Chapter VI: Part 6

And this was the piece of good news which had sent the poor clerk on his homeward way almost dizzy with joy, so glad that he could not rest until he had got others to share it, though only by the very simple means of a scatter of sugar-plums and cakes!

But Nancy's conversation with her husband had not closed with her promise to take the pledge. There was something else on the woman's mind.

"We've done nothing yet, John Sands, to show that we're not ungrateful to that sailor whom I've been a worritting and abusing ever since he came to the village; and who yet jumped into the water and saved me, just as I was drawn under that fearful wheel. I'll never forget the horror;--I thought all was over with me then!"

"I'd do anything," began the clerk, but Nancy, as usual, cut him short.

"You go home, and get my pretty cuckoo-clock, the clock as was given me on my marriage, and send it over to the Frankses with a letter, a handsome letter; you're a scholar, and can write one as good as a parson. And, mind you,"--a grim, strange smile came over Nancy's features as she added,--"and mind you, don't forget to send the weights, John Sands. Persis told the truth, and I'll never forget it,--a clock can't get on without the weights."

John Sands did not forget to take down the clock that evening, and to send it to the school-house, with a letter written so neatly that it looked like copperplate. It was a fine specimen of composition also, for the clerk could write well, though he could not speak well; and if ever there was a man inspired by grateful joy, that man was the husband of Nancy. He did not, however, in his letter make the slightest allusion to his wife's late bad habits, nor to her intention of taking the pledge; there was a feeling of delicacy on the part of the husband that made him shrink from unnecessarily touching on so tender a subject. But often and often did the clerk mutter to himself on that evening, before he went to his rest, "Didn't I always say it; she was tempted, poor dear, and went wrong, but the metal was always good,--very good!"

XXIV.

The Blind Maiden.

We are now going to change the scene of our story, and, leaving for a while the quiet village of Colme, with its rushing stream and blossoming hedges, turn towards busy, bustling London.

My reader may chance to remember a slight mention made by Sands, in an earlier chapter, of a Jew and his son, of whose conversion Persis and Franks had been the happy instruments more than three years previously. It is to the humble abode of the converted Jew that I will now direct my reader's attention.

In a gloomy kitchen in a lodging-house situated in a low street of London, a poor girl sat, not on a chair, but on a box, for scanty indeed was the furniture in that dark, close room. The carpetless floor was uneven, the paper on the walls half peeled away, the plaster in the ceiling smoke-stained, cracked, and broken in several places. But it was not the aspect of the place that distressed Sophy Claymore; had it been adorned by rich tapestry, and pictures in gilded frames, it would have been all the same to her as far as regarded its appearance, for she was totally blind. Though years had passed since the heavy affliction had come upon her, the poor young woman had never yet become reconciled to the loss of her sight. She longed, she pined to look on the sunbeams once more, to see the flowers, and behold again the faces of men.

And then to Sophy Claymore poverty was a terrible trial. She had not been accustomed to it in her childhood. Sophy, the daughter of a worthless sharper, who had spent lavishly what he had gained wickedly, had known more of pleasure and folly during the first fifteen years of her life than usually falls to the lot of girls in her station. Now she was an orphan, poor, penniless, having hardly the necessaries of life, and owing even those necessaries to the generous kindness of a friend. Isaacs, the converted Jew, though no relative of Sophy, had adopted her as his own child at a time when he was better able to support her, and would not now throw her off, though he had scarcely a crust to share with the poor blind girl.

Then Sophy had sharp pain added to poverty and blindness. Ever since the terrible illness which had deprived her of sight, she had been subject to attacks of rheumatism, sometimes in her limbs, sometimes in her head. As she sat on the box in that low-ceiled room, dreadful shootings of pain from eye and ear and cheek made her ever and anon start and draw in her breath, and then utter a low plaintive moan.

But it was not only these trials, sore as they were, that made poor Sophy's blind eyes overflow with tears, and drew from her that impatient wish that she might lie down and die. Sophy had a wounded spirit as well as a suffering body. She had not the calm rest of that loving faith which has so often made God's children _joyful in tribulation_. She felt very impatient under her troubles, even though well aware that she had partly brought them on herself. Sophy had the fear of God in her heart; but she had as yet but little love, and therefore could hardly keep from murmuring, though she tried hard not to rebel.

"Oh, here comes Benoni, at last!" exclaimed Sophy Claymore, hastily drying her eyes, as a light footstep was heard on the dark wooden stair leading down to the kitchen. Sophy had never seen the face of her little brother, as she called the son of Isaacs; she had never met the smile of the child; but she would sometimes say that she could _hear_ the smile in his voice; and she loved to fancy him like the picture of a fair white-winged cherub, with a ray streaming down on his bright, uplifted face, which she had admired when she was a child. If Sophy could have seen Benoni as he entered the kitchen, she would have beheld something very unlike the image in her mind; he would have appeared as a pale, sickly boy, of about nine or ten years of age, with a Jewish cast of feature, and very shabbily dressed. But perhaps Sophy was after all not so much mistaken as many might have thought her, and Benoni, seen with the eyes of the soul, might have looked much like a cherub still. There _was_ a ray streaming down upon him, though not such as can be seen by mortal eyes.

"Oh! have you sold them, Benoni?" cried Sophy anxiously, as she heard her adopted brother softly enter the room.

There was not "a smile in the voice," but there was hope in it as the boy made reply, "Not to-day, dear Sophy. People seemed all so busy and bustling, they would not attend to me. But I hope to-morrow to sell some of your beautiful knitted things;" and Benoni put down a card-board box containing small cuffs and kettle-holders,--a box, alas! just as full as when he had taken it out that morning to try to sell something in the streets.

"I wish that the money thrown away on the wool had gone for bread!" said Sophy, desperately. She was dreadfully disappointed at the failure, and ready to burst into tears.

Benoni went and sat upon the box beside her, took her hand in his own, stroked and fondled it, and looked up lovingly into her face. "Poor sister," he said very softly, "I'm afraid you are still in sore pain; I wish I could take it away!"

"You feel for me, Benoni, you pity me," replied Sophy, almost with a sob; "why does not God pity too?"

"God does!" exclaimed Benoni, looking shocked at what sounded so much like the expression of a doubt of the love of his merciful Creator.

"It does not seem like it," muttered Sophy, half aloud, "or why does God leave us in misery like this?"

"God knows why, and we must trust him," said Benoni, simply. "Why, you trust even _me_, dear Sophy, a poor, foolish, little boy like me, when I lead you about in the street; you are sure that I won't bring you into danger, or take you where you would get any harm. You just hold me tight by the hand and walk on, and are never afraid. I think that's how we should feel about greater things. We should let the good Lord take us by the hand, and then not start back and feel frightened. He sees, you know, though we cannot see, what is the best road to take us along."

"I wish that I could feel as you do," sighed Sophy. "How do you get such comfort in religion? I scarcely ever have any."

"My comfort comes by thinking all about the Lord Jesus," said Benoni. "I'm often getting anxious and sad, and then when I think about him, all seems to grow sunny again."

"I also think of the Lord in his glory," observed Sophy; "but it seems as if in the midst of all the happiness of heaven he would not care to think about me."

"But I like best to think about the Lord when he was on earth," said Benoni; "most of all when he was a little boy living at Nazareth with his mother. Then I know he can understand all that I feel, and the little things that trouble me so. Joseph was not a rich or a great man you know; he was only a simple carpenter, and had to work for his bread. Don't you think that Joseph may sometimes have been ill, or out of work like my father, and that Mary may scarcely have known how to get food to give to her husband and son?"

"Perhaps so," replied Sophy, thoughtfully, "but one can hardly fancy it. All the pictures of the Virgin Mary that I used to see made her look dressed like a queen, and sitting on clouds, and one can't imagine that either she or the Holy Child could ever really want a meal."

"Ah! but one can't trust _pictures_," said Benoni; "it is very likely, as I once heard dear Persis say, that the Lord Jesus had a hard, struggling kind of life when he was a boy. And then he lived in a very wicked place; we know that from the Bible. I dare say that he often heard bad words and saw things that would grieve him; and I dare say that bad boys would tempt him, and jeer at him, and torment him, because he never would join them in doing anything wrong. You can't think what a comfort it is to me to think that the Lord had such common troubles as these."

"_In all points tempted like as we are_," repeated Sophy, the apostle's words recurring to her mind.

"I do love," continued Benoni, "to remember that it was when he was a boy, not many years older than I am, that the Lord said, _Wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business_? It showed that _doing_ God's will was in his mind then, that he was preparing when he was a child for the great, great work,--the business of saving the world. And perhaps the Lord had something to suffer, too, when he was a boy, preparing him for the terrible trials that came upon him at last; perhaps he had little crosses--like ours--before he had to take up the great one, and many a thorn to pain him, even in his quiet home, long before the cruel soldiers put the platted crown round his head. Now, being hungry and having very little to eat may have just been one of these thorns."

"But I dare say that the Lord could have covered the table with abundance even when he was a boy, if he had chosen to do so," said Sophy.

"But I don't suppose that he ever did choose to do that," replied Benoni, in a very thoughtful tone, for he was a child who reflected much. "The Lord wouldn't make bread for himself when he was a man; it is not at all likely that he would do so when he was a boy. No, I dare say that the Holy One tried to help Joseph, and to cheer his mother, and told them that he was sure that their heavenly Father would never forget them. I dare say that the Lord looked _then_ at the sparrows and the lilies, and thought how God clothed and fed them, and then up to the blue, blue sky, where his heavenly Father dwells, and never doubted that Father's love, however hungry and poor he himself might be."

Benoni Isaacs expressed himself like a child, but Sophy felt that the love and joy and peace that breathed in his simple words were not of earth, but from above. The little one beside her was, like Samuel, early called to listen to the word of God, and to answer in trustful obedience, _Speak Lord, for thy servant heareth_. Sophy envied Benoni his power of looking upwards by faith, and seeing God's love in all things, more than she envied him the sight of his bodily eyes. The girl and her adopted brother might be compared to travellers on a wide ocean. With Benoni there were heavings and tossings, a gale of trouble lifting the waves on high; but love to God was like bright sunshine on that stormy sea, turning the foam into crests of pearls, the billows to waves of gold. But Sophy was like one who journeys towards a frozen north, at a time when the sun for long days is absent. All around her was becoming dreary and chill; the ice of mistrust was gradually gathering and thickening around her, till it seemed as if it would hold her fast as in a prison, so that she should make no more progress towards heaven;--never get forward, never get through to open water and a brighter sea! There is something more terrible in this gradual freezing round the soul than in the sudden shock of temptation. It seems more impossible to "sheer off" from a danger like this. If we can thus find _mistrust_ beginning to spread around us its deadly chill, if the slightest doubt of God's love arise like a film on the water, let us instantly turn our thoughts towards the Sun of Righteousness though his rays may be hidden from our eyes; let us not be content to rest for an hour where shoals of unbelief are forming around; let the very north wind of trouble only drive us more rapidly towards the clear south, till we feel at last the warmth of that Sun which has healing and life in each beam.

XXV.

Honorable Scars.

"Here's father!" suddenly exclaimed Benoni, as he heard a familiar step on the stair, and rose to meet his parent.

"Oh, may he bring us good news!" sighed Sophy. Instinctively she turned her head in the direction of the door, longing to be able to read in the face of her adopted parent whether he had met with success in his quest for employment or assistance. All was darkness with Sophy; but Benoni saw in a moment, from the heavy cloud on his father's brow, the compressed lips, the haggard cheek, that he had met with severe disappointment. Benjamin Isaacs almost threw to Benoni the single loaf which he brought, as with suppressed bitterness he said, "Take it--I got it by pledging the last of my tools."

"God has forsaken us!" muttered Sophy, putting up her hands to each side of her head. There had been a shooting pain through it at that moment, but a sharper pang still had pierced through the poor girl's heart.

The one chair in the kitchen had been left for Benjamin Isaacs, but he did not take it; he was too restless to sit down. Under a manner usually quiet, he was a man of passions naturally fierce. These had been kept under control, first by a habit of reserve, then by the principles which he had adopted with the Christian religion, but now and then they broke through restraint, and a short but vivid glimpse was given of an impetuous, fiery spirit.

"Man at least has forsaken us!" he exclaimed, with but half-suppressed passion. "I went first to Elkanah da Costa, him under whom I worked as a journeyman for years. There he was in his shop, surrounded by the silver and the gold and the gems that are dear to him as his soul. I told him of my difficulties; how anxious I am to find work, even if my wages be much reduced. He knows _how_ I work,--many of the glittering jewels in his cases had been set by these hands. 'I don't see you, Benjamin Isaacs, in the synagogue now,' he drawled forth; he who cares less for religion, be it in Christian or Hebrew, than for the lightest grain of gold dust that falls from the graver! 'No,' I replied; 'for these three years and more I have attended a Christian church.' 'Then go to the Christians,' he said, mockingly, waving me out of the shop. 'You will at least give me a certificate of character,' I began. He cut me short with, 'Go to the Christians for _that_,' with a sneer on his face which made the blood mount to mine; and I turned my back on that place with its glittering wealth--forever!

"I had not walked many paces from the shop," continued Benjamin Isaacs, "when whom should I come upon suddenly, on turning a corner of the street, but my near blood relation, my cousin Reuben. He and I had played when children together, shared the same meals, read out of the same book, slept in the same room at night. I had written to Reuben after my conversion, but I had received no reply. I did not doubt that he would be angry at my having left our common faith; but he is under obligation to me,--deep obligation,--and I scarcely thought that even religious differences would entirely break the threefold tie of gratitude, friendship, and blood."

Benjamin Isaacs paused, knit his dark brows, and pressed his lips tightly together. Benoni thought of that which is written, _Brother shall rise up against brother_, and silently thanked God that he and his father, at least, had at the same time given themselves to the Lord. Isaacs continued his narration; it seemed a relief to him thus to pour out the bitterness of his spirit in words,--

"'Reuben,' said I, and held out my hand; he drew back, and looked as if he would as lief have grasped a viper. 'Turncoat, dog of a Christian!' he hissed forth, and passed me with a gesture, which, had I _not_ been a Christian, would have made me strike him to the pavement, and stamp upon him as he lay there!" The dark eyes of Isaacs seemed to flash fire as he said this, and intuitively he clenched his thin hand.

"O father, dear, then you'll have your scars to show!" cried Benoni. The soft, sweet voice of the boy sounded to Sophy like music after a storm.

"Scars! what do you mean?" asked Isaacs.

"Ned Franks said that what we have to suffer for Christ, because we are his faithful soldiers, will be to us at last like the scars left by wounds got in battle."

There was something soothing in the idea to one who was at the moment smarting from persecution borne for righteousness' sake. The furrows on Isaacs' brow smoothed down; he seated himself wearily on the chair, and drew his little boy towards him.

"You seem to have a good memory, Benoni, for everything done or said by your good friend the sailor, though you were so young when we left the village of Colme."

"We had such happy days there," said Benoni; "the happiest days in all my life, when you and I lodged in the pretty cottage with old Mr. Meade and dear Persis, and every evening Ned Franks came to court her for his wife. He used to take me on his knee, and tell me stories, and I think of them now so often,--most of all at night when I can't get to sleep; it seems as if they brought those dear old times back again." Benoni, in that gloomy London kitchen, could not repress a little sigh. As memory may have recalled to Adam the sights and sounds of Eden, so she pictured to Benoni the cottage mantled with creepers, buried in its green wooded dell, with the gurgle of the stream and the clack of the mill and the happy voice of Persis singing hymns at her grandfather's door.

"And what was it that Franks said about wounds and scars?" asked Isaacs.

"You know that Ned Franks had served the queen, and had been in more than one battle; yet he told me that he had never so much as received a scratch in fight, and that he half envied the fellows that carried away some marks that they'd been in the struggle; for that though wounds may be sore at the time, an old soldier or sailor likes afterwards to look at his scars. Franks said, that if the bright angels in heaven, who have nothing but peace, happiness, and love, could envy us poor mortals anything, it must be the opportunity of giving up something and suffering something for the sake of the Lord Jesus, who suffered so much for us. The angels may have the harps of gold and the crowns of life, but they can't have the victor's _scars_, for no one has ever hated or persecuted them for righteousness' sake. Sometimes," continued the boy, nestling closer to his father, and speaking on, because he felt that his simple words were giving comfort,--"sometimes I like to think of all the Lord's faithful soldiers marching in glory before him, when all their trials and battles are over, and when everything which they have borne for him will be remembered. There will be Joseph,--he got his scar when he was thrown into prison; Daniel, his in the den of lions; the three brave Jews, in the burning, fiery furnace. And then there will be the scars of those who have been reviled and spoken against and laughed at because they would serve the Lord; scars of those who have lost money for Christ, who have given up Sunday gains, or wouldn't take bribes, or get gold in any bad way, and so were sometimes hungry and poor while they lived upon earth. And sometimes it has seemed to me," continued Benoni, "that even if I _could_ get so easily through life as never to have a hard word or want a comfort because I served the Saviour, I would _rather_ have some little scars to show,--not because they would make me deserve anything as a reward from my King, but because they would be like _marks_ to prove how dearly I had loved him."

"Ay, ay," said Isaacs, calmly and even cheerfully, "_Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake_. It is the Master himself who bade his wounded servants _rejoice and leap for joy_. If we have never received so much as a scratch in the long struggle against the world, the flesh, and the devil, it looks as if our fighting had been but a sham,--that we had kept out of the fire, and thought a great deal more of our own comfort than of the honor of our Leader. He bore shame and loss for us; we should welcome shame and loss for him." The thought was taking from Isaacs all the venom that had been rankling in his wounded spirit.

"Such sorrows are blessings and honors," cried Benoni, and his pale face brightened as he said it.

"But what are sorrows," thought poor Sophy, "that come upon us, not because we have followed the Lord, but because we have wandered from him?" She had listened to the preceding conversation in silence, bitterly conscious that the wounds which festered in her heart were not those received in Christian warfare, but rather, in part at least, the consequences of her early folly and neglect of religion. Sophy knew too well how entirely her mind had been set on the world. A gay ribbon or dress, a gaudy bead necklace, a Sunday "lark," or a dance, had been more to her silly, sinful heart than all the truths contained in the Bible. She had not given up one folly for the sake of her Lord; she had not through sense of duty ever renounced the smallest gain; her dangerous pleasures had been torn from her,--not yielded up of her own free will; she had clutched them as long as she could; she had been made poor, desolate, and blind; but this had been because her waywardness had rendered chastisements needful, not because her faithfulness to God had led her into persecution or trouble. And yet Sophy was far more disposed to repine than were Isaacs and his son; she was more tempted to distrust God's love, though her very afflictions were a token of it. Sophy had been a wandering sheep, straying upon the mountains of sin and folly, now near to the brink of the precipice, now close to the den of the lion who lurketh in wait for souls to destroy them. She would not then hear the voice of the Shepherd: she chose her own dangerous path. When her friend, Norah Peele, under the influence of her uncle, had begun to try in earnest to lead a new life, Sophy had done all in her power to hinder and keep her back; had first laughed at her good resolutions, and then quarrelled with Norah because she could not be persuaded to break them. It was in mercy indeed that sorrow and sickness had been sent to Sophy, like the rough sheep-dog after the straying lamb to frighten or drag it back to the fold; Sophy, if left to herself, must have been lost forever. It is not always that trials are blessings, but such they had been to her. Sophy had been suddenly checked in her mad career, shut out by blindness from many temptations which she had never been able to resist,--love of dress, of flattery, of folly,--temptations which were drawing her farther and farther away from her God. Sophy in her misery had learned to pray, but she had not yet learned to praise; as a penitent she was sincere, but as a believer she was weak. She reverenced the Lord as her king, had hope in him as her Saviour; but she did not cling to him with rejoicing trust as the Friend, the loving Friend who bids us cast all our care upon him, because he careth for us.

"Shall we never go back to Colme, father?" asked Benoni, after along interval of silence, during which the boy's thoughts had been wandering back to what he considered the pleasantest spot upon earth.

"There would be no opening in a village like Colme, for a jeweller like me," replied Benjamin Isaacs. "I finished the business that took me there,--that of arranging and getting into order the curiosities and gems at the Hall. My patron, Sir Lacy Barton, is dead, and his heir knows nothing about me. I would never go to Colme to be a burden upon the kindness of Ned Franks and his wife,--better enter a poor-house, or starve!" There was an independence of character in the Jew which he carried almost to a fault; Benoni knew that his father would suffer the extremity of want rather than beg or borrow from a friend.

"It is long, very long, since we have heard either from the Frankses, or from my dear friend Norah," said Sophy.

"They know not where a letter would find us, my daughter; I have twice changed our lodgings since last I wrote, which I did when returning money most kindly offered. Franks has his own family to care for; I accept nothing but from those who are my relations by blood."

"Or by adoption," added Benoni, glancing kindly at Sophy, and then at her basket of knitted goods.

"You and Sophy are alike my children," said Isaacs; "our purse shall always be one; our good or bad fortune we share together. So," he added more cheerfully, "take yon loaf, my boy, and divide it between your sister, yourself, and me. 'Better the dinner of herbs where love is, than the stalled ox and hatred therewith.' We'll thank God for the bread which he gives to-day, and trust him to send more on the morrow."

XXVI.

A Scrap of News.

Heavy and joyless, Sophy on the following morning arose from her bed, which was little better than a heap of rags, in a kind of cupboard off the kitchen. Heavy and joyless she groped her way into the room where Isaacs and his son were waiting for her coming to offer their daily morning sacrifice of prayer and of praise. Sophy joined them in the former, but when she attempted to sing

"Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,"

her voice faltered, and she broke down; tears came instead of music.

The remains of the loaf were shared for breakfast, and taken with some almost colorless tea. Then Isaacs and Benoni quitted the kitchen, the one to seek again for work, the other,--with the basket on his arm,--to try to sell Sophy's knitting. When they had left her, the poor girl seated herself on the box. She had no materials for work, even if she had had the spirit to labor. She gave herself up to sad thought, with her elbow on her knee, and her brow on her hand. "I wonder where Norah is now, and whether she ever thinks of me! When she and I were merry young girls together, singing, and laughing, and building all kinds of castles in the air, how we used to promise each other that our friendship should last as long as our lives! She will have new friends now,--better friends than I ever was, who will not fill her head with follies and her spirit with pride. If she ever thinks of me, it will be with---- But I do not believe that she ever _does_ think of me," continued Sophy, in bitterness of soul; "she is happy, earning her living honestly and cheerfully; she is not dependent, despised, despairing,--a poor, blind wretch, like me!"

Surely the ice of mistrust was growing very thick around Sophy, making her doubt, not only the care of her heavenly Father, but the love of her earthly friend!

And on that very day, Norah Peele was not only thinking of Sophy, but thinking of scarcely anything else. One of those strange little incidents which sometimes occur, small in themselves, but hinges on which great events may turn, had brought poor Sophy on that morning forcibly before the mind of her friend.

Norah was on her knees, lighting the kitchen fire at the vicarage, with a bit of the advertisement sheet of the _Times_, which was used as waste paper in her master's house, when her eye chanced to fall on the following notice:--

"NEXT OF KIN. _If the nearest relative of the late Tabitha Turtle apply to Messrs. Grant, Bold, & Co., ---- Lincoln's Inn, he will hear of something to his advantage._"

"Tabitha Turtle! surely I know that name!" exclaimed Norah, pausing with the lighted match in her hand. "Yes, to be sure, that is the name of poor Sophy's aunt, who lived somewhere near Portman Square. I remember how we two silly young things used to laugh and joke at the name, and wonder whether she who had it was like a turtle-dove or a tortoise! _Something to his advantage--nearest of kin!_ Why, what if Sophy herself should be nearest of kin,--if there should be money waiting for her,--she who is living now upon the charity of the Jew who has adopted her, and who, I fear, has but little for himself! Oh, that would be delightful, delightful!" and Norah threw down the match, and tore off the little scrap from the paper, as eagerly as if it had contained the greatest piece of good news for herself. She could hardly settle to her work, so impatient was she to go and ask her mistress's leave to run over to the school-house, to consult her uncle Ned Franks as to what could be done for Sophy. However, it was clear that the harder Norah worked, the sooner her business would be over. She therefore plied her fingers so diligently, that, before eleven o'clock had struck, she received leave to go, "just for a quarter of an hour," to speak to her uncle on something of great importance.

There was no time for Norah to change her working-dress, scarcely time to wash her hands. On ordinary days there would have been no use in going to Ned Franks before school-hours were over; but this was hay-making time, and a week's holiday had been given to his pupils. Carrying her precious little scrap of paper in her hand, Norah hurried along the path to the school-house, where she found Ned Franks, with Persis carrying her baby, just starting to pay a visit to Nancy Sands, who had, on the previous day, returned from the hospital to her home.

"Why, here comes Norah!" exclaimed Ned Franks, gayly, "scudding along like a yacht in a race!" and as he spoke, his niece came up breathless alike in eagerness and the pace at which she had been going, for her walk had quickened into a run.

"I've not more than five minutes," she began, and stopped to pant, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks glowing with excitement.

"Come in, then, and take breath, and tell us what news you have to bring us. What's this?" as Norah thrust the scrap of soiled paper into his hand,--"what have we to do with Tabitha Turtle? She was certainly none of our kith or kin."

As they returned into the school-house, Norah hastily informed her uncle of her reasons for thinking that the notice might be of importance to her poor blind friend. Franks and Persis listened with interest.

"Certainly Sophy should know of this," said Ned Franks; "but she's blind, and Isaacs is scarcely likely to see the _Times_, and if he did, it's a thousand chances to one that he should connect his adopted daughter with the name of an aunt whom she appears never to have seen, and may never even have mentioned."

"We must write to Sophy at once!" cried Norah.

"But how can we write," asked Persis, "when we do not know her address? Ned has not heard from Isaacs for months, and then our friend mentioned that he was about to leave his lodgings, without saying where the next one would be."

Ned Franks passed his hand through his thick curly hair, as if, by so doing, he could draw out some bright idea. "I've half a mind," he said, "as it's holiday-time, to be off to London myself, see the lawyers, and find out if it's likely that there's really any money left to Sophy, and then hunt her out, if I can; though looking for any one in London is like searching for a needle in a haystack."

"Oh, if you will only go!" exclaimed Norah, eagerly, "I'll pay the expense so gladly, as soon as I get my quarter's wages!"

"No, no, lass," said the school-master, laughing; "I've enough shot in my locker to manage without your little store. Only"--Ned glanced at his wife; he knew that Persis had been looking forward with the pleasure of a child to his holiday-time; for him to go to London would spoil a pleasant plan which the Frankses had talked over for months. They were to have gone on that very afternoon on a short pleasure-trip to the sea-side; for Franks longed, as he owned, "to smell salt water again," which he had not done since he had left the profession of a sailor.

"What do you say, sweetheart?" asked Franks of his wife. "I leave the decision to you."

Persis stooped down and kissed her baby, probably to get a moment for thought, and then raising her head, said, with a smile which cost her some effort,--

"I think that you'd better be off to London."

Franks glanced at the clock, Nancy Sands's cuckoo-clock, which hung in his little parlor. "I might be off by the 12-30 train if I hoisted all sail," he cried. "I'll get my kit ready in no time. If I'm early in town I may see the lawyers to-day. I must stay over Sunday in London, but if I've a prosperous cruise, I hope to be back upon Monday."

Persis was too busy helping her husband, and putting up his dinner of cold meat, to have time to think of her own disappointment, till Ned Franks, quick and prompt in everything, had started off for the station at almost a running pace, with his little bundle fastened to a stick hanging over his shoulder. Norah had at once returned to the vicarage, full of hope for her friend, having perfect confidence that whatever business her uncle undertook he would do, and do well. Persis gave a little sigh as her husband disappeared in the distance, and with him all her prospect of a holiday-trip; yet she was glad that she had made the sacrifice of her own inclination; and, taking up her baby from the cradle in which she had placed him, at a slow pace she proceeded along the dusty road towards the cottage of her neighbor.

XXVII.

Nancy's Return.

With very mingled feelings had Nancy Sands returned to her home. It was in the twilight that she entered her native village. "I do not care," she said, "to have the gossips staring at me, or stopping me to talk."

John Sands would have hired a conveyance for his wife, as the walk from the town was a long one for an invalid just discharged from an hospital; but his wife, in her short, determined way, declined his proposal to get one.

"I've two feet if I've only one arm," she said, almost sharply. "If I've walked that road once, I've walked it a hundred times; the fresh air will do me good."

Mrs. Sands set out briskly at her husband's side; but before they had gone a mile she felt that she was no longer what she had once been,--that the sufferings and confinement which she had undergone had greatly told on her strength. Her pace very sensibly slackened.

"My dear, would you take my arm?" suggested the clerk, timidly, for he was still afraid of a rebuff from his hot-tempered wife.

But this time there was no rebuff; Nancy thankfully took the proffered arm, and leaned on it as she had never done since the first week after her marriage. Whether it were that these old days were brought back to her mind, or whether the very necessity for _leaning_ made her realize the position of a wife in regard to her husband, who should be, according to Scripture, her "head" and her "lord," we need not decide; but never had Nancy Sands felt her wilful, wayward heart so drawn towards her spouse as on that homeward walk in the twilight. As for John Sands, his spirit was full of tenderness towards the wife of his youth.

Very few words were spoken by either of the two as they slowly proceeded on their way. Nancy was too weary for much conversation, and so perhaps was her husband; but as they passed the carpenter's shop, she observed,--

"So poor Stone is ill and not likely to live? He and I were the two strongest people in the parish."

Very much tired was Nancy when she re-entered her home. She wearily sank on a chair; exhausted nature craved the support of a stimulant. An intense desire arose for a glass of spirits or a tumbler of ale; but she had taken the pledge, and neither she nor her husband liked to mention what was in the minds of both.

John Sands went to the cupboard and brought out of it the supper which he had provided for his wife, and himself arranged it on the table. There were little luxuries, in which the poor clerk had never thought of indulging during her absence. Pickled salmon,--Nancy had a weakness for pickled salmon,--Bath chop, fresh butter, and white rolls. Nancy noticed the consideration shown for her tastes, and drew her chair to the table, well disposed to do justice to the dainties before her. Sands filled her plate, and then shyly--for he was afraid of hurting his wife by showing that he remembered that she had no longer a right hand--he cut up the viands into small pieces, and quietly pushed the plate to its place, avoiding looking at Nancy as he did so. "It must pain her, poor dear, to be so helpless, though I'm sure it's a pleasure to me to help her," thought the indulgent husband.

Nancy had scarcely begun her meal when she stopped short, and fixed her eyes upon a tumbler of water at the right hand of the clerk, where she never before had missed at supper the pint of beer. "Where's your beer, John?" she asked, abruptly.

"Well, my dear, I thought--I did not want"--stammered forth the clerk, nervously.

"You do want it; it does you good; _you_ have not taken the pledge."

"No, but"--there was a look of perplexity on John Sands's sallow face; he did not know how to finish his sentence.

"The truth is, you can't trust me even to _see_ it," observed Nancy, gloomily.

"I thought that I should not like to be different from you, my dear," said Sands, in a deprecatory tone. He would have made any other sacrifice of his own comfort, as he made this, for the sake of rescuing his wife from her fearful vice.

"Different,--you can't help being different," murmured Nancy, "you who never in all your born days took one drop too much. It's hard for you to be kept from your beer. But perhaps you're right, John," she added, looking her husband full in the face; "at least just at the first. I suspect that if I saw any strong drink it would not end with the _seeing_; I'd give the world at this moment for a draught of good double stout."

Nancy rose on the following morning much the better for a calm night's rest, and the breakfast was decidedly more cheerful than the supper had been. The clerk had afterwards to attend a christening, but his wife was not long left alone, for a succession of visitors came to see her, some from curiosity, some from kindness.

One of the first to appear was Stone's wife, the former motive being that which moved her, though she deceived herself into thinking that she was performing a charitable deed by going to see "that wretched creature Nancy, who must be ashamed to show her face."

"I hope that this will be a warning to you, Mrs. Sands, a solemn warning," said Mrs. Stone, after the first greetings and inquiries had been exchanged. "You've lost an arm, but you might have lost your life; if you'd been taken _then_"--Bell paused, for there was something in Nancy's face which told her that the temper of the old tigress might be lurking in her still, and that it might be dangerous to rouse it. It was hardly to be expected that Mrs. Sands would endure that any officious bungler should, as it were, tear off the bandage and probe the yet unhealed wound in her spirit. Had John Sands plied his wife with reproaches and admonitions after the fashion of Bell Stone, it is probable that Nancy would have returned to his dwelling, not as a penitent, but as a savage-hardened offender.

The entrance of Mrs. Fuddles put a stop to what might have ended in what she would have called a "flare up." Mrs. Stone suddenly recollected that she could not stop long away from her poor dear patient, and hurried away, shrugging her shoulders and saying to herself, as she left the place, that it was clear, from the company kept by Nancy, that in spite of all that had happened, she'd be as bad as ever again.

Mrs. Fuddles's manner was an utter contrast to that of the visitor just before her. She was excited and flurried in her greeting; she declared that she was delighted to see her dear old friend again, and looking well, wonderfully well, all things considered; only she'd need to take plenty of good nourishing stuff to get up her strength again, after such a terrible illness. "A little drop of something, taken hot, just the first thing in the morning, my dear; I've known it work wonders," said the publican's wife, who doubtless spoke from personal experience.

"You forget I've taken the pledge," replied Nancy, who needed no explanation as to the nature of the "drop" recommended.

"Now, really, I heard something about it, but I could not believe it. A sensible woman like you! But people do get round sick folks, and wheedle, and coax, and frighten them so!"

"No one ever wheedled, or coaxed, or frightened _me_," replied Nancy, sternly; "what I did, I did of my own free will, and I'll hold to it too."

"To be sure, quite right; I'd be the last to try to persuade you against your wishes," cried Mrs. Fuddles, instantly changing her ground; "you don't know how I've been cut up about you,--and to think of its having happened after your leaving my house, though I said, and always will say, _that_ had nothing to do with a slip of the foot; any one might have a slip of the foot; the parson himself might have tumbled into the mill-stream! But you won't keep away from the old house, Nancy, my dear," continued the publican's wife in a fawning tone, edging her chair nearer to that on which Mrs. Sands was seated; "you and I won't give up our pleasant chats over a--a cup of tea, if you like it; I won't press you to anything to put your husband out, or to offend the young parson; I'll offer you nothing stronger than tea, unless, of course, it was good for your health?"

Mrs. Fuddles thought that she saw symptoms of yielding in her of whom she dared to call herself a _friend_. The woman, doing the work of the tempter of souls, knew well enough that there was something within poor Nancy which was making her only too willing to be persuaded against her better judgment, and that if she crossed the threshold of the "Chequers," that craving for stimulant, which had been like a disease, would become altogether irresistible. Mrs. Fuddles, eager to press her point, was annoyed by the interruption caused by another visitor.

"Why, if here ben't Mrs. Franks!" she exclaimed, rising from her chair with ill-concealed vexation; a feeling which was increased by the very cordial manner in which Nancy received the wife of her brave preserver.

It almost seemed as if the gentle, pure-minded mother, bearing her innocent babe on her bosom, had come as a guardian angel to the aid of a tempted soul. A purer atmosphere was breathed around Persis; the fragrance of the roses, which she had brought from her garden as a gift to Nancy did not contrast more strongly with the odor of brandy which clung to the publican's wife, than did the meek dignity of the Christian matron contrast with the fawning vulgarity of the mistress of the "Chequers."

"My game's up for this time," thought Mrs. Fuddles, as she soon after took her bustling leave. The cottage seemed a holier as well as a quieter place when rid of her presence.

"I am so glad to see you back here," said Persis, looking with kindly interest at Nancy, as one who had so narrowly escaped a terrible death.

"I know that you are, Persis Franks; you have always been a true friend to me," replied Mrs. Sands; and the ear of Ned's wife caught with pleasure the emphasis on the word _you_.

Then the baby was duly exhibited and admired; the heart of poor Nancy always warmed towards a baby. How he had grown,--how much he was improved,--how like he was to his father, especially when the little one laughed and crowed, and showed the dimple on his cheek! Persis was always a patient, smiling listener to the praises of either her husband or her child.

The conversation, however, took before long an abrupt turn. Nancy had something on her mind which, as was usual with her, soon found its way to her tongue.

"Do you think I shall be _able_ to keep the pledge?" she asked suddenly, though Persis had made no allusion to the subject. Mrs. Franks, however, easily connected the abrupt question with the visit of Mrs. Fuddles. Nancy repeated it rather impatiently, as Persis hesitated before giving a reply.

"I think that depends upon two things," she answered, looking down as she spoke, perhaps to avoid meeting the gaze of the keen black eyes fixed upon her.

"What are these two things, Persis Franks? You need not mind speaking out boldly; you are not one to force your advice where it's not asked, nor to set yourself up, like Bell Stone, for being a deal better than your neighbors. I want to keep the pledge if I can, if only for the sake of poor John; but how am I to do it?"

"The first thing, at least so it seems to me," replied Persis, "is to keep out of all way of temptation."

"You don't mean to say I'm to cut an old friend," said Nancy, who was longing to renew her dangerous visits to Mrs. Fuddles.

"If I were you I would never venture near the 'Chequers;' at least, not without my husband," replied Persis.

Nancy flushed, and muttered something that sounded like "with a keeper;" but her good sense approved of that which had offended her pride; and, after a short struggle with herself, she said, "Yes, yes, I'll never more enter the 'Chequers' without John, and that's next thing to saying that I'll never go there again. What's the second thing that you meant, Persis Franks?"

Persis lifted up her heart for a moment in supplication for wisdom before she ventured to reply. "I think that your next,--your _best_ safeguard, Mrs. Sands, must be earnest, daily prayer to Him who alone can keep you,--or any of us, from falling. While we shun temptation, we must also _watch and pray_."

Nancy made no reply, and Persis, after a pause, went on. "I feel myself, Mrs. Sands, that I am no more able to stand firm without the help of God's Holy Spirit, than my babe is able to support himself without a parent's embracing arms. I come to God, just as a little child, for the daily grace which I need. I have no strength to hold him fast, but he will hold _me_ fast, if--with all my weakness and sinfulness--I give myself up entirely to him."

Tears rose to Persis's eyes as she spoke, and tears were also glistening in those of Nancy. "Shun temptation,--watch and pray," she repeated, as if to impress the words on her memory; then, looking fixedly at Mrs. Franks, and speaking in the measured tone of one who has made up her mind, Nancy said, "I will never forget your advice. I believe that I shall one day bless you for it in heaven."

And from that time forth Nancy Sands was never seen at the "Chequers," and not a morning or evening passed without the voice of simple, earnest prayer arising from what had been once the home of the drunkard.

XXVIII.

A Search.

With all the speed which he had made, Ned Franks was scarcely in time to catch the train for London. The journey was without incident, and the village school-master ere long found himself in the centre of the noise, glare, heat, and bustle of the great city in the dog-days.

"Difficult navigation this," said the former sailor to himself, as he made his way across roads crowded almost to blockade. "I suppose it's because I'm not used to the thing; but I can't understand how children or old folks can manage this steering behind and before and between omnibuses, carts, cabs, and vans, dodging right under horses' noses, and all in the midst of such confusion and noise! I'd not bide in such a rackety place as this to be made Lord Mayor of London!"