Chapter II: Part 2

A body of recruits were starting that very morning for the depot, whence they were to embark. James was ordered to go with them.

The sergeant was uncertain as to what regiment Ben would suit. He was scarcely of sufficient height, and a very different looking sort of man. He promised, however, to give him an answer in the course of a few days.

James was very thankful when he found that Ben was not to go with him. He thought, "He has already led me into evil; if he comes now, how shall I be able to withstand him better than I have done?"

James's heart was heavy, yet he tried to keep his spirits up among his new comrades. He was anxious, too: every stranger he saw looking about he thought might be a sheriff's officer, come to take him prisoner. Most of the men were hoping that the day they were to go on board the ship might be put off: his great wish was that they might sail sooner than had been expected. He had written a letter to his kind uncle, asking his forgiveness for what he had done, and expressing his love and gratitude to him.

He had heard nothing from Ben. This was so far well. He could have gained nothing, if Ben had come.

At length the day arrived for the troops to embark. The ship sailed, and bore James Grey far away from the shores of Old England.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 5.

When Farmer Grey got up in the morning, and found that his nephew had left the house without saying where he was going, he was somewhat surprised; but, as he thought that he would soon return, he did not give himself much concern about the matter.

The farmer went out among his labourers in the fields, and came back to breakfast; but James had not returned. The farmer made inquiries among all his people; no one had seen James. Dinner-time arrived, still he did not appear. It was late in the day that a friend, Farmer Mason, called on Farmer Grey. "Have you heard of the murders in Sir John Carlton's park, last night?" asked Farmer Mason. "Two of his keepers killed, and another wounded, I am told. Daring outrage! The murderers are known, I hear. It will go hard with them if they are taken; for the magistrates are determined to put a stop to poaching, and will show no mercy to poachers. They will do their best to prove them guilty."

Farmer Grey's mind was greatly troubled when he heard this. He could not help connecting it, somehow or other, with the disappearance of James.

"That wild lad, Ben Page, has had something to do with it; of that I am sure," he said to himself.

As soon as his guest was gone, he walked down to the mill. The miller and his wife were out. Mary was alone. He found her crying bitterly. She at once confessed that she had seen James early in the morning, and that he told her he was going away, not to return; but that where he was going to, and what he was going to do she could not tell. She was also anxious about her brother, who had gone away without leaving any message. This was the utmost information she could give. It was enough to confirm Farmer Grey's fears. He did not tell Mary what they were. He thought it would break her heart if he did so. He could give her very little comfort, for there was nothing he could think of to bring comfort to his own heart, as far as his nephew was concerned. He had long seen that he wanted what alone can keep a man right under temptation, that is, good principles.

James, when he came to him, had been always respectable and decent in his conduct; but then he had never been tempted. The farmer had been very anxious about him when he first found that he was so often in the company of Ben Page, and he now blamed himself for not having taken pains to separate the two, and still more that he had not tried harder to give James those good principles which he so much wanted. He did not think that he had done any good to James by all he had said, but in truth the words had sunk farther into the young man's heart than he supposed; and often and often, as James walked the deck of the ship at night, or camped out with his comrades on many a hard-fought battle-field in India, those words came to his mind, and helped to keep him on a right course,--not that the words alone did so; for James, who had been taught to pray when he was young, became a man of prayer. Yes; the dark, sun-burnt, fierce-looking soldier prayed every day, morning and night, lying down or marching, and often in the midst of battle, while bullets were flying about, shells were bursting, and round-shot were whistling through the air. He read the Bible, too, and spoke of it to others, and guided his own steps by what it taught. Was he less thought of because he did these things? Was he looked on as a coward? No; there was no man in the regiment more liked, and there were few soldiers braver than he was.

Had his uncle and Mary known how changed a man he had become, their hearts would have been saved many a pang. We should not think that because our words do not seem to be listened to, that therefore they are doing no good; more particularly if they are spoken in a prayerful spirit and with an earnest desire to do good.

"Well, Mary, I must try and find out what has become of this poor nephew of mine," said Farmer Grey, kindly getting up and taking her hand. "We will hope that he will come back some day. Do not let it be known that he came here to see you this morning; indeed, it will be better if you say nothing about his being absent from home. Only my old housekeeper, Dame Dobbs, knows that he left home this morning, and she is able to say that he slept in his bed last night."

These words made poor Mary more unhappy still, for she began to think that James must have done some act which had made him fly for his life, and that he might, perhaps, be taken and punished--she dared not think how. Oh, how much sorrow and pain do those who act ill, cause their friends and those they love best on earth! Nothing that day was heard of James or Ben. On the next day, rumours of the affray between a body of poachers and the gamekeepers reached the mill, but neither Ben's nor James Grey's name was mentioned. Still Mary could not but feel sure that they had had something to do with the matter, though she hoped that they might escape.

The miller, on hearing of the fray, and that Ben had disappeared the next morning, sat by himself more gloomy and silent than ever. Perhaps he might have thought, "This comes of my teaching, or rather of my want of teaching, of my bringing up." In the evening, three stout, strong, comfortably clothed men came to the door: Mary let them in, not knowing who they could be; Mark turned pale when he saw them.

"Your servant, Mister Page," said one. "Your son, Ben Page, is wanted-- he knows what for."

"My son, Ben Page, isn't at home," answered Mark, in a much more quiet tone than he used to speak in.

"Where is he, then?" asked the man.

Mark could not tell, nor when he would return.

"You know then what he is wanted for, Mister Page?"

Mark bent his head, and put his fingers to his lips, that the man might not speak before Mary. He then told her to go out of the room and look after Sam Green, whom she had not visited for some time.

"Yes; it's about the matter at Snaresborough, with the keepers, I suppose," said the miller. "But I don't know that he had anything to do with it."

"Hope not, for his sake; he'll be sooner out of limbo," said the constable. "But you'll excuse me, Mister Page, we must search the house for your son; we have a couple of hands to look out outside, so he'll not escape if he attempts it."

Of course Mark could offer no objection to this. The constable and his companions searched the house from top to bottom, looking into and under the beds, and into every cupboard and corner to be found. Then they searched the mill and all the outhouses, but no Ben was to be found. Mistress Page went nearly into fits when she saw them. Mary cried bitterly, her worst fears were become real. When Sam Green saw them, a look not often seen on his face came over it, as he lay on his bed of pain--for his leg hurt him much.

"Ah! if the lad had been better taught he wouldn't have been in this trouble," he said to himself. "I might have done him some good, and I never did but harm."

These words showed that Sam Green was changing, if not changed. The constables were still in the house, when a horse was heard coming along the road. Mary, looking out, saw that it was Ben. She waved to him to go back, but he did not see her. She tried to cry out, but her voice failed her, and he had entered the court-yard and thrown himself from his saddle before he heard her warning. Then he understood that something was wrong. His horse was dusty, hot, and trembling. He was about to leap into his saddle when one of the constables who had been watching outside and had seen him enter the yard, ran into it and seized his bridle, shouting out to his comrades in the house.

Ben struck right and left with a heavy whip, and tried to break away; but the man held him fast. The other constables then coming out, he was secured. Poor Mary felt as if she should die when she saw Ben seized, but she could do nothing to help him. He was brought into the house, and handcuffs were put on his wrists.

"Now we have caged our bird we must be off," said the chief constable.

"Oh, treat him kindly," said poor Mary, with the tears in her eyes. "He is not as bad as you may think--indeed, indeed he is not."

"Never knew one on 'em as was," said the man. "But for your sake, miss, I'll do my best to make my young master comfortable, May be it's the first time he has been had up; and, if he gets off, may be it will be the last."

Mary could say nothing to this remark. Her mother, who had come in, wrung her hands, and cried, and then called the constables all sorts of hard names, while the miller looked as if he would have struck them. More than once he glanced up at his gun, which hung over the mantelpiece. The constable looked at him, and observed--

"Say what you like with your tongue, Mistress Page; I'm accustomed to much worse than that; but don't you, Mister Page, touch me--that's all. I'm in the execution of my duty--mind that."

The miller had to curb his temper, and to say no thing, while his only son was carried off a prisoner. Mrs Page wrung her hands, and bewailed her hard lot. Whilst out, she had heard of the murder of the gamekeepers, and with good reason feared that Ben was guilty of the crime. Ben did not speak. He could not say, "Rouse up, father; I am not guilty of the crime laid to my charge."

With handcuffs on his wrists, as a felon, he was carried off by the officers of justice. When he was gone, the miller sat with his head bowed down, and his hands clasped between his knees. All he could say was, "Has it come to this? has it come to this?" The miller seemed to be really humbled and broken in spirit.

The next day Farmer Grey called to tell Mary that he had heard from James, and that he was safe. More he could not tell her. She begged him to see her father.

"Rouse up, neighbour," he said in a kind voice; "you have still much to do for your son. Secure a good lawyer to defend him. The use of a lawyer is not to get him off, if he is guilty, but to take care that he is not condemned unless his guilt is clearly proved. The expense will be great. I will share it with you."

"You are too good; I don't deserve it, Farmer Grey," answered Mark. "And yet I would not have my son condemned, if he can be got off."

"And I would not have him condemned, if he is not guilty," said the farmer.

Farmer Grey went into the town to secure legal advice. His satisfaction was very great to find that the gamekeeper who had been shot was not dead, and that the one who had been knocked down was in a fair way of recovery. Still the magistrates had committed Ben and three other men to prison; and even if the man who was shot recovered, if Ben was found guilty, he could not expect less than a sentence of transportation for fourteen years. Still the news he had to take back to Mary was better than he expected.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 6.

Neither Mark Page nor his man, Sam Green, had been in the habit of attending public worship. Many years, indeed, had passed since Sam had last attended. Now Mark was ashamed to go, and Sam could not. They had not either had prayers in their families, nor did they pray privately. It seems strange that any men should think that they can get on without prayer. They find out their sad mistake when the day of trial comes. These two men did so; had it not been for Farmer Grey and for Mary, they would have been badly off indeed.

Mark Page went about the mill, as usual, and got a man to do Sam's work; but he never went outside the gates; and when he was in his own house, he sat with his head bowed down and his hands between his knees, not speaking a word. Sam Green lay on his bed, and growled and groaned with pain, except when Tiny Paul, his grandchild, was with him; then he cheered up and spoke pleasantly, and even laughed at what the little fellow said or did.

Tiny Paul was a bright, merry little chap, with light curling hair and blue eyes. He would sing, and talk, and play, all day, and tell grandfather stories, which no one but Sam himself could understand. Sam smiled when he saw Tiny Paul, but at no other time. "If I had always had Tiny Paul with me, I don't think that I should have been so bad as I am," said Sam to himself; but Sam was wrong. Neither Tiny Paul, nor any other human being, would have made Sam a better man than he was. It was his own evil heart was to blame; that wasn't right with God.

The miller was one evening looking out from the window of his mill, when he saw in the distance a bright light in the sky. It grew brighter and brighter, and now flames could be seen darting up out of the dark ground, as it were. "It is a house on fire," said the miller; "whose can it be?" He thought over all the houses in that direction. In the day he would not have gone out, but at night no one would know him. He was curious to learn whose house was burning. It was not his way to think how he might best assist the sufferers. So, saddling his horse, he rode out towards where he saw the fire burning. The flames lessened as he got nearer. It was clearly only a cottage. He thought of turning back; still he went on. He soon after reached a cottage, the walls only of which were standing. A number of people were gathered round it. He heard cries and exclamations of sorrow. A man had been burnt to death, and another had been much hurt. Then he heard his own name mentioned. He went a little nearer.

"It was all that wild young Page's fault," said some one. "If he hadn't wounded poor Thomas Harvey, so that he could not help himself, Thomas would have fled from the cottage and not have been burnt to death. And his poor wife, too; they say she'll not recover." The miller durst ask nothing further, but, turning his horse's head, rode back to his home.

The day of Ben's trial came at last. He was well defended, but one of those who were with him turned king's evidence, and swore to his having fired the shot which struck Thomas Harvey. It was proved, however, that Thomas Harvey did not die of his wound, as the surgeon was of opinion that he was getting well when the cottage in which he lived had caught fire and he was burned to death. Did he then die of his wound, or was his death caused by the fire? Had he been well, it was argued, he might have escaped, as did the rest of those living in the cottage; but as it was, his wife and a friend nearly lost their lives in trying to save him.

The trial took up the whole day. Some were of opinion that Ben Page was guilty, and that he would be condemned to be hung. Still, as it was not quite certain that Thomas Harvey died by his hand, he gained the benefit of the doubt, and was condemned to be transported for fourteen years. Some thought his punishment light, but they little knew what his sentence meant in those days. The miller and his wife were thankful that their son was not to be hung. They were allowed to see Ben before he was sent off. They would not have known him in his yellow dress, and with his hair cropped short, and chains on his arms and legs. This sight caused them more grief than even the thought that he was to be sent away from them for so many years. Poor Mary also went to see him. He shocked her by the way he spoke of those who had tried him, and at James Grey for leaving him in the lurch. Mary was thankful to find that James's name had not once been mentioned during the trial, and that he was not suspected of having been mixed up in the matter. In vain she spoke of religion to her brother. He turned a deaf ear to all she said. With grief at her heart she bade him good-bye, and her grief was greater because he seemed so hardened and indifferent to his fate.

So Ben Page was carried on board a convict ship, with nearly three hundred other men convicted of all sorts of crimes. They were placed under strict discipline on board ship. Soldiers with loaded arms stood over them, and if any one broke the rules, he was severely punished. Only a few were allowed to come on deck at a time to enjoy the fresh air and the sight of the sea. They had books, however; and the surgeon, who was a Christian man, taught those who wished to learn to read and write. He also begged them to repent, and to turn to Jesus Christ that their sins might be forgiven.

Thus day after day the convict ship sailed on. Once they were in a fearful storm, and the convicts were all kept shut up below. The big ship was tossed about, and lightning struck one of her masts and set her on fire, and the water washed over her and carried away her boats, and a leak was sprung, and all thought that they were going to the bottom. Some got into their beds and shut their eyes, as if they could shut out the death they thought was coming. Others tried to break on deck; a few broke out into loud, wild songs; and some, but very, very few, strove to pray; and even fewer still could pray. Those who put off prayer till death comes close to them, find, when too late, that they cannot pray. Those who had talked the loudest, and boasted of their ill deeds, now showed themselves the greatest cowards.

In a short time the fire was got under, and the wind and sea went down, and there was a chance that their lives might be saved. When they were once more safe, most of those who had tried to pray forgot their fears and again hardened their hearts.

At last the ship reached the distant land to which she was bound-- Australia. The convicts were put into barracks, and then formed into road-gangs to make new roads through the country. They had first to build their huts, and then to work all day in the hot sun with pick-axes, and spades, and wheelbarrows. They were watched by overlookers, of whom many had themselves been convicts, and were very harsh and savage. When the day's work was done, the men were marched back to the huts, where they had to fetch water and firewood, and to cook their food. Day after day they led the same life; there was no change, no amusement; the sun rose, and the sun set, and the convicts rose to toil, but not for themselves; and lay down again at night, weary with their labour. Often and often Ben Page wished himself dead.

"Is this to last for thirteen more long years--all the best of my days?" he asked himself.

Another convict asked Ben if he would try to escape. They might be shot, but that was better than living on where they were. Ben agreed. They got off, and took to the woods--the bush it is called. They could only live by robbing. They watched a hut when the hut-keepers were out, stole some guns and powder and shot, and set up as bush-rangers--that is robbers. They lived on for some months in the bush, now in one place, now in another. They stole horses and food and clothes. It was a very hard life though. Every man's hand was against them, and a price was set on their heads. They were afraid of the natives also, and suffered much from hunger and thirst. Ben sometimes wished himself back with the road-gang. They at last did so much mischief that parties were sent out against them. Ben's comrade was taken, and Ben was wounded, but escaped by the speed of his horse.

On--on he went. He dared not turn back, for his foes were behind him. Night came on, and he was obliged to stop, for his horse could go no farther. There was no water near; he had no food. He lay down and fell asleep, holding the bridle in his hand. When he awoke his horse was gone. He felt weary and stiff, and his wound pained him. The sun rose, scorching down on his head. In his flight he had lost his hat. His thirst was great. "Water, water," he cried for. Not a drop could he find. He walked on, and on, and on. No water; no signs of water. He sat down under a tree to rest, but he could not rest till he had found water. Again he sat down. He could walk no farther. A mist came over his eyes. He could not think--he could not pray. His throat was dry, his lips parched. He fell back with his arms stretched out, never again to rise.

Some months afterwards some travellers, in search of a new sheep run, came in the bush on the bones of a man. A bullet near the side made them guess that he had died of a wound he had just before received. In a pocket-book in his jacket was found the name of Benjamin Page; and a brace of pistols, a gun and powder-flask, were recognised as having been stolen from a hut by two bush-rangers, one of whom had been taken and hung.

Not till years afterwards did the Miller of Hillbrook learn how his unhappy son died--Mary never knew.

"Oh that I had brought him up to fear God! how different might have been his lot," said the miller. "It was I--I, that let my son be a castaway."

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 7.

The miller was a changed man in some points after his son had been transported. He seemed to be more morose than ever, but it was observed that he seldom said or did anything to hurt his neighbours, as once was the case. Sam Green, as he began to recover from his broken leg, was much the same man as before, sour and grumpy. He was able to move to his own cottage, but matters did not improve there. Only when Tiny Paul was with him was he seen to smile. He was never tired of watching the little chap, who would get hold of one of his sticks and call it his horse, and ride round and round the room on it. "Grandfather must give Tiny Paul a real horse, and then he will ride like a man," said the child.

"Tiny Paul shall have a ride the first day grandfather can find a pony," said Sam.

Not long after this Sam hobbled out with the aid of his sticks to a field near his cottage. At the other end of it was a large and deep pond. Sam sat himself down on a bank, and Tiny Paul played about near him. There were several horses and ponies feeding in the field. "Grandfather, let Tiny Paul have his ride," said the child, pointing to an old, blind pony, grazing near. Just then a farmer's boy came by, with a halter in his hand, on his way to catch a horse for his master. "Tom Smith, catch a pony for Tiny Paul to have a ride; do now!" cried the child.

Tom Smith was a good-natured lad, and was in no hurry; so he said, "Yes, I'll catch thee a pony, and thou shalt have a ride, little one, that thou shalt." The blind pony was very soon caught, and the halter put over his head. "There, Tiny Paul, jump up now, and thee shalt have a fine ride," said Tom Smith. Tiny Paul caught hold of the long mane, and Tom Smith helped him up by the leg, till he had a firm seat.

"Now let Tiny Paul go,--he ride alone," said the child. Tom Smith, thinking no harm could come to the little fellow, let go the halter.

"I say, Tom, keep near the pony's head; the child has no notion of guiding him," cried Sam.

"Oh yes, grandfather, Tiny Paul ride like huntsman in red coat," cried the child, kicking at the pony's sides, and making him trot by the old man.

"Now Tiny Paul make pony gallop," said the child, hitting the animal with its halter, and urging it on by his voice and heels. Off set the pony; Tiny Paul laughed, and waved his hand to his grandfather.

Tom Smith, instead of following the pony, stopped to speak to the old man.

For an instant Sam's eyes were off the child.

"Why where is the pony going?" exclaimed Sam, looking up.

The pony was making directly for the big pond.

"Stop him, Paul; stop him, tiny Paul. Pull at the halter, child," shrieked the old man. "Run after him, Tom; run for your life. Oh mercy! Oh mercy! he'll be into the water!"

Tom ran as fast as his legs could carry him.

Tiny Paul, though he did not see his danger, pulled at the halter as he was bid; but the old pony's mouth was too tough to feel the rope in it, and on he went, pleased to have somebody on his back again. It made him think of the days when he had corn to eat, and hay without the trouble of picking it up.

Tom Smith ran, and ran, and shouted to the pony to stop; but his foot went into a drain, and down he came. He jumped up, though he had hurt his leg, and ran on. The pony was close to the pond, which was full of weeds. He was ten yards still behind.

"Stop! stop!" cried Tom.

"Oh stop, stop! mercy! mercy! mercy!" shrieked old Sam, who was hobbling on as fast as his sticks would let him move.

The pony reached the edge. In he plunged. Tiny Paul clung to his mane, but cried out with fear.

The blind pony waded on, for the water was not at first deep. Tom jumped in, but soon got his legs caught by the weeds; and then the pony began to swim. Tom could not swim, so he dared not follow.

"Stick on, Tiny Paul, stick on," he shouted.

But Tiny Paul was crying too much to hear him. Just then a stout weed caught the child's foot. Tiny Paul let go the mane. The pony swam on; the weed dragged Tiny Paul off, and the next moment Tom saw only one little hand clutching at the air above the water.

Sam Green was still some way off at that sad moment. He hobbled on till he reached the edge of the pond, where he found Tom, who crawled out, sighing and crying bitterly.

"Where's the child; where is Tiny Paul?" shrieked out the old man.

Tom said nothing, but pointed to the middle of the pond.

Sam did not seem to know what Tom meant, but looked to the other side, where the pony was standing shaking his shaggy sides.

"Where is Tiny Paul? where is Tiny Paul?" again asked the old man.

"Down in there," said Tom, pointing to the middle of the pond.

Sam Green fell back as if shot. Tom thought that he was dead, and jumping up, ran off to call for help. He told everybody he met till he reached his master's house.

People made out that some one was drowned; but whether it was Sam Green or Tiny Paul, they could not tell.

Among those Tom met was Farmer Grey. He at once rode to the pond, where he found poor Sam lying where he had fallen. Sam was carried back to his own cottage by order of the farmer, who sent at once for a doctor. The doctor came and said he would recover if treated with care.

"Then I will stay by him till I can find some one to take my place," said Farmer Grey.

Meantime the pond was dragged, and Tiny Paul's body was found: not Tiny Paul though; he had gone far away, to the bosom of One who loves little children, and because of that love often takes them to Himself.

Tiny Paul's body was taken to the cottage of his father and mother. John Dixon could not speak for sorrow; and Mrs Dixon, bursting into tears, threw herself on the body, and would not be comforted.

Some hours passed, and Sam Green awoke, as if out of a deep sleep. The first words he spoke were about Tiny Paul.

"Tiny Paul is in the hands of One gentle and kind, who will care for him far more than you or his father and mother can," said the farmer. "Do not grieve for Tiny Paul."

"What's that you say, Master Grey?" asked Sam quickly.

"That Tiny Paul is better off now than he might have been had you or his father or mother brought him up," said the farmer. "What is the eldest boy doing?"

"No good--no good, I fear. He is in prison," growled Sam in his old tone.

"And the second?" said the farmer.

"An idle dog. He's a great trouble to my poor daughter."

"And if I were to ask you, ten or a dozen years hence, what your youngest grandchild was about, might you not have had to say the same of him?"

"That's true," said Sam, looking up. "I might--yes, I might."

"Now God often takes to Himself those He loves; He loved Tiny Paul, so He took him."

"Yes; I see God can take better care of him than I can."

"Ay, sure, Sam, that He can and will, and maybe God had another reason for taking Tiny Paul."

"What can that be?" asked Sam.

"That He might draw you to Himself," said Farmer Grey. "Would you wish to go where Paul is?"

"Ay, that I would, sir," said Sam, in an eager tone.

"Then, my friend, you must try to become like a little child, as Tiny Paul was, and be like him," said the farmer.

"I'll try, I'll try," answered Sam. "But how am I to do it, sir? I feel very weak and foolish and bad; I don't know even how I can try."

"Pray that God will send His Holy Spirit to help you. Trust to Him, and He will not fail you."

Much more Farmer Grey said in the same style. He came day after day to see Sam. Sam, in the course of time, became a changed man. He not only no longer grumbled and growled, and spoke ill of his neighbours, but he was cheerful and contented, and seemed ready to be kind and do good to all he met. When he got his leg strong, he went back to his work at the mill, and Mark used to say that Sam was twice the man he used to be, and that much more grist was brought to the mill than when he was, as once, crabbed and sour to all who came near him.

Still Sam was often sad; but it was not about Tiny Paul. It was when he thought of Ben Page, the miller's son. "Ah," he thought, "how often and often, when he was a boy, I said things to him, and in his hearing, which must have done him harm. I might have led him right, and I led him wrong. Truly my brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground."

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 8.

The Miller of Hillbrook had a tough spirit and a hard heart, like many other people in the world. It galled him to think that his son was a felon, and that people could point at him as the felon's father. His business went on as usual, or rather better than usual, as he was always at home to attend to it. People knew that if they brought grist to his mill, they would be sure to have it ready ground at the day and hour they had named, if the wind blew to turn the sails. They found also that old Sam Green was always ready to oblige them if he could. "Great change has come over Sam,--can't understand it," said some of those who came to the mill. "Does he think that he is going to die? Can that make him so gentle and willing to oblige?"

The miller seemed to be much as he was before. He was even rude to Farmer Grey, when once or twice he came to his house. At last, one day, when the farmer was speaking in a serious tone to Mark, the miller told him plainly that he did not want to hear him or see him. The farmer said nothing, and was just as civil and kind to Mark as before. One day, Mark had gone into the neighbouring town on business; Mary had walked up to see Mrs Dobbs, Farmer Grey's housekeeper; and Mrs Page was the only person in the house. Sam was at the mill, but all the other men were away with the carts. Mrs Page had left a pile of wood to dry near the fire, before which some clothes were hung up to air; some fagots, besides, were placed against the wall, and some wood with which Mark was going to repair some work in the mill. Mistress Page was sitting in her room sewing, when she smelt a smell of fire, and then smoke made its way into the room, for the door was ajar. She began to fear that the house was on fire; and soon she was certain of it, for thick curls of smoke came out from the kitchen. Instead of shutting the door, and going up to the mill to call Sam, she threw open all the windows and doors she could reach, and ran out of the house, screaming "Fire! fire! fire!"

After some time Sam heard the poor woman's cries, and looking out of a window in the mill, saw the flames bursting forth from every part of the house. He hurried out of the mill as fast as his lameness would allow; but he soon saw that alone he could do nothing in putting out the fire.

In a few minutes, however, several men were seen coming from Farmer Grey's, with buckets in their hands, followed by the farmer on horseback. By the time, however, they reached the spot, the house was in flames, from one end to the other. Still there was work for them to do, to try and save the out-buildings. Even the mill itself was threatened, as the wind blew towards it. The men pulled down the sheds nearest the house, and damped the straw thatch of two or three outhouses, the farmer not only showing them what to do, but working away with his own hands as hard as any one. At last the fire was got under, and the mill was saved; but the house was burnt to the ground.

Just then the miller came back. He began to storm and rage, and asked who had burned down his house. "That we have to learn, neighbour," answered Farmer Grey. "It may be found that no one burned it down, and let us be thankful that things are not worse. However, come up to my house; there are rooms and a sup for you till your own house is rebuilt; your wife and daughter are already there."

"I wonder you can think of asking me, Farmer Grey," said Mark. "I have not given you much thanks for the good deeds you have already done me."

"Don't think of that, just now, neighbour," answered Farmer Grey. "We are bound to do good--or right, call it--and not to think of the return we are to get. If God was only to give His blessings to those who were sure to be grateful for them, He would give us far less than He does. We should get little or nothing, I suspect."

So the miller went to Farmer Grey's house with his wife and daughter. It seemed strange to him to find himself there, and stranger still to feel the kind way in which the farmer treated him. Even now he could not understand it.

At last his house was finished, and he and his family went into it.

Mark had spent a good deal of money in rebuilding his house; and though the mill itself wanted repairing, he said that he must put that off till another year; he and Sam Green would patch it up to last till that time. That year passed by, and another came, and had nearly gone, and still nothing was done to the mill. One evening in autumn, the wind was blowing strong, and making even the new house shake, while it whistled and howled through doors and windows. The arms of the mill had been secured, Sam Green had gone home, and the miller himself, thinking that all was right, went to bed. The wind increased, the house shook more and more; there was a fearful gale blowing. On a sudden he woke with a start. There was a crash,--then another,--and at last another, louder than either of the first. The weather, however, was so rough that he could not get up. Again he went to sleep. As soon as it was daylight he looked out. "Where was the mill?" Instead of seeing it, as he expected, against the cold grey sky of the autumn morning, he saw nothing at all. He rubbed his eyes again and again. At last he cast them towards the ground, and there lay scattered about and broken into small pieces, all that remained of his mill. The wheels and grindstone lay near the base; the roof and sides had been carried almost a hundred yards away, and the long arms still farther.

The miller's spirit was fairly broken when he saw the wreck of his mill.

He was aroused by Sam's voice. "This is a bad business, master," said Sam. "When I heard it blow so hard last night, I was afraid of something, though I did not think to find it as bad as this; but I said `God's will be done, whatever happens.'"

"Well, He has done His will with me at all events," answered the miller sullenly. "I don't think He could do much worse either."

"If we got our deserts, He could do very much worse to us," said Sam firmly. "But, master, He is a God of love, and He sends these sort of misfortunes, not because He hates us, but because He loves us, and wishes us to think of Him, and trust to Him."

"Such talk as that won't rebuild the mill," exclaimed the miller almost savagely.

"May be it won't, master; but it may help to make you turn to God and trust to His mercy, as I try to do," said Sam.

"You, Sam! you, a wicked old sinner. How dare you talk of trusting to God?"

"Because, master, He asks me to do so, He promises to forgive me my sins," said Sam. "I should be declaring that God is a liar if I wouldn't trust Him."

"Then you think that I am a sinner, Sam," said the miller.

"I know that you are one, master," answered Sam boldly.

The miller made no answer, but walked about the ruins, as if thinking what part would do to go up again. The rotten state of the mill, perhaps, made him think of his own state. Suddenly he stopped and said--

"You are right, Sam; I've been a wicked, hardhearted man all my life, all rotten and bad, and it's a wonder God hasn't struck me down long ago, as the mill was struck down last night."

"Master, I say to you what was said a short time ago to me, `I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance,' (Mark chapter 2, verse 17). It's a great thing to feel that we are sinners."

"Sam, you speak like a parson, and I'm near sure you speak what is true," said the miller.

"I speak what is in the Bible, master, and so I am sure that it is what is true," answered Sam.

Just then the miller saw Farmer Grey riding up the hill.

"I do not come to condole with you, neighbour Page," he said in his usual kind tone. "What means have you of putting up the mill again, and setting it going?"

"Not a shilling, farmer," answered Mark. "I'm a ruined man."

"Don't be cast down, neighbour," said Farmer Grey. "People, however, may take their grist to other mills to be ground, if yours is not working; so I want you to send at once for carpenters and mill-wrights, and to let them know that they are to look to me for payment. No words, neighbour, about thanks. Let it be done at once; don't lose time. You'll repay me, some day, I am very sure." Then Mark Page knew the true meaning of having coals of fire heaped on his head.

In a short time the mill, rebuilt with sound timbers and strong machinery, was going round as merrily as ever, and grinding as much if not more grist than it did in former days. People had wondered at the change in Sam Green; they wondered still more at the change in his master,--once so sullen and ill-tempered,--now so gentle and kind and obliging. The change in him was even greater than in the mill itself.

It is easy enough to rebuild a house: no human power can change a man's heart, as Mark Page's had been changed.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 9.

Farmer Grey, as he sat in his large house by himself, often felt sad and lonely. He had lost his wife when young; she had had no children, and he had not married again. His nephew, James, was his only near relative; and he found, whenever he thought of the young man, that, in spite of his faults, he loved him more than he had supposed. For a long time he had not heard from him; and, as several bloody battles had of late been fought in India, he began to fear that he might have been among the killed, and that no one had known his address to write and tell him. Still, Farmer Grey was not a man to sit by himself and brood over his sorrow. He went about as usual, doing all the good he could, not only in his own village but in the neighbourhood; and he never heard of a poor person falling sick or getting into trouble, whom he did not visit and relieve as far as he was able. He thought, too, more of poor Mary Page than of himself. He knew how much she loved James, and that she would spend the best days of her youth waiting for him to come back, as he was sure that she would never marry anybody else. Meantime, though Mary was often sad, still she believed that James was alive, and that he would some day come back to her. She often blamed herself for thinking so much of him, while the fate of her unhappy brother was so uncertain. It was surely through God's kindness that she never learned what his fate had been.

Mary's home, in many ways, was far happier than it had ever before been. She soon saw the change in her father, and it did her heart good. Instead of sitting gloomily by himself when he came in from work, or, as he used, reading some bad paper opposed to religion and government, his great pleasure was to listen to her reading the Bible, or to talk with her on religious subjects.

Whilst Mary Page was, one evening, sitting at the window of the parlour of the new mill-house, she saw a dark-bearded soldier-like man looking up at the house, as if surprised at its appearance. The stranger passed through the wicket; Mary could sit quiet no longer. She rose and opened the front door: "James, James, is it you?" she cried out, as if yet fearful that she might be mistaken.

"Yes, Mary, I am James, but not the James who went away in disgrace a few years back," he said, when she had led him into the parlour. "But tell me, do you forgive me? Does my uncle forgive me?"

"Oh, yes; yes--all is forgiven, long, long ago. It will give your kind uncle a new life, to see you back safe and well."

Together, in a few minutes, they set off to the farm. Mary was right. No father could give a more hearty welcome to a prodigal son than good Farmer Grey gave to his nephew James.

James had gained rank and marks of distinction, and he had a pension for wounds, and a considerable share of prize money. His rank and honour showed that he had been firm in resisting the many temptations to which he must have been exposed, for no soldiers escape them. He got his discharge, but entered a militia regiment that he might be able to defend his country, should she ever be attacked by foreign foes. He and Mary married; and no more happy and prosperous couple were to be found in or near Hillbrook. They were so, because they were "diligent in business, fearing the Lord."

STORY TWO, CHAPTER 1.

TOM TRUEMAN, THE SAILOR; OR, LIFE AT SEA IN A MERCHANT VESSEL.

It was a sad, sad day for poor mother and all of us, when father was brought home on a hurdle, the life crushed out of him by a tree which fell right down where he stood.

He never spoke again. We lived in Dorsetshire, not far from the town of Poole. Father was a day labourer; he had never saved a sixpence. His club buried him, and we were left to live as we could, or to go to the workhouse. Mother said that she would never do that, and with God's help she'd try to feed and clothe us. She found it very hard work though.

There were ten of us. Jane, who was sixteen, and just going into service, was the eldest, and little Bill, who was in arms, was the youngest. I was the fourth child.

Farmer Denn took Sam, who was a strong lad, and Jack went to Mr Sweet, the grocer in the village, who wanted an errand boy. Jane got a place as maid-of-all-work--and very hard work it was.

He was the only one besides who had the chance of gaining a penny, except little Ben, and as he was a sharp chap, he used to be set to scare away the birds, with a clapper in his hands, and such-like work; but to be sure he did not make much.

So mother had six children to feed and clothe, we may say, and all of us more or less to clothe, for even sister Jane could not do without help.

When father was alive we elder ones went to school; so I knew about the sea, and a few things in foreign parts, which I had read of in books. One evening when Sam and Jack came home, I said to them, "This will never do; mother mustn't work as she does, it will kill her. I've made up my mind to go to sea. May be I shall be able to make money, and send her home some. I've read of lands where people, just with a spade and pick, dig up gold as we should potatoes. I'll see what I can do."

Sam, who was just a quiet, steady lad, and did his tasks as well as any boy at school, laughed, and said that I might dig a long time before I should get gold enough to fill my pocket.

Still I thought and thought over the matter, till at last I told mother that I had made up my mind to go to sea, and hoped soon she would have one mouth less to feed.

She looked very sad when she heard me say this, but I told her not to grieve, and that I would soon be back, and that it would be all for the best.

That's what father used to say, "It's all for the best,--God knows what's best for us." I've stuck to the same ever since. Blow high or blow low, when the ship has been driven by the wind towards the rocks, and all on board have thought we were going to be lost, I've said the same, "Trust in God, He knows what is best for us." What's more, I've always found it come true.

Mother saw things in the same way at last, and gave me her blessing, and told me to go into Poole and see what I could do for myself.

I found a number of vessels alongside the quays on the banks of the river. I went on board one and then another and another, but the men I saw laughed at me. Some said that boys were more trouble than use, that they were always in the way when they were not wanted, and out of it when they were wanted, and that I had not a chance of being taken. At last I thought I must go back to mother and see if Farmer Denn can give me work. I had got to the very end of the quay, and was turning back when I met a gentleman, whom I had seen several times as I was coming on shore from the vessels. He asked me in a kind voice what I was looking for. I told him.

"Come in here, and we will see what can be done for you, my lad," he said.

He took me into an office or sort of shop, full of all sorts of ship's stores. In it were seated three or four men, who were, I found, captains of vessels. My new friend having talked to them about me, one of them asked, "Would you like to go to sea with me, boy?"