smith. Two Vols. 
 ' ' Beyond all question this is the most beautiful edition of Burns 
 
 yet out.''' — Edinburgh Daily Review. 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE. Edited from 
 the Original Edition by J. W. Clark, M.A., Fellow of Trinity 
 College, Cambridge. 
 
 ' ' Mutilated and modified editions of this English classic are so much 
 the rule, that a cheap and pretty copy of it, rigidly exact to the original^ 
 will be a prize to many book-buyers."— Y.'S.x^iiKER. 
 
 THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. Translated into English, with 
 Notes by J. LI. Davies; M.A. and D. J. Vaughan, M.A. 
 '*-4 dainty and cheap little edition.''^ — Examiner. 
 
 THE SONG BOOK. Words and Tunes from the best Poets and 
 Musicians. Selected and arranged by John Hullah, Professor 
 of Vocal Music in King's College, London. 
 
 *^ A choice collection of the sterling songs of England, Scotland, and 
 Ireland, with the music of each prefixed to the words. Hoiv much true 
 wholesome pleasure, stick a book can diffuse, and zvill diffuse, we trust, 
 through many thousand families.^'' — Examiner. 
 
 d 
 
42 GENERAL CATALOGUE. 
 
 LA LYRE FRANCAISE. Selected and arranged, with Notes, by 
 GusTAVE Masson, French Master in Harrow School. 
 A selection of the best French songs and lyrical pieces. 
 
 TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS. By an Old Boy. 
 
 " A perfect gem of a book. TJie best and most healthy book about boys 
 for boys that ever was wr/^^«."— Illustrated Times. 
 
 A BOOK OF WORTHIES. Gathered from the Old Histories and 
 written anew by the Author of ''The Heir of Redclyffe." 
 With Vignette. 
 '''•An admirable edition to an admirable series J^ — Westminster 
 Review. 
 
LONDON : 
 
 R. CI.AY, SONS, AND TAYLOK, PRINTERS, 
 
 BREAD STREET HILL. 
 
/ A 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 
 Renewed books are subjea to immediate recall. 
 
 
 
 1 SEPg iTD 
 
 
 
 
 AUG 2 4 1961 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 LD 21A-50m-12,'60 
 (B6'221sl0)476B 
 
 General Library 
 
 University of California 
 
 Berkeley 
 

 ■^«^&^Js^it5% 
 
 ri||v «f ■■V"r;. • |Mk/:; II