THE 
 
 OB, 
 
 THPFF CHRISTMAS EVES. 
 
 BT THE AUTHOR OF 
 LEIGH'S MISSION, ETO. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PUBLISHED BY TRA BRADLEY & CO. 
 
 1G2 WASHINGTON STREET.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER? 
 Robin's Home, , . 
 
 CHAPTER 1L 
 Not Afraid, 39 
 
 CHAPTER HL 
 The World Outside the Wood, - - - - 40 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 Fire at the Farm, - - - . . -4ft 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 By the River Side,- - - . . -61 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 The Cabin of the Lighter,- - - - 1 
 
 CHAPTER VH. 
 Robin'a Neighbor, 93 
 
 CHAPTER VHL 
 
 The Rescue, - - - - 108 
 
 2054060
 
 IT CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 Temptation, 122 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 A Way to Escape. 141 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Christmas at the Old Hall, - - - - 148 
 
 CHAPTER XH. 
 The Unexpected Guest, - ... 170 
 
 CHAPTER XHL 
 The Third Christmas Ev% - . . ISO
 
 fe faithful Son ; otf wkm |[telma| f 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 ROBIN'S HOME. 
 
 fN a sunny clearing in the midst of a 
 thick wood there stood, some years 
 ago, a tiny cottage. So small was it, 
 that it seemed to have but one room ; but 
 when you looked closer you could see a 
 little window almost hidden under the wide 
 thatched eaves, which showed that there 
 must be a garret in the roof. 
 
 It was a green and silent spot in which 
 this cottage was built; behind it was a 
 small patch of garden, with rows of cab- 
 bages and a herb-bed ; but, save this one 
 plot of dark soil, you saw on every side
 
 6 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 close grass, or the soft green moss that 
 clothed the brown roots of the trees. 
 
 On the mossy turf moved slowly the 
 shadows of the mighty branches overhead, 
 and little specks of flickering sunlight 
 danced among them, as the leaves flattered 
 in the summer wind. Merry squirrels 
 sprang lightly from bough to bough, while 
 from many a hidden nook sounded the 
 soft coo of the wood-pigeon, making even 
 deeper, when the low plaintive note had 
 ceased, the peaceful hush around. 
 
 It was five o'clock on a morning in early 
 autumn ; the sun had not long risen, and 
 the grass under the trees was white with 
 thick-sown dew-drops. Nothing living was 
 to be seen near the cottage, save a lurcher 
 dog who waited patiently, with hanging 
 head, before the fast-closed door, and a 
 group of busy hens, actively scratching up 
 the grass under one of the nearer trees. 
 
 Presently, as if at some call or signal, 
 they all hastened, with outspread wings 
 and open beaks, towards the cottage; and
 
 BOBIN'S HOME. 7 
 
 the dog, pricking up his ears and wagging 
 his tail, looked up at the little window, 
 from which a boy's head was thrust out 
 a head which seemed to be a crop of shaggy 
 uncombed hair, almost covering the bright 
 dark eyes which were looking down on the 
 group below the window. 
 
 " Hush, Grip, hush thee ! " he said, earn- 
 estly, holding up his finger, as the dog 
 gave a sharp quick bark. " Father's asleep, 
 as you might know if you'd give it a 
 thought ; you and he were late enough 
 coming in last night. You'd best not wake 
 him, I can tell you ; but I'll be down and 
 give you your breakfast, if you keep 
 quiet." 
 
 In another minute the boy, who might 
 be perhaps twelve years old, but tall and 
 heavily made for his years, softly unbarred 
 the door, and sitting down on the step, 
 took the dog between his knees, and began 
 to feed him with the remains of his own 
 supper, while from time to time he threw 
 a little barley for the fowls, that chased
 
 8 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 and ate it, and then returned, gathering 
 close about him. 
 
 " So you had good sport last night, Grip," 
 whispered the boy into the ear of the dog, 
 who looked up intelligently in his face. " I 
 saw the string of birds father brought 
 home, and the hares too. We shall have a 
 first-rate supper to-night, I tell you, Grip, 
 and a fine feast of bones for you ; but you 
 know all about it, don't you, old fellow ? " 
 
 A heavy step stumbling down the little 
 wooden staircase which led into the kitchen 
 made the boy start to his feet with a 
 frightened look ; and running into the cot- 
 tage, he had seized the kettle and was half 
 way to the spring to fill it, before his father, 
 half asleep, and thrusting his arms, as he 
 walked, into his dirty gray shirt, had crossed 
 to the open door. 
 
 "Why ain't the fire lit, you lazy good- 
 for-nought ? " grumbled he, as Robin came 
 back with the kettle. 
 
 The boy made no answer, but gathering 
 a bundle of dry sticks and fir-cones from
 
 BOBIN'S HOME. 9 
 
 under the nearer trees, had soon set the 
 kettle in the midst of a bright blaze. He 
 then placed on the table some bread, some 
 dripping in a broken saucer, and, at his 
 father's order, a piece of a large pasty, 
 which the man at once appropriated as his 
 own share, while Robin stood looking on 
 with hungry eyes until the dish was empty, 
 and his father found leisure to speak again. 
 
 "You are a good son, you are; your father 
 may be out half the night after food for 
 you ; " (here Robin, with almost a smile, 
 looked at the empty dish) ; " he may come 
 home tired out, and having catched the 
 fever or the rheumatics, most like, wading 
 in the water and what not ; but you, you 
 are snug a-bed, and never so much as give 
 it a thought to have a comfortable basin 
 of tea ready for him against he has to be 
 off to work." 
 
 "I didn't think as you would be off to 
 work this morning, father," answered Robin. 
 " Mostly you lies a-bed till old Sally comes 
 round, when you've been out after the
 
 10 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 hares ; and you said last time you'd be the 
 death of me if I so much as made the least 
 noise till you waked up of your own self." 
 
 " I said,' indeed," growled the father. 
 * You are a precious youngster, telling your 
 father what he said. You'd like me to be 
 late a-field, just when Squire is after turning 
 off half his men; 'twould please you finely 
 to see your father turned off." 
 
 " I didn't know about Squire," answered 
 the boy. 
 
 * Then another time, when you know 
 nothing, don't you say nothing; and now 
 I'm off. You bring me a clean smock, and 
 tie up some bread and cheese for my twelve 
 o'clock," said the man, opening a small side 
 door, through which he presently re-ap- 
 peared, carrying in his hand a small hare. 
 
 " Folks will see it, father," said the boy, 
 timidly, as his father stepped out of the 
 cottage door, carrying the hare in one hand, 
 and his dinner, tied with knots into a blue 
 checked handkerchief, in the other. 
 
 " Folks is welcome to see it," said the
 
 BOBIN'S HOME. 11 
 
 man, turning round : " they'll need all theii 
 eyes before they see anything wrong about 
 it. I'm a-going right to the Squire with 
 this hare. Says I, ' Squire, this here beast 
 ain't none of mine ; 'twere shot, I reckon, 
 a matter of three days ago, when that cap- 
 tain chap were at the hall ; and last night, 
 when I was a-coming home from work, I 
 found it ; and here is your property, Squire.' 
 Ha, ha," laughed the man, with a cunning 
 look, "I don't fancy I shall be the one 
 turned off after that." 
 
 "But, father, Squire will see plain enough 
 that it were cotched in a trap. Why, it 
 have got ite leg broke." 
 
 " You be quiet with your talk about 
 traps; do you want to get me into trouble? 
 You had better keep a still tongue in your 
 head, I can tell you : and mind you, when 
 old Sally comes, don't you let her into the 
 pantry. Pack her basket yourself, and 
 cover the birds and the hares well up with 
 her butter and eggs and what not. There 
 is one hare put by safe for my supper ; the
 
 12 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 rest are for old Sally to sell in the town. 
 Do you hear?" 
 
 " Yes, father," said Robin, half sullenly. 
 
 "Then mind what you're about till I 
 coine home ; no playing and talking with 
 those good-for-nothing boys. You stay 
 here, and mind the fowls, and clean the 
 cottage, and look out for old Sally; that's 
 what you've got to do ; " and the man went 
 his way under the shadow of the pine trees, 
 while little Robin turned back slowly into 
 the empty cottage. 
 
 The boy was used to being alone, and sat 
 down quite contentedly on the step, to eat 
 the slice of bread and dripping which was 
 his breakfast. He had never known any 
 companions except Grip and the fowls, and 
 the only faces familiar to him were those 
 of his father and old Sally, the woman who 
 came every day to put the two rooms in 
 order, and cook supper for his father, and 
 who carried to market the hares and pheas- 
 ants which he trapped at nights, hidden 
 under her own store of butter and eggs.
 
 BOBIN'S HOME. 13 
 
 Robin's father was no favorite amongst 
 the rest of the Squire's laborers. He was 
 selfish and surly, and had won no one's 
 good word during all the eleven years he 
 had lived among them, ever since he had 
 come a stranger into the quiet village, 
 bringing in his arms his baby of about a 
 year old, who was at first given into old 
 Sally's charge, until he grew big enough to 
 live with his father in the lonely cottage 
 in the heart of the pine wood. The child 
 had been taught to think of all the other 
 boys of the village as his enemies, to avoid 
 them, to run away if he met them bird's- 
 nesting, and to refuse every offer of kind- 
 ness or companionship ; and they were not 
 slow to resent this by hunting him through 
 the woods, and by threatening him with 
 what they would do if once they caught 
 him, until the child, in terror, would rush 
 home, and, barring the door, sit trembling 
 until he heard either old Sally or his father 
 coming through the wood. But the timo 
 for this was past now. Robin had growD
 
 14 THE FAITHFUL BOH. 
 
 a strong, sturdy lad, quite able, and willing, 
 too, to defend himself, and rather pleased 
 at any opportunity of showing his old ene- 
 mies, the village lads, that he was now more 
 than their match. Perhaps after a few trials 
 of strength they might have grown friendly, 
 but Robin was as shy as ever; not from 
 fear now, but from a new feeling of shame ; 
 he had begun to learn how very ignorant he 
 was. The other boys went to school, could 
 do sums on the slate, showed their copy- 
 books full of strange-shaped letters, and 
 talked to each other of the prizes and of 
 the examination, when the Squire and 
 Madam from the Hall always came down 
 to the school, to hear the boys read and 
 answer questions. Robin knew nothing of 
 all this ; he could not read, nor write, nor 
 make one figure on a slate, and he fancied 
 that the other boys were always thinking 
 of this diffonence between them, and de- 
 spising him for his ignorance. Even little 
 Lettice Martin, who was only about half his 
 age, a mite of a child, whom he could carry
 
 ROBIN'S HOME. 15 
 
 with one hand, he thought, trotted along 
 to school every morning with a slate almost 
 as big as herself, and often laughed at Robin 
 for a great dunce, when she saw him idly 
 leaning over the stile in the morning as she 
 passed by. 
 
 Robin was not old enough, and did not 
 know enough to want to learn for its own 
 sake. He scarcely even knew what learn- 
 ing meant, only it was something the want 
 of which divided him from every one else ; 
 so that it mattered little that he could run 
 faster and climb better than any other boy 
 of his own age for a mile round ; that he 
 knew where all the birds' nests were hidden, 
 and the otter's hole under the old ash ; that 
 he could dive off the big stone, and swim to 
 the little island in the middle of the pool ; 
 all this, Robin thought, was nothing, so long 
 as this wonderful, mysterious learning was a 
 thing quite unknown to him. 
 
 But already Robin was secretly trying to 
 learn a little. About six months ago, a 
 peddler, coming to the village with his pack
 
 16 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 of new prints and bright ribbons foi the 
 opening spring, had stopped to rest awhile 
 at the cottage. Robin, alone as usual, was 
 glad to talk a little with this stranger, and 
 to look with wondering eyes at the myste- 
 rious bundles which had been unstrapped 
 from the peddler's shoulder, and placed in 
 the corner of the kitchen. 
 
 " You ought to be at school, my lad," 
 said the man, when, refreshed with a 
 draught of buttermilk which Robin had 
 brought him, he prepared to set out again 
 on his journey ; " you are too big a lad to 
 waste your time idling about in the wood." 
 44 Father won't hear nought about my 
 going," said Robin. 
 
 "Nay, but that's a pity; father should 
 have more sense," said the peddler. " Folks 
 don't make their way in the world nowadays 
 without book-learning. Look you here at 
 me. I'm a sharp chap, though I say it, but 
 I'm no scholar, and so I'm tied down to be 
 nothing but a packman all my days. If I 
 could write and cast accounts I should have
 
 ROBIN'S HOME. 17 
 
 had a shop of my own long before now. 
 Ay, it's a pity about father." 
 
 " Don't you think I could learn myself ? " 
 asked Robin, timidly. 
 
 " It's according to what you have here," 
 answered his new friend, touching his fore- 
 head, " and whether you know anything to 
 feel your way with, as it were. Your let- 
 ters, now you'll have been taught your 
 letters, surefo/?" 
 
 "Not one," said the boy, hanging his 
 head. " I don't rightly know what letters 
 are." 
 
 "Dear, dear! Well, 'tis not too late to 
 make a beginning, boy. I have something 
 in my pack that will maybe give you a 
 start, and you shall have it for nothing. 
 Tis not worth much, and that's the fact, 
 but I can't spare you one of my gay books, 
 for sixpence is sixpence to such as me." So 
 saying, the peddler took from a corner of one 
 of his packages a few leaves of some primer 
 or catechism roughly stitched together, and 
 put them into the boy's hand.
 
 18 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 "There's the commandments and what 
 not printed out plain there," said the man. 
 " You get some one to spell it over to you, 
 and you'll be learning something good at 
 the same time as you learn your letters." 
 
 Then the man went, and left little Robin 
 turning over the pages, on which no mark 
 or sign had for Mm any meaning, and won- 
 dering much what this new word "com- 
 mandments" could mean. 
 
 He and Grip had held a long consultation, 
 with their heads together over the little 
 book, Robin earnestly considering whether 
 he should venture to ask little Lettice to 
 teach him his letters, when old Sally came 
 in as usual. 
 
 She was so deaf that no one ever at- 
 tempted to do more than shout short sen- 
 tences in her ear, so Robin only held up 
 the leaf over which he had been poring, 
 without saying a word; but when the old 
 woman saw it her eyes brightened. Sitting 
 down, and running her fingers along the 
 lines, she began to read aloud the words
 
 EOBIN'S HOME. 19 
 
 of the first commandment, in a shrill voice, 
 which rose and fell unchecked by the dull 
 ear. 
 
 " I knew them by heart when I was a 
 girl," she said in explanation ; and Robin at 
 once gave up the idea of asking help from 
 Lettice, and coaxed old Sally to read the 
 commandments over to him every day, 
 pointing to each word as she read it, until 
 he too was able to read them nearly as 
 correctly as the old woman herself. This 
 very autumn morning he had planned to go 
 over them to himself yet once more, before 
 astonishing little Lettice with his wonderful 
 knowledge, a feat on which he had long set 
 his heart; and now, taking his book, he 
 settled himself in a favorite seat in one of 
 the branches of a large tree near the cot- 
 tage, and began his work once more, stead- 
 ily and carefully. 
 
 He knew all the words perfectly until he 
 reached the eighth commandment, but there 
 the short word at the end puzzled him, and he 
 stopped in doubt, repeating over and over
 
 20 TELE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 to himself, "thou shalt not," and vainly 
 hoping that the lost word would come back 
 to his memory. At last he recollected it, 
 " Thou shalt not steal," and for the first 
 time it came into his mind to wonder what 
 the words themselves meant. 
 
 Hitherto it had never occurred to him that 
 there was anything in them to understand. 
 Words in a printed book were, to his 
 thought, of ,a kind quite different from the 
 sounds which expressed to him the things he 
 saw around him. They were something 
 which it was necessary to be able to say 
 aloud, which clever boys could say easily, 
 but which gave him a great deal of trouble 
 to remember, and beyond this his mind had 
 never reached; but this word "steal," which 
 it had puzzled him so to recall, had set his 
 thoughts, for the first time, to work. 
 
 That was what the boys wanted him to do 
 who had asked him, only yesterday, to go 
 with them at night and gather the apples in 
 the Squire's orchard. He half consented, 
 being pleased by the idea of showing them
 
 ROBIN'S HOME. 21 
 
 how well he could climb ; he had thought it 
 would be a good bit of fun. But what could 
 this mean, " Thou shalt not steal " ? Who 
 said so? and had it anything to do with 
 himself? 
 
 Robin knew that when people were 
 caught in the act of stealing they were 
 sometimes sent to prison ; but right and 
 wrong were words which he hardly under- 
 stood. Yet there were some things which 
 the boy could neither have been led nor 
 forced to do ; he would never tell a lie, nor 
 strike a boy smaller than himself, not hurt a 
 dumb animal. When he saw Bob Symonds, 
 the biggest boy in the school, trying to 
 frighten little Lettice into giving him the 
 ripe wood strawberries she had gathered for 
 her brother, ill at home, did he not fly at 
 him at once, furious and fearless, and so 
 surprised the cowardly lad, that he was glad 
 enough to get away, and leave Lettice to 
 carry her leaf full of strawberries home quite 
 safely, under Robin's proud escort ? 
 
 But these words, "Thou shalt not steal,"
 
 22 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 brought quite a new idea into the narrow 
 circle of Robin's thoughts. Who said them ? 
 he wondered. Who had the right to say 
 them ? Why shouldn't he steal if he liked? 
 The boy began to wish for some one to tell 
 him the meaning of the words he saw. A 
 footstep coming through the wood made him 
 look up from his book, and pushing aside a 
 bough, he saw old -Sally, with her basket of 
 eggs, on the way to the cottage. 
 
 In a moment he scrambled down the tree, 
 and was walking beside her. When they 
 reached the door Robin pointed to the sen- 
 tence over which he had been musing, and 
 putting his lips to the old woman's ear, 
 shouted in his loudest voice, " What does 
 it mean ? " 
 
 " Bless your heart," answered the old 
 woman, testily, "I can hear you plain 
 enough. ' Steal,' yes, ' thou shalt not steal ; ' 
 that's how we used to say it when I was a 
 girl." 
 
 " What does it mean ? " shouted Robin 
 again.
 
 fcOBIN's HOME. 23 
 
 "Ah, you are right. I have heard it a 
 many times. My little Tim, that's been 
 dead this twenty years, and was a man when 
 he died, he used to say them off as pretty " 
 
 Robin could not wait for the end of the 
 old woman's speech, but plucked at her 
 sleeve and shouted, " Mean, mean ! " into 
 her ear so often, that at last she understood. 
 
 " * Mean ' ; it means my cabbages that you 
 wicked boys are always after, that I've no 
 peace of my life for watching and worrying. 
 I'm not meaning you, Robin, but boys do 
 seem as if they were made for nothing but 
 to plague an old woman like me." 
 
 "The Squire's apples ?" shouted Robin. 
 
 " Ah, yes," said the old woman, thinking 
 of the little tree in front of her own cot- 
 tage, whose fast-ripening fruit she dreaded 
 to see taken from her by her natural ene- 
 mies, the village boys. "Apples or pears 
 or what not, 'tis all one ; 'tis put down here 
 plain enough." 
 
 "But who put it down here who says 
 it, Sally?"
 
 24 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 The old woman's manner changed, and an 
 uneasy look came over her stolid, expres- 
 sionless face. " ' Who says it ? ' Why, you 
 might be a heathen, child, to ask such a 
 question. Here, get me the hares, if father 
 has got any, and let me be off. I shall be 
 late in the market, else." 
 
 " Tell me who says it, Sally, and I'll get 
 the things," said Robin, earnestly. 
 
 " I never knew such a boy," muttered the 
 old woman, testily, " asking questions that 
 a child of two years could answer ; making 
 as if you didn't know that it was God 
 Almighty wrote the commandments. There, 
 let me go ; and now be sharp, I tell you, I've 
 not a minute to spare."
 
 CHAPTER H. 
 
 NOT AFRAID. 
 
 old Sally had left the cottage, 
 Robin sat still for some time, think- 
 ing over what she had said. He had 
 never been taught about God, and yet some 
 few thoughts and ideas about Him had found 
 their way into the boy's mind, but he had 
 never till now looked at them, or tried to 
 put them in order. 
 
 He believed that all the things about him 
 that he himself, and his father, and all 
 the people in the village, had been made by 
 God, and that this great God lived in
 
 26 THE FAITHFUL 8OK. 
 
 heaven, which he thought of as a place 
 somewhere above the tops of the tallest 
 pine trees, hidden in the pale blue of the 
 distant sky. But it had never occurred to 
 him that it was possible that God cared 
 what he, a little boy, did, or watched him 
 when he seemed quite alone under the 
 shadow of the wood, or had cared to write 
 down words to tell him what was right and 
 what was wrong ; for he believed the old 
 woman's words quite simply, and thought 
 that, somehow or other, the very pages he 
 held had been written by God for him. 
 
 And because, written on Robin's heart, as 
 on the heart of all the children of the great 
 Father, there were thoughts which answered 
 to the words which the finger of God once 
 wrote upon the tables of stone, the boy 
 felt at once that this command was one 
 that he was bound henceforth to obey. In 
 a certain sense he had shown this before he 
 read the words " Thou shalt not steal ; " 
 but he had contrived to silence his con- 
 science by using some other word than steal
 
 NOT AFRAID. 27 
 
 when he thought of taking the Squire's 
 apples; but now it looked quite different, 
 and Robin made up his mind that he would 
 have nothing to do with it. 
 
 " They may say what they like ; they may 
 frighten me or beat me," said the -boy to 
 himself; " but what I mean I'll do, and what 
 I say I'll stand to ; and I'll have nothing to 
 do with stealing Squire's apples." Robin 
 got up from the ground and clenched his 
 fists sturdily ; but at that moment a fir-cone 
 struck him right on the cheek, and, looking 
 angrily round, he saw the laughing face of 
 Jonas Raby peeping out from behind the 
 stem of a tree a few yards distant. Jonas 
 was the only boy whom Robin liked, the 
 only one with whom he ever talked at all, 
 and it was he who had brought him the 
 request of the other boys that he would 
 come with them, as he was such a good 
 climber, and help to strip the Squire's fruit 
 trees. 
 
 "I say, Robin," said Jonas, coming nearer, 
 and throwing himself down on the grass by
 
 28 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 his companion's side, " are you game to go 
 to-night ? Bliss heard his father saying how 
 the trees were to be cleared to-morrow 
 cleared, and fruit sold in the market, for 
 Squire is off to foreign parts ; but, bless 
 you, we'll save them the trouble, won't us, 
 lad ? " 
 
 "I'm not going with you," said Robin, 
 sitting bolt upright. 
 
 "Why, what's up now?" cried Jonas, 
 looking at Robin. "What's to hinder? 
 you've never been and let on to father, 
 surely ? " 
 
 " I don't tell tales," answered Robin, an- 
 grily. " Father knows nought about it, but 
 I've made up my mind not to go, so it's no 
 use your asking me." 
 
 " Oh, but Robin," said the other boy in a 
 coaxing tone, and passing his arm round his 
 companion's neck, " you must come; it won't 
 be half the fun without you, and you don't 
 know how sweet the apples are : they are so 
 large and rosy, it makes my mouth water to 
 look at them."
 
 NOT AFRAID. 29 
 
 Robin did not answer for a moment, he 
 wus thinking how pleasant it would be to 
 bring home a store of these apples, to eat 
 under the trees; and while he hesitated 
 Jonas went on. 
 
 "There's none of the other boys believe 
 about your climbing and that. They say 
 you can't do nothing, and I want to show 
 them different; if you cry off now they'll 
 say you are a coward, Robin, lad." 
 
 Robin hesitated more and more ; this was 
 so very different from the answer he had 
 expected. He had thought of himself as 
 defending himself bravely against the anger 
 of a crowd of boys older and stronger than 
 himself, of proving that no one could make 
 him do anything but what he chose ; but 
 now Jonas was urging him in his pleasant 
 friendly voice, and the other boys would say 
 he was a coward if he didn't go. A coward, 
 indeed ! he would like to show them. It 
 was only this once, and taking apples wasn't 
 really like stealing anything else, and they 
 belonged to the Squire, whom his father
 
 30 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 hated so. Robin had almost made up his 
 mind to yield. 
 
 It was a very important moment in little 
 Robin's life ; he did not know it ; we scarcely 
 ever do know the importance of such mo- 
 ments iill they are long past, and then we 
 can sometimes see how, for good or for evil, 
 they have set their mark on our very souls. 
 It was the first time in which the boy had 
 ever, consciously and with open eyes, made 
 his choice between right and wrong. He 
 not only knew, but in his heart he felt, 
 that it was wrong to steal ; that taking the 
 Squire's apples was one of the things which 
 God had forbidden in those pages which His 
 finger had written, and that he must decide 
 whether he would obey God, or just do 
 what would please himself for the moment. 
 He did not know anything about prayer, he 
 did not know that God would give him, if 
 he asked, strength to resist what was wrong ; 
 and the boy was so nearly conquered, that 
 he had turned to Jonas with a promise on 
 his lips that he would come with them that
 
 NOT AFBAID. 31 
 
 night, but the words were never spoken. 
 God had pity on His child, and did not let 
 him, in this his first fight, be tempted above 
 that he was able. 
 
 For at this moment a rough shout made 
 Robin start with sudden fear; but it was 
 only a party of the boys coming to look for 
 Jonas, and carry him off with them for a 
 bathe in the little river before afternoon 
 school. 
 
 " Come you along, old chap," said the 
 first of the new-comers, pulling Jonas up 
 from the grass. " What's the use of wast- 
 ing all your time here ? that old bell will be 
 going directly." 
 
 " Will you come, or will you not, that's 
 all about it?" he added, turning to Robin. 
 
 " Come, I should think he would come," 
 said another of the boys. " Do you think 
 we should tell all our plans, and let him off 
 taking his share ? He'll come, or I'll soon 
 make him, that's all." 
 
 " I should like to see you," said Robin v 
 getting up from the grass. " Now look you
 
 32 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 here, I'll not let on, I'll never say one word, 
 but I'm not a-going with you, and so I tell 
 you." 
 
 " There'll be two words to that," said the 
 boy who had spoken last, seizing Robin by 
 the collar, but Jonas interposed. " Let him 
 alone, you stupid, he'll come fast enough, 
 if you'll only be quiet. Don't be a fool," 
 whispered he, drawing Robin a little aside ; 
 "you know what they'll say if you don't 
 come." 
 
 " We can't waste all our time here," said 
 another. " Tell us why you won't go, 
 Robin; no one will find out ; there's never 
 any one in the orchard of nights ; I tell you, 
 you needn't be afraid." 
 
 " I'm not afraid," answered Robin, sturdi- 
 ly, drawing himself to his full height. " I 
 won't go because I've got a book that God 
 Almighty wrote, and it says right plain I'm 
 not to steal." 
 
 There' was a loud sneering laugh from 
 most of the boys, only Jonas looked a little 
 uneasy. " Is it your father's son that's 
 turning saint ? " cried Bob Symonds.
 
 NOT AFRAID. 33 
 
 " Turning sneak, I call it," said another ; 
 " but I'll be even with you. I know what 
 your father said at the public, night afore 
 last. He'd better mind hisself, he had ; 
 firing corn-ricks is worse a deal than steal- 
 ing a few apples." 
 
 " There is father," cried Robin, suddenly ; 
 " you'd best be off, I can tell you ; " and the 
 boys evidently thought so too, for before the 
 distant figure, which Robin's quick eyes had 
 discovered, reached the edge of the clear- 
 ing they had scampered back the other way 
 as silently as possible, and Robin was stand- 
 ing alone under the tree when his father 
 came up. 
 
 The boy was full of wonder as to what 
 had brought him home at such an unusual 
 hour, but he dare not ask, for he saw by 
 his father's angry frown that whatever had 
 happened had made him even more sullen 
 and uncommunicative than usual. 
 
 The man sat down on a chair by the cot- 
 tage door, and lit his short pipe, remaining 
 there till the afternoon shadows had fallen
 
 84 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 till the sun had set in a blaze of ciimson 
 and gold behind the red stems of the fir 
 trees : till Robin, tired, had come in from 
 the wood, and the old woman, returned 
 from market, had cooked and set on the 
 table the savory supper. By the time the 
 dish was empty, and Grip was enjoying the 
 bones on the floor, the man's face had 
 cleared a little ; and as soon as old Sally was 
 gone, Robin ventured to ask timidly whether 
 the Squire had been angry about the hare. 
 
 " I saw nought of Squire," answered the 
 man, " and I hope I shall never see his face 
 again, or I shall do him a mischief. No, 
 boy, 'tis not the hare, but I tell you I'm 
 turned off, I that have been on the land 
 these nine years, and looked to end my days 
 here." 
 
 "Perhaps if you asked Squire," began 
 Robin ; but his father interrupted him, 
 bringing his heavy fist down on the little 
 table before him, till the wood almost 
 cracked with the stroke. 
 
 " Squire is off to foreign parts, gone or
 
 NOT AFRAID. 35 
 
 going, 'tis all one ; he has not the heart of a 
 man nor the courage of a man neither : he 
 turns us off just when the harvest has nigh 
 failed, and bread is rose, so that a poor man 
 scarce knows the comfort of a full meal. 
 But he has nought to say, not he, to the 
 men that have dug and ploughed and reaped 
 for him till all the best of their strength is 
 gone ; they may get bread where they can, 
 or starve where they please, while he makes 
 his good corn-fields into pasture. 'Ask 
 Squire,' indeed : he'd take no heed to me ; 
 but he shall hear me, and heed me too," 
 cried the man, fiercely. 
 
 "Oh, father," said Robin, creeping nearer, 
 until he could lay his hand on his father's 
 knee, " don't go and do anything wrong, 
 please don't. We can live here, and eat 
 what you find of nights ; we shan't starve ; 
 though I wonder," thought Robin, " whether 
 that is stealing too." 
 
 " We must turn out of this cottage, come 
 Tuesday. Robin, you were never such a 
 fool as to think we could stay here, now
 
 86 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 I'm iuined off the land. We must be off 
 on our travels, lad, like Squire, though may 
 be 'twill be no farther than the nighest 
 work-house." 
 
 " Go away from here ? " cried Robin, in 
 sudden and utter dismay. He said no more, 
 but his great black wondering eyes slowly 
 filled with tears, aud he crept away towards 
 the open door, longing to be alone, where no 
 one would hear the sobs which seemed al- 
 most to choke him as he tried to keep them 
 back. 
 
 Robin ran through the leafy darkness of 
 the wood until he reached a spot which he 
 knew well, a soft cushion of moss covering 
 the roots of a mighty beech tree, and there 
 he flung himself on the ground, and buried 
 his face in his hands. He had never been so 
 miserable before, and yet he scarcely un- 
 derstood the cause of his misery, for though 
 he could say over and over to himself, " We 
 are going away, going away," yet the idea 
 was only faintly grasped by his mind. For 
 as Robin had never known any other home,
 
 NOT AFRAID. 37 
 
 scarcely seen any place beyond the wood in 
 which his days were passed, so the thought 
 of going into the unknown distances be- 
 yond brought with it nothing but a vague 
 cold terror. 
 
 How he loved the cottage and the wood ! 
 The birds would come next spring, and 
 build under the little window, and some 
 one else would be there, who would perhaps 
 break the eggs, and frighten away the old 
 birds. The little squirrel that had grown 
 so tame that it would come down the tree 
 when Robin called, and take a nut from his 
 fingers, would forget him, and grow wild 
 once more, or perhaps would be taken and 
 killed by Bob Symonds, or some other cruel 
 boy. And those very boys ; he remembered 
 how they had laughed at him, and called 
 him sneak only that morning (could it be 
 that morning? it seemed so long ago) ; 
 they would never know now that he was 
 not afraid. Even Jonas would think him a 
 coward, and he had meant to do some very 
 brave thing, that would show them that it
 
 88 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 wasn't fear that had kept him from stealing 
 the apples ; and, worst of all, little Lettice 
 would hear what they said; and Robin 
 sobbed more than ever as lie thought of 
 the little golden-haired child whom he 
 loved, because she was so small and weak. 
 
 Something cold touching his wet cheek 
 made Robin start with fear, but it was only 
 Grip, who sat down whining by the boy's 
 side, anxious to soothe the grief which dis- 
 tressed him. 
 
 4 We are going, Grip," cried Robin, 
 throwing both his arms round the dog's 
 neck, " but we won't leave you behind ; 
 you shall go with us. Grip, wherever it is." 
 
 "Ay, ay, Grip shall go;" and Robin, 
 looking up at the words, saw his father 
 standing by him. He jumped up quickly, 
 uud tried to brush away the traces of tears. 
 
 " Don't be a fool," said the man, but not 
 in an unkind tone. " The world's a big 
 place, Robin. You are young, you'll see 
 many a spot you'll like better than this 
 wood; 'tis different for me; I thought to
 
 NOT APBATO. 39 
 
 end my days here ; but 'twill all go to one 
 account. Let Squire look out, I say," and 
 the fierce look came back. 
 
 " Please don't do anything wrong," plead- 
 ed Robin once more. 
 
 "Who has taught you anything about 
 right and wrong, I should like to know ? " 
 answered the father. " Never you mind my 
 concerns, but be off to bed with you ; 'tis 
 near upon eight o'clock." And the boy 
 crept off, a little comforted by his father's 
 gentler tone, and lay down to forget his 
 griefs in the sound sleep of a tired child. 
 
 Poor Robin I he did not yet know that he 
 had a Father in heaven to whom he might 
 have told his trouble : that there was, 
 stretched out even over him, a poor igno- 
 rant child, the Render care and protection 
 of God ; that, though he felt so lonely, sob- 
 bing himself to sleep upon his pillow, the 
 heart of the great God who made him knew 
 and cared for his sorrow.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WORLD OUTSIDE THE WOOD. 
 
 slept late the next morning, 
 and when he woke it was with a 
 sense that something strange had 
 happened, though he could not at first re- 
 member what it was. As recollection came 
 slowly back to his mind, it brought with it 
 a feeling by no means so sad as that which 
 had weighed on his heart as he lay down to 
 sleep. He began to feel something like 
 pleasure at the idea of change, and his busy 
 thoughts were already picturing the won- 
 derful adventures which might lie for him 
 beyond the shadows of the wood, beyond 
 the village, beyond the river and the hills 
 
 40
 
 THE WORLD OUTSIDE THE WOOD. 41 
 
 behind, which up to this time had bounded 
 his world. He felt sure his father would be 
 kinder to him ; he spoke quite gently last 
 night ; and perhaps he would even let him 
 go to school and learn, when once he was 
 away from Bob Symonds and the other boys 
 of the village. Then he would soon show 
 if he were a dunce ; he would become a 
 great scholar, and a rich man perhaps, and 
 by-and-by he would come back ; and ho\v 
 Jonas and the rest would look to see him 
 going in fine clothes, like a gentleman, to 
 see Lettice and her mother. 
 
 Busy with such fancies, Robin dressed, 
 and went down the ladder staircase to the* 
 little kitchen. His father was not there, 
 and Robin saw that he had made his break 
 fast for himself before he went. " Fsthei 
 is right kind," said the boy to himself, " he 
 never waked me, though I ought to havp 
 been up this two hours. I'll look sharp 
 another morning, though," 
 
 " Poor father, he'll be lonesome like when 
 he is turned out of the cottage," went on
 
 42 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 Robin to himself, as he ate his bread, and 
 drank from a basin of milk which had been 
 left for him on the table. '* I mean to be 
 good to him, I do ; he has had a deal to put 
 him out, and I'm the only one he has got to 
 care for him, except old Sally, and father 
 don't think much of her. I wonder if Sally 
 knows we are going ; it will take a deal of 
 breath to make her understand, but I'll try, 
 for I hear her coming through the wood." 
 But though the footsteps stopped at the 
 cottage door, the visitor knocked, instead 
 of lifting the latch, as the old woman would 
 have done, and when Robin opened it, there 
 stood his old friend the packman, stooping 
 under his heavy load. 
 
 " I can read it all right out," cried Robin, 
 without stopping for a word of greeting ; 
 " you come in and sit down and hearken : " 
 and before the astonished visitor had under- 
 stood the meaning of this unusual greeting, 
 the boy was half-way through the command- 
 ments, which he read in a loud, unvarying 
 voice, that showed but little comprehension 
 s>f the meaning of the words which he used.
 
 THE WOULD OUTSIDE THE WOOD. 43 
 
 "Ay, ay, I'm getting hold of it now," 
 laid his friend, when Robin stopped, out 
 of breath, but with a look of triumph and 
 delight. " You are the lad I gave a bit of 
 print to six months ago come Michaelmas. 
 And so you've learned to read it. Well 
 done, I say ; but have you got hold of the 
 sense of the words? There's more in them 
 than the sound, my lad." 
 
 "I know God Almighty wrote them," 
 said the boy, "and I know what this 
 means ; " and he passed his finger down 
 the page until he had found the eighth 
 commandment, and held it before the man's 
 eyes as he went on. " It means I mustn't 
 touch Squire's apples, nor old Sally's cab- 
 bages ; not that I would be so mean as to 
 go for to take them, but she will have it 
 that some of the boys do." 
 
 "That's well enough," answered the pack- 
 man, smiling. "And have you made out 
 any of the others ? " 
 
 "No," said Robin, "I never thought 
 about them. "Do they all say there's 
 something I mustn't do ? "
 
 46 THE FAITHFUL 8ON. 
 
 ing work ; maybe I shall be gone tw& 
 maybe best part of a week ; but say m thing 
 to any one, except that I'm off, tramping 
 high and low for work ; and you need not 
 say that much unless they come asking you. 
 Folks have precious little business of their 
 own to attend to, they take such heed of 
 mine." 
 
 Robin would have liked to have gone 
 with his father ; he did not like the pros- 
 pect of the loneliness and long waiting; 
 but he knew his father's voice and manner 
 so well as to be quite sore that just now it 
 was better to listen in silence. But when 
 he was really gone, when the last echo of 
 his footsteps had died away, then the little 
 boy sat on the floor and sobbed aloud, partly 
 dreading the lonely days and nights, partly 
 feeling the chill of disappointment after his 
 awakened hopes of a happier life. 
 
 As the darkness came on, bringing with it 
 no familiar step, no voice to break the si- 
 lence, Robin thought that he had never 
 been so lonely before. He sat with his arm
 
 THE WORLD OUTSIDE THE WOOD. 47 
 
 round Grip, nestling his face against the 
 dog's close black curls, to** frightened to 
 dare even to creep to his little bed up-stairs. 
 " Oh, Grip, Grip ! how I do wish there was 
 any one to take care of us," he said, half 
 aloud; and the words seemed to repeat 
 themselves over again in the silence, with- 
 out any will of his own. Presently they 
 brought some other words with them, some 
 words he must surely have heard some- 
 where, or how should they ever have come 
 into his mind ? " Pray God take care of 
 us all to-night." Ah, he remembered now 
 where he had heard them. Little Lettice 
 said them to him once ; she had repeated to 
 him her evening prayer, and asked him if 
 he would not like to learn it, and he had 
 said, " No, he didn't mind about it ; " for at 
 the time he had thought that prayers were 
 only for little girls, and were no use at all to 
 strong boys of twelve who could take care 
 of themselves. 
 
 But now he almost wished he had learnt 
 the prayer. He would have said it, and
 
 46 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 ing work; maybe I shall be gone tw& 
 maybe best part of a week ; but say nc thing 
 to any one, except that I'm off, tramping 
 high and low for work ; and you need not 
 say that much unless they come asking you. 
 Folks have precious little business of their 
 own to attend to, they take such heed of 
 mine." 
 
 Robin would have liked to have gone 
 with his father ; he did not like the pros- 
 pect of the loneliness and long waiting; 
 but he knew his father's voice and manner 
 so well as to be quite sure that just now it 
 was better to listen in silence. But when 
 he was really gone, when the last echo of 
 his footsteps had died away, then the little 
 boy sat on the floor and sobbed aloud, partly 
 dreading the lonely days and nights, partly 
 feeling the chill of disappointment after his 
 awakened hopes of a happier life. 
 
 As the darkness came on, bringing with it 
 no familiar step, no voice to break the si- 
 lence, Robin thought that he had never 
 been so lonely before. He sat with his arm
 
 THE WOELD OUTSIDE THE WOOD. 47 
 
 round Grip, nestling his face against the 
 dog's close black curls, to*> frightened to 
 dare even to creep to his little bed up-stairs. 
 " Oh, Grip, Grip ! how I do wish there was 
 any one to take care of us," he said, half 
 aloud; and the words seemed to repeat 
 themselves over again in the silence, with- 
 out any will of his own. Presently they 
 brought some other words with them, some 
 words he must surely have heard some- 
 where, or how should they ever have come 
 into his mind ? " Pray God take care of 
 us all to-night." Ah, he remembered now 
 where he had heard them. Little Lettice 
 said them to him once ; she had repeated to 
 him her evening prayer, and asked him if 
 he would not like to learn it, and he had 
 said, " No, he didn't mind about it ; " for at 
 the time he had thought that prayers were 
 only for little girls, and were no use at all to 
 strong boys of twelve who could take care 
 of themselves. 
 
 But now he almost wished he had learnt 
 the prayer. He would have said it, and
 
 48 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 perhaps he should not have felt so much 
 afraid then ; at any rate, he could say the 
 words he knew, and perhaps God would 
 hear them, and not let any one find out that 
 his father was away, and come and frighten 
 him. 
 
 So little Robin knelt, with his arm still 
 round the dog, and said in a low whisper, 
 " Pray God take care of Grip and me to- 
 night." It was his first prayer, and he 
 scarcely understood why he said it, or who 
 it was that would hear and help ; but yet he 
 felt comforted and soothed, and with his 
 faithful companion for a pillow, he soon fell 
 asleep on the cottage floor, and did not 
 wake till the bright summer sun was shin- 
 ing full through the uncurtained window.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 FDRE AT THE FABM. 
 
 BEFORE the next evening came Robin 
 $ found himself wishing many a time 
 [ T that some of the boys would come to 
 the cottage, if it were only to tease him ; it 
 would not frighten him nearly so much as 
 this long loneliness ; but yet when, towards 
 the middle of the night, he was awakened 
 by sounds of feet and voices, and Grip's 
 short, uneasy barks, it was with some fear 
 that he crept across the floor to the window, 
 to see if he could make out the cause of 
 the disturbance. But only the shadowy 
 trees moved slowly in the darkness, though 
 the shouting and the cries grew louder.
 
 50 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 Robin drew the bolt of the door, and, 
 calling Grip to his side, ran as fast as he 
 could towards the place whence the sounds 
 seemed to come the Squire's model farm 
 on the edge of the wood. The narrow 
 mossy path, dark at first, grew strangely 
 distinct as he hastened on ; and presently, 
 as the wind waved aside the branches of 
 the trees, he saw beyond him a vivid danc 
 ing light, that seemed to redden all the 
 gloomy sky. There must be a fire at the 
 farm, thought Robin ; but as he came 
 through the more sparsely-planted trees to 
 the cleared fields he saw that it was not 
 the farm, but the newly-raised stacks of 
 corn which were blazing, and which gave 
 this fierce light. Groups of laborers were 
 there, hastily wakened from their heavy 
 slumbers, some of them busy enough thi ow- 
 ing buckets of water on the blaze, which 
 seemed to lick it up, and next moment leap 
 up even more fiercely, while some stood a 
 little apart, whispering to each other, and 
 lent no hand to help. A sound of wheels
 
 FIRE AT THJS FARM. 51 
 
 and horses' feet, and the little engine from 
 the Hall came up at full speed. Three 
 stacks at least were on fire, but there were 
 several more as yet untouched, and the 
 chief anxiety was to save these. But the 
 hot autumn weather, which had so early 
 dried and ripened the corn, had wasted the 
 water in the little springs and dried up the 
 pools, while even the great pond at the 
 farm, at which the cattle drank, had sunk 
 down till you saw now only a hollow full 
 of wet and trodden rnud. Buckets must be 
 passed from the well, which was at least 
 two hundred yards distant, and the bailiff 
 and the village constable called on every 
 one present, men and boys, to form a long 
 line, and pass on the buckets from one to 
 another. 
 
 Robin pressed forward, eager to show that 
 he was not too small to be of use, and too 
 full of wonder, dismay, and interest at the 
 new scene, to notice the strange glances 
 which were cast on him by the other help- 
 ers. But no sooner had he taken his place
 
 52 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 than he felt a strong hand on his collar, and 
 found himself pulled violently aside by the 
 Squire's bailiff the man of all others whom 
 Robin had been taught most to dislike and 
 dread. He looked up in terror as his cap- 
 tor shook him angrily, and calling to the 
 constable, said, " Here, lock this chap up till 
 the fire's out, and then bring him up to me." 
 Robin's thoughts flew at once to the apples ; 
 could the other boys have taken them, and 
 was he suspected after all? u Oh, indeed, 
 indeed, mister ! " he cried, as the constable 
 dragged him away, " I didn't go near the 
 apples, I never so much as touched one." 
 The constable was far too anxious to get 
 back to trouble himself to answer. He 
 dragged Robin after him to his own cottage, 
 and bidding his wife look to the boy, for the 
 bailiff must have speech of him in the morn- 
 ing, he hurried away ; while the woman, 
 anxious to see what was going on, locked 
 Robin securely in the little empty tool- 
 house, and followed her husband to the 
 scene of the fire.
 
 FIRE AT THE FABM. 53 
 
 To the poor boy, frightened and miser- 
 able, it seemed a very, very long time be- 
 fore mcrning came ; and when the door was 
 opened at last, he had to cover his dazzled 
 eyes before he could at all make out the 
 figure of the constable, who stood in the 
 doorway, a dark form against the vivid 
 morning light. To Robin, this man, famil- 
 iarly known as Nathan Roberts, had never 
 seemed before at all formidable ; he had 
 thought of him as a rather soft, good-tem- 
 pered man, who was accustomed to be verr 
 meek and respectful in the presence of 1m 
 tall loud-voiced "missus," and to assert 
 himself now and then by collaring and 
 shaking a boy who was caught birds'-nest- 
 ing, or who was looking over the hedge 
 at his neighbor's fruit. But now Robin 
 looked at him with awe and shrinking, for 
 he represented in some manner that un- 
 known terrible law, into the hands of which 
 Robin felt that he had fallen. Yet the con- 
 stable's appearance was even less impressive 
 than usual, for his hurried wash had by no
 
 54 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 means removed the black traces of the fire 
 on face and garments, and he looked jaded 
 and tired after his last night's anxiety and 
 work. 
 
 " Come out and behave yourself," he said ; 
 "you'll catch it this time, you will, you 
 young rascal." 
 
 Robin crawled out into the sunshine, 
 downcast and miserable, a state of mind 
 in no way improved by his being immedi- 
 ately collared by the constable's wife, and 
 dragged to the side of a gig, in which sat 
 the Squire's bailiff. 
 
 "That's the boy, is it, Mrs. Roberts? 
 He looks bad enough and daring enough 
 for anything," remarked the bailiff, as he 
 glanced at Robin, who with sullen, down- 
 cast look, was trying hard to wriggle him- 
 self free from the woman's rough grasp. 
 
 " That's the boy, Mr. Pierson, sir ; and 
 to my thinking he's at the bottom of the 
 whole mischief; for a more ill-conditioned 
 heathen of a boy I never saw in all my 
 born days," giving him a shake as she
 
 Robin in Trouble. Page 54.
 
 FIRE AT THE FABM. 55 
 
 "Nay, nay, wife," said the sonstable, 
 mildly, shaking his head, " I know nothing 
 so bad of the boy ; but he's had bad train- 
 ing and bad example, sir," (appealing to 
 Mr. Pierson), "and what's bred in the 
 bone, you know " 
 
 " ' You know,' indeed," interrupted Mrs. 
 Roberts. " I wonder you've the face to go 
 on talking, I do ; and you that let the man 
 get away when you had your hand on his 
 very collar. The men are but poor things, 
 sir; if they'd make the women constables, 
 'tis not much you'd hear of rick-burning, 
 I can tell you." 
 
 " I have no doubt you 'would make a good 
 one, Mrs. Roberts," said the bailiff, laugh- 
 ing. " But come, my man, hand the boy 
 up here, and get in yourself; I shall want 
 you to give your account of the matter 
 to Squire Bevan. We shall just be in 
 time to see him after his breakfast ; " and 
 touching his horse with the end of his lash, 
 they had soon left the village far behind. 
 
 It was like a distant journey to Robin;
 
 56 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 he had never before been so far from his 
 home : for Squire Bevan lived five miles 
 off, though he was the nearest magistrate, 
 now that their own Squire was abroad. 
 The boy would have enjoyed this new way 
 of travelling, for he had never ridden be- 
 fore, except on the heavy trunks of the 
 trees as they were dragged by the slow 
 horses from the wood ; but he was faint for 
 want of food, and, for all his sullen air, his 
 heart was beating with terror at the thought 
 of Squire Bevan. He should be sent to 
 jail, perhaps, or beyond seas (for he had a 
 very vague idea of the power of a Squire), 
 and never see Grip, or his father, or little 
 Lettice, or old Sally, any more. 
 
 Squire Bevan was seated in his library, 
 wearing a gorgeous dressing-gown, which 
 Robin looked on as probably his robe of 
 office, and which gave an additional solem- 
 nity to his feelings, as, closely guarded by 
 the constable, he stood before him. 
 
 The bailiff was speaking very fast, and 
 Robin could understand a little of the
 
 FIRE AT THE FABM 57 
 
 meaning of what he said ; but he soon 
 found out that he was suspected of being 
 concerned, not in the theft of the apples, 
 but in the fire. 
 
 " And you are certain it was the boy's 
 father who fired the ricks?" asked Mr. 
 Bevan of the constable. 
 
 "Certain sure, Squire," answered the 
 constable. " The way of it was this. I 
 was looking round before I turned in it 
 might be about eleven, or it might be half 
 after and I saw a light no bigger than a 
 lucifer match a-moving among the ricks. 
 Thinks I, * My fine fellow, don't you make 
 too sure ; I'll be even with you ; ' for what 
 with the Squire's going to foreign parts, 
 and what with the men being turned off 
 the land, there had been many an angry 
 word spoke, and I guessed the meaning of 
 the light the minute I clapped eyes on it." 
 
 " Go on, constable," said Mr. Bevan, as 
 the man paused to give the magistrate an 
 opportunity of being duly impressed with 
 the unusual sagacity of the Wareham con- 
 stable.
 
 58 THE PAITHFITL SON. 
 
 "Well, Squire," in the slightly injured 
 tone of unappreciated merit, " so I stole as 
 soft as might be round one of the ricks, and 
 came right on my man, just as he was for 
 putting his match into the corn. There was 
 some loose straw made a blaze, and I saw 
 his face as plain as I see yours, and it was 
 Wallack, this boy's father a well-known 
 man he is for poaching and setting lines in 
 the water, and one of the very men the 
 Squire had turned off." 
 
 "Now, constable, be very sure of what 
 you say ; you have no doubt whatever that 
 you recognized this man ? Remember, arson 
 is a serious matter." 
 
 " I tell you, sir," answered Nathan, earn- 
 estly, " I see him as plain and as nigh as I 
 see you ; and I had another token that it 
 was Wallack, though none was needed ; for 
 no sooner did I put my hand on his collar, 
 to arrest him, sir, as was my bounden duty 
 as a constable and a man, but he gets hold 
 of me, twists his foot round in some fashion 
 that he learnt in Cornish parts, they tell me,
 
 FIRE AT THE FARM. 59 
 
 for he is a foreigner is Wallack, and was 
 off, leaving me down on the heap of straw, 
 and the rick all of a blaze." 
 
 " And this boy was with his father, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 " I can't say I saw him, sir," said the 
 constable, "but he might have been, like 
 enough." 
 
 "I saw him myself busy enough at the 
 fire a few hours after," said Mr. Pierson. 
 " I warrant you he knows where his father 
 is now." 
 
 "Listen to me, my boy," said Mr. Bevan, 
 for the first time speaking to Robin, who 
 was looking down on the floor uneasily, and 
 shifting from one foot to the other, "and 
 be sure you speak the truth." 
 
 Robin lifted his eyes from the carpet, and 
 looked the magistrate full in the face, but 
 he did not speak. 
 
 " Where is your father now ? " 
 
 " Tramping high and low for work," re- 
 plied Robin, using the very words in which 
 he had been bidden to answer any questions.
 
 60 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 "How long has he been gone?" 
 
 "Since Thursday noon," said the boy;' 1 
 '* and I've spoke the truth, as you bid me, 
 but I'm not to say one word more." 
 
 " Do you know who you are speaking to, 
 boy?" said Mr. Pierson, angrily. "Bring 
 none of your impertinence here, or it will 
 be all the worse for you." 
 
 "Father said," continued Robin, looking 
 at Mr. Bevan, and not at the bailiff, "as I 
 was to say no more than he was gone on 
 tramp for work ; and I'm bound to do as 
 he tells me, sir." 
 
 "I'll soon find a way to cure his obsti- 
 nacy, sir, if you'll allow me to deal with 
 him," said Mr. Pierson. "Another night 
 in Nathan's tool-house will make him change 
 his tone, I'll warrant." 
 
 " Excuse me, Mr. Pierson," said the mag- 
 istrate, in a somewhat constrained voice, 
 "the case is in my hands. I shall know 
 how to deal with it." 
 
 "No one better," replied Mr. Pierson, 
 turning aside to hide his look of annoyance
 
 FIRE AT THE FAEM. 61 
 
 at the rebuke, and adding this to his causes 
 of offence against Robin, whom he already 
 disliked as the son of the man whose act 
 was sure to bring him into disgrace with 
 his employer. 
 
 "This boy," said the Squire, "is too 
 young, and evidently too ignorant to be 
 subpoenaed as a witness, and there is no 
 pretence for putting him in confinement, as 
 he does not appear to have been present 
 when his father committed this crime. We 
 have no alternative but to dismiss him. 
 Boy, you are at liberty you can go." 
 
 Robin made a sort of duck with his head 
 to serve as a bow, and was backing towards 
 the door, too confused and helpless even to 
 wonder where he was to go ; but before he 
 reached it, faint with want of food, and 
 dizzy with fear and suspense, he turned 
 very white, and would have fallen had not 
 Nathan grasped his arm. 
 
 The Squire seemed to understand the 
 case at once. "Carry him to the servant's 
 hall, constable, and tell them to give him a 
 good breakfast of bread and meat."
 
 62 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 Some hours after, when Mr. Pierson had 
 long since driven away, carrying Nathan in 
 his gig, Robin was summoned once more 
 into the Squire's presence. He was no 
 longer faint and hungry, and felt much 
 bolder as the gentleman beckoned to him 
 to come and stand beside his chair. 
 
 " My boy," said his new friend, in grave 
 but not unkindly tones, "I do not blame 
 you for being silent about your fathei ; but 
 tell me, are you always as careful to obey 
 the words of your Father in heaven > " 
 
 Robin looked at his questioner in puzzled 
 silence, the words were too strange to hav 
 any meaning for him. 
 
 " Do you try to obey God as well as your 
 father?" 
 
 This time he understood, and the answer 
 came readily. " I know that God said on 
 the paper that I was to honor my father, 
 and that was why I wouldn't tell any more 
 than he bid me." 
 
 " Then, my boy, you have learnt the first 
 lesson of life obedience because God
 
 P1BE AT THE FABM. 63 
 
 tells us to obey; but perhaps you have 
 found out too that it is sometimes very 
 difficult to do just what God tells us ? " 
 
 " Ay," said Robin, with an emphatic nod 
 of his head; "and sometimes folks over- 
 persuade one, and it looks as if it would be 
 so nice, sir." 
 
 " Indeed it does," replied Mr. Bevan, 
 gently. " And God knows exactly how we 
 feel, and how weak we are : and if He sees 
 any one really trying to do what is right, 
 because* He has bidden them, then He is 
 sure to help. He makes us stronger, so 
 that we are able to turn away from the 
 wrong thing that looks so nice, and not to 
 listen when other people would over-per- 
 suade us. You must speak to God in your 
 heart, my boy, when you find it hard to 
 obey Him." 
 
 " I did say would He take care of me 
 when father left me all alone ; and I think 
 He heard, for I wasn't frightened any more," 
 said Robin. 
 
 "Speak to God very often, my boy.
 
 64 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 And now I cannot talk to you any more, 
 but I will give you a little Testament of 
 your own. That is a book in which God 
 speaks to us, and tells us how He loves us; " 
 and Mr. Be van took down a little square 
 book in plain strong binding, which he put 
 into Robin's hands. The boy had no words 
 in which to speak his thanks, but the 
 sudden color in his brown cheeks, and the 
 light in his eyes, told of his eager gladness, 
 as he took the book carefully and rever- 
 ently, and folded it under his jacket. And 
 it was not till he had walked some distance 
 from the Hall that he remembered how 
 lonely and desolate he was, his father away 
 in some distant place, afraid to come home, 
 lest he should be taken, and he himself sus- 
 pected by every one, and almost friendless 
 and unknown, even in his own village. But 
 the child's heart grew very heavy as he 
 crept along the dreary miles of road towards 
 his own empty cottage.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 BY THE BIVBE SIDE. 
 
 8 BOUT noon on the 24th of Decem- 
 ber, two travellers, who looked both 
 footsore and cold, were entering 
 London by one of the main roads along 
 which fifty years ago the mail coaches used 
 to run. 
 
 One of the travellers was evidently a 
 peddler, for he carried a large pack on his 
 shoulders, while lagging behind the long 
 steps of his companion was a boy with 
 brown face and tangled black hair, whom 
 we last saw three months ago creeping 
 towards his empty cottage. I said "two 
 travellers," but presently, at a whistle from 
 
 65
 
 66 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 the boy, a large black dog sprang over the 
 hedge, and putting his nose to his master's 
 hand, in sign of greeting, trotted on steadily 
 by his side. 
 
 " Beat at last, are you, Robin ? " said the 
 packman, looking round. " Well, I must 
 say you've kept up like a man ; you never 
 did such a spell of walking in your life be- 
 fore, I'll warrant. But we'll soon be in 
 good quarters. Hold up, bo} r , else I'll have 
 my brother saying 'tis but a bad bargain 
 I've brought him." 
 
 " I'm not beat," said the boy, straighten- 
 ing himself, and pressing forward to his 
 companion's side; "but it's such a big 
 place, and I'm getting afraid Mr. Barnaby 
 shouldn't like Grip and me." 
 
 " Hallo I I declare, that beats all," cried 
 the peddler, suddenly ; " there's Jacob him- 
 self. There never was such a place as 
 London for meeting folks as well as losing 
 them ; " and he hurried over to the opposite 
 side of the street, where stood a little wiry 
 old man in patched, faded garments, of a
 
 BY THE BIVEB SIDE. 67 
 
 make which, added to his sou'-wester, gave 
 him a sea-going air, quite out of character 
 with the narrow London street in which ho 
 stood. 
 
 " Well met, brother Jacob ; you're a good 
 sight for sore eyes," said the peddler, 
 heartily, clapping the old man on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Humph," answered the other, in a sharp 
 tone, which made Robin try to shrink out 
 of sight behind his friend; "you're no 
 younger and no handsomer than you were 
 when I saw you last." 
 
 " Three years' walking about in all weath- 
 ers don't improve a man's complexion, and 
 I was never much to boast of," said the 
 other, cheerily. 
 
 " I hate to hear a fellow undervally him- 
 self," replied the old man. " Did you make 
 your own face, that you're so modest about 
 your looks ? " 
 
 " Well, well," returned the peddler, 
 laughing, " you're not changed, anyways, 
 Jacob ; and, talking about handaome looks,
 
 68 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 what do you say to this fine fellow ? Grip 
 his name is ; you'll not see his pattern on 
 this side the river." 
 
 " I don't go much by looks myself," 
 grunted the old man, though in a more 
 complacent tone. " And that's the boy, I 
 suppose. Well, young fellow, I can tell 
 you 'tis a good thing for you that I don't 
 go by looks ; I must have a good word with 
 you. Come along, brother, the Nicholas is 
 moored close alongside here ; " and the sail- 
 or, for such he seemed, said not another 
 word as he led the party through many 
 a narrow street and turning, until they 
 reached the river side, near which were 
 moored many of those flat boats or lighters 
 in which goods are carried out to the larger 
 ships, nearer the mouth of the river. 
 Across more than one plank, laid from 
 boat to boat, Robin followed his conduc- 
 tors, and at last stood on the deck of the 
 Nicholas, of which his new acquaintance 
 was owner and captain. A short ladder 
 led into a tiny cabin, round which Robin
 
 BY THE RIVER SIDE. 69 
 
 gazed with wondering eyes, for the walla 
 were almost covered with strange objects, 
 the nature of which he could only guess. 
 Two or three dried skins of creatures such 
 as the boy had never seen, gleaming pearly 
 shells, and bottles which contained snakes 
 covered with wonderful markings : while on 
 one side a little model of a canoe was nailed 
 upon the wall close to a polished spear-head 
 glistening with rows of dangerous teeth. 
 The old man was a favorite amongst the 
 sailors, and when they came into port from 
 their long voyages, many a one would bring 
 him some little gift from the foreign lands 
 which they had visited, to adorn his cabin 
 walls. 
 
 Jacob Barnaby seated himself on a bench 
 which was fastened to the wall, and signing 
 to his brother to do the same, he called 
 Robin to stand before him. " Now, boy," 
 he said " you must speak up and answer 
 what I ask you. I've heard summat of 
 you, but it was in a letter, and I've not 
 much patience to make them out. I know
 
 70 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 about your father, and how you were left 
 alone ; you need not tell me that," he con- 
 tinued, with a real kindness, which showed 
 that a warm heart lay hidden under the 
 rough manner. " The bailiff locked up the 
 cottage, and took the bits of sticks for the 
 rent, and turned you adrift. I know that 
 much ; what came next ? " 
 
 "I went to look for father," said Robin, 
 " but I never found him ; and I should have 
 been starved many a time, but folks were 
 good to me, and gave me a drink of milk, 
 or a bit of their own dinner of bread and 
 cheese, and at night I slept under a hay- 
 rick, when I could find one. But one day 
 I hadn't had a morsel since the night be- 
 fore, and when evening came I was nigh 
 worn out, and I dropped down by the road- 
 side in a sleep or a faint ; and when I came 
 to myself I was in a warm house, and he," 
 pointing to the peddler, " was giving me 
 some hot tea to drink." 
 
 "And a long time you were coming to," 
 interrupted the peddler. "I began to have
 
 BY THE EIVTEB SIDE. 71 
 
 my doubts if I hadn't found him too late, 
 I can tell you, brother Jacob." 
 
 "And he said," went on Robin, pres- 
 ently, "would I sell my dog? for he had 
 a brother in London wanted one like Grip, 
 to look after his place when he was away ; 
 but I couldn't ; " and the tears came into 
 the boy's eyes. "I had no one else but 
 Grip, and indeed, sir, he wouldn't have 
 liked to go away ; he's used to me, you see. 
 And then he said maybe if I behaved my- 
 self you would take me with the dog, and 
 so I came along with him to London ; and, 
 master, do please take us both. I'll do my 
 best to learn all you tell me, and I won't eat 
 much, I promise you." 
 
 A queer twinkle came into the old man's 
 eyes. 
 
 " Well, well, boy, we'll see about it. You 
 shall stay here a bit, any way, till I've had 
 a look at the dog. And now there's nothing 
 going on to-day, you may be off on shore, 
 and look at the shops, and what not. 
 There's a deal of holly in the windows, and
 
 72 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 plums and candy for the puddings. You 
 go and look at them. Or, stay I Do you 
 see that church ? " and Jacob pointed to an 
 old gray tower, which seemed to rise close 
 to the water side. " Steer for that tower ; 
 you'll find my lad Nicholas in the church ; 
 you can tell him I sent you." 
 
 "And bring him back with you to see 
 his uncle," cried the peddler, as Robin 
 turned to go. "He'll have grown a little 
 stronger in these three years?" he con- 
 tinued, looking questioningly at Jacob as 
 he spoke. 
 
 "He's an active chap is Nicholas. He 
 gets about so quick with his crutch, you'd 
 never think he was lame. 'Tis a wonder 
 he's not spoiled, the gentry make so much 
 of his fine .music ; but he is a good boy, and 
 the comfort of my life since his poor mother 
 died. Hallo ! " with a sudden change of 
 tone ; " be off, boy, or you'll not find him 
 in the church ; 'tis getting late." 
 
 Robin saw that the two men wanted to 
 be alone, and he was obliged to go, though
 
 BY THE EIVER SIDE. 73 
 
 he was afraid to venture alone into those 
 strange streets; but soon all fear was for- 
 gotten in wonder at the new sights which 
 everywhere met his eye greatest wonder 
 of all, the crowds of people that passed 
 continually up and down the narrow streets. 
 He stood still to gaze at them, and decided 
 that there must be some wonderful show 
 near at hand, to which all these people were 
 crowding. Robin found himself, after a 
 time, at the closed doors of the old gray 
 church, and he was going to sit down on 
 one of the long stone steps which led up to 
 the porch, to wait till Nicholas should come 
 out, when he noticed that there was a nar- 
 row alley running down one side of the 
 building, and in this he found a small door, 
 which was not fastened, but yielded to his 
 first timid push. It was not very cold 
 weather for Christmas, but as the boy 
 stepped into the dim light of the lofty, 
 silent church, a strange chill passed over 
 him. 
 
 Inside were no bright holly-berries, no
 
 74 THE FAITHFUL SOU. 
 
 shining laurel. The old city church held 
 on Sundays a mixed congregation of sailors 
 and a very miscellaneous water-side popu- 
 lation, and no one had ever thought of 
 dressing the old oak pews for Christmas. 
 The windows were crusted with dust and 
 smoke, and Robin, whose only experience 
 of churches was of the pretty country ones 
 to which the peddler had sometimes taken 
 him on their long slow journey to London, 
 thought this a very dreary place in which to 
 worship God. 
 
 But presently low sweet notes echoed 
 through the building, so soft, so tender, 
 they spoke to the heart like the remem- 
 brance of a dear voice that has been long 
 silent; now louder tones, thrilling with pas- 
 sionate feeling, as the organ answered to 
 every touch of the fingers that were laid 
 on it. Robin forgot his errand, he forgot 
 everything but the music, as he crept nearer 
 to the wonderful sound, and sat down, quite 
 unconscious even of his own movements, at 
 the foot of the narrow stairs leading to the
 
 BY THE BIVEE SIDE. 75 
 
 organ-loft. How long he sat he did not 
 know. He did not seem to himself to be 
 listening to the music ; rather his thoughts 
 were gone back to his old life, to his father, 
 to his sorrow at being parted from him, to 
 his fear lest he should be even now longing 
 for the little boy who could not come to 
 him (for Robin never believed that his father 
 had left him willingly), to all his new de- 
 sires after a better life, his new conscious- 
 ness of his own weakness. He could not 
 separate and understand his own thoughts 
 any more than he could detect the several 
 notes which formed the cadence that he 
 heard ; but longing and sorrow and gladness 
 and hope were all blended together, till the 
 boy could bear no more, and bending his 
 head over his knees, burst into sudden tears. 
 He did not hear the music cease, nor the 
 sound of a crutch on the stairs above him ; 
 but presently he felt the touch of a hand 
 on his shoulder, and a gentle voice said, 
 " Do tell me what is the matter ; why do 
 you cry so?"
 
 76 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 " Because I want to be a better boy, and 
 I don't know how, and father is gone away." 
 Robin had not thought the; words before he 
 said them, he scarcely knew indeed why he 
 did cry, nor what had wakened in his heart 
 the yearning desire for which he was trying 
 to find words ; but it had been growing in 
 him day by day, as the new sorrow and the 
 new tenderness which had entered his life 
 had brought with them strange feelings and 
 desires. God in His love and goodness had 
 sown a seed in the boy's heart, and what he 
 felt was the awakening into life and growth 
 of this power within' him. 
 
 His new friend sat down on the stairs by 
 Robin, and put his arm round his shoulders. 
 " Tell me more about it," he said gently. 
 
 Both touch and words were a new ex- 
 perience to the lonely boy ; so few had ever 
 cared to speak kindly to him ; none before 
 had seemed to wish to win his confidence ; 
 and this was a boy too, like himself, for the 
 slight figure and colorless face of the crip- 
 pled lad made him seem much younger than
 
 BY THE RIVER SIDE. 77 
 
 he really was. Robin was naturally a very 
 open-hearted boy, but he was so unaccus- 
 tomed to talk or even to think of his own 
 feelings, that it was some time before he 
 found any words in which to answer. 
 
 " How did you come in here ? " asked the 
 crippled lad, presently, finding that his new 
 acquaintance did not speak. 
 
 " At yon small door," replied Robin, 
 readily. " Your father said as I should find 
 you here. I'm Robin Wallack, the boy that 
 was to come along of the dog." 
 
 "I'm so glad it's you," said Nicholas; 
 "for I think we shall be friends. And 
 haven't you heard of your father all this 
 time ? Poor Robin ! I'm so sorry for you." 
 
 " You see," said Robin, confidentially, " I 
 know a deal more now than I did when I 
 lived along with father; your uncle have 
 learnt me a many things ; and times I think, 
 if I'd been a better boy, father wouldn't 
 have gone ; and I don't think father ever 
 knew much about God, or he wouldn't have 
 done what he did ; and I want to go and telj
 
 78 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 him. I think it would make him sorry. 1 
 know it did me." 
 
 " Perhaps by-and-by God will bring your 
 father back," said Nicholas, gently ; " and 
 though you don't know where he is, God 
 knows. Perhaps He is teaching him too." 
 
 " But I want to see him. I had always 
 lived along of him, you know, and he was 
 very good to me, was father ; " for Robin's 
 loving little heart had already forgotten 
 everything but the occasional kindly moods 
 and more genial tones which had made the 
 bright spots in his life. 
 
 Nicholas did not answer, and Robin went 
 on. " Ever since I have read my book, I 
 have wanted father to know. He used to 
 say times and again as God cared nought for 
 poor folks like us, and didn't take any 
 thought how we lived; and now I know 
 how Jesus Christ was a poor boy like me, 
 hungry sometimes, with no place to sleep in, 
 and with people on the watch to do Him 
 harm, though He was so good and loved 
 them all, oh," and his throat swelled with
 
 BY THE BIVEB SIDE, 79 
 
 a sob, " it makes me love Him so, and I 
 want father to know." 
 
 The arm was drawn closer round Robin's 
 neck. "I know," said Nicholas; "I am 
 thinking of it all day long. Sometimes 
 when I come and practise here, I don't feel 
 as if I were making the music myself, but 
 as if," and his tones sank to a whisper, " it 
 were His voice speaking to me, and saying, 
 ' My poor boy, I love you, though you are 
 crippled and weak and good for nothing.' 
 O Robin, he is so good, so good, I want to 
 get near to Him and never leave Him." 
 
 The two boys sat silent, with a sense of 
 companionship and common love which 
 warmed both their hearts, for Nicholas, too, 
 had known, since his mother's death, a 
 lonely boyhood. His father's deep love 
 but seldom found any expression in words, 
 though, during the fits of pain which some- 
 times befell the sickly boy, he would nurse 
 him as tenderly as a woman. The short 
 winter afternoon had quite closed in as the 
 new friends sat talking on the stairs, and
 
 80 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 the lamps which had been lit in the street 
 without showed faint spots of light through 
 the gathering mist. 
 
 " We must be going home now, Robin," 
 said Nicholas, putting one hand on Robin's 
 shoulder, as he rose and fitted his crutch to 
 its place. I'm so glad it's you. We'll al- 
 ways be friends, won't we ? " 
 
 " If you'll let me," said Robin.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE CABIN OF THE LIGHTER. 
 
 [EN Christmas was over, the cold 
 weather caine suddenly, and Robin 
 woke one morning to find every 
 mast and rope on the river coated with 
 frost. But in a few hours all was black and 
 dismal, and as the boy rubbed with his coat- 
 cuff the tiny pane of rough glass which 
 served him for a window, he longed, with a 
 bitter sense of loneliness and distance, to see 
 through it the gleaming stems and snow- 
 laden delicate twigs of the woods at home. 
 Robin had cried himself to sleep the night 
 before, for in spite of Nicholas's kindness 
 the new life seemed to him very strange 
 
 81
 
 82 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 and hard ; and when he was alone in hia 
 little hammock, with Grip's nose just touch- 
 ing his hand as it hung over the side, grief 
 for his father, and something like fear at 
 being so far from everything he knew and 
 loved, and dislike of the constant active 
 work, so different from his idle days in the 
 woods at home, seemed to make a trouble 
 too heavy for his child's heart to bear. 
 
 But sometimes, even in the midst of his 
 trouble, a thought would come into his 
 mind that brought with it comfort and 
 peace. A voice would seem to speak to 
 him, as if God indeed said, " Little Robin, 
 you are not alone, you are not forsaken; 
 God cares for you, and knows all about 
 you." And then he would fall happily 
 asleep, with the tears yet wet on his face, 
 and wake in the morning to begin with 
 new hope his day's work. 
 
 His new master was not inclined to let 
 the boy be idle. By the first gray light he 
 must be on deck, shivering in his torn and 
 scanty clothes, and with sand and stone and
 
 THE CABIN OF THE LIGHTEB. 83 
 
 stinging half-frozen water, must scrub once 
 more to whiteness the boards that always 
 looked, Robin thought, clean enough for a 
 farm-house table. Then the fire must be 
 lit and the kettle set on to boil, the cabin 
 swept out and arranged with perfect neat- 
 ness, and breakfast prepared. All day long 
 there was always something for Robin to do. 
 If the lighter was engaged as usual, in re- 
 seiving and landing the cargo of merchant- 
 men anchored in the wider mouth of the 
 river, then the boy must help to lift heavy 
 bales, or roll cask after cask along the 
 planks to the shore, while Grip kept guard, 
 watching his little master, as if he would 
 have liked to help had he only known how. 
 Robin was very tired at night, more tired 
 than he remembered to have been after his 
 longest birds'-nesting expeditions at home. 
 This first day of the frost was also the 
 first day of the year, but to Robin it was 
 something more than either of these, and he 
 felt it to be a very importanc occasion, in- 
 deed, as he stood by his little window, rub- 
 bing it hard with his coat-cuff.
 
 84 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 His friend the peddler had completed his 
 purchases now, and was to set off again 
 that afternoon on his long country rounds : 
 and before he went it must be decided 
 whether Robin should stay, or should go 
 back with him again, as the good man had 
 promised, in case the boy could not settle to 
 his work. About twelve o'clock the cap- 
 tain, as Robin generally called his old mas- 
 ter, put his head out of the cabin door, and 
 shouted to Robin to come. The boy went 
 down the little ladder, his heart beating, 
 and his face almost pale with excitement. 
 The peddler was there, and Nicholas stood 
 leaning against the wall. 
 
 " Now, boy," said the captain, in his 
 roughest tones, " best say your mind at 
 once. I like your dog, and you are welcome 
 to stay, and I'll find board for the two of 
 you, and more decent clothes for you. But 
 you must stay here two years before you'll 
 be worth a penny over your cost to feed 
 and clothe: so say your mind, and have 
 done with it."
 
 THE CABIN OF THE LIGHTBB. 85 
 
 " Two years." It seemed a lifetime to 
 Robin, and all that time he should never see 
 the woods nor the grass again. He would 
 much rather wander about the country with 
 Grip, and try to earn a few pence at field 
 work. He could not stay, and with his 
 hands nervously grasping his cap, he looked 
 up to give the answer that would send him 
 once more a homeless wanderer into the 
 world. He looked up, and his glance fell 
 on Nicholas, who was watching him with 
 eyes that seemed to read his very thoughts, 
 eyes that were full of tears now, and of 
 anxious longing. 
 
 " Nicholas," said Robin, suddenly, and 
 forgetting all that he had meant to answer, 
 " do you want me to stay ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Nicholas, earnestly. 
 
 " Then, captain, I'll stay." 
 
 " Please yourself," said the old man, care- 
 lessly, though he watched the two with keen 
 eyes. 
 
 " You've been very good to me, mister," 
 went on Robin, turning to his first friend ;
 
 86 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 " and please, if you ever meet father, to say 
 as he'll find me here ; and do tell him it 
 wastn't my fault I came away from the cot- 
 tage, for I was turned out." 
 
 " Ay, ay, I'll mind about it," said the 
 peddler, shaking Robin's little brown hand. 
 " No fear of my forgetting, and I should 
 know his face if I saw him. I remember 
 how sharp he took me up when he came 
 into the cottage ; there, there, never mind," 
 as an expression of some distress crossed 
 the boy's face, " I don't bear malice." He 
 drew Robin a little aside, and went on in a 
 lower tone, "I'm right glad you've made up 
 your mind to stay ; you feel a bit strange at 
 first, I dare say, but here you have a home 
 and friends, and the chance of learning. 
 It's a deal better than being a mere tramp 
 about the country." 
 
 " Yes," said Robin, slowly, and with no 
 very hopeful expression ; and then, brighten- 
 ing, "and you know father may come any 
 day." 
 
 " See you," said his friend, going on with
 
 CABIN OP THE LIGHTBB. 87 
 
 his own thoughts, and not taking any notice 
 of Robin's words, " you may get the best 
 of all learning here, if you will. Do you 
 know what that is, boy ? ' The fear of the 
 Lord is the beginning of wisdom.' Take 
 you heed to learn of Him now while you 
 are young, and He gives you the opportun- 
 ity ; 'tis a great thing to live with those that 
 serve God. Tis but little I have been able 
 to teach you ; I'm but an ignorant man my- 
 self ; but pray to God to make you want to 
 know more, and to prepare your heart to 
 understand, and then He will teach you. 
 The more you want to know, the more there 
 is waiting for you to learn, and we shall 
 never get to the end of learning, for the 
 love of God is always beyond our thoughts." 
 
 "I will try to learn, indeed," answered 
 Robin, and I'll say the prayer every night 
 and morning that you taught me ; and per- 
 haps, when I know a good deal, I shall be 
 able to teach father." 
 
 That evening, while the captain was gone 
 on shore to look up an old messmate, the
 
 88 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 two boys settled themselves cosily by the 
 cabin fire. Work was over for the day, 
 and Grip was keeping watch over the barrels 
 on the deck, and it was with an unusual 
 sense of leisure and contentment that Robin 
 spread out his cold hands to the bright 
 blaze. 
 
 " Poor old fellow," said Nicholas, touch- 
 ing, as he spoke, the torn sleeve, through 
 which the boy's bare elbow showed plainly. 
 " You and I are to go on shore to-morrow, 
 and see about getting you a better rig-out. 
 You'll like that, won't you ? " 
 
 "Yes," replied Robin, tightening the clasp 
 of his hands round his knees as he sat on 
 the floor, and rocking himself backward and 
 forward with a brightened face. " Tell us 
 all about it ; what shall you get ? " 
 
 " Well," said Nicholas, smiling too, " I 
 have been thinking it would be good fun to 
 astonish my father, and get you rigged after 
 a real sea-going fashion." 
 
 "Oh, Nicholas !" cried Robin, "you never 
 mean a blue jersey ? "
 
 THE CABIN OP THE UQHTEB. 89 
 
 " Yes I do," laughed Nicholas, as Robin's 
 eyes opened wider. 
 
 " And a sou'-wester ? " 
 
 Nicholas nodded. 
 
 " And a blue handkerchief, and all that ; " 
 and Robin fairly leaped up with delight, and 
 would have danced about the cabin floor, 
 but there was clearly no room for anything 
 of the kind. 
 
 " But will the captain like it ? " be asked, 
 presently, with some apprehension. 
 
 " Ay, that he will ; 'twas a sore trial to 
 him when I had to give them up, but when 
 I began to play the organ, folks didn't like 
 it, and I was obliged to leave it off; but I 
 saw it cut father deep, though he never said 
 a word. Poor father, you'll not think much 
 of his sharp words when you know him 
 better, Robin." 
 
 " And shall I have a jersey and a sou'- 
 wester ? " repeated Robin, with a little laugh 
 of shy pleasure. 
 
 " Ay, ay, we'll make a regular salt of you ; 
 only you wait till to-morrow and see."
 
 90 THE FAITHFUL BOX. 
 
 "I wish Lettice could see me, and old 
 Sally, and Jonas," laughed Robin. "But, 
 oh, Nicholas," and his lip fell, and the smile 
 left his face, "father won't know me when 
 he comes ; he'll never think of looking for 
 me under a sou'-wester." 
 
 "No fear, Robin," answered Nicholas, 
 gently. "If your father is like me he'd 
 know your little brown face under any sort 
 of cap ; besides, you know, if he came here 
 to find you, he would come and ask father 
 about you." 
 
 " Oh yes," answered Robin, eagerly, " and 
 the captain would say, ' There he is,' and 
 father would look, and take me for a sailor ; 
 and I should hear him speak, and come run- 
 ning to him, and then " and the boy's 
 voice was lost in a sob. 
 
 "Come now," said Nicholas, presently, 
 " we've been talking about your plans, now 
 I'm going to tell you some of mine ; what 
 do you think of my setting up a school, 
 Robin ? " 
 
 " Why you are not half big enough," said
 
 THE CABIN IN THE LIGHTBB. 91 
 
 Robin, looking up at the slight, bent, weakly 
 figure before him. " Bob Symonds could 
 lick you with one hand, I know he could. 
 I'm only a little chap, but I'm stronger than 
 you." 
 
 " And you think a schoolmaster must be 
 strong enough to thrash all the boys, do 
 you? Well, but Robin, I only mean to 
 have one pupil in my school, and I don't 
 think he'll want to fight me." 
 
 " Only one ; that will be a funny school. 
 Why there was all the boys about went to 
 ours," and Robin began to reckon their 
 names on his fingers, beginning with Bob 
 and Jonas. 
 
 " I want you to be my pupil, Robin, and 
 we'll have school here every evening." 
 
 " Oh, how jolly," cried Robin, jumping 
 up from the floor. "But what will you 
 learn me ? will it be out of my book ? " and 
 Robin pulled his treasured Testament from 
 his pocket. 
 
 " I'll try," said Nicholas. " We can read
 
 92 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 it together, anyhow, and you might begin to 
 write, perhaps." 
 
 " Oh ! and then if I knew where fathei 
 was, I could write him a letter all my own 
 self. I am so glad I said I would stay ! " 
 cried Robin. "I shall like your school, 
 Nicholas. Shall we begin to-night?" 
 
 " Why, you silly fellow, it is ten o'clock, 
 and time you were asleep," answered Nich- 
 olas, laughing. "Off with you, and we'U 
 Bee what we can do to-morrow."
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 EOBIN'S NEIGHBOR. 
 
 JCHOLAS had chosen for their first 
 lesson part of the twenty-second 
 chapter of St. Matthew. Robin had 
 learned a good deal from the peddler, and 
 could manage the short words, while he 
 spelt his way triumphantly through all the 
 long ones ; but he thought nothing of the 
 meaning of what he was reading till he came 
 to the word " commandment " in the thirty- 
 sixth verse. The sound was familiar, and 
 reminded him of the treasured leaf from 
 which he took his first lessons ; and when he 
 had read on a little further he said, looking 
 
 93
 
 94 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 up in Nicholas's face, " Those two com- 
 mandments are not on my paper.'' 
 
 " No," said Nicholas, " but they are what 
 you may call the meaning of all the others. 
 If you were to keep these two, you would 
 never break any of those you have on your 
 paper, Robin." 
 
 The boy looked puzzled, and was going 
 on with his reading, but Nicholas stopped 
 him by saying, "If you loved God, you 
 could not have any other god, could you ? 
 nor take His holy name in vain? and you 
 could not break His Sabbath, which He told 
 us to keep. And if you loved all the people 
 about you as well as you loved yourself, you 
 could never hurt them or steal from them, 
 or say what was not true about them, or 
 want to have their things for yourself." 
 
 " No," said Robin, thoughtfully. " And I 
 don't see how any one can help loving God, 
 when they know how He loves us, and how 
 good He is ; but there are some folks I don't 
 love. I hate Mr. Pierson, I do, and Nathan 
 Roberts's missus, so there ; " and Robin 
 stamped with his foot.
 
 BOBIN'S NEIGHBOR. 95 
 
 " God loves them," said Nicholas, in a 
 low tone. 
 
 "I suppose He does," replied Robin, 
 doubtfully, " but I can't." 
 
 "I think, Robin, if we could love God 
 very much, we should love everybody that 
 He cares for." 
 
 "I can't love folks I don't know," said 
 Robin, half angrily. " God loves everybody 
 in the world, but we need only love the 
 folks that are good to us." 
 
 "Robin," said Nicholas, "I love you so 
 much, that I love your father for your sake, 
 though I have never seen him, just because 
 you set so much by him ; so I'm sure we 
 ought to be able to love people because God 
 cares for them." 
 
 The tears came into Robin's eyes as he 
 slid his hand into the thin long fingers 
 which were turning the leaves of the Bible. 
 " You are a deal better than me, Nicholas," 
 he said, " but I will try. I won't hate Mr. 
 Pierson if I can help it anyhow." 
 
 " We must ask God to help us to love
 
 96 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 Him more : that must be the best way of 
 learning to love our neighbor. Oh, Robin, 
 sometimes when I think about how He loves 
 us, it seems so beautiful and wonderful, that 
 I forget everything else. It doesn't seem to 
 matter that I am a poor, ignorant, sickly lad, 
 and that I can't do anything great, nor know 
 much; nothing seems to matter, for I am 
 sure it is all right, and just as it should be, 
 because God loves me." 
 
 " There's the bell ! " cried Robin, as he 
 heard the first sound from the steeple of a 
 neighboring church, whose organ Nicholas 
 played on two evenings in the week. " You 
 must be going, Nicholas, but I can't come 
 with you. Captain said as Grip and I must 
 keep on board to-night." 
 
 It very often happened, however, that the 
 captain managed to spare Robin to walk 
 with Nicholas to church, and there the boy 
 would perch himself in one of the front 
 seats, feeling as if he had a sort of property 
 in the music, and as if the singing were 
 somehow a compliment to his friend. The
 
 BOBIN'S NEIGHBOR. 97 
 
 two boys used greatly to enjoy the walk 
 home together, through the lights and shad- 
 ows of the streets, where they would talk 
 together of those deeper thoughts which do 
 not come so readily to the lips of boys in 
 the midst of the day's light and work. The 
 longing to do right was growing strong in 
 Robin's heart, for its life and its motive was 
 the love of God who had so loved him. The 
 Saviour of whom Nicholas spoke seemed to 
 him a Friend near at hand, to whom he 
 could speak out of the depths of his heart ; 
 who knew all his faults and weaknesses, and 
 yet loved and pitied him day by day. 
 
 As the boys read together, evening after 
 evening, of His life on earth, of His divine 
 strength, and tenderness, and patience, of 
 His patient suffering, of His compassion for 
 all others who suffered ; so did the image of 
 his Saviour grow more and more distinct in 
 Robin's mind, so that he himself began to 
 strive, feebly and mistakenly often, but still 
 to strive to follow and be like Him. 
 
 March was come, and one evening about
 
 98 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 nine o'clock the two friends were coming 
 home, Nicholas walking slowly along, his 
 hand upon Robin's shoulder. They were 
 close beside the river, when, quite suddenly, 
 Nicholas stopped, and bent down as if to 
 look at something dark, which Robin could 
 dimly see lying before them, almost within 
 reach of the wash of the water. 
 
 " What is it ? " asked Robin ; but Nicholas 
 did not seem to hear. He was kneeling 
 now, and with both hands turning the dark 
 bundle towards the distant feeble lamp-light. 
 Presently he said, in a low whisper, which 
 Robin could only just hear, " He is alive. 
 Run, Robin ; run quick, and bring my father. 
 We shall save him yet." 
 
 Robin ran, hardly knowing why, nor what 
 he should say to the captain, whom he found 
 smoking his pipe on deck, but his master 
 seemed not at all surprised at his hurried, 
 breathless words ; and muttering something 
 about their never giving him any peace, 
 knocked the ashes from his pipe into the 
 river, and putting it into his pocket, walked
 
 ROBIN'? NEIGHBOR. 99 
 
 without any appearance of hurry, but really 
 BO fast that Robin could hardly keep up 
 with him, towards the spot to which the 
 boy had pointed. 
 
 Nicholas was still stooping over the dark 
 bundle, which the captain, bending down 
 lifted in his arms, and carried towards the 
 nearest lamp. He gave a low long whistle, 
 but whether of surprise or dismay Robin 
 could not tell, and began to stride hastily 
 homeward. Robin, as he followed, half 
 running, the captain's long steps, began 
 to understand better what had happened. 
 Nicholas had found some one lying as he 
 himself had once lain in the road, when the 
 peddler took pity on him. Perhaps he was 
 half-drowned or starving, and the captain 
 was taking him home to try to save him. 
 Robin's thoughts flew at once to his father, 
 '{is world was so small, that he could not 
 understand how unlikely it was that his 
 father should be close by ; nothing seemed 
 more probable to the boy, whose thoughts 
 day and night were with the only one to 
 whom he seemed to belong.
 
 100 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 The captain laid his burden on the cabin 
 table, and Robin, with a smothered cry of 
 " father," ran at once to his side, but his 
 master pulled him back. 
 
 " ' Father,' indeed ! " said he , " 'tis but a 
 poor boy ; stand back and give him air ; or 
 stay, you can rub his feet and hands, whlie 
 I get some broth ready; he'll come to, he'll 
 do. I've seen a many such." 
 
 And by the time Nicholas' slower feet 
 had crossed to the boat, the lad had already 
 half unclosed his lips to receive the warm 
 broth, which the captain was giving him 
 with all the tenderness and care of a woman. 
 The boy, who wore a torn and patched sail- 
 or's dress, had been a cabin-boy on board a 
 small merchant vessel, from which he had 
 been discharged ill a few days ago. The lit- 
 tle money which he had, had all been lost, 
 or taken from him at a sailors' boarding 
 house, to which he had gone for shelter; 
 and being friendless and homeless, and too 
 ill to care much what became of him, he had 
 crawled along the river side, with some 
 thought of finding shelter for the night in
 
 ROBIN'S NEIGHBOR. 101 
 
 one of the barges ; but he was too weak, and 
 had fallen down, as he thought, to die, when 
 Nicholas touched him as he passed, and 
 stopped to look. By the time the boy had 
 revived enough to tell them his story, which 
 the captain heard, standing with his back to 
 them, and drubbing with his fingers all the 
 time on the little window, it was long past 
 ten o'clock, and Robin felt tired and unhap- 
 py. He would not go to his hammock, and 
 yet it made him feel miserable to see Nich- 
 olas bending over the sick boy, and soothing 
 him with gentle words. 
 
 Robin had not known before how much 
 he loved Nicholas, and now he began to tell 
 himself that his friend did not really care 
 for him, that he spoke just as kindly to this 
 strange boy. " I dare say, he would like 
 me to go, and let this other boy stay in my 
 place," thought Robin; " and I will go too, 
 and if I'm starved, it won't matter ; nobody 
 cares for me in all the world." He was so 
 absorbed in these thoughts, that he did not 
 hear the whispered talk between the cap-
 
 102 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 tain and his son, as to where the sick boy 
 had best be put for the night, until Nicho- 
 las turned around, and saying aloud, "Yes, 
 father, I think that will be best," came up 
 to Robin, and said in a low voice, " Robin, 
 you won't mind sleeping on the cabin floor 
 to-night, and letting the poor boy have your 
 hammock, will you? 'Twill be softer for 
 him, poor fellow ! " 
 
 Robin did not answer, only turned a little 
 away with an angry frown on his face, for 
 he did not like to meet the sorrowful gaze, 
 which he felt rather than saw, in the blue 
 eyes which were fixed on him. 
 
 " Father," said Nicholas, going quietly to 
 his side, "perhaps, after all, the boy had 
 better be in the cabin. He will be nearer at 
 hand in case he wants anything in the night, 
 and he can have my old rug for a bed ; it 
 will be a deal softer than the paving-stones 
 that he has slept on of late, anyway." 
 
 " Please yourself," said the captain. " I 
 take no concern about the matter. You 
 found him, didn't you ? Let him sleep on 
 deck, for aught I care."
 
 .ROBIN'S NEIQHBOB. 103 
 
 44 We'll do better for him than that," said 
 Nicholas, smiling, as, without asking any 
 help from Robin, he began to arrange the 
 bed, on which the captain placed the sick 
 boy. 
 
 Robin was tired enough as he lay down 
 in his hammock that night, but he could not 
 sleep. He was restless and miserable be- 
 cause he had admitted into his heart angry 
 and jealous thoughts ; and instead of asking 
 God to take them away, and trying to fill 
 his mind with loving and grateful remem- 
 brances, kept repeating to himself all the 
 kind words which he had heard Nicholas 
 say to the poor lad, and making himself be- 
 lieve that his friend no longer cared for him. 
 The angry, bitter thoughts that tempted him 
 to sin, were speaking loud in his heart ; but 
 there was another voice, still and small, 
 which yet made itself heard over all, a voice 
 which repeated to him words that he had 
 read in God's own book, " Thou shalt love 
 thy neighbor as thyself." For a long time 
 Robin would not listen. Over and over
 
 104 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 again he settled himself in his hammock 
 and drew his rug over his face, determined 
 to sleep and forget it all, but he could not. 
 By-and-by he began to think of the sick 
 boy, who was perhaps trying in vain to 
 sleep on the hard cabin floor. He remem- 
 bered the nights when he had himself been 
 so desolate and lonely, and began to feel 
 ashamed of his selfishness and ingratitude. 
 
 God had been so kind to him, and yet, 
 when asked to show kindness to another 
 who was suffering, he was angry and turned 
 away. 
 
 " I am very sorry ; I am a very bad boy, 
 and I shouldn't think God would ever for- 
 give me," he said to himself, " but I will ask 
 Him ; " and crawling out of his bed, he knelt 
 in the thick darkness of the little hold, and 
 tried to pray for pardon. 
 
 But the words would not come. It seemed 
 impossible to ask to be forgiven, while the 
 poor boy was yet lying on the hard floor, his 
 stiff limbs perhaps aching more and more 
 every minute. Yet Robin felt he could not
 
 ROBIN'S NEIGHBOR. 105 
 
 get into his hammock again ; and creeping 
 softly along, first to the deck, where he 
 felt the keen wind, and then down the lad- 
 der, he entered the cabin, where a little 
 light, from a craft moored close beside, 
 shone through the tiny window. He could 
 see the sick boy's eyes wide open, and hear 
 a little feeble moan as he entered, and, feel- 
 ing more than ever ashamed of himself, he 
 crept to the side of the rug, " Why can't 
 you sleep ? " he whispered very softly, for 
 fear of waking the captain and Nicholas, 
 whose hammocks were slung not far off. 
 
 " I feel sore all over, and my bones ache 
 like," answered the boy, hoarsely. 
 
 " Would you fancy a hammock ? 'T would 
 be easier lying than this," went on Robin. 
 
 The boy's face brightened a little. "But 
 I can't, they are both full," he answered, 
 doubtfully. 
 
 " That's the captain and Nicholas. He 
 wanted ever so bad to give up his, but cap- 
 tain put his foot down that he shouldn't, for 
 he's but weakly and lame, you know. But
 
 106 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 there's my hammock. I could get you there 
 in a minute if you can walk. It's only up 
 the ladder and down again : you can manage 
 that if I help you, can't you ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the boy, with pleasure at the 
 idea of change and of the cold air ; " but 
 what will you do ? " 
 
 " I shall have a rare game, lying on the 
 fioor ; 'tis fun to me. I was used to it like 
 at home. Here, keep you hold of my hand, 
 and we'll be up in no time," and Robin 
 wrapped the rug round the trembling boy. 
 
 When he had seen his new companion 
 warmly covered, and so comfortable he felt 
 sure he should go to sleep at once, Robin re- 
 turned to the cabin, but before he lay down 
 he knelt once more. And now he could ask 
 for pardon. He was more sorry and ashamed 
 than before, but the sorrow was no longer 
 hard and speechless. His kind words to the 
 poor boy had softened his own heart, and 
 the love which God had caused to take the 
 place of his angry feelings, brought with it 
 the assurance of forgiveness, through that
 
 BOBIN'S NEIGHBOR. 107 
 
 love of which all that we can feel is but the 
 faintest reflection. 
 
 As he lay down, his eye fell for a moment 
 on a heap in the corner of the cabin, the 
 captain's clothes, thrown there in careless 
 disorder, arid Robin saw to his surprise, that 
 close by them, on the floor, lay a shining 
 coin, a gold sovereign, as he saw when he 
 stooped to pick it up. He held it for a mo- 
 ment, thinking what he should do with it, 
 and then laying it down on the corner of the 
 little table, where the captain would see it 
 in the morning, he rolled himself in the rug, 
 and was soon fast asleep.
 
 CHAPTER VIH. 
 
 THE BE8OUE. 
 
 ERHAPS it was the hard bed which 
 caused Robin to wake earlier than 
 usual ; for as soon as the first gray 
 light shone into the cabin he was up and on 
 deck, about to begin his day's work, before 
 either the captain or Nicholas had left their 
 hammocks. 
 
 To his surprise, he found the sick boy 
 wrapped in a rug, and leaning over the side 
 of the lighter. He was so hot below, he 
 said, and indeed he looked wearied and 
 feverish. Robin did not know how bad it 
 was to linger in the chill air, so he made a 
 seat among some casks, and when Nicholas 
 
 108
 
 THE RESCUE. 109 
 
 came up the two were chatting busily to- 
 gether, as Robin hurried to and fro about 
 his morning's work. 
 
 Nigholas gave a cry of surprise at seeing 
 the boy seated there, and looked at Robin 
 for explanation. 
 
 "He said it was so hot down below," 
 said Robin; "and his arm hurt him" bad. 
 Have you seen his arm, Nicholas ? " 
 
 The right arm uncovered showed a deep 
 wound near the shoulder, which had evi- 
 dently been neglected, and was hot and 
 festering. 
 
 " He did it aboard ship, he says," ex- 
 plained Robin. " One of the men was after 
 him with a rope, and running round the 
 deck, he fell on some big bit of iron." 
 
 " Father knows more of such things than 
 I do," said Nicholas, going away to call his 
 father, with an anxious look, which did not 
 escape Robin's quick eyes. Presently the 
 captain came slowly on deck. He too looked 
 very grave, and he spoke to the sick boy in 
 a tone which, though kind, seemed to show
 
 110 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 either uneasiness or absence of mind. The 
 boy winched and shivered as the captain 
 touched the wound, and was in such evident 
 pain, that Robin felt more than ever ashamed 
 of his selfishness the night before. After 
 some little talk between Nicholas and his 
 father, the captain turned to Robin and told 
 him to hurry breakfast, for that he meant to 
 take the boy to a hospital as soon as possible. 
 " 'Tis a bad wound, a bad wound," he mut- 
 tered. " He'll need the best of care to pull 
 him through, and 'tis not I will do anything 
 against his having it, poor fellow. If we 
 all had our deserts, some of us would be 
 badly oft'." 
 
 Robin was too busy blowing the damp 
 sticks into flame to think much of the cap- 
 tain's words, though he could not under- 
 stand them. Presently the captain went 
 away with the boy, dressed in an outgrown 
 suit of Nicholas's ; and when he returned, 
 about noon, saying that the lad had been 
 admitted, he brought with him also word 
 that they must get up sail and be off, for ho
 
 THE BESCUE. Ill 
 
 had to unload a vessel two miles further 
 down. All were now too busy to talk or 
 even think much of what had been of so 
 great interest the night before. Nicholas 
 was going with them, and they were soon 
 making their slow way down the river, after 
 the few casks which still encumbered the 
 deck had been safely stowed on shore. 
 
 Nicholas seemed to have forgotten how 
 badly Robin had behaved the night before. 
 He spoke to him in his usual pleasant tone, 
 though Robin fancied that both he and his 
 father were a little grave and absent, as 
 though something had happened to make 
 them sorry. 
 
 But he had not much time for such 
 thoughts. They were soon alongside the 
 great ship, receiving bale after bale of soft 
 cotton goods, which, as fast as they were 
 received, Nicholas and Robin helped to pile 
 in some sort of order. It was almost dusk 
 before they left, heavily laden, for the wharf 
 at which their cargo was to be discharged . 
 and Robin sat down among the bales to rest
 
 112 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 and cool his face hot, despite the chill 
 breeze. A hand touched his shoulder, and 
 looking up with a start, he saw the captain 
 watching him, with almost a smile on his 
 face. " You'll make a sailor in time, boy," 
 he said ; " you begin to have the cut of one 
 You've worked famously to-day." They 
 were the first words of praise which Robin 
 had heard from his master, and they were 
 very sweet to him. 
 
 Little by little the boy's first fear of 
 the stern, sharp-speaking captain had been 
 changing into an earnest wish to win the 
 approval of one whom it seemed so hard to 
 please. Robin started up, his glowing face 
 hotter than ever, and muttering something 
 about Nicholas having done more than half, 
 he began to collect some of the smaller 
 things scattered about the deck, and then 
 flew down into the cabin to put everything 
 ship-shape there. 
 
 But when his work below was only half 
 done, a sudden shout called him on deck, 
 and before he could clearly understand the
 
 THE EESCUB. 113 
 
 meaning of the alarm, he and Nicholas were 
 pulling at the ropes with desperate energy, 
 the captain at the helm, shouting with a set 
 face his hurried orders, while he kept his 
 eye fixed on a large steamer, which was 
 bearing down on them so quickly, that it 
 seemed as if the two must meet before the 
 course of either could be checked or altered. 
 
 It was all over in three minutes, yet it 
 seemed to Robin as if he had stood for an 
 hour at that rope, seeing, though scarcely 
 knowing that he saw, the crowded deck of 
 the steamer and the excited gestures of the 
 passengers, and hearing the shouts and cries 
 of the Bailors. It was coming now ! The 
 steamer would touch them, graze them at 
 least ! No ; they were safe ; there was 
 nearly a foot between them. She had shot 
 ahead, and all danger was over. 
 
 But what was that sudden cry ? Robin, 
 who had covered his eyes in terror as the 
 steamer came nearer and nearer, unclasped 
 his hands, and saw what made him forget 
 everything, loose his hold on the rope, and
 
 114 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 run forward. A little girl, who had been 
 leaning over the side of the steamer, had, 
 unnoticed as it seemed in the confusion, 
 crept to the only unguarded place, where 
 they had been preparing to lower a boat, 
 and now, as she stood watching the lighter 
 close behind them, she suddenly lost her 
 balance and fell into the water. Robin saw 
 the little blue cloak strike the water, saw 
 the fair hair and white arms for one moment 
 above the surface, and heard again the cry 
 which had rung through his ears the mo- 
 ment before. He had been the best swim- 
 mer at home, and he never thought of hesi- 
 tating now. He had kicked off his thick 
 boots, and dived from the deck long before 
 the boat could be lowered from the steamer, 
 and was swimming with all his strength to- 
 wards the spot where he had last seen the 
 fair hair. As he plunged he saw, though 
 he did not remember it till afterwards, a tall 
 figure on the deck of the steamer, preparing 
 as it seemed to leap over, and held back by 
 force by others who were crowding around ;
 
 The Rescue. Page 114.
 
 THE RESCUE. 115 
 
 and the remembrance of this tall figure 
 dwelt in his mind, as of some one he had 
 known or seen long before. Now, however, 
 he had but one thought to save the little 
 drowning child; and as once more he &aw 
 the blue cloak floating on the water, close 
 beside him, he grasped it with all his luight 
 with his left hand, hoping to keep himself 
 afloat with the other, till the boat thould 
 come. But help was not so near at Land as 
 he had thought. The boat chains had be- 
 come twisted, and every one was so hurried 
 and confused that the captain of the steamer 
 gave his orders in vain ; while Robin, grow- 
 ing fainter and weaker, was almost ready to 
 loose his hold of the clinging child. 
 
 But he would not. He could see nothing 
 of what was going on around him, but as 
 he seemed to sink deeper and deeper in the 
 water, his mind grew very clear and wake- 
 ful. He saw all his past life as in a pic- 
 ture, the little cottage where he had spent 
 his twelve years of ignorant childhood, his 
 father's disappearance, his rambling life with
 
 116 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 the peddler, the new thoughts which were 
 beginning to fill his mind. He saw even his 
 own most treasured hopes set before him, 
 as if they might be really his his father 
 found, and become a good man ; himself a 
 scholar, rich, and looked up to by all the 
 boys of the village ; the old captain and 
 Nicholas living somewhere near, so that he 
 could see them every day, and Nicholas 
 could play the organ in the old church, at 
 what Robin still called " home." He saw 
 them, and felt as if all these might yet be 
 his, if only he would loose his grasp of the 
 child while there was yet time, but he could 
 not. Something stronger even than the de- 
 sire of life made him hold fast, as the child's 
 arms about him grew weak and strength- 
 less, and in his heart he prayed, u O God, 
 save us." 
 
 It was but a very few minutes, though 
 to Robin it seemed hours, and he did not 
 hear the sudden cry of gladness and relief 
 as the spectators saw a great black dog 
 spring from the deck of the lighter, swim to
 
 THE RESCUE. 117 
 
 the spot where Robin was almost disappear- 
 ing under the water, and, seizing him with 
 his teeth, push him and the burden, which 
 he still clasped, towards the boat from which 
 he had come. 
 
 " Good Grip, brave dog ! " said Nicholas, 
 with a sob, as he and his father lifted the 
 two senseless, and, as it seemed, lifeless 
 forms to the deck. The boat was afloat by 
 this time, and the little pale girl, with closed 
 eyes and drenched hair and cloak, was soon 
 carried by it to the steamer, while the cap- 
 tain and Nicholas bent over Robin, trying 
 every means which they knew to restore the 
 life that seemed almost gone. 
 
 When his consciousness returned at last, 
 and he opened his eyes, he was in the cabin, 
 lying on the rug on which he had slept the 
 night before. Perhaps it was because of 
 this that his first thoughts were of the sick 
 boy, and that he attempted to rise, with 
 some not very clear idea of going to the 
 hammock to see how he had passed the 
 night. But when he tried to rise he found
 
 118 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 himself so weak that he sank back again, 
 and closed his eyes ; not, however, before he 
 had seen Nicholas bending over him, with a 
 glad smile on his face. 
 
 Robin remembered it all now ; the whole 
 scene came clearly before his mind, and 
 specially recalled, with a kind of troubled 
 interest, the figure of the tall gentleman 
 whom he had seen struggling on the deck. 
 Surely he had seen him before. But it 
 harassed him to try and remember where ; 
 and he was glad to look up again at Nicho- 
 las, intending to ask whether the little girl 
 was safe. But he forgot his question as he 
 saw the tears on his friend's face, tears not 
 of sorrow but of loving gladness ; and he 
 lifted one of his arms, and put it over Nich- 
 olas's shoulder as he knelt beside him. 
 
 "You're glad I'm not drowned?" said 
 Robin, with a catching in his voice as he 
 asked the question. 
 
 " I must have come after you," said Nich- 
 olas, only answering the question by a closer 
 clasp of the brown hand which lay in his
 
 THE BESCTJE. 119 
 
 own. "But I knew nothing would keep 
 father back then, and he can't swim, Robin. 
 I had to hold him fast, as it was, I can tell 
 you ; 'twas he thought of calling Grip." 
 
 The dog, as if he heard his name, came 
 pattering down the cabin stairs, and pushing 
 open the door with his nose, put his great 
 black paws on Robin's breast, and licked his 
 face affectionately, a liberty which his mas- 
 ter for once allowed. 
 
 " I didn't know any one would care," said 
 Robin, presently. 
 
 "Why, Robin," said Nicholas, "you're 
 my friend. I was so lonesome before you 
 came ; I don't know what I should do to 
 lose you." 
 
 " Then I'll be good ; I'll learn fast," said 
 Robin, sitting up, as he felt his strength 
 returning. " I shall be quite happy if you 
 love me, you and your father," and he spoke 
 the last words doubtfully. 
 
 " Father is ever so proud and pleased 
 with you," said Nicholas. " He says you've 
 the making of a man in you, but he's finely
 
 120 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 put out because we've heard nothing from 
 the steamer ; but I say 'tis barely four houra 
 ago, and they'll have been busy with the 
 little lass." 
 
 " Is she alive ? " asked Robin, earnestly. 
 
 " She had not come to when they took 
 her away, but that was just as Grip pulled 
 you both out. Oh, she'd do, she'd be sure 
 to do, never fear. We shall hear something 
 of the steamer to-morrow ; but she's gone 
 on, and we are at the wharf now ; don't you 
 hear father overhead with the goods ? He's 
 got two men to help him, and sent me down 
 to you ; we are off for another load soon." 
 
 Robin lay still in happy content, listening 
 to the sound of feet and voices overhead, 
 and holding his friend's hand in his own. 
 Presently he said, "I'm going to sleep, 
 Nicholas, and I can't get up to say my 
 prayers, and I can't think of the words. 
 Could you say a prayer, and I'll say it after 
 you ? and don't forget the little girl, Nich- 
 olas." 
 
 And so Robin sank to sleep, while his
 
 THE RESCUE. 
 
 121 
 
 friend watched him in the dusk of the quiet 
 cabin. He moved a little now and then, 
 and Nicholas heard him murmur more than 
 once, in a tone of gladness and surprise, 
 " Then you are glad I'm not drowned ? "
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 jOBIN," said Nicholas, coming into 
 the cabin the next morning, just as 
 the boy was waking from a long 
 sound sleep; "here's the gentleman come, 
 and asking after you." 
 
 " Gentleman ! " said Robin, sitting up and 
 rubbing his eyes. " I don't know who you 
 mean." 
 
 " It was his little girl," replied Nicholas, 
 lucidly. 
 
 " Oh yes. Is the little girl come too ? " 
 And Robin, without waiting for an answer, 
 himself off the chairs which had 
 122
 
 TEMPTATION. 128 
 
 served him for a bed, and began to dress, 
 though he felt curiously weak and giddy. 
 
 " Tis only the gentleman," answered 
 Nicholas, talking in the intervals of helping 
 Robin with his hurried toilet ; *' but he says 
 the little girl is doing finely. He is a tall, 
 good-looking gentleman enough, and he 
 seems main set on seeing you ; but he has a 
 way with him I don't like but there, 
 you'll see him for yourself soon enough. 
 Stay a bit, Robin ; brush your hair, boy ; 
 you'll do now ; tumble on deck as fast as 
 ever you like." 
 
 When Robin, tumbling on deck as Nicho- 
 las had advised, found himself in the pres- 
 ence of a tall, dignified, white-haired gen- 
 tleman whose habit of command showed 
 itself even in his words of gratitude to 
 the boy who had saved his child's life a 
 strange, distressed feeling of shyness came 
 over him. 
 
 " And now, my boy, what can I do for 
 you?" said .the gentleman, after he had 
 thanked him warmly. "I'm a rich man,
 
 124 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 and you have every claim on me. I shoula 
 like to push you a step on in the world. 
 Come, tell me what you would wish." 
 
 Robin's attitude, as he stood silent, his 
 eyes fixed on the deck, while with his fin- 
 gers he pulled nervously at the front lock of 
 his brown hair, amused the strange gentle- 
 man. But he was also rather surprised: 
 this was not the usual manner of a London- 
 bred lad, it was the same kind of frightened 
 awkwardness he was accustomed to see in 
 the boys about his place in the country, 
 when by chance he asked a question of one 
 of them. 
 
 Meanwhile many troubled thoughts and 
 remembrances were passing through Robin's 
 mind, for now that he had seen the gentle- 
 man near, and heard him speak, he knew at 
 once why it was that his figure had seemed 
 familiar to him when he saw him on the 
 deck of the steamer. 
 
 " Come, speak up, my boy," went on his 
 companion, in an amused tone of encourage- 
 ment. " Don't be afraid of asking too 
 much."
 
 TEMPTATION. 125 
 
 "If you please, sir," answered Robin, 
 still without looking up, "I don't want any- 
 thing. I didn't save miss I mean the lit- 
 tle girl that is, the young lady for that ; 
 but, if you didn't think it too great a liberty, 
 I should like to send her my duty, and 
 hoping she finds herself finely this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 " You shall come and see her not to-day 
 though, but when she is a little stronger. 
 My wife wants to thank you too. Let me 
 see this is Thursday suppose we say 
 Monday. Can you let this little fellow come 
 to me on Monday, about twelve ? " and the 
 gentleman turned to the captain, who was 
 standing not far off, and who gave no an- 
 swer save a rather surly nod. 
 
 "Very well; this is my address for the 
 present ; we are but just returned from 
 abroad, and shall stay at the Cavendish till 
 my little girl has quite recovered ; " and 
 the gentleman, scribbling the name of his 
 hotel on his card, handed it to the captain, 
 saying, as he did so, " The boy will have
 
 126 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 time to think of what I have said, and you 
 will be able to advise him. I consider my 
 self under the greatest obligation to every 
 one of you, and you will find that I shall be 
 ready to show it." 
 
 Another surly nod, and something like a 
 little growl from the captain, and the gen- 
 tleman was gone. 
 
 " Up with sails now, boys, in quick time , 
 there's a brisk breeze, and we must be off. 
 A fine gentleman like that doesn't thint 
 that time is money to such as us." 
 
 " I don't want nothing of the gentleman," 
 said Robin suddenly that evening, when the 
 three were in the cabin, having returned to 
 there old mooring-place by the wharf. " He'a 
 squire. I know him well enough, though he 
 don't take no heed to me. He turned 
 father off ; and father," and Robin lowered 
 his voice, " he burnt his ricks." 
 
 The captain gave a low whistle. " So 
 that's the time of day, is it? I thought 
 you was tongue-tied this morning. You 
 must tell the Squire on Monday, Robin' 
 maybe he might forgive your father."
 
 TEMPTATION. 127 
 
 " Oh, do you think he would?" and Robin 
 clasped his hands with eager hope. " But 
 he's a hard gentleman, is Squire." 
 
 " Now, boy," said the captain, sitting 
 down and laying his hand on Robin's shoul- 
 der as he stood by his side, " 'tisn't often I 
 trouble folks with my advice, but I've a bit 
 to give you now. Be open and above-board 
 with the gentleman ; no skulking, mind ye. 
 Say right out whose son you are, and maybe 
 you'll have a chance to get in a word for 
 your father ; and if so, don't you be afraid 
 of asking. 'Tis your duty. But if not, and 
 seeing he's a hard man, as you say, he'll 
 likely not hearken to you. You be guided 
 by me, and keep your hand shut if he wants 
 to put gold in it. Money's a good thing 
 boy, but 'tis a better to be able to do a 
 brave thing for the love of God, and for its 
 own sake, and never want to be paid." 
 
 Robin's eyes lighted up, and he shut his 
 brown fist very fast, but he said not a word. 
 
 " I'll say a word for you, Robin, if that 
 will help with the Squire," went on the
 
 128 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 captain, kindly. " You tell him I'll go bail 
 for it you are an honest good lad, and there's 
 plenty of folks about the waterside will tell 
 him Captain Jacobs don't give his good 
 word for nought." 
 
 Robin could only mutter a " Thank you 
 kindly, captain," which seemed almost to 
 choke him. His heart was very full, and 
 before he climbed into his hammock that 
 night he thanked God, who had given to 
 him an orphan and an outcast, so desolate 
 but a few months ago kind friends and a 
 safe home, where he was being taught of 
 the love of his Father in heaven. 
 
 Saturday night had come, and Robin with 
 a happy heart was busy as usual, putting 
 everything in the lighter into perfect order, 
 that all might look fresh and clean on Sun- 
 day morning, of which he was now begin- 
 ning to think as of the brightest day in the 
 week. 
 
 He was singing to himself, as he busied 
 himself in arranging the cabin, one of the 
 hymns which Nicholas had taught him ; but
 
 TEMPTATION. 129 
 
 he sang so softly that he could plainly hear 
 the voices of the captain and his son talking 
 on deck, where the old man was enjoying 
 his pipe, in the mildness of the April 
 evening. 
 
 " Father," said Nicholas, " we musn't for- 
 get that poor boy in the hospital : he looked 
 in a bad way.'* 
 
 " I've not forgot him," said the captain, 
 gruffly. Then in a lower tone, " I'd best 
 tell thee about it, Nicholas, for I'm main 
 puzzled what to do : that boy is a thief, I 
 tell you." 
 
 "Oh, father, I do hope not: he didn't 
 seem like a bad boy." 
 
 "I'm loath to think it," replied the old 
 man, sadly ; " but there was a sovereign in 
 my pocket that night that he slept in the 
 cabin, and come morning it was gone. I 
 was an old fool and worse to leave it there, 
 and partly for that, and partly that, be the 
 boy what he might, he was ill and in need, 
 I held my tongue and took him to hospital, 
 whether to go and see him Wednesday
 
 130 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 that's visiting day and say nought about 
 it, I don't know." 
 
 Robin could not listen any longer. All 
 the light went out of his face and the glad- 
 ness from his heart. The boy had not taken 
 the sovereign, of that he felt sure, for had 
 he not seen it when he came into the cabin? 
 It had not been there when he came down 
 from his work on deck, but Robin had never 
 doubted but that the captain had taken it 
 from the table, and put it again in his pocket 
 and now he knew that it had not been found. 
 The temptation to be silent about what he 
 had seen was very strong. The boy was not 
 there to wake Robin's better feelings by the 
 sight of his pale face, and his own interest 
 pleaded very strongly. He must lose, he 
 thought, if he spoke, not only Nicholas's 
 love and the captain's newly-given confi- 
 dence, but also his good word with the 
 Squire, and thus the chance of winning for- 
 giveness for his father. He might even be 
 turned away from his home on the lighter, 
 for of course every one would believe that
 
 TEMPTATION. 131 
 
 he was a thief, if he admitted that he had 
 slept in the cabin, and had seen the sover- 
 eign. 
 
 At any rate he would not speak yet, 
 he thought. It was doing no harm to be 
 silent, for the boy did not know that he was 
 suspected, and the captain could not go to 
 the hospital before Wednesday ; it would be 
 all in good time by-and-by. But the Sunday 
 that was to have been such a happy, peace- 
 ful day, was one of the most miserable that 
 Robin had ever known. He felt guilty and 
 ashamed, shrinking away from the kind 
 words and looks which he felt he did not 
 deserve ; and though he knew that he was 
 entirely innocent of even wishing to take 
 the sovereign, yet the fact that he was con- 
 cealing the truth made him feel almost as 
 guilty as if he had stolen it. 
 
 " So you have to go and see your fine 
 friends to-day, boy," said the captain the 
 next morning, with a half-dissatisfied air; 
 " and I can't say you look best pleased with 
 the prospect. You must show a brightei
 
 132 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 face than that. What maggot have you got 
 in your head now ? The Squire won't hurt 
 you, and as for the little girl, she'll be 
 pleased enough to see you, I'll go bail." 
 
 " I don't like grand folks," answered 
 Robin, hanging his head. 
 
 " Nonsense, boy," said the captain, strik- 
 ing his hand on the table, " I have no pa- 
 tience with that sort of talk. Know your 
 betters, say I ; and when a man is older, and 
 stronger, and better, and higher-learnt than 
 you, and when God puts him above you, 
 then honor him and do him reverence, and 
 show your own self-respect in doing so ; but 
 no talk about ' grand folk,' as if you were 
 thinking of the fine cloth in his coat or the 
 horses in his carriage." 
 
 "But," said Robin, rather alarmed at the 
 captain's vehemence, "you called them 'fine 
 folk ' yourself but a minute ago." 
 
 " What I may do and what you may do, is 
 two things," answered the old man, laying 
 down this incontrovertible position slowly ; 
 "and you'll never make a good sailor till
 
 TEMPTATION. 133 
 
 you learn to take your captain's orders as he 
 gives them ; and now I must be off. We 
 shall be alongside till eleven or nigh about, 
 and you must take the boat when you come 
 back, and make for us at the old place. I've 
 a heavy bit of work on to-day, so don't 
 loiter." 
 
 At the appointed time Robin presented 
 himself timidly at the great doors of the 
 hotel, showing the Squire's card to one of 
 the waiters, who handed him on to another, 
 by whom he was taken up a flight of broad 
 carpeted stairs into a large handsomely fur- 
 nished room, in which he was left standing, 
 moving his feet and arms uneasily, as he saw 
 himself, his brown face and curly hair, and 
 his best suit of rough blue cloth, reflected 
 in three or four tall mirrors, which seemed 
 to make the room twice as large as its real 
 size, 
 
 But at the thought of his father, and of 
 the errand on which he had come, his timid- 
 ity left him. He forgot himself, as he re- 
 peated over and over the words in which he
 
 134 THE FAITHFUL SOU. 
 
 had intended to make his request to the 
 Squire. 
 
 Presently an inner door opened, and a 
 young graceful-looking lady, whom Robin 
 had never seen, came towards him, and, 
 with a pleasant smile, bid him follow her 
 into a small sitting-room ; where on a couch, 
 lay the little golden-haired girl whom Robin 
 had saved, the Miss Florence whom he had 
 seen so often in old days, as she rode through 
 the village on her rough brown pony, her 
 long curls blowing behind her in the wind. 
 
 She half raised herself, smiling, and held 
 out her little hand as Robin came near ; 
 while the lady, who was, he supposed, the 
 Squire's new wife whom he married just 
 before he went abroad, put her hand on his 
 shoulder, and, stooping down, kissed him. 
 Robin could not remember that any one had 
 ever kissed him before, except old Sally, 
 when he was very small, and once little Let- 
 tice, when he had saved the strawberries for 
 her sick brother, and the tears gathered in 
 Us eyes as he looked at the lady's sweet
 
 135 
 
 face. She sat down and drew him towards 
 her, keeping her hand on his arm. " So you 
 are the boy who saved my dear little girl for 
 me," sne said at last. " I must thank you 
 for her, for I do not think she can speak for 
 herself." 
 
 " Miss Florence is kindly welcome, ma'am, 
 and I hope she finds herself hearty," said 
 Robin, looking towards the little girl as he 
 spoke. 
 
 " How do you know my name ? " she 
 asked, opening her eyes in surprise. 
 
 " If you please, ma'am," said Robin, turn- 
 ing to the lady and, now that the deci- 
 sive moment had come, speaking in a sim- 
 ple, straightforward manner "I know the 
 Squire and Miss Florence quite well. My 
 father lived on the Squire's place as long as 
 ever I can remember." 
 
 "Indeed," replied the lady, evidently 
 much surprised ; " but that will only give 
 you an added claim on us. The Squire is 
 very anxious to do something for you, to 
 show you the gratitude which every one of
 
 136 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 us must always feel to you ; and he wishes 
 us to learn from you what you would like 
 best. Whatever it is, I am sure he will try 
 to do it ; tell us, what would please you 
 most?" 
 
 " If Squire would forgive father," said 
 Robin, trying to speak clearly, but with a 
 little sob of repressed feeling. " I'm Robin 
 Wallack, and father set light to Squire's 
 ricks, and he's gone away, and no one knows 
 where he is; but if Squire would forgive 
 him, we might be happy again. Oh ! do ask 
 him for me : if you and Miss Florence ask 
 him, likely he'll say Yes;" and Robin 
 clasped his hands in eager entreaty. 
 
 A quick step, and the Squire himself, tall 
 and cold and gray, came through the open 
 door, and stood beside the group. "No 
 need to speak," he said to his wife, as she 
 turned towards him. " I have heard what 
 the boy says, and now let him listen to my 
 answer. Listen to me, young Wallack ; you 
 had my promise to give you whatever you 
 asked, and I shall keep my promise, though
 
 Introduction to Miss Florence. Page 136.
 
 TEMPTATION. 137 
 
 you have asked a harder thing than you 
 know." 
 
 " Thank you, Squire," began Robin, eag- 
 erly, but the Squire's uplifted hand silenced 
 his eager speech. 
 
 " Hear what I say before you answer. If 
 I forgive this man, what good will it do 
 you ? You do not know where he is, you 
 say ; he has very likely left the country. If 
 you could find him he would soon be in 
 fresh trouble, and drag you down with him ; 
 he has left you do you leave him. For- 
 get that you had a father," went on the 
 Squire, in his cold hard tone, " and I will 
 try and forget it too, and only look on you 
 as the preserver of my child, and will have 
 you taught a good trade ; or, if you like a 
 sea-going life, I will get you a good berth 
 and help you on : or I will put you to 
 school, and give you the education by which 
 you may rise in the world. But under- 
 stand, young Wallack, if you find your 
 father, and live with him, I do nothing more 
 for you than what you have asked ; that is,
 
 138 THE FAITHFUL SOtf. 
 
 to drop all proceedings against him, and give 
 him the chance of setting fire to some one's 
 else ricks elsewhere." 
 
 For one moment Robin hesitated ; the 
 promise of the means of getting a good ed- 
 ucation was a great and real temptation ; 
 but it was only for a moment, and almost as 
 the Squire ended came Robin's ready an- 
 swer. 
 
 "I can't give up father," he said. " Oh, 
 ma'am, if I could only find him I could tell 
 him what they've learnt me out of the 
 Book, for he didn't know anything about 
 it ; and I think he wouldn't have done it, 
 Squire, if he had ; and maybe he would be 
 a good man, and that would be best of 
 all." 
 
 " And how do you mean to set to work to 
 find your father ? " said the lady, gently, for 
 the Squire had turned away as if in anger. 
 
 " Captain said as it could be put in the 
 papers that if he would come back he 
 wouldn't be put in prison," said Robin, 
 vaguely. " And there's a man as goes
 
 TEMPTATION. 139 
 
 tibout the country a packman, you know 
 has promised to look out for him," he 
 went on, more hopefully, this seeming to 
 him a much better chance than the myste- 
 rious papers. 
 
 " I shall make it my business to see the 
 captain, young Wallack," said the Squire, 
 turning from the window, " and if he gives 
 you a good character for steadiness and hon- 
 esty, then, for your sake, and for what you 
 have done for my child, I will forgive your 
 father. You can try any means in your 
 power to find him, and if he's not heard of, 
 we'll say in six months, I will give you the 
 chance once more of doing better for your- 
 self in any of the ways I have named. 
 Come, is it a bargain ? You are a foolish 
 fellow, but I believe you mean to be a good 
 boy." 
 
 Robin could hardly believe it when the 
 stern-looking Squire, of whom he had stood 
 in awe all his life, patted him kindly on the 
 shoulder, while the lady bade him good-bye 
 v th one of her gentle smiles : and little
 
 140 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 Miss Florence, beckoning him to the side 
 of the sofa, put her soft little arms round 
 his neck and whispered to him, " Oh, I do 
 hope you will find your father. I shall ask 
 God in my prayers every night to send him 
 to you." 
 
 " Tell the captain I shall come to him for 
 a character," said the Squire, as Robin 
 turned at the door to make his best bow.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A WAY TO ESCAPE. 
 
 [E Squire's last words were sound- 
 ing in Robin's ears through all the 
 noises of the busy London streets. 
 He heard them as, trusted for the first time 
 alone with the boat, he pulled slowly and 
 timidly down to the place where the lighter 
 was anchored, by the side of the larger 
 vessel whose cargo she was receiving. As 
 he ran hither and thither about his work, 
 obeying the captain's quick, sharp orders, 
 his mind was still arguing with itself as to 
 whether he should or should not tell that he 
 had seen the sovereign j whether he should 
 
 141
 
 142 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 run the risk that the captain might believe 
 him a thief, and refuse to give the good 
 character to the Squire on which hung the 
 chance of his father's safety. 
 
 " I wouldn't tell a lie, not for anything," 
 said Robin, half aloud ; " but I don't see 
 why I need to speak at all." 
 
 Yet even as he said this he was not satis- 
 fied, and went on arguing with himself; "If 
 it was anything plain, like taking Squire's 
 apples when Jonas asked me, I'd never even 
 give it a thought ; but there's nothing about 
 this in the commandments, I reckon ; " and 
 half unconsciously he began to repeat to 
 himself the well-known words. 
 
 Before he had quite reached the end he 
 suddenly stopped. What were the words 
 he was saying to himself so carelessly? 
 " Thou shalt not bear false witness against 
 thy neighbor." He knew what they meant, 
 for Nicholas had explained them to him long 
 ago. 
 
 " That's just what I say," he muttered, 
 trying hard to put away the real teaching
 
 A WAY TO ESCAPE. 143 
 
 from him ; " that only means you shouldn't 
 say what isn't true about any one, and 1 
 don't mean to. It doesn't say a word about 
 getting yourself suspected of what you 
 never did." But there were other words 
 repeating themselves in his ears words by 
 which Nicholas had taught him to under- 
 stand the true inner meaning of the com- 
 mandment, " Thou shalt love thy neighbor 
 as thyself." 
 
 " I must do it," he said at last, aloud : 
 *' I must tell the truth, and take the chance 
 of what will happen. Day after to-morrow 
 is Wednesday, and if captain keeps away 
 from the boy, or goes, thinking him a thief, 
 it will be my fault, and I couldn't stand 
 that. For certain sure if I loved that boy 
 and he's one of my neighbors, I take it 
 as I love myself, I shouldn't let him be called 
 a thief, when a word from me might clear 
 him." 
 
 " Well, boy, what did the gentleman say 
 about your father ? " asked the captain at 
 last, as, wiping his hot forehead with his
 
 144 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 sleeve, he sat down on the edge of a bale of 
 
 goods, to drink a cup of hot tea which 
 
 Nicholas had prepared. 
 
 " He'll look over it, he says," answered 
 
 Robin, and his heart beat fast as he spoke, 
 
 " if you'll give me a good word." 
 
 "I'll give you that," said the captain, 
 
 heartily, striking Robin on the shoulder 
 
 with one of his rough horny hands. " You 
 
 are a steady, honest, truth-speaking lad. 
 
 I'll go bail." 
 
 " I want to be," answered Robin, and his 
 
 lip trembled. * But I didn't tell you before. 
 
 I know it wasn't that boy in the hospital 
 that took the sovereign, for he slept best 
 part of the night in my hammock, and I had 
 the rug : and before I went off to sleep I saw 
 the sovereign on the floor, shining, and I 
 picked it up and put it on the table, so as 
 you might find it, come morning ; and I took 
 no more thought the boy had liaken it, and I 
 knew he hadn't been in the cabin since I 
 put it safe on the table ;" and Robin paused, 
 his voice shaking with the effort he had 
 made.
 
 A WAY TO ESCAPE. 146 
 
 He did not look up, so he could not see 
 the smile on the old man's face ; he only 
 heard his stern voice in which he said, 
 "And why did not you tell me this before?" 
 
 " I was afraid you would think I had took 
 it," stammered Robin ; " and oh, indeed, 
 indeed captain, I never so much as give it a 
 thought to touch it." 
 
 " Look here, Robin," said the old man, and 
 his voice was not stern now, " do you see 
 this?" and he took from his waistcoat 
 pocket a gold sovereign, which he held up 
 between his finger and thumb. " Here is 
 the sovereign, safe enough, as you would 
 have known if you had spoken the truth at 
 once." 
 
 " I do so wish I had ; I've been so misera- 
 ble," said Robin. " But who had it, captain, 
 all the time ? " 
 
 " It was Saturday night, when you were 
 snug in your hammock, I said to Nicholas, 
 ' Before I set that unfortunate lad down for 
 a thief, I'll at least do like the woman in the 
 parable: I'll light a candle and sweep the
 
 146 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 house.' No sooner said than done. I swept 
 and I looked, this way and that, here and 
 there; and at last sure enough I saw the 
 money, just the bit of gold edge sticking 
 out of a crack in the floor, and says I, * As 
 sure as my name is " Captain Jacobs," I'll 
 do something for that poor boy, that's no 
 more a thief than I am.' " 
 
 Robin's heart felt so light that he couldn't 
 stay to drink his tea, nor eat more than a 
 mouthful of the huge slice of bread and 
 butter which had been cut for him. The 
 captain said he did as much work as any two 
 boys that evening, and could hardly be per- 
 suaded to stop, even when it was fully tune 
 for supper, and the evening prayer, which 
 always closed the day. 
 
 Once, as he lay awake, the thought did 
 cross his mind, " I need not have told, after 
 all ; no one would have been the worse ! ' 
 But he knew it was not a true thought, 
 he knew that he himself should have been 
 the worse, that the effort to do right, because 
 Christ had bidden him, had brought with it 

 
 A WAY TO ESCAPE. 14* 
 
 comfort and peace, had drawn hia closer 
 to the Saviour who loved him. 
 
 There were thoughts and hopes in his 
 heart that he had not known befort, peace 
 as of a child that is soothed by its mother's 
 tenderness ; and as he lay listening to the 
 wash of the water against the side of the 
 boat, and the cries and voices and the splash 
 of oars in the darkness, he heard, below 
 them all, speaking as to his very heart, his 
 Master's words : " If ye keep my command' 
 ments, ye shall abide in my love."
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 CHRISTMAS AT THE OLD HALL. 
 
 jORE than five years had passed 
 since little Robin Wallack had 
 crept away, lonely and broken- 
 hearted, from the fast-locked door of the 
 cottage which had been his home ever since 
 he could remember; but time, which had 
 changed so many things, seemed almost to 
 have forgotten to touch the woods and fields 
 he so well remembered. There was a closer 
 growth of golden lichens and star-moss on 
 the brown thatch ; and the rose by the door 
 was thicker, and not so carefully trained 
 perhaps as in the days when Robin's little 
 
 148
 
 CHEI3TMAS AT THE OLD HALL. 149 
 
 brown fingers had twisted every tendril, and 
 touched each bud as it opened. 
 
 But even this would not be noticed now, 
 for the roses had long since drifted away in 
 the keen autumn wind ; the stems were bare 
 of leaves, and all their outline was traced in 
 a delicate network of glittering frost over 
 the time-stained cottage wall. The frost 
 was marking, too, every delicate spray and 
 cone of the fir trees, as they lifted their tall 
 heads against a blue sky, glittering with 
 almost the keenness of steel, silvering the 
 thatch of the farm outside the wood where 
 the firs had been, and making the gables 
 and projecting eaves of the Hall look like 
 parts of some fairy palace. 
 
 A red flag was flying in the keen wind, 
 from a staff fixed on the roof of the Hall, for 
 at last the Squire had come back to the old 
 place; and the house was full of guests, 
 merry parties riding through the woods, 01 
 skating on the round pond, and making the 
 house ring with song and laughter. There 
 will not have been such a gay Christmas ID
 
 150 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 the village since the Squire came of age. 
 For Christmas is near now, and the holly- 
 berries are bright and red amongst their 
 shining leaves, especially on one tall tree, 
 which grows so close to the library window 
 that, as the wind waves the boughs to and 
 fro, the stiff spiked leaves make a strange 
 sharp sound, like a little cry, as they scratch 
 against the glass. 
 
 Robin Wallack hears, though he scarcely 
 notices, the sound, as he stands within the 
 library this December morning, listening to 
 the Squire, who, white-headed now, and 
 just a little bent, is seated opposite to him 
 in his large study chair. 
 
 " You are grown a fine strong young fel- 
 low," said the Squire, with something like a 
 sigh, as he glances at his own shrunken 
 limbs, and thinks perhaps for a moment of 
 that son whose grave is in a foreign land, 
 and who might, if he had lived, have been 
 such a stalwart lad as the young man before 
 him. At the sigh, Miss Florence, who is 
 seated in a low chair by the fire, lifts her
 
 CHBISTMA8 AT THE OLD HALL. 151 
 
 blue eyes and looks tenderly at her father ; 
 and Robin sees again for the first time, after 
 nearly five years, the face of the little girl 
 whom he had saved. He had always thought 
 of her as he saw her in her little blue cloak, 
 sinking in the water, or lying pale and smil- 
 ing on the couch in her mother's room ; and 
 he had remembered through all these years 
 the words in which she had promised to ask 
 God that his father might be restored to 
 him. 
 
 Robin felt sure she had not forgotten her 
 promise, though it seemed as if the prayer 
 had been unheard ; and as he looked at her, 
 and thought how often her words had com- 
 forted and cheered him, he almost forgot the 
 present, and started, as if with surprise, 
 when the Squire, rousing himself from his 
 sad thoughts, spoke again. 
 
 " It is time we should think now of what 
 use we should make of your education," he 
 said. " I am quite satisfied with what I 
 hear and see of your diligence and progress, 
 and I don't doubt that you'll be able to
 
 152 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 make your way in the world. You are 
 now let me see, what is your age ? " 
 
 " Seventeen this month," answered Robin, 
 drawing himself to his full height, and 
 speaking in a clear, manly voice ; " and in- 
 deed, sir, 'tis the greatest favor you could 
 do me, to add to all your great kindness 
 your advice as to my future life. I ought 
 to be working for myself now. I can never 
 repay your goodness, but I long to be able 
 to show that it has not been quite thrown 
 away." 
 
 The Squire smiled at the boyish speech 
 and the boyish action with which Robin 
 lifted his strong young arm, as if longing to 
 cut his way through every kind of obstacle ; 
 but he answered kindly, " My advice must 
 depend partly on your own inclinations. 
 You have given up the idea of a sea-going 
 life, I know. Tell me what it is you have 
 in your mind." 
 
 " Well, Squire," said Robin, falling back 
 to the old form of address, and hesitating a 
 little, " you see I've more than myself to 
 think for ; there's Nicholas."
 
 CHRISTMAS AT THE OLD HALL. 153 
 
 "Nicholas," repeated the Squire, in a 
 tone of perplexity. "I never knew you 
 had a brother; I don't understand." 
 
 " He's not my brother exactly, though 
 he's like one ; he's the old captain's son 
 that took care of me, you know ; and cap- 
 tain is dead, and Nicholas and I we kind 
 of hold together," said Robin, stammering 
 and confused, and falling back into his old 
 country speech. 
 
 " And you don't want to be parted from 
 your friend ? What is his trade a lighter- 
 man, like his father ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; he's not strong enough for that. 
 He's a bit lame, is Nicholas, and weakly, 
 and can't do any regular work. He has his 
 father's savings, but that's not much ; and 
 he copies writings, and teaches the boys 
 about. But he don't get much for that, 
 and when he's sick and laid up, as he is at 
 times, he would be likely to miss me, sir, 
 being used to me so long." 
 
 " Well, well," said ohe Squire, shaking 
 his head a little impatiently, " you have
 
 154 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 some plan in your head, I see. Speak out, 
 and let me know what you do wish." 
 
 " If I could be a schoolmaster," said Rob- 
 in, bringing it out with a great effort, and 
 turning very red. " I know enough to pass 
 their examinations, I think ; and though I'm 
 only seventeen, I look a deal older; and 
 Nicholas having the boys about him so 
 much, I'm used to them, and bound to get 
 along with them, and get them on ; and 
 then " and he hurried out the words, as 
 if fearing disappointment before he had 
 shown all the advantages of his plan 
 "we could find some little place where he 
 and I could live together, and Nicholas 
 would get them on finely with their music." 
 
 " I cannot say this was what I expected. 
 I thought you would be more ambitious. 
 You are choosing a path that leads nowhere. 
 Have you thought of it well ? " 
 
 " It seems most like my duty, of anything 
 [ can think of," answered Robin, simply ; 
 "and if so, sir, the path will lead right, 
 won't it?"
 
 OHBISTMAS AT THE OLD TTAT.T.. 155 
 
 " Then it's not the teaching itself you 
 care about, eh?" and the Squire looked 
 keenly into Robin's open face. 
 
 "I can't say it is, sir," replied Robin, 
 smiling. " But what else could I do, sir, 
 and keep Nicholas with me? " 
 
 A smile of intelligence passed between 
 Miss Florence and her father, as he said, 
 " Come, now, I've heard your plan, and it's 
 time you should hear mine. What do you 
 say to living in your old cottage (it's empty 
 just now), and spending your days up here, 
 writing for me, and doing many things that 
 I find myself too feeble to undertake now ? 
 The property is large, and requires much 
 management ; and now that I have parted 
 with Mr. Pierson, I intend, for a time at 
 least, to be my own bailiff; but I need a 
 young active fellow like you to go about for 
 me, and take some of the routine part off 
 my hands. Your friend could live with you, 
 and though I don't promise you high pay 
 at first, yet living is cheap in the country, 
 and you'll not find it hard to manage."
 
 156 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 " Oh, papa," broke in Miss Florence's 
 eager voice, " it is just right ! We want 
 some one to play the harmonium, and help 
 with the choir, so much. Nicholas will be 
 the very person." 
 
 "I leave all that to you, pussy," said the 
 father, smiling. " Now, Wallack, what do 
 you think of my plan? Answer carefully, 
 and bear this in mind it leads somewhere. 
 You will be learning, and fitting yourself 
 for some post of trust in the future." 
 
 Robin had listened respectfully, the color 
 mounting in his cheeks with surprise and 
 pleasure, and now, in simple words, trem- 
 bling with the feeling he could not other- 
 wise express, he at once, and thankfully, 
 accepted the Squire's kind and generous 
 offer. 
 
 " You will like to live in your old cot- 
 tage again, Robin ? " said Miss Florence, 
 presently. 
 
 "Indeed I shall, Miss Florence. Tis 
 most like home to me of any place in the 
 world, and" his voice sinking almost to a
 
 CHRISTMAS AT THE OLD TTAT.T.. 157 
 
 whisper " father is more likely to come 
 there than anywhere." 
 
 He hardly knew that he spoke aloud, but 
 the Squire had caught the words, and 
 looked stern and displeased. 
 
 " I hoped that boyish folly was forgotten 
 Wallack," he said. " If your father is not 
 dead, he has deserted you so long that he 
 has lost all claim upon you as his son. Re- 
 member this the offer which I have just 
 made to you is made on the distinct under- 
 standing that you have no communication 
 with your father." 
 
 " Tis better than five years since I heard 
 a word about him," replied Robin, sadly. 
 
 " But if you should do so, you must re- 
 member you will have to choose between 
 what you mistakenly call your duty to him 
 and your post here with me. I could not 
 have your father living in my cottage, and 
 with one trusted and employed by me. 
 You will remember that." 
 
 "I shall not forget, sir," replied Robin, 
 firmly, but his hopeful gladness was gone ;
 
 158 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 and he was relieved when a message called 
 the Squire away, and he could make his bow 
 to Miss Florence, whose face had grown 
 grave and sad as she listened to her father's 
 words. He was just turning to go away, 
 when she called him back, and said, with 
 some little hesitation, " Don't give up pray- 
 ing for your father. Of course my father 
 knows best what it is right for him to do ; 
 but to win your father back, to see him a 
 good man, would be worth more than to 
 succeed, to grow rich, or even to be looked 
 up to and thought well of. Would it not? " 
 
 Miss Florence's words had brought back 
 peace and calm to Robin's troubled thoughts, 
 and as he made his way by the familiar field 
 paths to the pine wood and the old cottage, 
 all his doubts and uncertainty seemed to 
 have left him. Yes, it should still be his 
 most earnest prayer, his first aim, that hia 
 father might be restored. 
 
 His thoughts travelled back through the 
 years, he recalled the months of anxious 
 waiting when every effort had been made,
 
 CHRISTMAS AT THE OLD HAT.T,. 169 
 
 but made iii vain, to learn whither his father 
 had fled ; and the hope and fear with which 
 he had looked into the face of any stranger 
 loitering near the barge, and who might 
 be perhaps the one for whose coming he 
 so earnestly longed. The hope had been 
 laid aside, but never forgotten, during the 
 months and years of training and learning 
 which had followed; and now, with hi? 
 future before him, his boyhood passing into 
 the strength and hope of young manhood, 
 it was still his most fervent prayer, his most 
 earnest desire. And yet the boyish trust in 
 his father, the child's undoubting love, had 
 long since passed : it could not be otherwise. 
 Robin saw him now with clearer eyes, a 
 man selfish, hard, violent, who had left in 
 his mind no memory of tender words or 
 kindly acts. He knew all this ; but he was 
 still his father, the only being in the world 
 to whom he was bound by ties of kinship. 
 His father had lived without God, but if 
 even now he could be taught of the Love 
 which was waiting for him, and seeking
 
 160 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 him, surely he would listen and turn. To 
 tend him in feebleness and old age, to work 
 for him, to love him, and thus to be able to 
 lead him back to the Father whom he had 
 forsaken, this indeed would be worth living 
 'for. 
 
 But this earnest hope and prayer need not 
 prevent him from accepting the Squire's 
 offered kindness. Nay, with his heart at 
 rest as to what should be his choice did God 
 at last send to him his father, he was more 
 able to dwell on the pleasant prospect which 
 seemed now opening before him. 
 
 He had reached the old cottage now, and 
 began to think with delight how soon he 
 might be showing to Nicholas the dear home 
 about which he had so often talked to him : 
 how he looked up at the little window 
 among the bare rose-stalks, and wondered 
 if old Grip would know his home again. 
 
 The days passed on, Robin had begun his 
 new work, and was giving great satisfaction 
 to the Squire, who found him quick, dili- 
 gent, and intelligent, while Robin on his
 
 CHBISTMAS AT THE OLD TTAT.T,. 161 
 
 part was delighted at the idea of being of 
 service to his benefactor. He was settled 
 now in his cottage, the Squire having ad- 
 vanced him money to buy a few plain arti- 
 cles of furniture, and on Christmas Eve 
 Nicholas was to arrive. He would come by 
 coach as far as the village, and Robin had 
 promised to meet him there, and bring him 
 home. He must set off through the wood 
 now in a few minutes, and how happy he 
 felt as he looked round the little room, and 
 pictured the delight of seating Nicholas 
 in the one cushioned chair which he had 
 bought on purpose for his use, and of seeing 
 his wonder and delight at the pleasant pine- 
 wood fire which threw its changing, flashing 
 light on the bunches of shining leaves and 
 glowing berries with which Robin had 
 dressed the walls. How pleasant and home- 
 like it all looked. There, on a shelf which 
 he had sawn and planed with his own hand, 
 was his little store of books ; on that small 
 deal table could stand Nicholas's desk ; and 
 Nicholas was so clever too, he would think
 
 162 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 of all manner of little things which they 
 could do to improve the cottage. And 
 when summer came, how he would delight 
 to train the roses by the window, and tie 
 up the bright carnations, which Robin al- 
 ready fancied that he saw growing before 
 the door. In the evenings they would sit 
 in the garden together and read, or wander 
 sometimes up and down under the pine 
 trees. How wonderful the forest would 
 seem to Nicholas, who had seen so few trees 
 in his life. 
 
 Robin had no clock in his cottage, and he 
 could only judge by the gathering darkness 
 that the time was come when he must set 
 out to meet his friend. " Better wait a lit- 
 tle," he said to himself, " than keep him 
 waiting, poor fellow. He'll be half frozen 
 with the cold, as it is ; that old coat of hia 
 won't be much good on such a night as this." 
 
 With one more glance at the glowing fire, 
 Robin was gone, shutting the door closely aa 
 he stood without in the dusk of the winter 
 afternoon. It was past four, and nearly 
 dark in the shade of the wood.
 
 CHBISTMAS AT THE OLD HALL. 163 
 
 " How strange it will all seem to Nicho- 
 las," thought Robin, as he walked on, whist- 
 ling softly to himself, and making his way 
 with quick, sure step, through the narrow 
 dark paths, where his feet crushed at every 
 step the crisp and frosted snow. " The 
 shadows, and the white snow, and this dim 
 light make it seem like a new place to me, 
 who know it so well. The old stump looks 
 almost like a man, but what an absurd idea 
 to suppose any one would be sitting in the 
 snow on a night like this ; " and Robin 
 laughed a little. 
 
 Grip, almost toothless now, and nearly 
 blind, was walking slowly behind his master, 
 his head hanging down ; but he too seemed 
 to share his master's thought about the old 
 stump, for suddenly he ran towards it, giv- 
 ing one or two sharp barks of excitement. 
 
 " Poor fellow, his sight and smell are both 
 nearly gone," said Robin. " Here, Grip, 
 Grip, my boy, come back ; we are going to 
 see Nicholas. You'll bark then to some pur- 
 pose, won't you ? '*
 
 164 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 But Grip would not come. He was run- 
 ning round and round the old stump, his 
 nose in the snow, wagging the remains of his 
 tail with furious energy, but whining pite- 
 ously from time to time, as if in doubt or 
 distress. 
 
 One, two, three, four, five strokes rang 
 slowly from the great clock over the stables 
 at the Hall ; the coach was in then, and 
 Nicholas would be waiting. Robin began to 
 run, calling again to Grip to follow him. 
 This time the dog obeyed, but, to his mas- 
 ter's surprise, he ran before him and planted 
 himself in the way, looking up with appeal- 
 ing eyes, and a deprecating movement of his 
 tail, as if to beg for help. 
 
 " Out of the way, good dog," cried Robin, 
 but Grip would not move ; and when his 
 master tried to pass him, the dog seized his 
 clothes, and held him as fast as he could 
 with his toothless jaws. 
 
 In vain Robin tried, by coaxing and threat- 
 ening, to make him loose his hold. Grip 
 was drawing him with all his strength to-
 
 CHRISTMAS AT THE OLD HALL. 165 
 
 wards the old stump, and his master could 
 not free himself without more violence than 
 he liked to use towards his old and faithful 
 companion. It would be quicker, after all, 
 to go with the dog, he thought ; and Grip, 
 as if understanding his thought, released 
 his coat, and ran before him to where the 
 dark form showed amidst the snow. Did it 
 move a little as they came near ? Robin al- 
 most thought so, and his heart beat quicker 
 as he bent down and touched not the hard 
 rough, hard bark of a tree, but something 
 that shrank away from the grasp of his hand. 
 What was it, that brought before him, as 
 in a dream, that scene five years ago by the 
 river side, when Nicholas and the old cap- 
 tain had found and saved the poor sailor 
 boy ? That made him sure at once that he 
 was standing beside a living human form, 
 even before he heard the low sob or sigh a. 
 of one suffering, yet too weak to speak 
 which thrilled through him as he knelt ojv 
 the snow He had forgotten Nicholas now > 
 he could think of nc ^h?n^ hu^ th life voi^b 
 he migh* ys( SPY
 
 166 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 " Please God, I am in time," he muttered, 
 aud in his heart the words were said as a 
 prayer. He passed his hands over the chilled 
 limbs, that seemed screened from the bitter 
 cold only by a few scanty rags, and chafed 
 the almost lifeless fingers. 
 
 " Can you move ? Can you stand ? " he 
 asked, speaking in a loud, clear voice, the 
 better to reach the dull sense of the poor suf- 
 ferer ; but there was no answer save a feeble 
 groan. 
 
 " There is no time to be lost," thought 
 Robin. " If I run to the village for help, he 
 may be dead before I get back. If he could 
 only move a little, I could almost carry him 
 to the cottage. We must try;" and once 
 more kneeling on the snow, he passed his 
 strong young arm under the prostrate form, 
 and tried to raise it. The man for Robin 
 could see that it was an old feeble man over 
 whom he was stooping seemed to under- 
 stand what his helper was trying to do, and 
 made some effort to rise, but sank down ex- 
 hausted.
 
 An Unexpected Discovery. Page 166.
 
 CHBI8TMAS AT THE OLD TTAT,T.. 167 
 
 " I must get help," said Robin, aloud. " I 
 will not be long. Here, wrap this round you 
 while I am gone ; " and Robin pulled off his 
 thick coat, and put it over the old man's 
 shoulders. 
 
 Was that a step on the soft snow ? Was 
 that some one moving among the trees? 
 Why did Grip run backward and forward, 
 as if uncertain whether to greet the new- 
 comer or to remain with his master? WTiose 
 familiar touch was this on Robin's shoulder ? 
 
 " Oh, Nicholas, is it really you ? " cried 
 Robin. " You are just in time, you will 
 help me. See, this old man is half-dead 
 with cold, he can hardly move; but now 
 there are two of us we can get him safe to 
 the cottage. You take this arm and I the 
 other ; now, once, twice, thrice ; there, it is 
 done ; " and the old man was standing at 
 last, almost supported in the arms of his 
 new friends. 
 
 Very slowly, with many a halt, they led 
 him to the cottage. The movement was 
 bringing a little warmth into his stiffened
 
 168 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 limbs, and when at last they came in sight 
 of the little window, through which the 
 pine-log fire was sending such flashes of 
 ruddy light, a shiver as of returning con- 
 sciousness passed through his frame. 
 
 They led him into the room, leaving the 
 door open, lest the sudden warmth might 
 be too much for him, and let him sink down 
 on the floor, supporting his head with the 
 cushions from Nicholas's arm-chair. Robin 
 bent over him to chafe his hands, and saw 
 that his lips moved, though he could hardly 
 catch the feeble sounds that passed through 
 them. 
 
 " I am here at last ; I can die easier now," 
 he seemed to say : and Nicholas answered, 
 " We shall soon bring you round ; keep up 
 heart, you are not going to die." 
 
 But Robin did not speak. He was gazing 
 with white lips and eager eyes at the face 
 before him, and as Nicholas looked at the 
 two, he also became silent and awestruck. 
 How was it that in the ghastly, worn face, 
 half covered with long beard and neglected
 
 OHEISTMAS AT THE OLD TTATX. 169 
 
 hair, in the hollow cheeks and sunken dull 
 eyes, he yet saw the look of a face that he 
 knew of the very face now bending over 
 the old man as he lay, the bright young 
 face of the friend whom he loved ? 
 
 "Nicholas," said Robin, rising and seizing 
 his friend's arm with almost painful force aa 
 he drew him aside, "Nicholas, it is my 
 father."
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE UNEXPECTED GUEST. 
 
 [OUGH Robin had spoken in a low 
 tone, yet at the sound of the last 
 word the old man moved his head 
 restlessly, as if it stirred some hidden mem- 
 ory, and began to speak to himself in a thick 
 troubled voice. "'Father' yes, that is 
 what he used to call me. I was a father 
 once, but I shall never see him again. Poor 
 Robin, he used to call me ' father', but he 
 wouldn't know me now. I was a bad father 
 to him, poor lad." 
 
 " 1 am here, father: don't you know me ?" 
 said Robin, in a steady, firm voice, bending 
 
 170
 
 THE UNEXPECTED GUEST. 171 
 
 down, so that the firelight shone full on his 
 face. 
 
 A moment's light came into the dull eyes, 
 there was almost a smile on the pinched lips, 
 but the poor wanderer was too benumbed in 
 mind as well as body to show, or even to 
 feel, much surprise. The longing which 
 had directed his steps towards the old cot- 
 tage where he had left his boy had brought 
 the thought of his son very clearly before his 
 mind. It was the one impression which had 
 remained when so much else had been lost, 
 and it seemed almost natural to find himself 
 once more in the old kitchen, and hear his 
 boy's voice call him " father." 
 
 Nicholas stood aside, stunned and bewil- 
 dered, unable to feel that the return for 
 which he had so prayed had brought with it 
 anything but trouble and confusion; al- 
 most forgetting to pity the father in his sor- 
 row for what seemed such a sudden blight 
 on the young happy life of the son. 
 
 Not so Robin. As yet no remembrance 
 of himself had come to lessen or change the
 
 172 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 intense pity which filled his heart as he 
 looked at the feeble old man before him, and 
 thought how he had seen him leave that 
 cottage door, five years ago, strong, hale, 
 and active, to return thus. He bent over 
 him with loving care, gently putting back 
 the dry scattered hair from the hollow 
 cheeks and deeply-lined forehead ; soothing 
 him with loving words, which seemed to 
 reach his ear and sense, in spite of the torpor 
 which kept him silent, for a smile, almost 
 of peace and content, crept over his face. 
 
 The poor man was still too feeble for them 
 to think it possible that he could climb the 
 steep stairs leading to the little room above ; 
 so Robin and Nicholas set to work to make 
 him as comfortable as they could where he 
 lay, and decided that they would watch be- 
 side him, by turns, all night. The supper 
 which Robin had prepared as a welcome for 
 his friend was scarcely tasted ; and some of 
 to-morrow's beef was put on the fire, to 
 make some strong tea for their patient, 
 which they gave him from a spoon, Nicholas
 
 THE UNEXPECTED GUEST. 173 
 
 supporting his head, while Robin fed his 
 father as he would a sick child. 
 
 Robin had the last watch, and sat in the 
 armchair, watching his father's uneasy 
 slumbers, as the first gray dawn stole 
 through the frosted panes. He had had no 
 sleep that night: even when he had stretched 
 himself on the bed, it had not been to rest ; 
 and now he felt weak and exhausted. How 
 dull looked the life which stretched before 
 him so brightly but a few hours ago, how 
 hard the path which he had chosen to follow. 
 
 And in that hour of weakness, when re- 
 solve is feeble and love cold, and when diffi- 
 culties seem to grow doubly strong, Satan 
 was ready, too, to turn him aside from the 
 right course by every argument and device. 
 For the first time Robin began to doubt 
 whether indeed it was his duty to give up 
 all for the sake of the father who had nevei 
 been a real father to him. He began to 
 think of what the Squire had said, and to 
 wonder whether it were likely that he, a 
 poor lad, could know better what was right
 
 174 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 than the learned gentleman who hi / W so 
 long an experience of life. 
 
 When Nicholas came down ah mt eight 
 o'clock he found his friend still sitting in the 
 large cushionless chair, his face white and 
 anxious, his eyes fixed upon his sleeping 
 father with an irresolute, troubled expres- 
 sion, which Nicholas did not understand. 
 
 " Yon's the bells," cried Nicholas, his face 
 lighting up, as a joyous peal from the old 
 tower welcomed the Christmas morning. 
 " Hearken, Robin ; " and he opened the 
 outer door, letting in a burst of winter sun- 
 shine with the distant music. 
 
 Robin rose, and walked slowly to the 
 door, and the two friends stood together on 
 the threshold. 
 
 " What are you going to do ? " asked 
 Nicholas, glancing inward for a moment to- 
 wards the form on the floor. 
 
 *' Oh, Nicholas," answered Robin, almost 
 with a groan, " don't you ask me yet. I 
 scarce know where I am, nor what's hap- 
 pened, nor what is right. I feel confused
 
 THE UNEXPECTED GUEST. 175 
 
 and giddy, and as if everything was slipping 
 away from me, just when I most wanted to 
 get sure hold of it." 
 
 Nicholas looked with ready sympathy into 
 the agitated face, and held his friend's hand 
 for a moment in a close, strong clasp. He 
 said nothing ; but in his heart he prayed to 
 God to help his friend to do right, at any 
 cost, and to make his way plain. 
 
 When the bells began to ring for church, 
 Nicholas said, in a cheerful voice, " You go, 
 Robin; one of us is enough to tend your 
 father, and it is no use my going. I couldn't 
 so much as find my way there alone." And 
 Robin, weary and downhearted, was glad to 
 go, if it were only that he might find him- 
 self alone under the trees, with no one to 
 watch his face, as he let his painful thoughts 
 have their own way for a while. 
 
 The silence soothed him, so did the clear 
 frosty sky, the slow movement of the tas- 
 selled pines, the thousand sweet influences 
 of the familiar scene: and it was with calmer 
 thoughts that he entered the old porch - -
 
 176 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 through the crowd of villagers in their best 
 clothes, who were loitering in the church- 
 yard, waiting till the bell should cease 
 and took his place in a dark corner of the 
 church. In the place itself there were no 
 associations of the past, for as a child his 
 feet had never crossed the threshold of 
 God's house, but the words of prayer and 
 praise and teaching recalled the best hopes 
 and purposes of later days, and drew his 
 heart with fresh love to that dear Saviour 
 who had laid aside all for his sake. 
 
 "He did all for me," said Robin, half 
 aloud, as he walked home slowly and alone, 
 avoiding even the pleasant smile of little 
 Lettice, and the merry greeting of his old 
 companion Jonas. " There was not any- 
 thing that was His that He was not willing 
 to give up, that He might save even such a 
 poor lad as I am ; and oh ! I ought to be so 
 glad to be able to give up some little thing 
 for Him yes, to give up all, if it were 
 needed, so that my father, whom Christ 
 loves, might be saved by His love."
 
 THE UNEXPECTED GUEST. 177 
 
 The doubt and the darkness were passing 
 from his mind, the clouds were being drawn 
 up by the sunshine of love. He did not 
 need to think whether or no he was doing 
 what was written down in the command- 
 ments. For once this obedience, this safe, 
 sure, strong guide through so many of the 
 perplexed ways of life, was lost sight of in 
 the intense love and gratitude which longed 
 to do even more, which would fain sell all 
 that he had, if so he might the better follow 
 his dear Lord. His steps grew quicker and 
 lighter as he drew near the cottage ; his 
 mind was at peace ; now he would tell the 
 Squire of his father's return the first thing 
 next morning, and then he would be pre- 
 pared for what he knew must follow the 
 loss of his home and his employment. They 
 would all go away together, and Robin 
 would find some humble work by which he 
 could earn bread for his father, and keep 
 Nicholas near him. 
 
 It was quite a cheerful scene on which the 
 winter sun and the blazing Christmas fire
 
 178 THE FAITHFUL SOW. 
 
 shone, as Robin opened the cottage door, 
 Nicholas, with his deft fingers, had tidied the 
 disordered room, had helped the old man, 
 revived by his night's rest and breakfast, into 
 the chair by the fire, and covered his torn 
 dress with Robin's overcoat. His face was 
 washed, and his hair and beard carefully 
 trimmed and brushed, and there was almost 
 a smile on his face, as he sat waiting his boy's 
 return. 
 
 They drew round the fire after dinner. 
 Robin heaped the hearth with fresh pine-logs, 
 and the old man spread out his hands towards 
 the cheerful, friendly warmth. 
 
 " Here, Nicholas, you have the chair, and 
 I will sit on the stool beside you, father, " 
 said Robin, in a pleasant voice ; " and I will 
 tell you what I've been doing these five years. 
 You want to hear, don't you? " and in his 
 voice there was a longing desire for some 
 word of affection, some response to cheer 
 him through the painful sacrifice that in his 
 heart he had already made. 
 
 But there was silence, and Robin, with a
 
 THE UNEXPECTED GUEST. 179 
 
 sense of bitter disappointment, was slowly 
 drawing back the hand which he had laid on 
 his father's knee, when he felt a hot tear fall 
 on it, and looking up quickly, he saw others 
 slowly rolling down the old man's worn 
 cheeks. 
 
 " I don't deserve it, I know I don't deserve 
 it, " said he, with a groan. " I've suffered 
 enough in my mind for leaving you, boy 
 suffered bitter and sore, but I never felt so 
 sorry till now ; my heart is like to break. 
 God forgive me ! " There was a pause, and 
 the father went on presently, taking his hands 
 from before his face. "But it has turned 
 out well for you, lad, though it don't make 
 my fault the lighter. You have turned into 
 a gentleman ; you might be the Squire's son, 
 to hear you speak ; and yet you are not 
 ashamed of me, nor my rags, God bless 
 you I " 
 
 As he spoke, his eyes were fixed tenderly 
 on his son, but when he mentioned the 
 Squire's name, a moment's expression of 
 anger passed over his face, until he looked
 
 180 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 like the father whom Robin remembered in 
 the old days. 
 
 Robin hesitated. How would his father 
 receive the tidings that the son owed his 
 education and change of circumstances to 
 the man whom his father had wronged, and 
 whom he evidently hated as of old, believ- 
 ing him to be the cause of all he had suf- 
 fered? Would it not be well to wait a 
 while, until the Squire had been told ? 
 
 At this moment there was a sound of 
 foatsteps on the crisp, frosted snow without, 
 evidently coming directly towards the cot- 
 tage. The old man began to tremble, and 
 made a movement as though he would rise 
 from his chair and hide himself, but he sank 
 back exhausted with the effort. A rap on 
 the door, as from a stick, three quick de- 
 cided taps, and before Robin could cross the 
 floor the latch was lifted, and the Squire 
 himself stood before the astonished group. 
 His face was more smiling and genial than 
 usual, and there was warmth in his tone as 
 he wished them all a merry Christmas. He
 
 THE UNEXPECTED GUEST. 181 
 
 glanced towards the two by the fire, and 
 said to Robin, " Your friend, I suppose," 
 but made no remark about the guest in the 
 easy chair, whom indeed he scarcely seemed 
 to notice. Robin set a chair for his master, 
 and remained standing himself, his face ex- 
 pressing so much trouble and perplexity, 
 that, had the Squire looked at him, he must 
 have seen at once that something unusual 
 had occurred ; but he was not -very used to 
 reading the faces about him, and was, be- 
 sides, absorbed in the errand which had 
 brought him out that Christmas afternoon. 
 " I had a letter, Wallack," he said, "this 
 morning from the rector, about those people 
 at Longworth farm that I told you must be 
 turned out. They are in very heavy trouble, 
 it seems ; sickness, as well as the failure of 
 crops, and their youngest child dead or dy- 
 ing. The rector, an old college crony of 
 mine, speaks highly of the father, and begs 
 hard that I would wait another quarter be- 
 fore proceeding to extremities : he says they 
 will be utterly ruined if they are turned
 
 182 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 out. It's against my principles, and I doubt 
 whether the example will do good ; but I 
 shall let it stand over awhile, and perhaps 
 forgive them a quarter when I see some 
 effort really made. But, of course, of this 
 you will say nothing." 
 
 " I, sir ? " asked Robin, almost in surprise, 
 for in his own mind he had already ceased to 
 be trusted with the Squire's affairs, and he 
 almost forgot that the Squire could not 
 know the change that one night had made 
 a night that seemed now to be weeks ago. 
 
 " Yes, I want you to ride over to Long- 
 worth the first thing to-morrow morning : 
 that is what brought me down here now. 
 The truth is, Robin," and the Squire laughed 
 a little, " I must be getting old. I find I 
 can't properly enjoy the day so long as I 
 have those poor folks on my mind ; but it is 
 all right, now I have given you your orders." 
 
 While Robin stood hesitating how to an- 
 swer, the Squire glanced with some interest 
 round the little room, and this time his eye 
 rested on the stranger guest by the fireside.
 
 THE UNEXPECTED GUEST. 18& 
 
 A pale face, with gleaming angry eyes, was 
 fixed on his a face in which fear and 
 hatred were strangely mixed, as they were 
 also in the shrinking attitude and upraised 
 hand. 
 
 The Squire turned hastily to Robin for 
 explanation. " Who is this ? Have you 
 broken your word to me, Wallack?" he 
 said, harshly. 
 
 " I found my father dying in the woods 
 last night," replied Robin, slowly, " and I 
 brought him home. I was coming to tell 
 you the first thing to-morrow morning. I 
 have not broken my word, sir. I knew that 
 I ceased to be your servant when my father 
 came back." 
 
 " ' Servant,' his servant," muttered the 
 elder Wallack, in an angry tone. "I'd 
 sooner see my son starve than he should 
 demean himself to serve such as you. Ay, 
 you can look as fierce as you please, but I'm 
 not afraid of you." 
 
 " Oh, sir, he does not know what he is 
 Baying ; pray do not listen to him I " cried
 
 184 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 Robin, in great distress: but the Squire, 
 with an angry flush on his face, was already 
 crossing the threshold into the dusky shad- 
 ows of the pine wood, and Robin, afraid to 
 displease him more by following, could do 
 nothing but try to soothe his father's agita- 
 tion, whose sudden anger was passing, now 
 that the Squire was gone, into terror at the 
 thought of the punishment which he had 
 braved by his return. 
 
 " Hide me ! hide your poor old father ! " 
 he cried, trembling. "The police will be 
 here ; they will drag me off to jail, and I 
 will never live to come out." 
 
 His terror redoubled when the Squire, re-' 
 turning, beckoned to Robin to come and 
 speak with him outside the door. " Wai- 
 lack," he said, sternly, " I would rather end 
 this matter now. You need not come to 
 the Hall again; after what has passed, all 
 relations between us are at an end. I will 
 send you the sum due to you, and allow you 
 a week to make your plans and leave the 
 cottage."
 
 THE UNEXPECTED GUEST. 185 
 
 " I see you were right, sir," said Robin, 
 with a sigh. " You could not let my father 
 stay here, but you see how broken and ill he 
 is, sir. I couldn't leave him. Oh, don't 
 think me ungrateful." 
 
 " I look to deeds not words," said the 
 Squire, curtly: " but you must choose your 
 own way. I have no more to say about the 
 matter ; " and he turned to go. 
 
 "Oh, sir," cried Robin, despairingly, "if 
 you would only give my duty to Madam and 
 Miss Florence, and tell them I shall never 
 forget their goodness, and that I'm not un- 
 grateful." But the Squire was gone. 
 
 What a miserable Christmas Day it 
 seemed. But it is just when everything 
 is dark around us that God's light has most 
 power to cheer and comfort ; and there was 
 peace in Robin's heart as he stood alone 
 under the pine trees, for every act of obedi- 
 ence, every effort of faith, is a fresh cov- 
 enant, binding the soul to God : and He 
 comes, when we have laid aside the treas- 
 ures that were only of earth, and says to us,
 
 186 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 as we kneel before Him, poor and forsaken, 
 " Fear not, I am thy Shield and thine ex- 
 ceeding great Reward." 
 
 " Come and comfort your father," said 
 Nicholas, presently ; " he'll not hearken to 
 me. 
 
 " Nicholas, you forgive me ! " said Robin, 
 in a low tone. " I am breaking up your 
 life as well as my own." 
 
 " Forgive you ! " exclaimed Nicholas, 
 wringing his hand. " Why, old fellow, 
 'tis all the same to me, so that we are to- 
 gether ; and I'm happier to see you doing 
 the right thing, though it is hard, than to 
 share a fortune with you." 
 
 Hand-in-hand they went back to the fire- 
 side, where Robin's presence seemed at once 
 to soothe and tranquilize his father. The 
 dusk was coming on, and filled the little 
 chamber, where the log fire had died into a 
 red glow. They could scarcely see each 
 other's faces now, but Robin held his 
 father's wrinkled hand in his, and the 
 touch gave him comfort and strength.
 
 THE UNEXPECTED GUEST. 187 
 
 Presently Nicholas began to sing ; it was 
 
 a Christmas carol of long ago, the words 
 
 of which came softly through the dusky 
 twilight : 
 
 "His dwelling it was neither, 
 
 In housen nor in hall, 
 Nor in a lordly chamber, 
 But by the oxen's stall:" 
 
 he sang. " He had not where to lay His 
 head," he said, in a low tone, like a half- 
 spoken thought, as he finished the verse. 
 
 " That was like me last night ; ay, and for 
 many a night before," said the old man, 
 catching the words. 
 
 " It was to save us, father, because He 
 loved us so ; it is Jesus our Saviour that 
 Nicholas means, who had not where to lay 
 His head." 
 
 " Ah, boy," said the old man, sadly, " I 
 know nothing of it. Time was I did, but 
 I've forgot it all. There's many a day, 
 since I've been so broken and poor and ill, 
 I've felt after it, and would have given a 
 deal, if I'd had it, to lay hold of a thought
 
 188 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 to comfort me. I never taught you nought 
 of it, Robin, but you've learnt it : and now 
 'tis my boy must teach his father. I'm 
 willing to learn." 
 
 " We'll learn together, please God," said 
 Robin ; and in the darkness none could see 
 the happy tears in his eyes. " I know just 
 nothing, but God has promised to teach us. 
 Nicholas shall read us a chapter now, for 
 it's time we got you to bed, father; and 
 you wouldn't mind, would you, if we said a 
 bit of a prayer together, to thank God for 
 bringing you back ? " 
 
 In the course of the next day came an 
 envelope from the Squire, in which was en- 
 closed the money which would have been 
 due to Robin at the end of the first quarter j 
 and, better even than this, a letter of rec- 
 ommendation from the Squire to a gentle- 
 man who was the head of some large iron- 
 works in a town about thirty miles distant. 
 Robin dared not go up to the Hall again, 
 but he wrote a grateful letter, in which he 
 tried to express his thankfulness for the
 
 THE UNEXPECTED GUEST. 
 
 189 
 
 past ; and he said to himself that surely the 
 future years would bring with them some 
 means of showing the feeling which he "vas 
 sure would never die out of his heart.
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 THE THIRD CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 years had gone by, and the 
 Christmas snow was spread over 
 the earth for the second time since 
 Robin had crushed it under his feet as he 
 passed through the pine wood on that well 
 remembered Christmas Eve. It was not on 
 soft yielding mounds of crisp snow that he 
 was treading now, as he hurried towards his 
 home, his heart seeming to beat time the 
 while to the music of the bells, which from 
 many a church steeple around were telling 
 that Christmas had come again. 
 
 In a little house in one of the smaller 
 
 190
 
 THE THIED CHRISTMAS EVE. 191 
 
 streets of the town his father and Nicholas 
 were waiting for his return, listening, as 
 they sat side by side over the fire, for the 
 pleasant sound of his footfall without. Many 
 a quick step came down the street, but none 
 paused before the door, and the old man 
 began to move uneasily in his chair, and 
 Nicholas rose and walked across the floor to 
 the tall clock that stood in the corner, as if 
 to try and convince himself that it was not 
 really much later than the usual hour of 
 Robin's return. 
 
 " Here he is at last," cried the old man, 
 joyfully, but Nicholas shook his head. " As 
 if I didn't know my boy's step," trium- 
 phantly, as it paused at the door. But there 
 was a knock. Robin would have lifted the 
 latch and entered ; and wondering, Nicholas 
 crossed the kitchen and looked out into the 
 dark street. 
 
 No one was there ; he gazed up and down, 
 and then took a step out into the street, that 
 he might look round the corner, for he felt 
 sure that his ears had not deceived him. He
 
 192 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 stumbled and nearly fell over something 
 which stood on the threshold, and which he 
 had not seen while looking above it for 
 Robin's tall head. His exclamation of sur- 
 prise brought the elder Wallack to his side, 
 and together they examined the large strong- 
 ly-fastened hamper, which was almost too 
 much for their united strength, as they tried 
 to drag it into the light. 
 
 " ' Mr. Robin Wallack,' " read Nicholas : 
 " it must wait till he comes home. But what- 
 ever can it be ? " 
 
 " To think that I shouldn't know my boy's 
 step, " mused the old man. " I could have 
 been as sure as anything that he brought it 
 to the door his own self." 
 
 " Right, father, " cried a merry voice, as 
 Robin appeared out of the darkness, and 
 seizing the hamper, bore it into the circle of 
 firelight. " But for all that, I know no more 
 about it than you do. It came by rail, and 
 was left at the works for me this afternoon : 
 that's all I know about it." 
 
 '* Open it, boy, open it," said his father.
 
 THE THIRD CHRISTMAS EVE. 193 
 
 "It must be full of bricks, to be so heavy ; 'tis 
 a joke, depend upon it. Who is to send us 
 a Christmas hamper? Why, we've not a 
 friend in the world that I know of." 
 
 " Tis a good practical joke, father, " 
 answered Robin, laughing, as he cut the 
 string and forced open the hamper lid, " one 
 I shouldn't mind seeing repeated, for my 
 part ; " and raising a clean white cloth that 
 was spread over the top, he lifted out a plump 
 turkey, its white breast decorated with a 
 chain of sausages. 
 
 Nicholas was silent with surprise, but 
 Wallack seized the prize, exclaiming, "I 
 know the breed, there's no such turkeys as 
 these bred off the old Squire's land. 'Tis 
 your doing, Robin: you've been writing to 
 the old place, to get them to send us some 
 Christmas fare." 
 
 " Not a bit of it, father. I can give a good 
 guess who sent the hamper, but I knew 
 nothing about it till the parcel cart left it at 
 the works. But come, there's plenty beside 
 the turkey ; and see here, father, this is a
 
 194 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 letter : now we shall know all about it." 
 And Robin went to the fire, to read his letter 
 by its light, while Wallack and Nicholas went 
 on with their pleasant work, taking out a 
 home-cured ham, a few fresh eggs, a pat of 
 firm yellow butter, while every spare corner 
 was filled with hard rosy-cheeked apples and 
 russet pears. 
 
 " And here's a sprig of holly all ready for 
 the pudding," said Nicholas, holding it up to 
 Robin, who only nodded, and bent over his 
 letter eyes which were full of happy tears. 
 
 " Let us hear the letter, and all about it," 
 said the elder Wallack, a little impatiently. 
 " I was right about your step, and I was 
 right about the turkey too, I'll be bound. 
 Isn't it from the old place, now ? But who 
 should think of us there, passes me." 
 
 "It is from the Squire, father,*' said 
 Robin, gently, coming to the old man's side, 
 and laying his hand on his arm, " and there's 
 a message in it for you; will you hear it 
 now?" 
 
 * Ay, ay, why not ? " said Wallack, seat-
 
 TlTTC THIRD CHRISTMAS EVE. 195 
 
 ing himself. " Don't you go, Nicholas ; read 
 the message, Robin, boy ; " but the old man's 
 voice trembled a little as he spoke. 
 
 " Tell your father," read Robin, " that 1 
 hope he will be able to enjoy the Christmas 
 cheer. Perhaps when you tell him what I 
 have said to you, he will be able to forgive 
 me for sending you away two years ago. In 
 any case I want him to believe that I do for- 
 give him from my heart the wrong he did 
 me, even as I trust that God will, for Christ's 
 sake, pardon me." 
 
 " That doesn't read much like the Squire, 
 said Wallack, doubtfuUy. " I don't under- 
 stand it. What has he said to you, lad ? " 
 
 " Father," answered Robin, with almost a 
 sob in his voice, " he says Will I come back 
 again ? " 
 
 " And you shall go," said Wallack, with a 
 sudden firmness in his voice. " I have learnt 
 a little these two years ; and though I can 
 never be a help to my boy as a father ought 
 to be, I'll stand in your way no longer. You 
 shall go. They'll find a corner for me in
 
 196 THE FAITHFUL SON. 
 
 the poor house, and 'tis there I should have 
 been these two years, by rights ; but I can 
 scarce be sorry, Robin, for then, how should 
 I have learnt of Him ! But I shan't be alone 
 now. I'm but an ignorant old man, and no 
 company for any one, but yet He takes pity 
 on me, and He'll come and speak to me, and 
 comfort me when you are far away." 
 
 Robin laid his hand on the feeble, shaking 
 arm, which would never again recover its 
 strength. "Why, father, you must be 
 dreaming, to think I'm like to leave you," 
 he said, smiling. " Squire knows better 
 than that. He wants you to come back too, 
 and Nicholas, and all. Nicholas is to be 
 schoolmaster. Hurrah ! hurrah ! " and Rob- 
 in jumped up to clap his friend on the back. 
 " He has written to the clergyman about 
 you, Nicholas, and heard all sorts of fine 
 things about your learning and your music, 
 and nought will content him but you must 
 have the school. Do you remember setting 
 up school with one pupil, eh, lad ? " 
 
 " He has been trouble enough, fora school
 
 THE THIED CHBISTMAS EVE. 197 
 
 full," answered Nicholas, smiling quietly, 
 and beginning in his orderly fashion, to put 
 away the contents of the hamper, and clear 
 the hay from the floor ; but there was a light 
 in his eye, and a smile on his thin lips which 
 Robin rejoiced to see. 
 
 " Here's something else in the hay anoth- 
 er letter," said Nicholas, handing a sealed 
 note to Robin. 
 
 " It's from Miss Florence," said Robin, 
 flushing with surprise. "Oh, father! O, 
 Nicholas ! Miss Florence has written to me, 
 her own self, to ask me to come back. She 
 is going to be married, she says, come the 
 New Year, and she must have me at the 
 wedding ; and then, she says, I can look over 
 the place, and get all ready for you, father, 
 and for Nicholas. Oh, dear, I feel almost 
 too happy." 
 
 The old man had sat, meanwhile, his eyes 
 fixed on the fire, as if he saw in its glowing 
 hollows, pictures of the past and the future, 
 and slow, painful, rare tears rolled down his 
 furrowed cheeks ; yet they were tears which
 
 198 THE FAITHFUL 8OK. 
 
 ^ 
 
 made his heart lighter, for they were born of 
 penitence, and never were bright with the 
 sunlight of thanksgiving. 
 
 Presently he looked up. " You'll teU the 
 Squire as I humbly ask his pardon, and that 
 I'm more thankful than I can say, to come 
 back to the old place to die. Say, he has 
 given me the blithest Christmas that I ever 
 knew. Tis like the blessed words you read 
 this morning, Robin, ' Peace on earth, good 
 will toward men.' My heart is lighter than 
 it has been since that miserable night, better 
 than seven years gone. I seem to believe 
 now that God for Christ's sake has forgiven 
 my sin." 
 
 That night, when Nicholas was alone in 
 his room, he heard a light tap at his door. 
 " Come in," he said, for he knew that it was 
 Robin, and he laid his hand on his arm, and 
 drew him to sit down by him on the side of 
 the bed. 
 
 " God is very good," he said in a low tone, 
 that was like an echo of Robin's thoughts. 
 
 " Yes," replied Robin ; " and the best hap-
 
 THE THIRD CHBISTMAS EVE. 9 
 
 piness of all, is to feel that God has been 
 good to us all along ; just as good when he 
 sent the trouble, as now that we are so hap- 
 py. He has been with us all along, Nicholas, 
 and that makes the gladness." 
 
 " And that is a gladness," said Nicholas, 
 as if thinking aloud, " that can never come 
 to an end. Though I daresay we shall be 
 glad and sorry again a great many times in 
 the course of our lives, yet there will always 
 be the promise, 4 If ye keep my command- 
 ments, ye shall abide in my love.' "
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 
 HABBY'S ADVENTURE. 
 
 a Bright sunny August afternoon, 
 Harry Rivers was walking briskly 
 along the crowded London streets. 
 It was evident that he was on his way home 
 from school, for he carried some books, held 
 together by a stout strap, and a slate, It 
 was equally evident that he was going home 
 to his dinner ; not that he looked by any 
 means starved or miserable, but still you
 
 204 HA KEY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 would have felt sure that he wanted neither 
 clock nor watch to remind him of the din- 
 ner hour. 
 
 Harry was a pleasant-looking boy about 
 twelve years old, well but plainly dressed ; 
 not handsome by any means, though he had 
 fine brown eyes, full of sense and spirit ; a 
 tall, awkward boy most people thought him, 
 but his little sister at home thought no one 
 was to be compared to him, in looks or any- 
 thing else. And this alone would give me 
 a good opinion of him; it is a good sign 
 when a big boy is kind to his little sisters. 
 
 He walked quickly along, as I have said, 
 until he came to a shop on Regent street, the 
 windows of which were full of prints and 
 photographs. Here he stopped, leaning 
 against the brass bar that defended the glass, 
 and gazed long and steadily at one particular 
 print. His face grew grave; nay, almost 
 sad, as he looked, and his lips moved as if 
 he were speaking, though no sound waa 
 heard from them. The engraving before him 
 was taken from a well-known picture. It
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 205 
 
 represented the poor little French king, 
 Louis xvii, who died in prison in Paris 
 during the Revolution about eighty years 
 ago. It is a sad picture, as you may imagine ; 
 the poor little child-king, half dressed, and 
 apparently half starved, crouched upon the 
 ground, leaning against the wall. And, oh ! 
 what a mournful, despairing look there is 
 in his little face the pretty, childish face, 
 which his beautiful mother had kissed so 
 fondly when it was bright and rosy and in- 
 telligent. But that happy time seemed long, 
 long ago the child had almost forgotten 
 it. Mother, father, both were dead ; his last 
 friend, kind, gentle Madame Elizabeth, was 
 gone too all murdered by the cruel people 
 who were murdering their desolate little 
 prisoner as surely as if they had sent him to 
 the guillotine with his unhappy parents. 
 
 All these thoughts, and many more, passed 
 through the mind of Harry Rivers as he 
 gazed intently on the picture, with his bright 
 brown eyes full of pity and sympathy. How 
 long he might have remained thus gazing,
 
 206 HARRY'S PERPBLXITY. 
 
 forgetting the dinner he had wanted so much 
 but a few minutes before, I do not know j 
 but he was somewhat unpleasantly aroused, 
 A gentleman, with a brown pocket-book in 
 his hand, into which he was putting a paper, 
 as he walked quickly on, ran against poor 
 unconscious Harry, and knocked the slate 
 out of his hand. 
 
 It fell with a great clatter upon the pave- 
 ment, and was broken into several pieces., 
 This brought the gentleman to a stand. He 
 was a well-dressed, well-looking old man, 
 but his face was stern, and there were deep 
 lines in his forehead, as if he were in the 
 habit of frowning. He looked at Harry 
 with a frown now, as he thrust the pocket- 
 book into his pocket, and said in a harsh, 
 gruff voice, 
 
 "You young blockhead, what do you 
 mean by standing in the way ? " 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir," said Harry, 
 laughing ; "I'm sorry I was in your way, 
 but of the two I think I got the worst of it.' 
 
 And he pointed to the broken slate.
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 207 
 
 " Serve you right, sir ; serve you right," 
 growled the old gentleman. " Don't expect 
 that I shall pay for it, for I shan't ; you've 
 no right to stand blocking up the pathway, 
 and I shall not give you a sixpence ! " 
 
 Harry reddened with indignation at this 
 rude speech. 
 
 " Wait until I ask you for it, sir! " said 
 he ; "I should not take it if you offered it 
 to me." 
 
 The old gentleman passed on briskly, 
 and Harry following, with his head held 
 very high. They happened to be going in 
 the same direction, and there were a good 
 many people about, as of course several had 
 stopped to see what had happened. Among 
 these there was a stout lad of about sixteen, 
 who had looked on with much interest, and 
 now followed the old man closely; and, 
 presently, what did Harry see to his great 
 surprise, but this youth quietly put his hand 
 into the old gentleman's pocket, and softly 
 draw out the brown pocket-book ! It was 
 so quickly and skilfully done that most peo-
 
 208 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 pie in Harry's place would not have per- 
 ceived it, but fortunately those brown eyes 
 of his were very keen and observant. 
 
 Letting his books fall, he darted upon the 
 thief, caught him by the collar, shouting 
 " Police ! police ! " with all his might. Sev- 
 eral people stopped at the shout, and a 
 policeman might be seen running up, but not 
 very quickly. Now the young gentleman 
 who had made so free with his neighbor's 
 pocket had many excellent reasons for 
 avoiding an interview with a policeman, so 
 when he caught sight of the blue uniform 
 drawing near he made a violent effort, flung 
 Harry off so roughly that he fell flat on his 
 back, pitched the brown pocket-book in the 
 face of a man who attempted to lay hold of 
 him, and fled swiftly away. 
 
 The policeman sprang forward in pursuit, 
 but unfortunately (fortunately, no doubt the 
 thief thought) he fell over the prostrate form 
 of Harry Rivers, and in the consequent con- 
 fusion the runaway disappeared. 
 
 The testy old gentleman had turned back
 
 The Stolen Pocket-Book . -Page 209.
 
 HABBY'S PEBPLEXITT. 209 
 
 on hearing Harry's shouts, and was now very 
 red in the face with hurry and consternation, 
 having missed his pocket-book. 
 
 " My pocket-book, policeman ! my pocket- 
 book is gone. It contains papers of conse- 
 quence papers that I would not lose on any 
 account." 
 
 " Is this it, sir ? " said the policeman, pro- 
 ducing it. 
 
 "Yes, that's it I You will find my name, 
 Henry Marshall, written inside." 
 
 " All right, sir, " replied the policeman, 
 after opening the book and examining the 
 name. 
 
 "How did you find it, policeman ? " in- 
 quired Mr. Marshall, producing a well-filled 
 purse from an inner pocket. 
 
 " This boy, sir " (pointing to Harry), "this 
 boy saw it took,. I suppose, and he laid hold 
 of him and sung out like a good one ; and 
 though the fellow ran when he saw me com- 
 ing, he thought it better to leave your book 
 Vhind him." 
 
 "Which boy? there are a couple of
 
 210 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 dozen boys here ! I'm glad the rascal got 
 away, for I'm leaving town to-night, and could 
 not have waited to appear against him with- 
 out great inconvenience." 
 
 " If I catch him, I shall let you know, sir, 
 so please give me your address. This is the 
 boy, sir." 
 
 Harry, laughing and coloring, was pushed 
 forward by the crowd ; the old gentleman 
 laughed a little too when he recognized him. 
 
 " So, boy, you saved my pocket-book ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; at least I saw it taken and sung 
 out for the police ; and, after all," he added 
 reproachfully to the officer, "you let him get 
 clean off." 
 
 ** Well, there are several papers of great 
 value to me in this book ; it is worth several 
 hundred pounds to me ; though if the rascal 
 had succeeded it would have been worthless 
 to him. But you have obliged me very much, 
 boy, and I shall give you a handsome re- 
 ward." 
 
 " No, sir, thank you, " answered Harry, 
 firmly but civilly ; I cannot take a reward ; 1
 
 HABBY'S PERPLEXITY. 211 
 
 cannot take money that I have not worked 
 for, and this is nothing at all. Good-bye, 
 sir." 
 
 He was turning away when Mr. Marshall 
 put his hand upon his shoulder and stopped 
 him. 
 
 " Stay one moment, boy. I like your 
 spirit, and though I will not again offer you 
 a reward, perhaps I may be able to befriend 
 you some time or other. Here is my card ; 
 keep it by you, and if at any time you should 
 want employment come to me, and if, on in- 
 quiry, I am satisfied about you, I will help 
 you on in life ; for you are a fine, independ- 
 ent fellow a very fine boy indeed, " 
 
 Harry put the card in his pocket, made his 
 very best bow, and they parted. 
 
 The excitement over, Harry again be- 
 thought himself of his long-delayed dinner ; 
 he was by this time very hungry indeed; and 
 was besides afraid that his mother would be 
 getting anxious about him. The policeman 
 had picked up his books and restored them 
 to him, so there was nothing more to detail*
 
 S12 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 him ; and he set off running as fast as he 
 could in so crowded a place. Very soon he 
 turned out of Regent Street, and having 
 walked some distance he stopped at a dull- 
 looking house, most of the rooms of which 
 were let out to lodgers. He opened the door 
 by the aid of a latch-key, and ran upstairs. 
 He passed the closed doors of the first floor, 
 and soon made his appearance in a good-sized 
 front room a story higher, where he was wel- 
 comed with cries of glee from his baby 
 sister. 
 
 The room was clean and neat, but plainly, 
 nay, scantily furnished, boasting neither car- 
 pet nor curtains. Near one window stood 
 a large square table, covered with needle- 
 work, and beside it sat a gentle-looking 
 lady, busily at work in making up a rich 
 blue silk dress. 
 
 The costly material made her worn stuff 
 gown look even shabbier than it really was, 
 and the bright color made her pale face look 
 paler still. Yet, though Mrs. Rivers looked 
 shabby and pale, she was evidently a lady,
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 213 
 
 and her face had a very peaceful, happy 
 expression. She had bright brown eyes, 
 too, like her son's. 
 
 On the ground sat a pretty little girl, 
 three years old, whose merry face lighted up 
 with fresh smiles at the sight of her brother, 
 to welcome whom she rose to her feet and 
 pattered across the room. 
 
 " Here I am at last, mother darling! Did 
 you think I was lost ? I wish you had not 
 waited for me. I've had an adventure, but 
 I must tell you about it at dinner. I'm so 
 jolly hungry ! Is father come home ? " 
 
 " No, my love ; he cannot come home un- 
 til evening. Dinner has been ready for 
 some time, so if you will wash your hands 
 we can sit down at once." 
 
 She laid her work carefully aside as she 
 spoke, and when they had all washed their 
 hands they went into a small room near 
 the larger one. Harry carried May down, 
 perched upon his shoulder, where she 
 screamed with delight, and pulled his thick 
 hair as hard as she could with her little fat 
 hands.
 
 214 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 May was a very pretty child, fair and 
 rosy, with soft rings of golden hair all over 
 her head, and beautiful blue eyes. She was 
 such a merry, good-tempered little fairy, 
 too the sunshine of the house, her brother 
 called her. She sat beside him now, and, 
 hungry as he was, he got her dinner ready 
 before he began to eat his own. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Rivers inquired, 
 
 " What was your adventure, Harry ? you 
 have not told me yet." 
 
 " Something like an adventure, mamma ! 
 To begin with, I was standing at my shop 
 window looking at the print I am copying, 
 when an old gentleman ran slap against me, 
 knocked my slate out of my hand and 
 smashed it. Well, instead of saying, ' I 
 beg your pardon,' or * I am sorry,' as one 
 would have expected, he said, * Serve you 
 right for blocking up the way.' If you had 
 only seen how he frowned at me ! and his 
 voice growled and grated just like this, 
 * Serve you right, boy ! serve you right 1 ' ' 
 And Harry grunted out the words in the 
 deepest bass he could master.
 
 HABRY'S PEBPLEXITY. 215 
 
 Mrs. Rivers had been listening with a 
 smile until this moment; but when Harry 
 imitated the old gentleman's way of speak- 
 ing, she started slightly. 
 
 "Well, Harry, what next? That is not 
 all, surely." 
 
 " Oh dear, no ! only the beginning of it. 
 We were walking along, he in front and I a 
 little behind him, when I saw a big boy pop 
 his hand into my old man's pocket and take 
 his pocket-book. I rushed up, seized the 
 thief, and called the police, but the rogue 
 was bigger and stronger than I, so before 
 the policeman arrived he contrived to knock 
 me down and make off ; but he. thought fit 
 to leave his prey behind him. It turned out 
 to be something of great value, and the old 
 fellow wanted to give me money, but of 
 course I wasn't going to have that. Then 
 he gave me his card, and bid me keep it and 
 come to him if I ever wanted help or em- 
 ployment, and ended all with, * Youre're a 
 fine boy ! a very fine boy ! as if he was 
 rather annoyed with me for being a fine boy.
 
 216 HABRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 4 Much you know about me, old fello <?V 
 thought I." 
 
 " Show me the card, Harry. What is the 
 name ? " 
 
 Harry, after some searching in his pock- 
 ets, produced the card, and read, 
 
 " Mr. Henry Marshall, 15, Square, 
 
 and 139, Lily Pot Lane." 
 
 " Why, mamma ! " he exclaimed, in sur- 
 prise, " that's my name ! I'm Henry Mar- 
 shall too. Is not that very odd ? " 
 
 But, glancing at his mother, he saw that 
 her eyes were full of tears. She took the 
 card from his hand, and looked at it in si- 
 lence for a few minutes. Then she said, in 
 a low voice, 
 
 " That is my father, Harry." 
 
 "Your father I Why, mamma, I always 
 fancied that you had none I mean, of 
 course, I thought he was dead." 
 
 44 Did you tell him your name, Harry ? " 
 
 " No : he did not ask it. There was such 
 a noise and uproar, we could scarcely hear 
 each other's voices. But to think of hia
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 217 
 
 being your father I Why do we never see 
 him?" 
 
 " Ah, my boy ! that is a long, long story, 
 and a very sad one, too ; but you must know 
 it some day. Finish your dinner, and when 
 I am at work again I will tell you all about 
 it." 
 
 " I have finished, and so has Mayblossom, 
 I perceive, so I shall just call Sally and fol- 
 low you upstairs." 
 
 " Put May on oo solda," cried the child, 
 coaxingly. So she went upstairs as she 
 had come down, perched upon her brother's 
 "solda." 
 
 Mrs. Rivers was soon again at work upon 
 the blue silk, while pretty May nursed a 
 frightful wooden doll, which she loved with 
 all her heart, and sincerely believed to be a 
 beauty. Harry brought out from his cup- 
 board in the corner a drawing-board and a 
 box of chalks, and establishing himself at a 
 distant corner of the table, set to work also 
 in good earnest. 
 
 Before I tell you what Mrs. Rivers said,
 
 218 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 I must explain about Harry's drawing. He 
 had, from the time when he was no older 
 than little May, shown very considerable 
 talent ; but his mother, the only person who 
 6aw his attempts, knew nothing whatever 
 of drawing beyond what is taught as a mat- 
 ter of course at a good school. She had no 
 natural taste for it, and so, although she was 
 very glad that her boy liked it well enough 
 to find a quiet, constant enjoyment in " the 
 possession of a few sheets of cartridge pa- 
 per and a box of chalks, she had no idea 
 that his drawings proved him to be possessed 
 of talent of no common order. That corner 
 cupboard, which belonged exclusively to 
 Harry, was filled to overflowing with draw- 
 ings. Little rough sketches, imperfect, of 
 course, but very clever and life-like. There 
 were a great many of his mother, with May 
 upon her knee; his father in various atti- 
 tudes, or, as he most often saw him, asleep 
 in his easy-chair; May with the frightful 
 doll ; May with the kitten. These were his 
 most frequent subjects. But latterly he had
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 219 
 
 begun to copy prints, having a great wish to 
 possess copies of some that he saw in the 
 shop windows. Not being able to afford to 
 hire them for copies, he hit upon the plan 
 of taking a good long look at the one he 
 was at work upon when coming home from 
 school, and then attempting to draw it in 
 the afternoon. Now, any artist will tell you 
 how very difficult this is ; in fact, to draw 
 from memory is one of the last things that 
 artists attempt, so it was quite wonderful 
 that Harry could do it at all. Not that he 
 succeeded as well as he wished, for his 
 copies were full of faults and inaccuracies, 
 but it was wonderful to see how he caught 
 the expression of the faces. 
 
 He sat looking discontentedly at his out- 
 line of the little Dauphin, muttering to 
 himself, 
 
 " His head is too big, and I forgot ' the cap 
 of liberty, ' that's easily put in, however." 
 Then aloud, "Now, mamma, now for your 
 story. Begin at once, please, for Owen 
 Eastwood has got his father's leave to take
 
 220 HAEEY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 me home with him to see some of his pic- 
 tures he's an artist, you know. And Owen 
 said that if he found to-day would be con- 
 venient to him he would call for me at four 
 o'clock." 
 
 " That's very kind of him. I shall be quite 
 glad to see this friend of yours, Harry, I 
 have heard so much of him. What made him 
 think of showing you the pictures ? " 
 
 " He walks home part of the way with me 
 sometimes, and yesterday I was taking off a 
 bit of my copy on my slate, and that made us 
 talk of drawing. Owen don't like drawing, 
 only fancy ! and his father is quite vexed at it. 
 Now for your story, mamma." 
 
 " Harry, " said Mrs. Rivers, slowly, " I 
 almost wish I had not promised to tell it, for 
 I find it very painful to talk about it." 
 
 Her voice was low and broken, and the 
 boy saw that her eyes were again full of 
 tears. 
 
 " Then, mamma, don't tell me," he said, 
 eagerly. " I can't say I'm not anxious, be- 
 cause I really am just boiling over with
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 221 
 
 curiosity ; but I shall get over it, never fear 
 anything rather than see you cry. I don't 
 believe I do care to hear anything about that 
 cross-grained old hunks ! " 
 
 " Oh don't, my darling ! don't speak in 
 that way of your grandfather ! it is not right. 
 I think, as the matter has been brought be- 
 fore you, Harry, I prefer to tell you all now ; 
 for you must hear it some day, and you are 
 old enough to understand it now ; something 
 of it, at least." 
 
 " Then go on, mamma ; I am listening with 
 all my ears, " said Harry ; " and please begin 
 by telling me is your father a rich man, for 
 he seemed to be ? " 
 
 " He is a very rich man indeed, and I am 
 his only daughter." 
 
 " And he lets you make dresses to earn 
 money, and papa work as a railway guard ! 
 He is a nice old gentleman, upon my word." 
 
 " You will understand it better when I 
 have told you my story. I have two broth- 
 ers, you must know, both a good deal older 
 than I am."
 
 222 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 " My uncles, of course. It is so funny to 
 hear of a whole lot of relations that I knew 
 nothing about. Have you a mother too, 
 mamma ? " 
 
 " Ah, no. If I had had a mother I should 
 not have this story to tell. My mother died 
 when I was born, and I sometimes think that 
 perhaps this was the reason that my father 
 never liked me as well as my brothers ; I put 
 him in mind of his sorrow. He certainly did 
 not love me, though he was kind to me in a 
 careless way ; gave me a great many presents, 
 and sent me to an excellent school when I 
 was old enough. I had everything I could 
 want ; the servants were made to take great 
 care of me, and my father made a rule of see- 
 ing me at least once every day, and asking 
 me if I had everything I wished for ; and if 
 there was any fancy ungratified I had only 
 to say so, and the order was given to get me 
 what I desired. But his manner was cold 
 and stern, and I do not remember his ever 
 kissing me. My brothers were scarcely ever 
 at home ; they were at school, aiid afterwards
 
 HABBY'S PERPLEXITY. 223 
 
 went into a house of business abroad for a 
 time." 
 
 " Why, mamma, you must have been 
 dreadfully lonely." 
 
 " I was, and should have been more so but 
 for your dear father. He was the son of an 
 old friend of my father's, who had failed in 
 business, and died very poor, leaving this 
 one son. He was the youngest clerk in my 
 father's house, and it was his duty to come 
 every morning with papers from the office 
 for my father to look over. Then he used to 
 walk with me to school on his way back, as 
 it did not delay him. My father asked him 
 to do this, because one day a beggar fright- 
 ened me and my maid as we were going alone. 
 This came to be my happy time ; he was so 
 bright and cheerful, and so kind to me. I 
 never heard kind, loving words but from 
 him. Then I grew older, and ceased to go to 
 school, but I took lessons in music, and used 
 to go to my master's house, attended by a 
 servant. My time for returning was later 
 than the hour for closing the counting-house,
 
 224 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 and Frank never failed to meet me, and walk 
 home with me. We were very young, and 
 meant no harm, doing it quite openly ; but I 
 think my maid was much to blame, for she 
 must have known that my father would not 
 have approved of these meetings." 
 
 "And then he found you out, and was 
 awfully angry," said Harry, who was much 
 interested in his mother's story. 
 
 " Not exactly. Frank himself spoke to 
 him. I had left off taking lessons, and so 
 we seldom met each other, and I was very 
 lonely and unhappy. So Frank, who would 
 not willingly have deceived any one, went 
 to my father and told him how fond we were 
 of each other, asking leave to come and see 
 me sometimes ; but my father was very an- 
 gry indeed, and having sent forme, he told me 
 unless I promised never to walk with Frank 
 or see him any more he would dismiss him 
 at once, without a moment's notice. I was 
 frightened, but still at first I tried to per- 
 suade him to allow us to see each other, but 
 all in vain. So I promised, and kept my
 
 HABEY'S PERPLEXITY. 225 
 
 promise for a long time a whole year. 
 And it was the most miserable year I ever 
 spent. One day, quite by accident, I met 
 Frank; we could not pass by without a 
 word, and I could not conceal from him how 
 unhappy I was. After that we met again, 
 not by accident." 
 
 " And quite right of you ! " exclaimed 
 Harry. 
 
 " No, my dear boy. It was very wrong 
 in me particularly. I was disobeying my 
 father and breaking my promise. I knew it 
 was wrong, but was too weak to resist the 
 temptation, and, as you will see, I have been 
 punished. At last some one told my father. 
 He kept his word, and dismissed Frank with- 
 out giving him a character. Then he sent 
 for his sister to live with him and take care 
 of me. She was not kind to me, making me 
 feel always that I was in disgrace, and my 
 father was less like a father even than before. 
 I am not saying this in anger, Harry. I wish 
 I could tell you my story without blaming 
 my father in any way, but I must tell you
 
 226 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 the whole truth, or you might think that 
 your father had been more to blame than he 
 was for the fault was chie% mine. You 
 are too young to understand this part of my 
 story very well, so I shall not dwell upon it ; 
 my father told me plainly that if I married 
 Frank he would never forgive me, or see me 
 again. * You have deceived me, Mary,' he 
 said, 'but you are very young, and I will 
 forgive you this once, but only on condition 
 that you obey me henceforth.' We thought 
 he would not keep his word, and that when 
 we were married he would forgive us in 
 time, but he never has." 
 
 Mrs. Rivers was silent for a few minutes, 
 and Harry, thought he wanted very much to 
 comfort her, did not know how to set about 
 it. Presently she went on : 
 
 " The little money we had to begin with 
 was soon spent. Frank could get no em- 
 ployment because my father would not rec- 
 ommend him, and when you were born, 
 Harry, we were in actual want. In despair, 
 Frank applied for employment on the Great 

 
 HAKBY'S PERPLEXITY. 227 
 
 Western, and was accepted. He took the 
 post gladly for our sakes, though it is so 
 much beneath him. But you see, Harry, I 
 cannot forget that I brought him down to 
 this ; and I cannot help crying, even now, 
 when I think of it." 
 
 Harry threw down his piece of chalk and 
 came to her side. 
 
 "Mother darling," he said, kissing her 
 fondly, "you must not fret about that ! He 
 would rather be a railway guard, and have 
 you and May and me at home, than be a 
 rich merchant without us. Why, only the 
 other day he said to me that no honest work 
 is beneath an honest man, and I quite agree 
 with him ; and your father is a savage old 
 Turk, and soonar than be obliged to him I'll 
 sweep a crossing ! Where's his old card ? I 
 shall just walk downstairs and put it into 
 the kitchen fire." 
 
 "No, no, Harry ! keep it, dear. I like to 
 think that your grandfather liked you, even 
 though he did not know who you were. 
 And you may need his help some day, though 
 you don't think so now."
 
 228 HARBY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 " Well, I shall keep it to please you, mam- 
 ma. There, I have stowed it away in my 
 cupboard : but I think it will be some time 
 before I ask him for help old Turk." 
 
 These last words were muttered into the 
 cupboard, on the lowest shelf of which, 
 among nails, tops, bits of string, old mar- 
 bles, and other boyish treasures, Mr. Mar- 
 shall's card was flung. Just then the door 
 bell rang and Harry ran downstairs, present- 
 ly returning with his friend and schoolfel- 
 low, Owen Eastwood. 
 
 Mrs. Rivers was much pleased to see that 
 her boy's chosen friend was a steady -looking 
 youth at least two years his senior. Owen, 
 on his part, was much attracted by Mrs. 
 Rivers' gentle countenance and pleasing 
 manners, and by the beauty of little May. 
 But as soon as he had begun to look at Har- 
 ry's drawings, it was plain that he had eyes 
 for nothing else. 
 
 " Who teaches you, Rivers? " 
 
 " Why, nobody ! " said Harry, laughing. 
 
 " And you have no copy but the one in 
 Regent Street?"
 
 HABRY'S PERPLEXITY. 229 
 
 "None. I must go again before I finish 
 the hands. I have not got them quite right, 
 have I ? " 
 
 " I think not, but I am no great judge, 
 I'm sorry to say." 
 
 He went on looking at the drawings and 
 turning them over much longer than Harry, 
 who was burning with impatience to be off, 
 thought at all necessary. At last he selected 
 two or three sketches, and said, 
 
 " Will you lend me these, Harry ? " 
 
 " Oh certainly indeed, if you care for 
 them, I will give them to you. But they 
 are not worth having." 
 
 " We shall see about that. I am going to 
 show them to my father." 
 
 " Oh no, Owen! please don't. Your father 
 will laugh at me." 
 
 " I don't think he will ; at all events I 
 mean to try. But I will wait till you are 
 gone, Rivers, so you need not look so un- 
 happy." 
 
 " Oh, all right then ! " said Harry bright- 
 ening up again. " Shall we go now ? "
 
 230 HABBY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 Owen Eastwood lived near Kensington 
 gardens, in a fine, large house with a pretty 
 garden, for his father was making a great 
 deal of money. It was getting dusk when 
 the two boys arrived there ; but dark as it 
 was they found the artist, Paul Eastwood, 
 still at work. He received Harry very 
 kindly, and when he saw how delighted 
 the boy was with the pictures, he left his 
 easel and showed him many paintings and 
 sketches, talking away to him in a loud, 
 cheery .voice like a great bell. Harry was 
 as happy as a king, as the saying goes ; much 
 happier than poor little King Louis the xvii., 
 at all events. 
 
 At last it was quite dark, and Harry re- 
 membered that his father would be coming 
 'lome soon ; so he thanked Mr. Eastwood 
 rery heartily and said good-bye. Owen 
 vent with him to the door and then re- 
 "urned to the studio, where he found his 
 father, with a candle in his hand, standing 
 before his easel again, intently looking at 
 the picture on it.
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 231 
 
 -' You are not going to work any more, 
 are you, father ? " 
 
 "No: only a last look at my day's work. 
 Look here, Owen, don't you think that 
 middle distance but I forget, boy, you 
 know nothing about it. Ah, Owen I I wish 
 you were more of an artist." 
 
 " Well, dear dad, I am sure you cannot 
 wish it more than I do ; if wishes would do 
 it, or hard work either, an artist I should 
 assuredly be." 
 
 " Quite true, Owen ! I know you did 
 your best." 
 
 "But look at these sketches, father 
 what do you think of them?" said Owen, 
 producing Harry's attempts. " I think I 
 have known few boys who could draw like 
 this untaught." 
 
 Mr. Eastwood glanced at the drawings, 
 carelessly at first, but after that first look 
 he seized them and held them up to catch 
 the light. 
 
 " Untaught, you call him! Ah, there's 
 nature's teaching here I Light the gas,
 
 232 HAEEY'S PEEPLBXITY. 
 
 Owen ; let me see them well. Good good 
 
 wonderfully good. Owen, if these were 
 your own, I should be a happy man. There 
 is life here ; look at that pretty little child, 
 all smiles and dimples, and the woman so 
 quiet and sad ; and the cat oh, that cat 
 alone is worth anything. Capital, capital ! 
 What this ? Copied from Landseer ' Dig- 
 nity and Impudence ' but it is not nearly 
 as good as I should have expected from the 
 sketches." 
 
 " But when I tell you the print hung in a 
 shop window, and that the artist never saw 
 it except from the street ? " 
 
 " You don't mean it ! then it is wonderful 
 
 wonderful. Good training for the eye, 
 too ; otherwise copying prints is a sad waste 
 of time. Who is it, Owen ? The boy with 
 the bright brown eyes who was here just 
 now ? I'm sure it is he he looked clever." 
 
 "You are right; that is the very fellow, 
 Harry Rivers. I wish you could see the 
 drawing he is doing now ; it is that print 
 of the poor little Dauphin, you know. It
 
 HABEAS PERPLEXITY. 233 
 
 la not finished, but you should see the eyes ; 
 so vacant, and yet so sad." 
 
 ' He's a genius, that's what he is. I must 
 see about him; that boy's worth helping. 
 Who is he, Owen ? What are his pa- 
 rents?" 
 
 " Well, they are a mystery to me. His 
 father is a guard on the Great Western, and 
 he is one of the handsomest men I ever 
 saw ; and quite a gentleman. His mother I 
 never saw till to-day, but though she is a 
 dressmaker, and was hard at work, you 
 could never doubt that she is a lady. Har- 
 ry is at my school, and some of the fellows 
 hold him at arm's length because his father 
 is only a railway guard, but I like him bet- 
 ter than any of them. It was only the 
 other day I found out that he is so fond 
 of drawing." 
 
 " Fond of drawing ! " shouted Mr. East- 
 wood. " A born artist, you mean ! He must 
 be an artist. I must see about him. I shall 
 go to-morrow and offer to teach him. It will 
 be a pleasure to teach a fellow like that."
 
 234 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 Poor Owen sighed. This was what he 
 had hoped for when he brought Harry's 
 drawings home with him, and he was glad ; 
 but still he could not help sighing. He loved 
 his warm-hearted, noisy father dearly, and 
 had worked very hard to please him, but in 
 vain. God had denied to the artist's son the 
 gift which Harry Rivers had in such rich 
 measure, and try as he would he could never 
 draw well enough to please Mr. Eastwood. 
 
 The next day, at about twelve o'clock 
 Mrs. Rivers was surprised to hear a very 
 loud and very long rap at her door. The little 
 girl who was her only servant was out, so she 
 was obliged to lay down her work and go to 
 the door herself. There she found a tall man, 
 with bright merry eyes and an immense 
 curly beard. He was quite a stranger to her, 
 and she could not imagine what he had come 
 for. However, she was not left long in doubt, 
 for the stranger began, in a rich deep voice 
 so musical that one forgot how loud it 
 was: 
 
 "My name, ma'am, is Eastwood Paul
 
 HABRY'S PERPLEXITY. 235 
 
 Eastwood, the artist ; perhaps you have 
 heard of me. My boy, Owen, brought your 
 son to my house yesterday, and I have come 
 here to ask you a question about him." 
 
 " Pray come in, sir, " said Mrs. Rivers. " I 
 shall have to ask you to walk up a great 
 many stairs, for all the lower part of our 
 house is let. " 
 
 " You are Mrs. Rivers, then good guess 
 that of mine. I knew it by your eyes, ma'am, 
 for your son has just the same." 
 
 They soon arrived at Mrs. Rivers' sitting- 
 room, where May ran to her mother as soon 
 as she saw the stranger. 
 
 " What a lovely child ! " exclaimed Mr. 
 Eastwood. " Just the innocent blue eyes I 
 want for my * Red Riding Hood.' Will you 
 lend her to me, Mrs. Rivers? Don't look so 
 frightened, baby, I'm not the wolf, though I 
 do want you for ' Red Riding Hood.' " 
 
 Mrs. Rivers, if the truth must be told, was 
 beginning to repent of her invitation to the 
 artist to enter her house. She saw but few 
 people in the course of her quiet life, and he
 
 236 HARBY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 was so noisy, and so unlike any one she 
 knew, that she half feared he was mad. 
 
 " Now, ma'am," began he, seating himself 
 and looking about him. " Time is money, 
 you know, and I must not waste either yours 
 or my own. My son, ma'am a very good 
 boy he is, though he'll never be an artist, I'm 
 sorry to say showed me some drawings of 
 your son's last night. Mrs. Rivers, if your 
 boy were cast upon a desert island alone, he 
 would be an artist." 
 
 " An artist, sir ! " exclaimed Mrs. Rivers. 
 
 " Couldn't help it, ma'am," roared Mr. 
 Eastwood, excitedly ; " and all the king's 
 horses and all the king's men couldn't stop 
 him, either. But, of course, he would get on 
 quicker and better if he had a little help now, 
 and that help I shall be proud to give him. 
 What do you mean to make him ? " 
 
 " We have hardly thought of that yet. 
 Harry is only twelve. Perhaps he may get 
 a place as a clerk by-and-by." 
 
 " A clerk I a counter-jumper, when he 
 might be a Landseer ! Mrs. Rivers, you
 
 HAERY'S PERPLEXITY. 237 
 
 would not put a race-horse in a plough, would 
 you ? " 
 
 " No, sir," said Mrs. Rivers, more than ever 
 convinced that he was mad. 
 
 " No, no ; let him begin at once to study 
 with me. If he likes to make art his profes- 
 sion, he might do worse than begin with me. 
 I'll make something of him, I assure you, 
 ma'am." 
 
 Mrs. Rivers looked quite bewildered. 
 
 " Do you mean to say," she at last inquired, 
 " that my Harry has talent enough to be an 
 artist?" 
 
 " Most emphatically I do, ma'am. I can- 
 not say yet, of course, whether he has a nat- 
 ural eye for color, though from the remarks 
 he made last night I should think it likely. 
 But his sketches are full of talent of genius, 
 ma'am, genius. There's a cat, Mrs. Rivers, 
 in one of those sketches that Owen brought 
 home, that I may say mewed at me ; did, 
 ma'am, I assure you. Have you any of his 
 drawings at hand ? " 
 
 By this time Mrs. Rivers was beginning to
 
 238 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 understand her visitor better, so she went to 
 Harry's cupboard and brought out a number 
 of his drawings. After a little more conver- 
 sation, Mr. Eastwood repeated his offer 
 about Harry, and his mother began to think 
 how happy it would make him. 
 
 "But I must tell you plainly, Mr. East- 
 wood, that we are very poor. We could not 
 afford " 
 
 " I understand that perfectly. Never mind 
 that, Mrs. Rivers. I am well to do now, and 
 can give Owen a decent education ; but I 
 was a poor boy once, and owe everything to 
 a kind-hearted old lady who took a fancy to 
 me. Now I can do the same for Harry." 
 
 " My husband must decide ; but I feel 
 sure he will be delighted that Harry should 
 have such a chance. He will be home at 
 about five o'clock, and I will tell him at once 
 of your kind offer. Believe me, Mr. East- 
 wood, we shall never forget your kindness." 
 
 " Then I shall say good-bye, now, ma'am. 
 And if all goes well, you will let Harry bring 
 4 Red Riding Hood ' to my studio some day, 
 won't you ? "
 
 HABBY'S PERPLEXITY. 239 
 
 "Indeed I shall, with pleasure. Good- 
 bye, Mr. Eastwood." 
 
 When Frank Rivers came home, tired and 
 hungry, Mrs. Rivers no sooner saw him 
 comfortably seated at his dinner, than she 
 told him her story. 
 
 " Think of Harry, our Harry, being a 
 genius, Frank. I assure you, Mr. Eastwood 
 seemed quite surprised at his drawings." 
 
 " It is a long time since I saw them, but I 
 remember thinking them rather amazing for 
 such a little fellow. Where does he keep 
 them ? In the cupboard ? Get your bon- 
 net and shawl, Mary, and we will go togeth- 
 er to Mr. Eastwood's ; it will be a nice walk 
 for you." 
 
 " But Frank, dear, are you not too tired 
 to go out again ? You looked so tired when 
 you came in." 
 
 " So I was, but this good news and my 
 good dinner have quite set me up again. 
 Why, Mary, only think what a thing this 
 may be for Harry ! " 
 
 ** I thought you would be pleased, dear."
 
 240 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 " Of course I am. It will be the greatest 
 comfort to me to know that our son will 
 have a chance of rising to a position in life 
 as good as that from which I took you, dear. 
 Not that I think we could have cared more 
 for each other if we had been rich could 
 we, Mary?" 
 
 "No; oh no, indeed," she answered, 
 quickly. 
 
 They found Mr. Eastwood at home, and 
 much pleased was he to find that he was to 
 have his own way about Harry. It was ar- 
 ranged that for the future the boy should 
 leave school at twelve o'clock, go home for 
 his dinner, and spend the rest of the day at 
 Mr. Eastwood's. 
 
 When Harry was informed of this arrange- 
 ment, his delight knew no bounds. The boy 
 loved his drawing for its own sake, without 
 a thought beyond the present pleasure ; but 
 now he began to dream of all the fine things 
 he would do when he was earning money as 
 an artist. His mother should make no more 
 dresses ; his father should cease to be a rail-
 
 HARBY'S PERPLEXITY. 241 
 
 way guard ; while as for the toys, bright 
 sashes, and white frocks that were to be 
 provided for May, half-a-dozen little girls 
 could not have used them all. 
 
 Mr. Eastwood was very proud of his 
 pupil's progress, which was really very rapid ; 
 for, besides his decided talent, Harry had 
 the yet more precious gift of industry. He 
 did not care how hard he worked, allowing 
 himself no idle time ; but it did not hurt 
 him, as he got plenty of fresh air in his daily 
 wnlks to Kensington, and was very happy in 
 his new life.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A MEMORABLE CONVERSATION. 
 
 j|WO years passed away, and the 
 greater part of a third, and things 
 remained unaltered in the Rivers' 
 family. Harry was now fifteen, a tall, 
 strong lad for his age, working harder than 
 ever under Mr. Eastwood. 
 
 It was a bright warm day in July, and 
 Mrs. Rivers was laying by her work care- 
 fully for May was restless, and she thought 
 she would take her out for a little fresh air 
 when her servant came upstairs and told 
 her that there was a gentleman at the door 
 asking to see the rooms she had to let ; for 
 one of her lodgers had just gone away. She 
 
 242
 
 HARBY'S PERPLEXITY. ' 243 
 
 went down at once, followed by May, who 
 liked to see all that was to be seen. 
 
 The gentleman proved to be a person she 
 knew very well by sight Mr. Godfrey, a 
 young clergyman, who had not long before 
 been appointed one of, the curates of the 
 church which the Rivers attended. He rec- 
 ognized her too, for she was a regular at- 
 tendant. 
 
 " I think," said he, in a pleasant voice, 
 " that we are not quite strangers. I have 
 seen you and your little girl at St. Marga- 
 ret's, have I not?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; and you are Mr. Godfrey, I 
 think? My husband knows you; he is in 
 the choir, though he cannot attend regu- 
 larly ; but Mr. Lawrence is kind enough to 
 overlook that, as he knows he cannot help 
 it." 
 
 "Is that Mr. Rivers your husband? I 
 know him a little already, then, and should 
 like to know him better. He has a most 
 beautiful voice." 
 
 "He has, sir, and is so very fond of 
 music."
 
 244 HARRY'S 
 
 " I called to-day, seeing a hill in your 
 window, Mrs. Rivers. I waut lodgings in 
 this neighborhood, as it will be much more 
 convenient to me to be near my work. And 
 I want them immediately ; I should like to 
 come in to-night if I could." 
 
 Mrs. Rivers showed him her tv unoccu- 
 pied rooms, and he declared hinrj^li quite 
 satisfied with them ; but the rent, he said, 
 was beyond his means. 
 
 " Not that they are too high," he added ; 
 " for they are so nicely furnished that I am 
 sure they are quite worth it, but they are 
 too high for me. I must try somewhere 
 else." 
 
 " Could you wait until evening, Mr. God- 
 frey, before looking elsewhere ? I don't like 
 to settle anything without my husband's ad- 
 vice, but I am quite sure that he will agree 
 with me that we had better let you have the 
 rooms for what you offer than keep them 
 empty. It is a bad time of the year to let 
 lodgings, and you will most likely be a per- 
 manent tenant."
 
 HAEEY'S PEEPLEXITY. 245 
 
 " Yes ; but, you see, I must find a lodging 
 before night, for my present landlady has let 
 the rooms I am leaving." 
 
 " Well, sir, Frank will be home before 
 five, and he will be going to evening service, 
 so if you are to be there, that will not be too 
 late, will it ? For I am quite certain he will 
 be satisfied." 
 
 " That will do very well indeed, thank 
 you. By the way, Mr. Rivers sometimes 
 has a tall intelligent-looking lad with him ; 
 is he one of your family ? " 
 
 " Our son Harry. He is studying under 
 Mr. Eastwood, the artist, and they say he is 
 very clever." 
 
 " Oh, I know Eastwood very well indeed. 
 Is your son the pupil he is always talking of ? 
 He thinks very highly of him. I hope he 
 and I may be good friends, I like his appear- 
 ance so much. He has a good, honest, intel- 
 ligent face." 
 
 After a few more words, Mr. Godfrey 
 went away, and Mrs. Rivers proceeded to 
 get her rooms ready for their new tenant.
 
 246 HARRY'S PEEPELXITY. 
 
 Harry and his father came home at about the 
 same time, and heard of Mr. Godfrey's visit, 
 and her agreement with him. 
 
 "You were quite right, Mary. He will 
 be a quiet, pleasant lodger, and we should 
 be very foolish not to take him in. I shall 
 see him after service ; can you come with 
 me, Mary? " 
 
 " I am afraid I cannot ; but Harry can. I 
 got very little work done to-day, and there 
 is a dress promised early to-morrow." 
 
 "Can you come, Harry? Come along, 
 then, for it is too hot to walk fast, so we had 
 better go at once. We shall have time for a 
 walk afterwards, if you care to come." 
 
 " Indeed I do ; and so does May. I may 
 as well bring her with me. If she gets tired 
 I can carry her a bit.*' 
 
 " Bring her by all means ; but she is get- 
 ting too much of a young woman to be car- 
 ried now eh, May blossom ? " 
 
 " That's not my name now, papa. Dame 
 Trot is my new name. Harry has made a 
 picture of me, with a peaky hat, and shoes
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 247 
 
 with such high heels and big buckles, and he 
 calls it Dame Trot. So I shall trot upon my 
 own feet, shan't I, Harry ? " 
 
 " Certainly, Dame Trot, if you prefer it. 
 Let me see to your hat, dear. Mamma, do 
 come I Never mind that tiresome dress, but 
 come with us." 
 
 " I wish I could. I really think I might 
 manage to go to church with you, if you will 
 promise not to mind me afterwards, but to 
 go for your walk." 
 
 " We promise," said Frank, smiling. 
 "Come at once, or we shall be too late." 
 
 " They were soon on their way to the 
 church, whose sweet-toned bell was giving 
 notice of the evening service. Frank went 
 to his place in the choir, and his wife and 
 son listened for his voice in the singing. It 
 happened that there were but few of the 
 choir present that evening, and when the 
 hymn was sung, it seemed to those two as if 
 the voice they loved were singing it alone. 
 It was that beautiful hymn, " Lead, Kindly 
 Light," and as the words, and the conversa-
 
 248 HABBY'S PBRPLEXITY. 
 
 tion about them with his father, were im- 
 pressed very strongly upon Harry Rivers by 
 circumstances which followed that quiet 
 church-going, I shall give it here in full, in 
 case my readers may not be acquainted with 
 it: 
 
 " Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom 
 
 Lead Thou me on ; 
 The night is dark, and I am far from home, 
 
 Lead Thou me on. 
 
 Keep Thou my feet ; I do not ask to see 
 The distant scene ; one step enough for me. 
 
 I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou 
 Shouldst lead me on; 
 
 I loved to choose and see my path ; hut now 
 Lead Thou me on. 
 
 I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
 
 Pride ruled my will: remember not past yean. 
 
 So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it stfll 
 
 Will lead me on 
 O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 
 
 The night is gone, 
 
 And with the morn those angel faces smile 
 Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile." 
 
 Harry listened, his whole soul filled with 
 the beauty of the music; but the words
 
 HABBY'S PEBPLBXITY. 249 
 
 seemed to him strange and unnatural. He 
 looked into his father's face, and thought, 
 " In what perfect harmony his feelings and 
 the words he is singing seem to be." Then 
 he 'glanced at his mother ; her quiet, earnest 
 countenance seemed a reflection of her hus- 
 band's. 
 
 "They understand it," thought Harry, 
 "but I don't. I cannot understand any 
 one's feeling like that. ' One step enough 
 for me ' not to * ask to see my future 
 path ! ' oh no, I like to see it ; to think of 
 the time when I shall be a well-known 
 artist, like Mr. Eastwood, earning money 
 enough to keep my mother in her proper 
 place, and to give May all she can wish for. 
 Should I work so hard if I did not see so 
 plainly before me the reward of my work ? 
 fame, perhaps ; the opportunity of seeing 
 all the wonders of art Rome, Florence. 
 Oh no, I could not get along without ' see- 
 ing my path ' at all." 
 
 He was so absorbed in these and similar 
 thoughts, that the service was over and hia
 
 250 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 mother gone, and still he sat there thinking, 
 with May beside him, wondering to see him 
 BO abstracted. Presently his father came 
 and touched him on the arm ; Harry started 
 up and they left the church together. 
 
 *' Don't you want to see Mr. Godfrey, 
 father?" 
 
 "I have seen him in the vestry-room." 
 "I think Harry was asleep," said May, 
 laughing, " only his eyes were open." 
 " Were you asleep, Harry ? " 
 " No, Dame Trot, only thinking." 
 The streets were crowded and noisy, so 
 that further conversation was impossible 
 just then; but soon they entered one of 
 the parks, and having found a quiet spot 
 with a vacant seat in it, Harry and his 
 father sat down to rest, letting May run 
 about to amuse herself. 
 
 " What were you thinking of in church 
 this evening, Harry? You were so ab- 
 sorbed that I could not help observing it." 
 " I was thinking of the hymn." 
 "The one we were singing? Well, it ia 
 * beautiful hymn ; don't you think so ? "
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 261 
 
 " Yes, certainly beautiful but " 
 
 " But what ? Go on, my boy. We fire 
 both so busy, Harry, that we see less of 
 each other than I could wish, but it would 
 be a bitter grief to me if I thought that you 
 had any difficulties any thoughts, which 
 you would not speak of to me. And you 
 frowned so this evening that I felt sure 
 something was puzzling you." 
 
 " Well, yes, father! I was puzzled by that 
 hymn. Do you know it off by heart ? " 
 
 " No, but I have the book here." 
 
 Mr. Rivers opened the hymn-book and put 
 it into his son's hands. 
 
 " There it is. Now, my son, what is the 
 puzzle ? " 
 
 " Why, all of it, father. Is it possible, is 
 it good, that any one should feel like this ? 
 You sang it as if you felt it, and mamma 
 looked as if she understood it too. But I 
 don't feel like that at all ; and it seems im- 
 possible that I ever should." 
 
 " I dare say it does. You are young yet, 
 Harry, and untried ; this is the expression of
 
 252 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 the feelings of one who has been tried, who 
 has suffered, and learning that suffering ia 
 sent to teach us." 
 
 " But tell me, father, do you really feel 
 like that ? as if * one step ' is enough to 
 see, and that you are quite content to take 
 your life as it comes, without thinking or 
 planning for the future? for that is what it 
 all means, if I understand it rightly. Why, 
 I am always planning for the future ! You 
 know how hard I work. Do you think I 
 could go on with it if I did not look forward 
 to the time when you will all be proud of 
 me ? when, perhaps, I shall be a rich man, 
 able to make you all happy ? " 
 
 Frank Rivers sighed slightly. 
 
 " Yes," said he, " I had plans and hopes 
 like these too, long ago." 
 
 " And were they wrong ? that's what I 
 want to know." 
 
 "Well, I'm not very good at talking, 
 Harry; some of these days we'll get Mr 
 Godfrey to answer that question better than 
 I can. But suppose now, that instead of
 
 HABRY'S PERPLEXITY. 253 
 
 work that you like, and that holds out a 
 prospect of fame and wealth, you were tied 
 to work that you could not like, that was 
 quite unlike anything you were brought up 
 to ; what would you do then ? " 
 
 Harry pondered the question for a while. 
 " I don't know," he said ; " I never thought 
 of it. Why do you ask me ? " 
 
 " Because I want to show you that though 
 your conduct is so good for I know it is 
 good, Harry, and that you work hard 
 your motives, by your own account of them, 
 are not what they ought to be." 
 
 " Is it wrong, then," said Harry, very 
 warmly, " to wish to get on in the world 
 to wish to raise myself and those I love ? Is 
 it wrong to work hard, to make the most of 
 powers that God has given me? Surely, 
 father, you don't mean that this is wrong ? " 
 
 " No, I do not indeed ; far from it." 
 
 " Then what do you mean ? I don't un- 
 derstand at all." 
 
 " You have not answered my question yet, 
 you know. Suppose, as I said before that
 
 264 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. ' 
 
 circumstances should compel you into some 
 way of life that you did not like, and in 
 which you were not cheered by the hope of 
 rising to wealth and honor, what would you 
 do?" 
 
 " But why should I imagine such a thing? " 
 asked Harry, half laughing. 
 
 " The world is full of changes as great as 
 that ; but my motive in putting this question 
 is only to show you that the motives you tell 
 me you are guided by are not the best mo- 
 tives. They are useful only when your duty 
 and your inclination run on the same rails. 
 Now that proves that they are not the best 
 motives not the highest, and the highest 
 are the only true ones that will help you to 
 do right when it is unpleasant." 
 
 "And these highest motives, father 
 what are they ? " 
 
 "You know them, Harry; you learned 
 them at your mother's knee long ago." 
 
 " But I have forgotten," said Hariy slow- 
 ly. " I thought I was doing my duty, and 
 that you were satisfied with me."
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 255 
 
 " And so I am, my dear boy. Neither 1 
 nor any one else has any fault to find with 
 your conduct. But I don't want your good- 
 ness to be what I call fair-weather goodness ; 
 so I want you to look into your own heart, 
 remembering that ' the heart is deceitful 
 above all things,' and if we don't examine it 
 some day we shall find that we know nothing 
 of what is in it at all. You know whose ex- 
 ample you are to follow, Harry. Don't, in 
 all your hurry of work and interest, forget 
 the simple, true lessons your dear mother 
 taught you when you were a little fellow, 
 no bigger than May is now. Rise as high as 
 you may, don't forget that the highest life is 
 the life that is most Christ-like; that the 
 meanest duty done for his sake because it 
 is the work he puts into our hands, to be 
 done for him is the highest work; that 
 the work most admired by the world, if done 
 simply to please ourselves, is not duty, 
 * splendid sin,' as some writer says. And 
 then, if ever the time comes to you, as it 
 does to most people, that your duty and
 
 256 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 your inclination pull different ways, this 
 motive, and this only, will give you strength 
 to stick to your duty, and let inclination 
 
 go." 
 
 " It seems impossible," Harry said, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 " What seems impossible, my son ? " 
 
 " What you spoke of following His ex- 
 ample living a Christ-like life. Father, 
 don't be shocked ! what I say sounds worse 
 than it is ; I am not used to talking about 
 such things, and cannot make my meaning 
 plain." 
 
 " I can quite understand that. I have such 
 a horror of getting into a way of talking re- 
 ligion, it seems to me as if our best and holiest 
 feelings begin to seem unreal if we discuss 
 them much, and perhaps I have gone too far 
 the other way, and not talked enough to you, 
 my dear boy. But as we have such a quiet 
 opportunity now, let us have a good talk 
 while we are about it ; and don't be afraid of 
 shocking me. I once stood where you stand 
 now, and I don't forget it. Be frank with
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 257 
 
 your father, Harry who knows but I may 
 be able to help you ? " 
 
 ** I am sure you could, if I could say all I 
 feel but that seems impossible the right 
 words won't come. One thing is you said 
 just now we were to follow Christ's example. 
 Now, he was God. He could do as he 
 liked." 
 
 " But did he ? " said Mr. Rivers, earnestly. 
 " Did he do as he liked ? did he live to please 
 himself? or did he, who only of the race of 
 man had the power to choose the rank in life, 
 the way in life to which he should be born, 
 did he choose a pleasant, easy life, and an 
 honorable place in the world ? No ; he was 
 born among a conquered, subject people, and 
 even among them he chose his lot among the 
 poor and lowly. Why, Harry, if you think 
 of it, his life was one long example of the 
 very thing I've been saying to you. For did 
 he not spend thirty years in doing such work 
 as came in his way, so quietly and as a mat- 
 ter of course, that the very people he lived 
 among seemed to have had no idea that he
 
 258 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 was anything more than ' the carpenter's son' ? 
 And do you suppose that the work or the life 
 was congenial to him ? " 
 
 "No," said Harry, "I see that. Then, 
 father, why did he do it ? why did he choose 
 to live like that ? People would have thought 
 a great deal more of him if he had come as a 
 great king." 
 
 " But would they have loved him so well ? 
 Now, Harry, we have come to the heart of 
 the matter. Listen well while I try, in my 
 blundering way, to explain it. If he had 
 come as a great king, how could he have 
 been an example for struggling, hard-work- 
 ing people, such as I am, for instance ? But 
 he lived much such a life of toil, poverty 
 and obscurity as I live ; therefore I know 
 that in such a life I may please God as he 
 did ; at least, I mean that if I fail to please 
 God it is my own fault, not the fault of my 
 condition in life. Then, too, when the 
 weather is bad and I am overtired, and in- 
 clined to be down-hearted, I know that he 
 knows what that feels like he sat on
 
 BARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 259 
 
 Jacob's well, being weary he bore it all, 
 and why ? Because he loves us, because he 
 would have us know that he loves us, that 
 he knows and cares and is truly one of us, 
 and one with us our loving Elder Brother. 
 Who that knows this grand truth, and be- 
 lieves it heartily, but must feel that work 
 done for him is the highest work, as I said 
 before, whether in itself pleasant or unpleas- 
 ant ? Think of aU he did for the love of 
 us, and do your work for the love of him." 
 
 " I always thought we were to love him 
 because he died for us, father ; that's what 
 mamma always said." 
 
 " Assuredly ; but his death was but the 
 crowning act of his life. In it there is no 
 example for us ; he died for our salvation, 
 and we, as you don't need to be told, can 
 save neither ourselves nor any one else ; here 
 we can only adore him with full hearts. 
 But, for example, we must look to his life 
 of patient, quiet self-denial and self-sacri- 
 fice ; of meek obedience, ' fulfilling all right- 
 eousness,' ' working the works of his Father
 
 260 HABBY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 while it was day, because the night was 
 coming when no man could work.' Oh, 
 Harry! when the motive is love to Christ 
 Jesus the Saviour, the meanest toil is 
 sweetened, and the obscurest life ennobled. 
 But you are quite right in putting his death 
 first, for without it his example would have 
 been of little use. As well might he tell a 
 dead man to get up and walk without giving 
 him life first, as to tell us to follow his ex- 
 ample while we are dead in our sins." 
 
 " We live because he died ? " 
 
 "And rose again; that is the complete 
 truth. We die in his death, and are buried 
 with him in baptism so that in his resur- 
 rection we rise to a new life. And this new 
 life we live in him and to him, not in our 
 own strength, or to ourselves." 
 
 Harry sat^ silent thinking it over ; and the 
 lather said no more, seeing that the boy was 
 struck by what had passed. At last, raising 
 his head suddenly, Harry said, "But the 
 hymn, father ; the hymn goes farther than 
 this. I can understand what you have been
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 261 
 
 saying now, but not that hymn. Must I try 
 to feel like that ? For it does seem as if I 
 never could." 
 
 " Leave that to time, my boy. No good 
 is ever done by trying to force ourselves to 
 feel what we don't really feel or understand. 
 I don't mind promising you that you will 
 understand this hymn better one of these 
 days ; time was when it would have puzzled 
 me as much as it does you, and now why, 
 I feel as if it had been written for me." 
 
 " Do you really, father ? " 
 
 " Really ! I believe your mother has told 
 you our story, has she not ? " 
 
 " Oh, long ago ; that time when I met my 
 grandfather." 
 
 " You know, then, how hard I tried to 
 find some opening which would give me a 
 chance of keeping your dear mother as I 
 hoped to keep her when -I married her ; but 
 you don't know, and I trust and pray you 
 never may, the feelings with which I saw 
 hope after hope fail me, until I was fo"ced 
 to go into my present situation to kep b<s
 
 262 HABRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 from actual want. How I rebelled at first ! 
 No hope of rising, no scope for my abilities, 
 no use for my education. Ah, Harry, I soon 
 saw that I had been a proud rash fool, per- 
 suading your mother to disobey her father, 
 and never doubting that I could do wonders 
 for her. And see, now, how God has led 
 me, step by step, until I learned what I 
 really am ; punished me for my fault, yet in 
 wrath remembered mercy ; for, in spite of 
 poverty and hard work, we have been very 
 happy together, my poor Mary and I. Do 
 you wonder now that I should be content 
 simply to do the day's work, not looking 
 beyond ? Mine is a hazardous calling, you 
 know, If I were to keep^ thinking what 
 would become of Mary and you children if 
 I were killed, as so many of us railway 
 servants are, I should be a very miserable 
 man. But 'one step,' you see, is always 
 clear ; and God sees it all. Come, Harry, it 
 is later than I thought, and there is going to 
 be a shower, I am afraid. Find May, and 
 let us be going."
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 263 
 
 Father and son had been so occupied in 
 their conversation that they had not observed 
 the threatening aspect of the sky : a sudden 
 cloud had come up, with lurid edges, and 
 summer lightning played against its dark 
 curtain. May came running back to them at 
 Harry's call, and they set off towards home 
 at a good pace, May running between them, 
 holding a hand of each. Presently down 
 came the rain great heavy drops, coming 
 down straight from the black cloud ; then a 
 clap of thunder was heard, and May got a 
 little frightened. 
 
 " I wish we were at home," she said ; " I 
 don't like the thunder, papa." 
 
 " Well, pet, we are pretty near home now ; 
 we have walked well. Your nice little boots, 
 Dame Trot, are getting sadly splashed ; but 
 we can't help that, can we ? I wish we had 
 brought an umbrella ; but who would have 
 thought it would rain so soon ? " 
 
 Harry took no part in trying to amuse his 
 little sister's thoughts ; he was too full of 
 what his father had been saying to him
 
 264 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 Poor fellow, he was destined to remembei 
 that conversation as long as he lived, and 
 that walk through the splashing rain, and 
 the streets crowded with people who had 
 been surprised like themselves, and were 
 hurrying home. They reached the crowded 
 crossing which led to their home. 
 
 " Go first, Harry ; it is very slippery, and 
 I will carry May across." 
 
 As he spoke, Frank Rivers lifted his little 
 girl in his strong arms, and Harry ran on be- 
 fore him. Harry had reached, or almost 
 reached, the other side, when there was a 
 sudden rush of people a cry of " Out of 
 the way there!" "Stop that horse!" 
 Then came a scream, which rose distinct 
 and shrill above the uproar. Harry looked 
 round; a horse and carriage were dashing 
 off at speed, men running hither and thither, 
 women standing terrified, and his father and 
 May were lying on the wet ground. Frank 
 Rivers lay upon the stones of the crossing, 
 May a little way off. She had not ceased 
 screaming since she fell, but her father had 
 never moved.
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 265 
 
 Harry rushed to his side ; the crowd closed 
 round them, and there was no lack of kind 
 and ready help. A workman, throwing 
 down his tools, raised poor Frank's head, 
 but a glance showed him, and, indeed, all 
 present, except his young son, that no help 
 could avail him. 
 
 Harry seemed quite stunned. " Who did 
 it ? who did it ? " he kept saying, wildly. A 
 gentleman who had just pushed his way 
 through the crowd laid his hand upon the 
 boy's shoulder and said, 
 
 " I am afraid I did it. My horse took fright 
 at the lightning and ran away, and this poor 
 fellow had something in his arms, and did not 
 see how near we were. Who is he ? " 
 
 " It is my father. Oh, sir, send for a doc- 
 tor ; perhaps he is not badly hurt." 
 
 " I am a doctor myself. Where do you 
 live ? The people are pressing on me so that 
 I can see nothing." 
 
 " Close by ; No 10, Upper Castle Street." 
 
 The physician had knelt down beside 
 Harry and looked at his father ; now he stood
 
 266 HABBY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 up, and said gently and gravely, " Go you to 
 the child, my boy ; I will see your father 
 carried home." 
 
 Poor Harry was still so stupefied that he 
 obeyed without a word, and went into the 
 shop into which May had been carried. 
 There he found that the person who had 
 lifted her up, and was takiug care of her, 
 was their lodger, Mr. Godfrey. He had been 
 at the door of their house, getting his trunks 
 carried in, when, seeing that an accident had 
 happened, he ran to give what help he could, 
 and, to his great sorrow, recognized little 
 May. 
 
 " She has ceased screaming," he said to 
 Harry, " and I cannot find that any bones are 
 broken, so I hope she is not much hurt. My 
 dear boy, you ought to go and warn your 
 mother." 
 
 " I know I ought, but I am stupid, I think ; 
 it was so sudden. Is this Mr. Godfrey ? Oh, 
 sir, come with me ; I don't know how I am 
 to tell my mother." 
 
 " Surely I will go with you ; come at once, 
 there is no time to lose."
 
 HABEY'S PERPLEXITY. 267 
 
 They ran all the way ; the door was open, 
 and Sally, the little servant, was keeping one 
 or two strangers from going up-stairs. " No 
 one shall go frightening my missus until 
 Master Harry comes himself," cried Sally; 
 ** ah, here he is. Oh, Master Harry, what 
 has happened ? " 
 
 But Harry could not answer. He led his 
 companion up-stairs, and into the room where 
 his mother was waiting for them ; she had 
 heard a noise down-stairs, but thought it was 
 only the men carrying in Mr. Godfrey's 
 trunks. 
 
 But when she saw Harry's face, no words 
 were needed to make her aware that some 
 terrible misfortune had occurred. Harry 
 looked at her, and whispered, "Mother, Mr. 
 Godfrey will tell you ; I can't, " 
 
 And he ran out of the room and down- 
 stairs not knowing whither he went. 
 
 They were carrying his father into the 
 house as he came down ; the light from the 
 hall lamp fell upon his face, and Harry knew 
 that he was dead. He caught the doctor's
 
 268 HABBY'S PEBPLBXITY. 
 
 hand, and looked up into his face without a 
 word. 
 
 " Where can we lay him down ? " asked 
 the physician, turning away sadly from tho 
 appealing look. 
 
 Harry led the way to the bedroom on the 
 first floor, and the men laid their burthen 
 down upon the bed, and stole quietly away. 
 Dr. Eustace had before this ascertained that 
 nothing could be done, but now, seeing poor 
 Harry standing there, gazing blankly on his 
 father's face, he once more felt the pulse and 
 laid his hand upon the heart. Then he 
 turned to Harry, " My poor fellow, you 
 see there is nothing for me to do here. 
 Where is the child ? I may be of some use 
 to her." 
 
 " My father is dead, then ? " said Harry, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 The doctor answered gently, " He is dead ; 
 he was killed on the spot." 
 
 " Are you quite sure, sir? " 
 
 " Perfectly sure ; put your hand here, over 
 his heart, and you will doubt no longer."
 
 HABBY'S PERPLEXITY. 269 
 
 Harry obeyed; but press his trembling 
 hand upon that once loving heart as he 
 might, there was no answering thrill of life, 
 and upon the clearly cut features there was 
 now a solemn calm, which told even Harry's 
 inexperienced eyes that life was gone. 
 
 " You know it now ? " said Dr. Eustace, 
 as the boy desisted from his vain efforts. 
 
 " I knew it before, only I tried not to be- 
 lif?ve it." 
 
 He stood silent for a moment, and then 
 said, simply, " My mother, my poor mother ! " 
 
 "Let us go to her," said Dr. Eustace, 
 " and see about the child." 
 
 They went up-stairs ; May had been 
 brought home, and was lying on the little 
 sofa : the room was full of strangers, with 
 sympathizing faces, watching Mrs. Rivers as 
 she stood beside the child, silent and appar- 
 ently calm. Dr. Eustace and Mr. Godfrey 
 sent them all away, and when the room was 
 cleared Mr. Godfrey said, in a low voice, 
 
 " I have told her ; but I do not know that 
 bhe understood me."
 
 270 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 Mary Rivers looked round, showing a 
 white, scared face, and said, 
 
 " I understood you, Mr. Godfrey. You 
 told me that Frank is dead."' 
 
 " I don't like this," whispered Dr. Eustace ; 
 " she is too calm and quiet stunned, poor 
 thing. But the child looks bad, I must see 
 to her." 
 
 As he spoke he began with skilful touch 
 to remove May's frock, and Mrs. Rivers came 
 and helped him. He was busied about the 
 child, for some time, and she still helped 
 without a word. Presently he stepped back 
 to Harry and said to him, 
 
 " If this goes on, your mother will be ill ; 
 speak to her, make her listen to you : if 
 possible, make her cry, it may save her 
 life." 
 
 Harry started, came forward, and took 
 his mother's hand in his. He led her out of 
 the room, she following him passively like a 
 person walking in sleep. Harry looked into 
 her wide open, quiet eyes, and was more 
 frightened than if she had shown the most
 
 HA KEY'S PERPLEXITY. 271 
 
 violent grief; but terror gave him wisdom to 
 know what was the best thing to do : he led 
 her down-stairs and into the room where his 
 father lay. When she saw her dear Frank 
 lying there pale and still, with the brown 
 curly hair, that she was so proud of, all wet 
 and mud-stained, her unnatural composure 
 gave way ; she sank upon her knees beside 
 the bed, crying out piteously, 
 
 44 Oh, my Frank ! my darling, my darling I" 
 
 And then tears came. Harry wept too, 
 poor fellow, and knelt beside her ; the two 
 poor things clung to each other and sobbed. 
 It was a long time before Mrs. Rivers was 
 again calm" enough to speak, and then Dr. 
 Eustace explained to her how it happened ; 
 he told her that her husband had been killed 
 instantaneously, suffering no pain. 
 
 44 1 can thank God for that," she said, " be- 
 cause no death could be sudden to him ; he 
 was always ready, trusting in his Saviour." 
 
 Harry thought of his father's words that 
 evening only that evening not two hours 
 ago, and it seemed so long ago! "Do you
 
 272 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 wonder that I am content to do the day's 
 work, not looking beyond it ? that ' one step 
 is enough ' for me ? " 
 
 Now his day's work was done ; the " one 
 step " he did not ask to see had been from 
 this scene of trial and toil into the brightness 
 of his Father's home and the presence of the 
 Elder Brother, whose footsteps he had so 
 humbly and faithfully endeavored to follow. 
 He heard his mother murmur, " Gone home 
 gone home first, Frank." Not one repin- 
 ing word passed her lips ; she knew it was no 
 chance, no accident, but as surely the loving 
 call of Christ as if she had heard his voice 
 saying, " It is I ; be not afraid." 
 
 Presently Harry heard her ask, " Is my 
 little girl much hurt, Dr. Eustace ? " 
 
 " Oh, there are no bones broken," he an- 
 swered, but not very cheerfully. " I'm afraid 
 she has some suffering before her ; however, 
 I shall be a better judge to-morrow. Don't 
 send for any other doctor, Mrs. Rivers ; I will 
 attend your little girl very carefully. I am 
 more shocked than I can say to have been
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 273 
 
 the cause of so much sorrow, though, believe 
 me, I was not driving carelessly." 
 
 Then he said " Good-bye," and went 
 away. Mr. Godfrey, who would not leave 
 them alone in their sorrow, kept watch with 
 them all that dreary night, while they sat by 
 poor little May's uneasy pillow, and mourned 
 sore for the husband and father who had 
 been so suddenly taken from them. He 
 afterwards said that he learnt what rsl sub- 
 mission to God's will meant fro Mary 
 Rivers diiring that long night-watch.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A HAED STRUGGLE. 
 
 jHEN Mary Rivers had sufficiently 
 recovered from the terrible shock 
 of her husband's death to be able 
 to turn her thoughts to the future, she held 
 a consultation with her two friends, Mr. 
 Godfrey, whom she never could look upon 
 as a stranger since that awful night when 
 he had been like a brother to her, and Mr. 
 Eastwood, who was very anxious to know 
 what effect his father's death would have 
 upon Harry's prospects. 
 
 She told them that she was most desirous 
 that Harry should continue his studies, as 
 had been intended. She hoped that by en- 
 
 274
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 275 
 
 gaging one or two girls to assist in her work 
 she could so increase her dressmaking busi- 
 ness, that with the help of her lodgers' pay- 
 ments she could pay the rent of her house 
 and support herself and May, and help tc 
 support Harry ; but she thought that per- 
 haps Mr. Eastwood could put his pupil in 
 the way of partly supporting himself. 
 
 " That I surely can, Mrs. Rivers," said 
 Paul Eastwood, much relieved to find that 
 he was not to lose his pupil. " Harry draws 
 so well now that I am sure he can undertake 
 to illustrate cheap works and periodicals. 
 He won't earn much, for I cannot allow him 
 to give much time to it ; it would be a thou- 
 sand pities to interrupt his regular studies 
 just now." 
 
 " I don't want him to do much," said Mrs. 
 Rivers, " nor should I allow him to be de- 
 layed even a little in his studies if I could 
 help it. But my health is so uncertain, and 
 my poor little May requires so much care, 
 that I am afraid Harry must do something 
 for himself."
 
 276 HABEY'S PEEPLEXITT. 
 
 " Perhaps," said Harry, slowly, " I had 
 better try to get work that would support 
 me altogether." 
 
 " Now, Mrs. Rivers," cried the artist, 
 eagerly, " don't allow that. I assure you it 
 would be an actual sin. If Harry works on 
 steadily for three or four years more, with a 
 year in Rome, which I mean to manage for 
 him, he will be an independent man, able to 
 repay a hundredfold all that you have done 
 for him. And it would be cruel wicked, 
 to ask him to throw away such talents as 
 his." 
 
 "Still," began Mr. Godfrey, "Harry must 
 be guided by his own sense of right." 
 
 " No, no ! " broke in Mary Rivers hastily. 
 " Harry must obey me ; he always has hith- 
 erto, and I am sure he will now. It was his 
 father's wish that he should continue his 
 studies and be an artist, and I shall not 
 allow any change to be made." 
 
 So the matter was arranged. Harry 
 worked, if possible, harder than ever, in 
 order to earn money without interrupting
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 277 
 
 his studies; but his earnings were very 
 small. Mrs. Rivers toiled unceasingly, but 
 it became a hand-to-hand struggle with pov- 
 erty. May took up so much of her tune, 
 too ; the poor child had received some ter- 
 rible injury to her spine, and Dr. Eustace 
 gave them but little hope that she -would 
 ever be better. She had never been able to 
 stand or walk since that dreadful night : her 
 pet name, " Dame Trot," was never heard 
 now, for her little pattering feet that had 
 earned it were quiet enough. 
 
 The months went by ; all Mary's little 
 savings were spent by degrees to eke out 
 her earnings. May was no better, and her 
 mother's gentle face grew sadly pinched and 
 careworn. Mr. Godfrey (who still occupied 
 her first floor, and was very kind to them 
 all) once or twice tried to speak to Harry 
 on the subject of his mother's anxiety, but 
 he found to his sorrow that the lad, once so 
 frank and gentle, listened to him in dogged 
 silence, and would not answer. He was ex- 
 ceedingly grieved at this ; for he had become
 
 278 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 much attached to Harry, and did not under- 
 stand this change in his manner. During 
 the first year after his father's death the 
 boy was very much with his new friend, 
 and Mr. Godfrey had learned to love him. 
 
 Once, when Frank Rivers had been nearly 
 two years dead, Mr. Godfrey happened to 
 meet Mr. Eastwood, and his mind being full 
 of Harry's changed looks, he said to him, 
 " How is Harry getting on now, Eastwood ? 
 Is he doing well ? " 
 
 Paul Eastwood looked vexed. 
 
 " He would do better," said he, " if you 
 would leave off putting foolish ideas into 
 his head. Now, just ask yourself the plain 
 question What can he do towards sup- 
 porting his mother and sister ? Suppose he 
 left me this very day, and went in search 
 of better paid work, do you suppose he 
 would get it ? You know better. There 
 are hundreds of young men trying to get 
 work and failing. And by simply perse- 
 vering for a few years longer, Harry will 
 be able to do what he likes."
 
 , - SARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 279 
 
 '* What makes you think that I put fool- 
 ish ideas into his head ? " inquired Mr. God- 
 frey, quietly. 
 
 " Oh, I know you have spoken to him 
 once or twice, and I have had hard work to 
 quiet him again. You are 'really doing him 
 an injury, you know. The first year after 
 his father's death he got on splendidly, but 
 latterly I can't account for it except by 
 supposing that your words are weighing on 
 his mind he does not get on at all, though 
 he seems to work harder than ever. Several 
 of his illustrations have been refused, and 
 his work in the studio is not what it used 
 to be." 
 
 " I am very sorry to hear this," replied 
 Mr. Godfrey, "but I assure you it would 
 not be right not to call his attention to his 
 mother's state; she will certainly break 
 down under her struggle. I am a poor 
 man, as you know, and with all the will, 
 I have not the power to help her. The 
 poor little girl, too, she suffers terribly, 
 and lies there for hours alone; a patient,
 
 280 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 good little May she is ; you never hear a 
 complaint from her." 
 
 "But what can Harry do?" said Mr. 
 Eastwood. " I would help if I could, but 
 have never saved ; it all goes as it comes, 
 and Owen's education is costing me so 
 much. But if you are wanting Harry to 
 give up his profession, I suppose you know 
 of some opening that will make him inde- 
 pendent sooner than it would?" 
 
 "No, I do not," answered the minister. 
 " But I should think work might be found. 
 He is seventeen, well educated, and " 
 
 " Well, now, Godfrey, I have only one 
 word to say. You are not doing him any 
 good by unsettling his mind and making 
 him unhappy. You keep him back in his 
 profession, and yet you are obliged to con- 
 fess that you don't know what else he 
 could do." 
 
 " No ; but in his place I should try to 
 find out. However, you need not be afraid 
 that I shall interfere, for Harry is not so 
 frank with me as he used to be ; indeed, 
 latterly I hardly see him."
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 281 
 
 "So much the better," said Paul East- 
 wood, laughing. " You just leave him to 
 me, and you'll see him a great man one of 
 these days ! " 
 
 And the artist hurried away, not caring 
 to hear what his friend might say in reply 
 to this remark. 
 
 Poor Harry! he was indeed so unhappy 
 at this time that it was no wonder that his 
 beloved studies did not flourish. His con- 
 science was ill at ease, and, try as he might, 
 he could not succeed in stifling the pain. It 
 did not need that Mr. Godfrey should point 
 out to him his duty ; he knew it too well for 
 his own comfort. Nay, he knew something 
 that Mr. Godfrey did not know, which made 
 his path even plainer before him. For when 
 he recalled, as he did frequently, in spite of 
 himself, that interview with his grandfather, 
 and the old man's voluntary promise of as- 
 sistance should he ever remind him of the 
 service then rendered him, Harry could not 
 blind himself to the fact that until he had 
 asked him for employment and been refused,
 
 282 ELAJSRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 he had not the smallest excuse for taking 
 comfort in Mr. Eastwood's assertions that to 
 procure employment that would pay was im- 
 possible. 
 
 Yet, to give up all his bright hopes! all 
 his proud future of fame and wealth I to tie 
 himself to the dull plodding work of a count- 
 ing-house ; to offend, perhaps, his kind friend 
 and teacher; never to see Rome and the 
 treasures of art of which he had so long 
 dreamed. No, he could not do it ; it was im- 
 possible that such a sacrifice could be re- 
 quired of him. As Mr. Eastwood said, " In 
 a few years you will be able to support half- 
 a-dozen mothers and sisters." In a few 
 years ! Yes, but as often as Harry arrived 
 at this point in the silent argument between 
 himself and that " still small voice " that 
 would not hush, the terrible idea that in a 
 few years he might have neither mother nor 
 sister to support would present itself. He 
 could not but see that May was fading day 
 by day, needing fresh air, better food, and 
 better nursing than could be procured for
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 283 
 
 her. His mother, too, looked over-worked 
 and heart-broken. 
 
 These thoughts kept gnawing at his 
 heart ; what wonder that his hand was no 
 longer steady, nor his eye true ? 
 
 The remembrance of his father, too, that 
 used to spur him on to greater diligence, was 
 now bitter to him. What would that wise 
 and loving father say to him, could they 
 meet now ? Harry knew well enough what 
 he would say ; the memory of that last con- 
 versation haunted him perpetually. Was he 
 not called now, and that in no uncertain 
 voice, to a duty that was distasteful to him ; 
 and had not his father been right in assert- 
 ing that the motives he was guided by were 
 not the ones to lead him to follow duty when 
 it went against inclination ? The example of 
 Christ, too, of which his father had spoken, 
 was not forgotten. For though Harry had 
 not altogether yielded his heart to the loving 
 control of his Saviour, yet his conscience was 
 active, and the Holy Spirit was pleading 
 with him day by day, leading him towards a
 
 284 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 higher life of full consecration and simple 
 faith in Christ. There were times when 
 these thoughts became so masterful that 
 Harry flung down brush and palette, and 
 hurried out of Mr. Eastwood's studio, half 
 determined to see his grandfather at once, 
 and appeal to him to keep his promise ; but 
 then the remembrance of all he must give 
 up came back, and he could not do it. 
 
 But Harry Rivers was the "son of many 
 prayers," like St. Augustine of old, and he 
 was not deserted, or allowed to silence his 
 conscience and be at peace. As time went 
 on he became more and more unhappy, and 
 grew so thin and pale, that his mother was 
 quite alarmed for his health. 
 
 One hot day in July, when May had passed 
 a restless night, and, wearied out, was sleep- 
 ing on her little couch in the sitting-room, 
 Harry came in, and stood looking at her with 
 such a troubled face that his mother left her 
 work to come and lay her hand upon his arm, 
 and whisper gently, 
 
 " Are you ill, dear Harry ? I cannot bear 
 to see you like this."
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 285 
 
 Harry had become so silent and moody, so 
 unlike her bright, pleasant boy, that she 
 asked the question timidly. Not that he had 
 ever been rough to her, but that she felt that 
 she did not understand him. 
 
 " I am not ill, mother." 
 
 "Then what is it, Harry? My darling, 
 there is something wrong with you I have 
 seen it this long time. Will you not tell me 
 what it is ? You used to share every feeling 
 with me ; now you shut me out ; and yet I 
 see that you are unhappy." 
 
 " Yes, unhappy, miserable ! " said Harry., 
 with a smothered sob. " And I deserve ta 
 be so. I am a selfish, cowardly wretch, and 
 I know it ! How can I be happy ? " 
 
 "My dear boy, you frighten me. What 
 do you mean ? " 
 
 " Do not ask me just now, mamma. There 
 is a great battle going on in my heart, and 
 you cannot help me in it. It must soon 
 come to an end ; I cannot bear it much 
 longer." 
 
 Mary looked at his gloomy face ; she did
 
 286 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 not choose to force him to confide in her, 
 and yet it grieved her to the heart that he 
 should suffer, and she not be able to help 
 him. 
 
 "A battle," she said, " and I can do noth- 
 ing ! Yes, Harry, there is one thing I can 
 do, and will ; I shall pray that you may be 
 guided right." 
 
 " Do, mother ! I need guidance ; no, I will 
 not say what is not true. Mother, I know 
 what I ought to do well enough, but I have 
 no heart to do it." 
 
 " Then I will pray that you may have 
 strength given you. Oh, Harry ! " she ex- 
 claimed, tears coming into her eyes, " you 
 must not turn quite away from me, though I 
 am not wise to advise you, as your dear 
 father was." 
 
 44 My father ! Ah, mother ! I have ao 
 doubt what he would say to me. Don't cry, 
 my own dear mammie ! I will tell you soon, 
 but it is better I should not tell you now. I 
 think I shall soon make up my mind now ; 
 don't forget what you said you would do for
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 287 
 
 Mary kissed him, and went away, She 
 went quietly to her own room, and shut her- 
 self in for awhile. Harry knew how she was 
 employed. He covered his face with his 
 hands, and sat there, fighting his battle once 
 more. It was a sore struggle ; much sorer 
 than ordinary people can understand. 
 
 For we must remember that those to whom 
 God has given even a small measure of the 
 wondrous gift that we call genius, not only 
 feel things with more than ordinary acute- 
 ness, but to them the power of following the 
 bent of their peculiar talent is almost 
 necessary, quite necessary, indeed, to their 
 happiness. So, in judging Harry Rivers for 
 his hesitation, it must be borne in mind that 
 the sacrifice required of him was no ordinary 
 one. It was not merely changing one mode 
 of life which he liked for another which he 
 might not like so well ; it was much more 
 like giving up his life altogether. If he 
 were not an artist, it seemed to him little 
 matter, as far as he was concerned, what he 
 was or what work he had to do.
 
 288 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 There he sat, outwardly so quiet that he 
 did not disturb May's light slumbers, but in 
 his heart raged a battle on which God's 
 angels may have looked with solemn interest. 
 For it was a turning-point in his life. Two 
 paths lie before him ; which will he follow ? 
 One, dark and difficult, leads by the cross to 
 the crown ; the other, bright and easy, leads 
 whither? 
 
 May moved uneasily in her sleep, and 
 Harry went and stood beside her ; she was 
 smiling, he saw, and a pink flush came into 
 her cheeks, so that she looked like his little 
 Mayblossom again. But in a moment more 
 she woke with a start, looked hastily round, 
 and believing herself alone for he was a 
 little behind the couch put her hands 
 over her eyes, and burst into a little weary, 
 woeful cry, that went to his heart. 
 
 " May I my little May I you must not do 
 this. What is it, darling ? " 
 
 " Oh, Harry I are you there ? I was only 
 dreaming." 
 
 " And what did my poor little May dream
 
 HABRY'S PEEPLEXITY. 289 
 
 about, that made her smile first and then 
 cry?" asked Harry, fondly, drawing her 
 hands away from her face. 
 
 " Never mind, dear ; it's only nonsense," 
 she replied, trying to smile, though the 
 great tears were running down her cheeks. 
 " Can you stay with me, and make some 
 pictures, Harry ? I do like that so much. 
 Make me some new ones, and tell me a 
 story about them, and then when I am 
 alone they will be as good as a new book 
 to me." 
 
 "But first tell me why you cried. I 
 must know that, May." 
 
 May blushed a little. 
 
 " It was very silly of me," she said. ** It 
 was only because I found it was only a 
 dream. But I would rather not talk about 
 it, indeed. Mr. Godfrey says we must try 
 to be content, and I know talking about it 
 will only make me long the more for it." 
 
 "Heaven knows, you don't grumble, May. 
 I often wonder how you bear so much with- 
 out a word of complaint."
 
 290 HAEBY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 " You dou't see my heart. I do grumble 
 sometimes, though I try not. But, oh, 
 Harry I when Mr. Godfrey talks to me about 
 heaven, and all that our dear Lord bore that 
 we might go there, it seems such a shame to 
 think so much of a little pain, or even this 
 want of breath, which is worse than any 
 pain, I think." 
 
 "But, May, tell me all about the dream 
 that made you cry." 
 
 " Ah, that dream I it comes so often. I 
 dreamt that I was lying here, looking up at 
 the ceiling, which seemed heavy, as if it 
 somehow kept me from breathing. And 
 the room was very hot it is, you know, 
 when the sun is on the windows. But 
 while I looked, the ceiling began to go up 
 and up and it went higher and higher, 
 till it melted all away into the clear blue 
 sky. Oh, so clear and so blue, and so high 
 up away from me ; and one pretty little 
 white cloud sailing about over my head. 
 Then I heard a murmur, like the sound in 
 the great shell Owen Eastwood gave me,
 
 HAEEY'S PEEPLEXITY. 291 
 
 oiily ever so much louder ; and the air was 
 cool and blew upon my face and stirred my 
 hair softly ; and I breathed without pain 01 
 trouble; and was able to sit up and look 
 round ; then I saw that I lay on the sea- 
 shore, on my bed, you know, but it stood 
 on the sand beside the sea. Oh, so lovely ! 
 just for one moment. But I cannot de- 
 scribe it, for I always awake then." 
 
 Her voice, which had been so eager while 
 telling of her beautiful dream, broke down 
 suddenly, and May cried again she could 
 not help it. Harry kissed her, but said 
 nothing. 
 
 " And oh, Harry ! the worst of it is, I 
 cannot get this dream out of my head. I am 
 always thinking of it, and longing for it to 
 turn into real earnest. I long to breathe 
 that cool fresh breeze and see that blue sky 
 and beautiful sea, and I get no rest because 
 of this foolish longing." 
 
 " Do you think it would make you well, 
 May?" 
 
 " No. I shall never be well ; I know Dr.
 
 292 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 Eustace thinks so. But the breeze ! oh, it 
 would be so cool and pleasant." 
 
 " Have you told mamma of this dream, 
 darling ? " 
 
 " Yes, but she cried ; and so I have never 
 spoken of it again. Don't say anything to 
 her of it, Harry. I know it is quite impossi- 
 ble, and, indeed, I know it is wrong to think 
 of it." 
 
 " Not wrong, my poor little May very 
 natural." 
 
 "But that doesn't make it right, you 
 know." 
 
 " Well, but I mean that I don't see how 
 you can help it, dear." 
 
 " Oh yes I can, sometimes ; and I ought 
 always." 
 
 "How, May? tell me." 
 
 " Oh, you know, Harry, better than I do," 
 the child answered, with a bright smile. .** I 
 think of Him the Lord Jesus. All he bore 
 for us ; and now he sends me this to bear for 
 him. When I remember this it seems easy 
 to be patient, but then I am foolish and for-
 
 HABBY'S PEBPLEXITY. 293 
 
 get sometimes. But Mr. Godfrey says that 
 if I pray very often for help, he will certainty 
 make me able to remember always.'' 
 
 Back into Harry's mind flashed the re- 
 membrance of his father's earnest face on 
 that last evening, lighted as it had been with 
 loving faith ; May's pale little face bore the 
 same look now. He sat silent, thinking of 
 that evening's talk and as he thought, 
 light dawned. This was the work given ; 
 not pleasant, not what he would have chosen 
 for himself, but a plain call of duty, to which 
 he could no longer shut his ears. Now, 
 then, the question was, what was his ruling 
 motive ? Was it love for Him who sent the 
 trial, or simply love of self ? For a moment 
 he felt terribly weak and helpless, but in this 
 struggle he lifted up his heart for help. 
 " Thou who didst die for me, help me to 
 live to thee. Help me now, for I am weak 
 and selfish. Thou hast showed me thy will ! 
 help me now to do it." 
 
 " What are you saying, Harry ? I don't 
 quite hear you."
 
 294 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. / 
 
 " I did not speak, dear ; I was thinking of 
 something," Harry answered, taking up her 
 little Bible as he spoke. 
 
 " Now I will read you a chapter, May ; for 
 I must go out." 
 
 " Must you ? " cried May, rather disap- 
 pointed. "I thought perhaps you had a 
 holiday." 
 
 " No. I have some work to do, and I must 
 do it at once," he answered, gravely. 
 
 He opened the Bible at the place where 
 her marker lay, and read. His mind was 
 full, and the words had no sense in them for 
 him at first, But these verses roused him : 
 
 "If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, 
 and cast it from thee. 
 
 " If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, 
 and cast it from thee." 
 
 " God helping me, I will," said Harry, 
 half aloud. May started and asked, 
 
 " What do you say ? " 
 
 " Nothing, dear, Good-bye for a while." 
 
 He went over to his old cupboard, and 
 after a short search found his grandfather's
 
 'S PERPLEXITY. 295 
 
 card, gather yellow and dirty, but safe 
 enough. Then he went in search of his 
 mother. 
 
 " Mamma, do ) ou know how May is long- 
 ing to be by the seaside ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but what can we do ? I should 
 lose all my employers if I left London ; and 
 how could I send her alone even if I could 
 afford it, which I cannot ? I can barely pay 
 my way." 
 
 " But how much or rather how little, 
 could you and she li v ) upon somewhere by 
 the seaside ? " 
 
 " Dear boy, what is the use of talking of 
 that ? " 
 
 " It does no harm, .oac ther ; please tell me. 
 How much must I earn to give May her 
 wish?" 
 
 Mrs. Rivers sighed, foj- she was well aware 
 that Harry's earnings as an artist would 
 come too late for May. 
 
 "Eighty pounds a yetffj or even a little 
 less. But indeed, dear, I iviight as well say 
 five hundred, the one is as ^xissible as the 
 other."
 
 296 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY 
 
 Harry lingered yet one moment to ask in 
 a low voice, " Would she get well if she had 
 her wish, do you think ? " 
 
 "No, dear Harry, she would no doubt 
 suffer less ; but we shall never see her well 
 again. My pretty May," she went on sadly ; 
 "it would be selfish to be sorry that her 
 sufferings will not be for long." 
 
 " Does Dr. Eustace say that ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Harry stood quite still for a moment, and 
 then went quickly away ; his mother heard 
 the street-door shut in a moment more. 
 
 The battle was over ; the victory won. 
 Harry was going direct to his grandfather's 
 place of business, and had determined, if 
 that hope failed him, he would go to the 
 manager of the Great Western station, and 
 try if, for his father's sake, they would em- 
 ploy him. 
 
 It was only two o'clock ; there was plenty 
 of time before him. He strode along with a 
 color in his cheek and a light in his eye 
 which had long been absent ; it was some- 
 thing gained to have made up his mind.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 HAEEY'S VIOTOEY. 
 
 fT was not the first time that Harry 
 Rivers had walked to his grandfather's 
 business house in the city, for during 
 the unhappy times I have been speaking of 
 he had gone there more than once, and 
 had even looked into the long narrow room, 
 fitted up with many desks and high stools, 
 where the clerks worked for many hours 
 each day. On former occasions he had 
 turned away and gone back to his painting ; 
 but this time he went resolutely into the 
 outer room, and said to a porter whom he 
 met there, " Is Mr. Marshall here to-day? " 
 " Yes, he is here ; but he is very busy ? " 
 " I want to see him," said Harry.
 
 298 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 " Have you an appointment with him ? " 
 
 " Not exactly ; but if you will take him 
 this card, and say that the person to whom 
 he gave it has called, I think he will see 
 me." 
 
 The man took the soiled and yellow card 
 and glanced at it ; then after a moment's 
 hesitation, he went into the comtMg-house, 
 and showed it to Mr. Frere, the chief clerk. 
 
 " There is a young gentleman in the outer 
 office, sir, wanting to see Mr. Marshall ; he 
 desired me to give him that card, and say 
 that the person he had given it to was here. 
 What had I better do ? " 
 
 " Show me the card. Mr. Marshall's own 
 card, I see. Well, Jennings, I will see him ; 
 it won't do to disturb Mr. Marshall if it can 
 be helped." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," said Jennings, in a tone 
 of relief. 
 
 Harry could hear all this as he stood in 
 the outer office, and he smiled to himself as 
 he thought, " What order the old gentleman 
 has them in; they are all afraid of him."
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 299 
 
 Many people in his place would have been 
 discouraged, but I think Harry had inherited 
 a little of his grandfather's sturdy spirit, for 
 he only felt more anxious to see him, and 
 quite determined not to tell his business to 
 any one else. Mr. Frere came out into the 
 office, and said, civilly, 
 
 " Have you any business with Mr. Mar- 
 shall ? for this is his time for writing his let- 
 ters, and his orders are that, except when 
 accessary, he is not to be disturbed." 
 
 " I have business with him," replied Har- 
 ry. "He gave me that card some time ago, 
 and promised to see me whenever I called." 
 
 "What name shall I say? " inquired Mr. 
 Frere. 
 
 " My name is of no consequence ; I mean 
 I would prefer not to give it." 
 
 " Could you not leave a message with me, 
 or call again later ? " 
 
 " No ; I cannot wait. I shall not keep Mr. 
 Marshall long, but I want to see him at 
 once." 
 
 Mr. Frere looked at the card and then at
 
 300 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 Harry. " The truth is," said he, " that Mr 
 Marshall will be seriously annoyed if we dis- 
 turb him without sufficient cause. If you 
 will not give your name, or some idea of 
 your business with him, I cannot allow Jen- 
 nings to go to him." 
 
 Harry considered for a moment, then he 
 said, " I do not wish my name mentioned to 
 Mr. Marshall until I do so myself; but I 
 think you will send in my message when you 
 know who I am. My name is Rivers." 
 
 Mr. Frere glanced quickly at him. He was 
 an old man, and remembered Frank Rivers 
 well when he was a clerk in that very count- 
 ing-house. Harry was very like his mother 
 too ; Mr. Frere saw that, now he looked 
 more attentively at him. 
 
 " Jennings, here is the card ; say only that 
 a young gentleman wishes to see him OD 
 private business." 
 
 Mr. Frere went back to his desk, and Jen- 
 nings passed out of Harry's sight through 
 the long narrow room into the one beyond. 
 Presently he came back.
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 301 
 
 " Mr. Marshall will see you, sir." 
 
 Mr. Marshall's private room was separated 
 from the counting-house by a small ante- 
 room, through which Harry went with a 
 beating heart ; then a green baize door 
 swung open, and he was in the presence of 
 his grandfather. The old man, who looked 
 not a day older than when they last met, was 
 sitting before a large writing table, and a 
 pile of letters lay before him. He looked 
 sharply at Harry, pointing to the card, 
 which lay on the table. 
 
 " When did I give you that ? Some time 
 ago, I suspect. I've forgotten all about it, 
 and yet I remember your face, I think." 
 
 "It is five years since you gave me that 
 card, Mr. Marshall. I had saved a pocket- 
 book of yours which was stolen in Regent 
 Street by a pickpocket, and you promised that 
 if I ever applied to you for employment you 
 would inquire about me, and assist me if you 
 found that you approved of me." 
 
 " I thought I knew your face," answered 
 Mr. Marshall, in the well-remembered gruff 
 voice.
 
 302 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 But Harry observed that he kept looking 
 at him as if something in his appearance 
 were puzzling him. 
 
 " Yes, you're the boy. I remember it very 
 well. You refused to take the reward I off- 
 ered, and there were papers of value in the 
 pocket-book. Well ! what's your name, and 
 what do you want me to do for you ? " 
 
 " Sir, my father is dead ; he was killed by 
 an accident in the street two years ago. My 
 little sister who was with him was injured in 
 some way at the time ; she has never had the 
 use of her limbs since, and, we fear, never 
 will. My mother has hitherto supported 
 herself and my sister, and partly supported 
 me, by dressmaking, but " 
 
 " And what do you mean, a stout fellow 
 like you, by living on your mother's earn- 
 ings ? " asked Mr. Marshall, sharply. 
 
 " It has been her own wish indeed, it is 
 without her knowledge that I am here to- 
 day. I have been studying under Mr. Paul 
 Eastwood, the artist ; they say I have talent, 
 and it was my father's wish my niothei
 
 HARBY'S PERPLEXITY. 303 
 
 would bear anything rather than allow me 
 to give up. But my sister is getting worse, 
 requiring constant care, and my mother is 
 breaking* down under the burden. I want 
 to earn enough to send them to the sea- 
 side and support them there ; the child pines 
 day and night for fresh air. If you can put 
 me in the way to do this, sir, you will be 
 doing a kind action." 
 
 " Young man I never do kind actions. I 
 make a rule of that. What fools call charity 
 is a weakness to which I am not subject. 
 But I am a perfectly just man, so far as I 
 can see ; and I owe you something. But 
 your earnings cannot possibly support three 
 people just yet." 
 
 " My mother said she could manage with 
 eighty pounds a year, or even less ; but there 
 is my own support to be thought of too." 
 
 " A hundred and twenty pounds a year 
 would barely do it. Now, if I put you into 
 my counting-house, which is the very utmost 
 I could do for you, my younger clerks get 
 only ninety."
 
 304 HABBY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 " Oh, sir I " Harry exclaimed, eagerly, " try 
 me ! please do. I could work after office 
 hours at something else. I could manage on 
 very little myself, I know." 
 
 " I must consider. What is your name ? 
 you have not told me that yet." 
 
 Harry colored, but answered boldly, 
 
 " I will only ask you to remember that I 
 apply to you merely as the gentleman whose 
 pocket-book I saved, and who seemed to 
 think I had, for that reason a claim upon 
 him. My name is Henry Marshall Rivers." 
 
 The old man started, turned away for a 
 moment, then looked him in the face and 
 Baid, in exactly the same quick tone, 
 
 " My grandson I presume ? " 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Marshall." 
 
 Then there was a short silence, during 
 ^nich Harry's heart beat fast with anxiety. 
 At last his grandfather looked up again and 
 said very deliberately, 
 
 " Henry Marshall Rivers, I told you just 
 now that I am a just man, and I mean to act 
 justly by you. You are not to blame for
 
 HABBY'S PERPLEXITY. 305 
 
 your parents' faults, and the fact that you 
 are my grandson which I don't doubt, for 
 you are like your mother certainly makes 
 your claim upon me stronger than if you 
 were a perfect stranger. I shall put you 
 into my office as junior clerk the place 
 your father held. And I shall pay you one 
 hundred and fifty pounds a year from the 
 first, but you will remain at the same salary 
 without any increase, such as my other 
 clerks get, until you have worked out the 
 additional payment I am making you now. 
 
 Moreover, you must distinctly understand 
 that you are to expect nothing more from 
 me. Your mother ceased to be my child 
 when she ceased to obey me, and I never 
 forgive. I give you a week from this day to 
 make your arrangements, and I shall pay 
 you a month's salary in advance." 
 
 He cpened the drawer of his writing- 
 table *nd took out the very brown pocket- 
 book, Harry thought, which he had saved 
 from the thief. From this he took twelve 
 sovereigns and six shillings, which he pushed 
 across the table to Harry.
 
 306 HABBY'S PEBPELXITY. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Rivers, I hope you under- 
 stand me. You are no more to me hence- 
 forth than any other clerk in my office." 
 
 " I understand, sir. I have no choice but 
 to accept your offer, which, indeed, is more 
 than I dared to expect, and I am not un- 
 grateful, though " 
 
 " Though what ? speak out, boy." 
 
 " Though I wish you had not spoken as 
 you did of my mother, sir. And I trust 
 you believe me that she knows nothing of 
 my coming here to-day," said Harry, firmly 
 but respectfully. 
 
 Mr. Marshall looked keenly at him, and 
 then said, 
 
 " You are right, boy. I beg your pardon ; 
 I ought not to have spoken as I did to you. 
 As to gratitude, you owe me none. I owed 
 you something, and have now paid it. The 
 mere money you will repay me. Good- 
 morning, Mr. Rivers ; this day week at half- 
 past nine, I shall tell Mr. Frere to expect 
 you." 
 
 Harry bowed and left the room. When
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 307 
 
 he found himself again in the street his 
 mind was so occupied with the scene that 
 had just passed that he wandered along, not 
 thinking whither he was going. Long cus- 
 tom made him bend his steps to Mr. East- 
 wood's neighborhood. Presently he roused 
 himself. 
 
 " Where am I ? " he thought. " Oh, well, 
 I had better go on. It will be the worst of 
 all better get it done." 
 
 So he went to the artist's house. As 
 usual, Paul Eastwood was hard at work, 
 and his loud, cheery voice greeted him. 
 
 " Here you are at last, youngster. I was 
 wondering what had become of you. I 
 have news for you, Harry, that will make 
 you open your eyes. I think you have been 
 for some time not quite yourself wanting 
 a change and " 
 
 " And I'm going to have it," said Harry , 
 making a somewhat feeble attempt to laugh. 
 " Mr. Eastwood, don't be angry with me. 
 I've made up my mind at last. I must work 
 for my mother and sister I must, indeed/
 
 508 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 " Now, youngster, are to we have all that 
 bothering old argument over again ? When 
 a fellow has such talents as you have, his 
 clear duty is to make the most of them. 
 We have talked it over a hundred times, 
 and always come to that conclusion. There 
 
 I won't hear another word about it. By- 
 and-by you'll have enough to support a 
 dozen mothers and sisters, if you had 'em, 
 as I've told you often enough. Let them 
 have patience for that." 
 
 " Patience ! Heaven knows they have pa- 
 tience enough. It is not their doing. Mr. 
 Eastwood, May is dying pining away for 
 want of fresh air and I must give her 
 what I can't help hoping may save her life. 
 You know what a struggle it must be to me 
 
 please don't make it harder by being 
 angry with me. You have no idea how un- 
 happy I have been." 
 
 The artist flung down brush and palette, 
 turning a half-vexed, half-pitying look upon 
 Harry. 
 
 " And do you really think, you foolish fel-
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 309 
 
 low, that you can possibly hope to earn what 
 will keep your mother and sister, to say 
 Dothing of yourself? " 
 
 " I have been very fortunate. I have got 
 a place at a hundred and fifty pounds a 
 year." 
 
 " A hundred and fifty ! The boy's 
 raving." 
 
 " It is more than I have any real right to, 
 I know, but I can easily explain it to you." 
 
 Mr. Eastwood took up his brush, and 
 made a poor pretence of working while 
 Hariy told him the story of his mother's 
 marriage, and his own adventure with his 
 grandfather. 
 
 " And he'll give you a hundred and fifty 
 pounds a year ! mighty generosity ! Why, 
 Harry, in a few years you would be earning 
 four times that sum. I cannot bear to think 
 of your giving it up. It vexes me, boy it 
 really vexes me." 
 
 " It is more than a vexation to me," said 
 Harry, sadly. " It is like giving up the sun- 
 Bhine and going to live in a dark cell. But
 
 310 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 I dare not go on. Think of my mother 
 slaving night and day, and May panting for 
 every breath she draws, and dying before 
 my eyes ; how can I hesitate any longer ? " 
 
 Mr. Eastwood sighed. 
 
 "It is an awful pity," he said; "but I 
 suppose you are right." 
 
 " Oh, thank you ! thank you a thousand 
 times for those words ! Now that you say 
 that I can be happy again." 
 
 " That's more than I can then. I had 
 such news for you this morning, too. I was 
 frantic for you to come in and hear it. I've 
 got a commission to copy one or two pictures 
 
 in Rome for Lord , and I meant to have 
 
 taken you with me. I shall be there more 
 than a year probably. It would have been 
 the making of you, Harry." 
 
 " Rome ! " exclaimed Harry. 
 
 Yes, Rome the dream of his life ; and it 
 had been nay, still was in his power to 
 go there. It was a bitter struggle, and Mr. 
 Eastwood, watching his agitated face, half 
 hoped that after all he might not lose hia
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 311 
 
 pupil. But Harry was not trusting in his 
 own strength, and therefore he was safe. 
 With a deep breath, and in a very low voice, 
 he said. 
 
 " I shall never forget your kindness, Mr. 
 Eastwood never! Where will Owen live 
 while you are away ? " 
 
 " Owen is going to a German college for a 
 time, and then means to become an engineer. 
 It's all he's fit for poor Owen ! " 
 
 "I shall be very lonely," said Harry. 
 " Well, I must be going now. I shall come 
 for my easel and things when I know where 
 I shall lodge." 
 
 " Come as often as you can. Be off now, 
 you young scamp ! you've spoiled my paint- 
 ing for this day. Don't look so pitiful, my 
 boy," he added, kindly. " I know you're 
 doing right ; but it goes to my heart to leave 
 you." 
 
 Harry went home now. He felt very sad 
 at first, but as he got nearer to Castle Street 
 he dwelt upon May's delight, and that 
 thought cheered him very much. The day
 
 812 HABRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 had passed away now, and in his agitation 
 Harry had utterly forgotten his dinner ; nor 
 did he even now remember it until his 
 mother greeted him with, 
 
 "Why, Harry, you never told me you 
 were not coming home to dinner, and I kept 
 some for you for ever so long." 
 
 ** I declare I forgot all about dinner, mam- 
 ma. What have you done with it ? for now 
 I think of it I am hungry." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you have had 
 no dinner ? " 
 
 " None at all." 
 
 " Nothing since breakfast, Harry ? Why, 
 you must be actually starving! I will get 
 tea ready at once, and you must have some 
 cold meat. What have you been doing ? " 
 
 Even as she spoke it struck Mary Rivers 
 that her boy looked more like himself than 
 he had done of late. There was a quiet 
 brightness in his face, and his voice had lost 
 the half-sullen sound whicji had grieved hei 
 so much. Mr. Godfrey, who was sitting 
 beside May's couch, reading to her, remarked
 
 HABBY'S PERPLEXITY. 313 
 
 the change too. He rose now, and ther 
 Harry saw him for the first time, and though 
 he blushed a little he seemed pleased. 
 
 " I'm glad you are here, Mr. Godfrey, for 
 I know you will be glad to hear some news 
 that I have for May. May, my darling, you 
 are going to have your wish, and more than 
 your wish ; you are going to the country 
 to the sea-side. And you shall have mamma 
 sitting beside you all day long, with nothing 
 to do but to make you happy." 
 
 May looked at him with brightening eyes 
 and cheeks. 
 
 "Oh, Harry! is it real? Shall I really 
 
 go?" 
 
 " Oh, Harry ! " exclaimed Mrs. Rivers. 
 "What wild idea is this? Why do you 
 raise hopes that can't be realized?" 
 
 " Harry would not do that," said May, 
 with a look of perfect trust at her brother. 
 
 " Mother, do you think I'm such a brute ? 
 No ; every word of it is true. I have got a 
 place as a clerk in an office, and I am to 
 have a hundred and fifty pounds a year
 
 314 HAEEY'S PERPBLXITY. 
 
 You said eighty would do, and now you can 
 have more." 
 
 Mrs. Rivers looked quite frightened. 
 
 " I don't understand you," she said. " It 
 is more than you could get, Harry." 
 
 " Sit down, my dear, distrustful mother ; 
 do you think I have joined a gang of house- 
 breakers, that you tremble so ? No, indeed. 
 1 just went to my grandfather, sent in the 
 card he gave me long ago don't you re- 
 member, mamma, and how I wanted to burn 
 it ? Well, he saw me, and remembered all 
 about the pocket-book, promised me a place 
 in his office, and when he heard who I was 
 said he would give me a hundred and fifty 
 from the first. And there's my first month 
 in advance so now perhaps you will be- 
 lieve in it." 
 
 And he put the money into her hand ; but 
 Mrs. Rivers let it all fall upon the ground, 
 while she threw her arms round Harry and 
 burst into tears. 
 
 Oh, my darling ! you have given up your 
 bright prospects in life for this ! You would 
 have been a great artist, and now "
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 315 
 
 "And now," interrupted Mr. Godfrey, 
 coming to Harry's assistance, "And now, 
 dear Mrs. Rivers, he will be a much greater 
 thing than a great artist, though I know he 
 must feel the sacrifice. It is no small one, 
 Harry I know that. But tell your mother, 
 are you not happier now than you have been 
 for a long time ? " 
 
 " Mother, I have been miserable ! " ex- 
 claimed Harry, earnestly. " I can't talk 
 about it don't ask me any questions, but 
 just believe me. Mr. Godfrey is right. 
 Let me do what I know I ought to do." 
 
 " But, Mr. Godfrey," said little May from 
 her sofa, "is it selfish of me to let him do 
 this?" 
 
 "Not at all, my dear, for you have no 
 choice," answered Harry. "It is done, and 
 I've told Mr. Eastwood. The matter is 
 settled." 
 
 "And it won't be for long," said the 
 child quietly. 
 
 " Now," said Mr. Godfrey, who was qui- 
 etly employed in gathering up the money
 
 316 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 Mrs. Rivers had dropped, " I hear Sally 
 bringing up my dinner, and I shall run awaj 
 with Harry, Mrs. Rivers, and make him eat 
 something ; for you are all so excited that 
 among you he will be starved. How much 
 ought there to be, Harry ? Reckon it, and 
 see if I have found it all." 
 
 " Oh, I forgot all about it. Yes, it is all 
 here, thank you, Mr. Godfrey. Oh dear! 
 I'm so hungry ! " 
 
 " Come and dine with me, then ; we will 
 leave your mother and May to compose 
 themselves with a cup of tea," said Mr. 
 Godfrey, laughing, as he took Harry by the 
 shoulders and pushed him gently out of the 
 room before him. 
 
 Before they slept that night it was ar- 
 ranged that May and her mother should go 
 to Dawlish, in Devonshire. Mr. Godfrey's 
 mother lived there, which would be a great 
 comfort to Mrs. Rivers ; and Dr. Eustace 
 had more than once wished that May could 
 be removed to a warmer climate. A very 
 busy week ensued, but they were fortunate 
 in finding the owner of the house very glad
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 317 
 
 to take it off their hands, as house rent had 
 risen a good deal since they had become his 
 tenants. Mr. Godfrey had to look out for 
 new lodgings, and it was arranged that Har- 
 ry should engage a bedroom in the same 
 house, and live with his friend ; an arrange- 
 ment which made him much less lonely than 
 otherwise he must have done. He had the 
 pleasure, too, of taking his mother and sis- 
 ter down to Dawlish, an$ establishing them 
 in their pretty lodgings, in a cottage all cov- 
 ered with roses and jasmine, and facing the 
 sea. It was enough to cheer him in his new 
 and uncongenial life to recall May's face, as 
 she lay on a couch near the window and 
 looked at the sea. The child could not 
 speak, but her face was enough. 
 
 Back to London, with a quiet resolve to 
 do his duty, Harry Rivers came. He was 
 soon quite a favorite with Mr. Frere ; but 
 though of course he frequently saw Mr. 
 Marshall, the old gentleman took no more 
 notice of him than of any other clerk. 
 
 Harry little suspected how closely his 
 grandfather watched him.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A BEIGHT ENDING. 
 
 >HUS passed away the rest of that 
 sultry summer. The winter which 
 followed it was mild and warm, and 
 May seemed to gain strength ; her breathing 
 was quite relieved, and the sad pain in her 
 back tormented her less. Harry saw her 
 occasionally, when Mr. Frere would give him 
 leave to quit the office early on Saturday, 
 and he would spend Sunday with his mother 
 and May. He began to hope that soon his 
 little darling would begin to walk again, but 
 Mr. Godfrey, who had more experience, 
 shook his head, and bid him not dwell upon 
 such thoughts. 
 318
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. d!9 
 
 Then came spring, bringing keen east 
 winds, even in sheltered Dawlish ; and May 
 began to fail again, but very slowly. Her 
 mother and brother ceased to hope that she 
 would be restored to them, yet they thought 
 they might keep her with them for many 
 months more. The end, however, was 
 nearer than they imagined. 
 
 One Friday Harry was in his usual place 
 in the office, hard at work. No clerk in Mr. 
 Marshall's employment got through more 
 work, or did it better, than Harry Rivers. 
 And of this Mr. Marshall was fully aware, 
 little as he seemed to notice him. And one 
 reward of this conscientious conduct was, 
 that the work which had been so distasteful 
 appeared quite interesting now, since he had 
 forced himself to take an interest in doing it 
 well. 
 
 His desk was next the door of the outer 
 office ; at that very desk his father had sat 
 long ago, and " F. Rivers " was cut upon it 
 with a penknife. Harry took it for granted 
 that his father had cut those letters himself,
 
 320 HABRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 and frequently, when no one was near, 
 passed his hand over them, just for the 
 pleasure of touching what that dear father 
 had touched. But just now he was very 
 busy, adding up long columns of figures, 
 when the outer door opened, and Mr. God- 
 frey came hastily in. " Harry," he whispered, 
 " come out here with me for a moment." 
 
 Harry obeyed, turning very pale. "Mr. 
 Godfrey," he said, " May is worse ! I know 
 it." 
 
 Mr. Godfrey put a letter into his hand ; it 
 was marked " Immediate." 
 
 Yes, May was worse, much worse. " A 
 sudden, awful change," his mother wrote ; 
 " you must come to us at once, dear Harry, 
 if you possibly can." Harry was still reading 
 his letter, half stunned, when Mr. Frere 
 came out of the counting-house to ask what 
 was the matter. Mr. Godfrey explained to 
 him. 
 
 " Rivers," said the old clerk, kindly, " Mr. 
 Marshall is in his private room now ; go to 
 him and get leave ; he will be going away 
 directly."
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 321 
 
 Harry went and knocked at the door. 
 
 "Come in. What do you want, Mr. 
 Rivers ? " 
 
 " I have had a letter, sir, to say that my 
 sister is much worse dying, I fear and 
 I want to go to her, if you will allow me." 
 
 " Certainly. You may go at once. Who 
 wrote to you ? " 
 
 " My mother, sir." 
 
 " Have you any objection to show me the 
 letter?" inquired the old man, in exactly 
 the same business-like voice. Harry gave 
 it to him, and waited while he read it. Then, 
 refolding it, Mr. Marshall gave it back, 
 saying, 
 
 "The child seems in a very bad way. 
 You may remain as long as you are wanted, 
 Mr. Rivers." 
 
 Harry bowed and withdrew. He lost no 
 time in hastening to Dawlish; but, to his 
 sorrow, little May did not know him. She 
 lay there quiet, and at ease apparently, but 
 she took no notice of anything. She had 
 been in that state for hours, and the doctor
 
 322 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 thought she would pass away without any 
 further suffering. But poor Harry longed 
 sorely for one word from the dear, patient 
 voice, one look of love from the pretty blue 
 eyes ; and he was not denied this consolation. 
 On Sunday morning the church bells seemed 
 to rouse her ; she opened her eyes suddenly, 
 and asked, " Has Harry come ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I am here, May." 
 
 " Is this you, Harry ? My eyes are so dim 
 that I cannot see you plainly. But I am 
 glad you are come in time to say good-bye to 
 me ; and I wanted to thank you, too, for you 
 have made me very happy here with mam- 
 ma, and I have had so little pain since I 
 came here. Take care of mamma, Harry; 
 don't let her fret." 
 
 Harry made no answer ; he was weeping 
 bitterly. 
 
 The child looked from one to the other 
 with a strange, sweet smile: "Don't cry," 
 she said ; " there is no reason to cry, you 
 know we shall all meet again in heaven, 
 and be so happy, all of us well and strong, 
 remember, and papa, COUH hack."
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 82& 
 
 "Yes, my little May," Harry said, gently. 
 ** It is well for you, and we must try to be 
 content, but it is hard for us." 
 
 " Yet I have been very useless and trouble- 
 some. Oh, Harry ! think that very soon, in- 
 stead of lying here, not able to do anything 
 for anybody, I shall be with Him ! with 
 Jesus and his angels! for though I have 
 been useless and silly, and often cross and 
 impatient, I know that it is all forgiven. 
 He loves us so, he will forget all that, just as 
 mamma does ; for mamma won't even let me 
 say that I was often cross ; she always puts 
 her hand on my lips, and says, ' You are my 
 darling, May.' And I know he will say, 
 * You are my own little child ; I was often 
 sorry for you.' Don't you think, Harry, he 
 loves me as much as mamma does ? " 
 
 Harry could not answer, his voice was 
 choked, but Mrs. Rivers, strong in the 
 mother's love to which the child appealed, 
 spoke at once, "Much better, my darling. 
 Mine is but a human love, weak and power- 
 less? his love is Divine and almighty. He
 
 324 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 loves you better than any one on earth could 
 love." 
 
 " That's what the hymn says the one 
 you said last night. Say it again, mamma." 
 
 Mrs. Rivers began at once 
 
 "Can a mother's tender care 
 Cease toward the child she bare ? 
 Yes, she may forgetful be, 
 Yet will I remember thee. 
 
 Mine is an unchanging lore, 
 Higher than the heights above, 
 Deeper than the depths beneath, 
 Free and faithful, strong as death. 
 
 Thou shalt see my glory soon, 
 When the work of grace is done ; 
 Partner of my throne shalt be, 
 Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me ? " 
 
 " Ah, indeed I do," May whispered softly. 
 "How could I help it? Not enough but 
 soon I shall love better. Mamma, I am so 
 sleepy." 
 
 Then she slept, and waking presently, said 
 she had "lovely dreams all about angels." 
 And when the bells rung out their evening 
 chimes May was with the angels, and with
 
 HARRY'S PEBPLEXITY. 326 
 
 their Lord and hers. Mother and son grieved 
 for their darling, but they knew that theif 
 sorrow was only for themselves. They did 
 not wish her back again in her suffering life. 
 Still they felt very sad and lonely when they 
 returned to London, leaving all that was 
 mortal of their little May lying in the pretty 
 church-yard, within hearing of the sea she 
 had loved so well. 
 
 One morning, some time afterwards, when 
 Mrs. Rivers had returned to London, Harry 
 was just leaving home to go to the office, 
 when his mother stopped him. 
 
 " Harry, dear, don't you think you might 
 return to your studies now? I am quite 
 sure that I could earn enough to support us 
 both in a very poor way, but you would not 
 mind that." 
 
 Harry kissed her. " Yes, mother ! I 
 should mind it very much. In fact, I won't 
 hear of it. Now hold your tongue, ma'am ; 
 I'm going to be a regular tyrant to you, and 
 have my way in everything ; and you shall 
 never work for my living, nor for your owu
 
 326 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 either, as long as I can earn enough for both 
 of us. 
 
 " But, Harry, I cannot bear the idea of 
 keeping you at work you dislike all for 
 me, when I am still young and strong." 
 
 " Not over-strong, mother. I don't dis- 
 like my work either. I did at first, but I 
 really do not now. Besides, I am not losing 
 all my time ; I get a good deal of work, 
 painting, I mean, done in the early morn- 
 ings, and in the evenings too, and, curious 
 to say, I believe I am improving very 
 much." 
 
 " But if you gave up the office 
 
 " Mother, don't tempt me. Even if it 
 were not my duty to provide for you, com- 
 mon honesty would make me remain in the 
 office. I agreed with Mr. Marshall that if 
 he gave me a larger salary at first, I would 
 remain until I had worked it out ; so that 
 settles the question, and I'm glad of it, for 
 you would otherwise coax me into leaving, 
 and then I should feel as good for nothing 
 and wicked as I did before I went there."
 
 HABBY'S PERPLEXITY. 327 
 
 " You are very obstinate, Harry." 
 
 "Very; and you had better give in at 
 once. Now, mother ! ought I not to fill my 
 father's place as far as I can? Don't remind 
 me of the time when I was so selfish." 
 
 " Dear boy, you never were selfish. You 
 are not like your father in face, Harry ; but 
 yet somehow you remind me so much of 
 him sometimes." 
 
 " Mother," said Harry, earnestly, " I had 
 rather hear you say that than be the greatest 
 painter the world ever saw." 
 
 Mr. Marshall had been out of town for 
 some time, but came back that morning. In 
 the course of the day Mr. Frere sent Harry 
 into the private room with some papers ; his 
 grandfather took them in silence, glancing at 
 the black dress. Presently he said, 
 
 " The child died, then ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Harry, in a low voice. 
 Mr. Marshall opened his letters, and Harry 
 was leaving the room, when again looking 
 up, the old man said drily, 
 
 " You'll be going back to your artist life
 
 328 HABBY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 now, I suppose. You have no further object 
 in remaining here." 
 
 " I have my mother still, thank heaven, 
 Besides, sir, you forget I have to work out 
 my extra salary." 
 
 " Ay, I remember all that, but I fancied 
 your memory might fail you. How long do 
 you expect it will take you to work it out ? " 
 
 44 Ten years, if I go on at my present rate 
 without the usual increase." 
 
 "You are right, I think yes, in ten 
 years we shall be quits. But ten years is a 
 long time. You'll be eight-and-twenty 
 then." 
 
 " I shall, sir." 
 
 "After all," said the old man, looking 
 very keenly at him " after all, you are 
 better off, I suspect. Not one artist in a 
 hundred succeeds: the other ninety-nine 
 starve. I dare say you prefer remaining in 
 my employment on that account." 
 
 " No, sir. I believe I should succeed ; and 
 I love it for its own sake." 
 
 " So then, when our bargain ends, you
 
 HARRY'S PEBPLEXITY. 329 
 
 mean to begin life again as an artist, at eight- 
 and-twenty eh ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell what I shall do, Mr. 
 Marshall. I am quite content to leave it till 
 the time comes." 
 
 " Well, I'll give you my opinion, Harry 
 Rivers, if you care to have it. You'll do 
 your duty, whatever that may be. Take 
 these words of praise from one who praises 
 rarely, and who has watched you closely. 
 You may go now," he added, shortly. 
 
 Harry was detained at the office that day 
 until five o'clock, as there was an unusual 
 press of business. On his way home he had 
 to pass the church they attended. The bell 
 was ringing for evening service. He knew 
 his mother would be there, so he went in 
 also ; he seldom had time for church-going 
 on week days now. 
 
 He seated himself just where he had sat 
 on that summer evening years ago, when for 
 the last time he had heard his father's deep 
 sweet voice in the choir. The words of the 
 hymn, and the conversation that had followed,
 
 330 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 came back into his mind very clearly. He 
 remembered how unatural it had seemed to 
 him, and how he had declared that to that 
 state of mind he never could come. And 
 his father had answered, " I don't mind 
 promising you that you will understand that 
 hymn one of these days." Then his own 
 speech that morning to his grandfather came 
 back to him, * I am quite content to leave it 
 till the time comes." His father had been 
 right. He had learned the lesson taught by 
 sorrow and trial ; " one step " was enough 
 for him now, provided that step was in the 
 right direction. 
 
 I might leave my young hero here, and no 
 one would have any cause to pity him, for he 
 had found the peace that the world can never 
 give nor take away. But there was another 
 change in store for him, of which I must now 
 tell you. 
 
 It did not come for two years, during 
 which Harry worked away, both in the office 
 and at his painting. Mr. Eastwood came 
 home from Italy, and found his old pupil
 
 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 331 
 
 established with his mother and Mr. Godfrey 
 in a pleasant small house in Kensington, 
 where Harry had an attic all to himself as a 
 studio ; which made him very happy, but he 
 kept it in such an untidy state that it was a 
 constant source of grief to his mother. Art- 
 ists, perhaps you are not aware, are not ad- 
 dicted to neatness ; they don't like the pro- 
 cess of putting by their implements when 
 they leave off work, nor do they even like to 
 have it done for them, as Mrs. Rivers dis- 
 covered after one or two attempts of the 
 kind, which drove poor Harry to distraction. 
 Mr. Eastwood declared that his old pupil had 
 got on as much during his absence as he 
 would have done had he been at home and 
 still giving him lessons ; and with this en- 
 couragement Harry worked harder than 
 ever. 
 
 But a day came that put an end to this 
 state of things very suddenly and unex- 
 pectedly. Harry was in his usual place in 
 the counting-house, and all was going on as 
 usual, though Mr. Marshall had not arrived
 
 382 HARRY'S PERPLEXITY. 
 
 at his appointed hour. Jennings, the porter, 
 entered with a note for Mr. Frere, on read- 
 ing which that generally staid and quiet man 
 rushed out of the house without his hat, 
 hailed a hansom, and was whirled away 
 without having given any explanation to the 
 other clerks. He was absent for some time, 
 and when he returned it was to dismiss them 
 all to their homes, and to close the counting- 
 house for several days, for their stern but 
 just master was dead. He had died in the 
 night quite suddenly, having gone to bed ap- 
 parently in his usual health. 
 
 Little as Harry had seen of his grand- 
 father, he was both shocked and grieved; 
 and he knew moreover, that his death would 
 be a real sorrow to his mother, who had 
 never quite ceased to hope for her father's 
 forgiveness. He hurried home, that she 
 might hear it first from him, and not from 
 common report. Poor Mary was sadly over- 
 come. 
 
 But imagine her surprise, when, the day 
 after the funeral, her eldest brother, now
 
 HAEEY'S PEBPLBXITY. 333 
 
 the head of the house, came to see her, and 
 to assure her that until that day he had 
 never known Harry Rivers to be her son 
 and his nephew, often as he had seen him in 
 the counting-house. He knew it now from 
 the following words in his father's will 
 they had been added to it about the time of 
 May's death. 
 
 " To my grandson, Henry Marshall Riv- 
 ers, now in my employment as clerk, I leave 
 two hundred pounds a year, to be paid to 
 him by my eldest son. And I release my 
 grandson from his engagement to remain in 
 the service of the firm for ten years from 
 this date. And I wish to make known to 
 my sons that Henry Rivers has won my re- 
 spect and esteem by his upright and honor- 
 able conduct while in my employment." 
 
 This request made Harry a very happy 
 man. Now he could return to the profes- 
 sion he loved, and realize all his brightest 
 dreams, without exposing his mother to 
 hardship and distress. He is now studying 
 in Italy, and his name is becoming well 
 known as a rising artist.